Mason studies me with parted lips and absorbing eyes. “God, I’m . . .” he pauses, moving his hands down my arms, squeezing gently. “It’s really good to see you.”

I blink up at him. “You’re here,” I whisper in disbelief, looking all over his face, waiting for him to vanish and for this to be just another layer of my nightmare. A cruel joke my heart is playing on me.

“Where else would I be?” he asks, smiling a little. “It’s Tuesday.”

My lip quivers. I don’t know what to make of this.

He’s here. He’s here, and he’s touching me. He’s smiling. The man who wouldn’t listen to me, who would barely look at me three nights ago.

The man who believes I never loved him and that everything I said was a lie. He’s here.

I wished and wished and wished for this, and now I suddenly can’t breathe.

I step back and his hands fall away.

“I can’t do this,” I utter, pushing past him and darting across the street.

I don’t know how to do this.

“Brooke!” Mason’s voice calls out behind me. He sounds urgent. I know he’s following.

And I run faster.

I pass the coffee shop, dashing in between people walking on the sidewalk. Knocking into several of them and blurting out an apology between hasty breaths.

Mason calls out again behind me. He sounds closer.

Tears sting my eyes as I push myself to move, to not let him catch up.

What am I supposed to say to him? I want to collapse into his arms and I want to scream into his face. I want him to hold me and I can’t stomach the thought of him touching me. I’m so confused. He isn’t supposed to be here.

Why is he here?

My breath is stolen from my lungs when my toe catches on something. The crack in the sidewalk. I don’t see it. I go down hard, smacking the concrete with my hands bracing my weight and my knee dragging along the cement.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” I cry, rolling onto my side and pulling my knee to my chest. The pain is instant and unforgiving. Flesh is torn open. My hands burning and cut up from the concrete, blood beading on my palms, but my knee, Jesus, my knee feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuck! Ow. Ow. Ow.”

Mason crouches down beside me, a bit winded. Concern tightening his features.

“Shit. You all right? Let me see. Come here.” He tries to slide my jeans up my leg, my bloody knee visible through the hole ripped in it.

I brush his hands away, sitting up and wincing. “Stop. I’m fine. It’s n-nothing.”

Mason grabs my ankle. “Brooke, you’re bleeding. Let me just check it. You hit the ground pretty hard. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to see your leg and make sure this isn’t serious.”

My chest shudders. I drop my hands to my lap, my palms burning.

“You already hurt me,” I quietly reply, surrendering and slowly stretching out my leg for him.

His lips pinch together. We stare at each other, and he looks like he wants to say something in response but he doesn’t.

Using gentle hands, he pulls my jeans up my leg and over my knee, making sure to keep the material away from my broken skin. He bunches my pants on my thigh.

I inhale a sharp breath when his warm hands hold my leg, his thumbs pressing and sliding around the tender area.

The world blurs around us. Heat blooms at the base of my spine.

God, this shouldn’t feel good. I’m injured. This really fucking hurts.

Focus on that, Brooke. You could’ve died. The sidewalk almost killed you.

This hurts. This hurts. This hurts. You’re not enjoying any part of this.

I repeat that mantra in my head as he continues to examine my leg. Thoroughly examine it.

He massages my ankle, my calf. He pops my sneaker off and presses against the bones in my foot.

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.

I tilt my head up and rub my face into his neck. Fuck it. If it turns out I’m dreaming, I want this to be a really good fucking dream.

He ascends the stairs, shifting his arm underneath my knees. The door opens. I lift my head and look around his loft as he carries me to the bed.