Page 21 of Mason

Vague. Purposefully so. I should press, ask him what kind ofbusinessa man like him deals in. But I don’t. Because right now, I don’t want to see him as anything other than what he’s been since he walked through my door—someone who showed up for my brother when no one else would. Someone who looked me in the eye andbelievedme.

I step closer, resting my hands on the table, closing the space just a little. His gaze flickers to where my fingers brush against the wood, then back to my face.

“You didn’t have to help Clay,” I say quietly.

His expression shifts, something unreadable crossing his features before settling into something firm. “Yeah, I did.”

Something unspoken hangs between us, thickening the air, setting my pulse into a slow, steady climb.

Mason doesn’t just look at me—heseesme. And I don’t remember the last time I let someone get that close.

I clear my throat, pushing back from the table, breaking the moment before I let it pull me under. “Well… I owe you, then.”

He stands, his long legs unfolding from his chair with an easy grace. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, Shelby.”

But the way he says my name, the weight in his voice… it feels like something more. Something that settles deep in my bones.

And I’m not sure if I want to run from it… or toward it.

9

SHELBY

Mason walks toward the door, and for some reason, my feet carry me after him. I don’t know what I’m doing, why I feel the need to walk him out, but I do.

He pauses at the threshold, turning to face me one last time. “Keep your doors locked,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher.

I swallow hard, nodding. “I always do.”

His gaze lingers, like he’s waiting for something. Or maybe I’m the one waiting.

And then, without another word, he steps outside, disappearing into the fading light of the lazy afternoon.

I shut the door, exhaling slowly, realizing for the first time in years… that I don’t feel so alone anymore.

I try to shake the lingering chill—the one that settles deep in my bones the moment he drives away. The house feels emptier without him, the silence pressing in, thick and suffocating, like the walls are closing around me.

No one has ever been inside this house but Clay and me. Having someone else here, even for a short while—an ally, a friend—feels almost surreal. I hadn’t realized how much Imissed something as simple as human connection until it was gone again, leaving nothing but hollow quiet in its place.

I force myself to focus on anything else—anything—to keep my mind from slipping into that heavy, aching loneliness. I count the cracks in the ceiling, trace the faint stains in the carpet with the tip of my toe, let my eyes blur against the muted glow of the television.

But it doesn’t matter.

The loneliness seeps in anyway.

It moves through the house like a slow-working poison, curling into every empty space, filling the gaps between breath and thought. It’s cold and unshakable, a sickness that clings to my skin, sinking into my bones, making everything feel a little heavier.

For the longest time, life was just me and Clay. He was my constant, my safe place, the one person I could count on to be there without question. We had our routines, our inside jokes, our own unspoken language that only siblings can understand.

We were always together. Until we weren’t.

Clay’s job as a cybersecurity analyst meant he worked from home most days, his fingers flying over a keyboard while I moved through the house, trying to ignore the soft clicking of his mechanical keys. My world was smaller then, predictable. Three days a week, I lost myself in the controlled chaos of a kindergarten classroom—the sticky hands and bright laughter of children who saw the world in primary colors.

The other days were for me. My writing.

Poetry has always been my poison. Words are where I lose myself, where I find myself, where I convince myself the world is softer than it really is. I think that’s why I couldn’t see through David’s carefully constructed façade—because I have a tendency to romanticize things.

Even the things that are far from romantic.

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