Rowan had every intention of maintaining a straight face, a task she’d committed to with her mouth set in a firm line and an occasional bite of her cheek for good measure. However, the moment he introduced himself with a flourish as Sir Mason of Sequindale, her resolve crumbled. She could no longer hold back her amusement when he stumbled over the flamboyant boa, recovering with an exaggerated grace that seemed crafted for the stage.

A stifled snort escaped her, followed by a softer, more genuine laugh that melted the façade she had fought to uphold.

She crossed her arms loosely, the laughter fading into a stunned appreciation as she watched him. Her eyes sparkled with amazement and admiration, gradually shifting into something deeper—an awe that felt quiet and profound, almost dangerous. It was the feeling that seeped in when you least expected it, leaving your breath caught and your heart racing. And there it was, lingering beneath the surface of her teasing smirk: the undeniable truth that she was falling for Mason Hayes.

Not due to his ridiculous antics (though those were certainly charming), but rather because of his unabashed embrace of every moment. He transformed the modest prop closet into a realm of possibilities, turning a mere feather boa into a dramatic battle wound and a glittering sash into the very essence of royal pageantry. Amidst the theatricality, he remained disarmingly authentic, a fictional grandeur and real emotion paradox.

She stepped forward with purpose in her stride, her movements slow and deliberate. Reaching for a sparkling eyepatch perched atop a mannequin's head, she tossed it onto his embellished sash with a playful flick as if adorning him with a badge of honour.

“You’re a menace,” she murmured, the words rich with warmth and affection.

She took it when he extended his arm—not with the mock grandeur he had anticipated, but with a surprising gentleness. It was almost as if she was acknowledging an unsaid bond. Her fingers curled around his bicep, their connection electric against the backdrop of costume chaos. At that moment, the distant hum of the auditorium lights faded, leaving only the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat eclipsing the world outside their shared bubble.

As she looked up at him, her lips parted, poised to let more words loose. Yet, her gaze flitted momentarily to a half-buried hoodie lurking behind them, an expression of guilt laced with a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

He remained blissfully unaware. And she intended to keep it that way.

She planned to take it, wear it, possibly curl up in its warmth during the chill of the night, and definitely keep it for herself.

Rowan Starling—renowned for her self-control and polished reputation—had just nonchalantly hidden a boy’s hoodie to claim it as hers. And the kicker? She didn’t even feel a sliver of remorse.

Turning back to Mason, she attempted to cultivate an air of cool indifference.

It failed spectacularly.

“…You have no idea what you’ve done, Hayes,” she finally said, her voice laced with barely restrained laughter. “But rest assured, I’m chronicling your story exactly as it unfolded. Stumbles and all.”

She had no plans to return the hoodie—not now, not ever.

Mason had been mid-riff, about to launch into an impromptu soliloquy about the forbidden love between a feather boa and a sequin vest, when she laughed.

Not the polite kind of laugh people offered to be nice. No—this was the kind of laughter that broke through walls, one that chipped away at the persona she wore like armor. It caught him off guard, stopped him mid-monologue. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, frozen—half-costumed, half-smitten, a bejeweled fool basking in the sound of her letting go.

And then she stepped closer. Tossed a sparkling eyepatch onto his chest like a knight bestowing favor before battle, called him a menace with a voice that sounded far too fond to be a warning.

He looked down at where her hand rested on his arm, then back up to her face—like he was memorizing the moment, unsure if it was real.

And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t with his usual flair. His voice was softer now, edged with something tender.

“I have no idea what I’ve done?” he repeated, one brow lifting slightly. “Rowan Starling, I turned a condemned costume closet into a kingdom just to see you smile. I faked a fall for comedic effect. I endured fringe-induced vertigo and willingly put on a sash that smells like a haunted middle school production of Anything Goes.”

He stepped in just a little closer, close enough that the fringe of her dress brushed his jeans and the world beyond the closet door ceased to matter.

“Whatever this is,” he said, his gaze locked on hers, “it’s the best kind of trouble I’ve ever gotten into.”

The silence stretched, not awkward but full—with electricity and possibilities and the kind of tension that only happens when two people realize the moment they’re in might actually be the start of something real.

