Aiden flinches. “I’m not David.”
“And that’s why this is harder. Because I want…”
Silence stretches as I fight the urge to go to him. To touch him. My resolve wobbles, the familiar pull creeps in the longer we stand here, the longer I look at him and remember how easily I trusted him with my heart in a single, wonderful night.
But I can’t let that happen again. Mason comes first. Always.
“Because I want to handle things my way. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I need to handle this in a way that doesn’t cost me myself. Not again.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay.”
We move into the kitchen without really deciding to, each of us finding something to do that doesn’t require eye contact. I pour water that I don’t drink. He straightens something that was already straight. The tension hums, low and constant, threaded through every movement.
“This isn’t over,” he says quietly.
“I know.” And that’s the problem. Because part of me doesn’t want it to be.
Evening settles in whether we acknowledge it or not.
The light outside the penthouse windows shifts from bright to gold to something softer, the city easing into night. I turn lamps on one by one, needing the space to feel lived in insteadof cold. Aiden watches me do it without comment, his presence heavy and unignorable even when he isn’t speaking.
We end up in the kitchen again, orbiting the same argument from different angles.
He wipes the counter. “I can take some time off at work and stay with you. Not hovering. Just… here.”
“That’s still hovering,” I reply, setting a glass down harder than necessary. “And it’s not what I asked for.”
“What you asked for was to pretend a murder attempt didn’t change anything.”
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “It changed my bar. It changed my schedule. It does not change my autonomy.”
“You’re not hearing me,” he counters. “This isn’t about control. This is about risk.”
“And you’re not hearing me,” I fire back. “Every time a man has told me he knows what’s best for my safety, it’s ended with me giving something up.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not asking you to give anything up.”
“Yes, you are,” I say. “You’re asking me to trust you with decisions that belong to me.”
Silence stretches between us, taut and brittle.
I hate how much effort it takes to hold my ground. I hate that some part of me wants to fold, to let him take over, to believe that this time would be different. I’ve already walked that road. I know how it ends. With regret. With apologies that come too late. With a kid who learns what disappointment looks like earlier than he should.
He turns, heading out of the kitchen. But before he’s gone, he mutters, “I’m not those men, Harper. I’m not asking you to give anything up. I’m not trying to take anything from you. The only thing I want out of this is to know you and Mason are safe.”
“I know?—”
“No, that’s not entirely true.” He turns to face me. “There’s one more thing I want out of this.”
“What?”
He stares at me for the longest minute of my life, and something inside of me cracks wide open. Then, he leaves the kitchen, and I can finally breathe again.
We drift apart after that, each of us claiming separate corners of the penthouse, pretending to be occupied. I answer emails from my phone. He checks something on his laptop. The distance doesn’t make the tension go away. It just gives it room to grow.
Every so often, I catch his eyes on me, like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. I look away before I can lose the nerve I’ve spent all day building.
How is it that a simple fire and a night with a man makes all those therapy sessions feel like nothing? I remind myself that loving someone doesn’t mean letting them steer your life. That wanting him doesn’t obligate me to repeat old mistakes. That Mason’s safety is nonnegotiable, even if my heart wants to gamble.
