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My hero, always my hero.
I despise it as much as I love it.
A hand strokes my back, and hot breaths coast over my neck where he has his cheek resting against the side of my head.
It occurs to me that this…this is the first time we’ve ever hugged.
Sniffing, I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Your face.”
He gently pushes me back, lifting my chin with his fingers when I try to keep my face downcast.
“Let me see.”
Blinking hard at some unseen spot in the corner of the bathroom, I let him examine my jaw—coasting his fingers over where it feels almost numb through the pain.
“It’s already bruising. Your teeth okay?”
I nod, fighting a shudder. “Ethan backhanded me.”
Mason growls a string of curses.
I swallow tightly, and pull my head away from his touch. This time, he lets me. Walking over to the row of sinks, I find my reflection, and freeze at what I see.
Glassy brown eyes rimmed red.
Lip cut in the corner, caked with dry blood. Didn’t even notice that.
Right side of my jaw is already shadowed with bruises, and rapidly swelling.
My blond hair is tangled, stringy-looking, hanging around my face, reaching my chin.
My gaze drifts lower, taking in the baggy black t-shirt over a gray long-sleeved thermal that I ripped holes in for my thumbs to fit through. Baggy jeans.
I glance down at my black and white Converse with the frayed laces and stars doodled in red sharpie along the white outer soles.
And then there’s Mason, stepping into frame behind me in a red and blue flannel hanging open over a white Soundgarden shirt. Black ripped jeans.
He’s several inches taller than me, even when I stand at my full height. Broader too. But a lot of it comes down to the way he carries himself. Like he’s comfortable in his skin. Comfortable in his life.
He’s not trying to make himself smaller.
He’s not trying to disappear.
He couldn’t even if he tried.
His brow furrows, our eyes meeting in the mirror. His floppy light brown hair curls around his ears. Unlike me, it looks intentionally tangled. Soft, not stringy.
I lift my hand, running the back of it over my nose. And then I turn on the sink, shoving my sleeves off my thumbs, and up my wrists just enough to wash my hands without getting my shirt wet.
There’s blood on my fingers, probably from where my lip split. I don’t know how I missed that.
Mason says nothing, but I feel his gaze on me like hot needles poking and jabbing at me, refusing to be ignored.
“You can go back to class.”
“It’s our study period,” he says softly.
