Notes: I had a little inspo and just ran with it. It was supposed to be a little shorter but just kept going with it. Hope you enjoy and please keep sending me requested.
Pairings: Mason Mount x Reader
Warnings: Fluff, Smut and Angst
You’d never admit it out loud, not even to yourself, but sometimes the days blur into one another. The alarm going off at seven, Mason already half-dressed for training while you burrow into the duvet, his cologne still lingering on the pillow. He leans down to kiss your forehead, murmuring something about grabbing a coffee on the way back, and then he’s gone.
It’s not that you don’t love it. You love him, you love the quiet moments when he comes home, hair damp from a shower, hoodie hanging off his frame, plopping down next to you with that boyish grin that makes everything else fade. You love cooking together in the evenings, or rather, you cooking while Mason ‘supervises’ and steals half the ingredients. You love falling asleep with his arm draped heavy over your waist.
But lately, the comfort has started to feel like a routine. Safe, predictable and a little lonely. By the time Mason gets back from training, you’re already halfway through your day. You’ve ticked off errands, answered emails, maybe even met a friend for lunch. When he walks through the door, flushed and tired but still buzzing, it feels like you’re on different clocks. He’s just starting, you’re already winding down.
“Hey, baby,” he says, dropping his bag with a thud, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Missed you.”
You smile, because you always do. “Missed you too.”
But the truth is, sometimes it doesn’t feel like he’s really here to miss. His life is carved up into training sessions, press duties, away games. Yours is the space in between.
That night, you’re curled up on the sofa, scrolling mindlessly through your phone while Mason sits beside you, replaying clips from training on his iPad. He’s muttering something about his passing accuracy, his thumb tapping the screen as he rewinds and studies. You glance at him, waiting for him to notice you’re quiet, waiting for him to reach for your hand but he doesn’t.
“You’re always working,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
Mason looks up, confused. “What d’you mean? I just got home, babe.”
“Exactly.” You set your phone down, heart thumping harder than it should. “You get home and you’re still at work. You’re still thinking about football. And I’m just… here.”
His brows knit together, the way they always do when he doesn’t understand. “I’m doing this for us, for you. Everything I do…I’m trying to make you happy.”
Your throat tightens. “Yeah, well… sometimes it feels like you forget that just being here is enough.”
The words hang in the air, sharp and heavy. Mason blinks, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him. He sets the iPad aside, finally giving you his full attention. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand. “You’re everything to me. I’d give it all up if you asked me to.” But you know he wouldn’t and you would never ask him to and maybe that’s what hurts the most.
The following night came by quickly, you’d been looking forward to tonight all week. Mason had promised you dinner nothing flashy, just the two of you, phones on silent, no distractions. He’d even let you choose the restaurant. You’d taken your time with your outfit, curling your hair, dabbing perfume on your wrists like it mattered. By the time you hear the front door click open, your heels are already on, bag in hand. Mason’s voice fills the hallway, low and casual as he kicks off his trainers.
“Yeah baby I am ready,” you call, walking out of the bedroom and down the staircase, only to stop short.
Mason is still in his training gear. His socks are muddy, his hair damp from sweat, a crease between his brows. “What’s wrong?” you ask.
He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “Gaffer’s added a last minute meeting and training tomorrow morning before the game, so I’ve got an early start. I’m shattered, Y/N. Can we raincheck dinner? I’ll make it up to you, promise.”
The word raincheck hits you like a slap. Your heart sinks, frustration bubbling up before you can swallow it down. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, Mason. Do you even know how long I’ve been looking forward to this?” You throw your bag onto the sofa with more force than necessary. “It’s not just dinner, it’s one night where you’re not glued to training, or games, or watching replays on your bloody iPad.”
He sighs, heavy and defensive. “I can’t help it, Y/N. This is my job, my life. You knew what you were signing up for.”
The words sting. You knew what you were signing up for. Like you’re supposed to accept being second best. Like your feelings don’t matter. “So I should just be grateful for the scraps of your time, then?” you snap.
“That’s not what I’m saying.” His voice rises, frustration flickering across his face. “I’m doing all this for us. You think I like missing out? You think I don’t wish I could just switch it off and be here with you? But I can’t.”
You fold your arms, heat prickling under your skin. “It feels like you don’t even want to.”
The argument fizzles there, neither of you backing down. He showers quickly, muttering an apology you don’t acknowledge. You go to bed with your back turned to him, staring at the wall while his breathing steadies beside you.
The next day, you wake up to the sound of Mason leaving for training. No kiss on the forehead this time, just the door closing. Petty, maybe? Childish, definitely. But when your phone buzzes later with a reminder for his evening match, you decide not to go. You tell yourself it’s because you’re busy, because you don’t feel like putting on a brave face, but really it’s because you want him to feel it. You want him to notice the empty seat where you usually are.
That night, Mason comes home later than usual. The silence as he drops his bag by the door is deafening. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks past, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Good game?” you ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
His laugh is bitter. “Wouldn’t know. Was too busy looking for my girlfriend in the stands.”
“No, don’t.” He finally turns, his eyes sharp. “You couldn’t even bother to show up? After I told you how important tonight was?”
“You cancelled on me first!” you burst out, standing up from the sofa. “Do you have any idea how small that made me feel? Like I’m not worth two hours of your time. Like football always comes first.”
“Because it does!” His voice cracks on the words, raw and frustrated. “It has to. It’s not just a game, Y/N. It’s my career. It’s my future. It’s the reason we even have this life.”
“And what about me?” Your throat burns, but you push through it. “Where do I fit in your future, Mason? Because right now it feels like I’m just here to fill the gaps between matches.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing. “Do you hear yourself? Do you think I don’t notice the things you do? The meals you cook, the way you wait up for me, the texts when I’m away? I notice everything, Y/N. And it kills me that you don’t see how hard I’m trying.”
“Trying?” Your voice wobbles. “You cancel our plans, you barely look up from your iPad, and then you have the audacity to say you’re trying? Trying would be showing me that I matter as much as the next fixture on your calendar.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. His jaw works, chest rising and falling as if he’s holding back more words than he can say. Finally, he exhales, tired. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
You blink back tears, your chest aching. “I want you to choose me sometimes. Just once, Mason. To show me I’m not second place.”
