Evergreen High School

[Midnights]

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Evergreen High School boasts striking, contemporary architecture with expansive brick and glass facades. The large, reflective windows capture the brilliance of the azure sky, creating a harmonious connection between the interior and the natural surroundings. The campus is meticulously landscaped, with lush, green lawns around the building, a spacious student parking lot, and a scattering of majestic tall pine trees that add a touch of wilderness to the scene. Near the main entrance, an American flag flutters gently in the soft breeze, symbolising pride and community.

In the backdrop, the breathtaking Rocky Mountains rise majestically, their rugged peaks adorned with a delicate blanket of snow, a testament to the region's natural beauty even as late spring unfolds. The foothills just beyond the school are cloaked in dense evergreen forests, their deep greens contrasting beautifully with the vibrant rolling hills that stretch farther into the distance. As the morning sun ascends, it bathes the mountains in a warm, golden light, painting an idyllic, almost postcard-worthy landscape that greets students daily. This enchanting view evokes a sense of serenity while simultaneously showcasing the powerful grandeur of Colorado’s wilderness.

[Rowan Starling]

https://i.ibb.co/VJFKZDN/s1-7.gifRowan sat on the edge of the worn wooden stage, her legs swinging idly as if searching for solid ground, her script resting like a forgotten memory on her lap. The air around her thickened with anticipation—a palpable tension that hung like the dim stage lights above, waiting for the moment when the world would shift and the curtain would rise.

Behind her, soft footsteps broke the stillness, accompanied by the rustle of pages. Mason’s presence weaved through the silence. She could feel him there without turning, filling the space like sunlight piercing through clouds—warm, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

They were meant to be lost in the words of Much Ado About Nothing, rehearsing the razor-sharp banter between Beatrice and Benedick—two characters wrapped in witty repartee. Rowan felt a sharp pang of recognition with Beatrice; her struggles were reflected in the character’s fierce independence and unyielding spirit. Mason embodied Benedick effortlessly, slipping into the role with an ease that fascinated and frustrated her. She let her eyes skim over the lines again, her voice breaking the quiet with a soft but clear thread weaving through the air.

“You always look at me like you’re about to say something… but never do.” The words reverberated through the cavernous space, lingering in the rafters like shimmering dust motes caught in a beam of light. They seemed insignificant, mere warm-up lines the teacher had suggested, but they wrapped around her like vines, squeezing tightly against her ribcage.

“Why don’t you at least pretend to be bad at this?” Her voice edged with frustration—an uncanny echo of Beatrice herself. “It’d be less irritating.”

Rowan brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze wandering over the faded seats where an audience would eventually be seated. The room buzzed with anticipation and encouragement. They would watch her surrender to the lines onstage—her heart laid bare, and performing was new to her. She was only here because she needed the extra credit to graduate with the rest of their class.

Her thoughts drifted to Seraphina, her friend’s voice echoing in her mind, playful and teasing. “I bet Seraphina would lose her mind if she knew I was here with you,” Rowan murmured, a hint of sarcasm lacing her words. “She’d probably ask if I hit my head.”

A laugh escaped her lips, but it was brittle, a façade crumbling under the weight of her emotions. Mason remained unmoving, an enigma in the dim light. Rowan felt a tightness grip her throat, the air suddenly thick and suffocating. Her fingers curled around the edge of her script, creasing the delicate paper beneath her grip, a small act of defiance against the rising tide of emotions.

“It’s just a scene,” she whispered, her voice a fragile admission. Yet deep down, she understood the lie in her words. Mason’s quiet was infused with unspoken tension, his gaze burning into her like a hot ember, searing her resolve. Every moment they spent alone felt like teetering on the edge of an abyss—a place that beckoned with possibility and fear entwined.

With deliberate slowness, she stood, allowing the script to slip from her lap and flutter down to the stage like a fallen leaf. When she finally spoke again, her tone was steady, careful. “From the top,” when she turned to face him, she found his eyes already locked onto hers—intense, searching, and full of meaning.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he stepped into the warm, golden glow of the mellow lighting. The soft illumination enveloped him, casting gentle shadows that danced across his features. He relished the moment when the stage became a realm of enchantment, where the spotlight carved a radiant path just for him. There was a certain thrill in being the center of attention, every eye drawn to him, as he thrived under the gleaming brilliance of performance.

Mason settled himself beside her on the edge of the stage, his heart racing with the mingled excitement and nervousness that accompanied such intimate moments. Over time, he had learned a valuable lesson: patience and silence were powerful tools in conversation. If he remained quiet and attentive, people tended to open up, sharing thoughts and feelings that they hadn’t originally intended to disclose. With this understanding in mind, he chose to keep his mouth shut and simply listened, allowing Rowan the space to express herself. As she began to speak, he could see the weight of her emotions reflected in her eyes, and he knew that his quiet presence was offering her the comfort she needed to share her thoughts.

“For the record… I don’t look at you like I’m about to say something—I look at you like I’m trying to figure out which thing to say first. Because believe it or not, there’s a lot going on up here.” He tapped the side of his head with a smirk. “Contrary to popular belief, theater kids can multitask.” Maybe people didn't say that, maybe it was just the adults in his life clocking his attention deficit.

"Me? Pretend to be bad? Never." He dramatically clutched his chest, his eyes widening in mock horror at the very idea. In reality, his confidence on stage stemmed from a significant shift in his mindset; he had finally managed to cast aside the weight of other people's opinions. This newfound freedom allowed him to embrace his true self without hesitation. With the mental barriers that once held him back now removed, he found it effortless to dive headfirst into his performance, pouring his heart and soul into every moment, which captivated the audience and made his artistry shine even brighter.

It’s just a scene, she’d said—and maybe she believed that. Maybe she thought this was just rehearsal. Lines. Marks on a stage. Theater kids being dramatic.Yeah, right. "Oh, come on,” Mason said, his voice low but laced with a crooked sort of amusement. “You dropped the script like it personally offended you, but your hands were shaking like we’re about to rob a bank.” His eyes twinkling just a bit. “You really think I wouldn’t notice?” He glanced down at the abandoned script on the floor, arching a brow. “Poor thing. Didn’t even stand a chance.”

Then his gaze flicked back up to her, softer now. “I don’t care if you’re here for extra credit, a dare, or because Seraphina double-dog dared you and you’re too stubborn to back down. You’re here. With me. That’s enough for me.” The silence that followed was brief but weighty, like the air between them had thickened just a little—complicated, but not unwelcome. Mason tilted his head, smirking faintly. “From the top,” he said, voice lighter now, but his eyes still held that sharp, searching heat. And somehow, it wasn’t just about the scene anymore. Not even close.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan stood frozen, the air thick with an unsettling silence that enveloped her like a heavy fog. The script lay neglected at her feet, its pages curling at the edges as if scorched by the heat of uncomfortable honesty. She fixated on it, her heart racing, the rhythmic thudding echoing in her ears like a ticking clock counting down to something inevitable. This moment was not how it was supposed to unfold. Rehearsal was meant to be a refuge—a brief escape into a world of lines and characters, a reprieve from her life. Yet here she was, ensnared in the magnetic pull of Mason Hayes, whose mere presence had the uncanny ability to yank her back to reality with nothing more than a glance.

Mason exuded an aura of calm assurance, a steady force in the turbulent social landscape she navigated daily. When he looked at her, it felt unlike any other gaze she had ever encountered—no awe in his eyes, no glimmers of judgment or expectation. Instead, his gaze pierced through the carefully constructed facade she wore like armour, unveiling the girl hidden beneath the polished surface. The intensity of that realisation sent a tremor of fear coursing through her veins.

She shifted her weight, arms instinctively crossing over her chest, a futile attempt to shield herself from the vulnerability that threatened to spill over. When her voice broke the stillness, it emerged softer than usual—lacking its usual edge, stripped of pretence. "He wasn’t supposed to notice," she murmured, the confession barely audible, more directed at herself than him. "None of them ever do." Yet Mason remained unflinching, his gaze steady and unwavering, exuding a patient curiosity that suggested he understood the unspoken barriers she was wrestling with. He seemed to know that if he gave her the time, the truest parts of her would eventually seep through.

Rowan released a slow, shaky breath tinged with bitterness and sweetness. "I thought I could navigate this unscathed," she confessed, her voice faltering. "Smile, deliver the lines, secure my A, then disappear." Her breath hitched slightly as she continued, “But then you…” She hesitated, the weight of her revelation hanging in the air. “You started watching me like I was someone worth investing in. And now…”

Her voice quivered, revealing the cracks in her carefully constructed armour. “Now I’m not sure which version of me is the pretence anymore.” Mason’s expression remained composed, devoid of mockery; instead, it bore a gravity that suggested a deep understanding of her turmoil.

Meeting his gaze, an unguarded flicker of vulnerability danced in her eyes—an expression that felt worlds apart from the confident girl who ruled the hallways with her head held high, each word meticulously crafted. “I’m scared,” she finally admitted, the weight of those two simple words unspooling something profound within her. “Not of the stage itself, but of what it means if this isn’t just a performance. What if it’s real?”

The soft glow of stage lights above enveloped them in a golden halo, illuminating their silhouettes against uncertainty. Mason’s demeanour shifted, the playful teasing giving way to a quiet seriousness as if he recognised the magnitude of what she was sharing.

After a moment of suspended silence, Rowan managed a faint smirk—her lips curved just enough to hint at a question hidden beneath the surface. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a challenging gleam. “So,” she initiated, her tone threading between anticipation and trepidation, “Should we start from the top?” A brief pause lingered between them, charged with tension, before she added softly, “Or do we drop the act completely?”

Whatever unfolded next, she sensed, would not be merely a scene. It had transformed into something much more significant.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason let out a soft breath, the corners of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “You know,” he said gently, “I always imagined what it’d be like to hear you say something real like that. Figured I’d be smug about it—some great ‘gotcha’ moment. But… it doesn’t feel like that.”

He tilted his head, his voice lighter, teasing but kind. “It feels like I want to wrap you in a blanket and make sure you never think you have to disappear again.”

He stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from his jeans, then reached down to pick up the discarded script. He held it between two fingers like it was fragile, sacred. “Poor thing,” he said with mock solemnity, “a casualty of emotional breakthrough.”

His tone shifted again—still playful, but laced with sincerity. “You weren’t supposed to notice me. I got that memo loud and clear back in freshman year. Trust me. You were untouchable, and I was just the weird theater kid with too much gel in his hair and a tendency to monologue in the cafeteria.”

He smiled, the memory clearly more amusing now than painful. “But I still liked you. Before the friend group, before the polished act. You laughed with your whole face back then. No one does that anymore.”

His eyes flicked to hers, more serious now. “So if this isn’t just a scene for you… if something about this feels real, then yeah. That scares me too. But not because I think it’ll break me. Because I really, really want it to be real.”

He hesitated, then held out the script—not as a challenge, but as a quiet offering. “We can start from the top if you want. Or we can drop the act. Your call, Rowan. But either way… I’m here.” He couldn't shake off the feeling that this wasn't real, but rather a cruel joke being played on him by the popular kids, as if he were trapped in a teen movie.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan hesitated, her heart caught in a delicate balance between fear and longing.

Her gaze was riveted to the script cradled in Mason's hand; her lips parted slightly as if searching for a line that could articulate the chaos swirling inside her. Yet, for the first time, there was no magical phrase preordained for this moment. The ambience around them dimmed; the rest of the auditorium faded into a soft blur, cocooning them in a fragile bubble where the harshness of fluorescent lights and the discomfort of folding chairs felt worlds away.

Mason stood before her, exuding that youthful charm and earnest enthusiasm that seemed to belong to an entirely different realm. The boyish smile on his face contrasted sharply with the faceless crowd of peers she was meant to engage with. The weight in her chest grew heavier, a tangible pressure pushing against the walls of her heart.

He was intended to be just a background character, a minor detail in the tapestry of her high school life—merely a footnote in her yearbook, someone she’d pass in the halls, invisible and unremarkable.

So why had he suddenly transformed into the sole person who seemed to see beneath her carefully constructed facade?

A quiet, shaky laugh escaped her lips, almost reluctant, as if she was unsure whether to trust the fragile sound. “God, Mason,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around herself as if seeking comfort in her embrace. “You’re making it hard to pretend I don’t feel anything.”

She didn’t reach for the script—not yet. Instead, she stepped closer, bridging the gap between the scripted world and her reality. Her gaze was unwavering, striking yet glimmering with a mix of vulnerability and determination as if to memorise every detail of him.

“You’re not a joke,” she declared softly yet firmly, her voice laced with sincerity. “And this… isn’t a prank.”

She could see the thoughts flitting across his mind—familiar patterns branded by the expectations of those around her. The doubt that this moment of openness would lead to mockery. The fear that he would feel foolish for daring to believe he was wanted. Once, she might have let that unkind narrative persist, but not with him. Not now.

Her voice lowered to a whisper, so gentle it felt like it could shatter if spoken too loudly. “I used to watch you. Back when I was learning how to be someone else. You’d walk into class clutching that enormous binder filled with scripts, exuding an almost comical enthusiasm as if nothing else mattered—not the laughter of others nor their judgment. I envied you.”

A heartbeat passed, and she delicately pushed the script away with her fingertips, allowing it to slip back to his side like a forgotten page.

“I don’t want to go back to the top,” she confessed, her voice barely above a murmur, heavy with sincerity. “I want to start from here where it’s messy. Where it’s real.”

Rowan didn't smile at that moment—not entirely—but something shifted within her, a softening of her expression like the first crack in a winter’s frozen lake. Uncertainty lingered, mingling with fear, yet there was also an unmistakable sense of openness.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stood there for a second, blinking as if her words had knocked the wind out of him—not with force, but with something softer, weightier. The script in his hand suddenly felt flimsy, ridiculous, like a paper shield against the raw truth she’d just offered. Slowly, a crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he said, his voice a low, bemused murmur, “that might be the most romantic Shakespeare rejection I’ve ever experienced.”

With an exaggerated flourish, he flicked the script toward a nearby chair. It landed with a soft thud, fluttering closed as if it, too, knew its moment had passed. His hands slipped into the pockets of his jeans, thumbs hooking at the edge—casual, but there was a nervous energy in the way his shoulders shifted, like he was trying to find stable ground in a conversation that had just veered off the map.

His eyes never left hers, though. They stayed locked on Rowan, searching, absorbing every subtle shift in her face like he was trying to memorize her expression—half-defiant, half-unraveling.

“You know,” he continued, his voice warmer now, threaded with quiet disbelief, “for someone who used to walk past me like I was part of the set—just some background extra—you’ve got a hell of a way of stepping into the spotlight.”

He stepped forward, close enough to feel the invisible pull between them, close enough that he could catch the faintest trace of her perfume—something soft, like vanilla and books and rain. His smile curved into something gentler.

“You watched me?” he repeated, eyebrows rising slightly. “God. That’s… wow.” A breathy laugh escaped him, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Here I was, thinking if I looked at you too long during sophomore chem, one of your friends was gonna shove me into the supply closet.”

His tone was teasing, not bitter—just a shared memory from another life, when she was learning to wear armor and he was quietly trying not to be invisible.

“But now…” His voice trailed off, gaze falling to her lips before darting back up to her eyes, testing the weight of the silence between them. And then, without thinking, Mason closed the space. He kissed her.

It was hesitant but full of intent, a moment that trembled somewhere between bravery and instinct. His hand hovered near her arm, not quite touching, like he was afraid that grounding the moment would make it vanish. Her lips were soft, unmoving for half a second—and that was all it took for his nerves to spiral.

Mason pulled back quickly, a rush of breath escaping him. “Shit—I’m sorry. That was—God, was that okay? I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that, I mean—not unless you…”

He took a step back, suddenly very interested in the scuffed floor of the stage. His hands dragged through his hair in a messy arc of embarrassment. “Wow. Okay. Cool. Great job, Mason. Peak theater kid impulse control.”

He forced a laugh, jittery and self-conscious. “If that was not what you wanted, I can pretend I was possessed by the ghost of a very affectionate Benedick and we can just chalk this whole thing up to method acting.”

But when he looked back at her—cheeks flushed, expression caught somewhere between dread and hope—there was nothing playful in his eyes. Just the raw truth of someone who had wanted something for so long he wasn’t sure what to do now that it might actually be within reach.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan stood there, completely still, an island of quiet amidst the tumult of her thoughts.

