The apartment smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and freshly baked bread.
For a split second, I thought I had stepped into the wrong place. Then I wondered if someone had broken in. But Mason’s crooked drawing was still taped to the refrigerator, and my chipped coffee mug sat where I’d left it.
My stomach knotted.
The living room was… tidy. Not staged, just cared for.
The throw blanket was folded. The trash was gone.
And the sink—miraculously—was empty.
I heard movement from the kitchen. Ryan stood at the stove wearing one of my oversized T-shirts, his knee brace strapped on, shifting his weight carefully. A small loaf pan rested on the counter.
When he saw me, he lifted his hands slightly, palms open.
“I didn’t go into your bedroom,” he said right away. “Just cleaned out here.
It felt like the least I could do.”
My heart pounded. “How did you even—”
“I used to cook,” he said quietly.
“Before.”
On the table sat two grilled cheese sandwiches and a bowl of soup.
Not canned. I could see herbs floating on top. My exhaustion didn’t disappear.
It hardened into suspicion.
“You went through my cabinets.”
“I looked for ingredients,” he admitted. “I wrote down what I used.” He nodded toward a folded note beside my keys.
In careful handwriting: Used: bread, cheese, carrots, celery, broth cubes. Will replace.
Replace them how?
Mason came racing down the hallway, backpack bouncing. “Mom! Ryan fixed the door!”
I blinked.
“What door?”
“The front one!
It doesn’t stick anymore. And he made me finish my homework first.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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