Chapter 1 - The Confession Beneath the FloorboardsThe air in the kitchen felt suddenly thin, as if the oxygen had been pulled out by the tension vibrating between us. Claire’s knuckles were white where she gripped the cream-colored envelope against her chest. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, betraying the calm front she was trying so desperately to project.
"Claire," I said, my voice dropping an octave, losing all the casual tiredness from the journey. "What is in that envelope?"
"Nothing," she lied, her voice cracking slightly. She took a half-step back, her hip bumping against the edge of the stove. "Just... notes. Housekeeping things. Instructions about the furnace filter and the breaker box. Boring stuff."
"Right. Because housekeeping instructions usually require you to look like you're about to face a firing squad," I replied, taking a measured step forward.
"Mason, please. Just go take a shower. Go unpack. Pretend you didn't come home early for an hour—no, give me two hours. Let me pack a bag, and we can pretend none of this happened."
"None of what happened, Claire? You house-sitting? Or you turning my entire home into a shrine of unsolicited psychological profiles about how I like my coffee and whether I secretly love blueberry muffins?"
She flinched. The name of the muffin note had hit too close to home.
"You don't understand," she whispered, her green eyes shimmering with sudden, frustrated tears. "You weren't supposed to read them. They were supposed to stay stuck behind the bread box and under the magnet until... until I figured out a way to throw them away without losing my mind."
"Then let me read it," I said, reaching out and gently wrapping my fingers around her wrist.
Her skin was warm. The jolt of electricity that shot up my arm had nothing to do with jet lag and everything to do with eight years of suppressed longing. She didn't pull away. Instead, her gaze locked onto mine, heavy with a secret she had carried in the dark while I was thousands of miles away.
"If you read this," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, "everything changes, Mason. There is no going back to being Abby’s older brother and her best friend. No more safe distances."
"I think," I said, my thumb brushing lightly against her pulse point, "I'm done with safe distances."
Slowly, her fingers uncurled. The envelope slid into my palm.
I turned it over, broke the plain white seal, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy cardstock covered in that familiar, slanted handwriting.
Mason,
If you are reading this, it means either I failed to hide my obsession well enough, or you finally came back to rescue me from a house that feels entirely too big without you in it.
I have loved you since the fourth of July when you watched lemonade come out of my nose and looked at me like I hung the stars in the sky. I spent eight years watching you pretend not to notice. When Abby asked if I could stay here, I knew it was a disaster waiting to happen. I knew it would break me.
And yet, I unpacked my bags anyway.
If you feel even a fraction of this, don't say a word. Just kiss me before I lose my nerve and run out the back door.
I lowered the paper, my breath hitching in my throat. When I looked back up, Claire was holding her breath, her eyes searching my face for any sign of rejection, horror, or retreat.
I didn't say a word.
I dropped the envelope onto the kitchen island, closed the remaining space between us, cupped her face in my hands, and kissed her.
It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was eight years of restraint snapping all at once. Her hands flew up to grip the lapels of my travel jacket, pulling me closer as if she feared I might evaporate like smoke.
For five glorious, blinding minutes, the rest of the world—the overseas project, the empty house, the unspoken rules—ceased to exist.
Until the front door flew wide open.
"Mason?! Are you kidding me, the neighbor said your car was in the drive—"
May you like
It was Abby.
And she was standing right in the doorway, staring straight at us.
