“The farm isn’t going anywhere,” he interrupts. “This is urgent. It has to be dealt with now, right?”
I nod, emotions bubbling up inside of me. It won’t be long before they trickle all the way out, and Aiden can’t be around to witness it. What he’s seen so far is enough.
“We’ve got a lot to do, and it’ll go a lot faster if you’re not doing it alone. You’ve got your girl to get home to.”
A part of me softens despite my best efforts, tipping me further away from irritation and frustration. Our priorities are aligning with minimal effort, and I’m not prepared for how that makes me feel. The last man who promised “I’ve got you” eventually didn’t. I can’t survive that twice—not when I have Phoebe to worry about.
But Aiden talks like our lives are puzzle pieces that are supposed to fit together—his farm, my studio, and a shared mentality thatwe have a kid to worry about.
That’s dangerous.
I’ve never had a partner to help carry the hardest parts of motherhood. And that want is exactly how people get hurt.
“I’m perfectly capable of cleaning all this up.” It’s a weak excuse, and I know it. But it’s all I’ve got left at this point. “You don’t know what to do with any of my props, or…”
He takes a step into my space, and the rest of my argument dies on my lips.
“First of all, no one thinks you’re not capable. Iknowyou’re capable. Second, we’ll attack this as a team. Phoebe needs her mom sooner rather than later. Who’s taking care of her? Do you need to call anybody?”
A little dazed by his thoughtfulness, I shake my head. “I called her already. She’s with my best friend. Abby. You knowher, I think.” He nods like that’s the right answer. It disarms me. I squeeze my eyes closed and count backwards. “She’ll feed her and even put her to bed if I need her to.”
That’s what Aiden’s trying to prevent—me losing more time with Phoebe. My stubborn independence and tangled emotions are only getting in the way, especially when he shows up uninvited.
Especiallywhen he doesn’t have to.
“I’m glad you’ve got somebody here.” He swallows whatever else he was going to say.
This side of Aiden feels more familiar today, steady and unmarred by loss.
“I lucked out for sure.” I swallow. “Thank you for being here. I’m used to handling everything.” I clear my throat and gesture at the towels a few feet away on the shelf. “If you’ll do water, I’ll start cataloging damage and pulling what I can salvage.”
Am I chicken for changing the subject?
Absolutely.
He takes a few steps toward my towel collection and grabs an armful, shoving them into my empty hands before he grabs another armful for himself. “Alright, let’s get as much of this up as we can, and then I’ll run to the farm.”
Before I can protest, he’s already thrown a towel on the water-soaked floor, spreading it with the toe of his boot. Then another.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“On second thought, put your stack down on that table.” He points at the coffee table I brought in for families to use when they need a place to sit, ignoring my protest. “Take photos while the water is still standing for your insurance company. Document everything.”
“I can do that.” Photos are so second nature that this part is easy. I cross over to where I keep all my equipment, thankful it’son the higher shelves. To capture as much of the damage as I can at once, I switch to a wide-angle lens, lower my ISO, and go to work.
“Don’t forget the bathroom,” he reminds me, already retrieving some towels from my stack.
He moves through the space like he knows where everything heavy lives, a man built for winter work and weathered promises. We work quietly: he empties the linen cabinet as I take hundreds of photos—wet props, floor gaps, damaged drywall, ruined backdrops. Late-night home improvement shows have taught me one thing—the repairs will be expensive, and insurance won’t pay fast. I swallow hard.
Most of my things should survive with a wash, but without a studio, I’m stuck. No studio means no sessions; no sessions means no lights on.
Aiden goes still. Not frozen, just quiet in a way that feels deliberate. His gaze drifts from the soaked floor to the walls, like he’s measuring something I can’t see yet.
“How long have you been in this building?” he asks.
“I just signed the lease this last Spring,” I reply, cutting my gaze over to him. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, his brows drawn together.
“That’s a shame. Maybe they can save these floors if we can get this dried up.”
