Sweet Obsession

“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.

It looks how it always looks. Tidy. I’m not sure you can see the floor of my bedroom anymore. I’ve stopped caring about neatness and organization. I’m barely sleeping in there anyway.

One thing seems out of place and catches my attention as he sits me on the edge of the mattress.

I stare at the tent in the corner of the room. It takes up the majority of the floor space near the window and bends awkwardly against the ceiling.

“Have you been sleeping in that?” I ask, wincing when I push my palms against the mattress, forgetting about my injuries. “Ow.”

“Yeah. I might get rid of my bed. I rather like it in there.” Mason grabs my wrists, turning my hands over to examine me. “Let me grab my kit. Don’t move.”

I watch him pad into the bathroom, his running shorts hanging low on his hips. He returns seconds later with his kit and a bottle of disinfectant.

“Would you really get rid of your bed?”

He kneels in front of me, pouring some of the liquid onto a square piece of gauze. “Depends.”

“On?” I hiss through my teeth when he presses the cold gauze against my knee. My leg jerks. “Shit. That stings.”

“Sorry. I need to clean it out. You might have dirt in it.” He lifts the gauze and blows over my knee again. Our eyes lock. “Better?”

Christ, it just got a thousand degrees hotter in here.

Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Mm. A little.”

“I’ll be quick.”

He presses the pad against my skin again, lifting and moving it over my knee. I pinch my eyes shut and grit my teeth.

“You said it depends. What does it depend on?” I ask again, blowing out quick breaths and distracting my mind from the pain.

I am curious. Maybe it depends on him needing a new mattress and he doesn’t feel like purchasing another one. Maybe he’s debating on going rogue and drifting away from all uses of modern civilization.

Why would someone give up a bed for a tent?

“Depends on you,” he answers casually.