Page 197 of Mason

And just like that, the silence turns soft.

No more pacing. No more panic.

Just Mason—wrecked and whole—holding onto the first piece of forever.

Later,after the shock has worn off but the awe hasn’t, we’re lying in bed—our bed—wrapped in too many blankets, legs tangled like they’re afraid of being separated.

Mason’s hand rests on my stomach like it’s already a promise. Like he’s daring the world to touch what’s his.

Outside, the rain drums softly against the windowpane. Inside, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that feels full instead of empty.

“I googled prenatal vitamins,” he says suddenly, voice low.

I blink at him, lips twitching. “You what?”

“Right after you fell asleep.” His face is serious. Too serious. “I read five articles, Shelby. One of them said we need to talk aboutfolic acid.I don’t even know what that is, but I’m ready to fight it if I have to.”

I snort, burying my smile in his chest. “You are so dramatic.”

He tilts my chin up. “And you’re not scared?”

I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is—I am. Of course I am.

But not of the baby.

Not of us.

Just… of being seen this clearly.

“Not scared enough to run,” I say. “Not this time.”

His fingers slip between mine, tightening. “Good. ‘Cause I was gonna block the exits.”

I laugh, breathless and bright, and he kisses me like he’s trying to memorize it. The sound. The moment. The way my laugh tastes on his lips.

“I want her to be like you,” I whisper. “Fearless. Loyal. Impossible to move once she’s made up her mind.”

“I want her to be like you,” he counters. “Smart. Brave. Better than either of us.”

“She’ll probably be a little chaotic.”

He grins. “She’ll fit right in.”

We lie there in silence for a while. The kind that feels like building something. A blueprint drawn with whispers and heartbeat promises.

“You know,” he says, “when I was younger, I thought I’d die with blood on my hands and no one waiting on the other side.”

I squeeze his hand.

“And now?” I ask.

He turns to me, eyes dark and steady.

“Now I think I might live long enough to teach our daughter how to throw a punch. And bake cookies.”

I grin. “Violence and carbs. The Ironside legacy.”

“Damn right.”

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