Mason recognized the look immediately.

Slouched shoulders, half-lidded eyes, that slow, lazy smirk that wasn’t really happiness—just a mask over something worse.

He’d seen it in the mirror a hundred times.

But seeing it on Aria?

His chest tightened.

“What the hell did you take?” Mason’s voice came out sharp, angry—but underneath, there was something else. Something close to panic.

Aria leaned against the graffitied brick wall behind the gas station, eyes unfocused, body loose. She let out a breathy laugh. “Relax, Mase. It’s just weed.”

Mason wasn’t relaxed. Not even close. He stepped forward, grabbing her by the wrist. “Where the hell did you get it?”

Aria groaned, trying to pull away, but his grip was firm. “Chris,” she muttered. “Not a big deal.”

Chris.

Mason felt his blood boil.

He shoved her back against the wall, not hard, but firm enough to make her focus. “You think that guy gives a shit about you?” His voice was low, sharp, deadly. “He’ll sell you whatever, Aria. He doesn’t care.”

Aria rolled her eyes. “It’s just a high, Mason. You do worse all the time.”

Mason stiffened.

She tilted her head, smirking. “Why is it fine when you do it?”

His stomach twisted.

“Because I’m already fucked,” he snapped. “You’re not.”

Aria’s smirk faltered—just for a second.

Mason ran a hand over his face, trying to breathe. His head hurt. His chest hurt.

Aria was too smart for this. Too sharp, too aware, too much like him.

And that scared the hell out of him.