Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Stacked cardboard boxes crowd my apartment like skyscrapers, piled in every corner and spilling into the narrow hallway.
The sound of ripping tape snaps through the air as Mason sits cross-legged on the floor, unpacking his collection of swimming trophies and medals.
He sets the dust-covered trinkets on my bookshelf, next to my vintage botany identification guides.
I glance around. My apartment has always been simple and organized.
Cream colored walls. Neutral toned furniture.
A few framed prints decorate the walls, each one centered and evenly spaced like I measured them with a ruler—which, okay, I did.
But Mason’s stuff is already changing the atmosphere: his clutter of horror movie memorabilia, chipped ceramic mugs, a neon green fuzzy blanket draped over the back of the couch.
My order and his chaos shouldn’t mesh, but weirdly, it feels… right.
In the bedroom, I start unpacking a box of his hoodies. I’m already bubbling at the thought of our wardrobes merging together. I love wearing his clothes. It feels peacefully domestic—sharing a closet, his muscle tees hung next to my oversized sweaters.
Opening the next box, I uncover a picture frame wrapped in an old towel.
When I peel back the fabric, I find a framed photo of Mason and Anna.
He’s young in the photo, maybe five or six, with a gap-toothed grin.
My heart clenches at the sight of Anna’s smile, wide and radiant.
Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close to her chest.
I glance at Mason from across the room. “Where do you want this? It feels like something that should be displayed somewhere special.”
Mason takes the frame from me. His thumb smooths along the edge as his eyes turn glassy. “I miss her,” he says quietly.
My throat feels tight. “I know you do.”
He slowly shakes his head. “But I’m… relieved she’s not suffering anymore.”
The way he says it—the heaviness in his voice, the way his gaze dips—makes it clear he isn’t just talking about the cancer. She’d been suffering long before her diagnosis.
Mason sets the frame on the left nightstand—his nightstand now. He stares at it for a moment, jaw tight.
I sit beside him on the bed, squeezing his hand. “Next weekend… when we’re back in Claremont Shores for dinner with Stephen and Maddie, maybe we could bring flowers to her grave. If you’d like that.”
He blinks, surprised, then nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
We’re both quiet for a while before Mason exhales, dragging a hand through his curls.
He grabs a heavy plastic tote labeled MEDICAL with black permanent marker and opens the lid.
Inside, it’s all rows and rows of boxes—CGM sensors, insulin pump sets, test strips, alcohol swabs.
His expression shifts into something more tense, shoulders hunched just slightly.
I stand and open the closet. “Hey,” I say, motioning him over. “I cleared off a shelf for you. Figured it might make sense to keep all your supplies in one place.”
He looks up at me, startled, then back at the open tote. “You did that?”
“Of course.” I shrug. “You’ve got enough to worry about. Might as well make one thing simpler.”
For a second he doesn’t move, just stares at me like he’s memorizing my face.
Then he sets the tote aside, stands, and closes the small distance between us.
His hand grips the back of my neck, warm and grounding, before he presses his mouth to mine.
It’s not quick, not casual—it’s a kiss heavy with meaning.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. His voice is low, steady. “Thank you. I love you.”
I swallow hard, my hand finding his waist. “I love you too.”
We stand there in the half-unpacked bedroom, boxes still scattered, his clothes sprawled across the floor. But the mess isn’t overwhelming like I thought it’d be. It’s exciting.
When we continue unpacking, a splash of neon pink catches my eye in the pile of Mason’s shirts. I dig through the stack until I pull it free—and instantly burst out laughing. It’s a graphic T-shirt with a cartoon tabby cat on the front, and across the chest, in glittery pink letters: I LOVE PUSSY.
“Um, Mason?” I say, holding it up between two fingers like it might bite. “What the hell is this monstrosity?”
Mason’s face pales. “Oh my God. That was a gag gift. Aliyah brought it for the white elephant exchange last Christmas.”
Laughter tears through me until my ribs ache. “This is amazing! I’m absolutely stealing it.”
