Chapter 121
Emily's POV
I felt a spike of anger at Alex for making this kid feel unwelcome in the one place he'd found that offered any kind of safety, but I pushed it down and focused on the truth that would actually help.
"Alex is—" I paused, searching for words that were honest without being disloyal. "Alex doesn't adapt well to changes he didn't orchestrate himself. He's not angry at you specifically, he's just not good at rolling with things that feel outside his control."
Mason's expression did something complicated, cycling through disbelief and resignation before settling on a kind of determined hopefulness that looked like it was costing him everything to maintain.
"Then—" He swallowed again, his hands coming up to clutch at the too-long sleeves of my sweatshirt in a gesture that made him look even younger. "Then maybe you should try it? The breakfast. And see if—if you like it."
The careful way he said it, like my approval was the only thing standing between him and complete collapse, made my throat tighten with emotion I didn't have time to process right now because this kid needed reassurance more than I needed to indulge my own feelings.
"It looks amazing," I said firmly, meaning every word, and watched him light up from the inside in a way that was almost painful to witness. "But I need to know something first—did you eat already?"
The light dimmed immediately, his expression shuttering as he looked away.
"I'm not hungry," he said, too quickly, in exactly the tone that meant he was lying.
"Mason." I reached out and caught his chin gently, turning his face back to mine. His skin was warm under my fingers but not feverish anymore, just normal body heat, and up close I could see the color had returned to his cheeks. He looked better this morning, more alert, though the tension in his jaw told me the energy was coming from nerves rather than actual recovery.
I waited until his eyes met mine before continuing. "You were sick less than twelve hours ago. You need food more than I do right now. So here's what's going to happen. I can't possibly eat all of this by myself, which means you're going to sit with me and we're going to share, because that's what people do when someone makes them breakfast."
I watched him process that, saw the moment he wanted to argue and then the moment he decided against it, calculating whether this was a battle worth fighting or if he should just accept the offering of care even if it made him uncomfortable.
"Okay," he said finally, the word barely above a whisper.
"Good boy," I said automatically, the endearment slipping out before I could stop it, and I felt him go very still under my hand before something in him seemed to crack and he leaned into the touch with the kind of desperate hunger that had nothing to do with food.
I guided him to the table and pulled out a chair, waiting until he sat before claiming the seat beside him, deliberately close enough that our shoulders would brush if either of us moved.
"So," I said, reaching for a biscuit and breaking it open to release a cloud of steam that smelled like butter and salt and comfort, "when did you learn to cook like this? This isn't just scrambled eggs and toast."
Mason's hands were folded in his lap again, that default position he returned to whenever he felt uncertain, but he nodded once.
"When I was really young," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. "She said—she thought if I learned to cook properly, I could get work anywhere. Make money. And then I wouldn't have to—" He stopped abruptly, his jaw working, and I saw him make the decision to redirect. "I studied with a chef who trained in France. Three years. Classical technique."
Wouldn't have to depend on her. Wouldn't have to be part of whatever situation she'd built that made sending a child to professional culinary training seem like the best available option.
I reached over and covered his clenched hands with one of mine, squeezing gently.
"If you don't like doing it, you don't have to do it anymore," I said firmly. "You're not here to cook for us or prove you're useful or earn your keep. You understand that, right?"
Mason turned his hands over under mine, his fingers catching and gripping with an intensity that felt almost painful.
"But I did like it," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he looked up at me with eyes that were too bright. "This morning, I mean. I didn't like it before, when it was—when it was because she wanted me to learn so I could—" Another hard stop, another reveal he hadn't meant to make. "But I was thinking about you while I was cooking, and it felt—I don't know why, but it made me happy. Making something that might make you happy."
"Oh, sweetheart," I heard myself say, and pulled him into a sideways hug that he melted into immediately, his face pressing against my shoulder like he was trying to anchor himself to something solid in a world that kept shifting under his feet.
"Come on," I said softly, stroking his hair in slow, soothing motions. "Let's eat together, okay? You did all this work and you should get to—"
The sound of a door opening made us both freeze, and I looked up to see Ethan emerging from the hallway, his hair still damp from a shower and wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts that sat low on his hips.
He stopped short when he saw the table, his eyes going wide, and then tracked to where Mason and I were sitting pressed together, and I watched him take in the scene with the kind of careful assessment that meant he was processing multiple layers of information at once.
"Wow," Ethan said after a beat, moving toward the table and bending to examine the plates more closely. "This is—Mason, did you make this?"
Mason had gone rigid again under my arm, his entire body tense with anticipation of judgment, and I felt him nod once against my shoulder.
Ethan straightened, looking at Mason with an expression I couldn't quite read, and then deliberately pulled out the chair across from us and sat down, reaching for the plate directly in front of him and taking a bite of the eggs.
The silence while he chewed felt endless, Mason's breathing shallow and quick against me, and then Ethan's face broke into a genuine smile.
"This is better than the stuff the team nutritionist makes," he said, and it wasn't flattery—his tone was honestly impressed. "And that guy went to culinary school and everything. Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
I felt Mason's shoulders drop slightly, some of the desperate tension bleeding out of him, and he lifted his head from my shoulder to look at Ethan with cautious hope.
"I trained for three years," he said quietly. "My mom, she sent me when I was really young because she wanted—she wanted me to be able to make money, to not have to—" He faltered, and I squeezed his hand where it was still gripping mine under the table.
"Well," Ethan said easily, taking another bite and making an appreciative sound, "her loss is definitely our gain, because this is legitimately restaurant-quality."
Mason ducked his head, but I caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth before he buried it, and I felt something warm and protective surge through my chest.
"But you need to eat too," I said, turning back to him and picking up a fork to spear a piece of bacon and hold it up to his mouth. "Doctor's orders. You were sick and you need—"
"Well," said a cold voice from the edge of the living room, dripping with sarcasm and barely controlled anger, "isn't this just a touching little scene."