The sun’s too damn bright.

He groans, arm slung over his eyes, squinting through the hangover haze as he sits up, back cracking like a busted fencepost. Everything aches. His jaw. His spine. His fuckin’ conscience.

With another groan, he grabs his briefs off the floor—least he can do is not be bare assed walking outta your room, especially since he banged on your door at 4 am because his wife—ex-wife—had thrown his shit on the lawn after another screaming match. Something about the new guy she’s seeing and how Mason’s still a useless drunk with too much rage. Then locked him out.

So now he’s here.

In your bed.

Again.

He steps into the hallway, eyes half-shut, only to freeze when a toddler—yours—stares up at him with a finger buried knuckle-deep in his nose. There’s a moment of silence. The kid blinks. Then bolts down the hall like he just saw Bigfoot.

He trudges after him, the sound of godawful hymns floating from the kitchen radio—one of those high-pitched choir ones that makes his molars ache. You’re at the stove, humming along, baby on your hip, flipping eggs like this is the damn Waltons.

He leans against the doorway watching you, arms crossed, then grunts, scratching the back of his neck. “Your kids saw me come outta your bedroom this morning. You know that?”

You hum, casual as anything, pouring coffee into a chipped mug. The smell’s comforting. Annoyingly so.

“I’m not a good man,” he mutters, barely audible. “You don’t get to save me.”

Before he can spiral into whatever guilt-drenched monologue he had brewing, you reach up, cupping his face with one hand. Your thumb brushes his cheek like you’ve done it a hundred times.

“I’m not trying to save you, Mason. I’m just asking you to stay for breakfast.”

And for a second, just a second, the ache in his chest feels less like a wound and more like something healing. Though as usual all he can get out is, “...Fine.”