Page 139 of Mason

She flinches. I regret it instantly. But it’s the truth.

She gets the last button done, but her hands don’t stop shaking. She sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders curled in like she’s trying to fold herself into something smaller. Something easier to ignore.

But she’s not. Not to me.

I grab her coat from the hook, step closer, and crouch in front of her.

“I’m not going to touch you,” I say softly, “unless you tell me to.”

Her lips press together, her eyes flicking to mine for half a second before they dart away again.

She nods. Almost imperceptibly.

I help slide her arms through the sleeves, slow and careful like she’s made of glass. Not because I think she’s weak—but because I know what it feels like to carry pain in places no one can see. The kind that makes your own skin feel like a trap.

By the time we’re wheeled out of the room and into the lobby, she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will. She’s got that look in her eyes again—the one that says don’t look at me too long. Don’t ask me how I’m doing. Don’t try to fix me.

But I’m not going to stop watching.

I’m not going to stop being here.

Even when she’s trying like hell to make me go.

In the car, she’s quiet. Staring out the window, her fingers curled in the hem of her sleeve like she’s anchoring herself with it.

I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in my lap like it wants something to do—like it wants to reach for her.

But I don’t.

Because right now, the most important thing I can give her is space.

Space to come back to herself.

Space to trust that I’ll still be here when she does.

And maybe… maybe that’s what love looks like for people like us.

Not flowers or perfect timing.

Just staying.

Even when it hurts.

When we get home,she won’t let me help her out of the car.

The second I cut the engine, I reach for the handle to swing around to her side, but her voice stops me cold.

“I’ve got it.”

Her tone is flat. No venom, no warmth. Just… empty.

Like she left the softer parts of herself somewhere between the hospital and here.

I don’t argue. I just sit there, jaw tight, watching as she opens the door and steps out slowly, cautiously, like her own body is foreign to her. Like the ground might shift beneath her feet if she puts too much trust in it.

She’s wearing my hoodie—too big on her now—and the sleeves swallow her hands, her frame drowning in fabric. It pisses me off how small she looks. Not delicate. Diminished.

The Shelby I met didn’t walk—she stormed. She had opinions, sharp comebacks, a spine like steel.

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