16. Ari
SIXTEEN
ARI
Sunlight spilled across my pillow like the world hadn’t shifted on its axis last night.
But it had. Because Daddy had kissed me.
Not a polite maybe-we-should kiss. Not a bored tongue-and-teeth kiss like the ones I’d gotten at parties or in the back of someone’s car. No—this one had shattered the scale. Every kiss before his faded like pencil sketches next to something full-color and sharp-edged and unforgettable.
And he’d texted me. Last night. Told me he got home safe.
That alone had me clutching my phone like it was something sacred.
Now, another message blinked across the screen.
Daddy: Be at the station at 8. Don’t be late.
Temptation tugged at me. My thumb hovered over Cael’s name in my contacts. Just to hear someone say it wasn’t all in my head. But I didn’t call. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to let anyone else touch this thing. Not while it felt so new and tender. Some things I wanted to keep for myself a little longer.
I only hoped Daddy didn’t wake up wishing it hadn’t happened.
Didn’t wake up thinking it was a mistake. Some heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment.
Because if he did... I didn’t know how to come back from that. Didn’t want to go back to pretending we were just friends—that I was just his best friend’s younger brother. Didn’t want to fold myself back into the version of me he never really looked at.
I lay there a minute longer, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to overthink what one kiss meant. But it was useless. I was already in too deep. That kiss hadn’t just happened to me—it’d rearranged something inside me.
Like I’d been half-asleep and he’d woken me up with the press of his mouth, with the way he’d said sweetheart like the word belonged to me and no one else.
I flipped back to reread his last message.
Then I typed two words.
Me: Or what?
Then I stared at the message like it might bite me. Hesitated. Hit send.
The screen blinked once. Message delivered.
I set the phone down, then picked it right back up like that would change anything.
Waited. Swiped out of the app. Swiped back in.
Still nothing. No little typing dots. No read receipt.
No snarky comeback. Just a stupid gray bubble and a silence that started to feel heavier the longer it stretched.
I knew better than to expect an immediate reply. Still, part of me hoped he’d text something back—quick, clever, warm. Something that proved last night hadn’t flipped my world upside down just to leave it that way.
But the screen stayed quiet.
Probably for the best. I’d already spent the whole night reliving the feel of his lips on mine. How his hands had fit against my jaw like they belonged there. How he’d looked at me like I wasn’t just some drifting, half-useful boy with paint on his hands and nothing to show for it.
So yeah, I saw the time tick past 8:00. Strolled into the station lot at 8:10, heart hammering and grin already forming. Ten minutes late. Not enough to be disrespectful—just enough to be noticed.
The front door stood open. No one at the desk. The place smelled like stale coffee, old sweat, and pine cleaner—comforting in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Footsteps echoed low from deeper inside. I followed the sound through the main hallway, past the quiet engine bay.
Daddy leaned against the wall near the back stairwell, arms crossed, like he’d been waiting there since sunrise. Sunlight knifed through a narrow window, catching the edge of his jaw—sharp, golden, and unfair.
“Morning,” I said, casual, like I hadn’t just jogged up the steps on adrenaline alone.
“Eight-eleven,” he said. Not a question.
“Might’ve taken the scenic route.”
Daddy pushed off the wall. The weight of his gaze didn’t lift once as he crossed the space between us, boots landing slow and deliberate like punctuation. He stopped close—closer than was appropriate for a guy who’d texted Don’t be late, boy .
“Scenic route, huh?” His hand found my waist, fingers pressing against the fabric just above my jeans. Not hard, not soft. Just certain. “You trying to test me already, boy?”
That word again.
My breath hitched, but I leaned in anyway. “Maybe,” I said, voice low. “You’re the one who ordered me to show up. What did you expect would happen?”
His palm slid around to the small of my back, pulling me in that final inch. Heat rolled off his chest like a second skin.
“I expected you to listen.”
“You expected wrong.”
That earned me a smirk—just a flicker. Then his mouth was on mine, no teasing this time. Just heat and pressure, control wrapped in gentleness, like he already knew I’d give him whatever he asked for if he kissed me like that.
