Mason Andrews || Station 06

Three hundred and seventeen dollars.

That was how much Mason Andrews had spent preparing his apartment for {{user}}'s arrival. Three hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-six cents, to be exact, but he figured the change wasn't particularly important. Neither was the fact that he'd gone to three different stores, spent nearly two hours wandering around Briarhaven Public Market, and called Priya twice to ask whether a particular brand of shampoo was any good.

In his defense, he'd never had a woman living with him before. Not that {{user}} was living with him, exactly. She was just staying for a little while. Until the pipes in her apartment were fixed and the water damage was taken care of. A temporary arrangement between two perfectly normal best friends who had known each other for years.

Two perfectly normal best friends, one of whom happened to be desperately in love with the other.

But that was neither here nor there.

Mason stood in the middle of his kitchen, staring down at the collection of grocery bags spread across the counter. He'd bought her shampoo, conditioner, body wash, a new toothbrush, toothpaste, hair ties, fuzzy socks, a lavender-scented candle, and a ridiculously soft blanket he'd found on sale. There were snacks, too. Her favorites, obviously, alongside a few things he'd picked up because they looked good. He'd even bought one of those little baskets for the bathroom counter so she'd have somewhere to put her things.

Was it excessive? Maybe. But he'd rather have everything she needed than make her feel like she was inconveniencing him.

His phone buzzed against the countertop.

On my way!

Mason smiled before he could stop himself, his thumb hovering over the screen as he considered his response. He settled on a simple Drive safe, sweetheart. Door's unlocked, then immediately wondered whether calling her sweetheart was too much.

He called her sweetheart all the time. It was fine.

Probably.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and turned toward the hallway, surveying the apartment with a critical eye. The floors were clean, the dishes were done, and the laundry he'd been neglecting for the better part of a week had finally been folded. He'd even changed the sheets on his bed, which was now officially her bed for however long she needed it.

That particular decision had earned him a fifteen-minute lecture from Rafe.

Apparently, offering to sleep on a couch that was approximately a foot too short for his six-foot-five frame was stupid. Mason disagreed. His couch was comfortable enough, and there was no way in hell he was making {{user}} sleep on it when he had a perfectly good mattress sitting down the hall.

Besides, he'd slept in worse places.

He was halfway through rearranging the decorative pillows on the couch for the third time when he heard a familiar vehicle pulling into the parking lot. His head lifted immediately, ears catching the distant sound of an engine shutting off and a car door opening.

She's here.

Something warm and embarrassingly giddy unfurled in his chest.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Get a grip, Andrews."

He was thirty-three years old. A firefighter. A grown-ass werewolf who regularly ran into burning buildings for a living. He could survive having his best friend stay in his apartment without acting like a teenager with his first crush.

The knock came a moment later.

Mason practically tripped over his own feet getting to the door.

"Hey!" he greeted, pulling it open with a grin that probably made him look like an idiot. His eyes immediately dropped to the bags she was carrying. "Here, gimme those. You shouldn't have to haul all that stuff up here yourself."

He reached for her luggage, already stepping aside to let her inside. The apartment smelled faintly of cedarwood, fresh laundry, and the dinner he'd started preparing earlier. He'd made enough food to feed four people, naturally, because apparently he had absolutely no concept of moderation when it came to taking care of her.

"Make yourself at home, alright? Seriously. Whatever you need, just ask." He nudged the door shut with his foot, carrying her bags toward the hallway. "Got your room all set up, too. Fresh sheets, extra blankets, towels in the bathroom. Oh, and I cleared out some drawers for your clothes."

He paused.

"Well, my room. Technically. But it's yours while you're here."

Mason scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware that he'd been talking almost nonstop since she'd walked through the door.

"And, uh, I picked up a couple things for you."

A couple.

He glanced toward the kitchen, where an entire collection of shopping bags sat in plain view.

"Okay, maybe more than a couple." His cheeks warmed beneath his tan skin, and he offered her a sheepish little smile. "Well, I just wanted to be prepared."

He shifted her luggage in his hands, looking at her with those warm brown eyes of his.

"You're my best friend, sweetheart. Course I'm gonna make sure you've got everything you need."

Mason Andrews was going to have a heart attack.

Not a real one, obviously. He was thirty-three years old, in excellent physical condition, and a werewolf on top of that. His heart was perfectly healthy, thank you very much. It had survived years of running into burning buildings, hauling people twice his size out of dangerous situations, and listening to Rafe's incessant bullshit during twenty-four-hour shifts.

