Say it, I think desperately. Tell me there’s nothing. Tell me you feel nothing. Make me let this go.
“Mason?” Phoenix’s voice carries down from upstairs, slightly breathless. “Mason, are you down there?”
The spell breaks.
Mason shoves past me without a word, his shoulder catching mine hard enough to make me stumble back a step. His footsteps echo up the back stairs, rapid and uneven, and then he’s gone.
I stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the supplies he gathered for someone else, and try to remember how to breathe.
TWENTY
PHOENIX
The door opens without a knock,and Mason appears with his arms full of supplies. Bottled water. Protein bars. A pile of blankets so tall I can barely see his face above them. He moves into the room like a man on a mission, already scanning the space and cataloging what needs to be done.
“The curtains need to be heavier,” he says, setting everything down on the writing desk. “I’ll see if they have blackout panels somewhere. And we should adjust the thermostat, you’ll want the room cooler than this.”
He’s in full lieutenant mode, ready to handle anything and everything without batting so much as an eyelash.
I watch him move around the room, pulling curtains tighter, checking the windows for drafts, arranging the water bottles in a neat row on the bedside table. His movements are precise but slightly too quick, his jaw set at an angle I recognize as carefully controlled emotion.
“Mason.”
He dumps a pile of blankets on the bed. “The attached bathroom has a good tub. That will help when things get intense. I’ll make sure you have fresh towels and?—“
“Mason.”
“—I can see if Judah has a mini fridge that we can stock, so you don’t have to leave the room?—“
“Mason.”
He finally stops. His back is to me, hands frozen on the blanket he has unfolded and refolded twice. His shoulders rise and fall with a single deep breath.
“Yes?”
The itch under my skin has become too impossible to ignore. “I think I need to make a nest now.”
“Oh, shit. Right.”
Mason moves without hesitation, gathering every soft thing within reach. Pillows from the window seat. The duvet from the bed, heavy and cloud-like. Extra blankets from the pile he brought earlier. He works with the efficiency of someone who’s done this before—or at least researched it thoroughly—stacking everything in the center of the mattress.
I grab the nearest blanket and start rearranging, following some primal blueprint I didn’t know I had. The softest materials go in the center. The heavier ones form walls around the edges. Every piece needs to be positioned just so, creating a cocoon that feels safe and enclosed andright.
But something’s still missing.
I pick up a throw pillow and press it to my nose. It smells like lavender and dust and nothing. Nothing that matters. Nothing that will anchor me through the waves about to crash over my body.
“Mason.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “Can you…would you mind handling some of these?”
He freezes in the process of reaching for more supplies. “What?”
“The pillows. The blankets.” I gesture vaguely at the growing nest, embarrassment heating my already flushed cheeks. “I want them to smell like you.”
The request hangs in the silence between us. We both know what I’m asking. Having his scent woven through my nest means something. Means I want him here, surrounding me, even when he can’t physically be present.
Mason’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides.
“Phoenix, I don’t think?—“
