She heard the floorboard creak before the knock came. Her hands moved without permission—shoving the flannel into the bag, pushing it down, past her jeans, past the book she'd brought. The zipper caught. She pulled. It held. She pulled harder and the teeth ground against each other, refusing to close, and a wedge of red-black fabric stayed exposed, visible, unmistakable.
Three knocks. Low. Deliberate. The kind of knock that already knew she was in here, already knew what she was doing.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat had closed around something sharp and hot.
The door opened anyway.
Mason filled the frame, shoulders wide against the hallway light behind him, his face in shadow. He didn't step inside. He looked at her. Then his eyes dropped to the bag on the bed. To the fabric spilling out. To the zipper that had betrayed her.
She watched his face shift. Not anger. Not surprise. Something quieter. Something that looked like recognition—like he'd known before he walked in, before she'd even taken the shirt, like he'd left it here deliberately, a trap he'd set and waited for her to spring.
He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. The click of the latch was too loud in the small room. The space between them felt like it had halved. The air, too. She could smell him now—woodsmoke and the cold from outside, sawdust still caught in his beard.
His voice when it came was barely a whisper. "Keep it. I don't need it back."
She couldn't read his tone. It wasn't generous. It wasn't cruel. It was something in between—tired, maybe. Resigned. Like he'd been holding his breath for five years and had just decided to let it go.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Her fingers were still touching the zipper, still pressing the metal tab as if she could will it closed, could undo the last thirty seconds, could rewind to before he'd walked in and seen exactly what kind of woman she was.
He didn't leave. He stood there, hands at his sides, not shoved into his pockets this time, and looked at her. In the moonlight, his eyes were dark, unreadable. The silence stretched, and she felt the weight of the flannel in her bag like a stone she'd been carrying for years and had just been told she could keep.
Her fingers were still pressed to the zipper, the metal cold and useless under her touch. The air in the room felt thin, like the walls had pulled in closer, and she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, too loud, too fast. He was still looking at her—not with accusation, not with pity, but with something that made her feel seen in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be in years.
"You knew." Her voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "You left it there on purpose."
He didn't deny it. Didn't look away. His jaw tightened once, a muscle flickering beneath the beard, and then he let out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of everything he hadn't said since she walked back into his life. "I thought about throwing it out. Couldn't do it." He paused, his eyes dropping to the floorboards for a moment before finding hers again. "Knew you'd find it. Hoped you would."
The words landed like stones, each one sinking into her chest. She wanted to look away, to break the contact, but she couldn't. He was still standing there, broad shoulders outlined by the faint blue light from the window, his hands hanging at his sides—not shoved into his pockets, not reaching for anything. Just there. Waiting.
"Why?" The question came out smaller than she intended, almost childlike. She hated the sound of it, hated how much it revealed. "Why would you—" She stopped, bit her lip, tasted the familiar salt of a confession she'd never made. "You're marrying my sister."
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or regret. He took a step closer, then stopped, as if catching himself. "I know what I'm doing, Harper." His voice was low, rough, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "I've known for fifteen years. Doesn't make it right. Doesn't make it stop."
The silence between them stretched, filled with everything they'd never said. She could smell him again—woodsmoke and sawdust, the cold clinging to his flannel. The same flannel that was now shoved into her bag like a stolen piece of him. Her hand finally left the zipper, falling to her side, and she felt the weight of what she'd done settle into her bones.
"I shouldn't have taken it." The words came out flat, hollow.
He shook his head, a single, almost imperceptible movement. "You needed it." He said it like a fact, like he'd known that too. Like he'd left the shirt there not as a trap, but as an offering.
She heard footsteps overhead—Elena, moving around in her bedroom, oblivious to the silence crackling in the guest room below. The sound broke through the spell, and Mason's eyes flicked toward the ceiling, then back to her. He didn't say anything, but the weight of the moment shifted, and she knew he would leave now. He had to. They both knew it.
He reached for the door, his hand pausing on the handle. Without turning around, he spoke, his voice barely audible. "Goodnight, Harper." Then he opened the door and slipped out, leaving her alone in the blue-lit room with the flannel in her bag and the ghost of his presence still warm in the air.