Chapter 2: Noodles, Bruises, and Broken Walls

After school, I trailed after Mason to his rundown apartment in a crumbling building on the edge of Maple Heights. The bricks were chipped, the windows fogged with grime, and the fire escape looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it.

The place looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the Reagan administration—seriously, the walls were that faded. The stairs creaked, the hallway smelled like old cigarettes and rain. I tried not to wrinkle my nose, but it was impossible not to notice.

Honestly, I’d never seen a place this dilapidated. The wallpaper was peeling, the lights flickered, and the whole building felt like it was leaning a little to one side. I wondered how Mason could stand it.

Paint peeled from the walls in long, curling strips. The mailbox was jammed with junk mail and eviction notices. It was the kind of place you’d expect to see on the evening news.

Not somewhere a genius lived.

Of course, Mason noticed me. He acted like I wasn’t there. When he tried to slam the rusty security door in my face, it bounced off my foot in the gap. I shoved my leg in further, half my body now stuck in his doorway, refusing to move.

I grinned at him, refusing to budge. The metal dug into my shin, but I didn’t care. I’d have let the door break my foot if it meant getting inside. No pain, no gain, right?

“Mason, you caught my foot. You gotta make it up to me.”

I gave him my best puppy-dog eyes, hoping for a hint of sympathy. If nothing else, maybe he’d feel guilty enough to let me in. Worth a shot.

He started picking at his fingers, annoyed. “Get lost.”

He couldn’t even look at me. His voice was flat, but I could see the tension in his jaw. He was annoyed, but maybe—just maybe—he was worried, too.

I clung to the door like a stubborn kid. “No way. I can’t even stand.”

I let my voice wobble a little, just for effect. If he was going to be stubborn, so was I. Two could play this game.

He ignored me and went inside.

He left the door hanging open behind him, like he didn’t care if I followed. Or maybe he was daring me to. Either way, I stepped right in.

I unpacked the groceries my family’s driver had delivered and started peeling garlic.

Time to win his heart through his stomach. I remembered something my grandma used to say—if you want to make someone feel at home, cook for them. The kitchen was cramped, barely enough space for two people; the counter was so small, I had to balance the cutting board on top of the microwave.

Mason came out after changing his shoes and, seeing me with the garlic, looked oddly resigned.

His shoulders slumped just a little, as if he’d already lost whatever argument he was about to start. For a second, I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

I beamed at him. “Mason, I’m making scallion oil noodles for you today, okay?”

I tried to sound casual, like it was no big deal. But inside, I was sweating bullets. I’d never cooked for anyone before.

He clearly didn’t want to talk to me, but he couldn’t take my mistakes anymore. “That’s scallion oil noodles, not garlic oil.”

He said it so dryly I almost laughed. The way he corrected me—so matter-of-fact, like he couldn’t help himself—made me want to grin. It was kind of cute.

Oh, is it? Whatever—the recipe was from my family’s chef, who said it was the easiest noodle dish to make delicious, even for a total beginner like me. I was determined to get it right.

I shrugged, determined to get it right. I could almost hear Chef Paul’s voice in my head, coaching me through each step.

“Then I’ll make scallion oil noodles.” I turned to dig out the scallions.

I rummaged through the bag, pulling out bunches of green onions, hoping I looked like I knew what I was doing. My hands shook a little, but I kept moving.

“Walker, I really don’t have time to mess around with rich kids like you. Go play with someone else, alright?”

His voice was tired, almost pleading. For a second, I wanted to back off. But I couldn’t. Not when I knew what was at stake.

Guess I still wasn’t convincing enough—he thought I was just messing with him.

I bit my lip, trying to find the right words. I needed him to believe me, just this once.

“But I mean it. I really like you. I like you a lot, Mason.”

I kept my eyes on his, hoping he’d see the truth. My hands shook a little as I chopped the scallions.

But I didn’t stop.

I wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, but I held back.

I didn’t want to scare him off.

If I could, I’d want him to love me, not hate me.

That was the dream, anyway.

For now, I’d settle for him not kicking me out.

Mason scrolled through his phone, then showed me a chat log. The other person was my best friend, Cody Blake.

I recognized the blue bubble right away. Cody was always getting into trouble, but this—this was a new low.

Cody: [Hey, valedictorian.]

Mason: [?]

Cody: “Since my buddy likes you so much, and I know you need money, here’s some cash. Just say yes to him, make him happy.”

