Page 122 of The Golden Hour

I don’t drink.

I don’t gamble.

I don’t cheat.

I save people.

I save people.

I save people.

The thought reverberates in his head, and that’s the one that makes his throat feel tight, and his heart starts pounding.

I save people.

They almost died because he was too focused on work, wanting to make saves instead of being a husband and a father. Wanting the next trauma, the next rush, the next person to look at him like he was a god because he could repair someone’s broken body without breaking a sweat.

The distant echo of the rush only makes him feel sick, and every cell of defiance in his body bleeds away. It leaves behind a hollowed-out husk of a man.

A kind of husband. A father trying his best.

“Mason,” Sonja says gently. “Did you want to share anything?”

Mason opens his mouth a few times before closing it when the words choke themselves in his throat.

His fingers dig into his knees, his scrubs feeling itchy and too tight.

Say it.

Just say it.

Just. Say. It.

Your wife and daughter are on the line, Mason.

Fucking say it.

“I think I’m addicted to my job,” Mason starts, before huffing out a humorless laugh. “Which sounds pretty fucking ridiculous, especially in comparison to you guys, but… the rush of the emergency room, the rush of making a save—literally, holding someone’s life in your hands and knowing that you are the person in control of whether they live or die is…”

Mason blinks and glances around the room, expecting to see baffled or derisive looks.

But all he’s met with are encouraging nods and gentle smiles.

“Heady,” Mason finishes, tapping his temple roughly. “It’s so fucking heady and it’s like… logic just doesn’t penetrate. I got sucked into it, deeper and deeper and… I knew I was neglecting my wife, and I felt awful about it.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

“Now, I look back at myself, and I wonder what the fuck I was doing?” he growls, irritated at himself. “My wife—my beautiful, sweet, pregnant wife—was at home. Sick and scared and needing me, and I was off satisfying my pathetic god complex…”

Mason chokes on a sob, hot tears sliding down his cheeks. Blind, searing rage hits a boiling point in his body. His hands curl into fists, blunt nails biting hard into his palm.

Memories of the day, the last nine months, the last year, scald his mind.

“And I chose my job!” Mason snarls at himself, his eyes going unfocused.

He’s back to Daisy’s birthday.

To the ambulance bay.