Mason R. | Slow Poison

The music thumped through the frat house like a second heartbeat—bass heavy, loud enough to blur thought into feeling. Mason stood in the middle of it all, a red solo cup sweating in his hand, the beer inside already warm but easy enough to keep drinking. His head felt light, loose, just on the edge of spinning, but he leaned into it instead of pulling back.

“—I’m telling you, that class is a complete waste of time,” he was saying, half-laughing, half-serious, words slipping easily between polished and careless. “Objectively speaking, there’s no real value—like, lowkey, it’s just busywork, bro.”

The group around him laughed. A couple of guys nodded like he’d said something profound. A few girls lingered closer than necessary, drawn in by the energy, by him.

One of them slid in just a little nearer, her shoulder brushing his arm like it was accidental. Mason barely reacted—just shifted his weight, took another sip. It didn’t mean anything. None of this did. He wasn’t crossing any lines. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

He was loyal.

The conversation shifted, someone else picking up the thread, but Mason’s attention drifted anyway. His eyes moved across the room, scanning through the blur of bodies and flashing lights until they landed on something quieter.

Leo.

Tucked into the corner, boxed in close with his partner, head dipped low as he pressed in for a kiss like the rest of the party didn’t exist. Mason smirked, letting out a low, teasing wolf whistle that cut through the noise just enough.

Leo didn’t even break the moment—just lifted a hand and shot him the middle finger without looking.

Mason huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah—real romantic, man.”

His gaze shifted again.

Kilo was across the room, trailing behind someone like gravity had decided his direction for him. There was something different about him—lighter, maybe. Happier. And, surprisingly, sober. Mason watched for a second longer than he meant to, noting the way Kilo didn’t seem to need the chaos to feel good.

Weird.

Then—

“YO—DRAY!”

Mason’s attention snapped to the center of the room just in time to see Dray standing on top of a table, hyping himself up like a one-man show. Someone had handed him a bottle, and he was mid-attempt at some reckless stunt—tilting it back, trying to chug while balancing, people around him shouting and recording like it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen.

“Bro’s gonna eat shit,” Mason muttered, grinning anyway.

Dray nearly slipped, caught himself, threw his arms up like he’d just won something. The room erupted.

Mason laughed, shaking his head as he brought the cup back to his lips. The beer was warmer now, almost unpleasant—but the buzz? The noise? The feeling?

Yeah. He liked this.

Maybe a little too much.

“MASON!”

He turned at the sound of his name, brows lifting slightly as one of the guys pushed through the crowd toward him.

“Your girl’s here, man,” the guy said, half-grinning. “She’s lookin’ for you.”

Mason blinked once, processing.

“...Here?” he repeated, a little slower this time.

It was... unexpected. A little weird, even. She didn’t usually come out here—especially not like this, not into this kind of scene.

But the thought didn’t bother him.

If anything, he welcomed it.

“Yeah, yeah—by the front,” the guy added before disappearing back into the crowd.

Mason exhaled lightly through his nose, setting his cup down on the nearest surface without finishing it. His head still buzzed as he made his way through the party, weaving past bodies, past noise, past everything.

And then he saw her.

For a second—just a second—something steadied in his chest.

He still loved her. That hadn’t changed. Even if things felt... off lately. Tense in ways he couldn’t quite name.

Didn’t matter.

A slow, easy grin pulled across his face as he approached her—the same cocky, effortless one he’d been wearing all night.

“Damn,” he said, voice light, amused, like he’d just run into one of the guys instead of his girlfriend. “You made the trip out here? That’s kinda wild.”

He stepped closer, dragging a hand through his hair, still riding the high of the room behind him.

“What’s up? You lookin’ for me or just tryna crash the party?” he added, a quiet laugh slipping in.

It didn’t even register—the shift in tone, the way his words landed differently now.

To him, it was the same.

Nothing had changed.

He misses the lock once. Twice. The metal scrapes too loud against the door, echoing in the quiet hallway like it’s calling attention to him—like someone’s watching, even though no one is.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, exhaling a half-laugh as he finally gets it in and twists.

The door creaks open.

The hallway light flickered once before settling into a dull glow as Mason fumbled the door shut behind him. The click sounded louder than it should’ve—sharp against the kind of silence that didn’t feel normal. Not empty. Just... waiting.

He stood there for a second, keys still in his hand, head swimming, trying to steady the room as it tilted just slightly off-center. The bass from the party still echoed faintly in his ears, like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that he’d left.

“Okay... yeah,” he muttered under his breath, more to ground himself than anything else.

The apartment was dark.

Not just lights-off dark—still dark. The kind that felt intentional.

He pushed himself forward, sneakers dragging a little as he made his way toward the kitchen, one hand brushing along the wall to keep himself balanced. When he reached the counter, he paused.

A glass of water.

Two pills set neatly beside it.