[Transferred: $5,000.]

Cody: “Don’t be ungrateful, man. I don’t even spend that much chasing girls.”

Mason hadn’t replied or accepted the money.

I felt my face go hot. I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear.

Cody meant well—sort of—but he had the subtlety of a freight train.

Whatever hope I had left dropped off a cliff.

It was like someone had punched a hole in my chest. I knew Mason would hate this, that he’d see it as just another rich kid trying to buy him.

You can’t put a price on love.

Offering Mason money right now was a slap in the face. If he cared about money, he wouldn’t be thinking of suicide. He could get into any top university. With his grades, he could win scholarships easily.

I wanted to scream. Mason was worth more than all the money in the world, and Cody had just made me look like the worst kind of jerk.

Cody was killing me here!

I clenched my fists, wishing I could strangle him through the phone.

If I ever got out of this alive, I was going to make him pay.

All I did was ask him for tips on how to pursue someone—he’d dated half the school, after all. When I came out to him, I thought he’d be cool about it. Turns out, he was setting me up for disaster with Mason.

I replayed the conversation in my head, groaning.

I should’ve known better than to trust Cody with something this important.

What a jerk.

I made a mental note to never, ever ask him for advice again.

The guy had the emotional intelligence of a brick.

Mason put his phone away. “I used to think you were different from the other rich kids. Guess I was wrong.”

His words cut deeper than anything else. I felt the urge to defend myself, to explain, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Not right now.

My heart ached. Being misunderstood by the person you care about most—it felt like the sky was falling.

I swallowed hard, trying not to let the tears spill over.

I’d never felt so helpless, so exposed.

“Just go, rich boy. Don’t bother me anymore. I can’t play your games.”

He turned away, shoulders stiff. I could see the pain in his posture, the way he tried to make himself smaller.

All I could think was—even if I couldn’t explain, I couldn’t leave.

If I left now, I’d never get another chance.

I took a shaky breath, digging my nails into my thigh.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

I pinched my thigh hard, forcing out a few tears.

I let myself cry, just a little, hoping he’d see I was serious.

It wasn’t a performance—it was real.

I was desperate.

“Mason, you can misunderstand me all you want, but my foot really hurts. I can’t walk. Can I just come in and put some ointment on it before I go?”

I tried to sound as pitiful as possible. My ankle really did ache from earlier, but I might’ve exaggerated just a bit.

He hesitated, seeing my tearful face. Good thing I inherited my mom’s fair skin—my arms and face turn red at the slightest touch.

And when I cry, my eyes swell up fast. I used to complain that I didn’t look masculine at all. Girls at school even shipped me with Cody, calling me the soft one. No wonder girls looked at us differently when we played basketball. I used to think it was because I had no abs or charm. Then one day, Cody showed off our ranking on the school’s confession page—he was always the ‘top’ in the ships. That was even worse than not making the list.

I remembered the way Cody would laugh, teasing me for being too pretty for my own good.

Right now, I was grateful for every bit of it.

But right now, looking pitiful worked on Mason.

He looked torn, jaw clenched. I could tell he wanted to kick me out, but something held him back.

Today, if I got inside this apartment, I was not coming out.

I was determined. If I had to sleep on the couch or the floor, so be it.

I wasn’t leaving him alone tonight.

“Mason, it really hurts.”

I let my voice crack, just a little, hoping he’d give in.

He reached out, then pulled his hand back at the last second. Lips pressed tight. “Call your driver to pick you up.”

His voice was stiff, but I saw the worry in his eyes.

He cared, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

This guy… being a genius isn’t always a good thing.

He always tried to solve problems with logic, but sometimes you just needed a little heart.

“But it hurts so bad right now—can you check if it’s broken?”

I pulled up my pant leg, showing a huge purple bruise on my pale ankle.

I winced for effect, hoping he’d take the bait.

Mason frowned when he saw it.

His eyes lingered on the bruise, and for a moment, I saw real concern flash across his face.

Got him!

I wanted to keep milking it, but suddenly the stairwell filled with loud, chaotic footsteps—like a death knell echoing in the air.

The sound was unmistakable—boots on concrete, voices raised in anger.

My stomach twisted.

“You sure the kid’s hiding here?” a rough, middle-aged man spat at the stairwell, voice full of irritation.

His voice was gravelly, thick with years of cigarettes and cheap whiskey. He sounded like trouble.

An oily, eager voice answered—probably a scrawny, rat-faced guy under five feet tall.

