“Of course I did.” I press a kiss into his hair, my voice softening. “And for the record, Mason Bark is officially my favorite houseplant.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Stacked cardboard boxes crowd my apartment like skyscrapers, piled in every corner and spilling into the narrow hallway. The sound of ripping tape snaps through the air as Mason sits cross-legged on the floor, unpacking his collection of swimming trophies and medals. He sets the dust-covered trinkets on my bookshelf, next to my vintage botany identification guides.
I glance around. My apartment has always been simple and organized. Cream colored walls. Neutral toned furniture. A few framed prints decorate the walls, each one centered and evenly spaced like I measured them with a ruler—which, okay, I did. But Mason’s stuff is already changing the atmosphere: his clutter of horror movie memorabilia, chipped ceramic mugs, a neon green fuzzy blanket draped over the back of the couch. My order and his chaos shouldn’t mesh, but weirdly, it feels… right.
In the bedroom, I start unpacking a box of his hoodies. I’m already bubbling at the thought of our wardrobes merging together. I love wearing his clothes. It feels peacefully domestic—sharing a closet, his muscle tees hung next to my oversized sweaters.
Opening the next box, I uncover a picture frame wrapped in an old towel. When I peel back the fabric, I find a framed photo of Mason and Anna. He’s young in the photo, maybe five or six, with a gap-toothed grin. My heart clenches at the sight of Anna’s smile, wide and radiant. Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close to her chest.
I glance at Mason from across the room. “Where do you want this? It feels like something that should be displayed somewhere special.”
Mason takes the frame from me. His thumb smooths along the edge as his eyes turn glassy. “I miss her,” he says quietly.
My throat feels tight. “I know you do.”
He slowly shakes his head. “But I’m… relieved she’s not suffering anymore.”
The way he says it—the heaviness in his voice, the way his gaze dips—makes it clear he isn’t just talking about the cancer. She’d been suffering long before her diagnosis.
Mason sets the frame on the left nightstand—hisnightstand now. He stares at it for a moment, jaw tight.
I sit beside him on the bed, squeezing his hand. “Next weekend… when we’re back in Claremont Shores for dinner with Stephen and Maddie, maybe we could bring flowers to her grave. If you’d like that.”
He blinks, surprised, then nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
We’re both quiet for a while before Mason exhales, dragging a hand through his curls. He grabs a heavy plastic tote labeledMEDICALwith black permanent marker and opens the lid. Inside, it’s all rows and rows of boxes—CGM sensors, insulin pump sets, test strips, alcohol swabs. His expression shifts into something more tense, shoulders hunched just slightly.
I stand and open the closet. “Hey,” I say, motioning him over. “I cleared off a shelf for you. Figured it might make sense to keep all your supplies in one place.”
He looks up at me, startled, then back at the open tote. “You did that?”
“Of course.” I shrug. “You’ve got enough to worry about. Might as well make one thing simpler.”
For a second he doesn’t move, just stares at me like he’s memorizing my face. Then he sets the tote aside, stands, and closes the small distance between us. His hand grips the back ofmy neck, warm and grounding, before he presses his mouth to mine. It’s not quick, not casual—it’s a kiss heavy with meaning.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. His voice is low, steady. “Thank you. I love you.”
I swallow hard, my hand finding his waist. “I love you too.”
We stand there in the half-unpacked bedroom, boxes still scattered, his clothes sprawled across the floor. But the mess isn’t overwhelming like I thought it’d be. It’s exciting.
When we continue unpacking, a splash of neon pink catches my eye in the pile of Mason’s shirts. I dig through the stack until I pull it free—and instantly burst out laughing. It’s a graphic T-shirt with a cartoon tabby cat on the front, and across the chest, in glittery pink letters:I LOVE PUSSY.
“Um, Mason?” I say, holding it up between two fingers like it might bite. “What the hell is this monstrosity?”
Mason’s face pales. “Oh my God. That was a gag gift. Aliyah brought it for the white elephant exchange last Christmas.”
Laughter tears through me until my ribs ache. “This is amazing! I’m absolutely stealing it.”
He grimaces. “Don’t you dare.”
“We’re living together now. Deal with it.” I strip off my own shirt and tug the ridiculous thing over my head. Spinning to face the mirror, I strike a pose. “Tell me I don’t look hot in this.”
He shakes his head fondly. “You always look hot.”
He steps behind me, sliding his arms around my waist. His chin settles on my shoulder, and in the reflection, his grin softens into something tender. “You can keep the dumb shirt. What’s mine is yours,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