His eyes soften, regret flickering across his face, but he doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t close the distance and maybe that hurts most of all. The fight leaves you both bruised, though neither of you says another word. Mason announces he is sleeping in the spare room the slam of the spare room door was loud in the quiet house. You lie awake in the bedroom, staring at the ceiling, wondering how something so small spiralled into this.
The silence eats at you as you lie on your side in the dark, staring at the wall, trying to convince yourself that you don’t care if Mason’s still sulking in the spare bedroom. You tell yourself you’re fine, you’re strong, that one stupid argument doesn’t matter but the ache in your chest won’t let you sleep.
You hear him moving about on the landing, pacing, the creak of the floorboards as he shifts. Then, after what feels like forever, the soft sound of footsteps approaches. The door clicks open. You squeeze your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.
“Y/N…” Mason’s voice is quiet, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. You don’t answer. There’s a long pause before the mattress dips under his weight. His hand hesitates at your hip before resting there, warm and familiar. “I hate this,” he murmurs. “Hate fighting with you.”
You roll over slowly, meeting his tired eyes in the dark. His hair’s a mess, his expression torn between guilt and stubbornness. “You hurt me,” you whisper.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “I know and I hate myself for it.” He leans closer, cupping your cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re not enough. You’re… you’re the only thing that feels real when everything else is noise.”
The rawness in his voice pulls at something deep inside you. Your anger softens, but the ache is still there. “Then show me,” you breathe.
Something shifts in his eyes relief and hunger flickering at once before his mouth crashes onto yours. The kiss is desperate, almost clumsy, teeth clashing, years of love and frustration bleeding into it. His hands are everywhere, sliding down your sides, gripping your thighs, tugging you closer like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
“Mason—” you gasp against his mouth, but he groans, already tugging your top over your head, kissing down your throat with frantic devotion.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles between kisses, lips hot against your skin. “So fucking sorry. Let me make it up to you, baby. Please.”
You whimper as his teeth graze your collarbone, his hand slipping beneath your shorts. “Then do it. Show me you mean it.”
He pulls back just long enough to strip you bare, eyes roaming over your body like it’s the first time all over again. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re perfect. How do you not see it? You drive me insane.”
His mouth finds your breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand teases the other. You arch into him, nails scratching his shoulders, desperate for more.
“Need you, Mase,” you gasp.
“I’ve got you.” His hand slides between your thighs, fingers parting you, stroking through your slick folds. “God, you’re so wet for me. Always so ready. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Your hips buck against his hand, needy. “Stop teasing—”
He smirks faintly, though his eyes are soft. “You think I could ever tease you after the way I fucked up tonight? No, baby. I’m gonna give you everything.” He slips two fingers inside, curling them just right as his thumb circles your clit.
“Fuck, Mason,” you moan, head falling back against the pillow.
“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing your jaw, your neck. “Let me hear you. Let me remind you who you belong to.”
The coil in your stomach tightens fast, pleasure surging through you as his pace quickens. You cling to him, trembling. “I’m close—”
He pulls his fingers out suddenly, leaving you gasping. “Mason!”
“Shh, I know,” he soothes, already pushing his shorts down. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, precum glistening at the tip. He strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on you. “I need to be inside you when you fall apart. Need to feel you around me.”
He lines himself up, pausing to look at you. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
“I always want you,” you whisper, voice shaking.
That’s all he needs. He pushes in slowly, stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried deep. Both of you groan, the sound raw and desperate.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Like you were made for me.”
You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Move, Mason. Please.”
He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm, every thrust hitting deep, his eyes never leaving yours. “Do you feel that? That’s how much I love you. Every inch of me is yours, Y/N.”
Tears prick your eyes at his words, your chest aching with something more than lust. “Don’t stop.”
“I couldn’t if I tried,” he pants, thrusts growing rougher, faster. “You’re everything. Everything.”
Your climax builds quick, the pressure unbearable. You cling to him, nails dragging down his back, gasping his name over and over until you finally shatter around him, pleasure crashing through you.
“Yes, that’s it,” Mason groans, holding you tight as your body shakes. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”
He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, moaning your name like a prayer. His body trembles against yours, sweat slicking your skin together. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breaths, the steady thump of his heart against your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are soft, lips brushing yours in a tender kiss. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, voice wrecked. “I’ll do better. I swear it on everything.”
You stroke his hair, still panting, still aching. “We’ll both do better,” you whisper.
It feels like peace, like forgiveness but deep down, you know it’s only a blaster. The cracks are still there, waiting but for tonight, though, you let yourself believe him.
The week passed in uneasy fragments. At first glance, nothing was wrong. You and Mason went through the motions coffee in the morning, texts during the day, dinner at night. To anyone watching, you were steady, even blissful but you felt the cracks widening underneath. His phone buzzed more than his laugh. His eyes flickered toward the clock when you spoke. You felt like you were slipping into the background of his life, and every time you tried to brush it off, the ache only grew sharper.
By Saturday morning, your patience had worn paper-thin. You were scrolling through Instagram when the photo hit you like a punch. Mason, hood up, smile lazy, leaning against the wall outside some bar. A girl was tucked under his arm, her face pressed too close to his, lips almost brushing his jaw.
The caption was innocent enough: “Can’t believe I met Mason Mount last night!! Absolute dream 🥹”
But the comments clawed at your ribs:
“She’s practically kissing him 😭”
“His girl better watch out.”
“Thought he was meant to be taken?”
You stared, blood rushing in your ears because last night, Mason had told you he was at Luke’s. No mention of going out, no mention of fans. And now, here he was looking like he belonged to someone else entirely.
When Mason wandered into the kitchen, stretching and yawning, you were already seething.
He blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “What?”
You shoved your phone toward him, the picture glaring up. “You told me you were at Luke’s last night. And then I wake up to this. How stupid do you think I am?”
Mason’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to you, confusion hardening into defence. “I was at Luke’s. Then Luke and his missus went out, so I tagged along for a bit. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Your laugh was sharp, bitter. “So why not just tell me? Why let me think you were tucked up at his, when really you were out with him and a random fan hanging off you?”
