Page 72 of Shattered Promise

“I knew you’d see it my way. Have a good sleep, Trouble,” he calls after me softly.

My smile grows into a smirk, imagining the expression on his face when he sees my plan.

A few minutes later, I’m back in the living room, a pillow under one arm, and a throw blanket under the other. Mason is draped off of the small couch, head on one end and legs hanging off the other end. I knew he was too big for that couch.

“What’re you doing?” he mumbles, arching a brow.

I drop the pillow and blanket to the rug. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Is that right?” He folds his arms across his chest and stares at me. His eyes look like the color of the ocean during a storm, dark and intense. But I don’t cower away from his gaze.

“Right here,” I continue, clearing a little space in the collection of toys. “Between the singing octopus and the box of blocks.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Abby?—”

“I’ll be fine.” I lift my chin, parroting his words back at him.

He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I tilt my head, waiting.

“Just go back to my bed.”

And here it is. The opening I was hoping for. I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip and deliver the ultimatum.

“Only if you come with me.” The words fall out quiet but sure, soft and stubborn at once.

He freezes, his eyes snapping up to lock onto mine. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. The moment stretches—one heartbeat, then another. His jaw tightens, a subtle twitch betraying the tension beneath his composed exterior.

I can see it in the set of his mouth, the way one muscle jumps in his cheek. He’s trying to find a way around it, trying to gauge if he can talk me out of it.

For a split second, he looks away. When his eyes come back, there’s something raw in them. Not a threat, not a plea. Just an unguarded ache.

He stands up. Slowly, like every inch is an act of surrender. He’s so much bigger than me, but for once I don’t feel small. I feelseen.

He bypasses the baby gate with more grace than I did and gestures for me to lead the way, which is ironic, since it’shisbedroom.

We walk the hallway side by side, close enough that I brush his arm with every third step. I hear the sound machine’s lull spilling from Theo’s room, a gentle shush-shush that provides a barrier between us and the storm outside.

In his bedroom, the air is faintly cooler. There’s none of the lived-in clutter of the kitchen and living room. The walls are bare except for a few photos above his dresser of him with his mom and brother and a candid shot of him and Theo, the same one I saw in Theo’s nursery.

The bed’s mostly made with dark gray sheets, one side rumpled, the other side untouched. There’s a half-full laundry basket in the corner and a stack of parenting books on the shelf on his nightstand.

I hesitate by the door, suddenly aware of how quiet it is in here. It’s just the rain, and the shush of Theo through the monitor on the nightstand, and the sound of Mason breathing behind me.

He’s waiting for me to do something. Or say something. Or change my mind.

Instead, I turn down the covers and crawl into the made side of the bed, pulling my knees up, tucking my feet under the thick comforter. The sheets smell like clean laundry and a hint of cedar and maybe something just a little sweeter. Like the ghost of the apple shampoo I used to use in high school, and I wonder if that’s just memory playing tricks on me. I watch Mason stand in the doorway, arms folded, the light from the hallway carving shadows down his face. He looks like he’s wrestling a demon, or maybe a dozen small ones, each with my name stitched on its chest.

“Don’t worry, I don’t snore,” I say, softer than I mean to.

He huffs, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I know.”

Mason closes the door behind him, but not all the way—just enough that there’s a sliver of light from the hall. He circles the bed like he’s never seen one before, or like the mattress might detonate if he sits on it wrong. I tuck my chin into my knees and watch as he finally lowers himself to the edge of the mattress, hands braced between his knees. For a moment, hejust sits there, head bowed, like he’s waiting for something. His shoulders are so broad and set that the shirt stretches at the seams, and there’s a darker patch at the nape of his neck where his hair is still damp.

He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his mind working through all the things he’s not saying. Years’ worth, probably.

I slide over, pulling my knees up to my chest, and pat the space beside me. “You planning to sleep sitting up?”