Page 150 of Mason

I’m curled up on the couch in the pool house, wrapped in a blanket I’ve barely let go of since I got home. It smells like cedarwood. I think it’s Mason’s—because it smells likehim.

Which somehow makes it worse.

He’s trying so hard. Always here. Always careful with me, like I’m some porcelain thing he doesn’t know how to hold.

But Ihatethat I flinch when he gets too close.

I hate that Ican’tbe who I was before this happened.

Strong.

Steady.

Untouchable.

I managed to survive years married to a narcissist. Then, in a matter of hours, I was reduced to this massive wreck.

Now, I’m just this hollow girl wrapped in wool, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give me the answers that I need.

When the knock comes, I already know it’s him.

He doesn’t knock like anyone else.

It’s soft. Steady.

Polite in a way that makes me feel guilty. It’s his own damn house, and he feels the need to knock.

I shuffle over and open the door.

Mason’s standing there in a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, jaw tense.

His eyes—God, thoseeyes—scan my face like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

I don’t say anything.

Just walk back to the couch and sink into it like it’s the only place that doesn’t hurt.

I feel him follow me in. He doesn’t come too close.

“I just wanted to check in,” he says quietly.

I nod, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket.

Silence stretches between us.

I canfeelhim wanting to help. Wanting to fix this.

Me.

But how do you fix something that doesn’t even know what it is anymore?

“I, uh… I have to step out for a few hours,” he says after a minute, tone careful. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

I look up.

He pulls a phone from his pocket and sets it gently on the coffee table.

“Mia and Maxine are both in there,” he says. “On speed dial. I figured you might… I don’t know. Want someone to talk to. Someone who gets it.”

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