Page 188 of Mason

He looks at me like Iamthe more.

And it breaks something in me.

Because I don’t know if I’ll ever believe I’m enough to deserve that look.

No one says my name, but I feel it pressing at the edges of their sentences. I feel it like a spotlight I didn’t ask for but can’t escape.

They think I’m asleep.

They think I’m too far to hear.

But I do.

And every word wraps around my ribs like a bandage—tight, aching, necessary.

I don’t know how to accept the way he loves me.

But God, some part of me wants to try.

I close my eyes, even though sleep feels miles away. I let their voices fade, swallowed by the hush of candlelight and unspoken hope.

And for the first time in what feels like forever...

I don’t dream of the fall.

I dream of beingcaught.

The house smellslike coffee and burnt toast the next morning.

Sunlight bleeds in through the gauzy curtains, soft and golden, and the living room is a graveyard of empty wine glasses and half-eaten snacks.

I sit up slowly. My back aches. My mouth tastes like strawberry margarita.

Most of the women are still asleep—scattered across the living room like beautiful wreckage, limbs tangled in throw blankets and each other.

It’s a mess I don’t mind waking up to.

Maxine is already in the kitchen.

Of course she is.

She moves like she hasn’t slept—sharp and deliberate, hoodie slung over silk pajamas, barefoot on cold tile.

She doesn’t look up when she hands me a mug of coffee. Just gestures to the seat across from her.

I sit.

She sips. Watches me over the rim of her mug like she’s deciding whether or not to speak.

“Doesn’t look like you slept well,” she says.

“I slept a little.”

She doesn’t argue. Just hums like she doesn’t believe me.

“I also heard what you guys said. Last night.”

Maxine’s eyes flick up. She doesn’t look embarrassed. She doesn’t apologize.

---