Chapter 24 Aiden
AIDEN
By the time the doors open, Clover & Mint is already buzzing like a living thing.
The place looks nothing like it did the night it burned—and exactly like it always should have.
New floors gleam under the modern lighting, the bar rebuilt in clean lines and warm wood, shelves stocked and glowing.
The layout is sharper now, more intentional, but the soul of it is unmistakable.
Laughter echoes easily. Conversation spills from every corner. It feels alive again.
Packed doesn’t begin to cover it.
Firefighters in dress uniforms stand shoulder to shoulder with bar regulars who look like they raided their closets for something worthy of the occasion.
Local press moves through the crowd with cameras and microphones, city council members shake hands like they’re just happy to be invited, and friends and family cluster together in knots of excitement.
It’s a celebration in the truest sense of the word—loud, joyful, and earned.
And in the center of it all is Harper.
She’s glowing.
She moves through the room with ease, thanking people, hugging old regulars, laughing with staff, answering questions from reporters without missing a beat. She looks confident, like the version of herself she always had in her but needed the fire—and everything after—to uncover.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
Every smile feels personal. Every laugh feels like a victory.
I watch her shake hands with a contractor who donated labor, then turn around and hug Roz so hard they both nearly knock into a table.
I watch her bend down to talk to an older couple who tell her this was where they celebrated their anniversary every year, and I see the way her eyes soften, the way she absorbs that history like fuel.
My chest feels too full. If I don’t do it soon, I might die.
The charity auction kicks off near the bar, and the energy spikes even higher.
The firefighter calendar photos are displayed on easels, and I have to bite back a grin when I see the numbers climbing.
People bid like it’s a sport, laughing and heckling each other, raising paddles with reckless enthusiasm.
Garrett’s photo goes for five hundred dollars.
Five. Hundred.
He becomes absolutely unbearable about it, strutting around like he’s personally funded the entire rebuild. “Guess I’m the face of community resilience now,” he announces loudly, preening like a peacock under the attention.
Theo threatens to outbid for my picture just to knock him down a peg, and Lizzie rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t pull a muscle. Chief Morales takes the microphone next.
The room quiets, the way it always does when he speaks.
“This neighborhood has always been my favorite. I grew up here, I fell in love here, I mourned my losses here. This is the kind of place you can raise a family or raise some hell.” The crowd cheers.
“It’s also the kind of place that rebuilds.
We’re resilient. Strong. Most of all, we help each other out.
We show what it means to love thy neighbor.
My firehouse will always serve this community with pride.
Harper, thank you for reminding us what community means.
Roz, thank you for everything you did to make tonight happen.
And to my crew, none of you better use tonight as an excuse to be late tomorrow, Garrett. ”
“Hey!” Garrett hollers indignantly, while everyone laughs.
Roz speaks after him, voice shaking just slightly as she thanks the staff and the patrons and the people who showed up when everything felt impossible. She points out faces in the crowd, calls out moments of kindness, and by the time she finishes, more than a few people are wiping at their eyes.
My heart pounds as she passes the mic to Harper.
Harper takes it with both hands, breathes once, and looks out over the room.
For a second, she doesn’t say anything, just lets herself take it all in.
The noise dies down completely, every eye on her.
Harper’s voice is steady when she starts, but there’s an undercurrent to it that pulls the room closer without her trying.
“Not so long ago, I moved back to Columbus to start over. Cliché, I know, but I’d lost my marriage, my confidence… myself, really. I thought this place would be my fresh start, somewhere that I could pin my hopes and dreams to, if I just worked hard enough.”
She takes a long breath, and I see it. She’s on the verge of tears already.
“And then someone tried to take it from me,” she continues, her grip tightening on the microphone just slightly.
“They burned it down and tried to convince me that meant I was finished. They didn’t care who they hurt, either.
They lit the building, irrespective of who could have been inside.
They did that to tell me no one here mattered. ”
The room is so quiet I can hear the hum of the lights.
She lifts her chin. “What I learned is that no matter what burns, we all matter here.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd, a collective intake of breath, and my eyes sting.
“Roz, you are the backbone of this place. I couldn’t do it without you.
You wouldn’t let me walk away. You wouldn’t let my dream die.
