Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
As it turns out, Mason snores. It’s not loud enough to keep me awake, but it’s loud enough for me to notice it. It’s oddly comforting—the soft, rhythmic sound. His nose scrunches when he exhales, nasally breaths puffing out through his slightly parted lips.
He holds me all night, warm and tight. He once told me he “runs hot,” and he wasn’t lying. He’s sprawled beneath only a sheet, while I’m curled into his side, cocooned under his comforter.
When I wake, sunlight is already leaking through his navy blue curtains. Mason’s still asleep, his curls mussed, his arm heavy over my waist. I don’t want to wake him. I’m a naturally early riser, and I know he’s the complete opposite.
Eventually, my restless brain gets the best of me, and I gently untangle myself from Mason’s embrace.
I wander quietly around his bedroom. His dresser is lined with swimming trophies, a few medals hanging together on hooks.
A dusty high school yearbook is tucked in his bookshelf.
I pull it free and settle at the edge of his bed, flipping through the glossy pages.
The margins are full of signatures—dozens of them, mostly from girls who drew little hearts and smiley faces.
I think of my own senior yearbook, which had exactly two signatures: one from Derek, one from my science teacher. My own twin hadn’t even signed it. It’s painfully obvious how different our high school experiences were.
My eyes stick to Mason’s senior portrait. Same bright smile, same hazel eyes, but softer—more boyish. His curls were shorter back then, brushing just below his ears. Definitely the kind of guy I would’ve had a hopeless crush on. The kind of guy I would’ve thought about while jerking off.
When I turn to the senior superlatives, I nearly laugh out loud.
Of fucking course he won Best Hair.
The mattress shifts behind me. “Mornin’,” Mason says, his voice low and hoarse.
God, his morning voice is unbelievably sexy. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to pounce on top of him and suck his dick.
“Morning,” I reply, forcing my eyes to stay on the page.
He props himself up on his elbow. “Whatcha’ lookin at?”
“Your yearbook, Mr. Best Hair.”
He grins sleepily, running a hand through his luscious locks like he’s proving the title. “Are you even surprised?”
I smile and shake my head. “Not at all.”
He smirks. “Did you win any superlatives in high school?”
“No,” I admit. “But I was valedictorian.”
“Of course you were, smarty-pants.” His chin rests on my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. “I would’ve voted you for Best Smile, Best Laugh, Best Ass, Best Cock—”
“I don’t think those last two are official categories,” I interrupt, laughing.
I flip another page, and my gaze snags on a photo of Mason in a collared shirt, the caption beneath it reading: Class President.
“Whoa,” I say, tapping the picture. “You were class president?”
“Oh, yeah.” He chuckles, but his tone is almost shy. “I know it’s basically a popularity contest, but I did take it seriously. I liked helping people—even if it was just making sure the vending machines got restocked or planning pep rallies.”
I pause, eyes flickering back at the photo. “So did you always know you wanted to major in political science?”
His smile fades into something steadier, more grounded. “Yeah. It was a no-brainer for me in college. I grew up watching my mom juggle food stamps, getting denied for programs that were supposed to help, figuring out how to pay for my insulin. I wanted to fix all that.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Have you ever thought about going back? You could do an online program, finish your degree.”
He stares down at his bedsheets. “No. I don’t have the time or money. And honestly…” He exhales, running his hand down his face. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.”
The air between us stills. I could push, but I don’t.
I close the yearbook and set it on his nightstand. “Okay,” I say softly.
He leans back against the pillows, pulling me down with him until I’m tucked under his arm again. His breathing gradually evens out, slow and steady.
For a few minutes, we just lie there, his fingers idly tracing my shoulder. Then, in that lazy morning voice of his, he asks, “Hey… have you thought any more about letting me teach you how to swim?”
I groan into his chest. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”
“Nope.” His lips twitch into a smirk I can feel more than see. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you,” I say honestly. “I just… it’s embarrassing. I’m a grown man who can’t swim.”
