I glance sideways. He’s damp from the heat, tank top plastered to his broad frame, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He rolls back his shoulders, subtly widening them to make his presence seem even bigger.
The man’s gaze flickers between us, nostrils flaring.
“Just telling the pretty boy here to mind his own business,” he mutters.
Mason’s jaw ticks. “You know, there’s a trash can right over there,” he says, pointing to the bin on the boardwalk. “Or are you just too lazy to walk the extra ten feet?”
The man’s eyebrows pinch together. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Mason grumbles.
Tense silence hangs in the air as the man squints at Mason, fists balled at his sides like he’s weighing his chances.
Of course, the odds aren’t in his favor. I have no doubt that Mason could lay him out flat with a single punch.
“Alright, then,” he mutters, snatching the cup from the sand. He stomps to the boardwalk and tosses it into the bin with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Mason replies flatly.
The man mutters something under his breath and storms toward the parking lot.
I exhale, shoulders finally dropping.
Mason turns to me, his fingers grazing my elbow—light, but steadying. He slips his sunglasses off and hooks them on the collar of his tank top, his eyes warm and intent on me.
“You okay?” he asks gently. “I heard what he said to you.”
I nod, even though my pulse is still thudding in my ears. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for stepping in. You didn’t have to, though. I had it handled.”
“Maybe so,” he says, “but this is my beach too. I don’t like people treating it like a dumpster any more than you do.”
“I hate guys like that,” I say through clenched teeth.
His lips curve into a sympathetic smile. “Me too.”
I sigh, tucking my hands into my shorts pockets. “Lunch? I’m starving.”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
We walk to the shed in silence, keeping some space between us on the trail. A cool breeze stirs the leaves overhead, rustling softly. Mosquitoes buzz annoyingly around my head, and I swat them away with a flick of my hand.
After unlocking the shed, we slip inside. It’s dark and grimy, cluttered with tools and lawn equipment. But over the past week, it’s become our private hideaway.
“Come here,” Mason urges, arms opening wide.
I don’t hesitate. I step into his chest, pressing my face into his shoulder. The sting of tears prickles behind my eyes. I know I shouldn’t care about a random balding bigot calling me a slur, but his voice still echoes in my ears, taunting me.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Mason murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
I sniff, stepping back and swiping at my eyes. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says firmly. Then his mouth quirks. “That guy was right about one thing, though.”
I look up at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“You are a pretty boy,” he says with a smirk.
I snort, a small laugh breaking through the heaviness. “I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.”