His jaw tightened. “Because it didn’t matter. I didn’t think I had to give you a full play-by-play of my night.”
Your chest burned, fury spilling over. “Well, you do when you’re out taking pictures that make you look single! Do you know what people are saying online? Do you even care how this makes me feel?”
Mason’s voice shot back, harsher than you’d ever heard. “Oh, so now I need to account for every step I take, every fan photo I take? I’m not allowed to live my life without checking in with you first?”
“Don’t twist this!” you snapped, your voice cracking. “It’s not about fans it’s about honesty. You lied, Mason. You said you were somewhere else, and then I find out like this.”
He let out a harsh laugh, but there was no humour in it. “You want to talk about honesty? About telling the truth?” He took a step closer, eyes burning. “What about you texting your ex, huh?”
The air punched out of you. “What?”
“Yeah.” His words were sharp, accusing. “Don’t look at me like I’m mad. I saw it on your phone.”
Your stomach dropped, fury sparking hot. “You went through my phone?”
“Yeah, I did I thought something was off,” Mason snapped, chest heaving. “And I saw him messaging you, calling you gorgeous, trying to meet up. Don’t act so bloody innocent, Y/N.”
Your whole body trembled, a mix of rage and heartbreak. “You snooped through my private messages, took everything out of context, and now you’re throwing it in my face? Do you even know why he was messaging me?”
Mason hesitated, but his silence only fed your fire. “His mum’s sick, Mason. She got him to message me for a question regarding some benefit paperwork cause you know that used to be job! And then a letter of mine got delivered to his flat where I used to live, that’s why I was texting him. And yes, he tried to get flirty, but I shut it down—every. single. time. If you’d actually read the full conversation instead of picking out what you wanted to see, you’d know that.”
The words landed heavy, cutting through the fight like a knife. Mason’s expression faltered, but you weren’t done. “You lied about where you were, let me feel like an idiot, then dug through my phone and ignored the fact that I defended us. That I chose you. And now you’re standing there making me feel like I’m the unfaithful one?”
Mason’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”
Tears stung your eyes, but anger was louder. “You will lose me if you keep doing this because I can’t love someone who doesn’t trust me and I can’t stay with someone who lies to me.”
He stood there, stricken, guilt written all over his face but no words coming and the distance between you, for the first time, felt impossible to close.
The fight replayed in your head like a broken record. Every cutting word, every flash of anger, every look that stung more than it should and though hours had passed since the morning, the weight of it still pressed against your ribs, making everything feel slow and sour.
The day dragged. You kept yourself busy, or at least tried to. Tidying, scrolling your phone, flicking through the TV without really watching. Mason drifted in and out of the same spaces, moving with that restless energy he always got when things were unsettled, picking up his boots, fiddling with his watch, running his hands through his hair more times than necessary.
Every now and then, you caught him looking at you. Not with the sharpness from earlier, but with something quieter, more searching. Like he was working out how to cross the gulf between you. By late afternoon, you both had no choice but to start getting ready. Debbie’s birthday dinner loomed ahead, and there was no escaping it.
You stood at your dressing table, brushing out your hair slowly, deliberately, pretending you couldn’t feel Mason’s eyes on you from the doorway. He’d already showered, his hair damp and pushed back, shirt hanging loose over his jeans as he fiddled with the cuffs.
“You look nice,” he said finally, his voice soft, cautious testing the waters.
You paused for a beat before replying. “Thanks” . The word came out flat, polite, too polite.
He stepped into the room, tugging at his cuff with an awkward little shrug. “I meant it.”
“I know.” You kept your eyes trained on the mirror, swiping mascara across your lashes like you were concentrating too hard.
For a moment, there was silence again. Then, with a hesitant breath, Mason said, “About this morning—”
You cut him off without looking at him. “Not now, Mase. Please.”
He lingered behind you, his reflection a shadow in the mirror. “I just… I hate leaving things like that.”
“Then don’t say things you can’t take back.” Your tone was even, controlled, but your chest felt tight.
He flinched, just a flicker, before his jaw tightened. He nodded, stepping back toward the wardrobe to grab a jacket. You felt his retreat like a physical shift in the air, leaving the room colder.
Getting dressed felt mechanical. You slipped into your dress, fastened your necklace, checked your lipstick twice even though you didn’t care. Mason was beside you but not beside you moving around the same space, tying his laces, spraying aftershave, his movements clipped and efficient. At one point, when you bent to fix your shoe strap, he crouched down beside you, his hand brushing your knee. “Let me,” he murmured.
The simple gesture nearly cracked you open. His fingers were careful as he buckled the strap, his head tilted toward you like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. You stared down at him, at the boy who always tried too hard to make things right, and part of you wanted to soften, to let him but the morning’s words still burned in your ears, and so you swallowed it down, forcing yourself upright once the buckle clicked into place. “Thanks,” you said quietly, stepping away before the closeness could undo you.
By the time you grabbed your coat, the silence between you was screaming. Mason picked up the car keys, his thumb running over the fob like he was trying to keep his hands busy.
“You ready?” he asked, his voice careful again.
He gave you a small smile it was half-hearted, almost boyish, the kind that usually disarmed you. Tonight, though, it only reminded you how far apart you felt. Still, you followed him out the door because that was the thing about fights like this—life didn’t pause for you to figure it out. You still had to show up. You still had to plaster on a smile and pretend the cracks weren’t there, even as you felt them widening underneath.
The restaurant was warm, golden light spilling across polished cutlery and half-empty glasses of wine. Debbie was glowing, delighted by the fuss of her birthday, Lewis was keeping everyone laughing, and the table should’ve been a picture of comfort and family except you weren’t comfortable.
You’d been performing since the moment you walked in smiling when you didn’t feel like it, laughing just enough, keeping your hand close to Mason’s even though the weight of his touch still made your stomach twist from the morning’s fight. Mason, for his part, was doing the same. He looked like the perfect son, the perfect boyfriend— attentive to his mum, attentive to you— but every glance he shot your way felt careful, deliberate.
