Page 80 of Shattered Promise

His gaze slides over me, his mouth curving down a little. “You changed.”

I pluck the fabric of my sundress between my fingers and pull it away from my thigh. “Yep. And I’m keeping your sweatpants too,” I chirp.

I’d decided this morning that I wasn’t going to bring them back right away. I owed it to teenage Abby, who pined over Mason for years and years and used to get so jealous of all my friends wearing their boyfriend’s clothes. My ex, Jake, never liked it when I wore his clothes, and I didn’t really date anyone else long enough to care about stealing their sweatpants.

His lips twitch and he tries to hide it by taking a sip of his coffee. He’s not saying much, just standing there barefoot, squinting at the list I left on the counter like it might reveal some secret code. I’m struck again by how unguarded he looks in the morning light. Tired, maybe. But softer, too.

We move around the kitchen in easy tandem. I refill the coffee pot. He grabs the baby spoons I washed last night. He brushes past me once—just his hand at my lower back, a barely-there graze—but I feel it everywhere.

“Is he still asleep?” I ask, nodding toward the monitor.

He glances at it, then tips his head toward the hallway. “Let’s check.”

Theo’s door creaks softly as Mason pushes it open. The room is bathed in blue morning light, quiet and still except for the soft rustle of sheets and the whisper of toddler dreams.

My heart squeezes as I step into the doorway behind him. Theo’s on his stomach, one chubby fist tucked under his cheek, his other hand still loosely clutching his sleep sack.

Mason folds his arms on the top of the crib rail, watching him with that unreadable expression he wears when he’s trying not to feel too much. But I see it anyway. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexes. Like this is everything to him, and he’s terrified it might disappear.

I move to stand beside him. Close, but not touching.

“You’re an amazing father, Mason,” I whisper.

He doesn’t look at me, keeping his gaze on Theo, his eyes soft. “I don’t always feel like it.”

My chest tugs. “You are.”

He turns to me slowly, something flickering behind his eyes. “You really staying?”

“I really am.”

He exhales softly. “Good.”

31

ABBY

The house is quiet,heavy with late-afternoon heat and the kind of stillness that only comes during Theo’s epic naps. He’s out cold—his cheek smushed against the crib mattress, fists curled beneath his chin like a cherub in a painting. The monitor sits silent on the kitchen counter, a low hum beneath the sound of the old ceiling fan ticking overhead.

I should be productive. I should fold the laundry or reply to the five work emails I flagged this morning. But my skin’s buzzing beneath this sundress, and all I can think about is the weight of Mason’s palm on my lower back when he passed behind me earlier. The way his eyes dragged over my bare shoulder like it wasn’t just a glance but a promise.

We haven’t shared a bed since the storm.

But we haven’t really been apart either.

There’s been a quiet rhythm to it—brushes of skin, porch kisses that last too long, shared coffee, and accidental touches that linger like they mean more than they should. I’m not sure we’ve said what this is. But I know what it feels like.

It feels like something I don’t want to lose.

I run a hand down the front of my dress. The fabric is soft, a pale blue with a fluttery hem that hits mid-thigh. It makes me feel . . . pretty. And free.

I’m not wearing underwear.

Not because I forgot. Because I didn’t want to.

The thought makes me grin as I head for the back door, pretending I’m just going to check on something. Maybe find a screwdriver or help him sort something in the garage.

But really? I just want to see him.

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