5. Riley
Riley
The smell of eggs and toast still lingers in the warm cabin air as I finish the last bite on my plate.
Mason’s cooking is simple but perfect, the eggs fluffy with just the right amount of salt and the toast crispy at the edges with a hint of butter.
I set my plate down on the small wooden table and stretch my arms above my head, feeling the borrowed t-shirt ride up slightly against my skin.
Outside the blizzard continues its furious assault, wind howling and snow battering the boarded windows in relentless waves.
I stand up to help clear the dishes, my bare feet padding softly across the cool wooden floor.
As I open a cabinet to find a place for the plates, my eyes land on something that makes my heart lift in the middle of all this chaos.
Flour. Sugar. Brown sugar. A bag of chocolate chips.
Vanilla extract. The ingredients are neatly lined up on the shelf like they’ve been waiting for me.
“Mason,” I say, turning toward him with a bright smile that feels like the first real one since this nightmare started. “You have everything I need to make cookies. Real cookies. Can we? Please?”
He leans back in his chair, those smoldering eyes watching me with a mix of amusement and something warmer. His massive frame looks almost too big for the small space, shoulders stretching his dark shirt tight. “You want to bake in the middle of a blizzard?”
I nod enthusiastically, already pulling the ingredients down.
The flour bag feels soft and familiar under my fingers, the paper crinkling as I set it on the counter.
“Baking makes me feel normal. And happy. And I think we could both use some happy right now. Plus, fresh cookies while the storm rages outside sounds exactly like the kind of cozy moment we deserve.”
A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost a chuckle. He stands up and joins me at the counter, his presence immediately filling the space around me. “All right, little one. Tell me what to do.”
We work side by side in the tiny kitchen area.
I measure out the flour while Mason cracks eggs into a bowl, his large hands surprisingly careful with the delicate shells.
The sound of the eggs cracking is sharp and satisfying.
Like an ASMR Tiktok video I usually watch while falling asleep back home.
I add brown sugar and watch it clump together with the white sugar as I stir.
“You’re surprisingly good at this for a rough mountain marshal,” I tease, bumping my hip lightly against his side. The contact sends a little spark through me.
He grunts but his mouth twitches. “Had to learn to feed myself in the middle of nowhere. Cookies were never part of the training though.”
I laugh and hand him the wooden spoon. “Mix the wet ingredients. And don’t be gentle. Really cream that butter and sugar together.”
He follows my instructions, his powerful arms flexing as he stirs.
The bowl scrapes against the counter with each strong movement.
I watch the muscles in his forearms shift and feel that familiar flutter low in my belly.
Focus on the cookies, Riley. Not on how incredibly hot your protector looks while creaming butter.
We add the vanilla and eggs. When it’s time to fold in the flour and chocolate chips, Mason stands right behind me, one big hand covering mine on the spoon as he helps stir.
The heat of him surrounds me, his broad chest a steady presence against my back.
Only the wild thud of his heart gives him away.
The chocolate chips are cool and smooth as they tumble into the dough, and the mixture turns thick and sticky.
“This is the best part,” I say, scooping a small bit of dough onto my finger and holding it up to him. “Quality control.”
He raises an eyebrow but leans down and takes the dough from my finger with his mouth. His lips brush my skin, warm and soft, sending heat rushing through me. “Sweet,” he murmurs, voice lower than before. “Like you.”
My cheeks flush hot. We continue scooping dough onto the baking sheet, laughing when the storm makes the cabin creak loudly and we both jump.
Mason’s deep chuckle mixes with my lighter giggles, filling the small space with warmth that’s got nothing to do with the stove.
The cookie dough smells like pure comfort, sweet and chocolatey and full of hope.
While the cookies bake, the aroma grows even stronger, rich and buttery and irresistible. We sit at the table waiting, the storm picking up outside with renewed fury. Wind screams and snow pelts the windows like tiny bullets. But inside it feels cozy.
After the cookies come out golden and perfect, we move to the couch by the fire. Mason pulls out an old wooden chessboard from a shelf, the pieces worn smooth from years of use. My heart lifts even more.
“I love chess,” I tell him, settling cross-legged on the couch. “My dad taught me when I was little. We used to play for hours on rainy days.”
We set up the board between us. The wooden pieces feel cool and familiar in my fingers.
Mason watches me with those intense gray eyes as I make the first move.
The fire crackles softly, throwing dancing shadows across his rough face.
The smell of fresh cookies surrounds us as we each take one, still warm from the oven.
The chocolate melts slightly on my tongue, rich and sweet.
We play slowly, talking between moves. I ask him the question that’s been on my mind since I first saw him.
“What made you want to become a US Marshal?”
Mason’s quiet for a moment, studying the board. His large hand moves a knight with surprising grace. “Wanted to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves. Saw too much bad shit in the world. Figured I could do something about it instead of just watching it happen.”
His answer is simple but I hear the weight behind it. The sense of duty. The strength.
I move my bishop and take one of his pawns. “And the military?”
I nod. “Yeah. Special Forces.”
“Wow.”
The moment the word leaves my mouth his entire body tenses. His mouth firms into a hard line, and whatever warmth was there a moment ago drains from his expression. The easiness between us shifts. He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the board like it holds all the answers.
“I don’t really talk about those days,” he says finally, voice rough and closed off. “Not with anyone.”
I feel a pang in my chest but I don’t push. There’s pain there, deep and old. I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten and his hand grips the edge of the couch. Instead I reach over and gently touch his wrist.
“Okay,” I whisper. “You don’t have to. I’m sorry I asked.”
He relaxes slightly at my touch. We continue the game in comfortable silence for a while, the storm providing a constant roaring soundtrack.
The cookies disappear one by one, warm and gooey and perfect.
Every time I take his pieces I do a little victory wiggle that makes him shake his head, but I catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
When I finally move my queen into position and say “Checkmate,” I can’t help the bright laugh that escapes me. I won. Against this mountain of a man who looks like he wins everything he sets his mind to.
Mason stares at the board for a long moment, then looks up at me with something like respect and heat in his eyes. “You’re full of surprises, Riley.”
I grin, feeling lighter than I have since the nightmare began. “My dad taught me well. Never underestimate the baker with the chessboard.”
We put the board away and sit closer on the couch, the fire warming our faces. The storm still rages outside but in here I feel at ease. Truly safe. Mason’s big body beside me radiates strength and protection. I lean my head against his shoulder without thinking, and he doesn’t pull away.
For the first time since I witnessed that horrible crime, I let myself believe that everything might actually be okay. That this growly, battle-hardened marshal might be exactly what I need in more ways than just protection.