He grimaces. “Don’t you dare.”
“We’re living together now. Deal with it.” I strip off my own shirt and tug the ridiculous thing over my head. Spinning to face the mirror, I strike a pose. “Tell me I don’t look hot in this.”
He shakes his head fondly. “You always look hot.”
He steps behind me, sliding his arms around my waist. His chin settles on my shoulder, and in the reflection, his grin softens into something tender. “You can keep the dumb shirt. What’s mine is yours,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
That night, I fall asleep still wearing the pussy shirt—my arms wound tight around Mason, his back warm against my chest. My bed feels smaller but fuller, exactly the way it should be.
***
Today is Mason’s first day at his new job as a part-time pool lifeguard.
He keeps insisting the gig is just temporary.
He wants to land an internship with a local campaign to get his foot in the door for politics.
I believe in him, and I know he’s destined for great things, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly thrilled to see him in a lifeguard uniform again.
Since the heater in his truck is shot, I offered to pick him up after his shift. Partly because I’m an amazing boyfriend—but mostly because I don’t want his adorable butt freezing off in this weather.
It’s a short drive across campus to the gym.
Despite being a student here, I’ve never set foot inside before.
The idea of stripping down in front of strangers in locker rooms always kept me away.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens when the red-brick building looms ahead through the curtain of flurries.
After parking, I trudge through the snow and push through the glass doors.
The blast of warm, humid air greets me immediately, thick with the sharp bite of cleaning chemicals.
My glasses fog, forcing me to tug them off and wipe them against my sleeve as I follow the echo of splashing water down the tiled hallway.
I step through the double doors that lead to the pool. It’s empty—no swimmers, no noise, just the still blue water rippling softly beneath the overhead lights. The tall ceilings produce an echo that amplifies the buzz of the filtration system.
Mason is easy to spot, moving along the deck in his lifeguard uniform, collecting stray towels and tossing them into hampers. His red T-shirt clings to his chest, the whistle around his neck swaying with each step. The gym closes in five minutes, and he’s clearly wrapping up.
He looks up when I walk in, and that wide, boyish smile spreads across his face.
“Hey, baby,” he calls.
“Hey.” I walk closer, the soles of my sneakers squeaking against the wet tile. “How was your first day?”
He shrugs. “Slow, since it’s still winter break. I’m sure once everyone’s back on campus next week, it’ll get hectic.”
I hum, watching his muscles flex as he wipes down a chair. My lips twitch into a grin. “Missed seeing you in this uniform.”
He laughs, bending to scoop up another towel. “It’s literally just trunks and a shirt.”
“Yeah, well,” I shrug, deliberately letting my eyes linger on him, “you make it look good.”
His cheeks flush faintly pink—whether from the heat of the pool or me, I’m not sure—and he tosses the towel into the bin. “You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I’m almost finished here.”
“Take your time,” I insist, plopping down on one of the poolside chairs. I recline, folding my arms under my head as my gaze follows him. “I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”
He snorts before quietly puttering around to mop the tile floors. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of snow and wind whirling outside, whistling against the gym windows. I’m grateful it’s warm in here. I hate winter.
“Hunter,” Mason his voice calls loudly from across the room. “Wanna go swimming?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“My boss said I can use the pool after-hours, if I want,” he says with a shrug.
I pause. “I don’t have my swim trunks”
His mouth curves as he grabs a canvas tote from the lifeguard chair. “Good thing I brought them for you.”
I sit up sharply. “Wait—you planned this?”
“Maybe.” The sly smile tugging at his lips gives him away.
I laugh softly, but a knot grows in my chest.
I haven’t gone swimming since that day at the lake last summer, when Mason coaxed me out into the water and refused to let me sink. Back in Claremont Shores, he taught me to trust the way my body could float, how to breathe through the fear.
Now he’s watching me with that familiar spark in his hazel eyes—the one that makes it hard to say no to him.
“Okay,” I sigh, snatching my swim trunks from his hand. “But I’m only agreeing to this because I love you.”
