Page 33 of Shattered Promise

He nods slowly, thoughtfully, like he's confirming something to himself. I hate how perceptive he is. And I hate how good he looks like this. All quiet and calm and competent. In anotherlife, one that doesn’t look like the current disaster of mine, I’d let myself imagine him looking at me like that under different circumstances. Like I washis.

“Then why are you hiding from your family?”

My spine stiffens. That panic I’ve been pushing down starts to simmer again, rising like static against the back of my neck. “I’m not hiding.” I am. I absolutelyam.

“From your brother then.”

I roll my eyes but don’t move. Theo’s weight in my arms keeps me anchored, nap-trapped, and I narrow my gaze like Mason planned it this way. “I’m lying low. Until this goes away.” I motion toward the bruise on my cheek.

“In your mysterious cabin in the woods.”

“It’s not amysterious cabin,” I reply, exaggerating my voice to mimic his low, gravelly tone.

He blinks. “Where is it again?”

I exhale, long and slow. “About a quarter mile that way.” I tilt my head toward the right, past the thin line of trees and across the slope of a hill, where the cabin is tucked back just enough to be forgotten.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just follows my nod, his brow faintly creased like he’s drawing a map in his head. Theo shifts in my arms, a tiny grunt rumbling in his chest, and I take it as my out.

“I should get back, actually,” I murmur, already adjusting my grip.

Mason nods, but something flickers in his expression. It's unreadable, something too sharp for the moment.

I rise carefully and pass Theo back into his daddy’s arms, his little body sagging against Mason’s chest without ever fully waking. I place the frozen bag of vegetables on the island with a quiet thunk, then reach for the muslin blanket that had slipped from the carrier earlier.

It smells like baby detergent and something warm, unmistakably Mason. My fingers curl tighter around the fabric before I can stop them.

“I’ll see you around,” I murmur, placing the sky blue blanket on the counter.

He doesn’t argue or ask when.

“Be safe,” he says quietly, adjusting Theo in his arms. The baby shifts without waking, nestling perfectly into the crook of Mason’s elbow like that spot was made just for him. Mason’s palm rubs once, slow and steady, across Theo’s back, but his eyes never leave mine.

And I don’t know why those two words hit the way they do. Maybe it’s his voice—low and sure, more vow than request. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me, like he’s memorizing me. Like this moment means something he doesn’t have the words for.

It makes me want to do something reckless, likestay.

But I don’t. I walk out before I can change my mind.

The walk back is slow, the quiet thick enough to let every thought echo too loud. The cabin waits where I left it, tucked just off the ridge, white siding glowing soft in the late afternoon light. It’s small, just under a thousand square feet, more like one of those country cottage-style tiny homes you see on Pinterest than an actual house. But it’s enough. One bedroom, one bathroom, a little kitchen with an island just big enough to eat at, and a cozy living room. Laundry and pantry tucked into a shared space behind a pocket door. And the porch is wide enough for two chairs and a morning cup of espresso, if I stay long enough to make that a habit.

I climb the steps and unlock the door. The moment it opens, I’m hit with it, the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla. It knocks the breath right out of me.

It's like Nana Jo is standing in the middle of the living room. Like I'll turn the corner and find her in her favorite bathrobe, offering me a snack.

Tears rise before I can stop them.

I just stand in the doorway, breathing her in like I can trap her scent inside me. Like I can stitch her into my bones if I inhale deeply enough.

I close the door and flick the lock, pressing my back to the wood. Grief drapes itself across my shoulders—scratchy and too warm, like a wool scarf I didn’t ask for. I take a breath that doesn’t settle. Then head for the shower.

The bathroom is more rectangle than square and a little too pink. Nana Jo loved roses. Ceramic tiles with faded florals, a soap dish shaped like a teacup, a framed cross-stitch that saysBless This Mess.

I twist the knob in the shower and let the water run hot. Steam builds quickly, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of everything. When I step under the spray, it hits like a wave. Heat pounds down my spine, over my shoulders, down my arms. I press my palms flat to the tile and let the water wash away today, yesterday, and the day before that.

I try to empty my mind. Just exist here, in this heat and silence and fog.

But Mason’s voice sneaks in anyway, uninvited.

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