Off-Limits Daddy

1. Ari

ONE

ARI

Stop-N-Go smelled like burnt bacon and cheap coffee. Comforting if you grew up here. Gross if you didn’t.

It shouldn’t have made me smile. But it did.

The diner sat exactly where I remembered it—right on Main, next to the old video rental store with faded movie posters curling in the windows.

The linoleum was still cracked near the counter.

Ceiling fans spun lazily, like they knew nobody was in a hurry here.

Everything smelled like fryer oil and too many breakfasts on the same griddle, but honestly? I’d missed it.

Briar Creek wasn’t fancy. But it was home.

Sage slid into the booth across from me, tossing his keys on the table like he’d been doing it his whole life. Which—small town, familiar faces, same old story—he basically had.

“You look like someone microwaved you on high,” he said with a grin.

“Love you too, big bro,” I shot back, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s called traveling light.”

“More like traveling wreck.”

He wasn’t wrong. My sneakers were dusty from the walk up from the bus stop, and the T-shirt I’d slept in on the bus was trying to glue itself to my back. But under it all, there was this twisty little feeling in my stomach that wasn’t dread for once. Maybe... hope.

Coming home felt weird. Not bad. Just... weird.

I hadn’t even seen Mom yet— Liz , queen of emotional texts and lasagna—but I could already picture her in the kitchen, halfway through making something ridiculously mouth-watering and indulgent, ready with a dozen questions about whether I’d been eating enough.

Spoiler: I hadn’t.

The bell over the door jingled, and my best friend Cael strolled in like a burst of color against the diner’s neutral tones—graphic tee, cuffed jeans, chipped blue nail polish, black boots scuffed at the toes, rings flashing under the lazy ceiling fan.

His hair was pushed back today, wild but somehow on purpose. Grin sharp as ever.

His gaze flicked first to Sage—of course it did—and then to me.

“There he is,” Cael said, loud enough for the few people that were in the diner to take notice.

Luckily the small commotion that ensued when I came in had settled.

Everybody and their pets had already greeted me.

That’s one of the things about small town living I loved.

Before I could say anything, Sage was already rising to his feet, like someone raised him right. He gave Cael a little nod, not quite a smile, and gestured to the now-open space.

“Here,” Sage said, voice low. “You sit.”

Color rose at the edges of Cael’s cheeks, like he wasn’t expecting it, but he dropped into the booth anyway and scooted over, giving Sage a look like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to tease him or thank him.

Sage slid back in, this time sitting at the end, posture too straight, too careful, like maybe he was trying not to touch Cael but still wanted to be close.

“The prodigal son returns,” Cael teased.

“More like the mildly disappointing cousin,” I muttered, breaking whatever that moment was between them.

Cael shot me another grin. “Please. You’re my favorite disaster.”

“Hey. I’m spontaneous.”

“You’re allergic to common sense.”

Sage shook his head, amused, but didn’t quite meet either of our eyes. “Mom’s making your favorite tonight.”

“Lasagna?” I asked, grinning.

My brother scoffed. “Like she’d make anything else for your dramatic homecoming.”

“Can’t wait,” I said softly.

That stupid little twist in my stomach squeezed tighter than when I’d decided to come back home to sort my life out. I didn’t want to admit how much I’d missed this—the familiar faces, the smell of fryer grease and burnt toast, even the rattling AC that sounded like it was holding on for dear life.

But no matter how many cups of diner coffee I drank, I couldn’t wash the aftertaste of Ben out of my mouth.

My relationship with the man started like all the best mistakes do—with charm thick as honey and eyes that made promises too big to fit in one person. For a while, I thought I’d won the lottery. Late-night talks, wild compliments, kisses that made me feel like I mattered.

Then came the tiny cracks. Little comments about my sketches. How the hands looked awkward, or the colors were wrong, or “Maybe this would be better if you tried something different, babe.”

Different always meant smaller. Quieter. Less.

And when people started noticing my work—professors, other students, even galleries—I saw it in his eyes: that sharp twist of jealousy masked as “just being honest.”

