Chapter 5
Mason stays after bandaging my hand.
Not because I ask him to.
Honestly, I'm not even sure he realises he's doing it.
One second, he's crouched in front of me, wrapping gauze around my palm, and the next, he's standing in my kitchen with Ava asleep against his chest while I stare at the disaster I made trying to cook pasta at midnight.
The pot remains crooked on the stove.
Water everywhere.
Broken ceramic bowl in the bin.
Sauce was splattered on the counter.
I feel humiliation creeping steadily down my throat.
"This is embarrassing," mutters.
Mason glances around the apartment.
"I've seen worse."
"You've definitely not seen worse."
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
"You'd be surprised what grown men in the army can destroy trying to make spaghetti."
Despite myself, I laugh softly.
The sound feels strange as it leaves my mouth.
Unfamiliar.
Mason notices too.
His eyes flick toward me briefly before looking away again, almost like he doesn't want to make a big deal out of it.
Which somehow makes me more aware of it.
Ava shifts sleepily against his chest, tiny fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt.
She looks so small against him.
So safe.
The thought slips into my chest before I can stop it.
Safe.
I grip the edge of the counter harder.
Dangerous word.
Dangerous feeling.
Mason gently pats Ava's back while surveying the kitchen again.
"So," he says calmly, "what exactly exploded in here?"
"My dignity mostly."
"Hm." His gaze lands on the stove. "Think that was already dead when I walked in."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Then, unbelievably, his expression turns smug.
"You're kind of an asshole," I tell him.
"Yeah, but now you're distracted from panicking."
The words hit with uncomfortable accuracy.
I look away first.
Because he's right.
Five minutes ago, I could barely breathe through the anxiety spiralling in my chest. Now I'm standing barefoot in my kitchen arguing with the neighbour while my daughter naps on him like she's known him forever.
None of this should feel normal.
And yet somehow it does.
Mason moves toward the stove before I can protest.
"You didn't eat, did you?"
"I was trying to."
"You were committing crimes against cookware."
"I hate you a little."
"No, you don't."
The confidence in his voice makes heat creep into my cheeks.
I busy myself wiping water off the counter so that I don't have to look at him.
"You don't have to stay," I say quietly after a moment.
The kitchen falls silent for a second.
When Mason answers, his speech is soft.
"I know."
Two simple words.
No guilt.
No pressure.
No expectation.
Just a choice.
Something twists painfully inside my chest.
Ryan never did anything unless he wanted credit for it later.
Kindness always came with conditions.
With leverage.
With debt.
But Mason acts like helping me is the most natural thing in the world.
I don't know what to do with that.
He reaches into one of my cabinets before pausing.
"You own exactly one saucepan?"
"I left in a hurry.''
The second word leaves my mouth, regret crashes through me.
Too honest.
My stomach tightens instantly as the silence settles thickly between us.
Mason doesn't push.
Doesn't ask questions.
He nods once, like he understands more than I said.
And somehow, that's worse.
Ava makes a small sleepy sound.
Mason automatically looks down at her, a look softening in a way that steals the breath from my lungs.
God.
No man should look that good holding a baby.
It feels unfair.
"She really likes you," I murmur.
Mason's thumb brushes lightly over Ava's back.
"Guess I got lucky."
"No," I say before thinking. "She's usually nervous around people."
His eyes lift to mine slowly.
The meaning settles heavily between us.
He knows.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
I suddenly feel exposed standing there in my oversized hoodie and pyjama shorts with tear tracks probably still visible on my face.
Mason studies me for one long, quiet second.
Then deliberately looks away.
Giving me space.
Giving me dignity.
That tiny act of kindness almost undoes me completely.
"You got bread?" he asks casually.
I blink.
"What?"
"We're making grilled cheese instead, before you accidentally burn the building down."
Relief loosens something tight inside my chest, so suddenly it almost hurts.
He's changing the subject with purpose.
I realise that immediately.
And the fact that he's doing it for me makes my throat ache.
"In the fridge," I say softly.
Mason nods and shifts Ava carefully into one arm while grabbing the bread with the other.
Watching him move around my kitchen, as he belongs there, sends a strange warmth spreading slowly through my chest.
Not intense.
Not overwhelming.
Just warm.
Like the first real breath after being underwater too long.
And for the first time since I ran, my apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.