98 – Mason POV
I stare down at my phone, thumb hovering over the screen like it's part of a ritual.
There's a video paused—a candid clip someone sent me from set. Harry, mid-laugh, water cascading behind him, cheeks flushed, head tilted back like he hadn't a care in the world.
He's so damn pretty it's unreal.
Like a dream you don't want to wake up from.
Every night, I tell myself I won't look again.
Every night, I fail.
And then my phone rings.
Not the work one. My personal line. The one barely anyone has.
I pick up without thinking. "Hello?"
"Mason."
My spine straightens. I know that voice anywhere.
Harry.
*
20 minutes later, I'm out of the gas station store like a man possessed. I slam my car door shut and storm back inside, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
"Where is he?!" I demand at the boy behind the counter.
He blinks at me, startled. "You're Mason Gre—"
"Where is he?!" I shout again, louder, sharper.
The boy stammers and points behind him, toward the quiet corner by the window.
I follow the direction like I've been yanked by a leash.
And then I see him.
Harry.
Barefoot, hoodie-draped, curled into himself like the world is too much. His knees hugged to his chest, his face half-shadowed by the fluorescent light above. His hair is a mess, damp from the rain, stray curls sticking to his cheeks.
He looks up as I approach.
His eyes—God, those blue eyes—glimmer with unshed tears, dark lashes wet and clumped.
"I did it, Mason," he whispers, voice barely there.
I don't need to ask what 'it' is.
I already know.
I kneel down, heart hammering in my chest, and wrap my arms around him. He doesn't hesitate. He melts into me, arms coming up around my neck, trembling but solid.
I recognize the hoodie he's wearing. It's mine.
One from a brand collab I did last year. It went missing, and now I know where it ended up.
"You did good," I murmur, burying my face in his hair. "I've got you."
He clutches the front of my jacket, like if he lets go, the world will swallow him whole.
But I'm not letting go.
Not now.
Not ever.
*
I arrive at my apartment, barely remembering the drive.
My hands still grip the steering wheel a little too tightly before I glance to the side.
Harry's curled up in the passenger seat, head against the window, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. He's out cold. Exhausted. Worn thin.
I sit there for a second. Just staring.
This boy—this man—who's been surviving on sheer willpower, who finally clawed his way out, is in my car. In my care.
I step out quickly and walk around, gently opening his door. He stirs slightly when I slide an arm under his knees and another behind his back. His head lolls against my shoulder.
And I carry him.
Through the underground garage. Into the private elevator. Up through mirrored walls and polished floors.
When I reach the lobby of my floor, there are a few lingering glances. People pretending not to stare but doing a terrible job of it.
I don't care.
Let them look.
All I see is him.
I adjust my hold, pressing him closer, as if shielding him from every gaze, every whisper.
The door to my apartment opens with a quiet click.
I carry him in, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free.
I never thought this day would come.
Not like this.
Not with him unconscious in my arms, bruised and curled into himself like he's still preparing for the next blow.
I walk through the soft golden light of the apartment, straight to the guest bedroom—no, not the guest bedroom. My room.
I lay him on the bed gently.
He doesn't stir.
I kneel beside the mattress, brush damp curls from his forehead, and exhale the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
He's safe.
And I'm not going anywhere.