For one suspended moment, everything else drops away. The alarm. The shouting. The fire. Our eyes meet across the smoky bar.
Shock flashes across his face, raw and unfiltered, like he’s staring at something he never expected to see again. Like I’m a ghost standing in the middle of his worst nightmare.
He rushes me out, thick arm barring other people away from us as he clears a path. When we’re outside, my lungs lock up in the fresh air. Every word evaporates from my mind.
He flips up his face shield, and then his gaze drops to the child in my arms.
Mason shifts slightly, his head lifting just enough that his face is visible. Red hair. Freckles. His small hand clenched in my shirt like I’m the only solid thing left in the world.
Pain slices across Aiden’s face—real, visceral, impossible to miss—before he snaps back into motion, slamming his face shield down, barking orders at the crew behind him, professionalism taking over.
But it’s too late. I’ve seen it.
And standing there in the middle of smoke and sirens and six years of silence, I know with absolute certainty that nothing about my carefully rebuilt life is safe anymore.
Because the man I never truly escaped has just realized exactly what he lost. And what I built without him.
AIDEN
Six years of regret hit me like a freight train.
Harper Lane stands in the middle of a sidewalk, clutching a kid to her chest like it’s muscle memory, like she’s done this before and knows exactly how to keep her footing when the world tilts. For a split second my brain refused to cooperate.
This isn’t possible. She’s not supposed to be here. She lives in a sealed-off part of my life—one I locked down hard and never reopened.
But she’s here. In Columbus. In my district. In the middle of my call.
My chest tightens so abruptly it almost knocks the wind out of me. Questions pile up instantly—how long has she been back, why didn’t Carlie tell me, why tonight—but there’s no space to touch them.
The alarm is screaming. Smoke is spreading. People are panicking. This is not the moment for anything but control. Training snaps into place.
“Clear the left side,” I bark, my voice cutting clean through the noise. “Keep moving. Don’t stop. Watch your step.”
My body moves on autopilot, boots steady, shoulders squared. I re-enter and scan the room the way I always do—exit visibility, crowd density, smoke behavior. Electrical smell. Sharp, bitter. Not wood. That’s good. Contained, maybe, but still dangerous.
And still—my eyes keep finding her through the front window.
She’s older. Not in a way that dulls her. In a way that sharpens everything. There’s a steadiness to her now that wasn’t there at twenty-two, something earned through years I wasn’t part of. Her hair is pulled back, her face streaked with smoke, but she’s calm. Focused. Her entire body angles protectively around the kid in her arms.
Red hair. Freckles. Her son.
The realization lands fast and brutal. She moved on. Built a life. Exactly what I told myself I wanted for her. Exactly what I told myself justified walking away.
It still guts me.
“Sir, this way,” I say to someone stumbling toward the bar, forcing my attention outward. I can’t afford distraction. Not now. Not with this many people counting on me to keep my head.
But I steal another glance at her through the window. Can’t stop myself. The kid shifts in her arms, his face lifting just enough for me to see him clearly under a streetlamp. He clings to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers twisted in her shirt, eyes wide but dry—brave in that way kids get when they trust completely.
Something fractures in my chest. Sharp. Immediate.
I force my gaze away. “Everyone out,” I call, louder now. “Fresh air is outside. Keep moving.”
The crowd starts to funnel toward the doors under my crew’s direction, panic slowly giving way to obedience. Radios crackle. Boots pound. The room thins by degrees.
I move with it, checking corners, signaling to my team, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse hammers. Every instinct I have is split clean down the middle—half on the job, half locked on the woman I never stopped thinking about.
We get the last of the patrons moving, the room emptying until the noise drops from panic to aftershock. The alarm keeps screaming, but it’s no longer the loudest thing in my head. That honor belongs to the steady, unwelcome awareness of Harper’s presence—where she is, how she’s moving, whether she’s safe.
