Page 7 of Connor

Aiden stepped inside without a word. He closed the door with his foot, his cane tapping against the floor as he walked over to my desk. The limp was slight, but I knew he was in pain. He always was.

He tossed the ice pack onto my desk. “For your face.”

I glanced at it but didn’t pick it up.

Aiden dropped into the chair across from me, resting his cane against the armrest. "What happened?"

I huffed out a laugh. "What do you think?"

“You pushed him again, didn’t you?"

I smirked. "Define “push.”’"

Aiden didn’t look amused. He reached for the ice pack himself, popped it against my bruising jaw, and held it there when I didn’t move. The cold bit into my skin, sending a dull ache down my face. I sucked in a sharp breath and knocked his hand away.

"Jesus, I can do it myself," I muttered, snatching the ice pack.

He sat back, watching me. "You could’ve just shown up on time."

"You could’ve just minded your own business," I shot back.

Aiden didn’t blink. "Not when you pull this shit. Not when I know exactly what you’re doing."

I held the ice against my jaw, keeping my expression neutral. "Do you?"

"Yeah, I do."

I scoffed. "Alright, Dr. Phil, go ahead. Diagnose me."

Aiden didn’t take the bait. He just leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped low, even. "You wanted him to hit you." I went still, and he studied me, waiting for meto deny it. I couldn’t. He shook his head. "That’s not normal, Connor."

I let out a slow breath and shifted in my chair, tossing the ice pack onto the desk. The cold had started to burn. "Yeah, well, neither is growing up with him as a father. Can’t exactly get angry at me for being fucked after everything that’s happened."

Aiden dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion leaking into his features. He looked older than he should have. Some days, he felt like my older brother. Other days, he felt like the only adult left in the room.

"Look, I get it," he said. "You’re pissed off. You feel like shit. You think acting out is gonna make it better, but it won’t."

I smirked. "And here I thought you were the smart one. It already made me feel better."

Aiden’s eyes flashed with something sharp. "Do you think this is a fucking game?"

I arched my brow. "No. I think it’s a fucking joke."

His nostrils flared. Not because he was angry. Because he was frustrated. Because he’d been trying to pull me back from this edge for months, and I kept pushing further, seeing how close I could get before I finally tipped over.

Aiden let out a slow breath, steadying himself. I expected him to start on his whole forgiveness bullshit again, but he didn’t. His expression was carefully neutral—but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that look. He was pissed. Notour father’s kind of pissed, not the simmering, restrained kind of rage that made the air feel heavy. No, this was worse. This was Aiden being disappointed.

“You need to get your shit together,” he said. No preamble. No room for me to brush it off.

I huffed out a laugh and leaned back in my chair. “You and Dad are rehearsing your speeches together now?”

Aiden’s jaw twitched, but his voice stayed even. “No speeches. Just facts.”

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. I could feel him waiting. I stared at my desk instead, watching the way my fingers tapped against the wood. My stomach still felt like shit from the night before.

Aiden sighed. “Connor.”

“What?”

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