But then I caught him lying. It wasn't even the cheating that wrecked me—it was the way he acted like I was the one being dramatic for caring.

I ended the relationship before I forgot who I was entirely.

Coming home wasn’t part of the plan. But right now, surrounded by Formica counters and bad fluorescent lighting, it felt like the smartest thing I’d done in months.

Being here, sitting with these two idiots, smelling fryer grease and bad coffee? It was the first time in months I could breathe properly.

“Anyway,” Sage said, snagging a fry from my plate like it was his God-given right, “Reid said he might swing by the shop later.”

The fry I’d just picked up hovered halfway to my mouth, suddenly heavy. “Reid?”

“Yeah. We’re working on something.” My brother waved his hand vaguely. “You know how he is with projects.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

It was a nothing word. Small, awkward, not nearly enough to hide the way his name hit me like stepping on a LEGO barefoot in the dark. My pulse thudded hard against my ribs—embarrassing, really, how just his name could do that to me. Like a bruise I kept poking to see if it still hurt.

I shoved the fry in my mouth, chewing hard. Swallowing. Not choking. Definitely not avoiding eye contact. Definitely not stirring my coffee like it suddenly needed to be blended.

Across the table, Cael gave me a look. Eyebrows lifted, mouth curved, because he knew exactly where my head was.

I ignored him. Or tried to.

Reid Morgan. Local firefighter. Built like he could carry a refrigerator by himself. Divorced. Basically the human version of a summer storm—grumpy, hot, and slightly dangerous.

And yeah. I might’ve had a stupid crush on him since before I knew what having a crush even meant.

But that was ancient history. I was here for lasagna, emotional damage repair, and possibly figuring out how to start my life over without turning into a complete mess.

“Relax,” Sage added. “We’re just fixing the truck.”

“I’m relaxed,” I said too quickly. “Totally relaxed. What made you think I'm not relaxed?”

Cael kicked my foot under the table, smirking like a cat who’d just knocked something off the shelf on purpose. “Sure you are.”

I focused on the coffee again. Bitter. Too much powdered creamer. Warm enough to settle something shaky in my chest, anyway.

Not long after, we piled into Sage’s truck.

His vehicle wasn’t exactly built for comfort.

It was an older Ford—extended cab, bench seat up front, a narrow excuse for a back seat behind it.

The kind of truck that smelled like motor oil no matter how many pine tree air fresheners you hung from the rearview.

“Shotgun,” I said automatically, tugging open the passenger door. The bench could fit three if you didn’t mind brushing shoulders, but Sage kept the middle spot reserved—neatly stacked manuals and a small crate of tools riding shotgun like permanent passengers. Practical. Predictable. Very him .

Cael peered in behind me, wrinkling his nose. “Seriously?”

He yanked open the smaller rear door and folded himself into the cramped back seat like a newborn deer with limbs everywhere. Boots bumping into the back of my seat. Rings catching the overhead handle as he tried to balance himself.

“No worries,” he said brightly. “I love being uncomfortable.”

“Watch the leather,” Sage muttered, sliding behind the wheel, but his tone was more muscle memory than actual irritation.

I glanced at Cael’s reflection in the side mirror. He caught me looking, gave me a wink like we were co-conspirators in his personal brand of chaos.

Typical.

Briar Creek rolled by outside the window, the kind of town that stayed stubborn—same shops, same faces, same hand-painted signs—even if the rest of the world moved on.

Early June heat made everything hazy at the edges, like the sun couldn’t decide whether it wanted to melt us or just make us sweat politely.

Storefronts with chipped paint, hand-lettered signs in the windows.

The old movie theater marquee still read COMING SOON even though nothing had come soon there in about eight years, before I’d left for college.

Rows of skinny eucalyptus trees lined the road out toward the neighborhoods, their dry leaves whispering secrets in the hot breeze.

A couple of kids rode by on rusted bikes, kicking up dust trails behind them.

Same cracked sidewalks. Same crooked mailboxes. Same wild oleanders blooming along the fences like they didn’t know they were supposed to behave.

