Chapter 102
Emily's POV
Mason obeyed with the kind of mechanical compliance that made my stomach turn. The sort of immediate submission to authority that came from places I didn't want to think about too hard. I kept my movements slow and obvious as I approached with the first aid kit. Narrating what I was doing before I did it. Giving him chances to object or pull away.
"This might sting." I dabbed at the cut with antiseptic. He barely flinched. His jaw tight but his expression carefully neutral. I found myself cataloging more details now that I could see him properly. The way his collarbone stood out too sharply against his skin. The fading bruises on his forearms that he'd tried to hide by pulling the hoodie sleeves down over his hands. The thin white scar that cut through his left eyebrow in a way that suggested old violence.
"How old are you?" I applied a small bandage to his temple.
"Twenty." He said it too quickly. I didn't believe him for a second.
"Try again."
His eyes flicked up to meet mine. Startled. For a moment I thought he might stick to the lie. But then something in his expression crumpled slightly. Exhaustion winning out over self-preservation. "Eighteen. Just turned. Last month."
Barely legal. Barely an adult. And clearly in some kind of situation that had him choosing to run into traffic rather than go home.
"Okay." I sealed up the first aid kit. Took the chair across from him. "So here's how this is going to work. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me. But you need to sleep somewhere safe tonight. You need food. And you need to not be out in that storm. So you're staying here. I have a spare room. You can lock the door if that makes you feel better. In the morning, we'll figure out next steps. That work for you?"
He stared at me like I'd started speaking a foreign language. His mouth slightly open. Clearly trying to process what I was offering and find the catch. "I don't—I can't pay you."
"I'm not asking you to pay me."
"Then what do you want?"
The question was asked with such careful blankness. Such practiced neutrality. I had to physically restrain myself from demanding to know exactly what this kid had been through that made him assume help always came with strings attached. Instead I kept my voice level. My posture open and non-threatening. Told him the truth.
"I want you to not die on the street tonight. That's it. That's the extent of my demands. You get a safe place to sleep. A meal if you're hungry. And in the morning you can leave if you want to. But tonight, you're here. Non-negotiable."
He kept staring at me. I watched something complicated work its way across his face. Disbelief. Hope. Fear. A desperate kind of longing that made my chest hurt. Finally, he nodded once. A jerky movement that looked like it cost him something to make.
"Okay." His voice was barely a whisper. "Okay. Thank you."
I showed him to the study. There was a folding couch against one wall that I'd bought specifically because it converted into a bed. For emergencies, I'd told myself at the time, though I'd never actually defined what kind of emergency would require it.
"Wait here." I left him standing in the doorway while I went to grab bedding from the linen closet. Sheets, a blanket, a pillow that was probably too flat but would have to do. The other two bedrooms had perfectly good beds. Empty most of the time. But something in me resisted the idea of putting a stranger in spaces that were technically Alex's and Ethan's, even if they barely used them. Those rooms had their things in the closets. Their presence embedded in ways that mattered even when they weren't physically here.
The study felt safer. Neutral territory that belonged to work and late-night cramming sessions rather than anyone's personal domain.
Mason watched silently as I unfolded the couch and made up the bed. The sheets were clean but not fancy. The blanket was warm without being anything special. But when I stepped back to survey my work, the makeshift bed looked decent enough. Functional.
He was still standing in the same spot. Like he was waiting for permission to move. To breathe. To take up space.
"It's not much," I said, gesturing at the couch-turned-bed. "But it's warm and dry and the door locks if you want it to."
He looked at the bed. Then at the window with its simple blinds. Then at the door that did indeed have a lock on the inside. His hand moved toward the doorframe. Hesitated. Finally made contact like he was testing whether it was real or would dissolve under his fingers.
When he turned back to me his eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Get some sleep." I kept my voice gentle. "We'll talk in the morning."
He nodded again. I left him there. Pulled the door shut behind me. Stood in the hallway for a long moment trying to process what I'd just done. Somewhere between leaving the office and now, I'd apparently decided to collect broken things and try to fix them. Which was either a sign of growth or a spectacular display of self-destruction depending on how you looked at it.
My phone buzzed again. Ethan this time. Asking about my day in that casual way he had when he was fishing for reassurance that I wasn't drowning in his absence. I looked at the closed door of the spare room. At the faint light still visible underneath it. Made another decision that was probably stupid but felt right in the way that certain choices do when they align with something fundamental about who you're trying to become.
Interesting day, I typed back. Tell you about it when you get home. Love you.
The response came quickly. A string of hearts and a promise to call me tomorrow. I pocketed the phone before heading to my own room. Tomorrow I'd figure out what to do with the stray I'd picked up. Tonight, I was just going to make sure he survived until morning.
It was the most impulsive thing I'd done in months. Alex would have questions. Ethan would have opinions. And I had no earthly idea what I was going to do with a traumatized eighteen-year-old who'd literally thrown himself in front of my car.
But for the first time in weeks, the apartment didn't feel quite so empty. And that, at least, was something.