The next morning I wake up with my head throbbing in pain. I must have drunken a lot last night. I was on my bed, still wearing the same dress from the reception party.
That's strange. I didn't change out of it?
I scanned the room.
Same things as usual. My posters, my guitar, Mason next to me on the bed...
Wait a minute.
MASON WAS NEXT TO ME ON THE BED?
WHAT?
Our clothes were still on.
WHAT?
WHY WAS HE ON MY BED.
What is happening right now.
I quickly got out of my bed and started pacing the room. I wasn't that drunk...
Right?
RIGHT?
Behind me, the mattress shifted.
I froze.
A low groan followed, rough and sleepy. "Why are you walking like you're planning my murder?"
I spun around so fast my head protested violently.
Mason was sitting up now, one hand rubbing his face, hair a complete mess, eyes half-open like he'd just been dragged out of a dream. He blinked at me, then squinted.
"…You look like you've seen a ghost."
"YOU'RE IN MY BED," I practically yelled.
He winced. "Okay. First of all, volume. Second of all, rude. Third of all... relax."
"Relax?" I laughed hysterically. "Mason, I woke up next to you."
"Wow," he said, offended. "That hurts."
"That's not what I meant!"
He stretched his arms above his head like this was the most normal morning of his life. "For the record, all our clothes are on. Nothing weird happened. You just… panicked."
"I did not panic."
"You absolutely did."
I pointed at the door. "Get out."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're kicking me out of your room when you're the one who kidnapped me?"
"I did NOT kidnap you."
"Roxy," he said patiently, "you dragged me here."
My stomach dropped. "I—what?"
"You were barely walking straight," he continued, way too calm about this. "You kept apologizing to furniture. You told a lamp it was 'doing its best.'"
I groaned and pressed my hands to my temples. "Oh my god."
"And when I tried to leave," he added, smirking now, "you grabbed my jacket and said—very dramatically—'Will I ever find love?'"
I stopped pacing.
My chest tightened.
"…I said that?"
His teasing softened just a fraction. "Yeah."
I swallowed. The memories started creeping in slowly, like fog lifting.
The wedding reception. The music too loud, lights too warm. Everyone dancing, laughing, paired up. Me holding a drink. Then another. Mason staying beside me while everyone else blurred.
"I remember talking," I muttered.
"That's one word for it."
I shot him a look. "What else did I say?"
He leaned back against the headboard. "You told me how you wanted love, and how you think you'll never find it and that you're unloveable and some other boring stuff."
Heat rushed to my face. "I hate drunk me."
"She's very honest," he said quietly.
I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. "Did I… cry?"
"Not cry," he said. "You got emotional. Then defensive. Then flirty."
I choked. "Flirty?"
FLIRTY? WHAT? WITH MASON?
He nodded. "You poked my chest and asked why I never flirt with you if I clearly 'like annoying you so much.'"
I buried my face in my hands. "I'm never drinking in front of you again."
Usually, I could handle my alcohol.
"You also said," he added, clearly enjoying this, "that if you were sober, you'd never say any of this, but since you weren't, it felt illegal not to."
I peeked at him. "Please tell me I didn't try to kiss you."
"Nope," he said. "You leaned in, squinted at my face, and said, 'Actually no, I'd regret that tomorrow.' Then you fell over."
"That might be the smartest thing I've ever done."
He laughed. "I brought you home, got you water, helped you onto the bed"
My throat tightened.
"And when I tried to leave," he said softly, "you grabbed my arm."
I remembered that part now. The fear when he turned away. The sudden heaviness in my chest.
"I told you I didn't want to be alone," I whispered.
"You did."
"…So why did you stay?"
Mason shrugged, but his voice was gentle. "Because you asked. And because you fell asleep holding onto my sleeve like it was your last lifeline."
I stared at the floor.
"That didn't feel like a moment to walk away from. And you were also clinging on to me the entire night. It was quite hard to fall asleep with your body on mine."
The room went quiet.
"Are you calling me heavy?"
"No, that's not what I meant." He turned his face away, his ears slightly red.
"Then what did you mean?"
He stood, stretching, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "Not important. Anyways, mystery solved. You survived. I slept on the edge. No scandals."
He headed for the door.
"Mason?" I said before I could stop myself.
He turned.
"…Did I say anything really bad?"
He hesitated for a moment. "No."
My chest ached. I did, didn't I?
He smiled softly, teasing returning just enough to protect us both. "For what it's worth, you weren't embarrassing."
Then he added, "Also, you snore."
"I do NOT."
"Violently."
He left before I could throw a pillow at him.
I sank back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, heart racing... because somehow, knowing he stayed felt more dangerous than if he hadn't.
I couldn't be catching feelings for that guy? Right? I hated him.
Oh what the fu-
I rolled onto my side and groaned, shoving my face into the pillow like it might absorb my thoughts.
I hated Mason.
I thrived on hating Mason.
He was annoying and smug and way too observant for someone who pretended not to care. He knew how to push my buttons, knew exactly when to back off, and worst of all... he stayed.
He was supposed to be my enemy. He hated me, and I hated him.
Hate's a strong feeling.
Love is as well.
I slapped myself at that thought.
Why did Mason ever hate me? I did nothing, and yet he was annoying to me, and he fought. A LOT. And then I started hating him.
I stared at the empty space beside me. The imprint was still there, sheets slightly rumpled, like proof he hadn't just been a hangover hallucination.
Great. Even my bedding was betraying me.
I dragged myself out of bed eventually, changed out of the dress I'd apparently slept in like a feral Victorian ghost, and tried to piece together the day through flashes: the taste of champagne, the blur of lights, Mason's hand steadying me when I laughed too hard, his voice close to my ear when I started saying things I usually kept buried.
I shook my head.
Nope. We were not unpacking that yet.
The memories came back anyway.
Me sitting on the edge of the fountain outside the venue, shoes kicked off, ranting about love like I'd cracked some tragic universal truth. Mason listening. Not interrupting. Not mocking. Just there.
God. That was worse.
By noon, my headache had dulled, but the feeling in my chest hadn't. It sat there—uncomfortable, unresolved, annoyingly warm.
My phone buzzed.
Mason: You alive?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Me: Unfortunately.
Three dots appeared.
Mason: Proud of you. Drink water. And maybe apologize to your lamp.
I snorted despite myself.
Me: Tell anyone about last night and I'll deny your existence.
Mason: Relax. Your secret's safe. Mostly.
I dropped my phone onto the bed and exhaled slowly.
I didn't know when things had shifted. When Mason had stopped being just the guy I argued with and started being the one who stayed when I asked him not to leave, even if I'd been drunk, dramatic, and clinging to him like gravity itself was optional.
I hated that my chest felt lighter knowing that.
I hated that even more than the snoring comment.
This was dangerous territory.
And I had a feeling this was only the beginning.