Page 186 of Mason

“So, Mia. What’s it like sleeping next to Brando when he’s carrying a gun and a moral crisis?”

“I swear he growls in his sleep,” Mia says, deadpan. “Like a feral bear with feelings.”

Tayana wheezes. “I knew he was a growler!”

Allegra turns to me, smirking over the rim of her glass. “And Mason? Does he snore? Or just smolder silently like the tortured bastard he is?”

I blink, heat rushing to my face. “He... holds on. In his sleep. Like if he lets go, I’ll disappear.”

No one laughs.

The silence isn’t heavy—it’s sacred.

“You should let him,” Maxine says gently. “When you’re ready.”

And somehow, that’s the moment that undoes me.

Not the wine. Not the teasing. Not even the comfort.

Just those three words.

When you’re ready.

Because they don’t expect me to be healed. They’re not asking for a performance. They’re not waiting for me to be fearless.

They just want me tocome home to myself.

And maybe—eventually—to him.

I curl deeper into the nest of blankets, the soft scratch of knit throws against my arms, the hum of music, the pulse of shared pain.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.

48

SHELBY

The room settles somewhere between midnight and memory.

Candles burn low, with the kind of scent that makes you feel like you’ve stumbled into a moment you don’t deserve—but still can’t bear to leave.

Someone snores softly. Probably Jackie. Or Tayana. A playlist hums in the background, dreamy and distant, like a heartbeat slowed down to a lull.

I should be asleep.

But I’m not.

I lie curled up in a mountain of borrowed blankets on the corner of the couch, half-covered, half-hiding. Everyone else has melted into the space around me like they belong here—like they’ve always belonged here.

And me?

I’m just a guest in someone else’s dream.

The kind of girl who doesn’t get a permanent place.

Just a visit. Just a taste. Just long enough to remind herself what it feels like to want something she’ll never truly have.Unless I let them in.

I listen as the voices fade to whispers—the kind people think don’t carry. The kind not meant for the ears of someone on the edge of sleep.

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