Rowan’s breath hitched in her throat—just a fraction—as she heard those words tumble from his lips.

“The best kind of trouble I’ve ever gotten into.”

A wild and untamed flutter ignited in her chest, like a delicate bird unsure whether to take flight or succumb to the ground. Both possibilities hovered in the air at that moment—an exhilarating blend of laughter and the fear of falling. Mason Hayes stood before her, trapped in the dimly lit chaos of a cursed costume closet adorned in a gleaming sash that felt foreign to either of them. Yet he gazed at her as if she were the headline of an unforgettable show.

She hesitated, unable to find her voice immediately. Instead, she nodded—once, slow and deliberate—as she agreed to a pact far beyond the simple exchange of words they’d just shared. A shimmering recognition hung between them, something profound brewing beneath the surface. And then, her voice emerged, earnest yet sweet, caught delicately between a smile and unvoiced fears:

“You’re not the only one.”

With that, she stepped closer, the clunky soles of her Doc Martens scuffing gently against the floor as she balanced on the balls of her feet. Her fingers found a perch on the soft fabric of his t-shirt, resting right over his ribs, providing her with a sense of stability in this moment that felt dizzying and electric.

And then, she kissed him.

It unfolded unceremoniously—neither rehearsed nor flawless—but it held a raw authenticity that made it unforgettable. The kiss began tentatively, a gentle exploration that seemed to ask for permission as their lips brushed. Then, it shifted, deepening and warming, transforming into an embrace that communicated, yes, this is happening, and I don’t want it to end.

At first, Mason stood there, caught off guard, his wide-eyed expression a testament to his child-like surprise at how the world could unfold unexpectedly. But soon, his hands travelled to her waist—steady and sure like the grounding force of an anchor—and he reciprocated her kiss, pouring himself into it with an instinctive confidence that made it feel as natural as breathing.

When they finally pulled apart, leaving barely a whisper of space between them, Rowan met his gaze with an expression brimming with astonished wonder. It was as if she couldn’t quite comprehend the boldness of her actions— yet regret had no place in her heart.

“You are a menace,” she whispered, her lips brushing teasingly against the edge of his smile, a playful accusation that held a hint of affection. She let the words linger in the air, allowing them to unspool a moment longer before adding, in a voice soft enough to be a secret— “But you’re my menace now. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Her fingers remained gently curled around the fabric of his shirt, anchoring her in this shared bubble. The bustling world outside the closet faded into oblivion, leaving only the two of them entwined in this perfect, fragile moment. And Mason Hayes? He looked at her as though she had just bestowed the starring role in the only story he had ever wanted to tell.

Mason didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her—really looked at her—like he’d been holding his breath since the last time they kissed, and only now dared to exhale.

He was already gone for her. Had been, probably, since that night in the auditorium when everything between them shifted. But this? This felt different. More dangerous. More electric. Like she wasn’t just some quiet hope he nursed backstage anymore, but a fire that had caught and spread and was now devouring every inch of him, unrelenting.

Her kiss hadn’t surprised him this time. Not really. What caught him off guard was how much he needed it. How much he needed her—the sound of her laughter echoing between cracked costume bins, the feel of her fingers in his shirt like a tether, the way her voice dropped into that impossibly soft register when she said “my menace.”

Something inside him cracked open.

He let out a low breath, his forehead resting briefly against hers like his body couldn’t decide whether to move closer or just stay suspended in this aching stillness. His voice, when it finally came, was low. Intimate.

“You can’t say things like that, Rowan. Not when we’re trapped in a room full of wigs and sequin vests. It’s—dangerous.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze steady, darkened by want and something deeper, more reverent.

“I’ve been trying to play it cool,” he murmured, thumb grazing the fabric of her dress at her waist. “Act like I’m not constantly thinking about that night in the auditorium. About you. But you keep doing things like… kissing me. And looking at me like that. And saying I’m yours like you mean it.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.

“I don’t want to pretend it’s not real anymore.”