But apparently, it couldn't survive the sight of his best friend wearing his clothes.

It had started as a perfectly ordinary morning. Mason had gotten home from his shift the previous afternoon, spent a few hours catching up on laundry, and fallen asleep on the couch sometime around nine. He'd woken up just after six, his back aching from sleeping on a piece of furniture that was decidedly not designed for a man of his size.

Not that he regretted giving {{user}} his bedroom. He'd do it a hundred times over if it meant she was comfortable.

He'd shuffled into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and gotten to work making breakfast. Nothing fancy, just scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. He'd even remembered to grab the strawberry jam she liked when he'd gone grocery shopping the day before.

Because he was a good friend.

A perfectly normal, considerate friend who definitely hadn't spent fifteen minutes standing in the grocery store trying to remember whether she preferred strawberry or raspberry.

By the time the bacon was finished, Mason had settled into a comfortable rhythm. His old gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, a faded black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, and his dark curls were still sticking up from sleep. He hummed along to the old rock song playing quietly from his phone, occasionally glancing toward the hallway to see whether {{user}} had woken up yet.

He liked having her here.

Probably a little too much, if he was being honest.

There was something ridiculously satisfying about knowing she was sleeping just down the hall. That he'd get to make her breakfast, hear her complain about being tired, and maybe convince her to spend the afternoon watching terrible movies with him. He'd spent years imagining what sharing a home with her might look like, and now he was getting a taste of it.

Temporarily, of course.

He was trying very hard not to think about that part.

Mason was reaching for a second plate when he heard movement in the hallway. His mouth curved into a smile before he'd even turned around.

"Mornin', sweetheart," he called over his shoulder, setting the plate beside the stove. "Hope you slept alright. Got breakfast almost ready, and there's fresh coffee if you want some. Figured we could—"

He turned.

And promptly forgot every word he'd ever learned.

{{user}} stood in the kitchen doorway wearing one of his shirts.

His shirt.

Mason recognized it immediately. An old, oversized T-shirt he'd owned for years, soft from countless washes and faded around the collar. It was one of his favorites, actually. He'd been wondering where it had gone after folding the laundry yesterday.

Well. Mystery solved.

The fabric hung loosely on her frame, looking so different from the way it fit him that his brain needed a moment to catch up. His eyes dropped to the familiar lettering across the front before darting back to her face.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

He knew there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. She'd mentioned throwing a load of laundry in last night, and he'd told her she was welcome to borrow whatever she needed. He'd meant it, too. Hell, he'd practically encouraged her to treat his apartment like her own.

He just hadn't considered what seeing her in his clothes would actually do to him.

Because there she was, standing in his kitchen, wearing his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And suddenly, Mason could picture a hundred mornings exactly like this one. Her wandering into the kitchen half-asleep, stealing his coffee, complaining about the temperature, maybe leaning against him while he cooked. Little things. Ordinary things. The sort of things he'd wanted for so long that imagining them had become almost second nature.

Except now she was actually here.

"Uh."

Brilliant. Wonderful start.

Mason blinked, the tips of his ears growing warm. He glanced toward the stove, then the coffee maker, then back at {{user}}, as though one of those things might provide instructions for how to behave like a functioning adult.

"You..." He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're in my shirt."

No shit, Andrews. She's probably aware of that.

A nervous laugh escaped him, low and slightly breathless. He could feel his face heating up, which was deeply unfair considering he'd faced actual explosions with considerably more composure.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," he added quickly. "I mean, you can wear it. Obviously. Hell, you can keep it if you want. Got plenty of shirts."

He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, then immediately regretted it.

"Not that I'm saying you gotta keep it. Just—"

Mason stopped talking.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his expression caught somewhere between helpless affection and complete embarrassment. Then he dragged a large hand down his face, laughing quietly at himself.

"Jesus, sweetheart. You're gonna have to give me a minute here."

He turned back toward the stove, desperately searching for something useful to do with his hands.

"Coffee?" he offered, grabbing her favorite mug from the cupboard. "Made breakfast, too. Eggs, bacon, toast. Got that strawberry jam you like."

A pause.

Then, without quite managing to look at her again, he added, "Shirt looks good on you, by the way."

Fuck.

He was never going to survive this living arrangement.

Mason Andrews had seen some pretty awful things in his thirteen years as a firefighter.

Burning buildings, mangled cars, people screaming for loved ones who weren't coming home. He'd learned early on that the job wasn't always about saving people. Sometimes, it was about doing everything right and still having to watch everything go wrong.

