Page 74 of Picture Perfect

The stairs creak beneath my feet as I trail behind Gen and the others, a silent procession descending into the heart of unfamiliar territory. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wraps around us before we even reach the last step.

I pause at the entrance to the kitchen, taking in the sight of Mason with his back to us. His movements are sure and methodical as he pours the dark liquid into a row of waiting mugs. The steam rises in lazy spirals, and for a moment, I'm transfixed by the normalcy of it all.

"Morning," Mason says without turning, his voice a rich timbre that seems to vibrate through the room. "Coffee?"

The others rush forward and claim their mugs. When I don't, Mason turns to me, "Addy?"

"Uh, sure." My response is automatic, but my feet remain rooted in place. I've never been good at small talk, never learned the delicate dance of pleasantries exchanged over breakfast tables. What do you say to someone who's barely more than a stranger, yet extends a kindness you're not used to?

"Black okay?" he asks, finally looking over his shoulder with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Or there's milk, cream, and sugar."

"Black's fine," I reply, my voice sounding small and distant to my own ears. I shuffle forward, suddenly conscious of how disheveled I must appear after spending the night in a bed that wasn't mine wrapped up in boys I'm only just beginning to understand.

"I know we've met, but I don't think we've ever been properly introduced," Mason continues as he hands me a mug. His fingers brush mine briefly, a touch so light I might have imagined it. "I'm Mason."

"Addy," I manage to say, though he already knows my name. I wrap my hands around the warmth of the mug, grateful for something to hold onto. It's strange, standing here with him, feeling the weight of a gaze that doesn't seem to judge or demand anything from me.

"Nice to meet you, Addy." There's an earnestness in Mason's tone that catches me off guard. "You're welcome here anytime. Gen seems quite taken with you. And Rhett..."

"Thanks." The word feels alien on my tongue. Thanks. As if gratitude is something I should be capable of expressing without suspicion. But Mason just nods, as if my terse reply is enough, as if he understands the language of walls I've built around myself.

"Rough night?" His question is casual, but I can tell there's genuine concern there. It's disarming, the way he sees right through to the core of me, to the tangle of thorns where a simpler version of myself might have once lived.

"Something like that," I say, opting for truth wrapped in vagueness. To explain would require revealing more of myself than I'm willing to bare to someone who hasn't yet proven whether they're friend or foe.

He turns away, giving me respite from the intensity of connection, only to busy himself with the rest of the breakfast preparations. "You'll get through it, whatever it is. You seem like the type who does."

"Maybe." I take a sip of the coffee, letting the bitterness ground me. In this moment, with the sun peeking through the blinds and casting golden lines across the tiled floor, I allow myself a breath, a beat, a fleeting second to imagine what it's like to be part of a world where mornings come with coffee and quiet concern instead of cold shoulders and cutting words.

Amidst the clatter of pans and the sizzle of bacon, I hover on the periphery, unsure where to place myself in this kitchen ballet. Then Mason glances over his shoulder, a disarming smile cutting through my hesitance.

"Grab a plate, Addy. Breakfast is almost ready," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world for me to be here.

He's going to feed me? I can feel gratitude swelling in my chest. A feeling I quickly push down; kindness always comes with a price tag.

I watch him work, flipping pancakes with an ease that speaks of many mornings spent at the stove. He places a stack on the center island, and the aroma of maple syrup fills the air. My stomach growls, betraying my calm exterior.

"Sit down, everyone," Mason commands gently, and we all take our seats. Saint slides a plate towards me—one he's already piled with food—and I nod in thanks.

Mason joins us, his presence like a gravitational pull, bringing us into orbit around the table. He serves himself last, ensuring we've all been taken care of first. It's so... parental. I'm not used to that.

"Man, these are good," Dre compliments, digging into his food with gusto. There's a fondness in his ice-blue eyes as they meet Mason's, a shared history in that simple exchange.

"Best in town," Chess agrees, his voice light, but there's a reverence there, a respect deeper than just the appreciation of a well-cooked meal.

"Mason's got skills," Saint adds with a smirk, and there's a softening around his eyes that I've never seen before. The intimidating facade slips, revealing a boy who has found safety in this man's care.

"Thanks, Daddy," Gen chimes in, her voice bright and warm like the sunlight filtering in.

"Of course, it's nothing," Mason replies, but his eyes tell a different story—one of pride and love for these kids who aren't all his, but somehow are.

They're a patchwork family, stitched together by need and choice rather than blood. And it's beautiful.

A pang hits my chest, sharp and longing as I take a bite of the fluffy pancakes. This is what it means to belong, what it feels like to be woven into the fabric of others' lives. I swallow hard against the emotion, take another sip of coffee, and let the warmth seep into the cold corners of my heart. Maybe, just maybe, there's a thread here for me, too.

But, my reprieve is coming to an end.

My phone's persistent buzz startles me, a harsh intrusion. I slide it from the table, the screen lighting up with a barrage of messages that instantly tighten the muscles in my shoulders—Cheryl.

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