Page 32 of Shattered Promise

Baby.

The trees thin, and the land opens wide around a farmhouse that looks like it belongs on the front of a postcard. There’s a pole barn just off the gravel drive, the kind of barn red that catches the golden hour like it was made for it. A three-car garage sits to the right, one garage door halfway open, a car visible in the shadows.

The house itself looks warm and lived-in, with a wide wraparound porch and flower beds lining the path. Wildflowers climb the edges, the stubborn kind that grow back no matter how many times you pull them.

Mason clears his throat as we climb the porch steps. He opens the screen door and holds the front door wide. “Come on in.”

I step inside. The screen door clicks shut behind me with a soft rattle that feels strangely familiar. Mason’s house is quiet in the way old things are. Wood floors creak under our feet, and the air smells like cedar and coffee and something else I can’t name.

“So this is your house,” I murmur, taking in the open layout.

The living room and kitchen share the same stretch of floor, but the contrast between them is stark. The kitchen is dated—laminate counters, old oak cabinets worn smooth at the handles, the stove probably older than me—but everything is tidy, functional. Intentional, even.

The living room, by contrast, feels like the start of something new. Neutral paint, a low-slung couch that looks like it came in a box with confusing instructions, a throw blanket folded neatly over the back. On one side of the room, a wall’s been freshly drywalled and patched, but not yet painted. A narrow shelf by the window holds a few framed photos—mostly of Theo, but one of Mason and Beau, both of them sun-flushed and grinning at the edge of a lake.

It’s a work in progress. But it already feels like him.

Mason shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking toward the kitchen and then back again. “Yeah. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

The tops of his cheekbones flush, not bright, just a faint pink that makes me wonder if he’s embarrassed or just warm. He’s been carrying a sleeping baby in the sun for who knows how long. Probably both.

His hand moves to the carrier straps, loosening and unbuckling with practiced care. Theo stays completely out, his cheek smushed against Mason’s shoulder like he couldn’t be more content.

“I love it,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.

He scoffs, reaching back to unbuckle another strap—one hand steady on Theo’s back. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me, Trouble. It’s a fuckin’ mess.”

Trouble.

The word catches in my chest, sharp and unexpected. Not Abby. Not even Carter. Just . . .Trouble. I don’t think he even realized he said it. Once upon a time, that nickname meant everything. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop holding my breath when he says it like that.

“Here, let me help you,” I say, already stepping closer. My fingers brush his arm, light but deliberate. When he doesn’t stop me, I unbuckle the last strap and ease Theo out of the carrier.

He melts against me without waking. His cheek presses to my shoulder, warm and damp, and one tiny fist curls into the collar of my sweatshirt like it belongs there. Like he knows me.

I freeze, heart thudding. His weight is solid and grounding. A kind of comfort I didn’t realize I needed until I had it.

“Half the reason this thing’s so effective is you can’t take it off without a degree in engineering,” Mason mutters, still fumbling with the buckle on the other side, completely unaware of thestorm brewing in my chest. “It’s been a godsend for naps lately though, so I put up with it.” He finally unclips the last latch with a grunt and looks up. His entire body goes still when he sees me holding Theo.

His expression doesn't change, not at first. It just locks down. Like someone flipped a switch and shut him off or something.

“Am I holding him wrong?” I ask quietly, suddenly unsure. “It’s been a couple years since I’ve done this.”

He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t say anything for a beat too long. Then, softly, like it costs him something, “No. You’re perfect.”

The words hit something deep, and for a second I have to look away. I don’t want to know what’s in his eyes right now. I don’t want to feel it.

Mason clears his throat and steps into the kitchen without another word. He opens the freezer, rummaging until he comes back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel. “Why don’t I take him, and you can ice your eye.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. And I mean it. I’d hold Theo all day if it meant I didn’t have to face reality for a while longer.

“At least sit,” he says, nodding toward a stool at the counter. “You can ice your eye with this.”

I settle carefully, still cradling Theo, who doesn’t stir. When I press the makeshift ice pack to the edge of the bruise, the sting is instant and sharp. I hiss softly. “Thanks.”

Mason braces his hands on the counter across from me, his knuckles pale against the wood. “Want to talk about it yet?”

I hold his gaze for a second. He looks steady, solid in a way that's too appealing. And that’s almost worse. “I told you. It was an accident. I’m fine, really.”

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