Chapter 10 Aiden
AIDEN
Standing in my kitchen the morning after the damn car fire with coffee going cold in my hand and the weight of last night still sitting heavy in my chest, I come to a conclusion.
I should invite Mason and Harper to the firehouse.
I tell myself I’m doing it for him, because the kid deserves something fun after everything he’s been through.
It’s only a distraction. A way to burn off nervous energy. A way to put distance between Harper and me before I say something else I can’t take back.
The truth is uglier. I need somewhere I can function without thinking about how badly I’ve screwed this up.
The firehouse has always been that place.
Order. Routine. A place where I know who I am and what’s expected of me.
Where mistakes have consequences, yes, but they’re concrete ones.
You fix them or you don’t. You save someone or you don’t.
None of this gray, emotional wreckage I keep leaving in my wake. Black and white are more my speed.
Harper rounds the corner into the kitchen, her eyes on me, then the coffee. “Morning.”
“Good morning. By the look you just gave the coffeemaker, should I be jealous?”
She doesn’t answer right away, opting instead to pour herself a mug. “Too early to be clever. I had to stay up all night worrying about someone.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“You think I could have slept while I was worried?” She dresses and sips her coffee with reverence, closing her dark brown eyes and sighing. “That’s better.”
“I’m sorry you worried about me. It wasn’t all that bad… in fact, how would you like to feel better about my job?”
Her frown makes something in the middle of my chest flutter. “Huh?”
“I was thinking about giving you and Mason a tour of the firehouse today. That way, you’ll know who has my back, and—”
“I don’t know—”
“Mommy, we gotta go!” Mason practically shouts as he enters the kitchen. “Please? Please?” He’s bouncing on his heels as he begs.
She smiles and sighs. “Well then, I guess we gotta go.”
“Yay!” he shouts, then fires off questions about sirens and ladders and whether firefighters really slide down poles. His excitement hits me somewhere low and uncomfortable, because I caused part of the fear he’s trying to outrun, and I don’t deserve how easily he trusts me.
The drive over is quiet in a way that feels intentional.
Harper watches Mason in the rearview mirror more than she watches the road.
I keep my eyes forward, jaw tight, replaying last night in fragments I can’t seem to shut off.
Her voice. Her honesty. The way I almost kissed her before her kid walked in and saved me from myself.
I should be better at this by now.
The firehouse doors are open when we pull in, the bay already alive with movement. Engines gleam under fluorescent lights. The smell of diesel and coffee and something faintly metallic settles into my lungs like muscle memory. This place knows me. It always has.
Mason’s reaction is immediate and explosive. “Whoa,” he breathes, climbing out of the car like he’s stepping into a theme park built specifically for him.
I let myself focus on that. On him. On the way his eyes go wide as the engine rolls forward for inspection, the way he looks up at me like I personally built all of this.
I show him where to stand, what not to touch, how the truck works.
I hand him a spare helmet, too big for his head, and adjust it until it doesn’t completely squash his head.
He grins like I just handed him the keys to the universe.
The crew keeps their distance for only a breath.
Then, I feel it before anyone says a word—the pause, the sharp looks, the sudden interest that has nothing to do with the kid sitting in the truck. Lizzie’s arched brow and smirk combination when she looks at Harper.
Garrett is the first one to break, because of course he is. “So this is her?” he says loudly, eyes bouncing between Harper and me. “Sloan, you’ve been moping over this woman for six years? Chief, you owe me twenty bucks!”
Harper freezes.
I close my eyes briefly, already hating Garrett with the familiar, resigned exhaustion of a man who works with him every day. “Do we have to do this today, Garrett?”
He laughs and smacks my chest with the back of his hand while looking at Harper. “Of course we do.”
“You told them about me?” Harper asks, mortified.
I might as well tell her the truth. “I wasn’t myself for a long time after that night. They noticed.”
Lizzie, never subtle but kinder about it, snorts from across the bay. “Not himself? Try absolutely miserable. Wouldn’t date anyone, snapped at everybody, worked double shifts just to avoid going home to his empty penthouse.”
“I don’t think that was necessary—”
She grins. “Honesty is always necessary, Sloan.”
Harper doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. The look on her face tells me exactly how much damage I never let her see.