And then it happened, a comment, it was harmless on the surface. Debbie teased Mason about never switching off, about how you must feel like you’re competing with football for his attention. The table laughed. Mason grinned sheepishly, ruffling his hair.
But your laugh stuck in your throat. “Yeah,” you said, a little too sharp, “it does feel like that sometimes.”
The table quietened just enough to make Mason freeze. His head turned toward you, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You shrugged, stabbing at your food. “Nothing. Just… you’re never really here, are you?”
“Y/N,” Mason said under his breath, warning in his tone, but your frustration stoked by a week of cracks, by the morning’s fight spilled over.
“No, go on,” you pressed, louder now. “Tell me how I’m wrong. Tell me how it feels like you actually put me first for once.”
A stunned silence settled over the table. Debbie’s smile faltered, Lewis raised his brows, and you felt the weight of every pair of eyes burning into you. Mason’s jaw clenched, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Really? Here? You wanna do this in front of my family?”
Your heart thudded in your chest. “Maybe if you actually listened to me when we were alone, I wouldn’t have to.”
His chair scraped back just slightly, his fists pressing against his thighs. “Unbelievable. You can’t go one night without making it about you.”
That stung hard. You pushed back from the table, your napkin falling to the floor. “You know what? Enjoy the rest of your night.”
The scrape of your chair echoed in the hush as you stood, your chest tight and your eyes hot. You didn’t wait for anyone to stop you just walked out, heels clicking sharply against the floor, leaving the warmth of the restaurant for the sharp bite of the evening air.
Back inside, Mason sat rigid, his face tight with anger and humiliation. His mum reached for his arm gently. “Mase…”
He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, avoiding her eyes. “I’ll sort it later.”
Lewis, ever the blunt one, muttered, “Mate, that was rough.”
Mason glared at him, snapping, “Not now.”
But the damage was done the whispers at the table, the worried looks from Debbie. Pressure mounted on every side, and Mason felt it pressing hard against his chest. For the first time, the cracks in your relationship weren’t just between you. Now, everyone could see them.
The restaurant felt colder without you in it. Mason sat stiffly, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the untouched plate in front of him. His mum broke the silence first. “Mase,” Debbie said softly, her hand curling over his forearm, “what’s going on?”
He shook his head quickly. “It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Lewis muttered, sipping his drink. His tone wasn’t cruel, just blunt. “She stormed out of dinner, mate. That’s… not nothing.”
“Lewis,” Debbie warned, but Mason only clenched his jaw tighter.
Across the table, Tony leaned forward, his voice steady. “Son, if something’s wrong, you’ve got to face it. You can’t just bury it.”
Mason dragged a hand over his face, groaning low into his palm. “It’s not like that. We’re just… we’ve had a week. That’s all.”
“Doesn’t sound like just a week,” Lewis pressed, eyebrows raised. “You two have been at eachother the whole way here? You barely spoke when you picked me up.”
Mason’s head snapped up. “What, you’ve been keeping track?”
“I’ve got eyes, Mase.” His brother leaned back, unfazed. “And so does everyone else. You think we can’t see it?”
Debbie’s voice softened further, her eyes searching his. “Mason, is she unhappy? Are you?”
“No,” Mason said quickly, too quickly. “I mean—yeah, we’ve been arguing, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.” His chest tightened as he said it, because even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t sure he believed them.
His sister, who’d been quiet until now, shifted uncomfortably. “If you both upset you need to address that, we adore her, Mase. But we don’t want you being upset either.”
That landed heavier than anything else. Mason pictured your smile when you played with his nieces, how natural you were with them. How happy you were with his family and how you smile around him but he realised he hasn’t seen that smile in a while and the thought of them noticing the cracks in the picture he’d painted for them made his stomach churn.
Tony leaned back, folding his arms. “You’ve got to be honest with yourself, son. If football’s taking too much, or if you’re both not on the same page, you need to deal with it before it breaks you.”
“I am dealing with it,” Mason snapped, sharper than he intended. His dad’s eyebrows lifted, and guilt immediately flushed his cheeks. He raked a hand through his hair, sighing. “I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to give her everything, and it still feels like it’s not enough.”
Debbie reached across, squeezing his hand. “Maybe she doesn’t need everything, sweetheart. Maybe she just needs you.”
That hit him like a punch because wasn’t that exactly what you’d been saying all week? That you felt unseen, second to everything else? And hadn’t he brushed it off, convinced that his effort was proof enough?
Lewis leaned in again, lowering his voice. “Mate, you love her, yeah?”
Mason’s eyes flicked up, fierce. “Of course I do.”
“Then fix it. Before she decides she’s had enough.”
The words sat heavy between them all. Mason felt heat creep up his neck, shame and frustration twining together. He hated that his family had seen the cracks. Hated that you’d left him sitting there, angry and exposed. Hated most of all that deep down, he wasn’t sure if Lewis was wrong.
He forced a swallow, pushed back his chair slowly. “I’ll go after her later,” he muttered.
But his mum’s hand tightened over his again. “No. Go speak to her now before she lets everything settle for too long.”
The sound of the front door unlocking made your stomach twist. You’d been sitting on the edge of the bed for nearly an hour, coat still draped over the chair where you’d thrown it, your overnight bag half-zipped at your feet though you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet why you’d packed it.
When Mason stepped inside, the house felt too small. His keys clattered onto the counter, the quiet rustle of him shrugging off his jacket echoing in the silence but you didn’t move. He found you in the bedroom, his face drawn tight from the dinner, eyes shadowed. “So you just leave me there?” His voice was low, incredulous. “Walk out, make a scene in front of my family, and don’t even answer my calls?”
Your chest tightened. “What was I supposed to do, Mason? Sit there and smile while you made me feel like I’m nothing?”
He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing? Are you kidding me? Everything I do is for you, for us and you still don’t see it.”
Your jaw clenched. “You don’t get it. You’re never here when I need you. Not really. Football comes first, everything else comes after—including me.”
“That’s not fair,” he shot back, eyes blazing. “You knew what my life was before we even started this. You knew what it would take and I’ve bent over backwards to make it work, I have cancelled things, changed things, tried to give you every piece of me I can but it’s never enough, is it?”
