“You won’t,” he answers. “You’ll make it worse for me.” I take another breath and pause. I hate that he’s right and that the rules work exactly as designed, not to protect, but to keep the machine running without noise.
“I can put in a report.” A report to who? The CO who is also his dad? Probably not but I say it anyway, because I need to say something rather than resort to violence. “I can—”
“No,” he cuts in, and I stop. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes sharp now. “Promise me you’ll leave it.”
I stare at him. “Con—”
“Promise.” There’s a moment when I feel my own pride push back, demanding I refuse on principle, demanding I claim this as my fight. Then I look at his lip, and the way he’s holding himself is like a man trying to stay invisible. So, I swallow it.
“Alright,” I say. “For now.”
His stare holds mine for a second, then he eases back, because he knows that’s as far as I’m going to bend without breaking. “Fine,” he mutters. “Just... don’t. Not yet. Let me handle it.”
“You’re handling it brilliantly so far,” I say, dryly.
“Cheers,” he says, huffing a laugh.
I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “Right.”
Mason’s brows lift. “Right, what?”
“We can either sit here and pretend I didn’t come to your room to talk, or we can talk.”
“We’ve just talked.”
“That wasn’t talking,” I say. “That was you telling me to shut up while you bleed quietly.”
He looks like he wants to argue, then thinks better of it. “Alright. What do you want then?”
I latch onto the safer thing first, because I can’t stay on Harris without losing my mind. I nod toward his bedside table, where there’s a pub coaster from The World's End. “The bartender,” I say. “Still seeing him?”
Mason’s face shifts so fast it almost makes me laugh. “Christ,” he says. “You’re subtle,” he adds sarcastically, his mouth quirking.
“Answer the question.”
“I am.” He shrugs, acting casual.
“Does he have a name, or should I keep calling him ‘the bartender’?” I ask, because I’ve been carrying it around in my head since the email, and it still feels strange, like a door I shouldn’t open.
“Cillian. His name is Cillian.”
“Right.” I knew it was something like that. I’m seriously terrible with names.
He squints at me. “Why are you asking like you’re filling out paperwork?”
“Because you’re a mess,” I say. “And I’m trying to figure out if it’s a romantic mess or a being-punched-by-Harris mess.”
“Both,” he says immediately, then laughs. “But Cillian’s... good. He’s not—” Mason waves a hand like he’s trying to find the right word and can’t be bothered. “He’s not daft.”
“Neither are you,” I say.
“Depends who you ask,” he says jokingly.
I lean against the desk because if I stay planted in the middle of the room, I’ll start pacing. “How did it happen then?”
Mason’s mouth twists like he’s bracing for ridicule. “I was drunk.”
“That sounds like you.”