“You’re a grown man who hasn’t learned yet. And it’s more common than you’d think. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with a smile. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m determined,” he corrects, sitting up with a sudden burst of energy. “And guess what? I’ve got the whole day off. Sun’s out, water’s calm. Today is literally the perfect day to get in the lake.”
I give him a wary look. “You’ve already planned this out in your head, haven’t you?”
“Obviously,” he says, grinning. “So… you in?”
I sigh. “Fine. But if I drown, I’m haunting you.”
He pecks my cheek. “Deal. You’ll be the sexiest ghost ever.”
I shake my head, but he’s already climbing out of bed, clearly thrilled with himself. And maybe, despite my nerves, I’m kind of glad he talked me into it.
“I should stop at home first. Need to shower and grab my swim trunks,” I say, stretching my arms overhead.
“Alright. I’ll pick you up around noon?”
“Sure.”
He smiles and leans down to kiss me, but I slap my hand over my mouth. He frowns.
“I have morning breath,” I say through clenched teeth.
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t care.”
Before I can protest, he pulls my hand away and kisses me anyway—soft and unhurried, his palms sliding down to my waist to squeeze me closer.
When we separate, he murmurs, “I’ll walk you out,” and places his hand on the small of my back.
We pass by the dining room, where his mom is sitting and sipping coffee. She has a blanket draped around her knobby shoulders. Her eyes look sunken and dark with exhaustion.
“Good morning,” she greets, clearing her throat. “You must be Hunter?”
She extends a bony hand, and I shake it. Her skin is ice cold.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You can call me Anna,” she insists with a smile. “Thank you for helping Mason take Maddie to that concert last night. I’m sure she had a wonderful time.”
“It was no problem. We had a lot of fun.”
“You seem like a sweet boy,” she says, giving Mason a look I can’t quite decipher.
His face flushes. “Hunter has to get going. We’re heading to the beach today.”
“That sounds nice. Have fun, you two.”
Mason ushers me outside. We stop beside my car, and before I can open the door, he leans in and kisses me again, which catches me by surprise. There’s nobody around to see us, but we’re standing in the trailer park in broad daylight.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, still smiling as he backs toward his trailer.
I watch him for a beat longer than I should, my chest tight with nerves and something warmer. If I’m being honest, I’m not sure what I’m more anxious about—stepping into the lake, or stepping deeper into whatever this is with him.
***
The drive to the beach is quiet, but in a comfortable way. Mason’s got one hand on my thigh, tapping along to the radio while the other grips the steering wheel. The midday sun makes the lake sparkle in the distance.
When we park in the small gravel lot, I realize we’re nowhere near the main public beach. Instead, Mason chose a narrow stretch of sand tucked behind a line of maple trees, the water lapping quietly at the pebbled shore. There’s no crowd—just us, a few seagulls, and the endless blue.
“Privacy,” Mason says with a small smile, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he climbs out of the truck. “Figured it’d be less stressful for your first time.”
“First time,” I echo with a trembling laugh. “Are you popping my swimming cherry?”
He laughs and leads me down a small hill to the beach. We set our stuff down on the sand, and Mason kicks off his shoes without hesitation. He peels off his shirt effortlessly, his chest catching the sunlight, all lean muscle and tan skin.
My stomach lurches. I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt for a few seconds, contemplating if I want to take it off. It feels like a protective bandage over an ugly, gaping wound.
I don’t take it off.
“Ready?” he asks, already wading into the water.
I step forward slowly. The water is shockingly frigid around my ankles, making me yelp. Mason laughs before grabbing my hand, pulling me toward him.
We move slowly into deeper water until it’s up to my waist. I cross my arms over my chest, my nipples perking from the cold. “So, uh… what exactly is the plan here?”
“The first step is getting you comfortable,” he says, still holding my hand. “We’re gonna start with floating. You just lean back, keep your body loose, and let the water hold you.”
I frown. “That sounds like an easy way to drown.”
“I’ll hold you up,” he insists.
