Aiden’s gaze flicks to my mouth before he can catch himself. I see it. He sees that I see it. The moment stretches, fragile and dangerous.
I remember his mouth like muscle memory—how sure he is, how gentle when he wants to be. The thought hits me so hard I have to grip the counter to steady myself. “This is a bad idea.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re the one who made the rules.”
“I know. I’m reconsidering the options.”
His hands still under the water. He turns toward me fully now, eyes dark blue like a sea during a storm. “Harper.”
I am falling into those eyes. Drifting. “Yes.” I’m not sure if it’s a question or the answer.
His gaze flickers to my lips, then back up to my eyes. “I know you heard some things earlier?—”
“Shut up.” I step closer, pressing myself to him. “No more talking.”
That damn smirk of his drives me to my tiptoes as he tilts his head down to meet my lips?—
“Mom?” Mason asks.
We spring apart like we’ve been caught doing something far worse than washing dishes.
Mason holds something out to me, proud and curious all at once. “I found this in Aiden’s office. Is this you?”
My heart stutters. A pic of me and Aiden, six years ago, by the fire at sunset. His arm around my shoulders. My smile unguarded.
I stare at it, stunned.
Because I can’t believe he has it. And suddenly, the rules don’t matter at all.
AIDEN
Mason doesn’t know he’s holding a landmine.
The photo is older than he is. Harper and me by the fire, her shoulder tucked into my side like it belonged there. Carlie must have taken it before she left the cabin. I remember her teasing, snapping pictures right before she was called away.
I should have hidden the photograph better. I should have put it somewhere a five-year-old couldn’t reach.
“Is this my mommy?” Mason asks, studying it seriously. “You both look really happy.”
I swallow. My throat feels too tight for the moment this deserves. “Yes,” I say carefully. “That’s your mom.”
He tilts the photo toward the light, squinting. “And then Mom moved away to Arizona. Is that why you stopped being friends?”
There’s no judgment in the question. No accusation. Just curiosity, the kind that cuts straight through whatever armor you think you’re wearing.
I feel the shift the second Mason asks it. The air tightens. The question lands squarely where I deserve it to. “Not entirely. We had a disagreement.”
Mason frowns. “Did you yell?”
“No.”
“Were you mean? Sometimes I’m mean when I disagree.”
I hesitate. But honest questions deserve honest answers. “Probably.”
He considers that, then says, “Mommy says when friends fight, they should say sorry.”
I don’t answer right away.
