He’s standing there, a little out of breath, sweaty. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a gray T-shirt. His curls are tucked beneath a backwards baseball cap, his cheeks flushed.
“Hey,” I mutter.
“Hey,” Mason replies, his voice scratchy and tired.
Before I can say anything else, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me. I hesitate for a second before melting into him. I press my face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, smelling the fading scent of my soap on his skin. My hands settle on his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.
He pulls back slightly and gives me a small, tired smile. “Sorry I couldn’t text sooner. I had to take Mom to a doctor’s appointment this morning, and then my boss asked if I could cover a closing shift at Beachside. I just got off.”
Well, shit. Now I feel like an asshole for assuming the worst—for spiraling into my own head instead of giving him the benefit of the doubt. Admittedly, my insecurity turns me into a jerk sometimes.
“Oh,” I murmur. “That’s… fine.”
We head to the couch. I sit first, curling into the corner with my blanket and clutching the half-melted ice cream. Mason sits beside me, but I keep a deliberate few inches of distance between us. I twirl the spoon around the inside of the pint, avoiding his gaze.
“You look cute,” he tells me, eyes raking over me slowly.
I pretend I don’t hear him.
“You okay?” he asks. “You seem a little… off.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You sure?”
I hesitate, then mumble, “Just tired.”
Mason exhales slowly. “Are you sore? You know… after last night?”
My cheeks flare with heat as I shift on the couch. “A little. It’s not bad, though. You were gentle.”
“Okay, good. I was worried. You seemed quiet afterwards, in the shower. I didn’t know if I’d crossed a line or something.”
Guilt pierces my chest. Mason may be a grump on the outside, but he’s got a soft, gooey center. He’s a total sweetheart. I don’t know why I ever doubted him, even for a second.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, finally looking at him. “I promise. Last night was… perfect.”
He lets out a breath of relief. “It was perfect for me, too.”
A silence settles between us, and I spin my spoon around my pint, scraping melted ice cream from the sides.
“So… do you want to talk about it?” Mason presses gently. “About why you were upset?”
I close my eyes and pull the blanket tighter around my body, taking a slow breath. I’m twenty-three years old. I should be able to talk about my goddamn feelings.
“It’s just… I have issues with my body sometimes,” I say finally.
He doesn’t speak—just nods to show he’s listening.
I fiddle with the blanket, pulling at the loose threads to avoid looking at him. I can tell he’s waiting for me to elaborate. The words crawl up my throat, raw and unfiltered.
“Growing up with a twin brother, there were always comparisons between us. Landon was always bigger, stronger, more masculine. I was just the lesser version of him. The copy that didn’t measure up.”
Mason shifts closer, brushing his fingers against mine before lacing our hands together. “That sounds really difficult,” he says quietly.
I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes. “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “And when I was twenty, I dated this guy, Travis. He was—stillis—Landon’s best friend. The whole time we were together, he made comments about my body. What I should eat. How I should work out. What I should wear. Like I was a project he was constantly fixing.”
I inhale a deep breath before continuing. “So being in the shower with you earlier—it just triggered all that. Having my body exposed like that. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything wrong with me, and I was scared you’d see it, too.”