Your voice cracked, raw. “Because I don’t need every piece of you, Mason. I just need you and half the time, I don’t even know if you want to be here.”
His face faltered, the anger giving way to something more wounded. “Don’t say that.”
“Maybe it’s true.” Your throat burned as you spoke the words you’d been too afraid to let out. “Maybe you don’t even want this anymore.”
For a moment, the room was thick with silence, the two of you breathing hard, staring at each other across the bed like strangers. Then Mason shook his head slowly, disbelief etched into his features.
“You don’t trust me,” he said quietly, almost like it hurt to admit. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t trust me.”
Your hands fisted at your sides. “And you don’t trust me either or have you forgotten going through my phone?”
His lips parted, ready to argue, but no words came. You didn’t wait for him to find them. Instead, you bent to grab the bag at your feet, tugging the zip closed with trembling fingers.
“What are you doing?” Mason’s voice cracked with panic as he watched you stand, bag in hand.
“I need space,” you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes. “I can’t keep doing this, Mase. Not like this.”
He stepped forward, desperation rising. “No, don’t—don’t go. We can talk, we can fix this—”
But you were already moving, brushing past him, your chest so tight you could barely breathe. The sound of the front door shutting behind you was final, echoing through the quiet house like a break neither of you knew how to mend. Mason stood frozen in the empty hallway, your absence louder than any fight you’d ever had.
Weeks slipped by, blurring together in a haze of distraction. You threw yourself into work, piling on extra hours, saying yes to every task, every late shift. Your friends kept you busy too drinks after work, movie nights, long walks that ended in greasy takeaway (that you could never have with Mason) and laughter that felt just a little forced. You smiled, nodded, played the part of someone “moving on.” But when you lay in bed at night in your friend’s spare room, the quiet pressed too close. The empty space beside you was a reminder of everything you’d left behind but you still couldn’t text him. You told yourself you wouldn’t be the first to break.
Mason buried himself in football. Training sessions, team meetings, matches as it was easier to pour himself into the rhythm of it than sit with the silence of the house without you. His teammates teased him about being sharper, more driven. “Whatever you’re doing, Mount, keep it up.”
He forced a smile, but it was hollow because the truth was, it wasn’t discipline making him sharper, it was distraction. He needed the pitch, needed the ninety minutes where he didn’t have to think about you but even then, the thought of you always crept in.
Silent check-ins became the only connection you had. You posted a picture at brunch with your friends smiling wide, a cocktail in hand. Mason saw it within minutes, the tiny circle of your story lit up at the top of his screen. He stared at it longer than he should’ve, zooming in on the corner of your smile, wondering if it was real.
When his team won at the weekend, you watched the highlights on your phone in bed. You caught his post-match interview, the way his jaw was tight even as he smiled, the way his eyes darted away too quickly. You didn’t like the video, didn’t comment, but your heart clenched all the same.
One night, your friend found you staring at your phone, Mason’s profile open but untouched.
“Are you going to call him?” she asked gently.
You shook your head, throat tight. “He hasn’t called me either.”
And that was the truth of it. Both of you were waiting, both too stubborn, too wounded, too unsure to be the one to break the silence and so the weeks kept passing, each day building another layer of distance that neither of you knew how to close.
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It was past eleven when your phone lit up. You weren’t expecting it, you’d been tucked in the corner of a booth with your friends, half-drunk on cocktails and laughter, scrolling through Instagram out of habit. His name flashing across the screen made your stomach lurch.
Mason (11:07pm): You out?
You stared at the message, pulse racing. He hadn’t reached out in weeks. Not since the night you’d packed a bag and walked away. Another buzz pulled you out of your thoughts.
Mason (11:09pm): I shouldn’t be texting, but I just… I miss you.
Your breath caught. Hands shaking, you tapped back.
You (11:11pm): I miss you too.
And just like that, the dam broke. The texts rolled back and forth, raw and unfiltered in the way late-night conversations always were.
Mason (11:14pm): It’s been shit without you. I hate this.
You (11:16pm): I hate it too. Everything feels off.
Mason (11:17pm): I keep checking your stories. Pathetic, I know.
You (11:18pm): Not pathetic. I do the same with your matches.
Mason (11:20pm): I just want to know you’re okay.
You (11:22pm): I’m trying. Some days I’m not.
Your throat tightened as you typed, the alcohol in your veins loosening every truth you’d been holding back. He told you he couldn’t sleep most nights. You admitted you still reached for him in your sleep, forgetting he wasn’t there. You told him about the hoodie you couldn’t bring yourself to return. He said he hoped you’d never give it back. There were heart emojis. A half-joking “drunk you’ll regret this in the morning” from you. A “don’t care, I mean it” from him. For the first time in weeks, it felt like you were both breathing again. But as the night blurred on and the glasses kept clinking, your replies slowed.
Mason (12:34am): You still there?
Mason (12:41am): Y/N?
Mason (12:55am): Did you get home safe?
Mason (1:12am): Please just tell me you’re okay.
The last message sat there, blue-ticked, unanswered. Your phone was abandoned in your bag while you stumbled home with your friends, too drunk to notice the way he kept reaching out. When you woke the next morning, head pounding, your screen was littered with his messages. Your chest tightened as you scrolled through them, guilt and longing tangled together.
You typed the safest thing you could manage.
You (9:02am): yeah I’m good x
And that was it. No follow-up. No continuation of the honesty from last night. Just silence thickening again, settling back between you like a weight neither of you knew how to lift.
Three days have passed since the drunk texts. Three days since you’d woken up, groggy and guilty, staring at Mason’s messages with a knot in your chest. You hadn’t replied after your half-hearted “yeah I’m good x.” He hadn’t either. Silence had settled again, colder this time, heavier.
You’d buried yourself in work, in coffee runs and back-to-back emails, trying to forget the hollow ache in your chest until your phone rang.
“Hello?” you answered distractedly, already bracing for a client.
“This is Trafford General Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Mason Mount. We need you to come in.”
The world stopped spinning, you gripped the edge of your desk, the blood draining from your face. “Wh—what happened?”
The nurse’s voice was calm but brisk. “There was a collision during training, head trauma. He’s stable now, but we’d like someone close to be here.”
