“Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”
Chapter thirteen
Mason
Frankie’s still asleep when I wake a little later in the morning. No way we weren’t both going to crash after the morning’s events, and now it must be sometime after 11a.m.
She’s sprawled across my chest, bangs mussed, mouth soft and parted. One hand curls over my heart, and I wonder if she can feel it beat in her sleep.
I lie still, trying not to move, barely daring to breathe. Something’s shifted, something I can’t shove down anymore.
Not after yesterday or last night, or the middle of the night, or earlier this morning. Not after watching her writhe on my cock like she’d light the room on fire if I told her to.
And definitely not after curling her body into mine afterward, in a tangle of laughter and trust.
I’ve never had that, not like this.
Not with someone who made me feel like more. Like I wasn’t just someone they wanted for fun or comfort or convenience, but someone they could need. Someone they couldkeep.
And fuck, I want her to keep me.
I want her towantto keep me.
I press my lips to her bare shoulder in a slow kiss. She barely stirs, just exhales softly and burrows deeper into my chest.
Slowly, carefully, I ease out from under her. She stays warm and safe and tangled in the blankets, and I let her. Because if she woke up and looked at me right now—soft and sleepy and unguarded—I might not leave at all.
So I don’t wake her to say goodbye.
I dress in silence, pull on my uniform, and take one last look at her lying in the late-morning light.
Hair spilled across the pillow, cheeks flushed from sleep, the faintest smile on her lips. Hopefully she’s dreaming of something good. Maybe of me.
I grab my gear, then head out the front door and into the snow.
The storm has finally passed. Clouds have lifted, sun blazing against white rooftops and half-cleared roads.
Everything’s melting fast—slush pooling in low spots, drifts still piled high in shadows. I radio in just before midday to confirm I’ll be in soon, then make my way toward the cemetery, with a quick detour on the way.
I’m not on shift today, just volunteering for the food drive and the Boxing Day skate, which gives me exactly one hour to do what I need to do before I grab the truck and meet the crew.
The snow crunches beneath my boots as I make my way through the rows. I’ve walked this path too many times to count, but it never gets easier. Especially not at Christmas.
I stop at the headstone.
Marcus Fletcher, 1959–2022.
Beloved husband, father, friend.
My throat tightens and I crouch down, brushing away the drift clinging to the base, and place down the flowers I picked upon the drive over. Simple ones with a few pine sprigs tucked in, probably from the leftovers of festive bouquets that never sold.
“Hey, Dad,” I murmur, holding up the flowers. “Brought you the fancy kind this time. You’d probably love ‘em, so Merry Christmas I guess.”
Silence stretches, and I sit back on my heels, jaw clenched.
“I, uh… I met someone.”
That burns going down.
