Chapter 124
Emily's POV
The apartment was quiet when I pushed through the door.
I dropped my bag by the entrance and kicked off my shoes, the shopping bags I'd been carrying landing with a soft thud against the hardwood, and I felt a flush of something uncomfortably close to embarrassment creep up my neck as I looked at them.
Clothes for Mason—three complete outfits including jeans and t-shirts and a hoodie that had looked soft when I'd touched it in the store, plus socks and sneakers and, because I was apparently incapable of doing anything halfway, packages of boxer briefs that I'd stood in front of for an awkwardly long time trying to guess his size.
I'd never bought underwear for Ethan or Alex, had never felt compelled to walk into a department store and select intimate items of clothing for either of them, and the fact that I'd just done exactly that for an eighteen-year-old kid I barely knew was making my face heat in ways I didn't want to examine.
It was fine, I told myself firmly as I nudged the bags against the wall where Mason would see them when he emerged from wherever he was hiding.
It was a practical necessity, nothing more, because the kid had been wearing Ethan's castoffs for days now and he needed his own things, needed to feel like he had some measure of independence and autonomy instead of being constantly reminded that he was dependent on borrowed clothing.
And if buying him a complete wardrobe felt weirdly intimate in ways that buying him food or letting him sleep in my study didn't, well, that was just me projecting my own issues onto a perfectly normal act of caretaking.
He was like a younger brother, I reminded myself, someone who needed looking after because life had dealt him a shit hand and I happened to be in a position to help.
That was all this was.
My body moved on autopilot through the routine I'd performed thousands of times, and it wasn't until I was halfway across the living room that I registered what was waiting for me on the dining table.
Food.
Another carefully plated meal that looked like it had been prepared with the same obsessive attention to detail Mason had demonstrated this morning, back before Alex had torn into him and made everything complicated and awful.
There was a covered dish that was still releasing thin wisps of steam around the edges, a small salad with what looked like homemade vinaigrette in a separate bowl, and a glass of water positioned exactly where my hand would naturally reach for it if I sat down in my usual seat.
The timing was perfect—the food was clearly just finished, still hot enough that condensation was forming on the inside of the cover, which meant Mason had somehow calculated when I'd be home and timed everything accordingly.
I stood there for a moment, my chest doing something complicated and uncomfortable, because this was exactly the kind of gesture Alex had accused Mason of using as manipulation this morning, the kind of thoughtful care that looked like genuine affection but might just be a survival strategy honed by years of needing to make himself indispensable.
Except I didn't actually believe that, not really, not after watching Mason break down in my arms and cry like his heart was shattering.
"Mason?" I called out, more out of habit than expectation, and when no answer came I assumed he'd stepped out for a moment—maybe to the corner store or just to get some air after being cooped up in the apartment all day.
Ethan was gone, off to some away game in another city that would keep him occupied for the next few days, and Alex—
I pushed away the memory of this morning's fight, the way he'd looked at me like I'd betrayed him by choosing to protect Mason, the cold fury in his voice when he'd said don't say I didn't warn you when this blows up in your face before walking out.
He hadn't come back.
Hadn't texted or called or given any indication that he was planning to, and I told myself I was fine with that, that I needed the space to think without him hovering over my shoulder and questioning every decision I made.
I was hungry, and the food was right there getting less hot by the second, and Mason had clearly gone to significant effort to make sure I had something decent to eat after what had probably been a long and emotionally exhausting day for both of us.
The least I could do was sit down and appreciate it.
I pulled out my usual chair and settled into it, lifting the cover off the main dish and feeling my stomach clench with anticipatory hunger when I saw what was underneath.
Pan-seared steak with some kind of herb butter that was still melting across the surface, roasted vegetables that had been cut into uniform pieces and caramelized at the edges, and what looked like garlic mashed potatoes with the kind of perfectly smooth texture that took actual skill to achieve.
This wasn't the food of someone who'd learned to cook from necessity or online tutorials.
I picked up my fork and cut into the steak, watching the way it yielded under the knife with just the right amount of resistance, and when I took the first bite the flavors hit my tongue in layers—salt and char and butter and something green and bright that made me close my eyes involuntarily.
It was good.
Better than good, actually, better than anything I'd eaten in months that hadn't come from Alex's overpriced restaurant or Ethan's favorite pizza place, and I felt a complicated tangle of emotions settle in my chest that I absolutely did not have the energy to unpack right now.
I was three bites into the meal when I heard the sound of a door opening somewhere behind me, followed by the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, and I turned automatically to see what was happening and then forgot how to form coherent thoughts for several very long seconds.
Mason was standing in the hallway outside the bathroom, and he was wearing exactly one item of clothing.
A towel.