“Dom told me things, too,” I continue. “Judah hasn’t dated anyone. Not once. In ten years. He’s been living like a monk in this big empty house, wearing a bracelet you made him in high school, keeping your photo on his shelf. Dom says he fell apart when you left and never fully put himself back together.”
“That doesn’t mean?—“
“You were seventeen years old.” I lean forward, catching his gaze and holding it. “You’d just accidentally bonded with your best friend during an early heat. You were terrified. Hewas terrified. You felt something huge and overwhelming come through that bond and you called it disgust. But what if it wasn’t?”
Mason’s face has gone very still.
“What if what you felt was fear? His fear? The same fear you were drowning in? And you couldn’t tell the difference because neither of you had ever felt anything that intense before?”
I watch Mason absorb them, watch the war happening behind his eyes as everything he’s believed for ten years comes crashing up against a possibility he’s never allowed himself to consider.
“I spent ten years convinced that every alpha who looked at me wanted to use me,” I say quietly. “Because one of them did, when I was too young to know the difference. I built my whole life around that assumption. And it was wrong, Mason. Not completely wrong—some of them absolutely did want to use me—but the assumption itself was wrong. The story I told myself to survive became the cage I couldn’t escape.”
A tear tracks down Mason’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“You told yourself a story about what Judah felt. And that story kept you safe for ten years. But it also kept you alone.” I reach out, take his hand. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly. “And I think—I really, truly think—that it was never true.”
The silence that follows is enormous.
Somewhere in the distance, a gull finally breaks the quiet with a single cry. The water ripples against the dock. The world keeps turning, indifferent to the devastation playing out on this weathered back porch.
When Mason finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. “What if you’re wrong?”
The question is small and terrified, the voice of a seventeen-year-old boy who convinced himself he was too much to bewanted and spent a decade building walls to make sure he never had to test that belief.
“What if I’m right?” I squeeze his hand, holding his gaze with everything I have. “What if you left behind the person who loves you most in the world because you were too scared to ask him how he actually felt?”
Mason’s composure shatters.
It’s not dramatic—no sobs, no screams. He just goes very quiet, and his hands start shaking, and more tears track down his cheeks that he doesn’t bother to wipe away. His breath comes in ragged hitches, like something inside him is breaking apart.
I shift closer and take his hand properly in both of mine. Hold it the way he’s held mine a hundred times—steady, certain, present. The role reversal is complete. For once, I’m the anchor. For once, I’m the one providing the stability while someone else falls apart.
We sit like that for a long time.
Eventually, Mason’s breathing steadies. His grip on my hand loosens from a desperate clutch to something gentler.
“What am I supposed to do?”
I don’t bother with a grand speech.
“You talk to Judah. Preferably when you’re not in heat or a similar crisis. And you clear the air.” I squeeze his hand once. “You ask him what he actually felt and you listen to the answer,withoutmaking any wild assumptions.”
Mason nods slowly. He’s not ready yet—not right this second—but I can see the wall has cracked. The false narrative has been challenged in a way he can’t easily rebuild.
The harbor is waking up properly now. I can hear movement inside the house—Judah getting ready for the water, probably. Dom’s heavy boots on the stairs. Atticus’s muffled voice humming something melodic from somewhere on the second floor.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say quietly.
Mason looks at me, gray eyes red-rimmed but clearer than they’ve been all morning.
“Pushing you toward Judah is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.” The admission costs me something, but it needs to be said. “Because part of me is terrified that if you and Judah reconcile fully, there won’t be room for me anymore.”
His expression shifts. Something fierce and tender breaks through the exhaustion.
“I just got you.” My voice wavers, and I let it. “The real you. And now I’m telling you to go back to someone you loved first. Which is either the most selfless thing I’ve ever done or the dumbest. Jury’s still out.”
“Phoenix.” Mason’s hand tightens around mine. “You’re not losing me.”
