My toes curl. What is he doing? I didn’t hurt my foot.
“Mason.” I try and pull my leg back.
“Just checking,” he says, smirking a little and popping my shoe back on.
Bending down, he squeezes my leg and blows softly against my cut, watching me with those bright blue eyes while he does it.
My breathing quickens. I don’t know whether to cry or moan. I decide on a strange mix of both, which luckily goes unnoticed thanks to the car horn down the street.
“This hurt?” he asks, forcing my knee to bend and then straightening it. He repeats the motion.
I shake my head. “No. It just stings where it’s bleeding. And it hurts around my knee-cap.”
He nods slightly. “Good. It looks like it’s just scraped really bad. You might’ve bruised the bone a little. You should be fine. No major surgery needed, I’m willing to bet.”
“Okay.” I pull my leg out of his lap and attempt to stand. “I need to go.”
I shift my weight on the ground, trying to maneuver this on my own.
Getting to my feet on a bum leg and without the use of my hands quickly proves to be a hopeless endeavor. Not only because there’s no way I’m going to be able to do this without any assistance, but also because Mason doesn’t allow me much time to struggle.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Leaning over, he scoops me into his arms and stands effortlessly, taking my weight.
Oh, my God. What is happening?
I squeak, flailing a little. “Put me down! What are you doing? I can walk.”
“You think you can walk?” he asks doubtfully. “Relax, sweetheart. I have you. It’s a bit of a hike across the street to my studio anyway. Rest your leg.”
Sweetheart? HIS STUDIO?
He sounds so cavalier, like nothing monumentally destructive happened between us three nights ago.
Did I imagine it all? Jesus Christ, am I going crazy?
I tilt my head to look at him.
Clean shaven, freshly showered, no signs of distress or obvious heartache in his eyes. He appears well rested and as stunningly attractive as ever.
I barely brushed my hair this morning and I’m not even sure my clothes match.
All of the pain I’m feeling shifts and centralizes in my chest. I squirm in his arms.
“Put me down right now! God, look at you! You should be destroyed! You should be the one crying and miserable, and instead you look like this? Get off of me! I said I can walk. I can walk.”
His eyes widen. Agony slips over him like a cloak.
I mentally question if I just slapped him in the face somehow, flailing about like I did.
That’s exactly how he looks.
“I am,” he whispers harshly, his body tensing against mine.
I still in his arms.
“I am miserable. I have been, but I’m holding you. I’m touching you and I can’t help the way my heart reacts to that. I’m sorry. Know that I’ve been in Hell, Brooke. Know that the past few days have been the darkest of my life. Every second we’ve been apart, I’ve been drowning.”
“But you look fine,” I tell him. “You don’t look miserable.”
You don’t look like me.
“That’s only because I know something you don’t.”
“What?”
His lip twitches. “Let’s get you cleaned up first. That cut needs some cleaning out. I have that first aid kit in my loft. It has what we need.” He cradles me closer, dropping his head to breathe in my hair. “I have so much I want to say to you. So much I need to say. Let me do this first, yeah? Let me heal you, Brooke.”
Let him heal me. Is it even possible? I feel damaged beyond repair.
Closing my eyes and surrendering once again, I let my head fall against his chest.
The ground moves beneath me. I feel like I’m floating. Mason’s hold is gentle yet secure, preventing any bumping or jarring as he maneuvers us. I hear the light traffic on the street, the soft scrape of a key fitting into a lock. I smell the earthy scent of the studio and Mason’s clean soap.