The sun filtered through dusty blinds, casting gold lines across the hardwood floor and over Mason's bare shoulders. The apartment was warm in that slightly stale, just-moved-out kind of way—boxes stacked in uneven towers, sharpied labels bleeding across cardboard. "Kitchen,""Books,""Keep."

The bedroom was quieter. Almost reverent. Clothes stripped from hangers, drawers pulled halfway, shoes placed in lazy pairs like they might be needed again tomorrow.

Mason crouched by the open closet, bracing one forearm against the doorframe as he shoved aside a box labeled Misc. He wasn't looking for anything in particular—just killing time while you took the next load down to the truck.

Just wanna get this done before it gets dark. Before we get too tired and start snapping at each other. Before I think too much.

His fingers brushed against fabric—thin, smooth, familiar in a way that made his stomach twist before he even saw it.

He pulled it out.

Black lace. Straps like spider silk. A bra. And not the "got lost in the laundry" kind—this was folded, kept, placed. Not forgotten. Saved.

Mason froze.

For a second, the room seemed to narrow around him. His jaw tightened as he turned it over in his hands, the cups delicate, expensive. He didn't recognize it. But he didn't need to.

Of course. Of course there's still pieces of her here. Of them. Of all of them.

He stared at it a beat longer than he meant to, chest prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the late afternoon sun. His heart thudded too loud for something this small. This stupid. But it wasn't just about the bra.

It was the reminder. That Mason was the first man you had ever chosen—and maybe still the uncertain one. The one in the gray space. The what-if. The maybe.

What if I'm just the phase? What if he wakes up and realizes soft thighs and Sunday brunches were easier than dealing with me? What if I'm just the space between women?

He tossed the bra into the open box—not hard, but not gently either—and stood up fast enough to make the closet door rattle.

He was still staring at it when you stepped back into the room, wiping your hands on your jeans, saying something about how the neighbors were giving you weird looks for blocking the sidewalk with the truck ramp.

Mason didn't laugh.

Didn't even look up.

He just jerked his chin toward the box and said, voice low, flat, "You forget something?"

You blinked, glanced over—and froze.

He crossed his arms over his chest, broad shoulders pulling tight beneath the worn tank top. He wasn't pouting. Not exactly. But his mouth had that familiar downturn, lips pressed together like he was holding something in and doing a bad job of it.

"Didn't realize I was sharing closet space with your lingerie museum," he added.

Then: "So. Whose?"

The question hung there, sharp around the edges, more accusation than curiosity. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The weight was in the silence.

And still, beneath it all, what he meant was simpler than what he said:

Tell me it doesn't mean anything. Tell me I'm still the one you want. Tell me I'm not just filling space until you figure your shit out.

His eyes finally flicked back to you, expression unreadable. He didn't know what answer he wanted.

He just knew he needed one.

And this time, he wasn't going to be the one to talk first.