My staff, all of you, are the reason this place is what it is and what it can be.
And this community… my patrons, my friends, my neighbors, you have dug deep to help us, and there are no words to express how grateful I am to each and every one of you.
Melissa, for dropping off meals for the crew.
Hal’s Lightbulb Emporium, for keeping us out of the dark.
Those of you I haven’t met yet, who dropped off envelopes without saying a word. I see you. And I love you, too.”
Finally, her gaze shifts. It finds me in the crowd, unerringly, like it always does.
“And someone in particular,” she says, her voice softening, “reminded me that I’m stronger than I think. That second chances are real. That it’s never too late to fight for what you want.”
My breath catches.
She doesn’t say my name. She doesn’t need to. Everyone in the room knows exactly who she’s talking about. So does Mason, who’s perched near the front with Carlie, eyes shining as he looks between us.
“So thank you,” Harper finishes, her voice thick but sure. “All of you. For giving me my dream back.”
The applause is immediate and thunderous.
People stand. Someone whistles. Roz wipes at her cheeks and pulls Harper into a fierce hug as she steps away from the mic. I clap until my hands hurt, my heart pounding so hard I’m not sure how it’s staying inside my chest.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, the moment I knew I couldn’t interrupt but had to follow. I step forward before I can second-guess myself and take the microphone from the stand.
Harper turns toward me, confusion flickering across her face, her brows knitting like she’s trying to figure out what I’m doing. She opens her mouth, probably to ask if I’m about to make some kind of firefighter joke or add a thank-you she forgot.
I take a breath and look out at the faces watching us—my crew, her staff, friends, family, the people who showed up when everything burned.
The microphone feels heavier than it should.
I’ve spoken in front of crowds before—briefings, press statements, safety talks—but this is different. My mouth dries completely. My palms are soaked. Somehow, my skin is tight.
But when I look in her eyes, it all settles. All but my heart.
“I’m not going to be long,” I tell her, my voice carrying easily through the room. A few people laugh softly, the tension easing just a notch. Then I look out on the crowd. “Mostly because this night isn’t about me.”
I pause, gathering my thoughts.
“This bar,” I continue, gesturing around us, “isn’t just a business. It’s a place people came to feel welcomed. To celebrate. To catch their breath after a hard day. When it burned, a lot of us felt that loss, even if we didn’t have the words for it at the time.”
Familiar faces nod along.
“What happened here reminded me of something I learned on the job,” I say. “Fire takes what it can. But it doesn’t get the last word. People do.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Garrett leans toward Theo and whispers something, his grin unmistakable even from across the room. Then he gives me a subtle nod, the kind we use on calls when everyone’s in position and it’s time to move.
My chest tightens. I know she sees it on my face. She’s not sure what she sees—but she knows something is up. Quietly, she asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I rasp honestly. I take a breath, then raise my hand slightly, a signal that tells the crew to kill the lights. All but the string lights, glowing over us.
Harper looks at me, confused again. “Aiden?”
I meet her gaze and smile. Can’t help myself. This isn’t just a question.
It’s a promise.
A hush falls over the bar. The room goes completely still.
Not the awkward kind of quiet, but the charged kind—the kind that happens when everyone senses they’re about to witness something that matters.
The string lights glow softly overhead, reflecting in the polished wood and glass, turning the bar into something intimate despite the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder.
Harper’s eyes are wide now, her confusion giving way to realization in real time. Her voice is so soft I almost don’t hear her say my name.
From the edge of the room, Mason appears.
He’s wearing the nice shirt Harper made him put on for pictures, his hair combed neatly, his face split into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
In both hands, he’s holding a small velvet box like it’s the most important object in the world.
He walks toward us carefully, deliberately, the way kids do when they know this moment is serious.
The crowd parts for him without being asked. Harper’s hand flies to her mouth.
Mason stops in front of me and beams up at his mother. “This is my very important job,” he announces proudly, then hands me the box like he’s completing a sacred mission.
“You did great, buddy,” I say quietly, my throat tight. I take the box and sink down onto one knee.
The reaction is immediate—gasps, hands flying to faces, someone whispering oh my god from somewhere near the bar. I don’t look at anyone else. I only look at Harper.
She’s shaking.
Maybe I am, too.