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Before I crawled into bed, I had just enough wherewithal to remember to unlock it, as I always make sure to do, just in case.
There’s still enough light in the hall, surrounding the silhouetted figure slipping into the room that tells me Mom and Dad are still downstairs.
He’s early.
Like really fucking early.
The door closes behind him with a soft click, plummeting the room into near total darkness once more, with the exception of the faintly glowing stars and planets above our heads of course.
Mason says nothing as I hear the distinct sound of him toeing off his shoes. And the zip of a jacket as he rounds the bed, followed by a quiet rustle as he removes it and hangs it over my desk chair.
The mattress creaks and sinks when he joins me, sliding under the covers on his side.
Distantly, I wonder what my parents must think. I have no doubt they know he stays here sometimes; sleeps in my room—Mason isn’t exactly quiet when he stumbles drunk into the house, up the stairs, and all but falls into my room. But at least when it’s the middle of the night, we can pretend otherwise.
Regardless, I don’t have the energy to worry about it.
Nor do I wait for him to curl around me.
Rather I find myself rolling over, and before my brain can catch up with what my body’s got planned, I’m throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his chest.
He stiffens, going utterly still.
His heart pounds in my ears, and I swear there’s a momentary skip—or a hitch of his lungs. But I’m probably just imagining it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if maybe I can get away with pretending I’m asleep. Maybe if I hold really still…
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.
Big mistake.
He smells like Heaven. It’s woodsy and clean with a hint of something sweeter—like engine oil.
And it has me going still.
“Your dad called,” he says in an unreadable voice.
Oh.
I chew the inside of my lip until I taste iron, and hold him even tighter.
He releases a breath, his chest collapsing beneath me, and slowly, clumsily, arms come around me, agonizingly sweet in their familiarity.
Ear pressed against his chest, I listen to his heart pound, counting each beat as it speeds up.
Shaky breaths coast along my hair, growing hotter and heavier with each passing second. The strands curled over my forehead dance and flutter, tickling me, but I don’t make a single move to fix it.
“He said you… he said you were upset?”
Throat squeezing, I remain mute. Still.
I wait for Mason to pry me off him—push me away.
We don’t do this. Not like this. Not consciously. For all I know, he doesn’t even remember those nights. He only ever reaches for me when he’s drunk or high off his ass.
Is he high now? I wonder.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t smell like he bathed in vodka tonight. He’s had the cast off for almost two months now, but still insists that it hurts. Hurts enough he still needs the Vicodin.
