Page 199 of Mason

“An’ you’ve been old for five hundred,” she shoots back.

Shelby laughs behind me.

I turn. She’s leaning in the kitchen doorway, barefoot, robe tied loose at the waist, coffee in her hand and sleep still in her smile.

She’s not wearing makeup. Her hair’s a mess.

She’s perfect.

“Your daughter called me five hundred years old,” I tell her.

She raises an eyebrow. “I mean… she’s not wrong.”

I glare. She winks.

“Come here,” I murmur.

She walks over, slow and soft, like she knows I need her close even on the quiet mornings. I kiss her—lazy, warm, familiar. She tastes like vanilla and home.

“Hey,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to mine.

“Hey.”

“I love you,” she says, like it’s easy. Like it’s breathing.

It still knocks the wind out of me.

“Love you more.”

The toddler makes a gagging noise and demands pancakes.

I roll my eyes. “I’ll make them.”

“I’ll flip them,” Shelby offers.

“You always burn them.”

“I like them burned.”

“You like proving me wrong.”

She grins. “Still trying.” She shakes her head and heads toward the stove. I watch her move—her hips swaying, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbon.

I set our daughter down. She toddles off to the living room to give the dog a lecture about space travel.

And I stand there for a moment.

Just stand there.

In a house I never thought I’d have.

With a woman I thought I lost.

Holding a future I didn’t believe I deserved.

This is it.

This is the life I didn’t know how to want.

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