The kiss had taken her by surprise—not out of panic or discomfort, but rather like the stillness that descends before a storm, crackling with a potent energy. She felt suspended in that moment, almost weightless, teetering on the precipice between the familiar confines of her past and the uncharted territories of a hopeful future that Mason had just dared to cross. As the kiss faded, a soft emptiness enveloped her, starkly contrasting with the warmth that had enveloped them just moments before. She sensed Mason drawing back as if he had brushed against a fragile thing, fearful it might fracture beneath the weight of his touch.

Her lips still tingled with the ghost of their connection.

Her wild and unbridled heart pounded so fiercely in her chest that she feared he could hear the rapid rhythm echoing in the space between them. And there stood Mason, his face flushed and his eyes wide with an anxious glow, as though he were already constructing barricades around his heart. He had endured relentless days of prepping for the jibes and critiques of others, leaving him wary of embracing something gentle and true.

“Mason,” she murmured, her voice a soft caress in the air, more delicate than she had intended. It wasn’t doubt that silenced her; instead, it was the vulnerability of standing raw and unguarded, stripped of the performances and the armour she habitually donned.

His name settled over her like a blanket of calm.

With careful intention, she approached him, her feet placing her steadily closer to the haven of his presence. There was no frantic rush, no grand proclamation—just a tranquil determination guiding her movements.

Then, she reached up—slowly, gently—offering him the choice to retreat if he desired. She let her palm glide against his cheek, feeling the slight rasp of scruff beginning to emerge, a testament to the hours he spent lost in thought. She noticed his breath falter, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that spoke of longing and the need for confirmation.

“I wanted you to,” she whispered, the words almost a secret shared in the intimacy of their space.

That simple statement was all that she needed to convey.

She refrained from detailing the countless times she had replayed that kiss in her mind, longing for its reality. In the peaceful solitude of her room, where the world melted away, and only she remained, she had envisioned what it would mean to allow someone close—to embrace him fully and genuinely. She held back the confession of her trepidation, not fearing the depth of her emotions but rather the fragility of something so beautiful that it might shatter. There was no necessity for those words to slip from her lips.

For the understanding simmering in Mason’s eyes spoke volumes. Deep down, he had always known.

And so, she kissed him.

This time, it was a kiss brimming with certainty—a gentle yet firm affirmation of what they were beginning to share. It was not tentative or pleading for approval; it was nothing less than real and profound.

When she finally pulled away, her forehead rested lightly against his, their breaths mingling in the narrow space that separated their faces, a cradle of their shared vulnerability.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” she said softly, the honesty in her voice a soothing balm to her previously restless spirit. “Not with you.”

In that perfect moment, time felt elongated and treasured, and for the first time, Rowan didn’t feel like she was acting a role—she existed, a raw and authentic version of herself.

And Mason?

He regarded her as though that unadulterated honesty was more than sufficient, a silent promise flickering in his gaze that spoke of acceptance and hope.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason blinked, his mind swirling in a delightful daze, as if the universe had conspired to pull the stars down from the night sky and place them gently in his hands. The warmth of her kiss—oh, that kiss—had swept through him like a breath of fresh air, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. Rowan’s words, tender and heartfelt, echoed in his mind: “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

A soft smile blossomed on his lips, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes as he released a quiet breath that resembled a laugh. “Well... good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a warmth that enveloped them both. “Because I’m terrible at pretending.” Although he could seamlessly portray different characters, when it came to being just Mason, he laid it all bare—what you saw was truly what you got.

As he held her gaze, a playful spark flickered in his eyes, but it was grounded by the depth of emotion beneath the surface. His hands found their place at her waist, wrapped gently as if cradling a fragile treasure, conveying without words that she mattered in this moment. “I’ve got to say though,” he continued, tilting his head as if he were thoughtfully considering a great mystery, “if this is the result of opening up... I might just have to encourage a few more unapologetic confessions.”

He paused, the world narrowing down to just the two of them, his gaze unwavering as he searched her eyes. In that suspended moment, the light-hearted banter softened into a heartfelt sincerity. “I always noticed you, you know. Even when you were... light-years away,” he said, a crooked smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “But I never imagined you’d actually notice me back. Not in this way.” With a gentle touch, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering as if to savor the softness of the moment. “So yeah,” he said, his grin widening, “you’re kind of blowing my mind right now.”

"Just... promise you won’t disappear after this, okay? Because I’m not nearly cool enough to handle that kind of heartbreak twice.” Beneath the playful teasing lay a palpable truth—his awe, his joy, and the gentle dismantling of the walls he had so carefully constructed were laid bare for her to see. Mason wasn’t simply falling for her; he had already fallen, and the feeling had never truly faded.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt her breath catch, a hesitant, trapped sensation lodged stubbornly between her chest and throat, as Mason’s words enveloped her like a swirl of dust dancing lazily in a forgotten room. She hadn’t anticipated this moment—the weight of his earnest declaration, delivered with such raw simplicity. The once-familiar setting of stage lights and rehearsed dialogue faded into insignificance, giving way to something profoundly genuine.

Her eyes drifted down to where his hands rested lightly at her waist, a subtle, reassuring presence. They didn’t grip or dominate; instead, they offered a sense of calm, a silent invitation to retreat or remain.

She chose not to move.

This was meant to be a straightforward scene, a fleeting moment that would drift away like all the others she had acted through. But Mason had always defied expectation, hadn’t he? He didn’t lean on charm, status, or polished monologues. He spoke his truth—thoughtful, unfiltered sentiments that settled deep within her, curling warmly around her ribs, strange yet comforting.

“I didn’t think you were paying that much attention,” she blurted out, the defensiveness in her tone escaping before she could rein it in.

He didn’t recoil. Instead, he displayed a soft, crooked smile with a hint of amusement as if he had anticipated her reaction, as though it had changed nothing.

Her arms remained loosely crossed over her chest—not a barricade but a lifeline in a maelstrom of emotions. With every encounter, she needed to control the narrative—what she said, how she appeared, and the little glimpses of vulnerability she allowed others to see. But Mason had a remarkable knack for unravelling her defences without even trying.

He spoke about observing her, her seeming light-years away, and the casual certainty with which he expressed those thoughts sent a twist of unease through her stomach.

Had she been unaware? Or perhaps she had known all along but had chosen to shut it away, unwilling to confront it.

“I wasn’t trying to ignore you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t know you then.” Not like this. Not with his heartfelt honesty bared like a chapter of an intriguing book she had yet to explore.

Her fingers tingled with the urge to reach out and bridge the distance by touching his arm, but she halted midway, a cautious instinct flaring within her. She didn’t want to mislead him—or worse, reveal her own emotions.

“This is weird,” she admitted, her voice revealing a fragile thread of vulnerability. “Not bad. Just… different.”

And it was undeniably different. There were no masks or rehearsed lines here, no barriers to shield her from herself. What was unfolding before her felt unfamiliar yet captivating. There was a profound quiet in Mason that she hadn’t anticipated—an unshakeable steadiness that both intrigued and unsettled her.

A flood of relief washed over her when he mentioned he wasn’t asking for promises. It wasn’t that she yearned for freedom; it was simply that he wasn’t seeking to confine her.

With a barely perceptible nod, she allowed herself to breathe, to exist in that moment.

She remained uncertain about the path ahead, about what this meant for them. But in the tranquil space they had created between them, under the soft hum of overhead lights reminiscent of stage whispers, she chose to stay longer, if only for a while.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason raised an eyebrow, a slow grin creeping across his face as if her words were both a confession and a dare. His hands stayed gently at her waist for another heartbeat before he eased back, not out of rejection, but to see her more clearly—like stepping back from a painting to take in the whole picture.

“Well,” he said, mock-serious, “there goes my entire theory that you were just genetically altered to intimidate people in the cafeteria line.”

His tone was light, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. He glanced toward the stage, then back at her, like he half-expected the curtain to rise on a new scene—one they hadn’t rehearsed, one they might not be ready for. But still, here they were.

“You say you didn’t know me,” he said, tipping his head. “But I knew you. Not the high-gloss version, the real one. The one who used to doodle constellations in the margins of her notebooks and argued with our English teacher about how Ophelia deserved better.”

He smirked, teasing but sincere. “You had this weird little fire in you—like, quietly chaotic. And honestly, I was kind of obsessed with it.”

He nudged her gently with his shoulder, playful now, like he couldn’t help himself. “Then one day you blinked, and boom—Queen Bee. Designer shoes. Friends who looked at me like I was a cafeteria tray someone forgot to clean.”

His grin widened when she rolled her eyes.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he added, gesturing vaguely. “You wore the crown well. But I didn’t have a crush on the girl with the perfect Instagram posts. I liked the one who got banned from the school library for ‘reorganizing the fantasy section by emotional damage level.’”

He paused, as if weighing something in his chest.

“And I still do. Like this? You? Right now?” He gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug. “I like this version way better.”

Then, softer, though his smile didn’t fade: “You don’t have to have a plan. You don’t have to pick a side. Just… don’t ghost me in the halls again, okay? I bruise emotionally.”

He widened his eyes dramatically, placing a hand over his heart like a wounded Shakespearean prince. “You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to recover from you ignoring me at freshman orientation.” Then, with a glance at her lips—quick but undeniable—he added with a wink, “Although... I gotta say, the recovery process has improved drastically.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt an unexpected constriction in her throat—not the sharp, panicked pressure of anxiety, but something much more insidious: affection.

This was the feeling she hadn’t prepared for, the sort that crept up on her quietly, wrapped in playful banter and theatrical metaphors, and delivered through the way Mason Hayes spoke—each word imbued with an earnestness that pulled at her heart.

When he cracked a joke in the cafeteria line, she refused to laugh despite her lips betraying her desire to curl into a smile. She held her gaze steady as he reminisced about the version of her that lingered in his memories. This girl filled the margins of her notebooks with constellations and passionately defended her beloved tragic heroines. That version of herself, the one she had carefully buried beneath layers of polished outfits and sharp social strategies, bubbled to the surface like a ghost she hadn’t realised she would miss.

She was astonished that anyone had noticed that girl, especially not her.

But Mason had.

He always had.

His words, spoken with a soft cadence that conveyed reverence rather than judgment, illuminated parts of her she had long forgotten. He made her feel seen in a visceral way that was almost overwhelming.

When Mason brought up her legendary library reorganisation, a soft snort escaped her despite her efforts to contain it. “They deserved it,” she murmured under her breath, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Someone had to warn the freshmen about the emotional trauma they were signing up for.”

Yet as he continued, unravelling a steady stream of sincere, disarming truths that flowed like water, Rowan felt a profound shift deep within her chest. He wasn’t performing for her; there was no ulterior motive, no strategy to win her over.

He appreciated her.

Not the carefully constructed persona she showcased. Not the polished facade she thought she had to maintain—just… her.

The realisation terrified her.

And yet, when he implored her not to ghost him again, employing an exaggerated hand gesture over his heart that could have been pulled right from a script, Rowan didn’t flinch. She didn’t retreat into herself. Instead, she remained anchored at the moment, her eyes locked onto him, absorbing the weight of vulnerability between them.

“I saw you at orientation,” she whispered, her words wrapped in the delicate memory fabric. “I just didn’t know how to look twice.”

Reaching out, she gently tugged on the drawstring of his hoodie, a teasing smirk dancing across her lips, grounding herself in the light contact.

“I’m not great at this,” she confessed, her voice softening, revealing a vulnerability that surprised even her. “I’m so used to projecting a version of myself that people expect. But you make it impossible to keep pretending that’s all I am.”

She inhaled deeply, steeling herself for what she was about to say next, the moment stirring a nervous energy within her.

“So no, I won’t ghost you. I won’t pick a side because I don’t believe I have to—not if this is real.”

Her fingers hovered just above his, whispering of connection without fully committing. Yet she made no move to pull away.

“And Mason?” she continued, tilting her head slightly, her voice gathering strength with every word. “You’re kind of blowing my mind, too.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason blinked, visibly processing her words like they’d short-circuited something in his brain. “Okay, wow,” he said, mock-staggering a step back. “Was that a real moment? Are we having real moments now? I didn’t emotionally stretch for this.”

He grinned to soften the impact of her honesty, but it was the kind of grin that cracked at the edges with something deeper. His gaze flicked to her fingers, still hovering near his, then back to her face like he was memorizing the moment in layers.

“Look, I’ll take not being ghosted as a win. Low bar, maybe, but I’m a simple man with simple dreams,” he said, tipping his head with faux solemnity. “Also, I’m now retroactively heartbroken that you saw me at orientation and didn’t immediately fall in love with my terrified silence and aggressively wrinkled T-shirt.”

His thumb gently brushed the edge of her knuckles, careful and light, more grounding than flirtation. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice quieter now, “I don’t think you have to be great at this. I think you just have to be—messy, layered, unsure. That’s kind of your thing, right? Quiet chaos.”

He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. “Besides, the version of you that’s figuring it out? Honestly kind of my favorite.”

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added with a smirk, “That, and the one that reorganizes bookshelves based on emotional devastation. I mean, that’s soulmate-level behavior.”

His eyes lingered on hers, the humor softening but never disappearing. “So… if we’re doing this—whatever this is—you don’t have to explain it or label it. You don’t have to be perfect. Just don’t stop talking to me like this. Don’t go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

A beat passed, and then: “Also, full disclosure—if you tug on my hoodie again, I might never emotionally recover. That was dangerously cute.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan could feel the corners of her mouth twitching, a hint of amusement bubbling beneath the surface, yet she withheld a full smile. Instead, she focused intently on memorising every detail of him—the way he stood there, as if her unfiltered honesty had struck him squarely in the chest, the way he masked his vulnerability with half-joking banter that seemed to dance on the line between humour and truth, and how his voice dipped to a lower, more serious tone whenever he spoke from the heart.

Her fingers remained gently looped around the drawstring of his hoodie, a small tether maintaining their connection, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to linger in that intimate space.

“I didn’t mean to short-circuit you,” she murmured, her words light but the glint in her eye betraying a mischievous satisfaction. “But yeah, I guess we are having real moments now. Sorry, you weren’t emotionally warmed up.”

Tilting her head slightly, she studied him as if viewing a masterpiece for the first time, her gaze tracing the contours of his face—each expression, every subtle shift in his demeanour unfolding before her like a captivating story. The Mason she remembered was a distant echo, a backdrop to her carefully orchestrated life, filled with the orchestrated chaos of classrooms, lunch tables, and theatre auditions.

But this version of him—the one who reassured her that perfection was unnecessary, who turned his freshman T-shirt, once a source of embarrassment, into a badge of honour through his playful self-deprecation—felt entirely new. Entirely real.

“Quiet chaos,” she tested the phrase, rolling it over in her mind as if trying it on for size like a name she might earnestly embrace. “That’s… actually kind of accurate.”

She let the drawstring slip through her fingers, but her hand lingered close to his, brushing lightly against the back of his hand, a whisper of touch that transformed uncertainty into comfort.

“I don’t know what this is either,” she echoed his previous words, her tone warm yet resolute. “But I know I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to revert to who I was before I let you in this close.”

Her voice softened and dipped slightly in both warmth and conviction. “So yeah… I’ll keep talking to you like this. If you keep looking at me like that.”

Then, after a brief pause during which the air between them thickened with unspoken words, Rowan reached for the hoodie string once more—her movements slow and deliberate—giving it a gentle tug with the hint of a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

“If it’s that emotionally devastating, I’d hate to waste the opportunity.”

And this time, when she finally allowed a smile to break free, it radiated warmth and joy, reaching her eyes and transforming her entire expression into a genuine reflection of the moment they shared.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason let out a quiet laugh—more breath than sound—like her words had knocked the wind out of him in the gentlest way possible. His gaze lingered on her, tender and sharp all at once, as if he were trying to memorize every shift in her expression, every flicker of vulnerability she was letting him see.

“You didn’t short-circuit me,” he said, voice low, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You just hit the part of my brain that still thinks you're way out of my league and probably a hallucination.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes tracing hers with quiet wonder. “And I’m kind of glad we’re having real moments now. I like your chaos—quiet or not. I like the version of you that doesn’t come with perfect answers or polished smiles. That version makes me feel like I’m not the only one trying to figure it out in real time.”

And when she said she didn’t want to pretend anymore—when she reached for the hoodie string again with that teasing smirk—something in him unraveled and reformed all at once. The weight of her honesty, her choice to stay present, to be seen and still reach for him, hit him like gravity.