I watched it all slide past with a knot in my throat.

Home.

Sage pulled into the narrow driveway, tires crunching on sun-bleached gravel.

The house was exactly how I remembered. Single story, warm tan stucco, white trim that Mom repainted every few years like a personal ritual.

The little garden out front was all tidy rows of marigolds and tomatoes, neat and hopeful, just like her.

The front steps creaked under our feet as we made our way up to the porch—I leading the way, Cael and Sage right behind. Before I could even lift a hand to knock, the door swung open.

And there she was. Elizabeth Jackson—our mom—with one hand still on the doorknob and the other pressed over her heart like she'd been holding her breath. Her eyes went glassy before she even spoke.

“Oh, my baby. Look at you?—”

She pulled me into one of those hugs that knocked every breath out of my chest. I hugged her back just as hard, my face buried against her shoulder like I was sixteen again, coming home from summer camp.

Mom didn’t even care that I smelled like bus stations and diner grease.

She held on for a long time, like she could press all the broken pieces back into place.

For the first time in weeks, something eased in my chest.

Sage got one of those hugs too, followed by Cael getting pulled in with a “You better know you’re one of mine, too,” like he didn’t already treat himself like family.

The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes, the rich, warm scent of lasagna filling every corner and making my stomach ache in the best way.

Underneath that— faintly—was the clean, lemony scent of laundry soap, like Mom had been on one of her tidying sprees before I got here.

Same worn rug in the living room, couch with the crocheted blanket draped over the back, framed family photos on the wall. Not fancy. Just right.

“I kept your room just the way you left it,” Mom said, brushing her hand down my arm like she could still smooth the creases out of my life. “Figured you’d want somewhere familiar, even if you only pop in once a year.”

I smiled, sheepish. She wasn’t wrong. Between summer jobs, gallery work, and a million reasons not to slow down, I’d only made it home for a few short visits in four years—and even those had been quick, surface-level.

“I should probably go say hi to my old sketchpads,” I joked, heading toward the hall with my bag slung low.

“You know where everything is,” she said, already steering Sage and Cael toward the kitchen. “And don’t be long—we’re eating soon.”

My room was cleaner than I remembered—probably Mom’s doing—but the same posters still clung to the walls, edges curling slightly.

The desk in the corner was scratched up with old pencil marks.

A wire basket held some of my old sketchpads.

A cracked ceramic frog I made in ninth grade still sat on the dresser, one leg chipped, eyes uneven, paint job somewhere between “bold” and “accidental.” It looked awful.

I kind of loved it. Proof that I used to make art…

do things… without overthinking it. Somewhere along the line, I stopped creating just for the joy of it.

I crossed to the window and pulled back the sheer curtain.

The old wooden swing still hung out back, its white paint chipped and curling. I’d promised Mom at least three times I’d repaint it—once before college, once during a winter break, and again last spring. Never did.

Just like the mural I started in my sophomore year and never finished.

Just like the webcomic I swore I’d update every Friday.

Just like the oil set I barely cracked open after Ben said it “wasn’t really my medium.”

A dozen half-started things.

A dozen reasons I’d stopped trusting myself to finish anything at all.

I let out a breath and stepped back into the hall. My footsteps slowed as I neared the kitchen, voices floating through the doorway ahead. A low laugh from Cael. The soft clink of plates being set. Mom asking Sage to grab the extra napkins from the drawer, her voice easy and full.

We gathered around the kitchen table, plates full of lasagna and garlic bread, salad

on the side. Mom asked gentle questions about school, about my plans—never

pressing, just offering soft places to land if I needed them. Cael sat across from me,

Sage on one side, like we’d done a hundred times before when we were kids.

It was comfortable. Familiar. Almost enough to quiet the storm brewing under my

ribs.

And then Sage mentioned he’d be heading to the shop in a little while because he

was meeting up with Reid. This time I was more prepared than I was at the diner. I kept my face carefully blank, even as my stomach gave a traitorous little flip.

Reid.

Still here.

Still off-limits .

Or maybe not?

I didn’t know which thought scared me more.