Chapter 5: Sweetness and Control

Minutes later, my stepdad messaged me back, “Take the afternoon off, Tess.” It was as if concern for Mason had become my golden ticket out of work.

I took my time, letting the seat warmers do their work, watching the winter sun glint off the windshields lining our street. At every red light, I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, rehearsing what I’d say to Mason.

There’s this little bakery near our subdivision—brick-front, always smelling of vanilla and powdered sugar. I popped in and grabbed a strawberry cake, still warm from the oven, boxed up with a pink ribbon. Mason always liked the soft ones, with whipped cream icing.

Mom was waiting on the porch, worry lines etched deep. I tried to wave her off with a smile: “Mason must have been scared today. Mom, please make him some calming soup.”

She hesitated, glancing back at the closed door, but nodded and shuffled off to the kitchen. I could hear her humming softly as she chopped celery, like she was trying to fix everything with broth and noodles.

I watched through the window as she looked back one more time before disappearing into the garage. Only then did I lock the door behind me, feeling the house settle into a hush.

He must have sensed my footsteps before he saw me. Every day, same hour, same sound—he’d learned to recognize it, just like the hum of the heater switching on or the mail slot rattling.

The moment I crossed the threshold, Mason stiffened. He sat up straight, eyes wide, watching me the way a stray cat watches a stranger—ready to bolt, but too curious to move. I could almost see his breath fog in the chilly air between us.

Sometimes, I’d catch myself staring too long, cataloging every line of his face—the tiny scar above his eyebrow, the way his lashes clumped together when he blinked too fast. He was older, but in those moments, he looked like a lost kid, caught between worlds.

But if I let even a hint of hardness creep into my voice, he’d snap back, all teeth and defiance. That switch always fascinated me—how quickly he could go from timid to feral.

The mattress gave beneath him, and for a split second, I felt the power shift. He tensed up, hands balled into fists at his sides. I felt a twisted rush of control—one I hated and craved in equal measure.

I said it flat, like a parent scolding a toddler. My words echoed in the quiet room, sharp as a slap.

I leaned in, letting the sarcasm drip. "What, you mad I’ve actually had a life outside babysitting you?" I wanted to see if he’d bite back, but he just looked away, jaw clenched.

Every sentence was a test, a dare, a poke at his softest spots. It was the only way I knew to get under his skin.

He tried to shrink away, but I caught his chin and tilted his face up. For a moment, he stopped breathing as I showed him the cake, letting him watch the frosting stretch and glisten on my finger.

My voice dropped, low and coaxing. "Mason, I brought you a soft, sweet little cake. Want to eat it?" I dangled it in front of his lips, just out of reach.

His eyes went red again, watery and furious, but there was no real bite. It only made me push further, wanting to see how far I could go.

By the end, his lips were sticky with cream, his glare softening to something almost resigned. I wiped the last smudge from his chin and licked my fingers, triumphant. The empty box sat between us like a trophy.