I shove my way out from behind the bar, pushing through bodies that suddenly feel solid and unyielding. Someone bumps into me hard enough that I stagger, adrenaline flaring hot and bright. The music cuts out mid-beat, leaving only the alarm and the sound of people shouting over one another.
“Mason!” I call, louder now.
He’s still at the booth, frozen, eyes huge as he watches adults lose their shit around him. His crayon rolls off the table and hits the floor, forgotten.
“Hey,” I say, dropping into his space, forcing calm into my voice even though my hands are shaking. “It’s okay. We’re going outside.”
He nods immediately. Brave. Trusting. His arms come up without hesitation.
I scoop him into my arms, his little body locking around my neck, fingers fisting in my shirt. He smells like crayons and cherry juice and something sweet and familiar that grounds me for half a second.
Then the crowd surges harder.
People push toward the front door all at once, fear turning them into a single panicked mass. Someone trips. People swears loudly. A chair tips over, scraping across the floor.
“Everyone stay calm!” Roz shouts from somewhere behind me. “Single file! Don’t push!”
No one listens.
I turn my body sideways, shielding Mason with my shoulder, one arm locked tight around him. Smoke stings my eyes now. I taste it at the back of my throat, metallic and wrong.
“Mom?” Mason whispers, his voice small against my ear.
“I’ve got you,” I say, and it’s not a comfort. It’s a vow. “I won’t let go. Hold your shirt over your nose.” I pull the collar up over his nose for him to hold, and he does.
I take one careful step forward, then another, bracing my free hand against the bar to keep my footing as someone slams into me from behind. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs.
Ten minutes ago, everything was normal. Safe. Built.
Now all I can think about is getting Mason out. Fresh air. Space. Distance from whatever is burning in the kitchen.
I lift my head, searching for the exit through the chaos, every nerve in my body stretched tight. The front doors shove open wider around the escaping patrons. More cold air rushes in, sharp and shocking against the smoke-choked heat of the bar. I can’t see who is barging in yet, but then I hear, “Columbus Fire Department!”
The voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. Then I see them. Authority floods the room—helmets, turnout gear, boots hitting the floor in heavy, decisive strides. Radios crackle. Commands snap out, clear and uncompromising.
“Exit to your left—keep moving.”
“Ma’am, this way.”
“Watch your step.”
Order asserts itself where panic ruled seconds ago. The crowd responds instinctively, bodies funneling toward the open doors instead of surging blindly. I cling to that structure like a lifeline, moving when they tell me to move, breathing when I remember I’m allowed to.
I adjust my grip on Mason, tucking his head against my shoulder, turning my body to shield him as best I can. His arms are locked tight around my neck, his breath hot and fast against my skin.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, even though my voice shakes. “Firefighters are here. We’re getting out.”
I can’t hear what he says, but he holds my neck tighter.
The smoke is thicker now, hazing the room in gray, muting colors and faces until everything feels distant and unreal. I blink hard, eyes burning, scanning for the exit through the moving bodies and flashing lights.
I see him.
Even through the smoke, even buried under gear and urgency and six years of distance, I know him instantly. Recognition slams into me with a force that steals what little breath I have left.
Aiden Sloan.
He’s taller than I remember. Broader. His presence anchors the room without effort, like gravity bends a little differently around him. Those eyes—those piercing blue eyes—are exactly the same. I can’t see much else through his face shield. But I’d know them anywhere.
