Chapter 5
HARPER
Morning comes without an answer.
That’s the first thing I register when I wake up—not the light spilling through floor-to-ceiling glass, not the distant hush of traffic far below, but the absence left behind by last night. I asked Aiden a question I shouldn’t have asked unless I was prepared to live with whatever followed.
Did you really regret it? Regret me?
He didn’t answer. There was practically a cartoon puff of dust behind him as he fled to his room.
Okay, that’s not fair, but it felt that way last night.
I stare up at a ceiling that feels too high, too clean, too unfamiliar.
The penthouse bedroom smells faintly like citrus cleaner and something darker underneath, something that’s unmistakably him.
The city stretches beyond the windows in silent geometry, all steel and glass and distance.
It’s beautiful. It’s impersonal. It reminds me, again, that this is not my space.
We are guests here. This is not our home, no matter how much Aiden feels like home. It’s messed up to think of him that way, and I know it. But from the moment I met him… it doesn’t matter.
I turn my head and find my son sprawled sideways across the bed, hair sticking up, mouth open just slightly as he breathes. He’s safe. He’s asleep. That’s the only reason I let myself stay quiet last night. The only reason I let Aiden walk away down a hallway lined with doors I didn’t belong to.
The conversation was brutal, but if we had woken Mason up with our arguing, I would have felt worse.
I slip out of bed carefully and tug the shirt I slept in closer around me.
Aiden’s penthouse is silent in that suspended way tall buildings get before the city fully wakes.
No neighbors. No birds. Just the faint hum of distant movement far below and the soft hush of the ventilation system that most people can ignore.
When things are quiet, background noise is deafening.
It’s part of why I love my bar—it’s never quiet.
I turn on the faucet while I do my business. The noise is comforting. I’ve never liked the quiet. Not really. People think it’s peaceful, but that’s never clicked for me. When it’s quiet, I can’t shut out the thoughts I usually ignore, and right now, those thoughts are unkind.
What if the fire had escalated faster?
What if Mason hadn’t gotten out in time?
What if Aiden hadn’t told me I was a mistake six years ago?
I finish up, wash my hands, and when I turn off the faucet, in comes the quiet to eat me alive. I pad toward the open living space, listening for Mason’s usual soundtrack—singing, narrating, asking questions that begin before his eyes are fully open.
Nothing. Just more devouring quiet—
A sharp clatter echoes from the kitchen area. Plastic on stone. Followed by a small, panicked inhale.
“Oh no.”
My body reacts before my brain does.
“Mom!” Mason yells. “It’s okay!”
That sentence has never once meant what he thinks it means.
I hurry toward the kitchen, heart already racing, the smell reaching me before the sight does—sweet, warm, unmistakable. Pancakes. I slow at the edge of the open-plan space, bracing myself.
Aiden’s kitchen is all sleek lines and stainless steel and marble counters.
Or it was. Now it looks like a fry cook’s crime scene.
Flour dusts the island and the floor in uneven drifts.
Batter freckles the backsplash in pale splats.
A jug of milk lies on its side, slowly creeping across stone tile that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Mason stands on a chair, curls powdered white, gripping a whisk like a sword. “I was making hero pancakes,” he announces proudly. “But the batter attacked me.”
And then I see Aiden. Shirtless. Barefoot. Entirely unbothered.
He’s crouched on the floor, calmly wiping up a spilled milk on the other side of the kitchen. He looks up and catches my stare. “Morning.”
Part of me wants to kick him while he’s down there, and part of me wants to hug him for not shouting at Mason or his mess.
Aiden turns back to the milk, methodical, unhurried. He presses paper towels down with his palm, moving like he has nowhere else he needs to be.
Most people tense when Mason gets like this. They smile through it, white-knuckled, already calculating cleanup time and patience thresholds. Aiden doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t even glance at the clock.
Mason hops down from the chair and nearly slips, catching himself on the edge of the island. “I told you the batter was sneaky.”
Aiden nods, as if Mason just imparted a vital life lesson. “You did. I should’ve listened. I will next time.”
Mason beams.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like. This moment, in anyone else’s life would give a mom some hope. But knowing that Aiden regrets me means that there’s no hope here. Only pain.
