Chapter 13 Mason
Chapter thirteen
Mason
She’s sprawled across my chest, bangs mussed, mouth soft and parted. One hand curls over my heart, and I wonder if she can feel it beat in her sleep.
I lie still, trying not to move, barely daring to breathe. Something’s shifted, something I can’t shove down anymore.
Not after yesterday or last night, or the middle of the night, or earlier this morning. Not after watching her writhe on my cock like she’d light the room on fire if I told her to.
And definitely not after curling her body into mine afterward, in a tangle of laughter and trust.
I’ve never had that, not like this.
Not with someone who made me feel like more. Like I wasn’t just someone they wanted for fun or comfort or convenience, but someone they could need. Someone they could keep.
And fuck, I want her to keep me.
I want her to want to keep me.
I press my lips to her bare shoulder in a slow kiss. She barely stirs, just exhales softly and burrows deeper into my chest.
Slowly, carefully, I ease out from under her. She stays warm and safe and tangled in the blankets, and I let her. Because if she woke up and looked at me right now—soft and sleepy and unguarded—I might not leave at all.
So I don’t wake her to say goodbye.
I dress in silence, pull on my uniform, and take one last look at her lying in the late-morning light.
Hair spilled across the pillow, cheeks flushed from sleep, the faintest smile on her lips. Hopefully she’s dreaming of something good. Maybe of me.
I grab my gear, then head out the front door and into the snow.
The storm has finally passed. Clouds have lifted, sun blazing against white rooftops and half-cleared roads.
Everything’s melting fast—slush pooling in low spots, drifts still piled high in shadows. I radio in just before midday to confirm I’ll be in soon, then make my way toward the cemetery, with a quick detour on the way.
I’m not on shift today, just volunteering for the food drive and the Boxing Day skate, which gives me exactly one hour to do what I need to do before I grab the truck and meet the crew.
The snow crunches beneath my boots as I make my way through the rows. I’ve walked this path too many times to count, but it never gets easier. Especially not at Christmas.
I stop at the headstone.
Marcus Fletcher, 1959–2022.
Beloved husband, father, friend.
My throat tightens and I crouch down, brushing away the drift clinging to the base, and place down the flowers I picked up on the drive over. Simple ones with a few pine sprigs tucked in, probably from the leftovers of festive bouquets that never sold.
“Hey, Dad,” I murmur, holding up the flowers. “Brought you the fancy kind this time. You’d probably love ‘em, so Merry Christmas I guess.”
Silence stretches, and I sit back on my heels, jaw clenched.
“I, uh… I met someone.”
That burns going down.
“She’s sharp and funny as hell. Says the most unhinged shit with a completely straight face, and it never stops catching me off guard.” My mouth quirks. “And she’s got that backbone you talked about, doesn’t back down. Not from me, not from anyone.”
I pause. Swallow slowly.
“She makes me want to stop pretending I don’t wanna belong to someone again. That maybe I’m not as broken as I think...”
My eyes suddenly burn with a sting that blurs.
“I really fucking like her, and you’d like her, too. I know you would.”
I blink hard, clearing my throat. “Her name’s Francesca, but everyone calls her Frankie…” I take a deep breath. “I just wanna call her mine.”
With a huff of a laugh, I pluck at the frozen grass. “You’d tell me not to fuck it up, and… well, I didn’t get off to a great start, but I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”
My jaw works, lips tight over my teeth as I stare at the stone.
“Miss you, Dad. Wish you were here.”
I stay a while longer, head bowed. Then I rise, boots crunching on the frozen grass.
I’m halfway back to the path when another headstone catches my eye. A double grave.
Monroe.
Tom and Catherine. Frankie’s parents. I remember Leah mentioning their names yesterday, during sweet ‘n sour. I hesitate for a moment, then walk toward it.
Their plot is simple, a few wilted flowers in the holder, a dusting of snow at the base.
I crouch down, brushing the snow away with a bare hand. Cold bites my skin, but I don’t care.
I sit there for a beat, just looking and trying to picture what they might’ve been like.
Then I rise again and make my way back over to Dad.
“Sorry, old man,” I murmur, bending to pluck a few stems from the bunch I left. “But I need to make a good impression.”
The words come out easier than I expect. A little terrifying, but still true. Then I make my way back over to the Monroe’s grave, and crouch low in front of it.
“She’s brilliant,” I say softly, pulling the wilted flowers free. “Strong, and smart as hell. Sarcastic. Funny in that way that sneaks up on you.”
I stare at the stone, then exhale.
“She’s got a softness she protects, but she lets a handful of people she trusts see it. And, by some miracle, I think I’m one of the lucky bastards who gets to.”
I pause and replace the old flowers with the fresh stems, adjusting them gently so they sit right.
“You raised someone incredible. The kind of woman who makes people around her brighter just because she exists.”
My voice drops.
“The kind of person that makes me imagine things I haven’t let myself want in a long time. Plans, mornings. A life with laughter in it…” I exhale slow. “I really wanna make plans with her. Sit with her in the sad memories, and give her every happy one she deserves.”
My finger reaches out, tracing a petal slowly.
“I don’t know what comes next, but I want to be better—so if she ever lets me belong to her, I’m worthy of standing beside her.”
I glance down, jaw tight.
“She’s fucking spectacular, your girl. And if it happens… I’ll love her the way you’d want someone to love your daughter.”
