The broken mask

 

POV: Chrysler Davii

My heart thumps violently against my ribs, a trapped animal kicking against its cage.

I wouldn't be able to hide how I look at you anymore.

The words hang between us in the freezing mountain air, heavy and unbelievable. I stare at Simone, searching his face for the joke. The punchline has to be coming. Any second now, he’s going to smirk, laugh, or look away with that casual, wealthy arrogance that guys like him wear like an expensive watch.

But Simone doesn't laugh. His hazel eyes are blazing, locked onto mine with an intensity so fierce it feels like a physical grip around my waist. The biting wind whips through the pine trees around us, but standing in his shadow, I don't feel cold at all.

"Don't," I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of a hundred unsaid insecurities. I step backward, my heel catching on an exposed root.

Simone’s hand shoots out with terrifying speed, catching my wrist. His fingers are large, warm, and steady. The heat of his skin against mine sends a jolt straight up my arm, making my breath hitch. He doesn't pull me close, but he doesn't let me fall either. He just holds me anchored right there on the ridge.

"Don't do what, Chrysler?" he asks softly, his thumb brushing over the pulse point on my wrist. I can feel my heart hammering frantically against his touch.

"Don't lie to me," I squeeze out, yanking my wrist back. He lets go immediately, though his gaze never strays from my face. "I'm not stupid, Simone. I know what I look like. I know I'm the fat girl who took your money and did your homework so I could get a shot at a guy who treated me like garbage. You don't look at me like... like that. You look at girls like Ultraviolet."

Simone’s jaw tightens so hard a muscle twitches violently near his ear. "If you say her name one more time, I'm going to throw my phone off this cliff," he says, his tone dead serious, though a dark edge of frustration laces it. "Ultraviolet Ross is a line item on my father's corporate sponsor list. She means nothing to me. Williams is a loud-mouthed idiot who hasn't had an original thought in his life. And you..."

He steps closer again. This time, I don't move back. I can't. My boots feel glued to the dirt.

"...you are the only person on that entire hollowed-out campus who ever looked at me without wanting something from my last name." He reaches out, his large hand hesitation-free this time, cupping the side of my face.

His palm is rough, warm, and impossibly gentle. My breath catches in my throat. My mother’s voice screams in the back of my mind—he's mocking you, look at your arms, look at your belly, look at your cheeks—but the quiet reverence in Simone’s touch is so loud it drowns out her cruelty.

"I didn't take your homework to pass a class, Chrysler," Simone murmurs, his thumb lightly stroking my cheekbone. "I didn't need the help. I paid you double your rate just to keep you sitting at that table next to me for an extra hour."

The world stops. The trees, the sunset, the wind—everything fades into a dull grey blur, leaving only Simone’s face in high definition.

"You... what?" I breathe.

"I wanted to hear you talk about your photography," he says softly. "I wanted to see you laugh when you solved a complex equation. And every time you mentioned Williams, I wanted to tear down the library wall with my bare hands."

I stare at him, completely paralyzed. The shock is a cold blade in my chest. He's lying. He has to be. But the raw, brutal sincerity in his eyes makes it impossible to doubt him. Simone Liverpool doesn't beg, he doesn't pretend, and he certainly doesn't stand on the edge of a mountain in the freezing cold to lie to a girl who feels like a ghost.

Before I can process the trembling quake in my chest, a dull, familiar ache blooms deep in my lower abdomen.

It starts as a slow, heavy knot, then sharpens into a white-hot knife twisting into my pelvic bone. I gasp, my hand flying to my stomach as a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me.

No. Not now. Please, God, not now.

It’s the PCOS flare-up I’ve been dreading for days. The physical toll of the travel, the cold air, the stress of being in this car, and the heavy emotional weight of my mother’s abusive phone call before we left campus have finally caught up to me. The cramps are legendary—sharp enough to drop me to my knees—accompanied by a sudden, bone-deep fatigue that turns my limbs into wet concrete.

I double over slightly, clutching my camera to my ribs, teeth grinding together to keep from letting out a sob.

