Chapter 9
Riley
The paperwork takes three days.
Three days of reports, statements, evidence logs, and chain-of-custody documentation.
Three days of meetings with the DA's office, coordinating with Detective Orozco, and fielding calls from insurance investigators who want to know if Blackwood Properties can file claims now that the arsonist has been caught.
Three days of Aiden showing up at my apartment with food, coffee, and a willingness to sit quietly while I work that I didn't know I needed until I had it.
"You're glaring at that form," he says from my couch, where he's been reading a book on incident command structures—my copy, borrowed without asking.
"This form is asking for the same information I already provided on forms 7A, 12B, and the supplemental incident report." I drop my pen and rub my eyes. "Bureaucracy is where investigations go to die."
"That's dramatic."
"But accurate."
He sets down the book and crosses to where I'm hunched over my desk, his hands finding my shoulders with an ease that still catches me off guard. Thumbs dig into the knots at the base of my neck, and I groan in a way that's probably embarrassing.
"When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
"Define 'slept.'"
"Unconscious. In a bed. Not at your desk."
"Then... Tuesday, maybe?"
"It's Friday, Riley."
"Time is a construct."
His laugh rumbles through his hands into my shoulders. "You're impossible."
"And yet you keep showing up at my front door."
"Guess I'm a glutton for punishment." He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Finish that form. Then you're coming to my place, eating actual food, and sleeping in an actual bed."
"I have more forms—"
"They'll still be here Monday. You won't be any good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion."
I want to argue. The instinct is bone-deep—push through, finish the job, don't show weakness. But Aiden's hands are warm on my shoulders, and the prospect of his apartment, his cooking, actual sleep sounds better than any of the alternatives my stubborn brain can offer.
"Fine," I mutter. "But I'm bringing the case files."
"Fine. But they're staying in your bag. You're actually sleeping tonight."
His apartment feels different now. Not the space itself—same exposed brick, same bookshelves, same espresso machine gleaming on the counter—but my relationship to it.
The first time I was here, I cataloged everything like evidence, looking for proof that Aiden Gentry was exactly who I thought he was.
Now I kick off my shoes by the door without thinking, drop my bag on the chair that's become mine, and make a beeline for the kitchen to steal a piece of whatever he's cooking.
"Hands off the garlic bread," he warns without turning around.
"You can't prove I was going for the garlic bread."
"You always go for the garlic bread. It's like a law of physics at this point."
"Laws of physics can be broken."
"No, they really can't. That's the whole point of—you know what, never mind." He swats my hand away from the bread basket with a wooden spoon. "Five minutes. You can wait five minutes."
"I've been filling out forms for nine hours. This is a garlic bread emergency."
"You've earned patience and the satisfaction of a meal served properly."
"You sound like my grandmother."
"Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman."
I steal a piece of bread while he's distracted by the pasta sauce. He notices but doesn't comment, just shakes his head with the resigned affection of someone who's learned to pick his battles.
He's making pasta—something with tomatoes and basil that smells like every good thing I've ever eaten. I lean against the counter and watch him work, struck by how natural this feels. Domestic. Like we've been doing it for years instead of weeks.
"The DA thinks we'll get a conviction," I say, because the silence is starting to feel weighted. "Marsh's confession combined with the physical evidence is pretty airtight."
"That's good."
"He's cooperating. Gave us details on all three fires—timing, methodology, how he knew which buildings would be empty." I pick at the edge of the counter. "He cried during the interview. Said he never meant for it to go this far."
Aiden glances over his shoulder. "You feel sorry for him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I understand him. That's different."
"Is it?"
"He lost everything. His job, his reputation, his lawsuit. Blackwood destroyed his life, and no one held them accountable." I cross my arms, uncomfortable with the direction of my own thoughts. "I'm not saying what he did was right. But I get why he did it."
"That's what makes you good at this job." Aiden turns off the burner and faces me fully. "You see the whole picture. The how and the why."
"Most investigators just focus on the how."
"Most investigators aren't you."
The compliment lands in a place I'm still learning to leave unguarded. I look away, focusing on the pasta like it requires intense study.
"Hazel called," I say, changing the subject. "Apparently our 'relationship journey' has generated enough positive engagement that Chief Rodriguez wants to discuss making our public appearances a permanent thing."
"A permanent thing?"
"Quarterly community events. Joint presentations at schools. Maybe a fire safety podcast." I can't keep the disbelief out of my voice. "A podcast, Aiden. They want us to have a podcast."
His grin breaks through. "Flashpoint with Riley and Aiden. I can see it now."
"Absolutely not."
"Come on, it'd be fun. You could explain accelerant chemistry, I could talk about ladder operations—"
"No."