His tongue swept in, confident and slow, coaxing mine into rhythm. My fingers curled in the front of his shirt, holding on as the ground tilted underneath us.
“You been thinking about last night?” he murmured against my mouth.
“You know I have,” I managed.
Daddy didn’t hesitate. Both hands gripped my hips, backing me into the wall, his mouth dragging down the line of my jaw to the base of my throat. When he sucked lightly there, I swore my knees gave out for half a second. One thigh slid between mine, anchoring me.
His hands slipped under my shirt, palms rough and warm. He pushed it up to my chest and paused.
“Can I?” he asked, voice low but clear.
“Yes,” I breathed.
Then his mouth was on me again—this time over one nipple, tongue swirling, lips dragging heat through skin and nerves. I gasped, head thunking against the wall.
“Daddy—shit?—”
“Quiet,” he whispered, teasing the other side now. “Someone might hear how badly you want this.”
My hands found his shoulders, digging in as he opened the top button of my jeans with one hand, then the second. His knuckles brushed my stomach, low and slow, like he had all the time in the world.
“You’re playing with fire,” I whispered, voice jagged.
“Good.” His hand cupped me through the denim. “I like heat.”
A low sound escaped me—half warning, half plea. Daddy kissed me again, deep and unhurried. His thumb traced lazy circles that made me arch into him.
Boots echoed down the stairwell.
Daddy froze. Just for a second. His forehead dropped to mine as we both stood there, breathing hard.
“That was too damn close,” I whispered.
His hand brushed the waistband of my open jeans one last time before he pulled away, adjusting my shirt with infuriating care.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook.” He smirked, all teeth and slow-burning intent.
I grinned, breathless. “You’re the one who started this, Daddy.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise—something darker. His mouth twitched at the corner, but he didn’t smile. Just breathed out once, slow and shallow, like he was trying real hard to keep it together.
Daddy stepped back, expression smoothing out fast—but not fast enough to erase the heat I’d seen flash across his face. The tension didn’t leave the room. It just tucked itself into the corners, quiet but alive.
His voice came out low, rough-edged. “Get your pants buttoned, boy. We’ve got work to do.”
He led me upstairs to a room tucked at the end of a narrow hall. It was behind a door that creaked when he pushed it open. The air inside smelled like dust and cleaner, stale but not unpleasant. Light filtered through two small windows, throwing soft lines across worn tile.
Scuffed floors. Dented lockers pushed against one wall.
A busted vending machine stood in the corner like it was part of the original foundation.
On the far wall, a faded fire safety poster peeled at the edges.
The walls were off-white—or maybe they’d started that way, before years of sun and sweat dulled them to nothing.
Daddy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed again. “Used to be a rec room. Got left behind when we turned the kitchen into the main hangout. Captain and I were talking. Figured it’s time to give it a second life.”
I stepped inside slowly, turning in a slow circle as the space settled around me. “So what, you want me to sweep up and hang some fairy lights?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the artist. Make it something we’d actually use.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t say anything for a second.
Just looked around again, slower this time.
The far wall was big—wide enough for a mural.
The lighting sucked, but I could fix that with softer fixtures.
Maybe color block the corners, do something geometric to modernize the shape of the room.
A shelf for old trophies. Hooks for gear or hats.
And maybe photos—firefighters past and present. Community stuff.
“You’re serious,” I said finally.
Daddy’s gaze held steady. “Dead serious.”
Something in my chest cracked open a little. Not the bad kind. Not like breaking. More like letting in air after holding my breath for too long.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, followed by the unmistakable voice of Marco cracking a joke.
Boone and Griff followed him into the room, all easy grins and morning energy.
I knew them all from around town—Briar Creek was small like that.
Familiar enough to be friendly. Not enough to guess what they’d think of me taking the lead on something like this.
But Daddy didn’t move. Just gave me a nod, like this is yours now .
I walked the perimeter, sizing up the wide wall that would be perfect for something spectacular.