Your heart was in your throat. You didn’t remember leaving work, you didn’t remember the drive. One moment you were frozen at your desk, the next you were speeding down the street, hands shaking on the wheel, praying under your breath.
The harsh smell of antiseptic hit you the second you stepped through the hospital doors. You gave Mason’s name at the desk, your voice unsteady, and followed the directions down the long corridor to the ward.
He was there, lying against the stark white sheets, an IV in his arm, a bandage wrapped around his head. Pale but breathing, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that made your own lungs unlock again. For a moment, you couldn’t move. Just stood in the doorway, clutching your bag like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground.
His eyes flicked open, hazy. When they landed on you, they widened. “Y/N?” His voice was rough, weak.
Tears pricked your eyes instantly. You rushed to his side before you could think, fingers hovering like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to touch him. “What happened?”
“Training,” he murmured, wincing slightly as he adjusted. “Went up for a header… landed wrong. Guess I blacked out, next thing I know, they’re poking me with needles.” His lips twitched in a tired smile, like he was trying to make light of it.
You didn’t smile back. “Do you have any idea how scared I was when the hospital called me?”
His eyes softened. “They called you?”
“Yeah.” You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m still listed as your emergency contact, apparently.”
“Well technically we have never officially broke up so I guess I didn’t know to change it it or not?” A beat of silence hung between you. His gaze searched your face, raw and unguarded. “I’m glad I didn’t though ,” he said finally, voice low.
The lump in your throat grew. You looked away, blinking fast, pretending to fuss with the blanket at the end of his bed. “I shouldn’t even be here. I mean—we’re not—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, quiet but firm. “Don’t say that. You’re the first person I wanted to see when I woke up.”
Hours blurred by in fragments of awkward conversation and long silences. Nurses came and went, checking his vitals, adjusting his IV, each interruption giving you both a moment to breathe. At one point, Mason shifted slightly on the bed, his hand brushing against yours. It wasn’t intentional, but neither of you pulled away.
“You look tired,” you murmured.
He huffed a laugh. “Feel worse. But seeing you here—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“How could I not?” Your voice cracked. “You scared me half to death.”
His eyes locked onto yours, and for the first time in weeks, you saw past the anger, past the pride. You saw him, the boy who left little notes in your lunch bag, who carried you to bed when you fell asleep on the sofa, who once sat with you all night just because you had a bad dream.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?” you asked, even though you knew the list was endless.
“For everything, for lying, for going through your phone, for not being there when you needed me. For—”
You shook your head quickly, throat too tight. “Don’t. Not here. Not now.”
But you couldn’t stop the tears spilling down your cheeks. You brushed them away, angry at yourself for falling apart in front of him.
“Y/N…” Mason reached out, weak but certain, his fingers curling gently around yours. “Please don’t cry. You know I always hate it when you cry.”
Later, when the nurses dimmed the lights and left you both in quiet, you sat by his bed in the creaking visitor’s chair, chin resting in your palm, watching him breathe. His thumb stroked absently across the back of your hand, and though neither of you spoke, the silence was different this time and even though the walls were still up, concern had cracked them, just enough for the two of you to feel the pull of each other again.
The ward settled into its nighttime hush, the sounds thinning to the occasional beeping monitor and the distant squeak of nurses’ shoes on linoleum floors. You shifted in the plastic chair beside Mason’s bed, your back already stiff, but you refused to move.
“You don’t have to stay,” Mason said softly, his voice husky from the drip of tiredness. “Go home, get some real sleep.”
You shot him a look, lips pressed tight. “Not a chance.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, though his eyes were tired. “Stubborn.”
“Protective,” you corrected, tucking the corner of his blanket around his side. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you before you try to do something stupid like walk out of here.”
He chuckled, wincing when the movement tugged at the bandage on his head. “Reckon I could manage. Might just need a hand standing.”
“Mason.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended. Fear bled through it, you lowered your tone, softer this time. “You scared me today. Don’t joke about it.”
The air thickened, your words heavier than you meant them to be. He glanced down, fiddling with the edge of his sheet, before murmuring, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to.”
Silence settled again, but it wasn’t hostile this time it was just… fragile.
As the night wore on, you found yourself fussing, adjusting his water cup closer, checking if the blanket slipped, telling him off when he tried to sit up too fast. At one point, he watched you with a tiny tilt to his head, his lips curving into that familiar half-smile. “You’re bossy when you care.” You rolled your eyes, but warmth flickered in your chest all the same.
It was past midnight when Mason shifted on the bed, patting the space beside him. “C’mere.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Bed’s big enough. No point in you breaking your back on that chair.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Big enough? You’re five foot eleven, Mase and you sprawl like an octopus in your sleep. Where exactly am I meant to fit?”
He smirked faintly, eyes glinting even through the tiredness. “I’ll make room. Promise.”
You shook your head, torn between exasperation and the pull in your chest. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he said simply, “but I don’t care.”
Eventually, against every ounce of logic, you climbed onto the narrow hospital bed. It was awkward at first, your hip pressed against the metal rail, his IV line tugging every time he shifted. But then his arm curled around your waist carefully, drawing you close without jostling his bandaged head, and it was like muscle memory: the way your body slotted into his, the rhythm of his chest under your cheek.
“See?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Told you I’d make room.”
You huffed out a laugh against his shirt. “Barely.”
But you didn’t move, you couldn’t. His warmth seeped into you, and for the first time in weeks, your body loosened, tension bleeding out inch by inch. His hand rested at your side, not pulling, not demanding, just there. And though neither of you dared bring up the fights, the distance, the mess waiting outside those hospital walls, you let yourselves rest just for tonight. Wrapped up in each other, in a bed far too small, you remembered what it felt like to simply belong.
The following day discharge took longer than either of you expected. Papers to sign, a doctor explaining concussion protocols, a nurse double-checking his vitals. Mason sat through it all with the kind of restless impatience only he could muster, his gaze flicking to you every so often like he was still surprised you were there. When the doctor asked who he was being discharged into the care of, Mason didn’t even hesitate. “Her,” he said, nodding at you and just like that, you were responsible.