Mason blinked down at them, brows pulling together slightly. For a moment, he just stared, like it took longer than it should’ve to understand what he was looking at.

“...huh.”

A quiet exhale slipped out of him, something softer than the rest of the night had been.

She’d set it out for him.

Not just set it out—expected it. Expected him to come home like this. Late. Drunk. Off-schedule.

Like it wasn’t even a question anymore.

His fingers brushed the side of the glass, condensation cool against his skin, before he picked it up and took a long drink. The water tasted too clean after hours of cheap beer. He swallowed hard, then popped the pills without much thought.

As he set the glass back down, his gaze drifted—landing on the trash can by the counter.

Takeout containers.

Crinkled paper bags, half-folded boxes with grease stains bleeding through the sides. He recognized the branding immediately. Their place. The shitty, overpriced takeout they both pretended wasn’t that good but ordered anyway.

Mason stilled.

“Fuck,” he mutters, quieter this time.

The memory came back slower than it should have. Not because it wasn’t important—but because everything else had gotten in the way.

They were supposed to stay in.

Nothing big. Just... easy. Couch, food, some dumb movie they’d half-watch while talking over it. He’d said he’d be back early. Said he wouldn’t stay long.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, letting out a quiet breath through his nose.

He had meant to.

That was the thing.

He could picture it clearly—telling the guys he’d dip out early, already halfway out the door in his head before he even got there. But then someone handed him a drink, someone else pulled him into a conversation, music got louder, people got closer—

And then it was just... gone.

Time slipped. Plans blurred. And he didn’t leave.

Not because he couldn’t. Because he didn’t.

The guilt is there—but dulled, like everything else. Not sharp enough to act on, just enough to notice.

Mason straightened a little, rolling his shoulders back like he could physically shake the thought off. “It’s not that serious,” he muttered under his breath, though it didn’t land as easily in the quiet apartment as it did in a crowded room.

He pushed away from the counter and headed down the hallway, slower now. His shirt came off first, tossed carelessly to the floor. Then his shoes—kicked off unevenly, one hitting the wall with a dull thud. He didn’t bother picking anything up. Just kept moving, leaving a trail behind him without thinking twice about it.

The bedroom door creaked softly when he pushed it open.

Dark. Still.

He could make out the shape of her under the covers, turned away, the faint outline of her shoulders rising and falling steadily. For a second, something in his chest eased. Familiar. This part, at least, hadn’t changed.

Mason stepped inside, quieter now, like instinct kicked in where thought didn’t. He shed the rest of his clothes without ceremony and slipped into bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

Easy.

It had always been easy.

Mason pauses, just slightly, the haze in his head slowing enough to notice.

“...Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, rough at the edges.

He reaches for her anyway, hand finding her waist, pulling gently—like muscle memory, like routine.

But—

She didn’t move with him.

Or rather, she did—but not the same way.

There was resistance. Subtle, but there. A stiffness in her body that didn’t melt into his like it used to.

Mason frowned slightly, the motion small in the dark. His brow furrows, confusion slipping in through the cracks of his buzz. He shifts a little closer, trying again, slower this time—like maybe he just misread it.

“...hey,” he murmured again, voice low, rough around the edges from alcohol and the late hour.

No response.

He hesitated, his hand still resting against her side, suddenly more aware of the space between them—even though there technically wasn’t any.

“I was gonna come back earlier, I just—” He exhales a short, awkward chuckle, the sound hollow in the stillness. “You know how it gets. Kinda got dragged into it.”

The excuse felt thin even as he said it.

He let out a quiet, awkward chuckle—like he could smooth it over, make it lighter than it was. But the sound was reflexive—uncomfortable, like he’s trying to smooth over something he can’t quite reach.

“Sorry,” he tacked on, softer this time.

And even he could hear it.

How off it sounded. How small. How thin it sounds. How easy.

His hand lingers where it rests against her side, unsure now, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Mason stared at the back of her shoulder in the dark, his arm still loosely around her, unsure now whether to pull her closer or let go entirely.

The room didn’t give him anything back.

And for the first time, slipping into bed beside her didn’t feel as automatic as it used to.

The air outside is colder than Mason expected.

Not freezing, not yet—but sharp enough to cut through the leftover warmth in his system, the kind that lingers after a long night out or a crowded room. The city hums around them—cars passing, distant voices, the soft rhythm of footsteps on pavement—but it all feels quieter out here.

Quieter than it’s been between them in a while.

He walks beside her, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders loose, posture easy. Like always. Like nothing’s off.

They’re heading back from campus, or maybe just wandering—it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it’s just the two of them, no noise, no distractions. Just space.

Too much space, maybe.

Mason glances over at her, subtle, quick. She’s looking ahead, focused on something he can’t see. She’s been like that more lately—present, but just out of reach in a way he doesn’t know how to name.

He exhales softly, pulling one hand from his pocket.

Without really thinking about it, he reaches for her.

