Page 37 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

Mason’s bed smells like cedar and laundry detergent. Clean. Grounded. Like him.

I wake slowly, curled beneath the comforter, his henley soft against my skin. He has one arm flung above his head, his breath soft and steady.

He looks younger like this, less guarded. Like the boy I once loved in secret and lost in silence.

For a long moment, I just lie there and look at him.

And it hits me—not the usual ache I’ve carried around for years, sharp and unfinished. This is quieter. Still tender, but softened. The sting dulled around the edges.

Because he didn’t disappear this time. He stayed. We both did.

And somehow, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

The house is quiet in that hopeful kind of way, like the storm took all the heaviness with it.

I move carefully, untangling myself from the covers and slipping out of the bedroom, pausing just long enough in the hallway to check on Theo.

He’s still asleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s dreaming something serious.

In the kitchen, I search the cabinets for espresso but come up empty. I knew I should’ve started stashing some here last week.

Because of course Mason’s a black coffee person at home, even though he’s a fancy latte person at a cafe.

I brew a fresh pot for him. The scent that fills the kitchen is comforting, and I reach for the sticky notes near the fridge, scribbling a message with one of the half-dried pens beside it:

Made coffee. Ran home to change & grab my phone. I’ll be back soon. xo —A

I stick it to the front of the coffee maker, double-check that it’s visible, then slip on a pair of short rain boots at the door. They’re Mason’s, so they’re huge, but I didn’t even wear shoes over here last night, so they’re going to have to do.

The air is soft and damp when I step outside. The sun hasn’t quite burned through the haze yet, and the scent of rain still clings to everything. I hug Mason’s henley tighter around me and walk the path toward my cabin, humming to myself without even realizing it.

The grass is still damp beneath my shoes, sunlight catching on the dew like shattered glass. Everything feels hushed, like the world hasn’t quite remembered to start spinning yet.

It’s a short walk back to my cabin, maybe five minutes, but every step feels strange and lovely. When I round the last curve of the path and my porch comes into view, I stop short.

There’s a bundle of flowers lying just beside the door.

They’re crumpled slightly at the edges—wildflowers, mostly. Purple asters, baby’s breath, a few battered sunflowers. They’re a little worse for wear, like they’d been dropped and forgotten in a rush. I crouch to pick them up, the stems still damp with dew and rainwater.

A soft smile tugs at my mouth. I don’t remember seeing these kinds of flowers growing in the wild around here, so Mason must’ve gone out and bought them.

Had them last night, before I launched myself into his arms and forgot the entire world existed beyond his chest and the sound of rain.

The thought makes me press the flowers to my chest for a second, stupidly sentimental.

But I don’t care. He thought of me. That’s what matters.

Inside, my cabin is dim and quiet, smelling faintly of lavender. My flashlight is still on the living room floor, tipped on its side. I find my phone next to it, the screen lighting up with a flood of missed notifications.

I don’t check them yet.

Instead, I grab a canned espresso from the fridge, pop the top, and carry it to the table.

I open my cabinet to grab a glass when I spot an unfamiliar mug on the shelf.

It’s white with some chips along the rim and a blue pattern around the lip—tiny birds flitting across the sky.

Huh, that’s strange. I don’t remember this being Nana Jo’s, but maybe it’s Mason’s, and I accidentally took it from his house.

I pour my espresso into it and walk back to the table.

My laptop’s already half open—just where I left it the last time I tried to talk myself into being brave.

Only this time, I don’t hesitate.

I roll up my sleeves and slide into the chair, the worn wood cool beneath my thighs, even through the sweatpants. The espresso is sharp and familiar on my tongue, and I roll my shoulders back, flexing my fingers before I type.

To: Debra Caldwell

Subject: Friday Meeting

Hi Debra,

I hope you're well. I just scheduled a meeting with your calendar for Friday morning. There’s been a personal situation I’ve been working through, and I’d appreciate the chance to talk face to face before returning to the office.

Thanks for understanding.

—Abby

I read it twice, then hit send before I can change my mind. My heart kicks once, hard, but then . . . stillness and clarity .