And suddenly, standing in the place where I thought I was safest, the weight of it all feels heavier than ever.
I expect Harper to say something.
A joke. A deflection. A polite brush-off that lets everyone pretend Garrett didn’t just detonate six years of my emotional dysfunction in front of her and a five-year-old. A gentle remark that tells Lizzie that she’s overreacting.
This time, she doesn’t do that.
She just stands there, one hand resting lightly on Mason’s shoulder, eyes on me. Blank expression.
It’s unnerving.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, to her, not the room.
“For what?”
“For letting you find out that I ran my mouth like that back then. I thought for sure they’d forgotten all about that.”
She nods once, slow and thoughtful, like she’s filing the information away instead of reacting to it. That might be worse.
Mason saves me without realizing it.
“Can I go back in the truck?” he asks, already tugging at my sleeve. “Please?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Absolutely.” I boost him back up, settling him into the seat like he’s riding in a parade. He grips the steering wheel with reverence, feet dangling, helmet slipping down over his eyebrows until I nudge it back into place.
“You’re gonna crash,” Garrett stage-whispers.
Mason gasps. “I would never.”
I snort despite myself. The sound surprises me. It feels rusty, like a muscle I haven’t used in too long.
The crew disperses a little after that, drawn back into routine. Lizzie heads toward the medic bay. Theo checks equipment. Benny hovers nearby like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
“You wanna meet our dog?” he asks Mason.
Mason’s eyes go impossibly wide. “There’s a dog, too?”
Benny grins. “His name’s Argyle.”
Mason nods to fast that the helmet lands on the bridge of his tiny nose.
He mashes it back just as Argyle, the station dalmatian, lumbers into view like he owns the place, tail wagging with reckless enthusiasm.
Mason slides off the truck and crouches instinctively, holding out his hand.
Argyle sniffs, then leans into the attention like he’s been waiting all day for this exact kid.
Harper watches the exchange, her expression softening in spite of herself.
I stay close without hovering, hands ready just in case. Mason is gentle, careful, narrating everything he does to the dog like Argyle understands every word. Something in my chest loosens watching it. The noise in my head quiets.
This is easy.
Not the situation. Not the history. But being here, in this space, with a kid who laughs easily and a dog who demands affection without conditions. I catch myself smiling without meaning to and don’t immediately hate myself for it.
Maybe Carlie’s right. Maybe happiness isn’t something you have to earn.
Theo calls Mason over to show him the fire pole, explaining the rules with exaggerated seriousness. Mason listens like it’s the most important briefing of his life, nodding solemnly even though he’s vibrating with excitement and still petting Argyle, who is now leaning onto the kid’s leg.
I’ve always wanted kids.
I swallow it down like I always do, because wanting something doesn’t mean you’re entitled to it. Wanting something didn’t stop me from breaking Harper’s heart six years ago, and it won’t magically make me safer now.
But for the first time all day, the self-loathing eases just enough to let something lighter take its place. And I don’t hate myself for that either.
Mason bounces between stations like the building was designed specifically to hold his attention.
Benny lets him brush Argyle for exactly thirty seconds before the dog decides this has gone on long enough and flops onto his side, demanding belly rubs instead.
Mason obliges enthusiastically, narrating the entire process in a stream of delighted commentary that makes a few of the guys laugh as they pass by.
Theo shows him the lockers, explaining what goes where and why everything has a place.
Even Garrett reins himself in long enough to answer questions without being an ass.
I stay close, close enough to intervene if I need to, far enough back that Mason feels like this is his adventure and not something being managed for him. It’s instinctive. Protecting without smothering. I hadn’t realized how naturally that settles into my bones until I’m doing it.
The whole time, Harper wears the strangest expression.
I catch her watching me again, still unreadable. There’s a tightness around her mouth that wasn’t there earlier, something working its way to her face, whether she wants it to or not. I don’t look away this time, and she takes it for an invitation, so she sidles up to me.
“This place is… a lot,” she says quietly when Mason darts ahead with Theo.
“It can be,” I admit. “But it’s good chaos.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Mason would thrive on that.”
He would, my mind supplies immediately. He’s curious. He listens. He thinks before he acts. He asks questions because he wants to understand, not because he wants attention. I picture him older, taller, still asking why things work the way they do, still lighting up when he figures something out.
