Page 46 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The fire crackles low, tucked inside the ring of stones I dragged from the creek bed yesterday afternoon. I told myself it was for Theo someday—roasting marshmallows and sharing stories under the stars. But that was only half the truth.

The real reason is sitting beside me now, wrapped in a knit blanket that used to live on the back of my couch. Her legs are stretched out, toes bare, ankles resting just shy of my thigh. She nudges me gently, like she’s trying to warm herself without saying it out loud.

I shift the cushion behind her back and lift my arm. She comes easy, leaning into the space like it was always meant for her. Her head finds my shoulder. My hand slips into her hair. The baby monitor next to me glows faint blue, Theo’s white noise machine a soft hum.

It’s quiet. Not the kind that asks to be filled. The kind that feels like safety.

Above us, the sky is clean and wide, pinpricked with stars so bright it looks like the night cracked open just to show off.

She exhales against my neck. “You built this while I was gone?”

I nod, thumb tracing a slow circle against her arm. “Didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“You built an entire fire pit because you missed me?” There’s humor in her voice, but I feel the pulse of something softer in it. Like she’s not used to being missed out loud.

“Had to keep my hands busy,” I say. “Work was slow.” It’s not exactly the truth, but I can’t tell her that I couldn’t be in my garage without daydreaming about her in my garage.

Abby laughs. “I kind of love it. It’s like a ‘welcome home’ banner, but with fire.”

“Figured it’d get more use.” I let my hand drift, thumb catching the edge of her jaw.

She tips her head, light hair brushing my cheek.

There’s a trace of woodsmoke in it, and bergamot from her shampoo, and something else that’s just her.

My hand lingers, fingers brushing the delicate spot beneath her ear, and she makes the smallest noise—surprised, content, a note that vibrates in my chest.

She’s quiet for a long stretch, watching the fire, watching the sky. Her breathing slows. I think she’s about to fall asleep on my shoulder, but then she says, “I used to be terrified of the dark.”

I glance down. Her eyes are on the flames, reflected gold and amber. “When?”

She shrugs, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Always. When I was a kid, I’d lie in bed and convince myself the shadows were moving.

Even when I was older, like in high school, when we’d get a brutal summer storm that would knock out the power.

” She laughs at herself, but there’s an edge to it.

“I guess it shouldn’t really be a surprise that I don’t like storms, hm? ”

I hum, opening my mouth to say something—anything, but she shifts her weight again.

“It’s not so bad here, though. I think maybe I just like—” She hesitates. “I like how it feels here. Like the dark isn’t empty. There’s always a fire, or stars in the sky, or . . .” Her gaze flicks up, catching mine. “Or you.”

My throat’s tight around it, but I don’t let go of her. “You have me.” The words hang there, simple and so stupidly true that I almost laugh.

But her eyes are a little glossy and fixed on mine and I can’t move, can’t look away, can’t breathe around the ache of wanting to keep her safe from everything she’s ever been afraid of, even the things I can’t see.

“Tell me a secret, Mase,” she whispers, her gaze slipping to my mouth. “Something you’ve never told anyone before.”

My heart stutters, a thin panic lacing through the warmth. I know how to keep things safe. I don’t know how to let them go.

But she’s looking up at me like she’s not afraid of anything I’ll say.

I drag my gaze to the fire, watch a tongue of flame lick up and vanish.

“Sometimes, I get scared that I don’t actually know how to be a good dad,” I say, voice scratchy with the effort.

“Like I’m just faking it every day, and eventually Theo’s going to figure that out and realize he could’ve done better.

” It’s more than I’ve told anyone, but once I start, it won’t stop.

“When he was a baby, he wouldn’t sleep unless I drove him around the block.

For months, I’d load him up at three in the morning and just—” My hand tightens in her hair.

“—just keep driving, because I couldn’t stand the sound of him crying and not being able to fix it. ”

Abby’s cheek presses deeper against my shoulder, anchoring me. “You know that’s what all parents do, right? No one knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

I huff a laugh, but it’s a shaky thing. “Yeah, I know.”

“You’re a good dad, Mason Porter. The best kind of dad.” She says it so steady, so sure, that the words burn hotter than the fire.