"Chrysler?" Simone’s voice drops its intense edge instantly, replaced by sharp, clinical alarm. He’s at my side in a split second, his massive hands catching my shoulders, keeping me upright. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing," I choke out, trying to push him away. Panic—pure, terrifying panic—seizes my throat. If he sees me like this, weak, broken, dramatic... he'll realize how burdensome I really am. My mother’s voice echoes, sharp as glass: 'Always making a scene, Chrysler. Nobody wants a girl who's broken inside and out.' "I'm fine. I just... I need to sit down."

"You're not fine. You're white as a sheet," Simone demands, ignoring my attempt to brush him off. Without asking permission, he slides one thick arm under my knees and the other around my back, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing at all.

"Simone! Put me down!" I cry out, my face burning with sudden humiliation. I struggle against his hold, horrified by the physical contact, terrified of him feeling the soft weight of my body against his chest. "I can walk! Put me down!"

"Hold on to my neck or you're going to drop your dad's camera," he commands, his voice hard as steel, leaving zero room for argument.

I freeze. The mention of my dad's camera acts like a spell. Instinctively, I wrap one arm tightly around his neck, clutching the camera against my chest with the other.

Simone doesn't stumble. He carries me down the rocky ridge path toward the car with long, effortless strides. His chest is a solid wall of heat against mine, his heartbeat steady and strong underneath his athletic tee. He smells like cedar, expensive rain, and pure safety.

When we reach the car, he unlocks it with his key fob, opens the passenger door, and gently lowers me onto the leather seat. But he doesn't just let me sit there. He reaches down, pulls the lever, and reclines the seat back to a comfortable angle.

"Stay here," he orders softly, leaning over me for a brief second to tuck my dark curls back from my forehead. "Don't move."

He slams the door shut and jogs toward the trunk. I lean my head back against the leather headrest, tears of pain and humiliation leaking silently from the corners of my eyes. I pull my knees up slightly, curling into a tight ball, waiting for him to return with a look of annoyance, waiting for him to regret ever bringing me along.

Less than two minutes later, the driver's side door opens, bringing in a rush of cold air before Simone slides inside and shuts it.

He turns on the engine, turning the heater up to high. Warm air instantly floods the cabin. Then, he reaches into the back seat and pulls out a heavy, brand-new electric heating blanket and a stainless-steel thermos.

I stare at him through bleary, tear-filled eyes. "Where did you get that?"

"I packed it before we left," Simone says quietly. He plugs the blanket into the car's power outlet, waiting a few seconds until it warms up, then gently drapes it over my body, pulling it all the way up to my chin. "I read about PCOS when you collapsed in the library last semester, Chrysler. I know what the flare-ups do to you."

My breath hitches so hard it hurts. He read about it? He packed a heating blanket for me?

He unscrews the top of the thermos, pouring a cup of steaming, hot herbal tea—chamomile and ginger—and holds it out to me. "Drink this. It helps with the nausea."

"Simone..." My voice trembles, completely broken. Tears roll down my cheeks in earnest now, hot and fast. I can't stop them. "Why are you doing this? I'm... I'm a mess. I'm heavy, I'm dramatic, my body doesn't work right, and I'm ruining your trip..."

Simone freezes. The thermos cup in his hand shakes slightly. Slowly, deliberately, he sets the cup in the cup holder.

He shifts in his seat, leaning over the center console until he is hovering directly over me. His face is pale, his hazel eyes dark with an emotion so raw, so violently protective, it makes my breath catch in my throat.

"Listen to me," he whispers, his voice thick, rough, and trembling with restrained rage—not at me, but at whoever made me feel this way. "You are not dramatic. You are not a burden. And if anyone ever made you feel like you have to apologize for being in pain, I will personally ruin them."

He reaches out, his large, warm hand cupping the back of my neck. Gently, he pulls my head forward until my forehead rests directly against his chest, right over his beating heart.

"You don't have to carry everything by yourself anymore, Chrysler," he murmurs into my hair, his chest expanding under my cheek as he takes a deep, heavy breath. "I've got you. Just rest."

The low, soothing piano playlist begins to stream through the car's speakers—the quiet, safe sound he picked just for me. Surrounded by his scent, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket, and anchored by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the walls around my broken heart don't just crack.

They begin to crumble completely.