Page 195 of Mason

“Don’t shoot, we brought baked goods!” Mia’s voice rings out, followed by the unmistakable scent of overpriced coffee and chaos.

Shelby bolts upright, blinking. “What the?—?”

Maxine follows behind Mia, carrying a bakery bag like it’s a diplomatic offering. “We come in peace. And carbs.”

I groan. “Why do neither of you know how to knock?”

Mia tosses me a croissant with zero apology. “Because you stopped answering your damn phone, Mason. We assumed you were either dead, brooding, or blissfully reunited with our girl here.”

Shelby blushes. Hard.

“I was sleeping,” I mutter, catching the croissant midair.

Maxine raises a brow. “Fully clothed?”

“Maaax,” Shelby hisses, hiding her face in the blanket.

Mia flops onto the armrest with a dramatic sigh, sipping her drink like this is her couch and her love story. “God, you two are exhausting. I had to hear this man mope for weeks, and now you’re back together and still acting like it’s illegal to be happy.”

“I’m processing,” Shelby says from the safety of the blanket fortress.

“Well, process faster,” Maxine says. “Because we have already mentally planned your wedding, your honeymoon, and what shade of lipstick you’ll wear when you murder someone together and need a solid alibi.”

Shelby peeks out from under the blanket and takes a bite, cheeks still flushed, and surprises me with her next words. “What if we’ve already done that?”

The girls are silent for a moment, as though reaching into the deepest recesses of their minds to validate Shelby’s statement. Then Maxine lifts her coffee in a toast. “Loud, loyal, and wildly codependent. Welcome to the family, Shelby Monroe.”

“And delicious,” Mia adds, stuffing half a chocolate croissant into her mouth.

I wrap my arm around Shelby and pull her closer, chin resting on her hair. “This is your circus now.”

She leans into me, warm and steady. “I think I kinda love it.”

The room is filled with the sound of laughter and clinking coffee cups, the scent of sugar and caffeine and emotions that smell suspiciously like hope.

Shelby turns her face toward me, her eyes soft and full of something that looks a lot like forever.

And this time? She’s not running from it. She’s leaning in. And I’ll be damned if I don’t meet her there.

EPILOGUE - SHELBY 3 MONTHS LATER

He’s pacing.

That should’ve been my first warning.

Mason Ironside never paces.

He’s precise. Controlled. A weapon disguised as a man.

But right now?

He looks like a confused bulldozer with too many feelings and no outlet.

“I don’t understand,” he says—for the third time.

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands curled tightly in my lap, the crumpled pregnancy test sitting next to me like a detonator.

“There’s nothing to understand,” I murmur.

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