Notes: I am currently working through some recent requests that I recieved but I already started writing this, so I will start on the requests next. Hope you like this and any feedback is welcome. Please keep sending in the requests.
Pairings: Mason Mount x Reader
Warnings: Fluff, Angst and Smut
Manchester didn’t feel like home yet. It felt too big, too loud, too full of people who had no idea who you used to be. Which was exactly why you’d chosen it. A clean break, a new job, a city where nobody knew the details of your horrible breakup, where nobody could look at you with that pity you’d grown to hate. You were still figuring out how to breathe without that weight on your chest, still trying to convince yourself that you didn’t need anyone. That you were better off alone.
The charity event your work insisted you attend was meant to be harmless. Show your face, smile politely, network, avoid wine because you knew where that road led. You’d wrapped yourself in a simple dress, something safe, something that said “I’m fine, everything’s fine” even though your heart felt stitched together with shaking hands. The ballroom was too warm, crowded with laughter, clinking glasses, people who looked effortlessly confident. You hovered near the back with your colleagues, nodding along to conversations you weren’t really listening to. You told yourself to stay out of trouble. No complications, no men. definitely no flirting and then he walked in.
Mason Mount was one of those people who didn’t need to try. He just… existed, and people noticed. Dark suit, easy smile, warm eyes that skimmed the crowd without any arrogance. You knew who he was, obviously everyone did but you’d never seen him up close like this. He looked normal in a way you didn’t expect. He looks young, almost boyish when he laughed at something one of his friends said. You told yourself not to stare but you failed.
Sam, your boss from the donors’ board caught sight of him and lit up. “Oh—Y/N, come here. You should meet Mason, he’s supporting the project this year.” He said it casually, like he wasn’t throwing you into the deep end. Before you could protest, his hand was already at your back, guiding you forward through clusters of people. You offered a tight smile, silently begging the universe to be kind. Mason’s gaze lifted just as you approached. It landed on you like he’d been waiting without realising it. His smile softened, something curious flickering in his expression. You swallowed hard.
“Mason,” Sam greeted him, clapping his shoulder. “This is Y/N. She’s part of the media team.”
Mason’s eyes didn’t leave you. He extended his hand, warm and certain, and your fingers slid into his before you could overthink it. “Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice was smoother than you expected.
“Nice to meet you too,” you managed, trying not to stare too obviously at his mouth. Sam started rambling about the project, giving you both a convenient distraction, but you found it impossible to focus. Mason kept glancing at you, little sideways looks that made your stomach tighten. When Sam wandered off to greet someone else, you realised you were suddenly alone with him. Alone enough that the noise around you blurred.
“So you’re new,” he said gently, leaning a fraction closer, as if trying not to scare you off. “I haven’t seen you at these things before.”
“I moved here a few weeks ago,” you said. “Still finding my way around.”
His smile widened, just slightly. “Manchester will do that to you. It’s like a maze the first month.”
“I got lost trying to find the ladies’ room earlier,” you admitted with a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Classic rookie mistake.”
Something about him made it frighteningly easy to talk, he didn’t try too hard. He didn’t push, he just listened, eyes soft and intent, like whatever you were saying was genuinely interesting. You told him a little about your work. He told you a little about why he was supporting the charity this year. The jokes came naturally, effortless and every time he laughed, you felt it somewhere deeper than you meant to. It was stupid, you’d just met. You’d promised yourself no complications, no men, no falling but there was something about the way he looked at you, like he saw more than the polished smile you were wearing, like he noticed the cracks underneath. You told yourself to step back before it became dangerous. Instead, you stayed.
The event dragged on until your feet ached. People made closing remarks, applause echoed through the ballroom, and you finally decided you’d earned a discreet exit. You slipped away toward the cloakroom area, weaving through bodies and conversations, trying to remember which hallway you’d come from. Everything looked the same velvet curtains, cream walls, warm lights that blurred after a while. You turned a corner and stopped. Another corner which was wrong again. “Seriously?” you whispered, half laughing at yourself.
And then there was a voice behind you. Familiar, amused. “Lost again?”
You spun, startled, and found Mason leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, head tilted like he’d been watching you wander aimlessly for the past minute. “I—no,” you lied immediately.
He raised an eyebrow. “No?”
You sighed, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Yes. Absolutely yes. I can’t find the cloakroom.”
His smile stretched, warm and teasing. “Come on then.”
You wanted to be annoyed at how charming he was, you weren’t.
He walked beside you, brushing close enough that you felt the heat of him. “It’s not your fault,” he said lightly. “This place is a maze. They do it on purpose so no one escapes early.”
“That makes me feel better.”
He guided you through the hallways like he’d done it a hundred times, only slowing once to check if you were keeping up. When you reached the cloakroom queue, you finally exhaled with relief. “Thank you,” you said. “Honestly. I was two wrong turns away from crying.”
“I wouldn’t have let it get that far,” he said quietly.
You felt something low in your stomach curl at his tone. You prayed he wasn’t noticing but he noticed. His eyes lingered just a little too long, warm and unreadable. When your coat was finally handed to you, you turned back to him. “I should get going. Early start tomorrow.”
He nodded, smiling like he knew you were rambling to cover nerves. “Same. But—here.” He gestured towards your phone you clutching tightly in your hand. “In case you get lost again,” he said casually, like it wasn’t affecting him at all. You looked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or hesitate. His expression was gentle, not pushy just… hopeful. You slowly passed it over and he typed his number in whilst you were trying not to overthink the way your fingers shook. When he handed your phone back, you quickly saved him as a contact and he glanced down at the name you’d written. His eyebrows flew up. “Really?”
“Accurate,” you said, shrugging.
“I hate it,” he said instantly. Then you saw it the exact moment he failed to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I guess I’ll survive.”
You stepped back, clutching your coat. “Goodnight, Maze Boy.”
He shook his head, trying and failing not to grin. “Goodnight, trouble.”
You told yourself not to look back as you walked away but you did anyway and he was still watching you. Hands in pockets, his smile soft like he wasn’t quite ready to stop thinking about you yet.
You didn’t expect the city to feel different the next day, but it did, maybe because you’d slept strangely well for someone who barely slept at all, maybe because your brain kept replaying the way Mason had looked at you last night like he wasn’t supposed to be staring but couldn’t help it. Maybe because you kept catching yourself reaching for your phone like a teenager with a crush. You’d promised yourself you weren’t going to think about him again, you weren’t going to check if he’d texted, you weren’t going to let one stupid, spark-filled conversation get under your skin.
By lunchtime your head felt foggy and you decided you deserved caffeine. You escaped your office building, crossing the busy street toward the café you’d already declared as your safe place. You ordered on autopilot: a mocha frappuccino, whipped cream, sugary drizzle the kind of thing coffee people turned their noses up at but you unapologetically loved. Except the second you reached for your purse, your stomach dropped, it wasn’t in your bag. You checked again and aggressively again, as if it would magically appear. “God, you’re kidding me,” you muttered. The barista looked patient, but you could feel the queue behind you judging you in real time. “I’m so sorry, can you just—can I run back to my office? I forgot my purse.”
You spun around, ready to bolt out the door and slammed straight into someone, a very solid someone. Large hands steadied your arms instantly. “Whoa—careful.” You froze and looked up and absolutely died inside when you saw it was Mason. He was in training gear, hoodie, shorts, messy hair, cheeks flushed from the cold and smiling like he’d just stumbled onto his favourite joke. “You again,” he said, amused.
You groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t see me trying to order a drink like I’m a functional adult.”
He gave you a slow once-over. “Did you forget your purse?”
You covered your face. “I’m actually going to pass away.”
He laughed full and warm. “Relax. What were you trying to order?”
His eyebrows shot up so fast it was a miracle they didn’t fly off his face. “A mocha frappuccino?” he repeated, scandalised.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“That’s not coffee,” he declared.
“It’s liquid sugar with whipped cream.”
“Barely.” He shook his head. “That’s a milkshake that thinks it’s special.”
You gasped dramatically. “Take that back.”
“No.” He leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “You drink dessert.”
He bit back a grin. “Unhealthy happiness.”
“You play football for a living—you burn like ten thousand calories. Let me enjoy my sugar in peace.”
“Nope,” he said. “I’m never letting this go.”
Before you could argue, he turned to the barista. “Add her… milkshake… to my order. And an latte for me.”
You stared at him. “Mason—no—you don’t have to—”
“But I want to,” he said simply. That shut you up so fast he actually smirked. When the drinks were ready, he held up your mocha frappuccino and shook his head like a disappointed dad. “You know, if I drink this, I’d probably die.”