There was a hunger in his voice now—not just desire, but longing. Like he’d spent too long pretending he didn’t want this. Want her. His other hand found the curve of her jaw, fingers brushing the edge of her cheekbone with the kind of tenderness that made her feel seen in all her unspoken, vulnerable parts.

“If I kiss you again,” he whispered, “it’s not going to be soft or polite or careful. Not this time.”

And he didn’t wait for permission. He closed the distance with intent—like gravity had finally won. His lips met hers with a heat that had been simmering for too long, a kiss that was all promise and no apology. One hand in her hair, the other gripping her waist, grounding himself in the reality that she was here, with him, choosing him.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, he didn’t say anything right away. Just rested his forehead against hers again, smiling faintly like he’d found something he never thought he’d get to hold.

“Still want me to be your menace?” he murmured, though his voice was rougher now, threaded with something he didn’t dare name.

And just beneath the teasing, his heart was loud with the truth:

Please be mine.

Rowan's breath caught in her throat, sharp and sudden, as a wave of unexpected emotion crashed over her.

She hadn’t anticipated this moment. She had thought she’d seen every shade of Mason Hayes: the theatrical boy with impeccable timing, the one whose soft eyes and soothing voice could transform stage directions into captivating poetry and whose playful sarcasm acted as armour against the world. But this—this was something entirely different. He kissed her as if shedding the last remnants of pretence, as if she was the only thing anchoring him to reality—this was a revelation. It unravelled her most profoundly.

For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, her senses spinning from the unexpected intimacy of his touch. Mason held her delicately as if she were both fragile and something sacred. Her lips still tingled from his taste, resonating with his earnest declaration, I don’t want to pretend it’s not real anymore.

He meant every word.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, her lashes brushing against his cheek as he pressed his forehead to hers again. The mingling of their breaths hung between them—uneven, raw, and honest. The question he had whispered, “Still want me to be your menace?” fell from his lips like a fragile promise, but it carried the weight of an unspoken truth. They both understood that this wasn’t merely a playful jest anymore. This was her crossing the boundaries she had meticulously drawn for herself, time and again, only to find him ever-present, waiting patiently on the other side.

When her voice finally emerged, it was soft and intimate, laced with disbelief and a newfound certainty.

“You’ve always been mine, Mason. I was… too stubborn to admit it.”

As if to anchor him at this moment, her hand rose to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt with a desperation that spoke of fear—fear that he might vanish, that this fleeting moment wouldn’t endure unless she held on tightly.

“But yeah,” she breathed, a smile breaking across her face, illuminating the ruins of her carefully constructed walls, “you’re my menace. And I don’t want to be careful. I want this. All of it.”

With that, she closed the distance again, their lips meeting in a deeper kiss this time—fierce and filled with unwavering certainty.

Her arms wound around his neck, drawing him closer as if the very air between them was laden with gravity, intoxicating and heavy. When her fingers threaded through his hair, the connection ignited a quiet urgency within her, leaving no space for doubt. In response, he released a low sound from deep within—a blend of surprise and surrender, which echoed the feelings coursing through them both.

This moment wasn’t polished or rehearsed. It wasn’t a scene meticulously crafted for the stage.

It was undeniably better.

It was raw and real.

And in that dimly lit closet, scattered with the detritus of forgotten things, they stumbled upon something breathtakingly unanticipated—something precious neither wished to lose.

Mason couldn’t breathe.

Not properly—not when she said you’ve always been mine, not when her fingers curled into his shirt like she needed to feel the thrum of his heartbeat to ground herself, and definitely not when her lips crashed back into his with a hunger that burned through every last ounce of restraint he had left.

Her kiss didn’t ask. It claimed.

And he let it.

A rough sound escaped his throat—low, ragged, something primal he didn’t know he was capable of—as her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers threaded through his hair. His hands moved on instinct, sliding down her back, pressing her flush against him as if the air itself was too much space between them. Every part of him was alive, burning, aching with want and disbelief and something dangerously close to reverence.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice deeper now, frayed at the edges. “You say you want all of it? Rowan, I’ve been dying for all of it.”

He kissed her again—slower, but just as intense—like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the curve of her jaw, the little gasp she gave when his thumb brushed the bare skin just beneath her shirt hem. His mouth trailed to the corner of hers, down her cheek, to the soft skin beneath her jaw where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss that was far too intimate for the cramped, chaotic space they stood in.