The drive back was quiet. Mason’s head leaned against the passenger window, eyes half-shut, your hands tight on the steering wheel. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words felt too sharp in your throat. He didn’t push, just hummed quietly when you asked if he was comfortable, if he needed you to slow down. By the time you got him home, it was late. The house was dark, the kind of heavy silence that only comes after weeks of absence. You helped him inside, his arm brushing yours as you steadied him.
“Kitchen?” you asked softly which he nodded.
You sat at opposite ends of the table, a glass of water between you. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than it should have been. Finally, Mason broke the silence. His voice was hoarse, tired. “I thought I’d wake up in that hospital and you wouldn’t be there.” You looked up, startled. He swallowed hard, his hand flexing against the table. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”
The confession hit like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading across your chest. “Mase…” you started, but your throat tightened.
He shook his head, pressing on. “I’ve been a shit boyfriend, I know that. Always gone, always missing the little things that matter to you. Cancelling, lying, making excuses. I just… I thought football was enough of a reason. Like, you’d understand but it feels like the more I give to it, the more I take from us.”
Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them. “You don’t even see it, do you?”
“See what?” His brow furrowed.
“How overlooked I feel.” Your voice cracked on the words. “I understand football is your dream and I am so proud of you Mase but it’s like I’m just… waiting around for scraps of your time. Like everything else comes first—training, matches, fans, everyone but me. And I hate myself for even saying that, because I know how much football means to you, but sometimes—” You broke off, shaking your head as the tears spilled. “Sometimes I wonder if I mean anything at all.”
The silence after was unbearable. Just the soft hitch of your breath, the hum of the fridge, the pounding in your chest. Mason’s eyes glistened, his jaw tightening as he reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “You mean everything. You’re all I think about. All I want and that’s the truth—even if I’m shit at showing it.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, torn between the ache of his words and the sting of every time he’d made you feel small. He leaned forward, his voice breaking. “I’m scared, Y/N. Scared that one day I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. That I’ll have lost you for good, and it’ll be my fault.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, fresh tears sliding down your cheeks. “And I’m scared I’ll keep giving and giving until there’s nothing left of me.”
The silence stretched again, heavy, raw, but different this time. Not empty—just full of everything you both were finally brave enough to say.
Mason’s hand tightened over yours, warm and desperate. “I don’t want to lose you.”
You met his gaze, broken and soft. “Then fight for me, Mase. Really fight not just with words. With actions.”
His head bowed, a tear sliding down his cheek. “I will. I promise.” And though nothing was fixed, though the space between you was still jagged and uncertain, there was a fragile thread now—a chance.
The days after Mason’s discharge were strange. You stayed, because the doctors had been clear he wasn’t supposed to be alone. Concussion protocol meant rest, someone checking on him through the night, keeping him grounded when the dizziness hit. You told yourself you were only there because someone had to be. But the truth? You couldn’t walk away not yet.
The house felt both familiar and foreign. You cooked simple meals, made tea, and tried to keep the tension from clinging to the walls. Mason, for his part, didn’t push. He let you move around him like a ghost, always watching but never demanding. Every so often you’d catch him staring, something raw and unguarded in his eyes, and it was easier to look away than risk unravelling all over again.
The late-night confession at the kitchen table still hung between you. Neither of you knew what to do with it.
On Thursday morning, you got a call from your sister—your niece’s school play had been moved up, last minute, to accommodate some scheduling issue. “I know it’s short notice,” she’d said, frazzled, “but it would mean the world if you came. Millie keeps asking if you’ll be there.”
You hesitated, you hadn’t planned on leaving Mason alone but before you could overthink it, he appeared in the doorway, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing one of his hoodies and sweatpants.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Go to the play,” he repeated. “I’ll be fine for a couple of hours. Promise.” The way he said it—quiet, certain—made you believe him so you went.
The school hall was packed with parents, siblings, grandparents—all buzzing with excitement. Millie had a small role, a line or two, but when her eyes found yours in the crowd, she grinned so wide it made your chest ache. You clapped, cheered, snapped photos like the proud aunt you were. But even as you laughed with your sister afterward, something tugged at you. A strange ache that made you check your phone more times than you wanted to admit.
When you got back to the house, the lights were low. For a split second, panic flared—what if he’d fainted, what if you’d been stupid to leave? Then you saw him in the living room, on the sofa. Not sprawled with FIFA or scrolling his phone, but sitting with a shoebox open in his lap. Inside were mementos—ticket stubs, Polaroids, the little pressed daisy you’d given him last spring. All the tiny things you thought he’d tossed aside, but he’d kept them. Every one.
He looked up, startled. “Hey,” you said softly, lingering in the doorway.
“Hey.” His voice was low, sheepish. He shifted like he’d been caught. “Didn’t mean to snoop. Just… missed you.”
You stepped closer, your chest tightening. “You kept all that?”
“Of course I did.” He swallowed, eyes locked on yours. “Every bit of us matters to me. Even when I don’t show it right. Especially then.” With that something in you cracked.
Dinner that night was quiet. You sat across from him, the shoebox now on the side table, its contents spilling in your mind like a slideshow of all the moments you’d shared—the easy ones, the messy ones, the in-between. Afterward, as you gathered the plates, Mason’s hand covered yours. “Let me.”
You frowned. “You’re meant to be resting.”
“I mean—let me fix things. Bit by bit with actions not just saying sorry and hoping it sticks.” His thumb brushed your knuckles, tentative but sure. “I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. I just… want the chance to show up.”
His words hung there, fragile and weighted. You pulled your hand back gently, your heart a storm. “And what if I can’t trust you again? What if it’s too late?”
The silence that followed was sharp, cutting. Mason looked at you like the ground had opened beneath his feet. But then, slowly, he nodded. “Then I’ll still try. Even if it’s too late because losing you without fighting would be worse than anything.”
Your throat closed. You turned away, blinking hard, pretending to fuss with the dishwasher. But later, when you climbed into bed, you didn’t take the guest room. You slipped under the duvet beside him, the distance between your bodies thick with uncertainty. He didn’t reach for you. He just whispered into the dark, “Thank you for staying.” And though you didn’t answer, you didn’t move away either.
