Emily The hospital room smells like antiseptic and regret.I sit in the stiff plastic chair beside Mason’s bed, staring at the steady rise and fall of his chest. The oxygen mask fogs faintly with every breath he takes. The heart monitor beeps in soft, rhythmic reminders that he’s still here.Still breathing.Because of me.My fingers curl around the armrest. The image replays in my head no matter how hard I try to shove it away—the headlights, the screech of tires, the force of his body slamming into mine as he pushed me out of the way.That car was coming straight at me.It wasn’t an accident. I felt it. I know it.And Mason—stupid, infuriating Mason—did what he always does.He stepped in.Like some damn superhero.I scoff under my breath, but it dies halfway out because when I look at him lying there with tubes and bruises shadowing his jaw, my chest tightens painfully.“You just had to do it, didn’t you?” I murmur. “Couldn’t let someone else save the day for once.”My throat burns
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