Chapter 4
AIDEN
Having Harper Lane in my space is exquisite torture.
I built this penthouse to be quiet. Not peaceful—quiet. Controlled. Predictable. A place where nothing surprises me and no one expects more than I can give. I chose concrete and glass and clean lines because they don’t burn easily. And because they’re cold.
Every room is intentional. No clutter. No softness. No evidence of a life lived emotionally instead of functionally. Sharp reminders of who I am.
It’s always worked. Until tonight.
I lie on my back in my bed, hands folded over my stomach, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers if I look hard enough.
The city’s reflection crawls slowly across the concrete above me—headlights, neon, traffic signals bleeding together into dull streaks of light.
The hours while away without much notice.
My body is wrecked. Adrenaline crash. Smoke still lingering in my lungs. Muscles tight from command and control. I should be out cold.
Instead, I’m wide awake.
Down the hall. In my guest room. Breathing my air. Walking across my floors. Existing inside the boundaries I built to keep the world out.
Harper is here. How could I possibly sleep?
My home is too well insulated to hear her, but my mind wanders to what she might be up to. Pacing the guest room floorboards. The faint rustle of sheets. A drawer sliding open, then closed again. A pause. A sigh—long and tired and unmistakably hers.
I don’t remember deciding to fantasize about her. My body just does. Like some part of me never stopped tracking her presence, never stopped knowing exactly where she is in a room.
I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow.
Don’t. Don’t do it to me. Not now, you dick.
It doesn’t matter. My mind is already back there. This is out of my control.
That night in Hocking Hills never left me. I just learned how to bury it under work and routine and exhaustion until it stopped screaming. Six years of long shifts, bad coffee, and empty beds did a decent job of keeping it contained.
Now it’s back, sharp and vivid, clawing through every defense I’ve built.
Firelight flickering across her skin. The way her laugh caught halfway through when she realized I was teasing her. The way she tilted her head, studying me like she wasn’t intimidated, like she wasn’t trying to manage me.
Like she wanted to know me. That was the dangerous part.
I’ve had women before. I’ve shared beds, shared bodies, shared moments that were easy to forget by morning. None of them ever got past the surface. None of them ever made me feel like I could lower my guard without consequences.
Harper did.
Her skin was warm under my hands. Solid.
Soft. She fit against me like she belonged there, like my arms had been waiting for her without my permission.
I remember the exact second it hit me—the realization that if I let myself fall into that feeling, if I let myself believe it could last, I wouldn’t survive losing it.
And then that bitch of a morning came along with the realization that she was not for me. Or rather, I was not good enough for her.
The gray light filtering through the windows. The quiet. The way she smiled at me like the night meant something. The hope in her eyes—careful, restrained, but real.
And then my fear.
It slammed into me, like a fire alarm. Every warning I’d ever learned screamed at once. She was too young. She was my sister’s best friend. She had her whole life ahead of her, and I was standing there like a man-shaped bomb, ready to explode her life.
The face she made when I told her it was a mistake.
The sinking pit in my stomach when I wanted to tell her that I was the mistake.
Rigid posture. Angry swallows and nods. The way she held herself together with pride because I didn’t deserve her tears.
I’ve seen devastation before. I’ve watched people lose everything in seconds. But that quiet fracture in her expression is the worst thing I’ve ever caused.
Calling it a mistake was cowardice dressed up as responsibility. I told myself I was protecting her. I told myself she deserved better than me. I never told myself how much it would cost both of us.
I should have told her that I was a piece of shit who never deserved anyone like her. That the night was everything I had ever wanted. That she made me feel… there are footsteps in the hallway.
My chest tightens like someone has threaded wire through my ribs and started twisting. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s just past two.
I should stay in my room. I know that. I should let the night pass and let morning reset the boundaries we’ve drawn. I should protect both of us from the kind of conversation that opens wounds you don’t get to close again.
I sit up anyway.
The hallway is dim, city light spilling through the windows in pale stripes across the floor. Every step feels deliberate, like I’m crossing a line I crossed once before and never fully recovered from.
The kitchen light is on.
Harper stands at the counter, glass cradled between both hands, shoulders slightly hunched like she’s trying to take up less space. She’s wearing one of my old Ohio State t-shirts—gray, worn soft with age, the block O faded nearly white.
My shirt.
The sight of it hits me harder than it should. Like she’s already worked herself into my life in quiet, undeniable ways. Like she belongs here in a way I never let myself imagine.
She looks up, startled, then smooths her expression into something careful. Neutral. Controlled. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a moment, we just stand there. The air hums with history and restraint and everything we’re pretending isn’t pressing in on us from all sides.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, because it’s safer than asking what she’s thinking.
She shakes her head. “Too much adrenaline. My brain won’t shut up.”
“Yeah. Fires are like that.”
I lean against the counter across from her, careful to keep distance. I can smell her tea—chamomile, maybe. Something calming. Of course she’d reach for that.
We pretend this is normal. We pretend this is fine.
“Roz is right about the insurance.”
“What?”
“I overheard some of your discussion. She’s right. Most of the repairs should be covered. Electrical inspections take time, but the bar will reopen.”
She nods. “I just hate the not knowing part of this. How things will shake out… I finally felt like things were steady. Now this.”
“One setback doesn’t erase what you built.”
She glances at me then, like she’s surprised. “You sure about that?”
“I’ve seen it a hundred times, Harper. Fires happen. People rebuild and move on. You can, too.”
A slight smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I think I needed to hear that.”
“Mason seems like a great kid,” I add. “Smart. Brave. Takes after his mom.”
Her face softens immediately, pride cutting through exhaustion. “He is. He asks too many questions.”
“That’s a good quality.” One of my favorite qualities she had six years ago, and proof that he takes after her.
She huffs a quiet laugh. “He’s the best person I have ever known. Big brain. Bigger heart.”
Jealousy creeps up the back of my throat, but I stifle it the way I do every time a parent brags on their kid. “You’re very lucky, then.”
“I am dying to know something that’s none of my business.”
“Go ahead and ask.” Anything, so long as it’s not about our first night together.
She bites her lip, and I can only stare. Then, she gets her courage up. “How on earth do you have a penthouse like this on a firefighter’s salary?”
I laugh, taken aback by the question. Might be the last thing I thought she’d ask.
“When I first got started, one of the other firefighters took me under her wing about some property investments. I didn’t take it too seriously—threw a little money into it without thinking.
” I shrug. “To my surprise, they did really well. Now, I wish I’d thrown more into the investments.
I’m still working like a chump, and she’s retired on a little island in the South Pacific, living like a queen. ”
Harper nods thoughtfully and sips her tea.
Silence settles again, heavier this time.
The city hums beyond the windows, distant and uncaring.
I notice everything—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, the faint tremor in her hands, the way she keeps her body angled toward the exit like she’s prepared to bolt.
She’s protecting herself. From me. Thank God.
Then she looks at me. Not politely. Not cautiously. Directly. “Why did you call it a mistake?”
The question brings me back to that morning in a rough instant. Guilt and shame collide in my gut.
“That morning at the cabin,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “did you really regret it? Regret… me?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I don’t know how to tell her that pushing her away felt like the only way to keep from dragging her into my darkness.