Not the touch itself.
The reaction.
Because it was barely anything.
A hand at my waist for maybe one second.
Two max.
Just enough to stop me from getting shoved sideways by the crowd.
Normal.
Should’ve been normal.
Instead my entire nervous system reacted like he’d done something far worse.
Mason pulled his hand away instantly.
Jaw tightening slightly afterward.
Like he regretted doing it.
That annoyed meimmediately.
“You don’t have to act like touching me is life-threatening,” I said.
That got his attention properly.
“It’s not.”
“You pulled away like it burned you.”
Silence.
Then:
“That’s not why I moved.”
I folded my arms slightly.
“Then why.”
Big mistake asking that.
Because now he looked at me in that too-direct way again.
Like he was deciding how honest to be.
MASON
I shouldn’t answer honestly.
That was obvious.
But alcohol plus exhaustion plus this entire night had started eroding parts of my judgment.
So instead of saying something clean—