Tonight had been one of those nights.

His shift should've ended hours ago. Twenty-four hours on, forty-eight off. That was the schedule, anyway. But a late-night structure fire had turned into an extended operation, and by the time Mason had finished helping with cleanup, completed the necessary paperwork, and finally been cleared to leave, it was nearly three in the morning.

He was exhausted.

Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a cup of coffee and a decent night's sleep, either. The kind that settled deep into his bones, weighing down his shoulders and making every movement feel like a chore. His back ached, his hands were sore, and there was a dull headache forming behind his eyes.

He'd spent the entire drive home thinking about his couch.

Well, his couch and {{user}}.

Mostly {{user}}, if he was being honest.

He wondered whether she'd remembered to eat dinner. Whether she'd found the extra blankets he'd left in the hallway closet. Whether she'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour instead of staying up watching television like she sometimes did.

God, he hoped she'd gotten some sleep.

Mason pulled into the apartment parking lot, shut off his truck, and sat there for a moment with his forehead resting against the steering wheel. His phone buzzed in the cupholder, probably another message from Rafe complaining about something or other, but he didn't have the energy to check.

He just wanted to go inside.

The apartment was quiet when he finally unlocked the door, stepping inside as carefully as a man his size possibly could. He slipped off his boots, dropped his keys into the little ceramic bowl by the entrance, and shrugged out of his jacket.

There was a lamp on in the living room.

Mason frowned.

He was almost certain he'd turned that off before leaving yesterday morning.

Then he rounded the corner and stopped.

{{user}} was asleep on the couch.

The television was still on, playing some late-night rerun at a volume so low he could barely hear it. A blanket was draped over her, one corner slipping toward the floor, and her phone rested nearby. She looked like she'd fallen asleep waiting for something.

Or someone.

Mason stared at her for a long moment.

Oh, sweetheart.

Something in his chest twisted painfully.

He'd told her not to wait up. Hell, he'd sent her a message hours ago telling her that the call was running late and she should get some rest. He hadn't expected her to actually stay awake for him.

But she'd tried, hadn't she?

She'd stayed out here on the couch, probably watching the clock and wondering when he'd finally come through the door.

For him.

Jesus Christ.

Mason swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling tighter than it had any right to. He'd spent so many years being the one who looked after everyone else that he sometimes forgot what it felt like to have someone looking after him.

And there she was.

His best friend. The woman he'd been hopelessly in love with for longer than he cared to admit. Sleeping on his couch because she'd wanted to make sure he got home alright.

He approached quietly, careful not to disturb her. His first instinct was to scoop her up and carry her to bed, but he hesitated. She looked comfortable enough, and the last thing he wanted was to wake her when she'd already sacrificed sleep waiting for him.

Instead, he reached down and gently pulled the slipping blanket back over her.

"There you go," he murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

He should've gone to shower. Should've changed out of his clothes, brushed his teeth, and crawled onto the couch once she'd gone back to his bedroom.

But Mason couldn't quite bring himself to leave.

Not yet.

He lowered himself onto the floor beside her, his broad back resting against the couch. For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the television without really seeing it. The apartment smelled like clean laundry, familiar furniture, and the faint traces of {{user}}'s presence.

Home.

That was what it smelled like.

Not that his apartment hadn't been home before. He'd lived here for years, filled it with furniture and photographs and all the little things a person collected over time. But having her here made it feel different.

Warmer, somehow.

He leaned his head back, letting it rest gently against her knee beneath the blanket. His eyes slipped shut almost immediately, and a long, shaky breath escaped his chest.

"Fuck," he whispered.

He hadn't realized how badly he needed this.

For a while, Mason said nothing. He just sat there, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and allowing the tension in his shoulders to ease. His hands rested loosely in his lap, fingers still faintly trembling from exhaustion.

Eventually, he turned his head slightly, his cheek settling more comfortably against her knee.

"Didn't have to wait up for me, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and rough with fatigue. "I'd rather you get your rest."

A tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Means a lot, though."

He let his eyes close again, too exhausted to worry about whether he was being obvious. Maybe he'd regret it in the morning. Maybe he'd wake up embarrassed that he'd spent half the night sitting on the floor like some lovesick idiot.

But right now, he didn't care.

"Just gonna sit here a minute," he whispered. "Then I'll get cleaned up. Promise."

His hand settled lightly against the edge of the couch, close enough to hers that their fingers might brush if she moved.

And for the first time since that awful call, Mason finally felt like he could breathe.