Chapter 3: Deliveries and Devotion

Mason adjusted quickly to being a delivery guy. He moved through the city like he belonged there, weaving in and out of traffic with the confidence of someone who’d always lived on the edge. The sounds of horns and the smell of pizza and tacos followed him everywhere, blending into the rhythm of his new life.

No matter how busy he was bringing lunch, he never forgot to come home and cook for me. He’d show up at the door, arms full of takeout bags—sometimes greasy pizza boxes, sometimes burrito wrappers—then disappear into the kitchen, humming an old Johnny Cash tune under his breath.

Looking at the man in the kangaroo helmet hurrying around, no one would have guessed that just half a month ago he was a tech star ringing the Nasdaq bell. The memory of him in a sharp suit, grinning for the cameras, felt like a distant dream now.

Mason took off his helmet, put on an apron, and started cooking in the kitchen. The apron was pink and floral, a leftover from the previous tenant. It barely fit him, but he wore it anyway, determined to make the best of things, even if he looked ridiculous.

I curled up on the sofa, eating grapes, watching him work. The TV murmured in the background, some sitcom rerun we’d seen a dozen times. The apartment was filled with the scent of mac and cheese and the gentle clatter of pans.

There was no air conditioning in the kitchen of our rented apartment. The sticky summer air clung to everything, making each breath feel heavy and each movement a little slower.

Soon, Mason was drenched in sweat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, glancing over at me with a sheepish smile. He sighed, slumping for a moment before straightening up again.

He took off his T-shirt, left wearing only the pink floral apron. The sight made me snort, covering my mouth to hide my grin. He tried to make light of it, flexing his arms like a chef on a cooking show.

His back was broad, solid muscles glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. The light from the window highlighted every line, every scar, every story written on his skin. He looked determined, almost defiant, as if daring the world to laugh at him.

The apron was loosely tied at his waist, outlining his narrow, strong torso. I couldn’t help but stare, warmth blooming in my chest, feeling both amused and moved.

"Ah!" Carelessly, I squeezed a grape and it burst, juice splashing all over my hand. I giggled, wiping my sticky fingers on a napkin, the moment breaking the tension.

Hearing the commotion, Mason rushed over, bent down, and carefully wiped each of my fingers clean with a towel. His touch was gentle, lingering a little longer than necessary. He glanced up, concern etched across his face, his eyes searching mine for reassurance.

"Riley, you don’t gotta stick around. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Don’t waste your youth on me." His voice was tense, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. He looked away, ashamed, like he was bracing for me to leave.

I replied, aggrieved: "I didn’t care that you lost your money, and now you’re trying to kick me out!" I pouted, lower lip trembling. I flopped back on the couch, crossing my arms, the tension in the air thick as the summer heat.

Mason opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, I kept complaining: "I know, you just think I spend too much. When you kept me, you said you’d support me for life. Now, before we’re even married, you want to dump me. Are you driving me away so you can marry some hard-working, dependable woman? You heartless jerk!" My voice rose, half-serious, half-teasing, but there was a real ache underneath, echoing in the tiny living room.

Mason covered my mouth with his hand, finally silencing me. His palm was warm, thumb brushing my cheek. He lowered his eyes, his eyelids trembling like crow feathers, the TV’s laugh track filling the silence.

He spoke softly, almost afraid of his own words: "I just think you’re suffering by staying with me now."

He glanced around, as if the peeling wallpaper and squeaky floorboards were judging him: "The apartment’s tiny, my cooking isn’t great, even the grapes aren’t that fresh."

"Riley, you should go, live a better, happier life." He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper, the smell of comfort food hanging in the air.

Logically, when the sugar daddy goes bankrupt, the kept woman should pack up and leave. It’s the way things go in stories, right? But life isn’t always logical.

Not to mention, he’d planned ahead and left me a big chunk of money. I could have walked away, started fresh, but the thought made my stomach twist.

Even after he went bankrupt, I still had plenty left. I could have called a cab, booked a flight, vanished into a new city—maybe New York, maybe LA.

But that day, I was just ten minutes late getting home. The clock on my phone mocked me, numbers ticking by as I raced up the stairs, my heart pounding.

Mason was already up on the rooftop. His silhouette against the setting sun made my heart lurch. I couldn’t leave.

I didn’t want to leave. The idea of packing up, leaving him behind, felt impossible. My chest ached, and I dug my nails into my palms, fighting tears.

I grabbed his wrist, flipped him over, and pinned him to the sofa. My breath came in short bursts, adrenaline surging. I glared at him, daring him to fight back, the tension between us almost electric.

My fingertips brushed the slightly red corners of his eyes. I wiped away a stray tear, letting my thumb linger on his cheekbone, the moment hanging heavy between us.

"You promised to support me for life, Mason. Don’t think you can get rid of me." I said it fiercely, voice shaking, but my eyes were soft. I pressed my forehead to his, stubborn as ever, the TV’s glow flickering behind us.

More floating comments appeared before my eyes, styled like a fan forum:

*Dead girl, eating so well, let me play her for two scenes.*

*Why is the villain still so hot delivering food? I’m really tempted—obviously, I mean the food.*

*Sis, don’t do anything crazy. The villain and his drama queen wife aren’t getting a happy ending.*

*Putting aside that he went up against the male lead, the villain is actually tall, handsome, and treats his wife well.*

*Don’t, sis. The male lead’s kid suffered so much overseas for years. Just thinking about it makes me mad. When will the villain get written out?*

I pretended not to see the barrage. I rolled my eyes, focusing on Mason, determined to block out the noise. I let my fingers trace his jaw, memorizing every detail, the apartment feeling like our own little world.

Grabbing Mason’s chin, I kissed him, watching his face turn bright red. His eyes went wide, then fluttered shut, lashes trembling, the tension melting into something sweeter.

His whole body seemed to catch fire. He clung to me, breath coming in short, ragged bursts, the outside world forgotten.

Taking advantage of the break, Mason wiped his mouth. He ducked his head, embarrassed, but a shy smile crept onto his lips.

"Ri—Riley, dinner’s ready. Let’s eat first!" His voice cracked, and he hurried to the kitchen, fumbling with plates, the sound of laughter and clinking silverware filling the air.

*Ahhhh! Cold-faced king to outsiders, total puppy to his wife—what kind of iconic pairing is this?*

*Actually, the villain and the drama queen side character are kind of cute together. I’ll take a bite.*

*I’ll take a bite too.*

*Hey, don’t let looks mess with your values!*

*Don’t ship them, sis. The villain’s destined to die in the story. If you root for sweetness now, you’ll get heartbreak later.*