The morning broke sharp and clean, dew clinging to the grass like tiny jewels. Each blade shimmered beneath the early sun, the air carrying the faint sweetness of damp earth. Aiden breathed it in, the cold filling his lungs as he sighted down the range.
Gunfire cracked, sharp and sudden, echoing across the property. Brass casings leapt and tinkled against the wet ground, some sinking slightly into the soil.
Steve stood beside him, calm and measured, his stance rooted in habit. His father had that deputy's poise, weight balanced, shoulders squared, motions efficient without being hurried. Aiden mirrored him, though less by admiration and more by muscle memory. He had learned how to hold himself from someone else long before.
As he raised his rifle again, his focus slipped. The world around him blurred.
The morning air dissolved into another time, another place. His arms remembered the weight of the weapon, his knuckles recalled the pressure of a hand correcting his grip. Miss P.
She had stood beside him back then, her presence both commanding and strangely steadying. Even now, the memory of her was vivid, so sharp it almost hurt to look at. She was older, yes, but not diminished. Still strikingly beautiful in a way that time could not erase. Her beauty wasn't the untouched kind; it was weathered, lived in. Lines etched the corners of her eyes and mouth, not unkindly but like proof of survival. She looked like Monica Bellucci in her fifties, dark hair falling in waves, lips full and knowing, eyes the color of storms. Eyes that had seen too much and carried it anyway.
He could see her now, in the half-light of that cramped backyard in Chicago, the air damp with the smell of brick and rain. The way she had adjusted his stance, firm fingers guiding his shoulders down, pressing lightly against the inside of his elbow.
"Relax," she had told him, her voice carrying that accent, smooth and unyielding. "Do not fight the weight. Feel it. Move with it. Anticipate the shot. Do not react."
At twelve, maybe thirteen, he hadn't understood her patience. His arms ached, his chest burned with frustration, his pride stung with every missed target. He remembered the heat crawling up his neck, his jaw clenching as the paper target came back riddled with holes, none where they should be.
"Again," she said. Never raising her voice. Never coddling. She gave no soft words, no empty comfort. Only insistence. Only that quiet pressure that made him want to try again.
Her hands had been warm against his knuckles, adjusting his fingers on the grip. "Do not strangle it," she whispered, so close he could smell faint perfume mixed with tobacco and rain. "Hold it as if it were alive. It will obey you if you respect it."
He had wanted to throw the rifle down, storm inside, sulk like a boy. But under her gaze, quitting had not been an option. Her eyes pinned him there, demanding more, demanding better.
The shot that finally landed center had felt like lightning breaking inside his chest. The sound of the impact still rang clear in his ears, louder than the crack of the gun. For one suspended breath, he thought he had imagined it. But her eyes told him otherwise, eyes softened with something rare. Not affection, not pride exactly, but respect.
"You see?" she said quietly. And in that moment, he believed he could.
The present snapped back like a rubber band.
Steve's chuckle broke through the memory. "Loser makes dinner tonight."
Aiden blinked, grounding himself in the cool morning air, in the scent of gunpowder, in the solid presence of his father. He smirked. "You're on."
They raised their rifles. Aiden exhaled, letting his body move the way Miss P. had drilled into him. One to the head. Two to the chest. Each shot crisp, each recoil absorbed without thought. His arms didn't tremble now; his shoulders stayed loose.
Steve's turn, two to the head, one drifting off target.
They set their rifles down, boots crunching softly through the dew as they approached the paper targets. Aiden nudged him. "Looks like you're cooking tonight."
Steve squinted. "Don't get cocky. That last shot of mine kissed the line."
"Close doesn't count," Aiden said, straightening. "Check for yourself."
Steve gave him a long look, lips twitching before his expression shifted, just slightly. A little softer. His voice came lower, almost careful. "Speaking of… that Angela girl. You two…?"
Aiden's jaw worked. He didn't meet his father's eyes. "Just friends. I'm not… not interested in dating right now."
Steve chuckled, but there was a thread of something else behind it. "Small town, son. Shit happens whether you're interested or not. Just… I hope you're careful."
"Don't worry," Aiden said, steady, a little clipped. "I've got it covered."
For a beat, silence. Then Steve's voice cracked, his words unspooling like he hadn't meant to let them slip. "I'm sorry, Aiden. Sorry about Chicago. Sorry I couldn't be there. All the pain you went through… I should've—"
A tear slid, quick, before he brushed it away.
Aiden's hand landed firm on his shoulder. Not soft, not comforting, steady. "It's done. Doesn't change anything now." He pulled his hand back, lightening the air with a teasing smirk. "But you'd better worry about lunch. I don't cook for sore losers."