“Good thing it’s mine,” you said, snatching it.
“Oh, definitely,” he agreed. “This deserves judgement.”
You tried not to laugh but you failed miserably. The café was packed, no tables anywhere but just as a couple stood up, Mason nodded toward the booth. “Go. Move. Now.”
You both jogged across the café like it was an Olympic sport, landing in the booth just in time. You laughed breathlessly, he looked way too pleased with himself and just like last time, conversation flowed ridiculously easily. You talked about work, he talked about training. You teased him for being dramatic about the cold. He teased you about drinking dessert. He kept sipping his Latte like a martyr, making faces every time you slurped your frappuccino just to wind him up. Then came the shift, he said something light something harmless and without thinking, you replied: “I should warn you… I don’t date footballers.”
His smile dimmed, just barely. “No?”
“No. I like the quiet life, I like being behind the camera, not in front of it. Footballers come with… a lot attention, headlines, Drama. I’m not built for any of that.”
He leaned back slowly and nodded once. He tried to laugh it off. “Fair,” he said. “Totally fair.”
But it stung him, you saw it and you felt it. You regretted what you said immediately. But still he stayed and kept talking and he kept smiling at you like he couldn’t help it.
An hour passed before you realised you were late for a meeting. “I’m supposed to be in my supervisor’s office in like—oh my god—seven minutes!”
Mason winced sympathetically. “Yeah, you’re defo fired.”
“I’ll take the blame,” he said easily.
When you stood to leave, he brushed your arm lightly so softly you weren’t even sure he meant to. His eyes were warm, focused, way too intense for how casual he pretended to be. “You’ve got my number,” he said. “If you get lost.”
You tried to walk out like a normal human being. You lasted twenty seconds before your phone buzzed.
Mason:
You’re definitely lost again x
You:
I’M WALKING IN A STRAIGHT LINE xx
Mason:
That means nothing with you.
You laughed all the way back to your building. Mason continued to text you all evening, until it started getting late.
You:
Shouldn’t you be napping or eating or icing your knee or something? Don’t footballers have strict routines?
Mason:
Are you worried about me, trouble?
Your heart stopped, heat touching your cheeks.
You:
No. I just don’t want to be blamed when you turn up half-dead to training tomorrow.
Mason:
Half-dead is fine.
Sleepy is also fine.
It’s worth it.
You:
Mason. You’re going to be exhausted if we keep texting xx
Mason:
Then stop replying xx
You didn’t though, not for hours. Not until the clock hit 2:08am and you finally typed:
Okay. Sleep now Maze boy. You have training okay professional athlete. I’m serious this time xx
His reply came instantly.
Mason:
Goodnight, trouble.
And btw…
I don’t bite.
Footballers aren’t always the bad guys xxx
You stared at the message long after the typing bubble disappeared and for the first time in months you went to sleep smiling.
The days with Mason started blending together in a way that should’ve terrified you, but didn’t. Not yet, anyway. You kept telling yourself it wasn’t serious, that you were just two people who happened to enjoy each other’s company a little too much. Coffee runs, late-night texts, accidentally-on-purpose dinners, and the kind of silent moments that felt warm instead of awkward. You told your friends you weren’t dating him. He told his friends the same which both sets of friends rolled their eyes. Tonight was one of those unplanned evenings that made everything even worse in the way that felt dangerously close to better.
He’d invited you over because he’d “cooked,” which turned out to be pasta that was surprisingly edible and garlic bread that was burnt on the edges but still, somehow, charming. You cleaned up together, flicking water at each other, arguing over whether garlic bread counted as a vegetable, laughing enough that your stomach cramped. Afterward, you ended up on his sofa, tucked into the corner while he lounged next to you, long legs stretched out, his arm slung lazily behind you on the back cushions. Your knee brushed his every so often, he didn’t move it away.
He was halfway through telling you how Bruno had nearly fought someone during training for stealing his deodorant when his phone buzzed. He groaned. “Lewis. He’s bored or lonely or both. Probably both.”
“Answer him,” you said. “He’ll call again anyway.”
Mason sighed dramatically, but he swiped to accept. “What do you want?” he said without greeting.
Lewis’ face filled the screen, chaotic energy instantly pouring out. “Hello to you too, twat.”
Mason rolled his eyes. “Mate, I'm busy.”
“Busy doing what? Watching another one of those crime documentaries you pretend you understand? Or doing that thing where you reorganise your kitchen for no reason like a divorced dad?”
“I don’t— okay, first of all, my kitchen is immaculate.”
Lewis snorted. “You’re turning into a domestic goddess and it’s actually scaring me.”
Mason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is there a point to this call?”
“Yes,” Lewis said, narrowing his eyes dramatically at the camera. “Who cooked for you tonight? Because you sure as hell didn’t cook for yourself.”
Lewis laughed in his face. “You? Cook? The only thing you know how to make is toast and bad decisions.”
Mason bristled. “Oi. I made pasta.”
“Oh shit. Did someone check if the smoke alarm is still functioning?” Mason muttered something under his breath, and you snorted without meaning to loudly and Lewis froze. His eyes widened and his whole expression lit up with wicked glee. “Wait.” He leaned forward, squinting. “Wait—hold on—who was that?”
“No one,” Mason snapped instantly, shooting you a look that was half-pleading, half-murderous at Lewis but it was too late. Lewis had seen the corner of your shoulder behind Mason.
“Oh my GOD,” he said, voice rising like he’d discovered buried treasure. “He has company. He has COMPANY. Mason Mount has COMPANY.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Mason muttered. “Lewis—”
“AND IT’S HER!” Lewis shouted triumphantly. “Hi Y/N!”
You peeked around Mason’s shoulder, laughing helplessly. “Hi Lewis.”
Mason groaned into his hands while Lewis continued, “Mate, I swear down, if you don’t make a move soon—”
“That’s it,” Mason cut in sharply, “goodbye,” and hung up mid-sentence.
You burst into full laughter. “You know he’s calling Ben right now.”
“If he does, I’m blocking him for life,” Mason said, cheeks going pink. He looked flustered an adorable, endearing kind of flustered you weren’t used to seeing on him.
“He likes me,” you teased.
“He likes teasing me,” Mason corrected, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you’re just… convenient ammunition.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”
His eyes met yours, and didn’t let go. The air changed, it thickened. Mason didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You are.”
You felt it like a warm hand on your chest. The shift, the pull. You swallowed. “Mason…”
He didn’t touch you yet, he didn’t rush. He just reached slowly, his fingers brushing your knee, then sliding up the side of your thigh, gentle and hesitant, like he was asking a question without words. Then he whispered, “Come here.”
Your breath hitched. You moved without thinking one motion, one moment and you were in his lap, straddling him softly, your hands gripping his jaw before his mouth even found yours. The kiss wasn’t careful, it was weeks of holding back crashing all at once. His hands slid up your back, pulling you in, and you felt him exhale sharply against your mouth like he’d been drowning and you were air. He kissed you like he already knew your taste, like he’d memorised the idea of you long before tonight. “God,” he breathed against your lips, “you’re going to kill me.”
You gasped when his mouth trailed down your jaw, warm and lingering, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingertips skating up your spine. You tugged at his hoodie, up over his stomach, desperate for skin. He lifted his arms just enough to help you pull it off, tossing it aside blindly. Your shirt was next, sliding up, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your sides. The contact made you shiver. He noticed and his eyes flicked up to yours dark, swollen, breathless.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”
He kissed you again deeper, hungrier his hands gripping your hips, guiding your body against his. You moved, without meaning to, your hips rolling once, slow and needy, and Mason’s breath caught hard. “Oh fuck,” he murmured, forehead dropping against your collarbone. “Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my head.”
You smiled breathlessly, pressing another kiss to his jaw, your fingers threading into his hair. He let out a quiet groan at that, pulling you back into another kiss that made your toes curl. His hands were everywhere, your mouth was on his. His lips were moving down your neck and your body was pressed tightly to his and suddenly, something snapped in your chest. A cold, sharp panic you recognised, it was too familiar, too dangerous and you froze.
Mason felt it instantly. He pulled back so fast you barely realised you’d stopped kissing. “Hey,” he breathed, palms cupping the sides of your waist now not pushing, not pulling, just holding. “What’s wrong? Did I—did I do something?”
You climbed off his lap as gently as you could, avoiding his eyes, tugging your shirt back down with shaking hands.
“No,” you whispered. “It’s not you. It’s not.”
He sat there half-undressed, chest rising and falling, eyes searching yours with growing worry. “Then talk to me.”
