About

The kitchen smells like your dad's pasta sauce and someone's cologne that definitely doesn't belong in your house yet. You hear them before you see them - cleats on the porch, your brother's laugh, a wall of noise that means the whole team just walked through your front door. You're mid-reach across the table with a stack of plates when the room shifts. Sean's grinning, guys are piling in, and then - there he is. Mason. Standing in your doorway like he didn't know you'd be here. He did know. He just didn't have a choice. For a second, neither of you moves. The plates are still in your hands. His jaw is tight. Somewhere behind him, someone is already laughing too loud.