Steve laughed, rough-edged, wiping his face with the heel of his palm. They walked back, the morning sun spilling over the property, dew evaporating into thin steam.
Inside, Aiden rolled up his sleeves and went straight for the kitchen. Cooking had become a ritual, grounding him when the silence of the house pressed too heavy. He pulled garlic, herbs, pasta, and chicken from the pantry and fridge, setting them on the counter with mechanical precision.
The knife cut a steady rhythm against the board, sharp clicks echoing in the stillness. Garlic hit hot oil with a hiss, scent blooming rich and immediate. He pan-fried the chicken, skin turning golden and crisp, before tossing pasta in a light aioli. A salad waited in a bowl, bread warming in the oven.
As the sauce simmered, another memory stirred. Mrs. P at her kitchen table—small, cluttered, forever smelling of tomatoes and wine. She would cook with the same ease she taught him to shoot, never measuring, never second-guessing.
"You don't need to cook for a whole family," she'd teased once, sliding a plate in front of him. "You just need to survive. Survive, be merry, and maybe—" she'd tapped his chest, right above his heart, "—love."
Then she'd grinned, mischievous, mussing his hair. "Eat, Aiden. Eat, so you don't fall over with that long face."
Sometimes she would slip into Italian, mock-serious: Bisogna mangiare per vivere e non vivere per mangiare. One must eat to live, not live to eat.
The words drifted back as he plated the pasta, heavy with memory and comfort.
The front door opened, boots scraping. Steve appeared still in uniform, duty calling him on a weekend. He sniffed the air, throwing his arms wide in a ridiculous accent. "Mamma mia! Bellissimo! What-a smells so good-a?"
Aiden rolled his eyes but smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Better than whatever you burn at the station."
Steve laughed, clapping him on the shoulder before packing a portion into a container. His belt clinked as he fastened it, adjusting his uniform jacket. "Thanks, son. You keep me fed, I'll try not to arrest half the town just to have an excuse to come home early."
Aiden didn't answer. Just a grunt, the scrape of his fork as he settled at the table.
Steve lingered a moment, then, with no more words, slipped out. The door clicked shut, and the silence poured in, heavier than before.
Aiden ate alone. Each clink of the fork against the plate echoed like gunfire in the empty kitchen.
Halfway through, his phone buzzed. A flood of messages from Jessica and the others. Emojis, pleas, teasing remarks. The forest party. Come on, don't be boring.
The phone buzzed again, rattling against the table. Aiden ignored it once, twice, then finally gave in. Unlocking the screen, he saw the group chat:
[Forest Rangerz 🌲🔥]
Jessica: Aiden, no excuses. You're coming tonight.
Tyler: He's not coming. Watch.
Eric: Ghost mode activated.
Lauren: You guys are mean. Leave him alone.
Ben: Nah, he needs this. Exposure therapy lol.
Connor: Translation: someone has to carry Tyler home again.
Tyler: Shut up, Connor.
Mike: 🤣🤣🤣
Angela: He said he can cook… maybe he'll bring something?
Jessica: He better. Pasta. Or at least something edible.
Ben: Pasta? At a party? Really?
Connor: I'll eat it. Don't test me.
Tyler: Bro, just bring beer.
Jessica: Tyler, shut it. You're banned.
Eric: If Aiden actually shows, I'm buying lottery tickets.
Angela: He's new here. Probably still figuring stuff out.
Lauren: See? Even Angela's rooting for him. Come on, Aiden.
The messages scrolled fast. Emojis , fire, beer mugs, ghosts, flew by. Bella's name stayed gray, untouched.
Aiden stared. Normally, he would have ignored it all, retreated into the quiet of the house. But Jessica's nagging pushed, and Angela's gentle notes sat differently, curious, almost respectful, noting what little she knew: he could cook, he was new, he wasn't fully known.
Finally, he typed:
Aiden: Fine. I'll come. Stop blowing up my phone.
The flood hit instantly:
Jessica: YESS!!
Tyler: 😱😱😱
Ben: Miracle day.
Mike: Mark calendars.
Connor: Don't flake.
Lauren: Glad you're coming.
Eric: Bug spray. Trust me.
Angela: See you there.
Bella still said nothing.
Aiden set the phone down, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The house was still quiet, but less oppressive now. The chatter, chaotic and messy, had pulled him back into the world outside his own silence.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. He had no reason to go. No reason not to, either. The house was too quiet. The food was too heavy in his stomach.
Fine. I'll come, he typed back.
Setting the phone aside, he rinsed his plate and dried his hands. The silence clung as he went to get ready, but through it, faint and stubborn, Mrs. P's voice lingered. Not soft. Not motherly. Just steady. A reminder that he could step into whatever came next and stand tall.