You stepped back. He stood up slightly, but didn’t close the distance.
“I can’t,” you said, voice breaking. “Mason, I can’t do this.”
His expression cracked. “Why?”
You swallowed, digging nails into your palms. “Because I can’t be someone’s second choice again.”
He looked wrecked, actually wrecked. His voice was a whisper. “You’re not.”
Tears burned your eyes. “I will always be second best when football is involved. I can’t have that life. I can’t compete with it and I won’t try.”
“That’s not—it’s not like that,” he said, desperate, stepping toward you.
You stepped back. “It is and it’s not your fault. It’s just what your life is. Football comes first, it always will.”
His jaw clenched, hurt flickering across his face. “Y/N, please don’t do this.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I can’t survive another heartbreak.”
You grabbed your bag, your coat, your shoes. Mason stood there shirtless, chest still flushed from your hands on him, eyes full of something broken. “Y/N—don’t go,” he said softly. “Just talk to me. Please.”
But if you stayed if you let him touch you again you knew you wouldn’t leave at all. So you turned, opened the door and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t chase you but you heard him quietly calling your name as the door shut behind you. A sound full of hurt, a sound you didn’t forget for a long, long time.
You tried to convince yourself that distance made everything easier, it didn’t. The days passed slowly, stretched thin by the ache of things unsaid. You buried yourself in work the way people buried themselves in blankets during a storm tightly, desperately, hoping the noise would drown out the thoughts you weren’t ready to face. You took every shift offered, every extra task. You stayed late until the office lights flickered tiredly. You told yourself you were fine each morning while brushing your teeth, repeating it until the words blurred into something meaningless. And Mason… disappeared into his training schedule like a man trying to outrun something. You saw it on social media without meaning to—training clips, match photos, fan posts. His focus was razor sharp again, his interviews sounded steadier, he looked composed, disciplined, determined.
You were sitting at your desk late in the evening, the office mostly empty, the hum of the printer the only noise in the background. You were scrolling mindlessly through your phone, trying to stay awake long enough to finish the report in front of you, when the app refreshed. One swipe, one flick of the thumb and your entire stomach dropped. It was Mason at a crowded bar laughing with a group of teammates and beside him, far too close to ignore, stood a girl. She was stunning, confident, leaning in toward him with her hand curled gently around his forearm as if she’d been there a hundred times before.
He wasn’t pulling away, he wasn’t uncomfortable, he looked… happy. You froze so completely you didn’t even breathe. The perfectly sharpened ache hit so fast it felt like someone had punched through your ribs with both hands. The office around you blurred, your pulse hammered in your ears, your throat tightened until swallowing hurt, not because the girl mattered, not because he owed you anything but because you had let yourself fall for him.
You had let yourself believe quietly, foolishly that you were safe with him and this picture reminded you exactly why you weren’t.
Your fingers shook as you zoomed in, even though it made everything worse. The way the girl angled toward him, the way his head tilted, smile warm and unguarded. The effortless way he fit into the world she seemed to represent. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the sting in your chest to ease, but it only sharpened. It was too familiar, too raw, too much like every time in your past that you’d been left waiting in the wings while someone you cared for lived a life bigger than you could ever follow.
You stepped into the bathroom just to breathe. You leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain so tightly your knuckles went white. Tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to fall, but you blinked them back viciously. “No,” you whispered to your reflection. “No. We’re not doing that again.”
But your heart didn’t listen. By the time you got home that night, you were exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t touch. You showered without feeling the water, made a cup of tea you didn’t drink, climbed into bed still wrapped in a towel, and lay staring at the ceiling like it owed you answers. Its not like you were together, he doesn’t owe you anything but the heartbreak that you really thought he liked you.
Your phone chimed sometime after midnight, you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Your chest already knew. When you finally opened the message, your heart twisted painfully.
It’s not what it looks like.
You closed your eyes, inhaling shakily, the ache blooming deeper. Of course he’d seen it, of course he’d know exactly what it implied, of course he’d know it would slice you open but that didn’t make it hurt any less. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand and typed back with fingers trembling in a way you hated.
Mason… it doesn’t matter what it is.
There was a long pause then the messages began pouring in paragraphs at a time, breathless and urgent. He explained that the girl in the photo was a teammate’s sister. That she’d asked for a picture and leaned in too close. That he’d been joking with the lads when someone snapped it. That it meant nothing but you weren’t crying because it meant something. You were crying because it so clearly didn’t because pictures like this would come again and again and again, long after you’d built walls and told yourself you were above caring. You typed back, slower this time, each word heavy.
Mason… this is why I didn’t want to be and cannot be part of your world. I can’t deal with all the media, the rumours, the way it makes me feel every time I see something like this. It just shows me I will never come first. Not in that life, not around everything that comes with you.
Your thumb hovered above the send button for a full minute before you forced yourself to press it. The response was immediate. The messages came in quick succession—voice cracking at the edges even through text.
Don’t say that. Please don’t. You have no idea what you mean to me.
You’re not second. You never were.
You’re not an afterthought.
You’re the only thing I’ve thought about for weeks.
You walked away and I respected it but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.
Just talk to me. Please. Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.
You’re not understanding—I choose you.
Don't leave me like this, please.
Each message landed like a blow, bruising the parts of you that you tried so hard to protect and yet your chest only tightened further. You locked your phone and turned it face-down. You lay back on your pillow, letting a few uncontrollable tears slip quietly into your hairline. The phone buzzed again and again and for the first time since you met him, Mason Mount understood what it felt like to lose something he didn’t know how to fight for, something he wasn’t ready to let go.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A month passed, you had blocked him because he wouldn’t stop messaging. You had blocked him because every message hurt more than the last. You had blocked him because if you didn’t, you would’ve broken and you weren’t ready for him to see that. For the first week he messaged relentlessly paragraphs, apologies, explanations, voice notes where you could hear the frustration in his breath, the cracks in his tone. Blocking him had been the only way to breathe again even if the air still hurt. You told yourself you were healing, you told yourself he was moving on, you told yourself you were stronger without him and then the event happened.
You were assigned to work the media side of a charity gala, photos, interviews, coordinating the press area. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept you busy and that was all you needed. You didn’t know he was attending, not until you turned and saw him walk through the entrance with the rest of his team. Your lungs simply stopped working, he looked exhausted, thinner, like someone had carved away the softness he used to carry around you and when he saw you
his entire body stopped too. He looked like someone had punched him in the ribs but you didn’t freeze, you didn’t crumble. You lifted your chin, forced professionalism into your spine, and walked past him like he was any other guest.
The rain had already started by the time you stepped outside. Soft at first, cold pinpricks against your skin as you slipped out through the side terrace door of the venue. The event was nearly over; guests were trickling out, umbrellas blooming like dark flowers. Indoors, people were still laughing, clinking glasses, taking photos but you needed air and space. You needed a moment away from the job, from the noise, from the hallway where you had seen him and pretended you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing your hands up your bare forearms as the rain picked up. The thin blouse you wore for work clung to your skin immediately, making you shiver. You stepped deeper onto the terrace, letting the rain hit you fully now, like maybe it could wash the ache out of you. Then the door creaked open behind you and you didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Your breath caught and you closed your eyes. Of course he followed. “Mason… please don’t.”
But he’d already crossed the space between you. “I’m not letting you walk away again without saying anything.”
You turned slowly. He was soaked—rain catching on his eyelashes, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling like he’d barely thought before chasing you out here and God… he looked wrecked. “You blocked me.”
You swallowed, trembling harder under the cold. “Mason, I didn’t want to talk about this here.”
“No,” he stepped closer, his voice shaking now too. “You blocked me. Without a word. After everything.”
You looked down. “Because every time you texted… it hurt.”
His jaw clenched. “So you just cut me off? You just walked away,” he whispered.
“You never asked me to stay,” you added.
He shook his head, rain sliding down his cheeks like tears. “I begged you to stay,” he said hoarsely. “You’re just too scared to actually allow yourself to like me.”
“It is,” he insisted, stepping closer. “You run the second you care even a little bit.”
You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, shivering. Rain kept soaking you and Mason noticed it then. Your shaking, your wet hair sticking to your neck, the goosebumps crawling up your arms. He exhaled sharply and shrugged out of his jacket even though it was raining too hard for it to matter. He stepped toward you slowly, like you were a startled animal, and draped it over your shoulders.
“Here,” he murmured. “You’re freezing.”
You shook your head. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cut in softly. “Just… keep it on.”
