I turned back to the stove, hiding my grin.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said. “I just grabbed whatever was in the fridge.”
Mason stepped closer, peering over my shoulder. One eyebrow slowly lifted.
“French toast isn’t much?” he asked.
I laughed. “Hey, compared to what some of my brothers can cook, this is gourmet,” I said.
I flipped the last piece onto a plate and grabbed another fork.
“It’s my favorite breakfast,” I added. “Growing up with a bunch of brothers meant quick meals. French toast was my mom’s go-to when she needed to feed everyone fast.”
Mason smiled faintly at that. “Sounds chaotic.”
“You have no idea,” I told him.
We sat down at the small table by the window.
Sunlight had grown stronger now, filtering through the trees outside and spilling across the wooden floor. Mason took a bite and hummed quietly.
“Okay,” he admitted. “This is actually really good.”
“High praise,” I said solemnly.
He rolled his eyes but kept eating. The quiet between us felt easy and comfortable. The word domestic came to mind, and I hadn’t expected that.
Watching Mason sit across from me, wearing my shirt and stealing the last piece of French toast from the plate, something warm settled deep in my chest.
I could get used to this. The thought came uninvited, and surprisingly, it didn’t scare me. When we finished eating, we both leaned back in our chairs with matching groans.
“Too much?” I asked.
“Definitely.”
I stood and stretched.
“Well, there’s a solution,” I told him.
Mason looked up. “What’s that?”
“Run it off,” I suggested.
His eyes lit slightly. “In human form?”
I grinned. “Nope.”
That got his attention.
“You’re suggesting we shift?” Mason asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “There’s a spot in the woods nearby. Private. Has good trails.”
He stood slowly, interest clearly winning over the lingering sleepiness.
“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”
The forest greeted us with cool morning air and the soft rustle of leaves underfoot.