“I don’t think I can be careful with you,” he whispered, lips grazing her neck as his hands gripped her waist, firm and wanting. “Not after this. Not when you look at me like that.”

She did, too. She was looking at him like he was the only boy in the world. Like he wasn’t just hers in name, but in body, heart, and heat. And Mason—sweet, soft-spoken, secretly-simmering Mason Hayes—had never wanted anyone the way he wanted her. Not even close.

His lips found hers again, harder this time, as if to brand the truth of it between them. His body pressed her gently against the wall of the costume closet, surrounded by discarded sequins and shadows, and nothing about it felt staged. This wasn’t some dramatic beat from a script or a choreographed kiss for the final act.

This was raw. Real.

And when he finally pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers again, Mason gave her a look so full of desire and awe it was nearly worship.

“You say I’m your menace?” he breathed, his thumb tracing her cheek with aching tenderness. “God help us both, Starling. You’re mine now too. And I’m not letting go.”

Rowan didn’t want soft. Not now.

She wanted fire—unapologetic, consuming, real.

With a sharp tug, she spun Mason and pressed him against the wall, the thud muffled by hanging costumes and forgotten velvet capes. Her mouth found him in the next breath; it wasn’t tender this time. It was hungry.

She kissed him like she meant to ruin him for anyone else. She’d spent months pretending this wasn’t exactly what she wanted, and now that the dam had broken, there was no going back. Her fingers tangled tighter in his hair, tugging just enough to pull a ragged groan from his throat that made something low in her stomach twist with want.

Her body pressed into his, every inch of her alive with sensation—his hands gripping her waist, the feel of his chest heaving against hers, the desperate way he kissed her back like he’d been waiting forever for her to lose control.

And she had.

She wasn’t holding back anymore.

“I do want all of it,” she breathed between kisses, her voice rough, breathless. “All of you.”

She kissed him again—deeper, hotter. Her hands slid under the hem of his shirt, fingertips tracing fire across his skin, memorising the lines of his back, the slope of his ribs. Her teeth caught his bottom lip just enough to make him swear under his breath, and God, the sound of it—she wanted to bottle it, burn it into her memory, live inside that sound forever.

He said she had no idea what she did to him.

But he had no idea what he had done to her.

Mason Hayes had taken the careful, calculated girl everyone thought they knew and cracked her wide open. And she wasn’t just falling—she was choosing it and choosing him.

As he kissed her as he could never get close enough, as his back hit the wall and his fingers clutched at her like a lifeline, she whispered against his mouth:

“I’ve never kissed anyone like this.”

And it wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just adrenaline. It was something else—something that rooted itself in her chest and bloomed through every nerve ending he touched.

When he broke the kiss, gasping, staring at her like she’d just rewritten the rules of his universe, she didn’t look away. Her fingers stayed at the nape of his neck, and her forehead was pressed to his.

“I’m yours,” she said, voice trembling with intensity. “I didn’t know how badly I needed to be until now.”

And there, surrounded by glitter and chaos, wrapped up in each other like the world outside had stopped spinning—Rowan Starling surrendered. Not to weakness, but to want.

To him.

Mason didn’t stand a chance.

The second Rowan spun him and kissed him like that—like she was starving and he was the only thing left in the world that could feed her—something inside him shattered. And whatever self-control he’d been clinging to? Gone. Just…gone.

She devoured him. And he let her.

No—he needed her to.

Her body pressed against his, mouth hot and insistent, and Mason swore he could feel the heat of her down to the marrow. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough. When she kissed him deeper, harder, when her teeth caught his lip and her hands slipped under his shirt—he groaned, guttural and involuntary, head tipping back against the wall with a quiet thud.

“Fuck, Rowan—”

Her name left him like a confession, torn from somewhere between ache and awe. And God, the way she touched him—like she’d been thinking about it as long as he had, like she wasn’t afraid to feel him now—set his whole body on fire. Her fingers on his skin were branding him, pulling him apart and putting him back together all in the same breath.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said roughly, lips ghosting against hers as his hands slid under her shirt in return—slow, reverent, desperate. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. You.”

