Chapter 2
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.
“Back room,” I say into my radio. “Check the panel. Kill power if it’s still live.”
“Copy,” comes the immediate reply.
Good. Structure. Procedure. Something I can trust.
The smoke thins as the doors stay propped open, cold night air pushing inside hard and clean. I escort a coughing couple the last few steps to the sidewalk, then turn back, scanning again. No one left behind. No one hurt badly enough to slow us down.
Outside, the street is chaos under control. Engines idle. Red and white lights strobe against brick and glass. Steam curls up from the doorway where water meets hot metal, carrying the sharp tang of burned insulation.
Electrical. I’d bet my pension on it. I step out onto the sidewalk and finally let myself breathe. And there she is again, taking up all the oxygen.
Harper stands just past the threshold, child still in her arms, his face buried against her shoulder.
Her hand moves in slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades, grounding him, grounding herself.
She murmurs something too soft for me to hear, forehead pressed to his hair, eyes closed like she’s anchoring them both to the moment.
The sight hits harder than it should.
I tell myself it’s normal. Any mother would look like that. Any kid would cling like that after a scare. I’ve seen it a hundred times. There’s nothing about this that has anything to do with me.
Except it does.
Because that kid exists. Because he exists in her life. Because I’m looking at proof that the world didn’t pause when I walked away—it kept going, building something whole without me.
Morales steps up beside me, helmet tucked under his arm. “Fire’s contained. A short near the old panel. Wiring’s ancient. We caught it early.”
Relief settles into my bones, slow and heavy. “Good.”
“Weird, though.”
“How’s that?”
He shakes his head. “The sprinkler system didn’t kick in. Not even in the kitchen.”
“Huh. Probably ancient, too. These old buildings are quirky.”
“Yeah. That quirkiness nearly got a lot of people hurt.”
Inside, Garrett signals thumbs-up from the back hallway, and Benny starts taping off the doorway. The scene shifts from emergency to logistics—reports, inspections, calls that will need to be made before morning.
A familiar car screeches to a stop at the curb. Carlie.
She’s out before the engine’s fully dead, still in scrubs, hair pulled back too tight, eyes already wild. She takes in the scene in one frantic sweep—trucks, smoke, people clustered on the sidewalk—then her gaze locks on Harper. On the kid.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, crossing the distance fast. “Are you okay? Mason—are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Harper says, voice steady but tired. “He’s just scared.”
Carlie drops to Mason’s level, doctor mode snapping into place, checking him over with practiced hands and soft reassurances. I watch from a few feet away, suddenly unsure where I fit in this picture.
I don’t. This is her family. I’m just the history standing too close.
An older woman appears at the doorway, clipboard already in hand, expression all business. “We’ll have to close,” she says flatly to Harper. “Electrical repairs and a full inspection. No exceptions.”
Harper nods, already calculating. Already rearranging her life in her head. “How long?”
“A week if we’re lucky. Two if the city drags its feet.”
Harper exhales slowly. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
I hear the tension under the words, and something tightens in my chest, sharp and insistent, because I know this night isn’t done taking from her yet.
My head feels stuck in one place. There are a hundred things to do, but I can’t seem to do them.
My crew starts to break down the scene in practiced motions—hoses rolled, gear stowed, radios quieting to short, efficient bursts of communication.
Chief Morales hands out water bottles. Theo starts taking photos of the damaged panel through the open back door.
The crisis is officially over. What’s left is paperwork, inspections, and inconvenience.
I should be wrapping things up. Checking in with Morales. Getting ready to clear the scene. Instead, my attention keeps snapping back to Harper like a bad habit I never kicked.
The boy is finally on his feet now, though he hasn’t let go of her hand.
His fingers are curled tight around hers, knuckles pale, his body leaning into her leg like gravity works differently when he’s scared.
Harper keeps rubbing her thumb over his hand, slow and steady, the motion so unconscious it has to be muscle memory.
That’s what hits me hardest.