You held the jacket closed with trembling fingers, his warmth lingering in the lining, his scent surrounding you fresh soap, aftershave, something familiar that made your chest twist so violently you had to look away. He watched you for a long moment, something breaking open in his eyes. “Who hurt you so badly,” he whispered, “that you won’t trust anything good anymore? That you won’t even trust me?” Your breath hitched. The question sank sharp into your ribs. He stepped closer again. “Tell me.”
“No,” he said softly. “You need to say it because I know this isn’t about me. And I can’t keep proving myself against ghosts unless you actually tell me what I’m fighting.”
Your throat tightened painfully. “My ex,” you finally said. His expression froze—then hardened. You swallowed again, your voice trembling. “I spent years with him. He made me feel small. Invisible. Like I was always waiting for him to choose me, and he never did. I was… convenient. A placeholder. He had a career, he had options, he had a life I couldn’t keep up with. I was always second. Always an afterthought. Always begging for scraps of attention.” Mason’s chest rose sharply, rain running down his jaw. “And when it ended,” you continued, “I promised myself I would never stand in someone’s shadow like that again. I told myself I wouldn’t get involved with anyone whose world was too big for me to fit into.” Your voice broke. “And then I met you.” Mason blinked hard, his lashes wet, his breath uneven. “And you’re… everything,” you whispered. “Everything I can’t handle. Everything that scares me. You live a life with headlines and rumours and crowds and people who always want a piece of you. And I can’t do that. I can’t handle seeing you with someone else in a picture and wondering if I’m just another thing that will never come first.”
The rain drowned the silence. He stepped forward, gently gripping your face in his hands, thumbs brushing raindrops from your cheeks. “I would never treat you like that,” he said quietly.
You shook your head. “You say that now.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “I say that because it’s true. Your ex broke you and I’m standing here begging for the chance to put you back together.” Your breath caught. “You still want to run,” he whispered. “I can see it.”
“Because I’m scared,” you breathed.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because so am I.”
You felt his breath against your lips which were warm despite the cold. “Mason… we shouldn’t—”
“I miss you.” His forehead pressed to yours. “Every single day.”
Your hands fisted in the collar of his jacket around you. “Don’t,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please don’t—”
“I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”
And then he kissed you, it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t cautious, it was desperate and frantic. A month of unsaid words, unspilled longing, sleepless nights, and heartbreak colliding at once. You gasped into him as his mouth moved hungrily against yours, fingers sliding into your wet hair, pulling you closer. Your own hands curled into the front of his shirt, dragging him into you like you needed him to breathe. He pressed you back against the wall rain-soaked, breathless, trembling his lips devouring yours like he had been starved for them.
“I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, voice wrecked.
He kissed you again deeper this time. Your knees nearly buckled as his hands slid to your waist, gripping like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go again. For one terrifying, beautiful moment you let yourself want him. Then your heart snapped back into your chest. You broke the kiss with a gasp, shaking your head, pushing against his chest even though your fingers didn’t want to let go.
“I can’t,” you whispered. “We can’t.”
He stared at you, devastation etched into every line of his face. “Don’t walk away again,” he begged.
“No you don’t,” he murmured, reaching out—but stopping just before touching you. “Don’t make me lose you again. I can’t… I can’t do that again.”
“Mason…” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, rain running down his temples. “Let me prove it.” You froze. “Let me prove to you,” he said louder, more desperate, “that I can be everything you need me to be.”
It shattered you but you still stepped back and turned away. You still left with his jacket heavy and warm around your shoulders before you could crumble at his feet. You didn’t look back, not even when he shouted into the rain:
“JUST GIVE ME THE CHANCE!”
Your feet kept moving and your heart didn’t and behind you, Mason stood in the storm
soaked, breathless, shaking watching you disappear for the second time.
You unblocked him three days after that night not because you weren’t scared anymore but because pretending you didn’t care had become more painful than admitting you did. The moment his name un-greyed in your contacts, you stared at it for a full minute, heart pounding hard enough to shake your ribs. You expected him to message right away but he didn’t. He waited until the next morning.
Mason
Morning.
I’m not pushing. Just… thanks for unblocking me.
Hope you slept alright xx
The gentleness of it melted something in your chest and just like that—you let him back in. It wasn’t a dramatic reunion, it wasn’t rushing back into each other’s arms. It was slow and soft.
He sent you stupid jokes, you sent him sarcastic replies. He asked about your day and you asked about training. He didn’t flirt, not at first. He let you lead the pace.
The first time he sent something that wasn’t neutral was when a bouquet arrived at your office sunflowers, your favourite. The note read:
Saw these and thought of you.
(They looked like they were judging me for not buying chocolate with them.)
— M
Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You texted:
You:
Chocolate would’ve been a good call tbh x
Mason:
Noted.
Next time there will be chocolate.
A stupid amount xx
He wasn’t kidding. Two days later you came home to a bag of your favourite sweets hooked on your doorknob with a sticky note:
Don’t eat them all at once.
Actually do then I can totally judge you for it
You laughed so loudly your neighbour peeked out to check on you.
The following morning your gym had emailed you a cheerful “We’re closed for refurbishment! See you in three weeks 😊,” and the emoji alone made you want to throw your phone across the room. You told Mason through text because the annoyance felt too stupid to complain about to anyone else.
You:
Fuming. My gym is closed for three weeks. Do you know what this means?
Mason:
Long jogs outside?
A minute later, your phone buzzed again.
Mason:
Come to mine.
Use my gym.
Problem solved xx
You stared at the message and your pulse picked up.
You:
Mason I can’t just go use your gym like it’s a public facility
You:
Because you’ll be there
Mason:
I already judge your frappuccinos
Not your workouts xx
Mason:
You love me
Come over at 2
His place still made your breath catch a little not because it was fancy, but because it was him. His shoes by the door, his jacket thrown over the banister, a coffee mug left on the counter. He greeted you with that soft grin that made your stomach dip.
“Gym’s downstairs,” he said, handing you a bottle of water. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
You laughed. “Mason, I know what a treadmill looks like.”
“You’d be surprised,” he murmured, eyes dropping pointedly to your frappuccino in your hand.
“That’s fuel. Its caffeine.”
He shook his head, fighting a smile as he led you into his home gym with mirrored wall, weights, equipment, the whole professional setup.
“You just… have this in your house?” you muttered.
He shrugged. “It’s my job.”
“And my job is to avoid exercising as much as possible.”
He shot you a look. “Not today.”
You rolled your eyes but followed him anyway, you didn’t expect him to stay but he did which made it 100 times worse.
“Mason, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” he said simply. “I want to.”
And that was that he stood behind you as you squatted, his hand hovering near your lower back to correct your posture. His voice low, warm, patient. “Bend your knees more—yep, good. Don’t lock your shoulders.”
He steadied your elbows during bicep curls, the lightest brush of his fingers making your breath hitch. “Slow on the way down. Control it.”
He wrapped the resistance band around your thighs, tapping once on your hip to guide you. “Chest up. Good. You’ve got this.”
He smiled every time you muttered a complaint under your breath. When you accidentally let out a dramatic groan after a set, he laughed softly behind you. “You’re doing great.”
“You love when I encourage you.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
His grin widened. “Balance.” You shot him a glare. He stepped close, smirk tugging at his lip. “Better form or I’ll add weight.”
“Threatening me is rude.”
And—God—you loved it. You loved him like this. When you finished, he tossed you a towel.
You collapsed dramatically on the floor. He knelt beside you. “You alive?”
“You were better than I expected.”
You shoved him and he caught your wrist gently, smiling. Something warm lingered between you.
Afterwards, you insisted loudly that you needed something greasy, fattening, and absolutely not Mason-approved.
He raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Like a double cheeseburger.”
He blinked. “After a workout?”
He dragged a hand down his face dramatically. “You’re going to undo every rep you just did.”
“You’re—” He cut himself off, laughing. “Unbelievable.”
But he drove you to the takeaway anyway. You ate in the car, your head resting gently on the seat, the heater on full blast, the smell of chips and soy sauce filling the space. Mason watched you take a big bite and groaned. “You’re actually killing me.”
“This is joy,” you said with your mouth full.
He rolled his eyes but smiled so softly you felt it in your bones. “You know,” he murmured, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel, “I like you like this.”
“A little messy. A little chaotic. A little unpredictable.”
You swallowed, cheeks warming. “I don’t feel scared with you anymore,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Mason’s breath caught. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
You didn’t kiss him and he didn’t kiss you but the space between you hummed—warm, sure, steady and for the first time, your walls didn’t rise they opened.