I feel myself flush, and I’m glad for the darkness, the way it lets me hide and not-hide at the same time.

“I mean it,” she adds, voice low. “You treat him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Even when you’re tired, even when you’re scared, you show up.

That’s the only thing that matters, in the end.

” She shifts, and her face is close enough that I can see the freckles on her nose, the way her lashes tremble when she blinks.

I exhale, some of the heaviness inside me wrung out by the rough honesty of it. It leaves me emptied in a way that feels clean, not broken. Lighter.

Her hand slips beneath the blanket, fingers finding mine and lacing together. I squeeze gently, afraid if I hold too tight she’ll evaporate, a trick of the firelight.

“Okay, my turn.” She draws a shaky breath, the kind that stretches out a second too long, like she’s shoring up courage to spill this secret. “But this is a shared secret.”

My brows sink over my eyes. “Alright.”

She shifts so she’s staring at the stars again.

“I still get nervous around you,” she says, so quiet I almost miss it.

“Even now. Especially now.” She laughs, but there’s no bite to it.

“I used to have this epic crush. Like, full-on, write-your-name-in-sharpie-on-my-wrist, build entire fanfics in my head about what it would be like to—” She cuts off, then blows out a breath.

“It was always you, Mase. Even when you didn’t notice me. ”

My brain short-circuits, hearing her lay it all out like that. “I always noticed you.”

The words are out before I can think better of them, and for a second I’m almost embarrassed. But Abby just turns her head, looking at me with this expression that’s so open it’s almost a dare. Her lips part, and I can’t tell if she’s about to laugh or cry or some wild mix of the two.

She sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly.

“Except for that summer at the bonfire,” she says, so quietly it’s almost just a thought.

“When I let you take me home, and you forgot about me the next morning.” She’s not accusing, not exactly—her voice is too soft, too careful.

But I can feel the old bruise of it between us, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

I go rigid, not from guilt—because the memory is a blank, a black hole, and her words are a match to gasoline—but from the sharp, sick twist of realizing I don’t know what she means. My heart scrabbles for purchase, for some hidden file of shame I should have, but all I get is static.

“I didn’t,” I say, and my voice is too rough, the words like gravel. “What are you talking about?”

She keeps her face turned to the sky, the stars glittering above us, the fire popping in front of us. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, shrugging, except I know her well enough to hear the catch in her voice.

I ease her upright, blanket and all, so she has to look at me. “Hey,” I say, and then softer, “Talk to me.”

Her laugh is brittle at the edges. “It’s ancient history, Mason.”

“Tell me,” I say, because the idea of her holding on to this hurts more than whatever stupid thing I did.

She sighs, breath fluttering the hairs at her temple, and for a long minute, all I hear is the crickets and the slow draw of her lungs. Finally, she shifts her weight, knees curling a little toward her chest, and looks at me sideways through her lashes.

“I’d just celebrated my nineteenth birthday, and it was the annual quarry bonfire,” she says slowly.

“We were hanging out, having a couple of drinks, you know, the usual bonfire stuff. Then we walked back to your house and we spent the night together. In your room—in your bed . It was my first time, Mase.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that I almost miss the way her voice cracks at the end.

The bonfire, the walk, the night in my bed.

I try to find the memory, but it’s slippery, a film reel that’s been overexposed until all that’s left is a haze of heat and gold and the taste of her name in my mouth.

I search for the memory, clawing at the edges of it, but all I find is the flashes of a fever dream and the sickening certainty that I’ve let her down before I even had the chance to try.

All those years ago, I was a mess of hormones and broken glass, still learning how to be a person, let alone someone she could trust with that kind of thing. My mouth feels dry enough to crack.

“Abby, I—” I start, but I have no idea what comes next. Sorry doesn’t touch it; sorry is a band-aid on a bullet wound. “Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together until it’s physically painful to let her go.

She gives me a lopsided smile, the one she uses to pretend she’s fine. “It’s okay. I know you don’t remember. You guys had just graduated.”

“All this time you thought—” I cut myself off, shaking my head as guilt weighs down my tongue. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you let me.”