She isn’t rattled. Not really. Shaken, sure—but steady. She handled the bar evacuation like she knows how to move through chaos without losing herself. She’s not the twenty-two-year-old I left in a cabin with a half-formed apology and a closed-off heart.
She’s stronger now. And she didn’t need me to get there.
That tracks. The only people who need me are my crew and the people we save. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
Garrett sidles up next to me, helmet dangling from one hand, expression way too interested for my liking. “So,” he says under his breath, “you planning to acknowledge the elephant in the room, or are we just pretending you’re paying attention?”
“Go pack up,” I tell him.
He grins. “You didn’t deny it.”
I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, something unprofessional might come out.
The boy shifts, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, exhaustion finally starting to outweigh adrenaline. His shoulders slump, head tipping forward for a second before he catches himself. “Mommy, I’m tired.”
Harper crouches immediately, bringing herself down to his level. “I know, Mason. We’ll get you somewhere quiet soon.”
“Can we go home?”
Her face tightens for just a fraction of a second—so fast I wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t watching her like this. Calculations flicker behind her eyes. It’s the first time she’s looked unsure about anything tonight.
Carlie asks, “What is it?”
Harper sighs. “The apartment upstairs we were supposed to move into tonight… not really an option. My old lease ended today. Some of our stuff is in storage, some of it is in my car—”
“You can stay with me,” Carlie offers quickly. “I can make room… somewhere. It’s not fancy, but—”
“I don’t want to put you out,” Harper says quietly.
“You wouldn’t be,” Carlie insists, but I know better, and by the look of things, so does Harper.
Not only is my sister fastidious to the point of being neurotic, but her place is small.
She says it’s easier to keep it clean that way, as if she doesn’t have a cleaning lady.
It’s barely larger than a studio apartment.
There is no room for two more people or the messes they’d bring.
Something in my chest tightens, sharp and immediate. I don’t speak yet. I don’t interrupt. I just stand there, watching the pieces line up—fatigue, logistics, pride, fear—feeling the pressure build in a way that’s uncomfortably familiar.
This is the moment before a bad decision. And I can feel it coming.
It’s the same pressure that builds right before you step into a burning room—when every instinct says wait, reassess, don’t rush, and something deeper says move now or you’ll regret it forever. I’ve learned to trust that instinct on calls. It’s saved lives.
Mason blinks hard, his head dipping forward again before he catches himself. Harper steadies him automatically, one hand firm at his back.
She straightens and looks between Carlie and Mason, already bracing herself to make a plan that works for everyone but her. I see it happening in real time—the way she pulls herself inward, shoulders squaring, voice steadying. The way she prepares to shoulder it alone.
Carlie opens her mouth again. “You really can stay with me,” she says, trying to sell it harder this time. “I can take the couch, Mason can—”
“I appreciate it. I just—it might be better to get a hotel for the night and figure things out in the morning. I don’t want to bring chaos into your home.” She smiles and points over Mason’s head without him seeing her do it.
I think about her carrying a half-asleep kid through a lobby at midnight, juggling bags and paperwork and exhaustion.
I think about how she didn’t ask for any of this and how she’ll still make it work if no one steps in.
And in the back of my mind is the oversized penthouse I go back to every night.
Empty. Quiet. Clinically sterile, Carlie calls it.
The words form before I consciously decide to say them. “You can stay with me.”
Harper looks up, startled, eyes snapping to mine. Carlie freezes beside her, brow arching in anger or shock, I can’t tell which.
“My place is downtown,” I continue, keeping my voice even, deliberate. “Plenty of space. Guest bedrooms. You and Mason would have privacy.”
Mason lifts his head just enough to look at me. He yawns. “Is it quiet?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Very.”
Harper studies my face, searching for something—hesitation, doubt, an escape clause. “Um—”
If I can do this for her and make up for the past even just a little, I’m damn well going to do it. “You’ll be safe with me. I promise.” I’ll make sure of it.