He showed up at your flat unannounced the following week. You’d had the worst day at work—your boss micromanaging, a client screaming at you over something that wasn’t your fault, your bus delayed, your umbrella snapping in half like your patience. You trudged up the stairs to your building, exhausted, drenched—then stopped short when you saw someone waiting outside your door.
“H-hi,” Mason said, lifting a white paper bag like a peace offering. “I, uh… brought Chinese?”
You blinked at him, stunned. “What are you doing here?”
“I know you had a crap week,” he said softly. “You sounded stressed on the phone yesterday. And I figured… comfort food?”
You smiled despite yourself. “It’s Thursday.”
His grin spread—boyish, crooked, warm. “Exactly. Cheat day.”
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. “You literally shop like a kale-obsessed nutritionist. Cheat day my ass.”
“We can’t all live off frappuccinos and sugar,” he countered.
“Says the man who just brought me fried rice and sesame chicken.” You dropped your bag, toes curling with relief at the smell of warm food. “Did you get prawn crackers?”
“Woman,” he said, offended, “who do you think I am?”
You laughed again and it startled you how natural it felt and how easy. He unpacked the food in your tiny kitchen, pretending not to judge the complete lack of organisation. You nudged him with your hip as you reached for chopsticks. He nudged you back closer than necessary. Your heart didn’t panic this time. “You okay?” he asked quietly when he caught the small smile lingering on your face.
You nodded. “Yeah. I… yeah, I think I am.”
“Good,” he said, eyes softening. “I like seeing you okay.”
Something inside you loosened at that the knot you’d been carrying for months. You breathed easier than you had in a long time. You both sat on your sofa, your legs tucked under you, his thigh warm against yours, your laughter filling the flat in a way that felt like sunlight.
“Mason?” you said quietly as he tried (and failed) to use chopsticks correctly.
He looked at you like the room shifted around him. Like he felt it too, this soft, growing thing unfurling between you. He nodded once. Voice low and warm. “Me too.”
The takeaway boxes were long abandoned, movie credits rolling soundlessly in the background. You’d barely registered when the screen dimmed, lost somewhere in the haze of Mason’s fingers lazily tracing up and down your spine. You were draped across him on the sofa, legs tangled, your cheek resting on his bare shoulder. “I’m going to explode,” you murmured against his skin, patting your belly.
“You say that like it wasn’t your idea to order seconds,” Mason replied, the smile in his voice unmistakable.
You lifted your head just enough to glare. “Excuse me, I clearly remember you saying ‘get whatever you want.’”
“Yeah, I didn’t think that meant three portions of salt and pepper chips and a second round of prawn toast.”
You groaned. “No regrets.”
“None,” you grinned. “Except maybe giving you access to my Deliveroo account.”
He laughed and shifted slightly beneath you, letting you settle more comfortably against him. You tilted your head, gazing up at him, your eyes catching in the low amber light of the lamp. It was quiet for a moment.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
His lips curved slowly. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I just like this. You. Here. Us.”
You swallowed. The moment stretched — sweet, taut, charged. Then you leaned up, kissing him soft and slow. His hand came up instantly to cup your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw as your mouth slotted against his. The kiss deepened before either of you could think, before logic could creep in. There was nothing careful about it. Just heat and history and something terrifyingly real. You broke away with a shaky breath. “Come to bed.”
Mason froze for half a second, blinking at you. Then he nodded. You reached for his hand, pulling him gently from the sofa. The journey to your bedroom was quiet, your heart thudding like it knew what was coming. Once inside, you turned to face him both of you barefoot, flushed from the wine and comfort food and whatever it was humming between you now. You tugged your t-shirt off first, tossing it to the floor. His eyes didn’t leave your face as you unclasped your bra slowly, letting it fall. His breath caught, jaw tightening not with hunger, but reverence.
“Jesus,” he whispered. You reached for his hoodie, dragging it off him. Your fingers skimmed over his toned stomach as you reached for the waistband of his joggers, and you smiled at the way his abs flexed beneath your touch.
“Take them off,” you murmured, your voice suddenly shy, but laced with intent. Mason didn’t say a word. Just stepped out of his joggers and boxers in one slow, fluid motion. His arousal was already obvious, thick and flushed, resting against his thigh. Your breath caught.
“Your turn,” he said, voice rough. You slipped your shorts down slowly, baring yourself completely. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Just stared. Then Mason stepped forward and kissed you again slower, deeper this time. His hands wandered carefully, reverently. They skimmed down your arms, over your hips, then lower. “Lie down for me,” he whispered against your mouth.
You did and he joined you on the bed, crawling between your thighs, kissing your inner knees, the softest parts of you first. Then he shifted down, spreading you gently open, kissing the crease of your thigh before his fingers dipped into your warmth. You gasped, head falling back.
“God,” you moaned as he curled two fingers slowly inside you. “Mase…”
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, watching you unravel. “Way too many times.” He pumped his fingers steadily, curling just right, his thumb brushing your clit in circles that had your thighs trembling. He was slow, meticulous. The kind of lover who wanted to memorise every single reaction. You were already close when he moved up to kiss you again but just as you were about to beg for more, your hand slipped down between you, wrapping around his length.
Mason groaned against your neck. “Fuck—”
“Let me,” you whispered, stroking him in slow, teasing pumps. He swore again, low and ragged, hips jerking into your hand. You kept your eyes on his face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure as your thumb brushed over the head but he caught your wrist suddenly, breathing hard. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last and I need to be inside you. Now.”
You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling. “Then lie down.”
He obeyed, falling back against your pillows with a mix of a laugh and a growl. You straddled him slowly, your knees on either side of his waist, guiding him to your entrance. The first stretch made your eyes flutter shut. You sank down slowly, breath hitching, and Mason’s hands clamped onto your hips. “Jesus Christ,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—so good.”
You moaned softly, hands braced on his chest. You began to move, slow and careful at first, rolling your hips in tight circles. Mason’s head tipped back against the pillow, veins in his neck standing out. “Just like that,” he gasped. “You’re perfect, baby.”
You rode him as long as your trembling thighs would allow, picking up pace until you were clenching around him, biting your lip as the pleasure built again but your legs started to shake and he noticed. “Tired already?” he teased breathlessly, eyes glinting. “That’s your stamina for ya.”
“Shut—up—” you panted, trying to keep going, but you faltered again, a small whimper escaping.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he grinned, flipping you suddenly onto your back.
You yelped, laughing breathlessly. “Hey—!”
“Let me take over,” Mason murmured against your mouth, sliding back in with a groan that went straight through you. “I’ve got you.”
And God, did he. He moved slow at first. Long, deep thrusts that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. But soon, he picked up the pace, slamming into you with a rhythm that sent the headboard knocking softly against the wall. His stamina was ridiculous, your second orgasm came quickly, crashing over you before you even realised it was building. You clenched around him, whimpering his name.
He kissed you through it, whispering, “That’s it, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
He didn’t stop. He slowed only to kiss your neck, your lips, your chest to murmur things like “so beautiful” and “I love how you sound” and “I can’t believe I’m finally here with you.”
By the time he was close, you were nearly shaking with oversensitivity but you didn’t want him to stop. You pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around him. “Inside,” you whispered. “I want you.”
His eyes locked with yours. “Are you sure?”
You nodded. He moaned your name as he came, hips stuttering, mouth pressed to your neck, his whole body trembling. You held him through it, nails digging into his back, gasping for air. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then you let out a weak, stunned laugh. “Okay…”
Mason lifted his head, brow still furrowed from the high. “Yeah?”
“That was…” You blinked up at him, your body boneless. “That was like the best sex I’ve ever had.”
He smirked, cheeks flushed. “That so?”
You nodded, breathless. “Like… easily.”
Mason kissed your forehead, still smiling. “Well, get comfy because I plan on keeping that title.”
You giggled into his chest, pulling the blanket up over both of you as he tucked you in close, still warm, still inside you, still whispering things like “I’m not going anywhere” and “I love this bed. I love you.” And for the first time — you believed him.
It’s sometime after 3AM when you wake up, the warmth of Mason’s body still pressed to your back, his arm heavy across your waist. The sheets are twisted between your legs. His breath is soft against your shoulder, mouth slightly open, the kind of sleep that only comes after hours of exhaustion physical and emotional. You slip out from under him gently, careful not to stir him. He murmurs something, a barely-there sound, but doesn’t wake. You grab the oversized hoodie he left on the chair, padding barefoot into the kitchen. The flat is quiet, still humming with the afterglow of everything that happened just hours ago the laughter, the trembling hands, the whispered “I’ve got you” that still echoed faintly in your ears. You didn’t realise how much you’d needed that, how much you'd needed him. You flick on the kettle out of habit but reach for a glass instead, filling it at the tap, the cool water grounding your nerves. Your thighs ache in the best way. Your heart full, maybe for the first time in years but it’s as you’re walking back into the living room, still sipping water, that you see it.