"We could have a segment called 'Hot Takes.' Get it? Because fire?"
I groan. "I'm breaking up with you."
"No, you're not." His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. "You like me too much."
"I tolerate you. There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." He's close enough now that I can see the warmth in his eyes, the ones I noticed that first day at the warehouse when everything started to shift. "Keep telling yourself that, Pritchard."
"Keep telling yourself I'm going to do a podcast, Gentry."
We're both smiling now—the stupid, involuntary kind that I used to think was reserved for other people. People who hadn't built their lives around evidence and objectivity and keeping their hearts in locked boxes where no one could reach them.
"For the record," Aiden says, his voice dropping lower, "I don't care about the podcast. Or the public appearances. Or any of the PR stuff."
"No?"
"No." His forehead touches mine. "I just care about this. You, here, arguing with me about garlic bread. That's all I need."
My throat tightens. "You're disgustingly sentimental."
"One of my many flaws."
"I'm keeping a list."
"Of course you are." He kisses me then, slow and thorough, tasting like tomatoes and basil and the promise of something I'm finally letting myself believe in.
When we break apart, I'm slightly breathless and significantly less interested in case files than I was ten minutes ago.
"The pasta's getting cold," I point out.
"It can wait."
"You spent an hour making it."
"I'll make more."
His mouth finds mine again, and I stop arguing.
The pasta is long finished by the time we end up tangled together on his couch, plates abandoned on the coffee table and some documentary about wildfires playing on mute in the background. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
"I talked to Captain Vasquez today," Aiden says, his voice rumbling through his chest. "About my promotion review."
I lift my head to look at him. "And?"
"She thinks I'm a strong candidate. The community engagement numbers are good, the training certifications help, and apparently catching an arsonist with my girlfriend is considered 'exemplary interdepartmental cooperation.'"
"Your girlfriend helped catch the arsonist. You mostly stood around looking supportive."
"I tackled him on a fire escape."
"One tackle."
"It was a very important tackle. Load-bearing, even. The whole arrest hinged on that tackle."
"Now you're just making things up."
"I'm embellishing for dramatic effect. There's a difference."
His hand traces lazy patterns on my back. "Vasquez also said Wade's been reassigned. Something about 'attitude issues' and 'failure to support department initiatives.'"
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."
"Riley Pritchard, that was almost petty."
"I contain multitudes."
"That's my line."
"I'm appropriating it."
"Fair enough."
The documentary shows a hillside in flames, firefighters silhouetted against the blaze like figures from mythology. I watch it without really seeing, my mind drifting to the case files in my bag, the forms waiting on my desk, the trial that's still months away.
"Hey." Aiden's voice pulls me back. "Where'd you go?"
"Nowhere. Just thinking."
"About?"
The instinct to deflect is automatic. Keep the heavy stuff inside, process alone, don't make it anyone else's problem.
But Aiden's hand is warm on my back, and his heart beats slow and calm under my ear, and somewhere along the way, I've started trusting him with things I don't trust anyone else with.
"My dad used to say that the job never really ends," I say slowly. "That even when you close a case, there's always another one waiting. Another fire, another investigation, another puzzle to solve."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It was, for him. He loved the work, but it consumed him. He was always thinking about the next case, the one he couldn't solve, the evidence that didn't add up." I take a breath. "I always thought I'd end up the same way. Married to the job, nothing else."
"And now?"
"Now I'm lying on a couch with a firefighter who makes me pasta and reads my incident command books." I prop my chin on his chest. "It's not what I expected."
"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"
"Good." The word comes easier than it would have a month ago. "Really good."
His smile is soft, private—the one that's just for me. "I'm glad."
"Don't get cocky."
"Too late for that." He wiggles his hips suggestively.
"Aiden Gentry, stop that."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
"Same thing."
I settle back against his chest, letting the tension of the past week finally drain away. The wildfire documentary plays on in silence, and outside the windows, Copper Ridge glitters in the darkness like always.
My father was right—the job never really ends. There will always be another case, another fire, another puzzle demanding to be solved.
But for the first time in my career, that doesn't feel like a burden.
It feels like purpose. A calling I can carry alongside everything else I'm building—this relationship, this partnership, this unexpected life that started with a viral video and a fake romance and turned into something more real than anything I've ever known.
Aiden's breathing evens out beneath me, slipping toward sleep. I close my eyes and let myself follow.
Tomorrow there will be forms and meetings and the endless machinery of justice grinding forward. But tonight, there's just this: warmth, quiet, the rhythm of another heartbeat syncing with mine.
My father taught me to follow the evidence wherever it leads. I've built a career on that principle.
And every piece of evidence—every touch, every conversation, every moment Aiden shows up without being asked—points to one undeniable conclusion: this is worth keeping.