I force the thought away before it roots too deeply.
Chief Morales appears then, materializing at my side like he always does when he wants a word without making a production out of it. He watches Mason for a moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Harper, seeing my boss come over to me, leaves to speak with Mason about his latest discovery—our boots.
Morales folds his arms over his barrel chest. He’s a short man, thick, but none of us would ever mistake him for being out of shape. I am certain he can still outperform the rest of us, even in his late fifties. His usual grumble is quiet this time. “That’s a good woman. And that kid adores you.”
He’s right. But I don’t know what to say.
“That’s the woman from way back? The one you nearly got fired over?”
I snort at that. “You weren’t going to fire me—”
“Like hell I wasn’t. You came back with your head so far up your ass that we couldn’t deal with you. I told Lizzie to fix it or else. If she hadn’t gotten you to calm the hell down by beating your ass in the boxing ring, you woulda been out.”
Every type of truth has a certain flavor to it. Biting truth is bitter, and at the moment, I taste chicory. “She’s got a hell of a right hook.”
He nods once, then pats my shoulder. “I wouldn’t go up against her.”
I chuckle at that. “Do you believe in second chances, Chief?”
“When something is burnt, it’s burnt. There’s no un-burning it.” He gives the two of them a long look. “But I don’t think you set this thing on fire just yet.”
“How come?”
He smirks. “Because she’s here.”
A nugget of hope lodges in my throat. “Yeah. She is.”
“Don’t screw this up again, Sloan.”
“I’ll do my best not to.”
He gives me a look that says he hopes I mean it, then steps away, already pulled back into his day.
Mason comes barreling back toward me, breathless. “Aiden!”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Can I be a firefighter when I grow up?”
Not sure what Harper’s vote is on the matter. As worried as she was last night, I can’t imagine her being okay with Mason’s firefighter dreams. So, I answer with a diplomatic, “You can be anything you want.”
“Even if my daddy says I should be a countant?” Mason asks seriously.
I blink. “A what?”
Harper laughs softly. “An accountant. David says that because Mason has a head for numbers, that’s what he should do.”
I crouch down so I’m eye level with him. “You’re going to be amazing no matter what you choose,” I tell him. “You could be a firefighter, a dog walker, a—”
“What’s a dog walker?” Mason asks immediately.
“Someone who walks dogs for a living.”
His eyes light up. “Like Argyle?”
“Exactly like Argyle.”
“I wanna do that!” he declares. “I can walk him right now!”
Argyle chooses that moment to yank free of Benny’s loose grip and trot straight toward Mason, tail wagging dangerously.
I reach out automatically. “Careful. Argyle’s a little crazy. I’ll help you.”
Mason beams up at me like I just offered him the greatest gift imaginable. Behind us, Harper wipes at her eyes quickly, smiling in a way that makes my chest ache. And for the first time in longer than I want to admit, the idea that this could be something real doesn’t feel like a lie.
It feels like hope.
But the moment breaks with the sound of tires on concrete.
I hear it before I see it, the low roll of a vehicle pulling up outside the bay doors, the cadence wrong for apparatus or supply trucks. Conversation around us slows, attention shifting instinctively toward the entrance. I straighten without thinking, eyes already tracking the movement.
A marked police cruiser comes to a stop just beyond the open doors.
Two officers in suits—detectives, maybe—step out, both of them scanning the space the way people do when they’re here on business and don’t care who notices.
They spot me almost immediately. One of them lifts a hand and starts walking in our direction.
Harper feels it too. I see her posture change before she looks up, her hand tightening briefly on Mason’s shoulder. He’s still grinning, oblivious, helmet crooked, Argyle tugging gently at the leash while Benny laughs nearby.
I move without thinking, stepping closer to Harper, angling my body just enough that Mason is slightly behind me instead of between us.
The detectives stop a few feet away. The tall one asks, “Captain Sloan?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Harris, this is Detective Yellowstone. We were hoping to speak with you,” he says, then glances at Harper. “And Ms. Lane.”
Harper stiffens. “About what?”
The other detective speaks this time. “We’ve been following up on the fire at your bar. We have some questions.”
“And a potential lead,” the first adds. “A name that came up—Marcus Chen.”