I can’t let Mason get attached to Aiden.
Aiden straightens, finally standing to his full height, and that’s when he really looks at me. Not a glance. A look. His gaze sweeps from my bare legs to the hem of the shirt, up to my face. Something flickers there—recognition, maybe, or memory—but he keeps his expression easy.
“Morning, Sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say immediately, heat rushing to my face as memories rush to the fore.
His mouth curves. “Why not?”
“Because,” I say, uselessly.
“It fits.” He says it so matter-of-factly that my urge to kick him returns.
Why is he being like this, if I’m someone he regrets? Why be flirty and calm and cool and collected, when I feel like I’m losing my mind?
I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. “You didn’t have to—” I gesture vaguely at the disaster. “All this.”
He shrugs. “Kid wanted pancakes.”
Mason points out, “Hero pancakes.”
Aiden snorts. “Right. Hero pancakes.”
Great. They’re teaming up against me. “He’s five. You don’t have to give him everything he wants. The next thing you know, Christmas comes every month—”
“We can do Christmas every month?” Mason asks, hope widening his eyes.
“No,” I tell him a little too sharply.
But he doesn’t seem to notice, instead looking down at the milk. “I think the kitchen attacked us first.”
Thank God he’s off the monthly Christmas question. Okay, I can live with the occasional pancake disaster if it means he doesn’t get his hopes up about my expensive turns of phrase.
Mason continues, “Should we start over?”
“That’ll be the only way we get hero pancakes,” Aiden says.
I watch the exchange like it’s something fragile that might shatter if I breathe wrong. There’s no awkwardness in Aiden, no stiffness. He talks to Mason like this is normal. Like he’s done it before. Like he could keep doing it.
A sharp pang hits behind my ribs, unwelcome and uninvited.
Mason beams up at me. “Okay, Mommy, we’re gonna make another batch.”
I turn to Aiden. “That’s not necessary. He can have cereal.”
“Mah-um!” Mason whines. When he’s unhappy, my name has two syllables.
Aiden arches a brow. “I figure if he’s already covered in flour, we might as well make it worth the mess, right?”
I can’t help it. I smile. “That makes a you kind of sense, I suppose.”
Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smirk, not quite serious. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, and in that second, the memory of last night presses in. The question I asked. The silence he gave me.
Neither of us mentions it.
Mason climbs back onto the chair, already narrating his next move, and Aiden turns back to the stove, focused, steady. The city hums below us, distant and indifferent. I’m jealous of the city—distant and indifferent would keep me from this awkwardness.
And for the first time since waking up, I realize something unsettling. This morning doesn’t feel like damage control. It feels like a version of normal we never meant to test.
It feels like something I want to get used to.
I sigh and roll my eyes internally. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“Sounds good,” Aiden says as he turns to help Mason mix again.
The pancakes come together slowly.
Aiden insists on measuring everything, even though Mason keeps trying to dump ingredients straight into the bowl with wild confidence. There’s a rhythm to it—Aiden cracking eggs one-handed, Mason stirring too hard, flour puffing into the air like smoke signals.
I lean against the island, arms folded, watching. I’m just making sure Mason doesn’t fall off the chair. That’s what being a parent is—ensuring your kid doesn’t find new and inventive ways to hurt themselves.
But that doesn’t explain why my attention keeps snagging on small things.
The way Aiden lowers his voice when he corrects Mason.
The way he waits for Mason to finish talking, even when it takes forever.
The way his hand hovers at Mason’s back when he climbs down, close enough to catch him but never grabbing unless he has to.
I’ve seen men try with kids. Performative patience. Forced cheer.
Aiden isn’t trying to be good with Mason. He just is, and that scares me.
Mason hums to himself while the pancakes cook, a tuneless little song. Aiden flips one cleanly, the pancake landing perfectly back in the pan.
Mason gasps. “Whoa.”
“Years of practice,” Aiden says dryly.
“With pancakes?” Mason asks.
“With messing things up first, then fixing them,” Aiden replies.
That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it. Both of them look at me.