Marco whistled low. “Damn, I haven’t come in here since the card game Boone lost hard enough to sulk for a week.”
Boone rolled his eyes. “That was five years ago.”
“Still remember it,” Griff muttered.
I cleared my throat. “So, uh. I was thinking maybe a mural here—” I gestured to the far wall, “—like a timeline or something. Calls, crews, maybe past chiefs. Paint the trim darker, sand the floor down to something halfway decent. Bring in a few floor lamps, swap that vending machine for something that actually works.”
Marco leaned in, squinting like he could already see it. “You got a style in mind?”
“Something clean. Nothing fussy. Firefighter red for accents, maybe some matte charcoal on the lower walls. Could do decals or stencils of the station logo.”
Boone grinned. “I’m into it.”
Daddy hadn’t said a word, but when I glanced back, he was still there—against the doorframe, watching me like I was something worth betting on.
More ideas flowed before I could stop myself. Earth tones along one wall. A mural with the town skyline, maybe. Something honoring the firehouse’s history. Swappable art panels so they could change things seasonally. Floor cushions for off-duty hours. Cards, maybe a corkboard wall.
For the first time in a while, I could see a start and a finish.
“How long you think it’ll take?” Marco asked.
“Couple weeks if you let me in during downtime. I’ll work around your shifts.”
Daddy added, “We’ll help. When we’re not out on calls.”
“You sure?”
Griff shrugged. “Anything’s better than looking at that goddamn vending machine.”
Laughter broke through the room.
“If we get the paint and supplies this week, I could start Monday,” I said. “Maybe we take tomorrow to clean out the corners, sand a few spots. I’ll make a plan. Could use help with the heavy stuff.”
“You’ll have it,” Griff said. “As long as you let me pick the playlist.”
“Deal.” I smiled, something tight in my chest loosening a little more.
After a bit more banter and rough planning, the guys drifted out—chores to finish, shifts to prep for. Daddy lingered behind, gaze still locked on me.
When the door clicked shut again, I looked down at the scuffed floor, then back at him. “You really trust me with this?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just walked over, slow and sure, until I could feel the warmth of him in front of me.
“I didn’t ask you to do this just to keep you busy.
” His voice softened, steady in a way that made it hard to look away.
“I’ve seen what you can do—those canvases at your mom’s, the ones you did when you were in high school?
The art you’ve gifted Sage and me in the past?
You’ve got an eye most people don’t. You see more than what’s there. You see what could be.”
The back of my neck prickled. I’d never really thought anyone except my professors had paid attention.
“And this room?” he went on. “No, it’s not yours like you own it. But it’ll be yours. Because you’ll have touched every part of it. Because you’ll have started something and finished it. You’ll walk in here and see yourself in it. That’s what matters.”
My throat tightened. I hadn’t expected that answer. Not the honesty. Not the way it settled under my ribs and stretched.
“What if I screw it up?” I asked, quieter. “What if it looks like another half-started thing I couldn’t follow through on?”
Daddy reached for me, his hand curling gently around my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “Then you try again. And again. Until it looks like something you’re proud of.”
I blinked, trying to hold his gaze. “You really think I can do this?”
Daddy stepped in, hand brushing my jaw, his thumb rough but careful. “I know you can.” His eyes searched mine. “But you gotta show up for it. Not just with paint and brushes. With your whole damn self.”
And just like that, something settled in me, something I wasn’t sure I could name. It was confidence, but then again, it was more than that. Because I was beginning to get the feeling I could pull this off. Like maybe I wouldn’t be drifting anymore.
“Good.” My pulse quickened. “Because I’m gonna make this place better than you expect.”
“You better.” His voice dropped an octave. “And if you show up late again?—”
My heart tripped.
“—I’m bending you over that table.”
“Is that a promise?”
Daddy didn’t answer.
Just smirked and walked away.
And I stood there, heart thudding, already planning color palettes. And now I could figure out that something I wasn’t sure I could name before–purpose.
I also stood there secretly thinking I should show up late again.