Chapter 1: Caught with the Massage Gun

After jogging half a mile, I crawled beneath my blanket, clutching a buzzing massage gun. The sweat still stuck to my skin, but the cool sheets and the soft vibration brought me a weird kind of guilty comfort. The cicadas outside droned on, and the old window AC unit sputtered against the thick June air. I tucked the gun under my leg, letting the ache fade, half-listening for footsteps in the hall.

Uncle Mason barged in, his voice cool and flat. “Is it really that comfortable?”

His silhouette filled the doorway: tie loose, dark hair tousled from the drive. He looked at me the way a dad might look at a kid caught sneaking ice cream at midnight—bemused, a little tired, but definitely not fooled. His cologne, a sharp pine scent, mixed with the lingering smell of takeout from the kitchen.

I nodded so hard it probably looked like I was trying to shake something loose in my brain.

My head bobbed up and down, maybe too hard, cheeks puffed out as if I was desperate to win him over. My hair stuck up everywhere. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, nails picking at a loose thread as I clutched the comforter tighter, hoping he wouldn’t notice the massager still running under there.

I never knew a twenty-buck Amazon gadget could make my whole body feel like Jell-O.

Tension melted out of my muscles with every buzz. Somewhere outside, a car horn blared—someone’s pizza, probably. Everything outside my room felt far away, like it couldn’t reach me here.

A moment later, he pulled off his tie and looped it around my wrist.

The tie was navy with white stripes, definitely from the Kohl’s clearance rack. It felt rough against my skin, the gesture sudden but oddly gentle. I couldn’t tell if he was just being playful or if he was testing me, and that made my heart skip.

“It’s too small.”

His brow furrowed, and he grumbled, inspecting the tie’s length as if wishing it would magically grow.

“And too slow.”

He snatched up the massage gun, flicked his wrist like he’d done it a thousand times, and gave me a half-smile. The kind that said, Poor kid, let me take care of this.

“Let me show you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. He looked amused, but also weirdly intense—like a coach before the big game.

Uncle Mason, it’s just a massage gun!

I wanted to say it, but the words stuck in my throat. He always took things so seriously—maybe that was just his way of showing he cared.