Page 82 of The Golden Hour

Or like he did when he proposed to her through half-sobbed and stuttered words and a pathetic ‘please?’ that made her giggle and tackle him with a screaming, “Yes!”

Or when they found out they had gotten into the same college and wouldn’t be separated.

Or when she told him that she loved him for the first time at fifteen.

Mason frowns.

He used to be so in touch with his feelings.

His mom and dad always instilled in him the belief that crying or showing emotion was stronger than suppressing them. He has witnessed his father cry plenty of times before. One that always sticks out was two years ago, his sixtieth birthday, when his mom threw a party for him, invited all his friends, and gave a speech that had everyone—including Honey—crying.

She spoke about resilience and love, and Mason did not realize at the time that she was talking about his addiction. He just remembers his father getting up from his chair, face wet with tears, and burying his face into his mom’s shoulder as he hugged her.

When did he lose that?

He knows the answer.

Right around the time he discovered emergency medicine and started compartmentalizing every feeling to survive what he saw. Somewhere along the way, he started living inside that compartmentalization, replacing every emotion with ego and cockiness as if it were a shield.

He can’t do that anymore.

He has to feel.

That’s what got him into this mess. If he had stopped compartmentalizing and chasing the rush, he would have been able to take a closer look at Honey and actually see her struggling.

He thinks that is going to haunt him until he dies.

And he thinks that is deserved.

Because he will never let himself forget again. He will never become complacent. He will never fucking put anything above Honey and Daisy ever again.

Like a magnet, he turns toward Honey next to him. She’s watching like a hawk as the nurse gently places Daisy into her car seat, showing them how to handle and adjust her. Her face is full of this maternal ferocity that’s only grown as Daisy has.

Mason vows to himself.

Honey and Daisy first. Always.

“She’s a delicate little flower,” Heather coos at their daughter, whose face is scrunched up in offense. “So, we just need to handle her carefully—there we go.”

“It’s okay, baby girl,” Honey’s sweet voice coos to Daisy, gently brushing her fingertips down her daughter’s face. Mason, as always, watches in amazement as their daughter just settles, hearing Honey’s voice and feeling her touch.

It’s incredible to see them together. He can’t help but just stare.

Honey is watching Daisy, but Mason’s eyes are all for his wife.

Honey must feel his gaze on her because she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. She does not acknowledge it. She does not smile, soften, or ask what he is looking at. She just turns her attention back to Daisy.

His smile only widens.

“Alrighty, and that’s that,” Heather says with a satisfied sigh as she turns toward Honey. “Did they already give you the discharge paperwork?”

“Yes,” Honey smiles. Even though it is not directed at him, it still makes Mason’s stomach flip. “I took care of that this morning.”

“Perfect!” Heather chirps before turning toward the doorway where a male nurse is rolling in a wheelchair. “Then let’s get this show on the road!”

Honey gently catches Heather’s hand in hers and holds her gaze.

“Thank you for everything, Heather.”