I open a new note tab and start a checklist. Sublet apartment, cancel utilities, retrieve car. I should feel overwhelmed and anxious. And I am a little, but mostly it’s like I’m finally moving with my own current instead of against it.

Maybe this is what it feels like to stop running.

I close the tab and click into my messages. Six texts from Beth blink at me, stacked neatly in a row, all from the last week.

Beth: I need your voice at the bar this week. You free?

Beth: Everyone’s asking for you!

Beth: Got an availability for Tuesday.

Beth: Friday is available if you’re free!

Beth: Seriously, you’re not ghosting me, are you?

Beth: I’ll be here all week. Come have a drink, you don’t even have to play if you don’t want to.

I stare at the last message, thumb hovering over the reply button. It’s been weeks since I answered anything from the city, since I let a single thing from that world claw its way into mine. But it doesn’t feel like a threat anymore. It just feels . . . distant.

I swipe out of the text thread without responding.

By the time I make it back to Mason’s, the sun is fully up. It warms the air, the grass already drying. A bird sings somewhere overhead. Everything smells like summer is almost here.

There’s a hum beneath my skin I can’t quite name. Like something new is blooming in my chest and I’m afraid to look at it too closely in case it disappears.

The screen door creaks softly as I let myself in.

The living room is still a chaos of baby toys and discarded blankets. The baby monitor crackles softly from the kitchen counter, and Mason’s standing at the stove, shirtless again, sweatpants slung low, hair damp like he just ran a hand through it and forgot about the rest.

He turns when I walk in, and his mouth curves slightly. Still sleep-rumpled. Still not real.

His eyes drift to the Post-it on the coffee pot. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be back.”

“I’ll always come back.”

He tilts his head. “You sure?”

I don’t answer that—not directly. Just step into the kitchen and slide the grocery list I started onto the counter. “I was thinking I might run into Maple Grove tomorrow,” I say, lightly. “Take Theo and grab a few things from the grocery store. But I might need to borrow your car.”

He blinks at me. That subtle shift in his jaw, like he’s trying to understand what I just said and what it might mean. “What about your flight tonight?”

I don’t let myself hesitate. “I moved it.”

His brows lift. “You moved it?”

“I have a meeting with my boss on Friday,” I say, breezy like it’s no big deal. Like I didn’t write and delete that email six times before I hit send.

Mason’s gaze sharpens, his whole body suddenly alert. “A meeting?”

I look down at the list I’ve half-scribbled: yogurt melts, teething toys, sweet potato packets. My fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “I thought I owed it to her to quit in person.”

I slide my thumb over the countertop, pressing the cool laminate, feeling my pulse in the tip of my finger.

It’s not a statement I meant to drop so casually, but now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back.

I don’t want to. I want him to know—I want to know—what happens when I put my life here, on the table, beside his.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just stares at me, still as a photograph, like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“I’m not going back, Mase.” I say it softly, but it’s the surest thing I’ve ever said. “Not for good, anyway. Just long enough to pack up my apartment and say goodbye to the office. I want to stay here.” With you and Theo.

My words dangle in the kitchen, fragile and shining like a soap bubble. One move and it could burst, but it’s the most beautiful thing in the world while it lasts.

Mason’s face is unreadable for half a second, then he blinks once, twice, and I see the hope flicker behind his eyes. Like he’s almost afraid to believe it, like some part of him thinks I’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“You’re resigning.”

I lift my chin and meet his eyes. “I’m staying.”

The air shifts. Nothing loud or dramatic—just something subtle pulling tight between us, like a thread finally tying off.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just presses his palm to the counter and exhales slowly through his nose. There’s something wild and wanting in the look he gives me, but he reins it in. Tucks it away. Like he’s afraid to name it out loud.

Instead, he nods. Just one deep, deliberate nod like it costs him something to do it.

And I don’t know why that hits me so hard, but it does.

“I’ll make a grocery run this afternoon,” he says eventually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I smile. “Perfect.”

“Coffee?” he asks, grabbing a mug from the cabinet.

“I’m good, thanks. I had something when I ran home.”

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.”