“Best boyfriend ever,” he teases, pecking my lips.
My pulse stutters. I turn toward the locker rooms, but Mason catches my wrist. My sneakers squeal against the tile as he pulls me to a stop.
“The pool’s closed. Nobody’s here. Just change out here.”
I hesitate. “Mase—“
“It’s just me, baby. I promise.”
My eyes flicker between his, uncertain. After a beat, I exhale and peel my shirt over my head. The air prickles across my skin, and every instinct screams at me to cross my arms, to cover myself. But I don’t.
I know I don’t need to hide—not with Mason.
“You’re sure we’re alone?” I ask, my fingers pausing at the button of my jeans.
“Yes, baby. Just us.”
I strip quickly, pulling on the swim trunks he brought. Mason slips his shirt off too, and my eyes betray me, lingering on the way his muscles shine faintly with sweat in the humidity.
He catches me staring and smirks. “You done checking me out, or should I flex for you too?”
My head jerks up. “I wasn’t—“
“You totally were.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, scowling.
He chuckles and steps closer, his voice pitched low. “Follow me, pretty boy,” he says softly, sliding his hand into mine. “We gotta rinse off before we get in the pool.”
He steers me beneath one of the shower heads. His palm rests warm and steady on the small of my back before he twists the knob. Ice-cold water blasts down, and I yelp, jerking away.
He bursts out laughing and fiddles with the handle until the temperature is tolerable. “Relax.”
I try, but it’s difficult when I can’t stop staring at the way the water beads and trickles over his abs, gliding across his tanned skin. We rinse off in silence before he leads me toward the poolside.
“Let’s practice your breast stroke,” Mason says.
He drops into the water with practiced ease. His curls slick back as he submerges, then resurfaces, dragging a hand down his face to wipe the water from his eyes.
“I’ll give you a demonstration first,” he says gently. “The breaststroke involves four main steps: pull, breathe, kick, and glide. Watch my movements.”
I sit at the edge of the lane, knees tucked tight against my chest. My bare feet dangle above the water as he pushes off from the wall.
He glides forward with impossible grace, every movement fluid and controlled. His arms cut through the surface in a wide, powerful sweep, his body surging forward with each kick. He makes it look effortless.
I rest my chin on my knees, transfixed by the strength, control, and confidence in every stroke. It hits me all over again that this is who he is: Mason Burke, the boy who grew up on the lake, who still carries the water in his veins.
When he reaches the far end, he flips underwater and pushes off again, returning to me in a smooth, unbroken rhythm. He finishes the lap and grips the edge of the pool, water streaming down his chest. His hazel eyes flick up to mine.
Then, without a word, he braces his palms on the concrete and hauls himself half out of the pool, leaning forward until his wet lips find mine. The kiss is quick but certain, water dripping onto my bare knees, my heart slamming against my ribs from a mixture of nerves and admiration.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, grinning as he pulls back.
I hesitate. “Mase, I dunno—“
“I’ll be by your side the whole time,” he assures me.
He holds me steady as I ease into the warm water.
Thankfully, my feet can touch the bottom on this end of the pool.
His hands anchor to my hips, and when he looks down at me, his eyes are soft and reassuring, his smile full of pride.
I focus on him, tuning out the loud whir of the pool filter and the hum of fluorescent lights. There’s just him.
In the stillness, I realize that Mason didn’t just teach me how to swim this past summer. He taught me how to be unapologetically myself—louder, brighter, unafraid.
“I got you,” Mason promises, smoothing his palms down my arms. Goosebumps rise along my skin despite the pool being heated.
I close my eyes, trusting him completely.
With a deep breath, I push off the wall, gliding forward under his gentle guidance.
My chest rises and falls as I focus on keeping my head above water, my legs kicking in sync with his instructions.
His hands brush along my sides, correcting my form as I approach the deep end.
Even though my feet can’t touch the bottom, I know I’m completely safe with him.
Because with Mason, the unknown doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like a vast and shimmering possibility, waiting for us to dive into it together.