When she said, “I’ve never kissed anyone like this,” something in his chest clenched so hard it almost hurt. He grabbed her face with both hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and kissed her like she was oxygen and he’d been underwater for months. It was possessive and tender all at once, a quiet fury of finally, and when she said those next words—

“I’m yours.”

It undid him.

He didn’t speak at first—just looked at her. Flushed, glowing, eyes blown wide and wild like she was both lightning strike and aftermath. Then he leaned in, voice raw, low, reverent.

“You’re mine,” he echoed, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the curve of her throat. “God, you’re mine. And I’m yours. I always was.”

His mouth found hers again, deeper this time, but slower. Like he wasn’t just kissing her body—he was kissing her soul.

And with her pressed up against him, their hearts hammering in sync, glitter clinging to their skin and velvet swaying overhead, Mason Hayes knew one thing with blistering certainty:

He would never want anyone the way he wanted Rowan Starling. Not in this life. Not in the next.

Rowan had never seen him like this.

Not on stage. Not in class. Not even during late-night rehearsals where the world blurred into sweat, adrenaline, and whispered lines. This wasn’t a performance—it was real. Raw, unravelling, and so achingly honest, she could barely breathe through it.

Mason Hayes—sweet, steady Mason—was completely wrecked for her.

And something about it made her feel… seen and not admired, not idolised, but chosen. Like every messy, guarded, too-intense part of her was exactly what he wanted. No hesitation. No fear.

Her chest tightened as she watched his reaction—how his eyes darkened, his voice broke, how her name tumbled from his mouth like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say aloud. It would’ve been too much—could’ve been—if he hadn’t looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

She found it devastating. And beautiful. And wildly endearing in a way that made her want to fall even harder, even faster—like there was no ground beneath her, only him.

“Mason,” she whispered, one hand curling around the back of his neck, her thumb brushing gently along the shell of his ear. “That—what you just said…”

She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Instead, she kissed him again, but this time slower—less hungry, more reverent. The kind of kiss that said I see you too. I want this, too. Her fingers moved tenderly through his hair, cradling him like she didn’t want to touch him—she wanted to know him. Every edge. Every softness. Every buried part he’d never let anyone else reach.

And when he said, “You’re mine. God, you’re mine. And I’m yours. I always was,” it didn’t scare her. It didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like truth.

He kissed her again—soul-deep, slow-burning—and she melted into it, her body moulded to his like they’d been made to find each other in the glittering wreckage of that ridiculous costume closet.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths tangled, foreheads pressed together, Rowan let out a soft, shaky laugh—giddy and disbelieving.

“You’re kind of incredible, you know that?” she murmured, her eyes searching his face, voice barely more than a breath. “And I think I’m completely, hopelessly—”

She stopped herself, lips brushing his again, playful now. Teasing.

“—screwed.”

And she smiled. Because, for once, being that kind of screwed didn’t scare her at all.

Just as Rowan’s lips brushed over Mason’s, accompanied by a breathless, wicked smile—“screwed” lingering in the air like static—a sharp knock echoed from the other side of the costume closet door.

Then came the click. The knob turned halfway before jamming against a forgotten folding chair that someone had knocked over earlier in a glitter-fueled flourish.

“I swear to God, if you two are still in there, we’re holding up cue-to-cue,” came a familiar voice, cool and sharp. “This is a tech schedule, not a date night.”

Rowan froze, her forehead still pressed against Mason’s chest, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes widened in horrified recognition. She didn’t need to ask; she knew that voice.

Harper.

Their ever-efficient, utterly unamused stage manager.

“You’ve been missing for twenty-five minutes,” Harper continued from the hallway, clearly lacking patience. “Elkin is on the verge of a Shakespearean breakdown. He asked me if betrayal always ‘lingers in the wings of silence.’ I’m scared.”

Rowan let out a strangled sound—half laugh, half groan—as she buried her face in her hands. Glitter stuck to her fingers.

“I’m giving you sixty seconds,” Harper called. “Then I start recasting. And no one wants to see Greg attempt romantic tension.”

