Page 73 of Shattered Promise

His lips quirk up and he exhales, and then he stretches out on top of the covers, arms crossed behind his head, like he’s determined not to make it weird. Which, of course, makes it weirder. He takes up almost the whole side of the bed, but leaves a careful gulf of space between us.

The next crack of thunder is close, so close the windows rattle. I flinch before I can help it.

Mason glances over, his eyes settling on me. “You okay?”

I nod, but it’s a lie. My heart pounds in my chest—a dull, persistent ache—but it’s not fear. Not entirely.

“I’m not actually scared of thunderstorms,” I admit, staring hard at the closet door because it’s easier than looking at him. “Not really. I mean, Iam, but it’s more the . . . alone part. Being in one and knowing no one would notice if I disappeared. That’s the part that makes it hard to breathe.” I laugh, but it’s brittle, the kind that cracks instead of softens.

I stare at the ceiling fan, watch the blades slowly twirl above us and let the story drip out of me. “When I first moved into my apartment, we had this intense thunderstorm. One of those kinds you get once every decade. It knocked out the power for almost three days.” I let out another dry, humorless laugh. “My phone died, but it didn’t really matter, because I didn’t know anyone yet. I sat in my apartment, terrified that I was going to die and no one would even know for weeks.” I swallow, blinking as a tear rolls down my cheek.

“Baby,” he breathes out, his hand tunneling under the comforter to find mine. He laces his fingers with mine, and the touch is so gentle it makes my chest ache.

“I know it’s irrational, but at the time, I was just so . . .scared.” I exhale a slow breath and keep my gaze on the ceiling fan. “And now, every time it storms, this bolt of panic holds me hostage, and I . . . I justcan’t. . .” I sniff, my eyes watering. I blink and another tear rolls down my cheek.

“I’d notice, baby, you know that, right?”

He pulls me gently across the bed, and it’s all too easy to let him press me against the length of him. I don’t even know when he got underneath the comforter, but his warmth seeps into my body.

I want to say thank you but it gets stuck, same as always. Instead I just nod, and the silence folds in around us, softer now.

“When I was eleven, my dad said he had to run to get diapers for my little brother, then he was going to take me to my baseball game. I was so excited because he hadn’t been to a game in a couple of years, and I’d been practicing. Every day, Beau, Graham, and I would run bases in the yard, practice sliding, and take turns pitching until our arms went numb. I wanted to show him how good I was getting.”

My heart aches for the little boy and the man next to me. I squeeze his hand.

Mason’s voice is so soft I barely hear it over the rain. “I waited on the curb forhours. And that motherfucker never came back. Your dad and brothers picked me up and brought me to the game, and every game after that.”

He’s quiet, but the air vibrates with the story. Something about his voice makes me feel like we’re the only people alive on earth, floating in this small, safe space.

I slide closer, until my hip is pressed to his, and roll over until my face tucked in the crook between his shoulder and chest. “I’m sorry, Mase,” I whisper, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

He takes a long breath, his chest rising slowly beneath my cheek.

“This okay?” I ask, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Yeah, Trouble. It is.”

The thunder grumbles low outside, but it’s softened now—background rhythm instead of threat. The kind of storm you can fall asleep to, once you know you’re not facing it alone.

I let myself melt into the solid heat of him. Let myself be held.

His thumb traces slow, thoughtless patterns against the cotton of my borrowed shirt. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, my muscles start to unclench.

Our breathing syncs.

I close my eyes and let the quiet settle in my chest, weightless and warm.

I didn’t come here to fall apart.

But maybe that’s the point.

28

MASON

The sound is soft,barely more than a whispered word through the monitor. But it’s enough.

My eyes fly open, but my vision is blurry. The room is heavy with the kind of dark that comes after a storm, the kind that sinks into your chest and settles there. My hand reaches across the mattress before my brain catches up.