"You don't have to pretend anymore, you just have to be you and I'll have no trouble looking at you like this." When her fingers brushed his, his hand moved without hesitation, finding hers and curling gently around it. “Okay,” he said, “I’m emotionally warmed up now.” He let the silence hang for just a breath, gaze flicking to her lips.

“So... I’ve been thinking about that first kiss,” he admitted with a slightly sheepish smile. “And honestly? It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t this.” He leaned down to meet her lips again.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, or hesitant, or edged with the fear of being misread. It was slow, deliberate—anchored in everything unsaid between them, in the truth of who they were finally letting each other see. His hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her in like he meant it, like he wasn’t afraid of being too much anymore.

When they finally pulled apart, his forehead rested gently against hers, breath still mingling in the narrow space between them. “Okay,” he whispered, eyes still closed, smile crooked. “Yeah. That’s the one I meant.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan’s heart stuttered like a record scratching to a halt.

She hadn’t anticipated the kiss—not in that manner. Not after the simmering tension that had crackled between them like electricity, the shared jokes that danced on the edge of something deeper, and the unspoken moments that flickered with possibility before extinguishing in silence. But now, with Mason’s forehead leaning tenderly against hers and their breaths merging in the cool evening air, she understood how profoundly she had underestimated the power of truly allowing someone to see her.

Mason had seen her.

Not the polished exterior she presented to the world—the girl with the flawless hair that shone in the sunlight, the practised smirks that rolled off her tongue as easily as breathing, and the icy comebacks that cut through the crowd's noise like a knife. No, he had glimpsed the reality she fought to keep hidden beneath layers of bravado. The girl is still grappling with her identity when invisible to the outside world.

And he hadn’t turned away.

His words lingered like a haunting melody in her ears—I like your chaos. You don’t have to pretend anymore. They shouldn’t have unravelled her, but somehow, they did. And the sensation was liberating, a gentle unravelling that felt strangely exhilarating.

Her lips still buzzed with the memory of that slow, unhurried kiss, as if Mason had all the time in the world to show her that he wasn’t afraid of her flinching anymore. She hadn't flinched in a moment that felt like a turning of the tides. Instead, she had leaned in, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Rowan took a deep, shaky breath, trying to synchronise with her racing heartbeat. The silence that enveloped them now wasn’t barren; it felt infused with warmth and a sense of belonging, like an anchor in a stormy sea.

With cautious deliberation, she opened her eyes, revealing the vivid world around them, only to find his still closed, a soft smile gracing his lips, crooked in that endearing way that sparked an ache deep in her chest. He meant every word. All of it. That realisation both thrilled and terrified her.

Yet, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, almost as if guided by an unseen force, she whispered, “That’s the one I’ll remember,” barely breaking the silence.

It wasn’t dramatic, lacking the overblown theatrics of a classic romantic film. It was far better than that.

It was genuine.

For the first time in what seemed like aeons, she wasn't performing for an audience.

She was Rowan, and Mason looked at her as if that alone was more than enough.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason absorbed her words, allowing them to penetrate deeply into his consciousness, lingering like a captivating melody that refused to fade.

That’s the one I’ll remember. The declaration reverberated within him, like an unforgettable line from a play he aspired to claim as his own, destined to be replayed in the theater of his mind long after the moment had passed.

As he opened his eyes, he did so with a newfound purpose, taking in her presence with the kind of intensity one reserves for something truly irreplaceable. It was not merely her physical appearance—though she was undeniably captivating—but rather the essence of the moment itself. He felt an electric connection, focusing intently on her proximity, on the unfiltered honesty sparkling in her eyes that spoke volumes. In that instant, all her defenses had crumbled, providing him a rare glimpse into her authentic self, a view that few had the privilege to witness.

For a brief moment, he didn’t smile. This wasn’t the playful, crooked grin that she had come to find charming; it was something altogether different. Instead, he offered a quieter, more profound smile—one woven with reverence. It was as though he fully comprehended the immense weight of what was unfolding between them; a moment so fragile and precious that he wanted to cradle it in his heart and cherish it with utmost intention.

“I’ll remember it too,” he said, his voice a low murmur, rich with sincerity and unwavering resolve. “Not just the kiss—though that completely unraveled me—but this. You.”

He didn’t retreat from the closeness they shared; rather, he took a deliberate step closer, resting his brow gently against hers. The gesture was laden with significance, conveying a deep sense of determination, and serving as an unspoken promise. It was a silent vow, an anchor grounding them both in the intensity of the moment, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

Mason stayed there for a breath, forehead to forehead, like he was still anchoring himself in her gravity. A thousand thoughts swirled behind his eyes—things he could say, should say—but none of them quite measured up to the weight of what had already passed between them.

He opened his mouth to speak again, maybe to say something ridiculous, maybe something profound—he wasn’t sure which yet—but the moment was cut short by the unmistakable squeak of wheels echoing across the stage.

Both of them flinched slightly as a janitor rounded the corner at the edge of the auditorium, pushing a large gray cart stacked with cleaning supplies. He paused mid-step, blinking at the two of them standing far too close under the ghost light like the final scene of a romance film.

The silence that followed was painfully awkward.

“Uh,” the janitor said slowly, one brow arching as he reached for a mop, “you kids know rehearsal ended like… an hour ago, right?”

Mason stepped back just an inch, his hand slipping from Rowan’s as if caught sneaking a cookie before dinner. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “We were… running lines. With emotion.”

The janitor gave him a look so flat it could’ve peeled paint.

“Well, run ’em out in the hall,” he said, already turning his attention back to the mop bucket. “I’ve gotta wax the stage before tomorrow or your drama teacher will throw a fit. Again.”

Rowan stifled a laugh behind her hand, her eyes meeting Mason’s with that spark again—amused, breathless, still tangled in the remnants of the moment they’d been living seconds earlier.

Mason shook his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess that’s our cue.”

He reached down and snagged the forgotten script from the floor, brushing a smudge of dust off the cover. As they started toward the side doors, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Next time, I’m picking the rehearsal spot. Preferably one without floor wax and surveillance.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan hadn’t truly grasped the full extent of her height—not until this singular moment.

As Mason leaned in, moving with an almost mesmerising slowness, their foreheads met gently, sending a thrill coursing through her. She instinctively tilted her chin up, the tiniest adjustment that felt monumental. The quiet power of his height enveloped her, a subtle force that made the air shimmer with electric tension. His frame naturally curved around hers, embodying a comforting presence without overpowering her. He was there, solid and warm, close enough that she felt breathless in his proximity.

For so long, she had revelled in her stature, dominating the scene in heels that elevated her above the boys who had shrunk back at her confidence. She wielded her posture and careful silences like an impenetrable shield. But standing before him? Gazing upward was a release, not a surrender. It felt like she was discovering a certain softness to lean against, a sanctuary amidst her armour.

The heat of his skin brushed against hers, and his voice—low and earnest as he murmured, “I’ll remember it too. Not just the kiss—though that completely unravelled me—but this. You.” —sent a shiver through her that defied definition. His breath whispered against her lips, and his weight settled around her, not just in how he stood but in how he remained. Anchored. Grounded.

And in that closeness, she felt no fear.

Rather, she was enveloped by an unfamiliar dread at the thought of stepping away from this tender interlude.

Their height difference had never struck her before—not with such stark clarity. But now, with her forehead gently resting against his chest, tantalisingly close yet out of reach, the intimacy felt almost overwhelming. It was as if he could encircle her in his embrace, and for once, she could linger there, wrapped in the safety of his presence.

She mused, "So this is what it feels like to be held without being handled."

She remained silent, allowing the quietude between them to fill the air—forehead to forehead, breath mingling softly.

The unexpected squeak of the janitor’s cart abruptly yanked them back to reality.

She startled slightly, blinking as if coming out of a dream, stepping back just a fraction. Mason’s hand withdrew from hers, and the sudden chill of the auditorium air cut sharply against her skin. A soft laugh threatened to escape her lips as she observed his endearing, albeit awkward, charm spring back to life. The janitor eyed them with the bemusement typically reserved for those who have just performed a fleeting romance under the glow of an isolated light.

As Mason leaned in once more, whispering about the possibility of finding a new rehearsal space, her smile unfurled slowly, radiating mischief laced with a deeper, unspoken feeling.

“Yeah,” she replied softly, her voice a mix of playful teasing and a quieter undertone she dared not explore. “Preferably somewhere I don’t have to stand on my toes just to kiss you properly.”

She didn’t reach for his hand again, but it didn’t matter.

She walked beside him, her heart steady and resolute, her lips still tingling with warmth. Each step resonated with the realisation that she had just allowed someone to witness the unguarded version of herself that didn’t need to perform.

And he had chosen to stay.

[Rowan Starling]

The door clicked shut behind them with an abrupt, sharp clack, and a hush fell over the cramped space, causing Rowan to freeze in place.

She didn’t need to turn the handle to confirm her suspicion; the sound spoke volumes.

“Locked?” she ventured, her voice echoing slightly in the small enclosure, already bracing for the inevitable response.

Mason approached the knob with a casual air, giving it a half-hearted rattle before exhaling a quiet, amused breath that carried the weight of their predicament. They were trapped.

Naturally.

The costume closet resembled a miniature sanctuary of disguise, scarcely bigger than a walk-in. It was packed tightly with metal racks laden with vibrant costumes, plastic bins overflowing with forgotten accessories, and the nostalgic, overwhelming scent of aged velvet mingling with the sharp tang of fabric spray. Sequins sparkled in the dim light, twinkling like lost stars scattered among a galaxy of materials, while a precarious pile of outdated hats leaned dangerously, threatening to topple at the slightest disturbance.

Rowan released a weary sigh and sank to the cold floor, her legs folding beneath her with a practised grace that couldn’t quite mask her growing frustration. The chill of the ground seeped through her clothes, and the air was thick with dust, clinging to her skin. With his ever-unfazed demeanour, Mason plopped down beside her without a hint of hesitation, their knees colliding in a careless and strangely intimate way.

An unsettling silence enveloped them, too vast and heavy to be comfortable. It wrapped around them like an encroaching fog. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just thick and suffocating. She could feel his presence beside her, a steady, reassuring weight, unyielding and undeniably him. That very presence—the way he grounded her, steady and unwavering—compelled her to speak before she could rein in her thoughts.

“Sometimes I think I’m better at playing a character than being myself.”

The words spilt out in a rush, raw and honest, slipping from her lips like a secret yearning for escape. As soon as she articulated the thought, a sharp pang of vulnerability surged in her chest, settling there like a bruise, tender and exposed.

She couldn’t bear to look at him—not yet.

Instead, her gaze wandered across the rows of costumes lining the walls, each garment representing a different persona, an alternate life she had inhabited at various points. She’d donned countless masks—on stage, in front of classmates, and before her reflection every morning—always embodying a girl who appeared to have everything under control—a girl who felt untouchable.

But now, with her knees pressed against the floor and her back resting against a rack laden with mothball-scented fabric, she was stripped of all those facades.

She was simply Rowan.

For the first time, she felt an unexpected surge of courage, a desire to shed her layers and not hide a single part of herself.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away.

He sat with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, one sneaker absently nudging a feather boa that had drifted to the floor like a fallen bird. The silence between them hovered, not cold or judging—just waiting. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward her, his voice quiet but certain.

“I think we all do that, in some way,” he said. “Play a version of ourselves we think the world wants. Some people just get better at it than others.”

Rowan’s eyes stayed fixed on a red sequined flapper dress drooping from a hanger, its fringe limp and uneven.

“But the thing is…” he continued, his voice gaining shape like it had been rehearsed in the dark corners of his mind, “you’re really, really good at being Rowan, too. The real one."

Mason shifted a little closer, his leg brushing lightly against hers. “I see you. Not the polished version. Not the highlight reel. Just you—messy, complicated, brilliant.”

Mason glanced sideways at her again, grin slipping into place.

“So, how long do you think before someone realizes we’re missing? Or are we staging an impromptu two-person show until rescue arrives?” He reached blindly into the bin beside him, producing a feathered pirate hat with a flourish. “Because I do a mean Captain Hook impression.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of the costume closet, surrounded by a chaotic jumble of crumpled capes and toppled bins filled with forgotten props. The air was thick with the musty scent of aged velvet and old stage makeup, a heady mix that clung to her like a vintage perfume. Above, the dim emergency light flickered weakly, casting a dull glow that felt almost as tired as she did. Her gaze was drawn to a red sequined flapper dress hanging limply from a bent wire hanger—the fabric shimmering dully, its fraying fringe swaying slightly, one sleeve slipping down like it had lost the will to stay up.

Nearby, she felt Mason shift, the soft scuff of his sneaker against the wooden floor breaking the heavy silence. The rustle of fabric as he moved created a gentle rhythm, a grounding presence that made her heart race with a mix of comfort and confusion. His quiet demeanour enveloped her like a warm blanket, making the moment's weight feel all the more intense.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it felt like a sanctuary, a safe harbour in a tumultuous sea of emotions. Yet, that very safety spiralled her mind, leaving her unsure of how to be herself truly. Rowan twisted the hem of her sweater in her fingers, her heart pounding as she took a moment to breathe deep, letting the musty air fill her lungs and settle in her chest. The weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her throat, creating an ache she couldn't shake.

Finally, she exhaled, the sound barely above a whisper.

“You make it hard to pretend,” she said, her voice soft and hesitant, as if sharing a deep secret. “When I’m around you, I forget which version of me I’m supposed to be.”

She felt exposed, her gaze locked onto the red dress, feeling its shabby elegance echo her internal turmoil. “It’s stupid. I know. We’re sitting in a closet full of broken wigs and glitter vomit, and here I am, having an identity crisis.”

Determinedly, she turned her head to finally meet his warm, inviting gaze, her heart racing at the intensity of the moment.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Hayes,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth twitching between a teasing smirk and something more vulnerable, more fragile. “But it’s either incredibly annoying or dangerous. Maybe both.”

As the air grew thick with unspoken tension, Mason, ever the unpredictable spirit, reached into a bin and pulled out a feathered pirate hat. He placed it on his head with theatrical gravity, striking a pose that made his expression one of exaggerated seriousness.

Rowan blinked, momentarily stunned.

Then laughter erupted from her, sharp and unexpected, breaking the fragile bubble of their conversation and spilling out into the cramped space.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, covering her mouth to contain her mirth. “You look like Captain Hook’s underpaid cousin!”

She doubled over slightly, laughter bubbling up and escaping into the crook of her arm, an involuntary release of joy. When she finally looked back up at him, her cheeks were flushed, and her smile radiated warmth, illuminating the dim closet like a beacon.

“You’re such an idiot,” she said, her voice thick with affection, “but… thanks. For that. For all of it.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t take the hat off.

Instead, he tilted it to a rakish angle, raised an eyebrow like a pirate about to deliver his final monologue, and said, in a comically terrible accent, “Aye, well, dangerous be me middle name. Right after 'Unpredictable' and just before 'Mediocre at Swordplay.'”

Rowan snorted—loud, unguarded. It made his heart trip a little.

He let the theatrics drop then, just enough, the grin softening into something more genuine. The brim of the hat dipped slightly as he leaned his head back against the wall, looking at her with quiet affection.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping to that hushed, unassuming tone he always used when something really mattered, “I think it’s kind of amazing that you’re still trying to figure it out. Most people just pick a version and cling to it like a life raft.”

His fingers played absently with a fraying thread on his jeans, but his eyes never left her.

“I don’t want a version of you, Rowan. I want all of it. The mess and the magic. The sarcasm and the spirals. The girl who can command a stage and still get lost in her own head.”

He shrugged a little, like it wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d admitted in weeks. “So yeah, if that makes me annoying or dangerous… I can live with that.”

Then, with perfectly measured timing, he added with a smirk, “Besides. I’ve always had a thing for girls having identity crises in closets. It’s my oddly specific romantic niche.”

He held out the pirate hat toward her with a mock-serious expression. “Your turn, Starling. You’re not getting out of this existential crisis without at least one ridiculous costume change.”

The challenge hung in the air between them, light but charged, and beneath it, the unspoken truth lingered: she didn’t have to pretend with him. Not here. Not now.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan let out a loud snort, a sound that was anything but glamorous, and in a moment of sheer instinct, she clamped a hand over her mouth as if she could somehow pull the impulsive noise back inside. Laughter churned within her, eager to escape the walls she usually kept tightly sealed. Across from her, Mason's grin was wide and infectious, a mix of triumph and mischief, as if he’d just claimed a treasure that mattered deeply to him. Perhaps he had.