His phone left on the arm of the sofa where you'd tossed it earlier in your rush to get naked. The screen glows briefly with a buzz. You know you shouldn’t look. You really didn’t mean to but you glance. Just once and your stomach drops.
“🔁 Mason Mount linked with shock January move to Madrid. Sources say discussions are already underway.”
Madrid. Your heart thuds once. You blink at the screen, as if your mind is trying to fill in a blank that isn’t there. It’s just a rumour, it has to be. You know what football is like — you’ve heard him complain about it, laugh it off with his friends but your hands feel suddenly cold and your throat tightens in a way you can’t quite stop.
You set the water glass down with a quiet clink and back away from the sofa. Your bare feet move numbly toward the bedroom door. Mason’s still fast asleep, tangled in your sheets, his hand resting where you’d been. You watch him for a moment. You try — God, you try — to not overreact, to not spiral, to not hear your ex’s voice in your head saying “You always knew they’d leave eventually.”
You crawl quietly back into bed but your eyes stay open in the dark. The warmth is gone, your chest aches. You know it’s just a rumour but even the possibility of it makes you want to run because you know what it means to fall too hard, too fast, without a parachute. You’ve done it before. You still wear the bruises and Mason… Mason never said anything. Not tonight, not before.
You don’t sleep. When the first soft grey of dawn creeps in, you’ve already showered, dressed, and packed a tote bag with your laptop and work stuff. You write a note on the fridge whiteboard:
Had an early shift come in. Didn’t want to wake you. Just let yourself out, the door automatically locks when you close it. I’ll text later x
You don’t but you just couldn’t see him, not after this. You close the door softly behind you. Mason stays asleep, still dreaming, still smiling, probably and you walk out into the cold, the city not yet awake, wondering how you’ll stop yourself from breaking again.
He wakes up cold. The side of the bed where you were hours ago is empty no body, no warmth, no sleepy tangle of limbs or soft smile in the morning light. Just creased sheets and the faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the pillowcase. Mason frowns, blinking against the early sun that bleeds in through the curtains. He sits up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The flat is quiet, too quiet.
“Babe?” he calls out, voice still thick with sleep but there was no reply. He gets up and checks the kitchen. It was empty, no kettle boiled, no lights on, he is confused until he spots the notes you left. He stares at it too long and something twists in his chest. You hadn’t said anything about a shift last night, he checks his phone, no texts, no missed calls but one unread notification catches his eye—an article and his stomach lurches and blood runs cold. His phone hits the counter a little too hard when he sets it down because now it makes sense. Now your early exit, the note, the silence — you saw it and you left without a word.
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The next few days are hell, you avoid him entirely. All calls ignored and texts left on read. He sends flowers to your office twice. You don't even take them home. He tries showing up outside your building, on the third time he saw someone from your work who says you’re not in even though he swears he saw your silhouette through the blinds. He’s spiralling, but trying to hide it. Playing well in training, keeping the jokes going in the changing room. But at night? He replays that moment in your bedroom a hundred times over, every moan, every laugh, every “I want you.” It replays with the headline now, and your absence, and the fact that he never thought to warn you because nothing was real yet, except you were and now you’re gone.
It’s a week later when he corners you. You’re leaving a work event at a local community centre, clutching your camera bag and coat in the same arm, your head down. It’s already dark, your feet aching from a twelve-hour shift. He’s leaning against your car and your breath catches in your throat and your keys slip in your hand. “Mase—” you whisper, startled, voice raw with sleep deprivation and something worse. “What are you—?”
“You just left,” he says, cutting you off, voice low and shaking. “No call. No message. Not even a fucking text.”
You blink fast. “Don’t do this here.”
“No—you don’t get to do this.” He pushes off your car, taking a step toward you. “We had sex. You let me hold you. You let me stay. And then you fucking ghost me like it meant nothing?”
Your breath catches, guilt surging like a wave. “It wasn’t nothing,” you whisper.
He laughs bitterly. “You sure? Because you vanished like it was.”
You wrap your arms around yourself. The cold digs through your coat. “I saw the article….Madrid.” He freezes. “I woke up that night and it was just... there. No warning. No mention. You just—forgot to say you might be leaving the country.”
“It’s just a rumour,” he says quickly. “I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“That’s the point, Mason!” you snap, your voice breaking. “You haven’t made any decisions and I’m already planning how to protect myself. That should tell you everything.”
“I didn’t want to scare you—”
“No,” you cut in, breath trembling. “You just didn’t want to deal with me being scared.”
He swears under his breath, running a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought we had time.”
“Well, we didn’t,” you whisper. “And now everything just feels like a mistake.”
Mason’s face falls. “You don’t mean that.”
You look up at him, eyes shining. “I can’t fall for someone who won’t even stay.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, quietly: “I haven’t made a decision yet.”
You laugh, broken and breathless. “That makes it worse.”
He swallows hard, stepping toward you again. “I’m trying.”
“Then try harder,” you cry. “Because I’m not going to sit around waiting to be left again.”
Tears spill from your eyes and Mason looks destroyed but he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t promise anything and that silence is all you need to hear. You shake your head slowly, backing toward your car. “This isn’t me giving up,” you whisper. “This is me protecting myself.” He watches you go, eyes wide, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. You get into your car and you drive away.
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The knock comes just after ten. You’re barefoot, in pyjamas, hair scraped into a loose bun, the telly humming low in the background, not really being watched. You weren’t expecting anyone and definitely not him. You pause in the hallway, staring at the front door like it might vanish if you blink. Mason stands there, hood up, shoulders tense, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. The kind of exhausted that’s deeper than lack of sleep. “Mason…” your voice falters in your throat.
He doesn’t wait. “I got the call,” he says. Quiet and final. “The transfer’s happening.” Your breath stops. He swallows hard, stepping closer. “Madrid want me. I’ve said yes.”
You inhale sharply, like the air itself betrays you. “No. No—don’t—don’t say that.”
“I’m telling you,” he says, “because I didn’t want you to see it online or hear it second-hand. I didn’t want to disappear on you”.
“You are disappearing on me!” you shout, voice cracking instantly. “Do you even hear yourself?”
He shuts his eyes, pain slicing across his expression. “Y/N, I didn’t choose this to hurt you—”
“BUT IT DOES!” The words tear out of you. He flinches. You step back, shaking. “I trusted you. I finally—finally—let myself trust someone again and you just… you leave. Like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” His voice is low, desperate. “You know this is my dream—”
“I KNOW!” you yell, hands flying up. “I know it’s your dream! But what about me? What about us? Did that never even matter in the equation?”
He shakes his head fiercely. “Of course it mattered—”
“Not enough,” you whisper. Your throat burns, your eyes sting. “Not enough to stay.”
He looks like the words hit him physically. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” you spit, voice trembling. “Be honest, Mason. Did you even THINK about how it would affect me? Even for a second? I get its your dream and I am not being selfish but why start something if you knew you would just break my heart?”
“I thought—” he starts, then stops. “I thought we would figure it out.”
“You didn’t tell me!” You shove his shoulder once not in violence, but in heartbreak.
“You let me sleep with you. Let me fall for you. And the whole time you were deciding whether to leave the country?!”
His voice cracks. “I didn’t know how to say it—”
“You LIED by omission,” you say, breath shaking, pointing at him like your finger is the last wall you have left. “You kept me in the dark. You kept me stupid. You let me think we had time.”
He swallows, chest heaving. “I was scared. Okay? I was scared of losing you.”
“You LOST me the moment you hid it!” Tears overflow, hot and relentless. “I can’t— I can’t do this. I can’t be the person who gets abandoned anymore.”
He steps forward, voice pleading. “I’m not abandoning you—”
“Yes, you are.” You choke on a sob. “You just came here to soften the blow.” His mouth opens and then closes again helpless. “I trusted you,” you whisper again, weaker this time. “God, I trusted you and you broke me.”
A long, unbearable silence stretches between you then you turn. You walk down the hall. He calls your name once hoarse, desperate but you don’t answer. You push your bedroom door open and collapse onto the bed, burying your face in the pillow as your chest caves in on itself. The sobs come in waves ugly, shaking, unstoppable, everything hurts. You curl into yourself, dragging a blanket over your shoulders, trying to smother the ache. You don’t hear Mason follow. You don’t hear him step into the doorway, breath trembling like he’s about to fall apart too. You barely feel the weight on the bed dip beside you until his hand touches your back.
