120 – Mason POV
What to do when you live with your crush?
You don't.
You simply survive.
You wake up every morning and try to act normal while the person you've been hopelessly in love with pads around your apartment in your oversized hoodie—your favorite hoodie—but now it smells like him and you'll never get it back.
You survive watching him drink your coffee, curled up on your couch like he owns the place (which, frankly, he kind of does now). You survive the sound of his laugh—low and a little rusty from disuse—when he finds a meme on your phone that shouldn't be funny, but suddenly is because he's laughing at it.
You survive his sleepy hair, and the way he says your name like he's trying it on for the first time every time.
You survive all of it, day by day.
Because you know you're not allowed to want him.
He's healing.
He's learning to breathe again, and you refuse to be another reason he chokes.
So you flirt without meaning to.
You joke without getting too close.
You lean in—just close enough to feel the pull—and then step back.
Because your therapist says boundaries are good, and his therapist says he's not ready, and your heart says don't ruin this.
But God, it's hard.
Especially at night, when he curls up next to you on the couch during movies. When he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder. When he mumbles your name in his sleep.
Especially when he walks around barefoot in your kitchen, yawning into his sleeve, and looking like every domestic daydream you've ever had.
He's started leaving more things around. His socks. A toothbrush. His shampoo. You find a half-read book on your nightstand that you didn't put there.
Sometimes, you swear he lingers on purpose. Like he wants to be caught. Like maybe he's just as stuck as you are.
But nothing ever crosses the line.
He teases. He laughs. He falls asleep too close.
And you let him.
Because it's enough.
It has to be.
You'd rather have him like this—halfway yours and still healing—than not at all.
Still, some nights, when he disappears into the bathroom to wash up, and the sound of running water fills the silence, you press your palms against your eyes and whisper:
"Get a grip."
Because one wrong move, and you're not his safe space anymore.
You're just another mistake.
And you refuse to be that.
But when he pads into the room, hair wet, cheeks flushed from the steam, wearing your pajama bottoms and a hoodie that swallows him whole…
You have to sit on your hands to keep from reaching out.
And when he smiles at you like that—eyes soft, lips shy—you wonder, for the hundredth time, if he knows what he's doing to you.
If he knows that you're already his.
If he knows that you're waiting, quietly, patiently, hopelessly—
For the day he's ready to want you back.
*
It's 1:04 AM.
The apartment is dead quiet. The kind of stillness where even your own heartbeat sounds too loud.
Harry's curled up in the bed—my bed, technically. He's fast asleep, one leg tucked under the blanket, the other flung out like he owns the place. His hoodie's hiked halfway up his stomach, revealing soft skin and the sharp edge of a hip bone.
He recently started sleeping here, saying he doesn't have nightmares around me, my scent is comforting or something.
It's torture, I pull my eyes away.
I don't look long.
I can't.
Instead, I do what I've been doing every night for the past… god knows how long.
I pad silently to the couch and sit on the edge, phone in hand, lotion, tissue. It's pathetic. I know it is.
But I'm a man in love with someone who sleeps six feet away from me and doesn't know. Or maybe he does. I don't even know anymore.
I unlock my phone, and the screen lights up with that one image.
Harry.
In a bathtub.
Wet curls plastered to his forehead, mouth parted slightly, skin flushed. Just underwear. Technically a shoot for some swimwear brand. Innocent, right? Perfectly safe for work.
But not for me.
Not when I've memorized every drop of water on his collarbone. Not when I've had dreams about that photo and woken up hard and guilty.
I lower my boxers and grip myself, trying to be quiet. Trying to keep my breathing under control.
I'm careful. Always careful.
I never touch him. Never even let my eyes linger too long when he's looking. I keep my hands in check, my voice soft, my distance respectful.
I bite my lip and stroke slowly, eyes half-lidded. It doesn't take much. Not with this photo. Not with thoughts of how he sounds when he's sleepy. The way he mumbles. The way he pouts when he's focused. The way he trusts me, without question.
That's the worst part.
He trusts me.
Even after everything Dorian put him through, Harry looks at me like I'm something safe. Something soft. His sanctuary.
And here I am. Doing this.
Guilt punches through the haze of pleasure, sharp and cold.
I stop.
Pull my hand away.
Breathe.
What the hell is wrong with me?