Wordlessly, Mason gets up from his stool. Part of me expects him to just walk out and leave me to deal with my own problems, but instead, he grabs the box of tissues on the counter, sits back down, and slides it over to me. Feeling mildly embarrassed, I reach for one, nodding my thanks.

“I do understand,” he offers, his voice low. “And I’m sorry.”

The unexpected apology catches me off guard, and I find myself unable to think of something coherent to say.

“I just—” he starts, then pauses. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

When he looks at me again, I become hyperaware of how close we’re sitting, our knees grazing. “Something bad already happened to me,” I murmur distantly, not entirely focused on my words.

“Exactly. I’m trying to keep it from happening again.”

We’re locked in a weighted silence, and I feel my heart beating in my chest, the pace faster than usual. It looks as though he’s going to say something more, but then he snaps out of his trance, clearing his throat. I lean back, and some of the tension in the room melts away, allowing me to breathe easier.

Mason watches me with a frown as I stand from the stool. Heading over to the cupboard, I pull open the doors, taking a bottle of red wine from the top shelf and grabbing two glasses. I set one of them down in front of him, and he raises an eyebrow, looking amused now.

“We could both use an escape,” I tell him, unscrewing the lid and pouring some into his glass before he can protest.

Sofia most likely won’t be happy that I broke into her precious supply, but I can’t find it in me to care. I pour a glass for myself before sitting down and holding up my drink for a toast. Mason seems to war with himself for a few moments, until he gives in, fighting a smile as he clinks his glass against mine. We both take generous sips, and I enjoy the taste of the bitter liquid as it courses down my throat.

After a while, Mason seems to be a bit more at ease, his posture relaxing, and when I lean forward, resting my elbows on the counter, he drapes an arm over the back of my chair languidly.

I peek back at him. “Can you tell me the truth about something?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Why did you stop being my friend?”

Mason drags a hand through his dark hair, and I find myself thinking about how it would feel between my fingers. “I wondered when you were going to bring that up again.”

“If I did something to you, or hurt you in any way . . .”

“You didn’t,” he says. “That was all me.”

I study his features, waiting for him to continue.