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“I live here.”
“Nuh uh.”
“Yes, huh.”
“My couch.”
I hold back a snort. “Sure it is.”
He frowns, and again swipes his hand out. I catch his wrist this time, steadying him. Only it doesn’t ward him off…it just encourages him to bridge the distance.
His fingers stutter over my cheek, and I’m pretty sure my heart stops the second he makes contact.
“What are you doing?” I say numbly, my voice sounding very far away suddenly.
“Checkin’.”
“For what?”
Again, whatever falls from his lips can hardly be considered English. Much less any discernible language.
Shaking my head, I go to give him back his hand, when his fingers slide over, and brush my lips, lingering there.
I freeze, tensing all over. I don’t even breathe.
He grunts when his fingertip catches lightly on my lip ring.
Tingles crawl down my neck, spreading goosebumps over my arms.
I swallow, hard, blinking rapidly. Helpless to do anything but hold very still.
“Mase Face,” he says on a sigh, and his lip crooks up in a stupidly adorable smile.
Jesus.
He flops down and groans into the pillow, his fingers falling from my face. His slim wrist is still clamped between my fingers, his hand now hanging limply in the air where I hold it between us.
More nonsensical chatter trickles in and out of my ear.
“Sorry.”
At that, I snap out of whatever the fuck that just was, and drop his wrist like it burned me.
His arm falls against the side of the couch, slackened fingers curling over the carpet. He doesn’t make an effort to move it.
Shaking my head, I say, “What? Why are you sorry?”
He shrugs, and puffs out a breath, silver strands of hair fluttering up from his eyes.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out, and brush it back.
His eyes fly open, wide and glassy, and I freeze.
He mouths something?—
No, not something. My name. Mason.
A weird sort of awareness creeps in the longer I stare at him. He said my name, and he’s looking right at me, but it’s like he’s not here. He’s somewhere else completely.