He still wore the pirate hat perched jauntily on his head, its absurd feather bobbing with every slight movement, a delightful detail that rendered him utterly ridiculous. Yet somehow, he appeared wholly authentic, radiating a carefree charm that captivated those around him.

That was the paradox of the moment—the brightest jewel and the heaviest weight. Mason wasn’t merely acting; he lived in that moment, effortlessly blending humour and truth without missing a beat. He spoke candidly, making the chaos of life seem uncomplicated, seamlessly weaving together the mess and the magic with phrases like, “I want all of it.” Understanding her felt instinctual to him, as if peeling back layers of her was as easy as breathing.

Rowan felt a pang of longing in her chest at that thought.

She didn’t respond immediately; instead, she bore her gaze into Mason, feeling warmth wash over her face, not from embarrassment but from a profound desire to trust his words. The idea that she could be desired without editing herself into a polished version of perfection was intoxicating.

Then, with a playful flourish, Mason extended the pirate hat toward her, bowing mockingly as if inviting her into a grand adventure, which seemed to dismiss the fear swirling within her.

Despite the allure of the hat, she didn’t take it. Not yet.

Instead, she rose slowly, brushing away imaginary dust from her jeans as she walked determinedly toward the nearest costume rack. Her fingers danced over the fabric of various gowns, shimmering beneath the lights until they landed on it—the red flapper dress. It hung limply from its crooked wire hanger, a relic of a bygone era, the sequins catching the light in a playful way that seemed to echo forgotten stories.

It was utterly absurd—far too short, garishly sparkly, and decidedly not her style.

Perfect.

With an exaggerated sense of ceremony, she liberated the dress from its hanger, turning to face Mason with a mock-serious expression and a tilt of her chin that dared him to challenge her. “If I’m going down in the middle of an identity crisis,” she declared with a feigned gravitas, “I’m not settling for any old costume.”

With a flourish, she tossed the flapper dress over her shoulder, snatched the pirate hat from his hand with an impish grin, and winked at him as she turned toward a secluded corner to change.

“Give me five,” she called over her shoulder, striving for a nonchalant tone, even as her heart raced audibly against her ribs. “You initiated this.”

And perhaps he truly had. But for the first time, Rowan felt no trepidation in embracing the role—not as someone else entirely, but as her most authentic self.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason watched her retreat behind the rack with a flick of red sequins slung over her shoulder and a wink that lingered longer in his chest than it probably should have. The pirate hat was gone from his hand, claimed by Rowan like a prize—or a challenge—and now the only thing left to do was wait.

But he didn’t stare after her, didn’t try to sneak a glance. That wasn’t him, and more importantly, that wasn’t them.

He leaned back against a stack of bins, folding his arms across his chest, trying—and failing—to fight the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The red flapper dress. The wink. The way she’d said “You initiated this.” Damn right he had.

“Note to self,” he called lightly, just loud enough for her to hear, “never challenge Rowan Starling unless fully prepared to be outmatched.”

His voice softened after that, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter. Something real.

“And for the record,” he added, like it was meant for her but also like he needed to say it out loud, “I don’t want the polished version of you. I never did.”

The words lingered in the air, suspended like a cue waiting for a spotlight.

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared straight ahead at a peeling poster of Guys and Dolls tacked to the opposite wall. It was faded and crooked, but he found it oddly grounding—something about the garish colors and old-school charm. Something about how messy and theatrical and real it all was.

Just like her.

And when the soft rustle of fabric began behind him, accompanied by the low hum of her breathing and the faint shift of sequins brushing skin, he didn’t move. He simply waited, every heartbeat syncing to the rhythm of anticipation—of knowing the next moment would be something he’d remember for a long time.

Because for once, Rowan Starling wasn’t slipping into a costume to disappear.

She was stepping into something to be seen.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan smirked to herself as Mason’s voice echoed through the dense, chaotic jungle of costume racks, each hanging garment a splash of colour in the dimly lit room. “Never challenge Rowan Starling unless fully prepared to be outmatched.” Damn right. She tugged the crimson flapper dress over her head like a warrior donning armour before a battle—if that battle took place amidst sequins, sass, and an eye-watering hemline.

The fabric scratched against her skin, and the fringe swayed with a faded charm that hinted at decades gone by, but when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, she raised one perfectly sculpted brow, impressed. Not bad. Not bad at all. The feathered hat would crown the ensemble perfectly—but the attitude? That was already brimming inside her.

Then Mason’s voice softened, slicing through her confident facade, and for just a heartbeat, she felt a flicker of uncertainty. “I don’t want the polished version of you. I never did.”

Rowan blinked, the sharp edges of her bravado momentarily dulled.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, adjusting the neckline with a hint of frustration as if trying to dismiss the unexpected sincerity like a pesky fly. “Rude. The emotional vulnerability wasn’t part of the costume montage.”

But she didn’t waver. Instead, she squared her shoulders, ran her fingers through her curls as if she were starring in a dramatic shampoo commercial, and stepped out from behind the costume rack with all the flair of a runway model. That was her stage if the runway were dust-laden, poorly lit, and strewn with forgotten feather boas.

“Ta-da!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms wide, the fringe of the dress swinging like a playful metronome, ready to file a noise complaint at any moment. “I’m now accepting awards for ‘Best Dressed Existential Crisis!’”

Mason’s back was still turned, probably attempting to maintain his cool facade, which only fueled her amusement.

“Oh, come on,” she prodded, one hand firmly placed on her hip, raising the pirate hat high like a queen presenting her crown. “Look at me! I’m draped in sequins that have survived a glitter explosion and a middle school production of Chicago. I expect full eye contact and at least a smattering of applause!”

She glided across the room with dramatic flair, the sharp click of her boots ringing out against the flouncy fringe of her dress. “Honestly?” she challenged, playfully tossing the hat onto his head before he could react. “You should feel privileged. Most people must endure a popularity gauntlet, five years of social acrobatics, and a sworn blood oath to see me like this.”

Then, her tone softened, but her resolve remained steadfast. “But hey… if you’re going to stick around, you’d better get used to me stealing the spotlight.”

A pause hung in the air, charged with unspoken promise.

“And the pirate hats,” she added, a wink accompanying her words—this one not just playful but infused with something deeper.

[Mason Hayes]

He blinked once. Twice. Then slowly—slowly—he turned around with all the measured drama of a soap opera villain revealing they were, in fact, the long-lost twin. His gaze swept over her from head to fringe, and he placed a hand over his heart like he’d just witnessed the holy grail, glitter edition.

“Oh,” he breathed, utterly deadpan. “She lives. She shimmers. She slays.”

Then, in a sudden burst of mock panic, he staggered backward a step, clutching the edge of a clothing rack for support. “Is this… is this what it feels like to be blinded by excellence?” He gestured broadly to her ensemble. “Because I swear to every deity in the theater pantheon, I am unworthy of the fringe.”

He spun, struck a tragic pose, and groaned skyward. “Here lies Mason Hayes—struck down in the prime of his teenage mediocrity by a vision in vintage sequins. Tragic. Beautiful. Extremely sparkly.”

But then his theatrics faded just enough for something gentler to peek through—his grin softened, his eyes a little brighter beneath the ridiculous hat. “You know,” he added, voice lower now, almost reverent, “if this is what an existential crisis looks like on you, Starling… I’d say the universe better buckle up.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until only the swish of fringe and the quiet hum of stage lights separated them. “And for the record?” His brow quirked upward. “I don’t mind sharing the spotlight. Especially if it’s with someone who can turn a costume closet into a coronation.”

Then, with perfect timing, he reached into one of the bins, fished out a sequined glove missing half its fingers, and offered it to her with a deep bow. “Shall we, Your Radiance? The stage awaits. And by stage, I mean the janitor’s mop bucket and a rogue, broken disco ball—but still. A queen deserves a throne.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan cocked her head to the side, her arms crossing defiantly as she surveyed Mason’s flamboyant performance. An amused glint sparkled in her eyes while her fringe fell dramatically, reminiscent of a mic drop, executed without a hint of effort.

“Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Struck down by a flapper dress. How tragic. And here I was, hoping you’d make it to graduation without a glitter-induced meltdown.”

With regal disdain, she snatched the shimmering glove from his hand, swirling it elegantly as if preparing for a duel straight out of a 19th-century novel. “If I accept this cursed accessory, does that make me the queen of this closet or merely a co-star in an excruciatingly low-budget musical?”

She took a confident step forward, her flapper dresses fluttering around her as she had just emerged from the pages of a Gatsby-themed battlefield. “Either way, it’s clear I’m the main character. Conversely, you can be the brooding love interest with emotionally complex monologues and a heart-wrenching backstory involving spilt paint and unfulfilled theatre accolades.”

Extending her hand in a gesture of royal proclamation, she lit up with mischief. “Walk with me. But heed this warning: if I stumble because of an errant feather boa or a malicious tap shoe, I expect a grand rescue—with jazz hands, of course.”

Without looking back, she added with a casual wrist flick, “And Mason? If this ever leaks? If anyone hears about the dress, the glove, or—God forbid—catches wind that I had fun in this supply closet?”

She paused, the sweetness of her voice hanging in the air, laced with an unmistakable threat.

“I will incinerate the spring play cast list, erase your theatre résumé, and eliminate your precious hoodie collection. Especially that soft grey one. Consider this your only warning.”

A sideways glance shot his way, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

“Now, try to keep up, Hayes. This crown doesn’t carry itself, you know.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason gasped theatrically, spinning on his heel and gesturing to the walls around them with a flourish that rivaled a Shakespearean death scene. “Ah yes—how could I forget? Trapped in the kingdom of forgotten wigs and cursed jazz shoes, locked in an enchanted costume closet with none other than Queen Rowan of Fringe and Ferocity.”

He turned to her with mock despair, placing a hand against the closet door as if expecting it to burst open with freedom and fanfare. “We may never see daylight again. This—” he picked up a bejeweled sash with two fingers and grimaced, “—may be the last outfit I ever wear. Tell my parents I died with dignity. And excessive sequins.”

Then he glanced sideways at her with a sly grin. “At least I’ll die fashion-adjacent.”

He stepped carefully over a suspiciously tangled feather boa, tossing her an exaggerated wink. “If this cramped little drama den becomes our final resting place, I just hope someone has the decency to write a musical about it. Preferably with tap breaks, a dramatic mid-act kiss, and at least three tearful solos where I get to stare into the middle distance while wearing a velvet cape.”

Pausing, he offered her his arm once more with playful reverence. “So, Queen Starling, if we’re doomed to spend our final hours in a closet that smells like mothballs and crushed dreams, I say we do it with style.”

Then, with a perfectly timed beat, he added under his breath, “And if you ever go after my grey hoodie again, I will retaliate. I know where the glitter glue is.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan blinked slowly, her expression initially unreadable—though the subtle flicker in her hazel eyes revealed a different story. Mason’s flair for the dramatic was nothing new; his theatrics danced on the edge of absurdity, yet there was always a spark of genuine emotion behind his sarcastic bravado that caught her off guard. Perhaps it was his utter disregard for whether she responded with laughter or indifference—he continued, unfazed by her silence.

She surveyed the disarray of the closet, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, like a queen surveying the ruins of her once-magnificent dominion. A sequined vest dangled precariously from a plastic hanger above her, glimmering mockingly in the dim light as if it were a crown meant to taunt her for even stepping into this realm of chaos. She didn’t flinch in the face of it.

Instead, she stepped forward deliberately, gliding around a precarious stack of tattered show scripts whispering stories of past performances and a forlorn pair of tap shoes that seemed to mourn their overuse in countless revivals.

Without uttering a word, she reached out to him, her fingers deftly plucking the bejewelled sash from his hand. She draped it around his shoulders like a regal mantle, the lightness of her touch belying the weight of the gesture—an acknowledgement of his silliness wrapped in a blanket of amusement and quietly fond familiarity. After she clasped it in place, she gave him a solemn nod as if performing a knighting ceremony in recognition of his unyielding commitment to chaos and overacting.

She didn’t take his arm—yet—but a faint smirk played on her lips as she passed him, her movements slow and deliberate, each step exuding unspoken camaraderie.

As she reached the far end of the closet, Rowan glanced back over her shoulder, casting him a look that spoke volumes—a playful yet poignant expression that conveyed both the ridiculousness of the moment and a hint of peril in her growing fondness for it.

Her gaze fell upon his navy hoodie, nestled beneath a shimmering feather boa and an unexpectedly deflated pirate hat. With a casual flick of her boot, she nudged it further out of sight, burying it among the remnants of the closet’s eccentric treasures.

Long live the queen, indeed.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason felt the bejeweled sash settle onto his shoulders and immediately gasped as if she'd crowned him emperor of a rogue theatre kingdom. “Ah. So it’s official,” he declared, standing taller with exaggerated dignity. “Sir Mason of Sequindale. First of His Name, Keeper of the Costume Keys, Protector of the Tap Shoes, and Undisputed Ruler of Overacting.”

He struck a pose, one foot perched on an overturned milk crate like a war general surveying his glitter-strewn battlefield. “This kingdom is absurd. And likely haunted by the ghosts of failed productions—but by the gods, it’s ours.”

Then, as he turned slowly in a sweeping, regal arc—careful not to knock over the tower of bedazzled fedoras behind him—his boot caught the edge of a feather boa, and he nearly careened into a stack of wigs.

“I meant to do that,” he said quickly, catching himself. “That was an interpretive stumble. Symbolic of my inner turmoil. Deep. Tragic. Tony-worthy.”

He adjusted the sash with a flourish, clearly having a little too much fun. “You’ve created a monster, Starling. The sash has awakened something in me. Something…dangerous. Something theatrical.”

Still oblivious to the hoodie’s tragic fate beneath a pile of accessories and faux fur, he continued his melodramatic monologue, unaware that his beloved garment was now nestled in a sparkling grave Rowan had made with casual treason and excellent bootwork.

Finally, Mason extended his arm toward her with gallant flair. “Shall we, your glittership? Let us stride boldly through this sacred realm of forgotten costumes and questionable fashion choices. And if we perish here—”

He paused dramatically, lowering his voice to a somber whisper.

“—tell my story. But edit it heavily. Give me a British accent and better cheekbones.”

He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “And maybe a dramatic montage where I rescue you from a falling tower of sequins. You know, for the legacy.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan had every intention of maintaining a straight face, a task she’d committed to with her mouth set in a firm line and an occasional bite of her cheek for good measure. However, the moment he introduced himself with a flourish as Sir Mason of Sequindale, her resolve crumbled. She could no longer hold back her amusement when he stumbled over the flamboyant boa, recovering with an exaggerated grace that seemed crafted for the stage.

A stifled snort escaped her, followed by a softer, more genuine laugh that melted the façade she had fought to uphold.

She crossed her arms loosely, the laughter fading into a stunned appreciation as she watched him. Her eyes sparkled with amazement and admiration, gradually shifting into something deeper—an awe that felt quiet and profound, almost dangerous. It was the feeling that seeped in when you least expected it, leaving your breath caught and your heart racing. And there it was, lingering beneath the surface of her teasing smirk: the undeniable truth that she was falling for Mason Hayes.

Not due to his ridiculous antics (though those were certainly charming), but rather because of his unabashed embrace of every moment. He transformed the modest prop closet into a realm of possibilities, turning a mere feather boa into a dramatic battle wound and a glittering sash into the very essence of royal pageantry. Amidst the theatricality, he remained disarmingly authentic, a fictional grandeur and real emotion paradox.

She stepped forward with purpose in her stride, her movements slow and deliberate. Reaching for a sparkling eyepatch perched atop a mannequin's head, she tossed it onto his embellished sash with a playful flick as if adorning him with a badge of honour.

“You’re a menace,” she murmured, the words rich with warmth and affection.

She took it when he extended his arm—not with the mock grandeur he had anticipated, but with a surprising gentleness. It was almost as if she was acknowledging an unsaid bond. Her fingers curled around his bicep, their connection electric against the backdrop of costume chaos. At that moment, the distant hum of the auditorium lights faded, leaving only the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat eclipsing the world outside their shared bubble.