Aiden’s eyes hold mine for a beat too long. There’s something there—recognition, maybe. Or relief.
I look away first. Can’t let him see the heat in my cheeks.
Aiden slides a plate toward Mason. “First one’s yours. Hero tax.”
He pumps a fist. “Yes!” He grabs the pancake with his hands before I can stop him. “Hot!” he yelps, dropping it back onto the plate and shaking his fingers.
Aiden crouches instantly, concern flickering across his face. “You okay?”
Mason nods, still shaking his hand. “Yeah. I can handle it.”
“I know,” Aiden says, serious. “You can handle anything. But smart people still use forks.” He passes him a fork.
Mason considers this, then reaches for the silverware. “Okay.”
This isn’t supposed to feel intimate. It’s pancakes. It’s a man helping a kid he barely knows. And yet my chest feels tight, like I’m watching something private.
Mason takes a bite, syrup already on his cheek. “These are better than yours, Mom.”
“Hey,” I protest.
“They’re hero pancakes,” he says apologetically, like that explains everything.
Aiden smiles, but it’s softer now. Less teasing. His gaze flicks to me, then away, like he’s suddenly aware of the line he’s standing on. He’s back to making pancakes before the moment gets awkward.
Mason chews thoughtfully, then looks up. “Aiden?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Did you know my mom before I was born?”
My heart drops, and the room stills in a way that sucks all the oxygen out of the room. Aiden glances at me, just briefly, like he’s checking where the landmines are buried.
He’s not sure what to say on the matter, and I can relate.
I force my voice to work. “Aiden is Aunt Carlie’s brother. We met a long time ago.”
Mason frowns. “Should I call you Uncle Aiden?”
“Not necessary,” he blurts.
“Did you used to be friends?”
“Yes,” I say too fast.
Aiden’s jaw tightens. He keeps his eyes on the stove, flipping another pancake that doesn’t need flipping.
Mason isn’t done. He rarely is. “Then how come you never visited us in Phoenix?”
Aiden stills completely.
I open my mouth. Close it. There is no good answer. No simple one.
“Do you hate the desert, too?” Mason continues, blessedly oblivious to the tension in the room. “Mom hates the desert.”
Before either of us can speak, the doorbell rings, and we both jump a little. Aiden looks toward the front door. Then at me. Something unspoken passes between us.
“I’ll get it,” I say quickly.
My heart still pounds as I walk away, leaving unanswered questions and half-cooked pancakes behind me. The doorbell rings again before I even reach it. Short. Sharp. Impatient.
My pulse is already racing by the time I cross the living space, the sound echoing strangely in the open penthouse. Behind me, I still feel the tension I left in the kitchen, with Aiden too quiet, Mason too curious.
When I open the door, Carlie stands in the hallway outside the penthouse, perfectly put together in a way that has always made me feel slightly underdressed by comparison. Her hair is sleek, her posture rigid, her expression carefully blank.
Her eyes flick over me, pointedly staring at my lack of pants.
I’m wearing Aiden’s shirt. A pan sizzles faintly from the kitchen, perking her attention that direction. Mason’s laugh drifting through the open space. And then Aiden emerges into the periphery of my vision. Shirtless, standing in the middle of his pristine apartment.
His voice is tentative. “Morning, Carlie.”
Carlie’s mouth tightens. Her gaze sharpens instead, narrowing as it locks back onto my face.
There’s no surprise there. No confusion.
Just something hard and assessing, like she’s confirming a suspicion she didn’t want to be right about.
She doesn’t break eye contact with me when she coolly says, “Aiden.”
The air between us thickens, heavy with things no one is saying.
“Mason’s here,” I say, uselessly. “We were just—”
“Making breakfast,” Carlie finishes, eyes flicking once more toward the kitchen. Her tone is controlled, but there’s an edge under it now.
Mason’s footsteps patter closer, probably still tracking loose flour off his clothes. “Aunt Carlie! We made hero pancakes!”
Carlie’s expression softens just enough to acknowledge him. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Mason looks around, assessing the three of us. He can’t ignore the tension this time. “Mom—”
“We need to talk,” Carlie calmly says as her jaw sets. “Now.”