LINES CROSSED. (BWWM)

1

Amina

"Just tell her, Mason."

The words left my mouth quietly but firmly, and I didn't miss the subtle twitch of his brow—the way his expression faltered, just slightly, like a ripple across still water.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, his fingers paused in my hair, and I felt him exhale above me. I was lying on the floor with my head in his lap, our usual spot when life slowed down, or when we needed each other without saying so. Mason sat on the couch, long legs stretched out on either side of me, one hand attempting to help unbraid my hair—though mostly he was making a mess of it.

Mason had been part of my world for as long as I could remember. He wasn't just a chapter in my story—he was woven through the whole damn book. From braces and clumsy crushes in middle school, to tear-streaked nights and whispered doubts in high school, and now, in now my final year of college, he was still here. Still showing up. Still Mason.

He was my brother Jimmy's best friend. But when Jimmy died—almost fourteen years ago now—something between us quietly shifted. I was eight. He was ten. The world had gone silent in the days after, and so had I. I didn't speak. Didn't cry. I just... disappeared inward.

Until Mason showed up on our porch one day with a crooked smile and a backpack full of bad jokes and snacks. He never said anything heavy—just made me laugh again, and little by little, I came back to life. He patched me up in ways no one else knew how to. And since then, we'd been... us. A team. A bond born from grief and nurtured in the quiet spaces between healing.

"Come on, Mase," I said, teasing, "you can't keep playing with the poor girl's feelings like that."

He gave an exaggerated groan, eyes rolling, and went back to the braid he'd been fiddling with for eight minutes. "And why not?" he mumbled, frowning in concentration.

"Because it's wrong, Masey."

His whole body tensed. Bingo.

"You wanna know what's wrong?" His voice sharpened, and I tilted my head, feigning innocence.

"What?"

"You calling me Masey." He shoved my head gently off his lap and stood, letting it fall onto the cushion with a soft thump. I grinned, even as I rubbed the spot.

"And maybe I do feel something for her, Amina. Would that be so wrong?" he said, walking toward the kitchen.

I blinked, stunned. "So... you're in love with her?"

He turned, a Coke bottle in hand. "No! I've only known the girl for two weeks. I'm not crazy," he said quickly, pouring the soda over ice. "All I'm saying is... maybe my feelings for her are progressing."

I scoffed. "Are they now?"

"Yeah," he replied, lips curling into that trademark smirk that always meant trouble. His blue eyes glinted, and the tattoos on his forearms flexed as he leaned against the counter. There was no denying it—Mason had presence. He was 6'5" of effortless charm and unintentional arrogance, with messy golden-brown hair and a jawline that made girls stutter mid-sentence. And don't get me started on the ink—college girls were practically allergic to self-control around him.

"You only started talking to her because of her boobs," I muttered, barely above a whisper.

He snorted, laughing. "Yeah, so? I mean... they are nice."

I rolled my eyes, but my chest felt tight. It wasn't the first time we'd had this conversation, and I doubted it'd be the last. I hated being dragged into the aftermath, hearing girls cry and beg me to "talk to Mason" like I held the remote control to his heart. I didn't.

"You know what? Do you. But when you're done messing around, tell her to stay the fuck away from me." My tone sharpened as I sat up straighter.

"Come on, Amina, don't get mad," he said, walking back over. He sat beside me on the floor, the couch towering above us like a witness to years of shared moments. I avoided his eyes.

"Look at me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm mad at you."

"I know you are," he said softly. "But at least let me stare into those big brown eyes of yours."

I sighed, rolling my eyes again for effect, but it didn't quite mask the warmth rising to my cheeks. He always knew how to push just enough without breaking me.

"Fine, you win. I'll stop seeing her." His words made me whip my head around.

"No, that's not what I meant," I said quickly.

His brows furrowed. "Then what?"

"Talk to her, Mason. Be honest. She told you she loved you and you said nothing." My voice rose, not out of anger, but out of frustration. He just stared at me.

"That's because I don't feel anything, Amina."

The air between us stilled. Then, he reached out and took my hand, pressing his forehead to my shoulder. His skin was cool, his touch familiar.

"I thought you just said—"

"I know what I said," he cut in, quieter now. "But I didn't mean it. And you should know that."

And I did. I always did. But hearing it still stung.

"Yeah," I whispered, eyes on our hands. My dark skin against his pale knuckles, the contrast stark and soft all at once.

"You know you're the only woman I love," he said, and even though he said it often, I knew what he meant. Not like that. Not in the way I sometimes wished.

I laughed anyway, and he chuckled too, gently stroking his thumb across the back of my hand.

"You gonna help me with these braids or what?" I said, nudging him back to reality.

He smirked. "You've only got one left."

I sighed dramatically. "I know... I just don't want you to leave yet."

He tilted his head, considering me. I met his gaze, open now, vulnerable.

"I'll even make taco lasagna," I added, hopeful. "Your favorite."

He narrowed his eyes. "You really went there?"

I nodded, lips tugging into a grin.

"Unbelievable," he muttered with a smile, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV.

I leaned into his side, comforted by the flicker of the screen and the closeness of him. Mason wasn't mine. Not really. But for tonight, he was here. And that was enough.