99 – Harry POV
I open my eyes slowly, the ceiling above me smooth and unfamiliar. For a split second, I forget where I am—but then it all rushes back.
The street.
The gas station.
The cold concrete under my feet.
The fear.
The running.
The voice that called my name like I meant something.
Mason.
I sit up abruptly, my body aching in ways I hadn't noticed before. My joints protest. My throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper. There's a tightness in my chest I can't place—like the residue of panic still hasn't left.
I'm still in the hoodie—his hoodie—and tucked into the softest bed I've probably ever been in. Warm, clean sheets. A scent that's distinctly him—woodsy cologne and something almost citrusy, like orange peel and cedar. Comforting. Familiar. Safe.
I swing my legs off the bed, bare feet meeting the cool marble floors. The sensation is sharp but real. Grounding.
The room is bathed in soft morning light filtering through sheer curtains. There's a chair in the corner with a throw blanket draped over it. A phone charger on the nightstand. A glass of water. A pair of fuzzy socks, folded neatly.
It's so unlike the chaos I've known.
I pad toward the door and open it gently. My breath held for no reason.
It creaks softly, but no one comes running. No raised voices. No footsteps.
Just… peace.
It opens into a hallway, wide and modern, bathed in the pale gold of early sunlight. At the end, I hear something faint—a murmur of a TV, or maybe soft jazz playing low.
I follow it, slowly. My heart thumping louder than it should.
And then I see him.
Mason.
Sitting on the couch, legs crossed under him, still in his pajama bottoms and a loose black shirt. Hair tousled from sleep. A mug in one hand, his phone on the coffee table. The glow of the TV illuminates the edge of his jaw. He looks like he hasn't moved in hours.
The moment he notices me, he straightens up, his eyes searching my face like he's checking for damage. His concern is immediate—pure reflex.
"You're awake," he says gently, setting the mug down and standing.
I nod. "Yeah." My voice sounds like gravel. Raw.
He hesitates. "Are you… okay?"
It's such a simple question. And yet it stops me in my tracks.
Not because I don't know how to answer. But because of the way he asks it. Like he doesn't expect a clean reply. Like he doesn't need one. He just wants me to have the space to say whatever I need.
I swallow, the lump in my throat returning like a ghost I can't shake. My eyes sting.
"I'm… not fine. But I think I will be."
And for once, I believe it.
Because he doesn't rush me. Doesn't push. Doesn't ask for the full story. He just opens his arms—slowly, like I can still choose not to step in.
But I do.
God, I do.
I step into them like I've been holding my breath for months, and I finally get to exhale.
He pulls me in gently—no pressure, no force—his hands warm and steady as they wrap around me. One on my back. The other on the back of my neck, his thumb brushing skin as he presses me into his chest.
And something in me cracks. Quietly. Deeply.
I melt into the warmth, into the hush of the room, into him.
Because Dorian was never like this.
Sure, there were moments in the beginning. Whispered promises. Fingers ghosting over my knuckles. But even those weren't truly gentle—they were calculated. Like bait on a hook. Like proof of ownership, not affection.
The only softness came during sex, and even that faded quickly. Replaced by indifference. Control. Entitlement.
I thought I was special because he let me into his world. Because he gave me a place to sleep. Because he said I was his. But none of that was love.
Being around someone like Mason—someone who hands me water without asking questions, who gives me space without making me feel abandoned, who holds me like I won't break but won't be pushed either—it's jarring.
Like I've been underwater this whole time and I'm only now surfacing.
And I'm starting to see it. The truth of what I survived.
I twisted myself into knots to justify Dorian's worst traits. I called pain "passion." I called fear "love." I kept thinking if I just worked harder, loved more, was quieter, cleaner, prettier—then maybe he'd treat me like I mattered.
But I did matter.
I do.
My arms tighten around Mason's waist, and he doesn't flinch. Doesn't question why I'm shaking. He just wraps his arms tighter, his chin resting lightly on top of my head.
We stand there for what feels like forever.
No words. No expectations.
Just the sound of his heartbeat against my cheek.
And the quiet, fragile belief that maybe this time, I get to start over.