As she looked up at him, her lips parted, poised to let more words loose. Yet, her gaze flitted momentarily to a half-buried hoodie lurking behind them, an expression of guilt laced with a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

He remained blissfully unaware. And she intended to keep it that way.

She planned to take it, wear it, possibly curl up in its warmth during the chill of the night, and definitely keep it for herself.

Rowan Starling—renowned for her self-control and polished reputation—had just nonchalantly hidden a boy’s hoodie to claim it as hers. And the kicker? She didn’t even feel a sliver of remorse.

Turning back to Mason, she attempted to cultivate an air of cool indifference.

It failed spectacularly.

“…You have no idea what you’ve done, Hayes,” she finally said, her voice laced with barely restrained laughter. “But rest assured, I’m chronicling your story exactly as it unfolded. Stumbles and all.”

She had no plans to return the hoodie—not now, not ever.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason had been mid-riff, about to launch into an impromptu soliloquy about the forbidden love between a feather boa and a sequin vest, when she laughed.

Not the polite kind of laugh people offered to be nice. No—this was the kind of laughter that broke through walls, one that chipped away at the persona she wore like armor. It caught him off guard, stopped him mid-monologue. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, frozen—half-costumed, half-smitten, a bejeweled fool basking in the sound of her letting go.

And then she stepped closer. Tossed a sparkling eyepatch onto his chest like a knight bestowing favor before battle, called him a menace with a voice that sounded far too fond to be a warning.

He looked down at where her hand rested on his arm, then back up to her face—like he was memorizing the moment, unsure if it was real.

And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t with his usual flair. His voice was softer now, edged with something tender.

“I have no idea what I’ve done?” he repeated, one brow lifting slightly. “Rowan Starling, I turned a condemned costume closet into a kingdom just to see you smile. I faked a fall for comedic effect. I endured fringe-induced vertigo and willingly put on a sash that smells like a haunted middle school production of Anything Goes.”

He stepped in just a little closer, close enough that the fringe of her dress brushed his jeans and the world beyond the closet door ceased to matter.

“Whatever this is,” he said, his gaze locked on hers, “it’s the best kind of trouble I’ve ever gotten into.”

The silence stretched, not awkward but full—with electricity and possibilities and the kind of tension that only happens when two people realize the moment they’re in might actually be the start of something real.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan’s breath hitched in her throat—just a fraction—as she heard those words tumble from his lips.

“The best kind of trouble I’ve ever gotten into.”

A wild and untamed flutter ignited in her chest, like a delicate bird unsure whether to take flight or succumb to the ground. Both possibilities hovered in the air at that moment—an exhilarating blend of laughter and the fear of falling. Mason Hayes stood before her, trapped in the dimly lit chaos of a cursed costume closet adorned in a gleaming sash that felt foreign to either of them. Yet he gazed at her as if she were the headline of an unforgettable show.

She hesitated, unable to find her voice immediately. Instead, she nodded—once, slow and deliberate—as she agreed to a pact far beyond the simple exchange of words they’d just shared. A shimmering recognition hung between them, something profound brewing beneath the surface. And then, her voice emerged, earnest yet sweet, caught delicately between a smile and unvoiced fears:

“You’re not the only one.”

With that, she stepped closer, the clunky soles of her Doc Martens scuffing gently against the floor as she balanced on the balls of her feet. Her fingers found a perch on the soft fabric of his t-shirt, resting right over his ribs, providing her with a sense of stability in this moment that felt dizzying and electric.

And then, she kissed him.

It unfolded unceremoniously—neither rehearsed nor flawless—but it held a raw authenticity that made it unforgettable. The kiss began tentatively, a gentle exploration that seemed to ask for permission as their lips brushed. Then, it shifted, deepening and warming, transforming into an embrace that communicated, yes, this is happening, and I don’t want it to end.

At first, Mason stood there, caught off guard, his wide-eyed expression a testament to his child-like surprise at how the world could unfold unexpectedly. But soon, his hands travelled to her waist—steady and sure like the grounding force of an anchor—and he reciprocated her kiss, pouring himself into it with an instinctive confidence that made it feel as natural as breathing.

When they finally pulled apart, leaving barely a whisper of space between them, Rowan met his gaze with an expression brimming with astonished wonder. It was as if she couldn’t quite comprehend the boldness of her actions— yet regret had no place in her heart.

“You are a menace,” she whispered, her lips brushing teasingly against the edge of his smile, a playful accusation that held a hint of affection. She let the words linger in the air, allowing them to unspool a moment longer before adding, in a voice soft enough to be a secret— “But you’re my menace now. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Her fingers remained gently curled around the fabric of his shirt, anchoring her in this shared bubble. The bustling world outside the closet faded into oblivion, leaving only the two of them entwined in this perfect, fragile moment. And Mason Hayes? He looked at her as though she had just bestowed the starring role in the only story he had ever wanted to tell.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her—really looked at her—like he’d been holding his breath since the last time they kissed, and only now dared to exhale.

He was already gone for her. Had been, probably, since that night in the auditorium when everything between them shifted. But this? This felt different. More dangerous. More electric. Like she wasn’t just some quiet hope he nursed backstage anymore, but a fire that had caught and spread and was now devouring every inch of him, unrelenting.

Her kiss hadn’t surprised him this time. Not really. What caught him off guard was how much he needed it. How much he needed her—the sound of her laughter echoing between cracked costume bins, the feel of her fingers in his shirt like a tether, the way her voice dropped into that impossibly soft register when she said “my menace.”

Something inside him cracked open.

He let out a low breath, his forehead resting briefly against hers like his body couldn’t decide whether to move closer or just stay suspended in this aching stillness. His voice, when it finally came, was low. Intimate.

“You can’t say things like that, Rowan. Not when we’re trapped in a room full of wigs and sequin vests. It’s—dangerous.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze steady, darkened by want and something deeper, more reverent.

“I’ve been trying to play it cool,” he murmured, thumb grazing the fabric of her dress at her waist. “Act like I’m not constantly thinking about that night in the auditorium. About you. But you keep doing things like… kissing me. And looking at me like that. And saying I’m yours like you mean it.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.

“I don’t want to pretend it’s not real anymore.”

There was a hunger in his voice now—not just desire, but longing. Like he’d spent too long pretending he didn’t want this. Want her. His other hand found the curve of her jaw, fingers brushing the edge of her cheekbone with the kind of tenderness that made her feel seen in all her unspoken, vulnerable parts.

“If I kiss you again,” he whispered, “it’s not going to be soft or polite or careful. Not this time.”

And he didn’t wait for permission. He closed the distance with intent—like gravity had finally won. His lips met hers with a heat that had been simmering for too long, a kiss that was all promise and no apology. One hand in her hair, the other gripping her waist, grounding himself in the reality that she was here, with him, choosing him.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, he didn’t say anything right away. Just rested his forehead against hers again, smiling faintly like he’d found something he never thought he’d get to hold.

“Still want me to be your menace?” he murmured, though his voice was rougher now, threaded with something he didn’t dare name.

And just beneath the teasing, his heart was loud with the truth:

Please be mine.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan's breath caught in her throat, sharp and sudden, as a wave of unexpected emotion crashed over her.

She hadn’t anticipated this moment. She had thought she’d seen every shade of Mason Hayes: the theatrical boy with impeccable timing, the one whose soft eyes and soothing voice could transform stage directions into captivating poetry and whose playful sarcasm acted as armour against the world. But this—this was something entirely different. He kissed her as if shedding the last remnants of pretence, as if she was the only thing anchoring him to reality—this was a revelation. It unravelled her most profoundly.

For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, her senses spinning from the unexpected intimacy of his touch. Mason held her delicately as if she were both fragile and something sacred. Her lips still tingled from his taste, resonating with his earnest declaration, I don’t want to pretend it’s not real anymore.

He meant every word.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, her lashes brushing against his cheek as he pressed his forehead to hers again. The mingling of their breaths hung between them—uneven, raw, and honest. The question he had whispered, “Still want me to be your menace?” fell from his lips like a fragile promise, but it carried the weight of an unspoken truth. They both understood that this wasn’t merely a playful jest anymore. This was her crossing the boundaries she had meticulously drawn for herself, time and again, only to find him ever-present, waiting patiently on the other side.

When her voice finally emerged, it was soft and intimate, laced with disbelief and a newfound certainty.

“You’ve always been mine, Mason. I was… too stubborn to admit it.”

As if to anchor him at this moment, her hand rose to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt with a desperation that spoke of fear—fear that he might vanish, that this fleeting moment wouldn’t endure unless she held on tightly.

“But yeah,” she breathed, a smile breaking across her face, illuminating the ruins of her carefully constructed walls, “you’re my menace. And I don’t want to be careful. I want this. All of it.”

With that, she closed the distance again, their lips meeting in a deeper kiss this time—fierce and filled with unwavering certainty.

Her arms wound around his neck, drawing him closer as if the very air between them was laden with gravity, intoxicating and heavy. When her fingers threaded through his hair, the connection ignited a quiet urgency within her, leaving no space for doubt. In response, he released a low sound from deep within—a blend of surprise and surrender, which echoed the feelings coursing through them both.

This moment wasn’t polished or rehearsed. It wasn’t a scene meticulously crafted for the stage.

It was undeniably better.

It was raw and real.

And in that dimly lit closet, scattered with the detritus of forgotten things, they stumbled upon something breathtakingly unanticipated—something precious neither wished to lose.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason couldn’t breathe.

Not properly—not when she said you’ve always been mine, not when her fingers curled into his shirt like she needed to feel the thrum of his heartbeat to ground herself, and definitely not when her lips crashed back into his with a hunger that burned through every last ounce of restraint he had left.

Her kiss didn’t ask. It claimed.

And he let it.

A rough sound escaped his throat—low, ragged, something primal he didn’t know he was capable of—as her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers threaded through his hair. His hands moved on instinct, sliding down her back, pressing her flush against him as if the air itself was too much space between them. Every part of him was alive, burning, aching with want and disbelief and something dangerously close to reverence.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice deeper now, frayed at the edges. “You say you want all of it? Rowan, I’ve been dying for all of it.”

He kissed her again—slower, but just as intense—like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the curve of her jaw, the little gasp she gave when his thumb brushed the bare skin just beneath her shirt hem. His mouth trailed to the corner of hers, down her cheek, to the soft skin beneath her jaw where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss that was far too intimate for the cramped, chaotic space they stood in.

“I don’t think I can be careful with you,” he whispered, lips grazing her neck as his hands gripped her waist, firm and wanting. “Not after this. Not when you look at me like that.”

She did, too. She was looking at him like he was the only boy in the world. Like he wasn’t just hers in name, but in body, heart, and heat. And Mason—sweet, soft-spoken, secretly-simmering Mason Hayes—had never wanted anyone the way he wanted her. Not even close.

His lips found hers again, harder this time, as if to brand the truth of it between them. His body pressed her gently against the wall of the costume closet, surrounded by discarded sequins and shadows, and nothing about it felt staged. This wasn’t some dramatic beat from a script or a choreographed kiss for the final act.

This was raw. Real.

And when he finally pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers again, Mason gave her a look so full of desire and awe it was nearly worship.

“You say I’m your menace?” he breathed, his thumb tracing her cheek with aching tenderness. “God help us both, Starling. You’re mine now too. And I’m not letting go.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t want soft. Not now.

She wanted fire—unapologetic, consuming, real.

With a sharp tug, she spun Mason and pressed him against the wall, the thud muffled by hanging costumes and forgotten velvet capes. Her mouth found him in the next breath; it wasn’t tender this time. It was hungry.

She kissed him like she meant to ruin him for anyone else. She’d spent months pretending this wasn’t exactly what she wanted, and now that the dam had broken, there was no going back. Her fingers tangled tighter in his hair, tugging just enough to pull a ragged groan from his throat that made something low in her stomach twist with want.

Her body pressed into his, every inch of her alive with sensation—his hands gripping her waist, the feel of his chest heaving against hers, the desperate way he kissed her back like he’d been waiting forever for her to lose control.

And she had.

She wasn’t holding back anymore.

“I do want all of it,” she breathed between kisses, her voice rough, breathless. “All of you.”

She kissed him again—deeper, hotter. Her hands slid under the hem of his shirt, fingertips tracing fire across his skin, memorising the lines of his back, the slope of his ribs. Her teeth caught his bottom lip just enough to make him swear under his breath, and God, the sound of it—she wanted to bottle it, burn it into her memory, live inside that sound forever.

He said she had no idea what she did to him.

But he had no idea what he had done to her.

Mason Hayes had taken the careful, calculated girl everyone thought they knew and cracked her wide open. And she wasn’t just falling—she was choosing it and choosing him.

As he kissed her as he could never get close enough, as his back hit the wall and his fingers clutched at her like a lifeline, she whispered against his mouth:

“I’ve never kissed anyone like this.”

And it wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just adrenaline. It was something else—something that rooted itself in her chest and bloomed through every nerve ending he touched.

When he broke the kiss, gasping, staring at her like she’d just rewritten the rules of his universe, she didn’t look away. Her fingers stayed at the nape of his neck, and her forehead was pressed to his.

“I’m yours,” she said, voice trembling with intensity. “I didn’t know how badly I needed to be until now.”

And there, surrounded by glitter and chaos, wrapped up in each other like the world outside had stopped spinning—Rowan Starling surrendered. Not to weakness, but to want.

To him.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t stand a chance.

The second Rowan spun him and kissed him like that—like she was starving and he was the only thing left in the world that could feed her—something inside him shattered. And whatever self-control he’d been clinging to? Gone. Just…gone.

She devoured him. And he let her.

No—he needed her to.

Her body pressed against his, mouth hot and insistent, and Mason swore he could feel the heat of her down to the marrow. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough. When she kissed him deeper, harder, when her teeth caught his lip and her hands slipped under his shirt—he groaned, guttural and involuntary, head tipping back against the wall with a quiet thud.

“Fuck, Rowan—”

Her name left him like a confession, torn from somewhere between ache and awe. And God, the way she touched him—like she’d been thinking about it as long as he had, like she wasn’t afraid to feel him now—set his whole body on fire. Her fingers on his skin were branding him, pulling him apart and putting him back together all in the same breath.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said roughly, lips ghosting against hers as his hands slid under her shirt in return—slow, reverent, desperate. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. You.”

When she said, “I’ve never kissed anyone like this,” something in his chest clenched so hard it almost hurt. He grabbed her face with both hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and kissed her like she was oxygen and he’d been underwater for months. It was possessive and tender all at once, a quiet fury of finally, and when she said those next words—

“I’m yours.”

It undid him.

He didn’t speak at first—just looked at her. Flushed, glowing, eyes blown wide and wild like she was both lightning strike and aftermath. Then he leaned in, voice raw, low, reverent.

“You’re mine,” he echoed, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the curve of her throat. “God, you’re mine. And I’m yours. I always was.”

His mouth found hers again, deeper this time, but slower. Like he wasn’t just kissing her body—he was kissing her soul.

And with her pressed up against him, their hearts hammering in sync, glitter clinging to their skin and velvet swaying overhead, Mason Hayes knew one thing with blistering certainty:

He would never want anyone the way he wanted Rowan Starling. Not in this life. Not in the next.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan had never seen him like this.

Not on stage. Not in class. Not even during late-night rehearsals where the world blurred into sweat, adrenaline, and whispered lines. This wasn’t a performance—it was real. Raw, unravelling, and so achingly honest, she could barely breathe through it.

Mason Hayes—sweet, steady Mason—was completely wrecked for her.

And something about it made her feel… seen and not admired, not idolised, but chosen. Like every messy, guarded, too-intense part of her was exactly what he wanted. No hesitation. No fear.

Her chest tightened as she watched his reaction—how his eyes darkened, his voice broke, how her name tumbled from his mouth like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say aloud. It would’ve been too much—could’ve been—if he hadn’t looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

She found it devastating. And beautiful. And wildly endearing in a way that made her want to fall even harder, even faster—like there was no ground beneath her, only him.

“Mason,” she whispered, one hand curling around the back of his neck, her thumb brushing gently along the shell of his ear. “That—what you just said…”

She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Instead, she kissed him again, but this time slower—less hungry, more reverent. The kind of kiss that said I see you too. I want this, too. Her fingers moved tenderly through his hair, cradling him like she didn’t want to touch him—she wanted to know him. Every edge. Every softness. Every buried part he’d never let anyone else reach.

And when he said, “You’re mine. God, you’re mine. And I’m yours. I always was,” it didn’t scare her. It didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like truth.

