LINES CROSSED. (BWWM)

2

Mason

I still can't believe she pulled the taco lasagna card.

Of all things, she had to go there. That dish is my kryptonite, and she damn well knows it. If I'm being honest, though, even if she hadn't dangled the offer like bait, I would've ended up staying anyway. She didn't have to trap me—I was already caught. Hook, line, and history.

Amina is... something else. The best person I know, hands down. There's this light about her—quiet but constant. Everything she does, even the most mundane shit, just feels important. Like it matters. Like she matters.

I glanced sideways at her from my spot on the couch, pretending to pay attention to Being Mary Jane, which—God help me—we were watching for what had to be the hundredth time. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, framed by the dim glow of the TV, her head bowed in frustration as she worked through the tangles of her thick, coily hair.

Now that her braids were out, her afro had taken full form, a soft, glorious halo that floated around her face and brushed the tops of her shoulders. She fought with it section by section, muttering curses under her breath every time her fingers hit a snag. I laughed under mine, and without even turning, she threw me a sharp glare that said, Try that again and die.

I bit back another laugh.

We were absolutely going to end up eating dinner late—no question.

Even though Being Mary Jane isn't exactly my idea of prime-time viewing, I didn't mind watching it with her. It was her favorite show, and there was something almost comforting about the way she reacted to it like it was her first time seeing it—even though I knew she could recite the damn script. Which, to be fair, she sometimes did. Word for word.

That familiar flutter of affection twisted in my chest as I looked at her. She was mouthing a monologue now, her face lit by the TV glow, eyes wide with faux surprise like she hadn't watched this exact episode twenty times. She was so her, and I couldn't help but feel that quiet pull again—the one I always ignored.

My thoughts drifted back to what she said earlier, about Emily.

She didn't use those exact words, but I knew what she meant: Tell her the truth. Don't string her along. That conversation had been sitting heavy in my gut ever since. Amina was the only person in the world I could actually talk to about stuff like this—about feelings, decisions, doubts. With everyone else, I either brushed it off or disappeared entirely.

Usually, when I was done with a girl, I'd just fade out. I wouldn't text, wouldn't call, and eventually, they'd get the hint. And when they didn't, when they showed up crying or demanding answers, it was always Amina they came to. Amina, can you talk to him for me? Amina, what did I do wrong? Amina, is he seeing someone else?

And somehow, she always did the dirty work for me—reluctantly, yes—but she still did it. I knew I was being selfish, and maybe this time it had finally crossed a line.

"Maybe you have a point," I said suddenly, cutting through the familiar hum of the show.

Her head tilted slightly, but her eyes didn't leave the screen. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

"I mean... I won't know unless I give it a shot. So what if I'm not in love with her now? That doesn't mean I won't be... down the line."

That got her attention.

She turned her body toward me fully, gathering her hair into a low puff at the nape of her neck, her hands pausing as she stared. Her expression was unreadable, like she wasn't sure if she'd heard me right—or maybe like she had heard me right, and didn't like what she heard.

"Emily's cool," I continued, trying to ignore the knot tightening in my stomach. "She's funny sometimes. A little slow, yeah—but I don't mind hanging out with her."

She was quiet. Just watching me. The silence between us stretched, heavy with something unspoken.

"So you're serious about this?" she asked, disbelief etched into every word.

I shrugged. "I mean... why not?"

She didn't respond right away. Her eyes searched mine, like she was digging for some hidden truth beneath the surface of what I was saying.

"I haven't been in a real relationship since high school. I'm twenty-four. I've got my own place. I run a successful business. Maybe it's time I actually tried again?"

She finally nodded, but the movement was small—hesitant.

"And you're sure she's the one to give it a shot with?"

"I don't know," I admitted, because lying to Amina never felt right.

"But it won't hurt to tr—"

"You mean it won't hurt you," she cut in sharply.

Then she stood, grabbing the empty Coke bottle off the floor and making her way into the kitchen. I didn't say anything. Just watched her move—watched her hips sway, watched the curve of her waist beneath that worn college hoodie. Amina had one of those bodies that made heads turn without trying. Full. Natural. Real. She carried herself like someone who didn't care if you stared—but still made you want to.

She wasn't wrong. What I said—what I thought I meant—it wouldn't hurt me. But that wasn't the whole truth. The real reason I wasn't trying to listen right now?

Because deep down, I knew it might end up hurting her.

And I couldn't stand that thought.