He cups my cheek. “Well, I do.”
He leans down and kisses me, silencing the madness in my mind. The world narrows to just the sensation of his lips sliding against mine, warm and inviting.
Then, a loudbeepshatters the moment.
Mason breaks away, cursing under his breath. He pulls out his phone and groans.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Fucking low blood sugar.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because we were kissing.”
“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control, Mason.”
He ignores me. He sinks to the floor, cross-legged, lunchbox in his lap. He pulls out a roll of Smarties, crinkles the wrapper open, and tips the whole thing into his mouth. His jaw works, tight with frustration.
I lower myself beside him, resting a hand on his knee. “You okay?”
He fusses with his curls, sighing. “I’m fine. Just frustrated with my broken pancreas, I guess.”
I squeeze his knee, keeping quiet while he stares into the distance and chews. His fingers twitch as he unwraps another roll of candy.
“Is there anything I can do to help you right now?” I ask, hating how useless I feel.
Mason is the first person I’ve met with type one diabetes, and other than the brief Google search I did after we first hooked up, I’m clueless.
“No,” he says, throat bobbing. “Just… stay here, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His fingers shake as he rips open the roll of Smarties. He pops a handful into his mouth, chewing quickly like he’s forcing himself to swallow. His breathing comes out in short, shallow puffs of air.
“Smarties are my go-to low snack,” he says after a moment, his words syrupy slow. “I buy ‘em in bulk after Halloween every year when they’re on sale. They’re cheaper than the glucose tablets from the pharmacy, and they don’t taste like chalk.”
I smile gently, smoothing my palm across his forearm. His skin feels clammy, the muscles underneath twitching like they can’t settle. We sit in silence for a few minutes as he stares at the floor, pupils blown wide and unfocused, as though his brain is a few beats behind his body.
I squeeze his knee. “Is your blood sugar coming back up yet?”
He pulls out his phone, the screen glowing pale against his face. A small graph flashes green, an arrow pointing upward.
“Yup,” he sighs softly. “Better now. Thanks.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t do anything.”
He pauses, staring at the floor. “You didn’t leave me.”
My brow furrows. “Why would I?”
He just shrugs, pulling out a ham sandwich and taking a large bite. The silence between us feels heavy, like there’s more he wants to say, but I let it go.
I unpack my own lunch—a bowl of pesto and veggie pasta salad—and take off the lid. I stab a green spiraled noodle with my fork and pop it in my mouth, the fresh flavor bursting on my tongue.
He wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck is that green shit?”
“Pesto.”
“Pasta shouldn’t be green. It should only ever be covered in tomato sauce or cheese,” he says, shuddering in disgust.