He kissed her again—soul-deep, slow-burning—and she melted into it, her body moulded to his like they’d been made to find each other in the glittering wreckage of that ridiculous costume closet.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths tangled, foreheads pressed together, Rowan let out a soft, shaky laugh—giddy and disbelieving.

“You’re kind of incredible, you know that?” she murmured, her eyes searching his face, voice barely more than a breath. “And I think I’m completely, hopelessly—”

She stopped herself, lips brushing his again, playful now. Teasing.

“—screwed.”

And she smiled. Because, for once, being that kind of screwed didn’t scare her at all.

Just as Rowan’s lips brushed over Mason’s, accompanied by a breathless, wicked smile—“screwed” lingering in the air like static—a sharp knock echoed from the other side of the costume closet door.

Then came the click. The knob turned halfway before jamming against a forgotten folding chair that someone had knocked over earlier in a glitter-fueled flourish.

“I swear to God, if you two are still in there, we’re holding up cue-to-cue,” came a familiar voice, cool and sharp. “This is a tech schedule, not a date night.”

Rowan froze, her forehead still pressed against Mason’s chest, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes widened in horrified recognition. She didn’t need to ask; she knew that voice.

Harper.

Their ever-efficient, utterly unamused stage manager.

“You’ve been missing for twenty-five minutes,” Harper continued from the hallway, clearly lacking patience. “Elkin is on the verge of a Shakespearean breakdown. He asked me if betrayal always ‘lingers in the wings of silence.’ I’m scared.”

Rowan let out a strangled sound—half laugh, half groan—as she buried her face in her hands. Glitter stuck to her fingers.

“I’m giving you sixty seconds,” Harper called. “Then I start recasting. And no one wants to see Greg attempt romantic tension.”

Silence.

Rowan looked up at Mason, her cheeks flushed, her heart racing. She felt completely wrecked and glowing from head to toe. She smoothed her shirt, tugged her fingers through her hair, and truly attempted to gather whatever fragments of composure lingered.

She stepped back, straightened up, and opened the closet door.

Harper stood with her arms crossed, a clipboard tucked tightly against her side, eyebrows raised as if she had just walked in on a scandal. Which, to be fair, she had.

She gave them both a long look.

Then she said, “Unbelievable.” A dramatic shake of her head followed. “And I’m getting yelled at for delaying scene changes.”

With a sigh and a spin on her heel, Harper stalked down the hallway, muttering something about “teenage hormones” and “never getting paid enough for this.”

Rowan, still breathless, leaned back against the doorframe, blinking as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or die.

Ultimately, she settled on laughter—because she knew, without a doubt, that she would remember this for the rest of her life.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason Hayes had never been more aware of his own hands.

One of them was holding hers.

And not in the way he sometimes imagined in the quiet moments—those late-night, half-asleep daydreams where maybe she’d reach for him first. No. This was real. Solid. Her fingers curled with certainty around his, like it wasn’t a mistake. Like she wasn’t about to pull away.

It was the kind of moment that made time slow down in the worst possible way.

The parking lot was full of noise and motion—doors slamming, someone yelling across the senior lot, a low bassline rumbling from a truck that probably cost more than his mom’s car. But all of it felt… distant. Like background static behind the sharp, sudden clarity of everyone looking.

They were looking at her. Rowan Starling. Crown jewel of Evergreen High. Dark hair shining under the early morning sun, skirt swaying just enough to seem effortless, the sort of girl who was always somehow more in focus than anyone else in the frame.

And she was holding hands with him.

Theater nerd. Hoodie boy. The kid with ink stains on his fingers and duct tape on his sneakers.

“This is fine,” Mason muttered under his breath. “Totally fine.”

It wasn’t the same as being on stage.

On stage, he had control. He had lines. A script. A character to blame if things went wrong.

Here, he just had Rowan’s hand and about twenty pairs of eyes on his back. And not the good kind. Not the applause, not the awe. These were the stares of confusion. Of hierarchy being quietly upended. Of people trying to do the social math and coming up short.

His gaze flicked to the row of letterman jackets by Asher Cole’s car. The lacrosse boys were mid-conversation, but the second Mason and Rowan stepped into view, everything paused.

Asher’s brows lifted. Not just surprise this time—disbelief, followed by a sharp, unmistakable flicker of judgment. Like the universe had glitched and dropped his girlfriend’s best friend into the arms of someone who didn’t even play a sport. His jaw tightened.

Next to him, Seraphina Vale didn’t look up from her phone.

Her thumb paused mid-scroll.

Then resumed.

No comment. No expression.

Just the silent, elegant act of not reacting—which somehow said more than anything else.

Mason cleared his throat. It didn’t help.

“You want to just… sprint the rest of the way?” he joked softly, eyes still locked on the school doors like they were the finish line of a very dangerous race.

Rowan squeezed his hand instead.

His heart nearly gave out.

Focus, Hayes. Don't combust. Not yet.

He adjusted the strap of his beat-up backpack with his free hand, suddenly hyper-aware of how different they looked. Her outfit was clean lines and curated confidence—belted, pleated, polished. His was... thrifted layers, worn-in canvas, a hoodie for a hoodie because she’d already taken one of his and there was no universe in which he’d ask for it back.

It looked better on her. End of story.

She looked like a Vogue spread. He looked like a Tumblr post from 2013.

And still, she was walking beside him. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside him.

He swallowed hard.

“So… what do we think, fifteen seconds before someone starts a rumor, or a full thirty?”

He tried to sound casual.

Like he wasn’t short-circuiting inside.

Like the heat in his chest wasn’t rising all the way up his neck.

He glanced at her, just once. Just long enough to catch her smirk and the slight tilt of her head that said: Let them talk.

And suddenly, Mason wasn’t scared anymore.

He wasn’t even acting.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan Starling had walked through this parking lot a thousand times.
Today felt different.

Not because the cars were in new spots, not because the wind was a bit sharper than usual, but because of the hand in hers.

Mason Hayes.

She could feel every ounce of tension radiating off him—his shoulders tight, his breath held, his fingers tightened in hers like he thought she might change her mind. She didn’t.

She wasn’t going to.

They were crossing the social front lines of Evergreen High, and Mason was bracing for impact. For whispers. For judgment. He didn’t say it—but she knew. Of course, she knew.

He looked toward Asher’s car, and she followed his gaze.

Asher’s face was predictable—furrowed brows, jaw set, the kind of reaction she’d learned to stop fearing long ago. That look used to mean something. Now, it barely registered.

But next to him was Seraphina.

Still scrolling. Still composed. But Rowan caught it—the small pause—the flicker of recognition. No surprise.

Just confirmation.

Because Sera already knew. She had known since the night at Mountain Outlook.

Rowan could still hear her voice, quiet and uncharacteristically gentle:
“I won’t judge you for who makes you feel safe.”

That conversation had changed everything.

So when Mason cleared his throat and whispered something about sprinting to the doors before the gossip factory kicked into gear, Rowan didn’t flinch. She didn’t slow down.

She just tightened her grip on his hand.

“Let them talk,” she said.

Then, after a beat, she added, low enough for only him to hear, “Sera already knows.”

She glanced over toward the car again.

“And she’s okay with it. With us.”

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mason was still Mason—soft-hearted, too kind, too easy to bruise—and she knew what those stares could do to someone like him. So she gave him the last piece—the one she hadn’t said out loud yet.

“And I told her to be nice to you, too,” Rowan added, a little firmer and prouder. “Just in case she forgot.”

He looked over at her then, eyes wide and wondering like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She met his gaze without blinking.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” she said.

And then—just because she could—she smiled.

Because this wasn’t a secret.

This wasn’t a phase.

This was Mason Hayes.

And she’d already chosen him.
Now the rest of the world could catch up.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason Hayes had spent years being stared at.

He was used to it.

Used to the quiet judgment, the side-eye glances, the unspoken hierarchy of who mattered and who didn’t. He knew his place at Evergreen. Knew exactly what people saw when they looked at him—just enough weird, just enough quiet, just enough different to be forgettable at best, mockable at worst.

So no—he wasn’t scared for himself.

He was scared for her.

Because she was Rowan Starling. Because people cared about who she touched, who she smiled at, who she chose. And now she'd chosen him—publicly, undeniably—and he hated that the first thing he thought was: Will they punish her for it?

But then she squeezed his hand.
And she said “Let them talk.”

Then that next part: “Sera already knows.”

And “She’s okay with us.”

And just like that, something inside him settled. The static died down. The noise faded. He took a breath, this time not sharp and nervous, but full. Real.

She wasn’t flinching.

She wasn’t second-guessing.

She was looking at him like she had nothing to hide and no regrets to carry—and Mason, for the first time since they stepped out of the car, felt something electric buzz beneath his skin. Not fear. Not panic.

Pride.

He was dating Rowan Starling.

And not in a daydream. Not behind closed doors. Right here, in the blinding light of Monday morning, under the weight of every stare in the senior parking lot.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, voice lighter now. “Cool. Yeah. This is happening.”

He let go of her hand—not because he wanted to stop touching her, but because the surge of confidence was too strong to ignore. He slid his arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her closer with a grin that was equal parts dorky and victorious.

“Let them really talk,” he said, nudging her just slightly with his hip. “Might as well give them something dramatic for their Monday morning headlines.”

He glanced back toward the lacrosse boys. Asher was still staring. Mason gave him a cheerful little wave.

“Hi, Asher,” he said under his breath. “Yes, it’s me. The disappointment you didn’t see coming.”

Rowan snorted.

And Mason, impossibly, grinned even wider.

Because suddenly the judgment didn’t matter.

Not the looks. Not the whispers. Not the quiet calculations of social capital.

She was beside him. On purpose. Proudly.

And he was going to wear that like armor.

Like a badge.

Right after he figured out how to breathe again.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan Starling was no stranger to being stared at.

She’d built a reputation on the way she carried herself. Knew how to walk through the world like it didn’t touch her. Like everything rolled off her back with poise and purpose. But this—Mason’s arm around her shoulders, heads turning in slow motion, Asher looking like someone had just unplugged the simulation—this wasn’t performance.

This was personal.

She felt Mason’s whole body shift when he slid his arm around her. Less nervous now. Looser. Taller, somehow—which was absurd because at 6’3”, he already made her feel like she was standing next to a skyscraper. Still, there was something in the way he pulled her in that made her feel like gravity had finally picked a side.

His.

They walked together, his arm solid across her shoulders, her heeled boots striking pavement like punctuation. She could feel the eyes on them—on him, mostly—and she didn’t care. Not even a little.

Then Mason waved.

At Asher.

Waved.

Like this was a sitcom and Asher was just the nosy neighbor. When he muttered, “The disappointment you didn’t see coming,” Rowan didn’t try to hide her laugh this time.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head up so she could catch his expression, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so smug.”

He gave her that little lopsided grin, half charm, half chaos.

Mason blinked.

Then turned about five shades of red.

Rowan smiled, wicked and proud, and leaned into his side like it was her throne.

Because the truth was—he was hot like this. Not in the usual way. Not in the curated, polished, performative way their world handed out compliments like currency. But in the way that meant something. In the way that made her blood hum and her breath catch.

Because he wasn’t pretending anymore either.

He was hers.

And he wasn’t afraid to act like it.

She squeezed his side gently, just enough to ground them both, and said it again—quieter this time, just for him:

“Good. You should be.”

Because she’d never wanted someone to be proud of being hers the way she wanted it from him.

And now he was.

And God, he looked good doing it.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s grin lingered—just a little crooked, like he wasn’t used to feeling this untouchable. But he was catching on fast.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack with one hand, the other still curled around Rowan like he meant it, like he wasn’t just escorting her into the school but staking some kind of gentle, undeniable claim.

“Alright,” he said under his breath, voice rich with amusement. “Showtime.”

With a flick of his hand, he reached for the main doors—holding one open with an exaggerated bow, like he was welcoming royalty. “After you, m’lady,” he said, mock-formal, but there was pride behind the joke. The real kind. The kind that made his chest square out a little and his eyes linger on her like she was the best decision he’d ever made.

Rowan rolled her eyes like she was annoyed, but the way her mouth tugged up at the corners gave her away. She swept past him with the grace of someone who owned the moment, brushing her fingers across his as she went.

And Mason? He didn’t follow immediately.

No, he turned back—just for a second. Looked out at the still-watching crowd, half of them frozen in disbelief, the rest whispering like gossip was oxygen.

He lifted two fingers to his temple in a casual, almost military-style salute, smirking at no one in particular. “Stay stunned,” he murmured, just loud enough for the words to carry.

Then he stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind him like punctuation.

Inside the hallway, the noise and chatter of the morning rush barely touched them. Mason fell into step beside Rowan, brushing her hand with his until she gave in and laced her fingers through his.

He could still feel the stares. The unspoken questions. But for once, they didn’t make him shrink.

They made him stand taller.

He looked down at her, voice low and steady. “Locker?” he asked, like it was a privilege to walk her there.

And somehow, with all the world still watching, it was.

[Rowan Starling]

They reached her locker in silence.

Rowan let go of his hand only long enough to spin the dial, the metal cool beneath her fingertips. The hallway buzzed with the usual Monday morning noise—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking on old tile, snippets of gossip tumbling through the air—but none touched her.

Because he was beside her.

Tall and warm, he leaned against the locker like he was settling into the space that had always been his. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. Steady. Watching. Waiting. Like he was still figuring out how to breathe in a world where this was allowed.

Rowan didn’t look over right away.

She felt him watching. That quiet reverence in his gaze still made something in her chest spark. She didn’t need to look to know he was there.

She swapped her books out, shut her locker with a soft click, and then turned toward him. Mason hadn’t moved. That lopsided hoodie, the ink-stained fingers, the soft eyes that tracked her every step like she was the centre of some invisible orbit.

She stepped in close.

Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to see him properly.

Close enough to feel how still he went when she was near.

Rowan curled her fingers in the hem of his hoodie and gave a gentle tug, just enough to anchor them in place.

“You should probably know I’m not walking into the first period with you hovering like a lost puppy,” she said smoothly.

A beat passed.

Then her lips curved just slightly.

“But I’ll allow an escort. For aesthetic purposes.”

Before he could react, she rose on the balls of her boots—no wobble, all control—and kissed him. Quick. Deliberate. Enough to make her point without feeding the crowd.

She pulled back with a smirk and turned away, walking a few steps forward. Then—casually, without breaking stride—she reached her arm behind her.

An unspoken gesture.

An invitation.

She didn’t look to see if he’d take it. She already knew he would.

And when she felt the familiar weight of his arm sliding into hers, shoulder brushing shoulder, the corners of her mouth curved just a little more.

Let them watch.

Let them whisper.

She wasn’t hiding.

Not anymore.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason watched her go like he'd just been handed a miracle wrapped in lipstick and attitude.

For a half-second, he stood frozen in place—fingers still tingling from where she'd tugged his hoodie, lips parted just slightly from that swift, surgical kiss. Then she extended her arm behind her, all confidence and fire, and it was like flipping a switch.

He caught up in three long strides.

“Bossy,” he muttered under his breath, his voice all fondness and awe as he slid his arm into hers. “Noted.”

She didn’t reply, but he caught the flicker of amusement in her profile, the way her smirk deepened like she liked being called out.

Instead of turning toward first period, he steered them gently down the opposite hallway. “Hang on,” he said, fingers brushing her forearm as he leaned in, voice low. “Gotta grab something.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow but let him lead.

His locker was tucked into a quieter corner of the school, the kind of place that didn’t usually attract attention—until now. A few heads turned as they passed, whispers already starting to ripple in their wake.

But when they rounded the final corner, a familiar cluster of theater kids caught sight of them—Sam with his rainbow pins, Jules from stage crew, Aiden with a Sharpie tucked behind one ear. They all paused mid-conversation, eyes bouncing from Mason to Rowan to their linked arms, expressions ranging from stunned to straight-up gleeful.

Mason didn’t say anything.

He just looked at them—chin up, mouth tilted, calm as ever—and arched one brow like, Yeah. You’re seeing this right.

Sam broke first, slapping a hand over his mouth with an exaggerated gasp. Aiden gave him a slow thumbs-up. Jules just mouthed, “Finally.”

Mason laughed—quiet, but real—and shook his head like they were all ridiculous. Then he popped open his locker, grabbed a small notebook from the top shelf, and shoved it into his bag with one smooth motion.