He whispers, “Please don’t cry alone.” You press your face harder into the pillow, trying to silence your sobs but they only come louder. He slips under the blanket behind you, he doesn’t pull you to him at first. He just lies there close enough for his breath to brush your shoulder. Close enough that if you wanted, you could reach him. Then, slowly, you feel his arm slide around your waist, just offering. You don’t push him away. He pulls you back carefully, gently turning you so your cheek rests against his chest. His shirt is damp from your tears before you even realise you’re crying again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, his voice shattered barely holding together. You shake your head weakly, wiping your eyes. He holds you tighter. “I didn’t want to disappear on you,” he says. “I wanted to prove I wouldn’t be one of them.”
“But you are,” you breathe.
His chest rises in a painful inhale. “I know.” You close your eyes, listening to the slow, aching rhythm of his heart beneath your ear. His thumb rubs soft circles into your hip, his breathing syncing with yours, as if memorising it. He came here to say goodbye and instead, you both broke. You’re asleep within minutes as the exhaustion wins. Mason doesn’t sleep, he stays awake all night holding you, staring at the ceiling, crying silently into your hair, knowing dawn will come too soon and then knowing sunrise means leaving you for real.
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The next two weeks flew so quickly, you tried to prepare yourself with goodbye but Mason just had an affect on you and you couldn’t stay away. You spent nearly everyday with Mason, you just wanted to spend every moment with him. Before you knew it your last night together came around. The air in your living room was thick, you were curled up on the sofa hoping this moment never ends. “I don’t know how to do this,” you said, barely above a whisper.
Mason paused, turning to look at you. “Do what?”
“This. Act like it’s normal. Like we’re fine. Like I’m not breaking every time I think about you leaving.”
He stepped forward slowly. “You think I’m not breaking too?”
You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “But you’re still going.”
“You do,” you snapped, voice finally breaking. “You just didn’t choose me.”
His face shattered. “That’s not fair.”
You stepped back. “No, what’s not fair is giving yourself to someone — letting them in, trusting them — and then watching them walk away like it’s just a chapter.”
“I’m not walking away from you—”
“You are, Mason!” Your voice cracked into a sob. “You’re flying to another country and I’m just meant to keep going like you didn’t change everything.”
His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. “I never asked you to pretend this doesn’t matter. I know it matters. I know.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one hurting?”
He shook his head, stepping closer. “You think I don’t think about you every second? That I’m not lying in bed wondering if I made the right call? I hate this. I hate that it’s tearing us up before it even begins.”
You were crying now, hot tears rolling down your cheeks, hands shaking at your sides. “Then why did you say yes?”
His voice broke on the next words. “Because I didn’t want to regret it.” And there it was, the truth you’d been trying to outrun.
You turned, walking away before he could see your face fully crumble. “I need a minute.”
You disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind you. Mason didn’t follow straight away. He stood in your living room, motionless, watching the door like it might open itself. Then when the silence dragged too long he moved.
You were curled on your side when he entered, your back to the door, the covers pulled halfway over your body. You didn’t hear him at first or maybe you pretended not to until the bed dipped behind you and a familiar hand rested on your shoulder. His voice was so soft, it shattered you. “Are you crying?” You shook your head, even though you were. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I don’t know how to do this either.” You didn’t speak. He lay behind you gently, curling his body around yours, sliding a tentative arm over your waist and you didn’t stop him. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, a quiet apology. “I wish things were different.”
You turned in his arms slowly, just enough to face him. Your eyes were swollen, lashes damp. “So do I.” For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then like gravity was pulling you together you leaned in. The kiss was slow, softer than any before it. Less about desire, more about desperation. It was the kind of kiss that begged time to stop, that tasted like love unspoken. He cupped your face, wiping a tear with his thumb. “Let me love you tonight,” he whispered. “Just tonight.” You nodded and the kiss deepened.
Clothes came off slowly, not rushed, not frenzied. Stripped between sighs and whispered apologies, each new inch of bare skin revealing a truth neither of you knew how to say out loud. You peeled his hoodie from his shoulders. He tugged your shirt over your head. Fingers brushed skin and eyes never broke contact. By the time you were both naked, the tension was unbearable. He kissed your neck, your chest, your ribs. “Let me take care of you,” he whispered.
You nodded, breathless. “Please.” He laid you down, lips trailing lower, slow, reverent kisses against the inside of your thighs. His fingers ghosted over your folds before easing inside you, curling deep. Your hips lifted into him as he added a second finger, his mouth finding your clit in the same moment. Your moan cracked through the silence.
“You taste like heartbreak,” he murmured, kissing you between strokes. “And I’ll miss it every fucking day.” Your hands fisted in the sheets, head tipping back as he brought you closer as his mouth and fingers working in perfect rhythm. You came fast, shaking beneath him, biting your lip to keep from sobbing. He kissed your thighs as you came down. “That’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”
You reached for him without thinking, dragging him up your body until your lips met again. “I want to be on top,” you whispered.
Mason blinked, eyes dark. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “I need to feel like I’m in control of something tonight.”
He rolled onto his back and held your hips as you climbed over him. His cock was thick and flushed, already hard, twitching slightly against your thigh as you hovered above him. You reached down, guided him to your entrance, and sank down slowly. Both of you gasped. “You feel—fuck,” he whispered. “So good. So perfect.”
You rocked your hips gently, setting a slow rhythm. His hands gripped your waist, his breath shallow, neither of you spoke at first. You just moved together soft gasps filling the space where words would fail. You rode him slowly, carefully, your forehead pressed to his, your hands braced on his chest. Mason traced circles on your thighs with trembling thumbs as tears welled in your eyes again. He saw and kissed you. “I’ll wait,” he whispered, voice breaking. “As long as it takes. I’ll wait for you.”
You shook your head, still moving. “You can’t promise that.”
You let out a sob, hips grinding into him as you chased another high not because you wanted pleasure, but because you couldn’t handle the ache any other way. He held you tighter, fucking up into you now, helping you move. “I want you to stay,” you cried.
He groaned, his own tears now falling freely. “God, baby—” Your orgasm took you both by surprise. It tore through you like grief loud, messy, endless. You clung to him, your body trembling as you fell apart around him. He followed seconds later, spilling deep inside you with a choked cry, his hands gripping your back, holding you close like letting go would destroy him. You stayed there, slumped over his chest, breathing hard, tears dampening his collarbone. He wrapped his arms around you, still inside, still joined. And for a moment, just one moment, it felt like maybe this wasn’t the end.
Later, he laid beside you, one hand tracing your spine like he was writing you into memory. You lay on your stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, utterly silent. “I’ll wait, I promise you I will.” he said again. You didn’t respond, not because you didn’t want to believe him but because you knew better. He kissed your shoulder and pulled the duvet over you both. And for tonight, just tonight, you let yourself fall asleep in the arms of a man you loved, knowing morning would come like a storm and take him with it.
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The announcement went public on a Monday.
“Official: Mason Mount signs with Real Madrid.”
It was everywhere before you'd even opened your eyes properly your phone buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand, your screen flooded with photos, headlines, tags, memories you didn’t ask for. You stayed in bed that morning, you cry and didn’t move. You just stared at the photo of him holding up the Madrid shirt and tried to stop your chest from caving in.
The silence lasted four days and then, one night, your phone buzzed.
Mason:
I don’t expect a reply. I just wanted to say… I miss you xx
I’m not sleeping. I don’t know how to be here without you x
I know I hurt you. But I’m still yours. I promise xx
You stared at the message for hours, then you replied.
And just like that, the distance between you shifted. The next night, it was voice notes that were soft, rambling ones. You sent one back. A nervous laugh. A whisper of "Your Spanish is awful." By the weekend, you were calling each other again. The tension was still there. But under it? A fragile thread of forgiveness. One night, Mason admitted it out loud “I hated leaving,” he said. “But I couldn’t let myself hate the dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”
“I know,” you whispered. “It still hurts but I know.”
You talked about it finally. About what this mean, about what you meant. Neither of you had the answers, but at least you were talking and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe maybe this wasn't the end.
Then the photo dropped Sunday morning. You were curled up on the sofa, still in your pyjamas, scrolling without really looking until your thumb stopped cold.
Mason Mount spotted with mystery woman in Madrid: New romance already?
Your stomach dropped. The image was blurry but clear enough it was him outside a bar, laughing with his arm around a girl’s shoulders. You didn’t recognise her, all you knew was that he said he’d wait and two weeks in, he was holding someone else. You didn’t cry but you shut your phone off. You sat in the silence and stared at the wall, your chest hollowing out like you’d been punched from the inside. When he called not long after you almost didn’t answer but eventually you knew you had to.