The weekend brought the quiet gesture, you’d been invited to a charity gala with your colleagues, an event you were dreading, because the thought of showing up alone, of plastering on a smile while everyone else talked about partners and families, made you want to disappear. You hadn’t told Mason. It wasn’t his world, and you didn’t want to open yourself up to the possibility of him bailing last minute as he just got back into training. But when you arrived at the hall, nerves twisting your stomach, he was already there.
Waiting in the lobby, dressed sharp in a suit, hair neat despite the scar still faintly visible at his temple. Your breath caught. “Mason… what—how—?”
“Your sister told me,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said you were dreading coming alone.” His eyes softened. “So I thought maybe I could show up. Just this once. Quietly. No fuss.”
It wasn’t the dramatic grand gesture of flowers or fireworks. It was him, standing there, nervous but steady. Choosing you, when no one asked him to and that was what undid you.
Inside, he stayed close but never overbearing. He shook hands with your colleagues, laughed when someone joked about him being “the plus one for once,” and kept his hand low at your back, grounding without claiming. At one point, when you slipped away to the restroom, you caught sight of him from across the room—chatting with one of your friends, easy smile in place, but his eyes flicking to the door until you reappeared. Watching for you, always watching.
That night, back at the house, you sat together at the kitchen table again. This time, no tears, no shouting. Just quiet. “You didn’t have to come tonight,” you whispered, staring at the rim of your glass.
“I did,” Mason said simply. “Because you matter. More than the excuses, more than the pride. And I’m done proving it with words.”
Your eyes stung. “I don’t know if I can just… believe it. Not yet.”
“I know.” His hand reached across the table, palm up. Not demanding. Just offering. “Then let me show you. One day at a time.”
You looked at his hand for a long moment, your chest tight, your heart warring with your head. Finally, you slid your fingers into his, not forgiveness. Not a fix but a start. Mason then looked into your eyes, hands still connected. His voice quieter than usual, as if the question itself carried too much weight. “Will you come to the game tomorrow?”
You’d hesitated, chewing on your lip before answering, “I’ll try, Mase. Work’s manic right now, so… probably not.”
The words hung there, heavy, and Mason just nodded, swallowing down the lump that rose in his throat. Once, you would’ve shuffled schedules, begged colleagues to swap, anything just to be there. But now, with the fracture lines still jagged between you, he could hear the unspoken truth in your answer: maybe you don’t want to anymore.
He went to bed restless, replaying your words, telling himself not to overthink. Maybe you would come. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe. But when the morning light broke through the curtains, his hand stretched instinctively across the sheets only to find the other side cold, empty. Your bag was gone. The faint scent of your perfume lingered, but you weren’t there.
He sat up slowly, chest tightening, and for a long moment he just stared at the hollow in the pillow where your head should’ve been. The silence felt suffocating. It wasn’t the first time you’d left early but this morning, after the weeks of silence, the arguments, the hesitant truce, it felt different. Final, almost. Mason pressed a hand over his face, fighting the sting in his eyes. He hated how quickly his thoughts spiralled, how easily hope slipped through his fingers. Last night, he’d let himself believe maybe you were coming back to him. Maybe the pieces could fit again but as he sat in the quiet, staring at the empty side of the bed, another thought clawed its way in—maybe some things can’t be fixed.
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The game had been electric. Mason, head bandaged from the recent scare, played with a fire no one could dim. Every pass crisp, every sprint precise. When the ball hit the back of the net from his strike, Old Trafford erupted. The roar thundered in his ears, but his heart felt hollow. Normally, he would’ve lifted his shirt to the stands, knowing you’d be there, eyes shining with pride. Normally, he’d be scanning his phone the second he got back to the tunnel, expecting your name lighting up his screen. But tonight… nothing. No message, no familiar face in the stands. Just silence where your love should’ve been. The victory felt like defeat.
He showered, changed, smiled for the cameras like he was supposed to, but inside he was unravelling. As the team filtered out toward the buses, the fans lined the barriers, shouting his name, waving shirts, begging for photos. Mason tugged his hood up, keeping his head down, determined to get through it.
And then… he saw you. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks. But no, there you were. Standing in the rain, hair damp, hands shoved into your coat pockets, but wearing his United shirt proudly over the top. You hadn’t texted, hadn’t said a word but you were here waiting. The breath left Mason’s chest. The noise of the fans blurred, his legs moving before his brain could catch up. He walked straight past the cameras, past the shouts of his name, ignoring the pull of teammates and staff. straight to you.
“You came?” His voice cracked, low and almost disbelieving, eyes locked on you through the rain.
You tilted your chin up, water dripping from your lashes as you smiled softly. “Of course I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mase. I am so proud of you.”
Something inside him broke and healed all at once. Before either of you could think, you stood on your toes and wrapped your hands around his neck, Mason’s hand was on your the back, pulling you in as his fingers curled into your soaked shirt. The kiss that followed wasn’t careful, it was urgent, hungry, weeks of silence and heartbreak poured into the way his mouth claimed yours. Your lips slid together, messy with the rain, but neither of you cared. You gasped when his other hand gripped your waist, tugging you flush against him, your chest colliding with his as if he couldn’t bear to have even an inch between you. He kissed you harder, deeper, parting your lips with his tongue, desperate to taste you again. The heat of it contrasted the cold rain, steam rising between you in the middle of the storm.
You whimpered into his mouth, clutching him tighter, nails scraping lightly over his neck, and Mason groaned, swallowing the sound like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Fans screamed around you, phones out, but neither of you cared. The world had shrunk to this kiss—raw, aching, and long overdue.
When you finally tore apart, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, Mason’s thumb stroked over your wet cheek. His voice was wrecked, barely audible over the chants. “I can’t lose you,” he breathed. “Not like that. Not ever.”
“I’m done fighting, Mase,” you said, voice shaking but sure. “I want you. You know what you gotta do to be better, and I’ll try to be more understanding. I just… I just want you, Mason.”
Wordlessly, he shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over your shoulders despite the downpour. His hand found yours, fingers slotting together like they belonged. With a small, steady smile, he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, almost drowned out by the storm “Let’s go home.”
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