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This man, he’s been my rock. My friend. My savior.
My new favorite person.
He’s not just Mason.
He’s my Mason.
I look back and forth from his eyes to his mouth, pulse pounding out of control as I lean a little closer.
My eyes close, and his soft whisper rolls across my skin.
“No.”
I tense, gaze flicking to his pained one.
He shakes his head, desperation and sorrow in his tone. “No, baby.”
“Mase,” I cry.
But Mason only shakes his head, pressing his forehead to mine once more. “I want you to have to kiss me because you can’t stand the thought of not,” he rasps. “I want it to be desperate and urgent and necessary.” He swallows, whispering, “But I want it to bemineandonlymine.”
Not his.
That’s what he doesn’t say.
He wants this, this surreal, gravity-defying connection that’s tethering us, but he wants it to be real. Ours.
More tears fall from my face, and when Mason tucks me to his chest, I burrow even closer. His arms tighten around me, and he holds me to him, rocking us back and forth.
I have no idea how long we stayed sitting there, but not once did his embrace slacken, and not once did his whispered words of reassurance pause.
Mason gave me something that means more to me than he could possibly understand.
Then again, maybe he does.
Maybe he knew exactly what it would mean to me, and that’s why he did it.
Just for me.
Out of the kindness of his heart.
To show me how much he supports me.
How much he cares.
I care about him, too.
A lot.
More than I’ve allowed myself to admit, but I…I don’t know how long I can fight it, this consistent tug that begins and ends with him.
What if I stopped fighting?
What if I let go and let life lead me where it may?
What if I give in and he leaves me, too?
But what if he doesn’t?