I tap the base of the grave lightly before rising.
“I promise.”
***
By the time I roll into the station, the crew’s already hauling firewood, loading crates of canned goods, and fighting over whose skates are whose like it’s a damn NHL locker room.
The Boxing Day fundraiser’s a Maplewood staple. A food drive, with hot cider, a bonfire by the lake, and a rotating cast of firefighters skating in partial uniform, because apparently that counts as public service.
Every year someone calls it Magic Mike on Fire and Ice, and every year we pretend to be offended while secretly practicing tight turns in the bay.
This year, I put my hand up as the designated volunteer from the off-shift crew. Not that I mind.
Colt spots me first, wiping snow off a helmet. “Well, well, look who survived the blizzard with Frankie fucking Monroe.”
He says her name in a squeaky voice, mocking how fast I snapped to attention when Herb radioed in last night asking if we could check she was okay.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“No way we’re not talking about this.” Evan slaps a pair of skates into my chest. “You were snowed in with Herb’s daughter-in-law. That’s practically a capital offence.”
“She’s not his daughter-in-law.”
“She basically is.”
Beck emerges from the truck cab, raising a brow. “Did you two keep warm with board games, or did Monopoly get real horizontal?”
I groan. “Jesus. Can you all just—”
“Oh, no.” Evan cuts in. “No way. You can’t just show up like you didn’t spend the night with a beautiful redhead—who, by the way, is Eli Parnell’s sister-in-law—and not get asked questions.”
“She’s Tamara’s sister,” I point out.
Colt smirks. “But Eli’s still gonna be the one to murder you.”
“Think Leah’s already planning the wedding?” Evan asks. “Everyone clocked the tension during the snowball fight, don’t deny it. You were fucking gone for her.”
I try to keep my face blank, but heat crawls up my neck. Because yeah. I am gone for her.
So far gone I didn’t even pretend to sleep last night—I just watched her breathe and wondered what the hell I did to deserve this second chance with her.
Luke leans against the truck. “But what happened to Voice Girl?”
I stiffen.
Colt glances up. “Oh shit, that’s right. You ghosted her.”
Evan whistles. “Damn. Snowed in with one girl while ghosting another. Cold, Fletch. Even for you.”
I open my mouth, close it, then scrub a hand through my hair.
“Uhh… she is Voice Girl.”
They all freeze, and the entire bay goes completely silent for a millisecond.
“No!” Evan drops his crate.
Beck just chokes on his coffee. “Jesus fucking Christ, Fletch.”
“WHAT,” Colt bellows.
“You’re fucking with us,” Luke breathes.
“I didn’t know!” I throw my hands up. “She didn’t know either! It was anonymous—usernames only! She just called me Fireboy!”
“Fireboy?” Evan doubles over laughing. “Shit, that’s so much worse.”
I glare at all of them.
“Oh my god,” Colt groans, his laugh half-horrified. “You’ve been sexting Eli Parnell’s sister-in-law for a month and didn’t know.”
“And then you ghosted her,” Beck adds.
“I didn’t mean to!” I shoot back, defensive. “I freaked out, alright? You know I panicked.”
“So let me get this straight,” Luke says, counting on his fingers. “You ghosted a mystery girl you’d been voice-sexting for weeks, then showed up to Christmas lunch at the Parnell’s and met Frankie, realized she was Voice Girl, then got snowed in with her. And now you’re what—madly in love?”
“...Basically,” I admit.
And that’s how I know I’m fucked, because I don’t even hesitate.
“Goddamn,” Colt says. “Fireboy’s in love.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Beck exhales loudly. “Holy shit man, how...”
“She was furious at me, but when I showed up and we got snowed in, we—”
“Nope.”
“Reconciled.”
Colt holds up a hand. “No further detail required.”
“I’m proud of you, Fletch,” Evan says, slapping me on the shoulder. “You were a dumbass, but you’re owning it.”
“I’m trying,” I mutter. “I just hope she shows up at the lake today, too. Wanna see her again.”
“You just saw her.”
“I mean I wanna keep seeing her.”
There’s a beat where they all exchange a glance, but it’s Beck who turns to me.
“Does she know that?”
“Hope so.”
They go quiet at that, and the teasing fades, but the question hangs.
Does she know?
I realize I don’t have her number, I can’t text her, can’t call her—not unless I message her on that damn app. But now that feels too impersonal for where we’re at.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, but it’s not there. My head snaps up, eyes scanning every surface in the bay where I might’ve left it, but I don’t see it.
“Anyone seen my phone?”
There’s a chorus of no’s.
“Gotta admit,” Colt says, tossing a pair of skates into a bag, oblivious to my rising panic. “Didn’t think you were ever gonna let someone get under your skin again.”
“She hasn’t just gotten under,” Luke adds from the other side of the truck. “He’s fucking submerged.”
Their teasing picks up again, but I barely hear it. I’m retracing my steps, replaying every moment to figure out where my damn phone has gone.
I didn’t wake her, didn’t leave a note.
Just told her, somewhere between the kissing and the fucking, that I’d be at the lake volunteering this afternoon. I'm not even sure she registered it.
And now my phone’s gone.
Fuck.
“Come on Fletch, let’s go!”
I climb into the truck, buckle in, and rest my head against the seat as Colt rolls us out of the bay, hoping she’ll figure it out.
Hoping to God she shows.