Third Person P.O.V.
The room was quiet, painted in soft shadows and moonlight. The air was thick with unspoken emotion, the night slow and heavy, cloaked in stillness. Mason lay still on the bed, his breathing even, his body relaxed, and yet, internally, a war brewed. A silent war between chains unseen and memories unheard.
It started with a touch.
A featherlight press of fingers on his chest. The slow, gentle motion of fingertips moving in small, soothing circles.
Mason didn’t move. But inside, something flinched.
The scent was next. It wrapped around him like a warm cocoon. Familiar. Intoxicating. Comforting. It smelled of safety, of warmth, of something sacred. And though his mind was wrapped in fog, the scent pulled at something deeper. Beyond thought. Beyond reason. A whisper in