Silence.

Rowan looked up at Mason, her cheeks flushed, her heart racing. She felt completely wrecked and glowing from head to toe. She smoothed her shirt, tugged her fingers through her hair, and truly attempted to gather whatever fragments of composure lingered.

She stepped back, straightened up, and opened the closet door.

Harper stood with her arms crossed, a clipboard tucked tightly against her side, eyebrows raised as if she had just walked in on a scandal. Which, to be fair, she had.

She gave them both a long look.

Then she said, “Unbelievable.” A dramatic shake of her head followed. “And I’m getting yelled at for delaying scene changes.”

With a sigh and a spin on her heel, Harper stalked down the hallway, muttering something about “teenage hormones” and “never getting paid enough for this.”

Rowan, still breathless, leaned back against the doorframe, blinking as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or die.

Ultimately, she settled on laughter—because she knew, without a doubt, that she would remember this for the rest of her life.

Mason Hayes had never been more aware of his own hands.

One of them was holding hers.

And not in the way he sometimes imagined in the quiet moments—those late-night, half-asleep daydreams where maybe she’d reach for him first. No. This was real. Solid. Her fingers curled with certainty around his, like it wasn’t a mistake. Like she wasn’t about to pull away.

It was the kind of moment that made time slow down in the worst possible way.

The parking lot was full of noise and motion—doors slamming, someone yelling across the senior lot, a low bassline rumbling from a truck that probably cost more than his mom’s car. But all of it felt… distant. Like background static behind the sharp, sudden clarity of everyone looking.

They were looking at her. Rowan Starling. Crown jewel of Evergreen High. Dark hair shining under the early morning sun, skirt swaying just enough to seem effortless, the sort of girl who was always somehow more in focus than anyone else in the frame.

And she was holding hands with him.

Theater nerd. Hoodie boy. The kid with ink stains on his fingers and duct tape on his sneakers.

“This is fine,” Mason muttered under his breath. “Totally fine.”

It wasn’t the same as being on stage.

On stage, he had control. He had lines. A script. A character to blame if things went wrong.

Here, he just had Rowan’s hand and about twenty pairs of eyes on his back. And not the good kind. Not the applause, not the awe. These were the stares of confusion. Of hierarchy being quietly upended. Of people trying to do the social math and coming up short.

His gaze flicked to the row of letterman jackets by Asher Cole’s car. The lacrosse boys were mid-conversation, but the second Mason and Rowan stepped into view, everything paused.

Asher’s brows lifted. Not just surprise this time—disbelief, followed by a sharp, unmistakable flicker of judgment. Like the universe had glitched and dropped his girlfriend’s best friend into the arms of someone who didn’t even play a sport. His jaw tightened.

Next to him, Seraphina Vale didn’t look up from her phone.

Her thumb paused mid-scroll.

Then resumed.

No comment. No expression.

Just the silent, elegant act of not reacting—which somehow said more than anything else.

Mason cleared his throat. It didn’t help.

“You want to just… sprint the rest of the way?” he joked softly, eyes still locked on the school doors like they were the finish line of a very dangerous race.

Rowan squeezed his hand instead.

His heart nearly gave out.

Focus, Hayes. Don't combust. Not yet.

He adjusted the strap of his beat-up backpack with his free hand, suddenly hyper-aware of how different they looked. Her outfit was clean lines and curated confidence—belted, pleated, polished. His was... thrifted layers, worn-in canvas, a hoodie for a hoodie because she’d already taken one of his and there was no universe in which he’d ask for it back.

It looked better on her. End of story.

She looked like a Vogue spread. He looked like a Tumblr post from 2013.

And still, she was walking beside him. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside him.

He swallowed hard.

“So… what do we think, fifteen seconds before someone starts a rumor, or a full thirty?”

He tried to sound casual.

Like he wasn’t short-circuiting inside.

Like the heat in his chest wasn’t rising all the way up his neck.

He glanced at her, just once. Just long enough to catch her smirk and the slight tilt of her head that said: Let them talk.

And suddenly, Mason wasn’t scared anymore.

He wasn’t even acting.