You didn't kiss.
You didn't touch beyond your hands resting between you.
But it was the most intimate night you had shared in years.
The two of you sat on the couch for hours, wrapped in the warmth of words left unsaid for too long.
"What did you do in those five months?" you asked.
Mason exhaled slowly, staring at his knees.
"I tried to date women again. Tried to force myself back into the world I thought I was supposed to live in."
"But every time I saw someone laugh, or sit quietly with their coffee, or wear a shirt like yours…"
"I thought of you. I only thought of you."
You got up quietly and went to your room, not saying a word.
A moment later, Mason followed — pausing in the doorway like he didn't deserve to cross into your life again.
"Grayson," he said softly. "Can I… stay?"
You looked at him.
Not as the man who hurt you — but as the man who was finally trying to love you the way you needed.
You didn't answer with words.
You simply pulled back the blanket, and nodded.
You lay side by side on the bed, facing each other in the dark.
His fingers grazed yours.
His breathing matched yours.
"I was so scared of being honest," he whispered.
"But I'm more scared of losing you again."
"Then don't lie anymore," you said.
He leaned in slowly, hesitantly, and rested his forehead against yours.
"I'm not going anywhere."
You didn't kiss. You didn't make love.
But for the first time, Mason held you —
Not as someone hiding from the world,
But as a man who wanted to live in it with you.
And somehow, that meant more than anything.