The second you picked up, he sounded breathless. “Hey. Did you see—?”
You cut him off. “So much for waiting for me.”
Your voice shook, but it stayed sharp. “There’s a photo of you, Mason. With your arm around some girl. Smiling outside the bar. So either that’s the world’s fastest rebound or your idea of waiting looks really different to mine.”
He exhaled hard. “Baby, no—no. That’s not what it is. I swear.”
“I don’t even know who she is.”
“She’s Emma. She’s engaged to one of the lads here. We were all out, she tripped on the curb, and I caught her. That’s all it was.”
“Funny how every headline seems to catch you doing everything but waiting for me.”
“Don’t do this,” he said, brokenly. “Please. I haven’t even looked at anyone else. I haven’t touched anyone. I haven’t fucking breathed around another girl without thinking about you.” You were quiet, too quiet. “I’m trying,” he said again. “I’m really fucking trying.”
“But you’re there,” you whispered. “And I’m here and that photo? It made me feel like I imagined everything.”
“You didn’t,” he choked. “You didn’t imagine a fucking thing.”
There was silence again the kind that says we’rebreaking, the kind that says we don’t know how to fix this, then Mason’s voice, quieter now, almost pleading: “Come to Madrid.”
“Please. Come here. Let me explain this in person. Let me show you you’re still the only one.”
“I don’t know if I can,” you breathed.
“Then let me prove that I can be everything you need even from here.”
You didn’t answer, you couldn’t because your heart was still bleeding but a part of you, the part still wearing his hoodie to sleep wanted to believe him, even now, even after everything.
The silence between you stretches long after the phone call ends. You lie awake that night, Mason’s voice still in your head. You stare at the ceiling for hours, your heart heavy and your body aching from holding too much in for too long. And then somewhere between 2 and 3am something inside you shifts. You don’t want to hurt anymore, you don’t want to wonder anymore. So you book the flight and text Lewis at 4:12am:
Don’t tell him. Just send me the address x
He replies a couple of hours later:
Take care of him. He’s not the same without you xx
You land in Madrid on a Wednesday, the sky is blue and cloudless. The city buzzes around you, fast and unfamiliar. You stand outside his building for a long time, trying to calm your nerves, one hand wrapped around the strap of your bag like a lifeline. And then you knock but there was no answer. You knock again, there was a pause and then footsteps. When the door swings open, Mason appears, shirtless, towel slung around his shoulders, his hair damp from a shower and he freezes. His breath leaves him like a punch to the chest. “You—” he chokes. “What—how are you here? How did you know where I lived?”
You shrug, trying to hold your composure. “Lewis.”
He stares at you like he’s not sure if he’s awake. “You… you actually came.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you say softly, stepping past him into the flat. “It’s not a proposal.”
He watches you like you’re a ghost. You take in the place, the clean white walls, the hardwood floors, the view of the city skyline through massive windows. It feels cold and big. Too quiet for someone like Mason. He closes the door behind you slowly. “You should’ve told me.”
“Would you have slept the night before if I did?”
He exhales, running a hand through his wet hair. “I don’t know. Probably not.” There’s a pause. He gestures vaguely around the room. “D’you, um—want something? Water? Tea? I don’t have milk but—”
He turns to face you again. You say nothing and neither does he because now that you’re here, the reality is louder than the silence everything you left unsaid, everything you tried to fix with distance, now crashing between you. “Why does it feel worse in person?” you whisper.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Maybe because I can’t lie to myself when you’re standing right there.”
You nod, your arms wrapping around yourself. “This isn’t easy.”
“You think this has been easy for me?” His voice is hoarse now. “I come back to this empty flat every night. I sleep in a bed that doesn’t smells like you. I go to training and pretend like I’m living my dream when I can’t breathe without checking if you’ve texted.”
Your throat tightens. “You left,” you remind him, not cruelly just honest.
“I followed my career,” he says, voice sharp. “You said you understood that.”
“I do!” you snap. “But that doesn’t mean it stopped hurting.”
He steps forward. “Then why didn’t you let me show you I was still choosing you too?”
You stare at him and then look away. “I thought it would be easier to walk away first.”
He nods slowly, his voice lowering. “You didn’t even let me fight for us.”
“You shouldn’t have to fight for someone you’re leaving behind.”
“I never left you behind.”
Your lip trembles and then it all falls apart. “I was so scared,” you whisper, eyes burning. “Of being forgotten, of being replaced. You promised to wait for me, and then I saw that photo and I felt like the biggest fool—”
He cuts you off, stepping forward and pulling you into his chest without warning. You go stiff and then you break. Your fingers fist into his t-shirt, your tears soaking into his skin as he holds you tighter than he ever has before. His arms wrap around you, his head buried in your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says again and again. “I’m so fucking sorry.” You cry harder. “I tried to forget you,” he whispers against your temple. “ I thought if I stopped checking my phone… if I stayed busy… if I ignored the ache…” He pulls back just enough to look at you. “But you ruined me.” You stare at him, breathing hard. “I couldn’t do it,” he says. “I couldn’t forget you. You’re everywhere. You’re the mug I bought because it looked like yours. You’re the playlist I can’t stop listening to on the drive home. You’re the phantom pain in the bed next to me every night. I close my eyes and it’s you, always.”
Your knees nearly give out. He catches you, gently walking you toward the living room, sitting you both on the wide empty sofa. You curl into his lap like you never left and after a long silence, you whisper, “I missed you.”
His voice cracks. “I missed us.”
It’s later now after dinner, after more tears, after a long shower you take in silence while Mason waits on the edge of the bed. You’re both in your comfiest clothes: his hoodie, your joggers, bare feet against the cool wood floor. There’s a quiet song playing on his speaker something low, soft, full of strings and aching vocals. Mason stands near the window, looking out at the lights of Madrid. You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. He turns and his eyes meet yours and without speaking, he holds out a hand and you take it. He pulls you into him, and the two of you sway in slow circles in the middle of his living room. There’s no rhythm and no steps. Just your head on his shoulder, your arms around his neck, and his hand pressed flat against your spine like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing that’s ever felt like home.
“I don’t want to leave again,” you whisper.
You press your forehead to his. “I’m still scared.”
“So am I,” he whispers. “But I’d rather be scared with you than without you.”
You close your eyes and breathe him in familiar, safe, wrecked and rebuilding maybe love doesn’t look like promises maybe it looks like showing up when it’s hard. Like flying across a continent because silence hurts more than fear and maybe, just maybe, this is the start of coming back together one slow dance at a time.
You only meant to stay for the weekend, just three nights, one suitcase and no expectations but somehow, Sunday arrived too quickly and yet… everything had changed.
You spent the first night curled into each other, tangled beneath unfamiliar sheets, whispering little things in the dark, apologies, confessions. Pieces of yourselves you’d both hidden under pride The next morning, he made you coffee the way you like it — too much sugar, not enough milk. He watched you sip it from the mug he swore he ‘didn’t’ buy because it reminded him of you. You saw the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he caught you looking at it. Later, you walked the city together, his hand warm in yours, a hoodie pulled up over his cap in hopes he wouldn't be recognised. He bought you pastries from a stall he said was “not bad for Madrid, but nowhere near what you get at home.” You fed him bites anyway.
That night, you sat on his sofa, knees touching, and had the conversation you’d both been avoiding. “What do we do now?” you asked softly.
Mason hesitated, then reached for your hand. “We do it properly this time.”
You looked up. “Distance?”
He nodded. “FaceTimes. Flights. Mornings that start too early and nights that end too late and then—when you're ready—”
He stopped. You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked nervous for the first time in days. “Move in.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
“I’m not saying now,” he said quickly. “Not yet. I know it’s a lot but eventually when it feels right. I want this — you. Us. All of it.”
You didn’t say yes but you didn’t say no either. You just leaned forward and kissed him soft, slow, grateful and that was enough.
The weekend passed like a dream. Too fast but warm in a way you hadn’t felt in months. He held your hand tighter when you walked through the terminal together. Neither of you said what you were thinking that this time, it wasn’t goodbye, just a see you soon. He stopped at the gate, pulling you gently aside before you reached the security line. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your hoodie, tracing the skin at your waist like he needed to remember how you felt.
You kissed him one last time long, quiet, lingering. “For once…” he whispered against your lips. “Don’t run.”
You looked up, smiling through the ache. “I’m not.” Your fingers curled around his wrist, grounding him. “I’m yours,” you said. “Always.”