He closed the door with a casual clang.

Then he turned back to Rowan, like the rest of the world could wait.

“All set,” he said simply, slipping back into step beside her.

His fingers brushed hers again.

And this time, when he laced their hands together, it felt easy.

Like he’d been doing it his whole life.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt the shift in energy before she saw them.

Mason’s corner of the school was quieter, tucked away in the shadow of lockers that hadn’t been updated since the ’90s, but it might as well have been its planet. The vibe changed from hallway chaos to wide-eyed disbelief the second they turned the corner.

Theater kids.

She could practically hear the internal monologues as Sam spotted them, rainbow pins catching the light like punctuation. Aiden’s slow thumbs-up was so exaggerated it was practically in slow motion. And Jules, ever the dramatic one, mouthed finally with all the weight of a series finale plot twist.

Mason said nothing.

Of course, he didn’t. Just walked like this was normal. Like she hadn’t just kissed him in front of half the school and rearranged the social food chain.

Rowan didn’t miss a step.

She glanced at them all, expression unreadable but polite, and lifted her hand in a small, deliberate wave. Just enough to say yeah, this is happening, without giving them the satisfaction of an explanation.

“Try to stay conscious,” she said dryly as they passed, not looking back. “He gets weird when people faint.”

Sam choked on the air behind them. Jules cackled full-on.

Mason didn’t say a word. He opened his locker like he’d done it a thousand times, grabbed a notebook, and shut it again with a casual clang.

When he turned back to her, Rowan raised a brow and looked up at him like she hadn’t just made a subtle power move in a hallway filled with whispering.

“You didn’t tell me I was walking into a live audience,” she said. “Do I get a curtain call or just applause?”

He looked at her—like always—with that ridiculous mixture of awe and soft disbelief, and when he didn’t answer, she just smirked.

“Don’t worry,” she added under her breath, linking her arm through his again as they started walking. “You can be the pretty one. I’ll handle the press.”

They passed another pair of students doing a double take, and Rowan didn’t even blink.

“God, this school’s going to combust by lunch,” she muttered, half to herself, half for his amusement. “I should’ve charged admission.”

Then, quieter—barely above a whisper, but all real:

“I like this. I like us.”

And just like that, she laced her fingers with his.

Because sarcasm was her language.

But this?
This was fluency in something honest.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s hand tightened gently around hers.

Not possessive—just sure.

A little dazed, a little giddy, and trying very hard not to grin like an idiot, he angled a look down at her. “Okay, well—fair warning—I’m not media trained,” he said, deadpan, voice low and lazy with that effortless Milo Manheim charm. “I panic under pressure, cry when cornered, and have a terrible habit of oversharing. It’s probably better if I just stand there and look pretty while you handle the talking.”

A pause.

Then a lopsided smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth like it didn’t know how not to be soft when she was around.

“I do that really well, by the way,” he added, mock-serious. “Looking pretty. Years of experience. Ask my mirror.”

Their shoes echoed lightly against the old tile, that familiar Evergreen hallway smell—pencils, paper, whatever the janitor used to clean the floors—curling around them like set dressing.

Another glance came their way. A pair of underclassmen, wide-eyed and whispering.

Mason didn’t flinch.

He just leaned in a little, shoulder brushing hers. “Think we broke the freshman gossip matrix. Sorry in advance if someone starts a conspiracy theory about us being a PR stunt.”

When they reached the classroom door, he paused.

Not rushed. Not nervous.

Just there, calm and solid like he’d always belonged in this moment with her. With one smooth gesture, he swept a hand toward the door—half chivalry, half theater flourish, like he was offering her the lead in a scene only they understood.

“After you, Starling,” he said with quiet gravity. “Might as well let the main character enter first.”

And even though his voice was light, there was something in his eyes—a glint of pride, affection, wonder—that told her everything else he wasn’t saying.

They were a spectacle.

But to him?

She was the whole damn show.

[Rowan Starling]

The class had been chaos.

Not because of anything their teacher did—Mr. Hawkins was halfway through a unit on symbolism and looked ten seconds from retirement—but because of Mason.

Specifically, in 2025, Mason attempted to pass Rowan a note, pretending they weren’t sitting one seat apart and surrounded by functioning phones.

She’d caught the folded-up paper halfway through an underwhelming metaphor discussion, only to open it and find a truly awful sketch of what appeared to be them—her dramatically sipping tea. At the same time, he dangled from the edge of a stage, screaming something about iambic pentameter.

She stifled a laugh, scribbled you’re the worst in the margin, and slid it back toward him with all the subtlety of a trained pickpocket. He read it, smirked, and proceeded to add shading.

By the end of class, she had a full two-panel comic and exactly three words of actual notes.

They stepped into the hallway together, and it felt like nothing had changed at first. Mason’s fingers brushed hers, warm and familiar.

But the moment they turned the corner, Rowan felt it.

The shift.

The whispers.

The weight of the looks.

“…probably just a phase…”

“…bet he writes her poetry or some cringey musical theater crap…”

“…what even is that couple…”

Her jaw ticked just slightly. Mason didn’t seem to hear it—or maybe he was pretending not to. He walked beside her like nothing was wrong like the stares weren’t knives and the whispers weren’t designed to cut.

She admired that about him.

But Rowan Starling had never been the ignore it and move on type.

She stopped walking.

Not abruptly—just enough for Mason to glance over in quiet question.

She turned, eyes already locking onto the small group halfway down the hall. Juniors. The usual suspects. Wannabes have too much lip gloss and not enough spine. Whispering behind their notebooks like they weren’t in plain sight.

Rowan’s smile was instant.

Polished. Poisoned.

The kind that said: Oh, I heard you. And now you’re going to wish I hadn’t.

She took a few steps toward them, slow and deliberate. Her voice carried low and pleasant.

“If any of you have something to say about my choices,” she said smoothly, “I’m always open to feedback.”

The group froze.

“But here’s the thing—” she took another step, boots clicking like punctuation, “if you’re too spineless to say it to my face, maybe don’t say it at all.”

Someone swallowed audibly. Another fumbled with their phone.

Rowan smiled wider.

“Lunch. After school. Whenever works for you,” she said. “But if you’re not going to say something useful or interesting, then please—”

She slammed the nearest locker shut with a sharp, echoing clang. It wasn’t violent. It was loud—a punctuation mark.

“Mind your damn business.”

Not a scream. Not a tantrum.

Just a fact.

A line in the script no one else was bold enough to deliver.

Then, like she hadn’t just sent half a hallway into stunned silence, she turned around and reached for Mason’s hand.

Her fingers slipped into his easily.

And she smirked, tossing him a sideways glance as they started walking again.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Had to get that out of my system.”

Then, because she wasn’t done, she gave his hand a little tug, changing course toward the far side of the hallway.

“Come on. I do have to stop by my locker,” she added, rolling her eyes like she was annoyed at herself for needing to. “I left my drama binder in there this morning. Ms. Ellery’s already three seconds from setting me on fire for talking during warm-ups—if I show up unprepared again, she’ll probably sacrifice me to the ghost of Shakespeare.”

She said it casually as if this wasn’t the most dramatic hallway exit Evergreen had seen all semester.

Like the silence behind them wasn’t still ringing.

Like she didn’t care who heard her walking away.

And maybe she didn’t.

Because Mason was right there beside her.

Still holding her hand.

And Rowan Starling didn’t care who was watching—so long as he was still walking next to her when they reached the end of the hall.

[Mason Hayes]

He heard them.

Of course he did.

The hallway was acoustics and cruelty and too many people who thought whispers were softer than they actually were. Mason had grown up in those echoes—learned early that being quiet made him a target, and refusing to break made him something worse:

Untouchable.

It used to sting. Once. Long ago.

Now?

Now he’d mastered the art of indifference. Or, at least, the performance of it. Same principle as theater, really—if they don’t get a reaction, they lose interest. It drove bullies insane when their insults landed with a shrug. Like a punch thrown in zero gravity. No weight. No damage.

So when the familiar venom hissed down the corridor—“bet he writes her poetry,” “cringey musical theater crap,” “what even is that couple?”—he did what he always did.

He kept walking.

Shoulders loose, head high. Unbothered. Unmoved.

Except this time… he wasn’t alone.

Rowan didn’t keep walking.

She stopped like a storm building behind calm skies, and before he could say anything—before he could even ask—she was turning toward the source like she’d been waiting for an excuse.

Mason blinked. Watched. Jaw slack in quiet awe.

Because he’d never seen someone do that before. Not for him.

He watched her smile that wicked little smile, all polished charm and razor edges, and step toward the girls like she was accepting an award. Like she wasn’t outnumbered or outgunned or even remotely afraid.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

It was controlled. Commanding. That effortless kind of boldness that made people lean in without realizing.

And when she slammed the locker shut—clang—Mason flinched, not because he was scared, but because it echoed in his ribs like a battle cry.

She reached for his hand like nothing happened.

And he took it like a lifeline.

“Sorry,” she said, all casual breeze and bad-girl grin. “Had to get that out of my system.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He wasn’t sure he could.

His brain was still rebooting. Still trying to reconcile the quiet, self-contained boy he’d trained himself to be with the force-of-nature girl currently dragging him toward her locker like she hadn’t just redefined the social order of Evergreen High in under thirty seconds.

When she muttered something about a binder and Shakespeare’s ghost, Mason finally found his voice—slightly breathless, mostly stunned.

“You terrify me in the best way possible,” he said.

She didn’t look at him, just smirked like she already knew that.

And Mason—still holding her hand, still feeling the buzz of her fury like static in the air—realized something strange and a little terrifying of his own:

He wasn’t scared of the whispers.

He was scared of how good it felt to be seen.

To be defended.

To be chosen—not quietly, not behind the curtain, but center stage with the lights full up and the audience wide-eyed.

It was new.

It was exhilarating.

And, yeah—maybe a little scary.

But when they reached her locker, and she turned to look at him, eyes bright with something unapologetically alive, Mason didn’t back away.

He just leaned in, lips grazing her temple, and said softly:

“I’d write you poetry, by the way. Cringey or not.”

Then he grinned and darted off before she could hit him with her binder.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched—fighting a smile. He took her binder without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and walked her to class with fingers still loosely laced in hers.

Only once she disappeared through the doorway—throwing him one last amused look over her shoulder—did Mason finally turn and bolt down the hall, cutting it dangerously close to the bell.

Totally worth it.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan froze.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that her breath caught in her throat, and her heartbeat tripped over itself like her body hadn’t been prepared for that level of sincerity.

He’d whispered it like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t just cracked something open in her.

“I’d write you poetry, by the way. Cringey or not.”

She blinked at the spot where he’d stood a second ago, binder clutched to her chest, heart thudding like it was trying to beat out a reply.

Cringey or not, huh?

He was impossible.

She caught up to him with three quick steps, nearly smacked him in the back with the binder—nearly—but changed her mind at the last second. Instead, she yanked lightly on the back of his hoodie to slow him down and stepped around to face him, walking backward as he slowed.

“I’d say that was cheesy,” she said, her tone teasing, “but you get points for delivery. And cheekbone proximity.”

Then—softer—she added, “You meant that, didn’t you?”

He didn’t have to say anything.

She could already see it on his face.

Her smirk melted into something gentler. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment, then reached up and brushed her fingers across his cheek again—the same spot as before, like she was marking it as hers.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” she said, voice quieter now. “Honestly? I’d read it. All of it. Cringey metaphors and all.”

She leaned slightly, barely enough for her lips to brush his jaw. Not a kiss. Just… warmth. A promise.

Then she stepped back, tucked the binder under one arm, and flashed him a look over her shoulder that was all fire and mischief.

“You write it, Hayes,” she called as she started down the hallway, “you better believe I’ll grade it.”

And with that, she disappeared around the corner—smiling.

Because somewhere deep down, she hoped he really would.

[Mason Hayes]

Second period was supposed to be American Government.

But Mason’s notes stopped halfway through the heading, and his brain had stopped functioning the moment Rowan Starling walked away with that look.

That look that said she wanted the poetry.

Cheesy metaphors and all.

He sat there, hunched a little in his chair, pretending to be attentive while his notebook filled with something else entirely. He turned to a blank page and started scribbling in the margins—first just lines, then thoughts, then full-on verses.

They were terrible.

Embarrassingly earnest.

Exactly the kind of thing that would’ve gotten him laughed out of the locker room once upon a time.

But he didn’t care.


---

Ode to a Girl Who Could Kill Me with a Look
She walks like thunder in combat boots,
laughs like stolen summer,
kisses air like she’s daring it to touch her back.
And me?
I’m a puddle in her storm path,
flattened by cheekbones and courage.

Grade that, Starling.

(Or don’t. Just read it and maybe smile.)


---

He grinned down at the page, then winced, then kept going.

More lines. More metaphors. At one point he compared her to a flame wrapped in sarcasm and denim. Another stanza was just about the way her voice shifted when she got righteous. And somehow—God help him—there was an entire couplet about how even her eye rolls had rhythm.

The bell rang, jolting him back to reality.

He slammed his notebook shut, crammed it into his bag, and took off—dodging slower walkers, apologizing to a freshman he nearly collided with, and scanning the hallway like she might vanish if he didn’t move fast enough.

Third period could wait.

He just needed to see her face again.

Even for a second.

He spotted her just outside the drama wing, leaning one shoulder against the wall, binder hugged to her chest like she hadn’t moved since their last conversation—like maybe the air had stilled there, too.

For a second, Mason forgot what to do with his limbs.

Then her eyes landed on him.

And he remembered everything.

His feet moved before his brain caught up. His heart was thudding too fast, too loud, and his hand was already in his bag, fumbling for the folded page.

“Hey,” he said, breathless, holding it out like it might catch fire if he kept it too long. “You said to write it. So. I did.”

He watched her eyes flick to the paper. She didn’t take it right away—just looked at him, a mix of curiosity and something gentler beneath it.

“I’m not saying it’s good,” Mason added quickly, “but it’s… mine. Yours now, I guess.”

Finally, she reached for it—fingers brushing his just slightly.

She didn’t open it yet. Just held it like it mattered.

“I wrote the whole thing in Government,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which means I now know nothing about checks and balances, but I do have, like, four metaphors about your boots.”

Her lips twitched.

“Four?”

“And a haiku,” he said, deadpan. “It was a low point.”

That made her laugh—low and real, the kind that curled in his chest and stayed there.

The bell rang.

Mason glanced down the hall, then back at her, reluctantly stepping away.

“I gotta go,” he said. “But—uh—text me your grade. Or your insults. I accept either.”

He started backing away, walking a little sideways until the crowd pushed him into motion. But even as he turned the corner, he caught one last glance:

Rowan Starling standing there, the poem in her hands.

Smiling like she already knew what it said.

[Rowan Starling]

Second period was trigonometry.

Which meant Rowan spent forty-seven agonizing minutes pretending to care about sine waves while her mind kept drifting somewhere else entirely.

Mason Hayes.

Or more specifically, the way he’d looked at her this morning—like the ground had shifted under his feet and he was still smiling anyway.

She sat in the back corner of the classroom, propped on one elbow, letting the dull rhythm of Mrs. Kerr’s voice fade into background static. Her notebook was open in front of her, but the equations on the board never made it to the page. Instead, her pencil moved absently, almost unconsciously, across the margin.

Doodles.

Nothing intentional. Nothing coherent. Just shapes and spirals and jagged lines that softened the longer she stared. She wasn’t even aware of what she was drawing—just letting her hand move while her brain quietly unraveled everything she felt and wasn’t ready to say out loud.

It wasn’t about Mason, not exactly.

But somehow, it was all him.

She caught herself pressing a little too hard with the pencil and paused, exhaling slowly. Her chest felt too full for how quiet the room was. Like her body was waiting for a cue that hadn’t arrived yet.

When the bell finally rang, she snapped her notebook closed with a sharp flick of her wrist, gathered her things, and headed for the one place in the building where she could actually breathe.

The hallway was crowded, chaotic. But just outside the drama wing, she found a quiet stretch of wall and leaned her shoulder against it, binder hugged tight to her chest.

Waiting.

She didn’t let herself overthink it.

And when Mason appeared—racing down the hall like he’d been holding his breath since she left—her smile bloomed before she could stop it.

“There he is,” she said, warm and teasing. “I was starting to think you got lost in a sonnet.”

And just like that, the chaos quieted.

Because he was here.

