Page 35 of Mason

“Hungry?” he asks, already grabbing his phone.

I should say no, but my stomach growls before I can stop it.

“Pizza okay?”

I nod. “Yes. That’s fine.”

He orders quickly, efficiently, then gestures to the sectional. “Sit.”

I do, tucking my feet under me, watching as he sinks down beside me, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. The space between us feels weighted, charged with something I’m too afraid to put a name to.

The pizza arrives, and we eat in easy silence.

Or, he eats. I mostly push my food around, my appetite nonexistent.

Mason notices.

His gaze lingers on me, curiosity flickering behind those sharp, unreadable eyes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push, but the way he watches me makes something tighten in my chest.

I don’t know how much time passes. The exhaustion creeps up on me slowly, lulling me under the weight of everything I’ve been holding in. My body feels heavy, too heavy to keep upright, and at some point, I shift closer, curling into the warmth beside me.

Mason stiffens, like he’s not sure if he should move.

But then his fingers brush against my hair, tracing lazy patterns, and the warmth of it seeps into my bones.

I should move.

But the gentle glide of his fingers through my hair wraps around me like a warm embrace, anchoring me in safety and quiet reassurance. The kind I haven’t felt in years. The kind I’m not sure I’veeverfelt.

So I let my eyes slip shut, sinking into the quiet, into him.

Mason doesn’t stop me.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like he’s grounding me—like maybe, just maybe, I’m grounding him, too.

And in the stillness of the night, with the weight of everything we’ve buried pressing down on us, we say nothing as I lower my head and fall asleep with my head cradled in his lap.

13

MASON

It’s early morning when Shelby stirs, her small movements rousing me from the light sleep I drifted into sometime before dawn.

I blink against the soft gray light filtering through the windows, the slow realization settling in—she’s still here. Her warmth, her weight, her scent, all wrapped around me like something I don’t deserve.

She’s curled into me, her head resting in my lap, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other lightly fisted against my thigh. I’ve been in this position all night, sitting upright on the sectional, cradling her against me, afraid to shift too much in case it woke her.

It’s such a simple thing. Basic, even.

But fuck, it feelsintimate.

More intimate than anything I’ve ever known.

I don’t tell her that I got the message late last night—that the house was cleared barely fifteen minutes after she fell asleep. That I could have woken her, taken her home, let her slip away into whatever comes next.

I didn’t want her to leave.

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