His hands migrate to my waist, warm even in the cool water. My breath stutters at the contact. “Okay,” I murmur, my voice a little shakier than I’d like.
“Trust me,” Mason says softly. “Lean back. I got you.”
I inhale a deep breath of courage before tilting backwards, Mason’s palms supporting my lower back. My oversized shirt immediately balloons up and flops over my face like it’s trying to suffocate me. I splutter and shove it down, only for it to float up again.
“Fuck, this is annoying,” I mutter.
Mason snorts. “Then take it off.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, shoving at the fabric again.
“Hunter—”
“I said I’m fine,” I grit out, harsher than I’d intended.
He pauses, his expression softening. “This would be a lot easier if you took it off. It’s just me.”
I stare at him for a long moment as my anxiety loosens its grip, and my shoulders untense. He means it. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just that steady patience he has when he’s coaxing me out of my thoughts.
I nod numbly before standing upright again. I tug the wet shirt over my head, staring down at the water, refusing to look at him. My skin immediately prickles with goosebumps.
“See?” he says, tossing my shirt back toward our spot on the sand. “All good.”
His hands settle on my waist again. I try to ignore the way his thumbs brush over my protruding hipbones.
“Alright, let’s try it this way,” he says, turning me around.
He hooks his arms under my armpits, my back pressed against his warm chest.
“Lean into me,” he encourages.
Slowly, I let my back tip toward him. The cold water creeps higher, sliding up my ribs, my shoulders, until it’s lapping against my ears. Mason’s hands find my back and under my arms, steady and supportive.
“Close your eyes,” he urges. “Trust the water. Trust me.”
It’s easier said than done. My body feels tense, my bones heavy. I can hear my own breathing, shallow and fast, over the quiet ripple of the waves.
“Breathe in deep,” he says softly. “Hold it. The air in your lungs will keep you up.”
He’s right. I’m a scientist, after all, and I know I should be able to float. That’s how physics works.
I inhale a long breath. My legs loosen, drifting toward the surface. The water cradles me, cool against my skin.
“Good,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
My eyes stay shut, but I can feel the sun on my face, the waves rocking me like a slow heartbeat. His palms are still braced under my lower back.
“Are you okay if I let go? I’ll be right here. I promise.”
I swallow. “Alright.”
After a moment, his hands slip away. I tense, but I’m still there, suspended.
“See? You’re fine,” he says.
I crack one eye open. He’s right beside me, watching, his curls wet and sticking to his forehead. His expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it, like he’s proud of me.
“Now, try moving your arms a little. Slow, steady movements. Just let yourself glide.”
I barely move them, stroking outward. The shift is small, but I drift forward, smooth and easy. It’s… peaceful, in a way I didn’t expect. And I know Mason’s right next to me in case things start going south.
“You can try a backstroke now, if you want,” Mason says.
I glance up at him. “You’ll stay next to me?”
“Of course.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll move your arms like this,” he says, gently taking my wrist. He stretches my arm straight and sweeps it back in a slow arc underwater. “Then alternate with kicking—arm, leg, arm, leg. Nice and steady.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Got it.”
I try, awkward at first, my arm slicing back through the water while my feet kick unevenly beneath me. Mason swims alongside, close enough that I can feel the faint brush of his fingers if I veer.
“You’re doing great,” Mason promises.
By the time I reach where the water shallows, I’m breathing hard, but there’s this strange, light feeling in my chest. As droplets trickle down my face, I glance back at the path I just swam. It’s not far—but I did it.
Mason grins, arms snaking around my waist. “Told you I wouldn’t let you drown.”
“You’re a good teacher,” I tell him, looping my arms around his neck.
He lifts me effortlessly so our faces are level, the lake swirling around us. His mouth finds mine—quick at first, then lingering—before he spins me once in the water, both of us laughing.
The sound echoes across the empty beach, carried away by the wind. Despite my fear, when I’m here in his arms, I don’t want to return to shore. I could stay like this for eternity, drifting in the water together until our fingers prune.