“Boss Wayne, his dad told us himself. He wouldn’t dare lie.”

I pictured the guy in my head—greasy hair, beady eyes, always looking for an angle.

The kind of man who’d sell out his own grandma for a buck.

Mason’s expression changed. He pulled me inside, slammed the door, and locked it fast, listening at the door.

His movements were quick, practiced. I realized this wasn’t the first time he’d had to do this.

My chest ached for him.

That was way too easy. I should’ve hired a few people to stage this!

I almost laughed at the absurdity. If only I could control the world like that.

But this was real—and Mason was scared.

Mason was stronger than I thought. So forceful.

I liked it.

There was something about the way he took charge, even in a crisis. It made me want to trust him, to follow wherever he led.

The rusty iron door rattled under pounding fists.

The sound echoed through the apartment, loud enough to make the dishes in the sink tremble.

I pressed my back against the wall, heart racing.

“Open up, brat! I know you’re in there. Your dad owes us money, and you’re hiding instead of helping him pay? Some student you are—what’s all that studying for?”

The man’s voice was full of contempt, like he enjoyed the power he held over Mason.

I wanted to kick the door down and throw him out myself.

Mason stood at the door, voice cold: “He owes you. Go find him.”

His words were clipped, emotionless. But I saw his hands shaking, just a little, as he gripped the doorknob.

His eyes were lowered, expression unreadable, but to me, he looked like a leaf blown out of season—drifting, alone, with nowhere to land.

Just getting dirtier the longer it sat in the gutter.

It broke my heart.

I wanted to wrap him up, keep him safe from everything that hurt him.

The men outside laughed. “If your dad had money, would we be here? He said if you repeat school a few more years, you’ll pay off his ten grand. I even brought a contract—don’t be ungrateful.”

Their laughter was harsh, mocking.

I wanted to scream at them, to tell them to leave him alone. But I knew that wouldn’t help.

I was shocked. I knew Mason’s dad was a gambler, but I didn’t know he’d go so far as to sell out his own son.

One offhand remark about repeating grades could ruin someone’s whole life.

My hands curled into fists.

I’d never hated anyone as much as I hated those men in that moment.

“I’m not paying for him. If you keep hanging around, I’ll call the police.”

Mason’s voice was steady, but I could see the fear in his eyes.

He was trying to protect himself, to keep them at bay.

The voices outside softened. “Come on, Mason, open up. We can talk.”

They tried to sound friendly, but the menace was still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

Mason ignored them and went to the kitchen.

I hobbled after him, handing over the groceries.

He finally seemed to notice me, took the food, and set it aside.

He looked tired, worn down by the world.

But he accepted my help, even if just a little.

Reluctantly, he said, “Go sit on the couch. They’ll leave soon.”

His tone was softer, almost gentle.

I nodded, grateful for the small kindness.

“Can I have some noodles? I’m hungry.”

I tried to sound casual, like I wasn’t scared out of my mind. Maybe if I acted normal, things would be okay.

He didn’t answer, just started cooking.

He moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, hands steady even as his shoulders shook.

The men outside kept up their nagging, then started yelling, until the neighbors shouted them off. They left with a kick to the door. “This isn’t over, brat. I’ll be back.”

The building seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as their footsteps faded.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I sat on the little couch, furiously texting Cody.

My thumbs flew over the screen, venting all my frustration in a flurry of emojis and expletives.

[Cody, what the hell did you send to my forever crush? Who cares about your stupid money? You almost killed me!]

I hit send, wishing I could reach through the phone and shake him.

He replied, [Dude, I was helping! Who knew there’d be someone in this world who doesn’t care about money?]

Typical Cody—always missing the point.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

I just sent back a ‘heh.’

It was the digital equivalent of flipping him off.

I hoped he got the message.

If someone doesn’t even want to live, what would they do with money?

I stared at the ceiling, wondering how Cody could be so clueless.

Some things you just couldn’t buy.

While I was still cursing him out, Mason handed me a bottle of iodine and some cotton swabs.

I looked up, surprised, to see him standing in front of me, face blank—the kind of look that made him impossibly cool.

He stood there like a statue, but I could see the faintest hint of concern in his eyes.

My heart skipped a beat.

He jabbed the bottle at me. “Didn’t you say it hurt? Use this, then leave.”

His voice was gruff, but I could tell he was trying to help in his own awkward way.