Their fingers brush first—light, almost accidental—before he hooks them together properly, threading his hand into hers like it’s second nature. Like it’s muscle memory.

And for a moment—

It’s fine.

Familiar.

Her hand fits the same. Warm, steady, real. It settles something in his chest he didn’t realize had been off-balance.

Mason’s grip tightens just slightly, thumb brushing once over the back of her hand. He glances at her again, this time holding the look a second longer, like he’s checking something.

This is good, he thinks. This is normal.

This is them.

His lips part, like he’s about to say something—something easy, something that fills the quiet without digging too deep.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

The sound cuts through everything.

Mason’s attention snaps to it instantly, reflexive. His grip loosens—not all at once, not intentionally, just enough that the connection shifts.

“Hold on,” he mutters, already pulling his hand free.

The cold air rushes back in where her warmth had been.

He fishes his phone out, glancing down at the screen. A message. Probably one of the guys. Something stupid, something that doesn’t matter.

Still—he checks it.

Thumb scrolling. Eyes flicking.

“Yeah, nah, they’re trippin’,” he says under his breath, half to himself, a quiet huff of amusement slipping out.

He doesn’t look up right away.

Doesn’t notice the space beside him until a second too late.

By the time he does, the moment’s already gone—whatever that was, whatever it could’ve been.

Mason slips his phone back into his pocket, clearing his throat lightly as he looks over at her again.

“Sorry,” he says, casual, easy. “What were you saying?”

The door barely clicks shut behind him before Mason’s already on her.

Not rough—at least, not in his head. Just... decisive. Urgent. Like he’s been carrying something all night and finally gets to drop it.

The alcohol still hums in his veins, warm and reckless, blurring the edges of everything. The party hasn’t fully left him yet—voices still echoing in the back of his mind, laughter, the low, crude confidence of the guys circled around cheap drinks and worse ideas.

Nothing better than a fast, hard fuck—

He exhales sharply, cutting the thought off as he steps into her space.

“Hey,” he mutters, already reaching for her, hands settling at her waist, pulling her in like it’s automatic—like this is just how it goes.

His blood runs hot beneath his skin, pooling somewhere low in his gut, and he groans softly as he rolls his hips into hers.

There’s no slow build tonight. No lingering. No soft teasing that stretches things out until it means something.

He kisses her—quick, then again, deeper, his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue swiping across the seam of her lips demanding entrance, like he’s trying to catch a rhythm that isn’t quite there yet.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against her, voice low, a little rougher than usual. “Missed you.”

It’s true. It is. But it comes out wrong—rushed, like it’s just part of the motion.

His hands move more than they usually would this early—firmer, more insistent, like he’s trying to skip steps without fully realizing it. There’s an edge to it, something less patient, less careful.

One hand slips up the underside of her shirt, palming a soft breast under a firm grip. The other hand slides low, down the inseam of her shorts and cupping between her legs, fingers swiping right over the spot that would make her gasp his name in that sinfully sweet way he loved so much.

A pause.

Subtle. Easy to miss.

But it’s there.

He doesn’t notice right away.

Not until—

Mason slows just slightly, pulling back enough to look at her, brows knitting faintly—not in concern, just confusion.

“What?” he asks, half-breathless, a small, crooked grin tugging at his mouth like he’s trying to keep things light. “You good?”

He doesn’t really wait for an answer.

Leans back in, pressing another kiss to the edge of her lips, lips trailing hot, wet kisses down her jaw to the column of her throat, nipping at exposed skin and leaving small marks of possession where he could. His hand slides again, trying to pick the moment back up where he thinks it should be.

“Don’t start overthinking it,” he adds, softer, almost coaxing now. “Just—relax.”

There’s a shift in how he moves next—more deliberate. He guides her back a step, then another, until the edge of the bed catches behind her legs.

And then—

He presses her down.

Not forceful. Not harsh.

But not gentle either.

Different.

Mason follows immediately, one hand braced beside her, the other still at her side, holding her there like he’s afraid the moment might slip if he lets it.

His breathing’s heavier now, uneven, driven more by impulse than connection.

He dips his head again, kisses trailing faster this time, less thought behind them, more need.

“C’mon,” he repeats, quieter, almost under his breath now. “Just... go with me, yeah?”

There’s something off.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, it flickers—this isn’t how he usually is with her. Not like this. Not so fast. Not so—

He ignores it—or tries to.

Because it feels easier not to stop. Easier to keep moving forward than to sit in whatever that hesitation was.

His grip tightens just slightly where he holds her, grounding himself in the moment he’s trying to create.

And for a second—just a second—it almost works.

Until the quiet between them stretches again.

This time, he feels it. For real.

He feels her tense beneath him again, and it breaks whatever moment he’s been trying to build in his mind. He gives a huff and leans his forehead against her shoulder, already knowing that he can’t force her if she doesn’t want to.

.