Page 193 of Mason

When we break apart, she rests her hands on my chest, her eyes searching mine.

“I’m not all the way there yet, but I want to come home,” she says, voice breaking.

I don’t answer.

I just pull her into my arms, bury my face in her neck, and hold her like the answer’s always been obvious.

Because it has.

Because it will be, for the rest of my life.

I don’t let go of her.

Not even after she exhales into my shoulder and I feel the last of her defenses slide off her body like armor hitting the floor.

I hold her like I’m anchoring us both.

She smells like wind and citrus shampoo and the sweater I haven’t been able to wash because it still smells like her. Her fingers curl into my shirt, like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.

As if that’s even possible.

I pull her inside, quietly. No big declarations. No questions. I just ease the door shut behind her and guide her into the kitchen, where the light is low and the silence feels sacred. She moves like she’s still not sure if she belongs here.

So I keep my hand at the small of her back—steady and warm. A silentyes you do.

She sinks into one of the barstools while I pour the coffee I hadn’t planned on drinking. I slide a mug in front of her, then wrap my fingers around my own and take the seat beside her—close, but not too close.

She stares down at the cup. Her voice is barely a breath.

“I thought about this moment a hundred times. I always imagined you angry.”

“I was,” I say. “But not at you. I was angry at myself for letting you walk out that door.”

She nods, like that answer hurts and heals her at the same time.

“I wanted to come back sooner,” she admits. “But I didn’t know if I was… ready.”

I glance over at her. Study the line of her jaw. The way her fingers tremble slightly against the ceramic.

“You didn’t have to be ready,” I say. “You just had to be.”

Her head tilts toward me, just enough that her shoulder brushes mine. She’s not crying. Not exactly. But there’s a shine in her eyes that makes my chest feel like it’s cracking open from the inside.

“I still have bad nights,” she whispers.

I nod. “So do I.”

“I still flinch when someone walks too fast behind me.”

“I’ll walk beside you, then.”

She lets out a soft, broken laugh.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay.”

“You don’t have to be.” I set my mug down and turn toward her, bracing one hand on the counter beside her. “You don’t have to be anything but here.”

She looks at me—really looks—and something settles between us.

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