Page 152 of Mason

She’s in jeans, combat boots, and an oversized sweater that saysHell Was Full So I Came Back.

The sight nearly pulls a laugh from me—almost.

Instead, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Faint, but real. The first in days.

Her eyes sweep over me—sharp, knowing. Then she holds up a paper bag.

“I’m Maxine. I brought sugar and sarcasm,” she says. “And I’m not leaving until you eat something and stop looking like a Victorian ghost bride.”

I blink. Then, unexpectedly, I laugh. A real one. Small, but there.

Maxine steps in like she owns the place and drops onto the armchair like we’re old friends.

She doesn’t hover. Doesn’t do pity.

Just talks—about Mia’s latest mood swing, about some insane stalker she had to scare off last week, about the psycho bitch who keyed her car.

She makes the world feel real again.

After a while, she nudges my foot.

“Come on, let’s go raid the main house. I’m craving something cheesy and bad for my cholesterol.”

I frown. “Mason’s not here. We probably shouldn’t…”

“Weabsolutelyshould,” she says, already standing. “He gave us unrestricted access. So we’re taking full advantage.”

I hesitate, still half-curled in my blanket cocoon.

She grins. “We can even wallow in self-pity while we wait for your broody knight to return from his mysterious littlemission.”

“Mission?” I echo, rising slowly to follow her.

“He didn’t tell you?” she asks, her eyes widening just enough to sting.

I shake my head as we walk side by side through the garden, wind curling around our ankles like it’s trying to listen in.

“He’s out hunting,” she says, matter-of-fact—like she’s talking about grocery shopping. “He tends to get a little... unhinged when someone puts their hands on what’s his.”

She shoots me a sideways smirk that’s full of mischief, and I can’t stop myself from wondering how Mason manages this little hellion.

I could swearthis whole evening was pre-planned.

Maxine moves like a woman on a mission, heading straight for the pantry and pulling out everything she needs—cheese, jalapeños, sour cream, salsa, a full bag of tortilla chips.

Before I know it, she’s lining a tray like she’s done it a hundred times, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, not asking where anything is—justknowing.

I sit at the counter, watching her in quiet awe.

There’s something seamless about the way she moves. Confident. Grounded.

Like this kitchen belongs to her.

Likeshebelongs here.

“You don’t live here.”

It comes out more like a question than a statement—soft, hesitant, blurted before I can pull it back.

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