The Beauty in Eternity

Chapter 107.

Mason's POV:

I open my eyes, my head pulsating in time with the beating in my chest. Fuck. I pinch my temple and squeeze them closed again to try and dull the aching with no luck. For that brief moment, I didn't remember what happened last night. I was just a man who woke up with a headache — a hangover. The memory of only hours ago floods over me and I feel physically sick. Embarrassed. Mortified even.

I re-open my eyes and look to my left, at the brown haired angel sleeping next to me. My embarrassment worsens as I look at her, thinking of her seeing me the way she did. The way I was. Fuck.

I feel thankful that she handled it the way she did, she couldn't have been any better. She didn't shame me, or walk straight back out of the door the way I would have if I seen myself as the fucking mess I was last night.

I don't wake her. Not because I want her to get a good nights sleep. I mean, of course I do. But for selfish reasons. I don't wake her because I'm terrified that when she opens her eyes she won't look at me the same way she did before. Before my breakdown.

That's what it was, I can't say otherwise. It was a mental break. Embarrassment hits me once more.

A wave floods over me, from my head to my chest—where it gets heavier. It covers my whole body like a weighted blanket, weighed down by overwhelming guilt that I have for the way I treated her. When I wasn't me. For making her flinch at my hand. For making her believe that I didn't love her.

I pause, thinking I may actually throw up.

Yet here she is. Sleeping soundly beside me. Her hair is a mixture of frizzy and wavy, sprawled out on the pillow. It does that when it's been wet and she doesn't have time to blow dry it. I lift my hand to stroke her hair, but it trembles.

Her eyes start to flutter open, and my heart sinks in my fucking chest.

Her head tilts upwards, and she smiles. She reaches up her hand and strokes my cheek gently. "Hi," she mumbles tiredly—her eyes still as full of love as they always have been. Bloodshot, from tears and lack of sleep: but not one speck of judgement in sight. One glance from her and the blanket was lifted.

"Hi," I say, my voice cracking and my throat stinging.

She sits up and rubs her eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Better," I respond. I don't know how to answer, and I don't know if that's true or not. "Don't you have work?"

"No, these are my days off."

Amara's POV:

I reach over and grab my phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up with several missed calls and texts from Matt. "Shit," I mumble.

*Mason's okay, I'm okay. I'm sorry for not texting sooner—I'll explain later.*

I let out a sigh. "Do you want some breakfast?"

He nods, and I make my way into the kitchen. I start to make some eggs, and rack my brain on how to speak to Mason. I don't know how to approach this, but I know I have to talk to him about it—we can't just pretend nothing happened. He needs help. I'm terrified I'll say the wrong thing—or that he will.

"Amara..," Mason sighs, sitting down at the counter.

My back is facing him, and I don't turn around. "How do you want your eggs?" I ask.

"The way you're making them is fine."

"Okay." I reply. I don't know what to say, I don't know where to start.