Page 65 of Mason

And it’s why I can’t stop breathing him in, like the smell of his T-shirt could anchor me to the ground.

I slide the shirt on. It’s far too big, the fabric worn soft from use, the hem grazing the tops of my thighs. I knot it absently at my waist, just above my navel—one of those little habits I picked up to feel like I had control over something. Overanything.

The sweats hang low on my hips, cinched tight but still threatening to slide down with each step. Everything about them—the shirt, the pants, the way they cocoon me in his scent—feels like being wrapped in him. Like a shield. Or a promise.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel… safe.

I twist my damp hair into a messy bun, grab my phone, and make the short trek up to the main house.

Each step feels strange, like I’m floating just slightly outside my own body. Like I’m walking into something I wasn’t expecting—but maybe something I’ve been waiting for without realizing it.

Coming back to him, even if I don’t say it out loud, feels like coming home.

And I don’t know what scares me more—how easy that feels…

Or howbadlyI want it to be real.

I don’t realize how empty my stomach is until after Mason leaves. The gnawing hunger creeps up on me like everything else in the last twenty-four hours—sudden, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

I decide that the least I can do is make us dinner. After everything Mason has done for me—offering me shelter, standing in the fire with me while my life burned to the ground, taking hits that weren’t his to take—this is one small thing I can offer him in return.

It’s strange,this version of himI’m seeing. Granted, I’ve only known him for a couple of days, but all indications are that Mason Ironside trades in violence, ruthlessness, and a reputation built on calculated destruction. But that’s not the man who gave me a safe place to sleep.

That’s not the man who, when I crumbled into his chest outside my burning home, held me like heneededto keep me together.

So, I decide to cook. It’s what I know how to do.

But I should have known better than to expect Mason Ironside to have a fully stocked fridge.

The kitchen itself is immaculate—state-of-the-art appliances, granite countertops, sleek, masculine finishes—but the fridge? Practically barren. There’s beer, some protein shakes, an old takeout container I don’t dare open, and just enough leftover ingredients to throw something together.

I find tortilla chips, cheese, and a few other odds and ends—so, nachos it is.

By the time I’m grating the last of the cheese, Mason strolls in, moving like a man who carriesmore than he lets on.He tosses his phone onto the counter with a heavy sigh and scrubs a hand down his face.

“I could smell yum the minute I walked into the house,” he says, but the usual teasing warmth in his voice is absent. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I set down the spoon I’ve been using and turn to him, scanning his features.He looks exhausted.The kind of tired that isn’t just physical, butemotional.

“You like to cook?” he asks after a beat, as he perches on one of the stools.

I shrug, offering him a small,playfulglance over my shoulder. “I don’tmindit.”

What I don’t say ishaving a kitchen like this makes me want to cook.The polished countertops, the high-end gas range, the way everything is organized—not a single item out of place—it’s the kind of space that makescreationfeel effortless.

When I slide the plate in front of him, he watches me.Reallywatches.

There’s something in his gaze I can’t quite place.

It’s not just hunger.

Or maybe it is—but not for food.

We eat in the quiet of the kitchen, sitting across from each other at the island. The only sound is the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic, the low hum of the refrigerator, the quiet between us charged with something heavier than words.

When he’s finished eating, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter, his fingersjust barelygrazing mine.

It’s an accident. I think.

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