But cell phones keep cutting into our conversations now, too, and it’s pissing me off. I hate that he was called away tonight. I hate that he’s constantly at risk. He never gets a break from that job. Never gets to turn off that part of himself. The protective part of him.
But without it, we wouldn’t have a place to stay right now. He wouldn’t have become a firefighter, so he wouldn’t have been there to part the crowd and get us out of the bar the night of thefire. Hell, he wouldn’t have stayed behind to help me clean up at Carlie’s party, either.
I suppose everything works out the way it’s supposed to. But I still hate cell phones.
The penthouse is too quiet after Aiden leaves.
I tell myself that silence is a good thing, that it means Mason is asleep and nothing else is wrong right now, but the quiet presses in on me anyway the way it always does. So, I pace.
From the windows to the kitchen. From the kitchen back to the couch. I pick up my phone, check the time, set it back down, then pick it up again a minute later like something might have changed if I look hard enough. My chest feels tight, my breath shallow, and I hate myself a little for how quickly fear has wrapped its hands around me.
I shouldn’t care this much. I’m being ridiculous.
It’s been six years. Six years since I packed up my heartbreak and told myself it was survivable. Six years since I married someone else, had a child, built a business, built a life that didn’t include Aiden Sloan in any real way. I’ve told myself that story so many times I almost believe it.
Almost.
Because the truth is, the fear crawling through me right now isn’t about firefighters in general or car fires or probabilities. It’s about him. It’s about knowing exactly what kind of risks he takes without hesitation and realizing how much the idea of losing him still terrifies me.
I’d have to have him to be able to lose him. And he’s not mine.
I lean my hands on the counter and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe the way my therapist taught me. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled. I am over him, I tell myself. I moved on. I survived the worst part.
A small sound pulls me out of my thoughts. A whimper, followed by a soft, panicked inhale.
I’m moving down the hall before my brain catches up.
Mason is sitting up in bed, his hair damp with sweat, his blanket twisted around his fists. His eyes are wide and unfocused, still caught halfway in a dream. “Mama?—”
“Hey,” I say gently, sitting beside him and pulling him into my arms. “You’re okay.”
“There was fire,” he says quietly, his voice shaking.
“I know,” I murmur, smoothing my hand over his back. “But you’re safe. It was just a dream. You’re not in the bar anymore?—”
“No. Aiden was in a fire.”
My stomach sinks hard and fast. It’s like my subconscious is lodged in his brain, and that’s not fair to him. “Remember the fire at the bar? How Aiden knew exactly what to do? Even if he’s in a fire, sweetie, he will be fine.”
He presses his face into my shoulder, breathing unevenly. After a moment, he pulls back just enough to look at me. “Will Aiden come back?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Too fast, too sure. “Of course, he will.”
Mason’s eyelids start to droop again, exhaustion overtaking fear. “Daddy never comes back when he says he will,” he says sleepily. “But Aiden seems different.”
My chest tightens painfully. “Different how?”
“He keeps his promises,” Mason murmurs. He shifts closer to me, already half asleep. “Right, Mommy?”
I don’t answer right away. I just hold him, listening to his breathing even out again, feeling the weight of his trust settle heavily in my arms. Because the truth hits all at once, sharp and undeniable. Mason is already attached. And so am I. Maybe I never stopped being. I don’t go back to pacing right away.
“Aiden keeps his promises, baby.” I hum a lullaby and pray that I’m right about that.
After Mason settles, I stay on the edge of his bed longer than I need to, watching his small chest rise and fall. His face smooths out as sleep takes hold again, the lines of worry easing from his brow. I wait until his grip loosens on my shirt before easing away, careful not to wake him.
The living room greets me with the same oppressive quiet. I sit on the couch this time, forcing myself to stay still, hands folded tightly in my lap. My phone rests on the coffee table in front of me, face up, screen dark and stubbornly silent.
This is nuts. People go to work and come home every day. Firefighters included. Fear doesn’t make him safer, and it doesn’t make me stronger.