I quickly took it. “Thanks, baby—no, wait—uh, I mean, thanks, Mason.”

I fumbled the words, cheeks burning.

He looked away, but I thought I saw a ghost of a smile.

He seemed satisfied and sat down to eat his noodles.

There was only one bowl—none for me.

I watched him eat, stomach growling. I didn’t mind.

Just being here was enough.

I looked at the iodine, thinking.

I turned the bottle over in my hands, wondering if it would really help.

I’d never been good with first aid.

“Mason, this stuff is so dark. Will my foot turn black if I use it?”

I tried to sound innocent, hoping he’d take pity on me.

He scowled and tried to take the bottle back. “Don’t use it, then.”

He snatched for it, but I held on tight.

I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

I clutched it. “But my foot hurts so much.”

I pouted, laying it on thick.

If I was going to be annoying, I might as well go all out.

“Then let it hurt.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to his words.

I squeezed out a few more tears, looking pitiful. “I’ve never hurt this much before.”

I sniffled, dabbing at my eyes.

I could almost feel him softening, just a little.

“Then use it. It won’t turn black.”

He sounded exasperated, but I could tell he was trying to reassure me.

“Okay, I trust you. But if it does, you have to take responsibility.”

I shot him a look, half-serious, half-joking. I hoped he’d take the bait.

I pretended to apply it. “Ow, Mason, my foot hurts so much, I can’t move. Can you help me?”

I held out my foot, giving him my best wounded puppy look.

He stared at me for a long moment.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

I held my breath, waiting.

I wiggled my foot, hissing in pain. “Really, I’m not lying.”

I tried to look as helpless as possible. If this didn’t work, nothing would.

In the end, he did help me, though he only held the very end of the cotton swab, never touching me directly. Then he washed his hands for two whole minutes afterward.

He moved with the precision of a surgeon, careful not to let our skin touch. When he was done, he scrubbed his hands like he was prepping for an operation.

I bit back a smile.

But he split the noodles with me.

He slid half the noodles into another bowl and set them in front of me without a word.

My heart soared.

Today, I got to eat noodles with him.

Tomorrow, maybe we’d share a bed!

I let the fantasy play out in my head, grinning like an idiot.

One step at a time, I reminded myself.

As I chewed, I tried, “Um, Mason, I could help you pay back the money.”

I kept my voice gentle, hoping he’d see I meant it. I didn’t want to offend him, just help.

He froze mid-bite, looking at me like I was a stranger he’d never see again.

His eyes went cold, distant.

I realized I’d pushed too far.

I quickly raised my hand. “I swear, I’m not messing with you or looking down on you. It’s just—you need money, I have money, and I want to help. Didn’t our teachers always say we should help our classmates?”

I tried to laugh it off, hoping he’d see the humor in it.

“But if you don’t need it, just pretend I farted. It’s gross for a second and then it’s over.”

I scrunched up my nose, making a face. If nothing else, maybe I could make him laugh.

I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

It was barely there, but it was enough to give me hope.

“Holy crap, you smiled.”

I pointed at him, grinning.

It felt like I’d won the lottery.

What the—did I just make the ice prince smile?

I wanted to jump up and down, but I settled for a quiet fist pump under the table.

“Finish eating and go home. And I don’t need your money.”

His voice was soft, almost gentle.

I nodded, savoring the moment.

For the next few days, Mason stopped dodging me. I could even eat with him at his desk. But he still ignored me, acting like I wasn’t there.

I took what I could get. Just being near him was enough. I watched the way he twirled his pen, the way he frowned when he was deep in thought.

On the tenth day, I was stressing out—maybe I needed to cook for him myself to win him over.

I spent hours online, watching cooking videos, trying to figure out what he liked.

I even called my grandma for advice.

On the eleventh day, to prove I was serious, I went to the market after class to buy groceries myself, instead of having the driver deliver them to the front gate.

I wanted him to see I was willing to put in the work, to go out of my way for him.

No shortcuts this time.

It started raining halfway there. The driver dropped me off at Mason’s building, and I hustled upstairs, worried he’d get soaked and wouldn’t bother to change clothes—I had to make sure he showered and changed.

The rain came down in sheets, soaking me to the bone. I didn’t care. All I could think about was Mason, alone in that apartment.

At the door, I saw the iron gate hanging open, dented even more than before.

Had those debt collectors come back?

My heart pounded as I climbed the stairs, groceries clutched to my chest.

I prayed I wasn’t too late.