And he had something in his hands.
And she had a feeling it was for her.

Rowan stood there long after Mason disappeared around the corner, her fingers curled gently around the poem like it might dissolve if she held it too tightly.

The hallway bustled around her, students sweeping by in waves—laughing, yelling, shoving binders into lockers—but she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared down at the folded paper in her hands like it held something sacred.

She could still feel his presence in the air.

His nervous smile. That breathless look when he’d said “You said to write it. So. I did.”

She unfolded the page slowly, smoothing it with one hand, her eyes skimming over the first few lines.

And then—

Her chest clenched.

She walks like thunder in combat boots…

Rowan inhaled sharply, lips parting just slightly.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest in a way that made her throat tighten.

Her eyes flicked down the page, the corners of her mouth twitching when she got to “flattened by cheekbones and courage.”

God, Mason.

Her fingers lifted to her lips without thinking, like she was trying to trap the feeling before it slipped out. No one had ever written her anything like this. Not even close. She’d been complimented, sure—called hot, called cool, called intimidating in ways that were meant to be flattering. But never like this. Never with this kind of softness. This kind of wonder.

Like she wasn’t just something to be admired.

Like she was something to be felt.

She skimmed the rest of it again, slower this time. And when she reached the end—

Grade that, Starling.

She laughed.

Soft. Disbelieving. Entirely undone.

She didn’t grade it.

She folded it carefully, tucked it into the inner sleeve of her binder, and pressed her palm against the front like she could keep the words close that way. Like she could press them into her skin.

And for the rest of the walk to third period, she didn’t hear a single whisper.

Didn’t care about the looks.

Because someone out there was writing her poetry between notes on the U.S. Constitution—and that someone was hers.

She slid into her seat just as the bell rang, one hand still resting over the binder like it held her favorite secret.

Rowan Starling didn’t need love to look like a fairytale.

But this?

This felt like the start of her favorite scene.

[Mason Hayes]

Third period was supposed to be AP Lit.

But Mason spent most of it pretending not to glance at the clock every ninety seconds like it might tick faster if he stared hard enough.

The classroom smelled like over-sharpened pencils and old carpet, with posters of famous authors scowling down from the walls as if daring them to misinterpret their metaphors. Ms. Bradford was launching into some dramatic monologue about the tragic futility of longing in The Great Gatsby—and Mason? Mason was staring at a blank margin in his annotated copy, doodling a constellation that reminded him of the freckle under Rowan’s jaw.

The same one his breath had nearly stumbled into this morning.

He tilted his pen just slightly, sketching an arrow through the stars. It wasn’t subtle. It was a terrible metaphor. He loved it anyway.

"Yo, Hayes."
He blinked. Looked up.

Ezra Bennett was leaning halfway across the aisle with a grin that meant trouble. He was wearing his usual vintage band tee, backwards cap, and a look like he knew something Mason didn’t.

“I heard you and Rowan Starling are, like, a thing now. True or false?”

Mason blinked once. Then again. “Uh.”

Ezra gave him a knowing look. “Dude. You walked her to class. She smiled. You were holding a folded piece of paper. That’s basically a proposal in high school.”

Mason flushed. Not quite enough to deny it. Not quite enough to admit it either.

“…It was a poem,” he mumbled.

Ezra sat back in his chair like he’d just been personally blessed. “Oh my god. It is true.”

Mason didn’t answer.

He just let the grin tug at the corner of his mouth and tried not to smile too hard when Ms. Bradford shot them both a withering glare.

The rest of the period blurred around the edges—words about symbolism and unreachable dreams floating somewhere just out of reach. But Mason didn’t need Gatsby to tell him about longing. He was living it. Every minute he wasn’t with her, his brain was scripting nonsense—lines of verse, unfinished metaphors, half-formed ways to say I see you, Starling. I see all of you.

When the bell rang, he was up fast enough to be suspicious.

Ezra called after him—“Tell her I want credit in the acknowledgments if this ends in a novel!”—but Mason was already gone, slipping through the crowd like a current.

[Rowan Starling]

The third period felt like molasses.

Her psych notes were a disaster—half scribbles, half sentence fragments, one dramatic all-caps “DO NOT MURDER ANYONE” that was supposed to be a joke about Freud but looked like a threat if taken out of context.

She couldn’t concentrate. Not really.

Everything was too loud.

The fluorescent lights. The tap of someone’s pen. The secondhand embarrassment pulsing off a classmate who mispronounced “id.” It was all noise: everything but his memory.

Mason.

She's still replaying that moment outside the drama wing. He’d looked at her like she was gravity and never learned to land properly, like he wasn’t even trying to impress her. Just… handing her something real.

The folded paper still sat in the inside pocket of her binder, and the poem was inked onto notebook paper with one corner dog-eared. She’d reread it three times while pretending to look for a pencil. Every time she did, that stupid freckle on her jaw suddenly mattered because Mason Hayes had noticed it.

And it felt like she was wearing a secret.

Something sacred. Hilarious. Terrifying.

And entirely hers.

The bell finally rang.

She didn’t wait for the hall to clear. She was already on her feet, threading through the crowd with her binder pressed to her chest, boot heels clipping confidently against the tile.

She was already smiling.

The energy in the drama room was always a little too much—but today, it buzzed with something extra. That messy mix of adrenaline and nerves came from teenage egos and stage fright.

Rowan thrived in it.

She stepped into the room like always—shoulders squared, face composed, eyes cool. But her gaze was scanning, looking for one person in particular.

There he was.

He slouched against the stage steps, script in one hand, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he hadn’t decided whether to commit to being warm. His hair was slightly messy in the way it got when he ran his fingers through it during class, and his foot was tapping out a beat against the scuffed wood like he was thinking about something—probably too much.

God, she could feel herself soften just watching him.

“Hey, Hayes,” she said coolly, dropping her bag beside his foot.

He looked up—eyes lighting in that slow, stunned way they always did when she talked to him like no one else was in the room.

Rowan bent down slightly, the edge of her lip curling into a smirk as she murmured, “Read it again during the third. You’re lucky I’m not grading you, but…” She leaned closer, letting her fingers ghost across his paper. “A+ for the freckle detail.”

Then she sank into the seat beside him like it was always hers.

And maybe… maybe it was now.

That look.

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was something deep. Something real.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t look up right away.

He felt her before he saw her—the way her presence always carved out space around her, like gravity remembering how to be specific. Like the room bent a little to let her through.

But then—

“Hey, Hayes.”

His name in her voice had no right to sound that good.

He blinked once, then looked up—and there she was. Cool. Effortless. Stupidly radiant in a way that made his breath hiccup in his chest. And then she leaned in, smirking like a challenge wrapped in satin, and said something about his poem that made the tips of his ears go pink.

A+ for the freckle detail.

Mason exhaled a laugh, slow and quiet, like he’d been holding his breath all day just to hear that.

“Well,” he murmured, shifting his script to the side and tugging his backpack open with theatrical flair, “I was gonna offer you half my sandwich, but now I’m thinking I should frame it instead. For the archives. ‘Lunch shared with the girl who complimented my freckle metaphor.’ Pulitzer-worthy stuff.”

He pulled out a wrinkled brown paper bag and peeked inside with exaggerated caution.

“Today’s tragic protagonist: peanut butter and jelly. Still clinging to life after a second act in my locker.”

Then, with a glance at her—warmer now, less stunned, more in it—he added softly, “You read it again, huh?”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just full.

Then he nudged the bag her way without looking at her, eyes still on the stage.

“You can have the cookie. But only because your boots are terrifying.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan rolled her eyes, but the smile playing at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. God, he was ridiculous.

And she liked him so much it was starting to annoy her.

She didn’t take the cookie—not yet. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, chin tilted just enough to be both amused and dangerous.

“You should probably know,” she said lightly, loud enough to carry over the soft pre-rehearsal chatter, “you don’t get points for flattery anymore. You already cashed in your beginner’s luck with the poem. So now you’re operating on sheer charm and snack-based bribery.”

Her fingers drummed lazily on the edge of the chair. She was looking at the stage, but her attention was still clearly fixed on him.

“Which, to be fair, is working,” she added with a smirk. “But let’s not pretend that wasn’t a bribe. That’s girlfriend tax, Hayes. Standard rate. Cookie for compliments. Compliments for letting you skate into class with your hair doing… whatever that’s doing.”

She finally reached into the bag and retrieved the cookie, holding it up like a trophy before casually taking a bite and leaning slightly toward him.

“I do appreciate the drama of a tragic sandwich protagonist, though,” she murmured. “You’re giving full Shakespearean lunch energy today. All angst. No structure.”

Then, after a beat—softly, almost an afterthought:

“I liked the poem.”

Her fingers brushed his knee on the way back to her lap. It's not a big gesture. Not a bold one. It is just a passing touch, grounded and sure. She didn’t need to look at him again.

She knew he had heard her.

Rowan took another bite of the cookie, slow and deliberately like she was taste-testing it for poetic merit. Then her gaze flicked to him—his profile, soft and focused and just a little flushed—and something tugged behind her ribs.

She reached out before she even fully decided to.

Gently and quickly, fingers brushed through the fringe of his hair, tucking a wild piece behind his ear before it could flop into his eyes again.

“There,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Now you look slightly less like a wind tunnel attacked you and slightly more like someone I’d willingly be seen on stage with.”

A pause.

Her hand hovered a second longer than necessary, just above his shoulder, then dropped back to her lap like nothing had happened.

But her lips curled at the edges, quiet and satisfied.

Because it had.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason could’ve sworn the world narrowed to her and a cookie.

She was sitting there like she ruled the whole auditorium with nothing but crossed ankles, dry wit, and the absolute audacity to make fun of his hair while eating his dessert. And he—well, he was a goner.

He watched her bite into the cookie like it was a character study. Slow, deliberate, full of judgmental flair like she was in some black box performance titled “Girlfriend Evaluates Cookie: A Tragedy in Three Bites.” And he loved it.

God, he loved her.

He didn’t even try to hide his smile. It bloomed slow and crooked, tugging at the side of his mouth like a secret trying to escape. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and warm.

“You know, if this is the girlfriend tax, I’m gonna need to start packing more cookies. Maybe some dramatic grapes. A charcuterie board with mood lighting.”

She didn’t look at him, not fully—but he could see it in her smirk, the way her fingers tapped rhythmically against her leg, how she let her words linger like stage directions.

“I liked the poem.”

He felt that line settle right under his ribs—no spotlight, no applause, just the kind of praise that mattered.

His knee bounced once, a flicker of nervous energy, before her hand brushed it—calm, unbothered, hers—and suddenly, the day felt survivable again.

And when she fixed his hair?

Oh.

Oh no.

That was it. That was the moment Mason Hayes short-circuited. Not because she touched him—but because she did it like she could. Like it wasn’t strange or scary to reach for him in the quiet. Like maybe she’d been waiting to do it just as long as he had.

“Well,” he said, voice slightly hoarse as he blinked hard to get his heart out of his throat, “now I have no choice.”

And then he moved.

Not fast. Not bold. Just sure.

He leaned in, slow as molasses and twice as sticky-sweet, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Then her jaw.

Then her temple.

Then her shoulder, her hairline, the curve of her smile—

All these tiny, ridiculous kisses, scattered like stars across the places he’d spent whole weeks imagining.

“That's for third period,” he murmured between them. “That’s for AP Lit hell. That’s for the part where I had to pretend not to think about this exact moment while writing a four-paragraph analysis of The Great Gatsby.”

He kissed her again—right on the edge of her smile this time—and finally sat back, flushed and grinning like an idiot.

No one was staring. No one cared.

They had the whole room to themselves, for just a second.

They’d made it halfway through the day, and the sky hadn’t fallen.

They could breathe here. They could laugh. They could have lunch.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the kind she wore for cameras, crowds, or even Seraphina’s parents. No—this was something quieter. Wilder. The kind of smile you only let out when you’re safe. When you’re known.

He kissed her cheek, and she didn’t flinch.

He kissed her jaw, and she didn’t pretend to care.

He kissed her temple, and she almost laughed, not because it tickled but because it felt like a secret being whispered across her skin.

By the time he reached her shoulder, Rowan was practically glowing. Not in the dainty, glowing-girl way the movies loved to show. But in that electric, too-much-heart-in-too-small-a-body way that made her feel like maybe—for once—she didn’t have to guard it all.

She let him finish.

Let him scatter those soft, ridiculous kisses like punctuation marks across the chaos of her day.

And when he finally sat back, flushed and grinning like someone who’d just lived through a musical number, Rowan reached out and gently tugged him by the sleeve.

She kissed him once. Slow. Short. Right at the corner of his mouth—half possession, half punctuation.

Then she raised her brow.

“That’s for the cookie,” she said dryly.

A beat passed before her fingers reached up again, smoothing the soft curls at his temple with practiced ease, as she’d already done it a thousand times in her head. Her thumb lingered for half a second—too soft, too intentional.

“And that’s for writing me a poem about my boots,” she added, voice lower now, almost amused. “Even if you did rhyme ‘sarcasm’ with ‘phantasm.’”

Another pause. Her gaze softened.

“But you’re lucky you’re cute.”

She settled back beside him, knees brushing his as she folded the last bite of cookie into her mouth like she hadn’t just rearranged his entire internal architecture with three words and a smirk.

The auditorium buzzed faintly around them—muffled footsteps in the halls, the distant hum of someone rehearsing lines. But it all blurred.

Because Mason was beside her.

And Rowan Starling—ever the queen, ever the cynic—was stupidly, irrevocably, head-over-heart smitten.

This wasn’t just lunch.

It was everything.

Rowan leaned her shoulder into his, still chewing the last bite of cookie, gaze flicking sideways without fully turning her head.

The smirk lingered—lazy, playful—but her voice was gentler when she spoke, like she was offering something weightier than the question sounded.

“So,” she said, her foot nudging his under the table, “what do you want to do after school?”

Then, after a beat—eyebrow raised, tone dry but fond—

“And no, writing me more poems about my boots doesn’t count. You’re already dangerously close to earning a dramatic reading in front of the drama club.”

But something in her eyes—half challenge, half curiosity—said: Whatever it is, I want to be there.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason nearly choked on air.

Which would’ve been wildly on-brand, honestly—him, rendered speechless by a girl who weaponized wit and wore affection like armor. And now she was smiling at him like that and asking him what he wanted to do after school like it wasn’t the most important question he’d ever been asked.

He blinked. Then grinned. Then blinked again, because his brain was still halfway stuck on she kissed me for the cookie and she kissed me for the poem and she kissed me. Full stop.

“Well,” he said, slow and dramatic, lifting their joined knees like he was preparing to unveil something deeply theatrical, “that depends. Are you in the mood for a tragic indie film that’ll ruin us emotionally? A walk in the woods where we inevitably get lost because I refuse to use Google Maps on principle? Or—and hear me out—we go to your parents’ bookstore and dramatically re-enact scenes from bad YA novels using accents that would offend entire countries?”

He raised an eyebrow, then dropped his voice to a scandalous whisper. “Option four is me reading the boot poem in a British accent while lying on top of the librarian’s desk like it’s the sinking door from Titanic—but I feel like that one’s best saved for when you’ve had more sugar.”

Mason leaned toward her, shoulder brushing hers, like the pull was magnetic. He gave her his full attention, chin propped on his hand now, the picture of exaggerated sincerity.

“Choose your chaos, Starling,” he said. “But choose wisely. You’re dating a theatre kid. We don't do chill.”

And when she looked at him like she was already planning some sarcastic rebuttal, Mason smiled even bigger—because whatever she picked, wherever they ended up, as long as it was her?

He was in.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan arched a brow, the corner of her mouth already curving up into a smirk before he even finished the line about the librarian’s desk. “Okay, first of all,” she said, poking his leg lightly with her boot, “you absolutely would fall off the desk like Jack sinking into the ocean. And I’d laugh. Lovingly. But still.”

She leaned in, chin tilted with mock solemnity. “Second, if you think I’m letting you read a poem about my boots in a fake accent without filming it for blackmail purposes, you clearly underestimate me.”

A pause.

Then she grinned. That full, too-sharp, too-honest Rowan grin that meant he’d already won her over.

“The woods are tempting,” she admitted. “But I vote bookstore. Bad YA reenactments, fake accents, public humiliation. I’ll even let you wear the Peeta apron.”

She flicked her fingers toward him in a royal little gesture. “But I’m Katniss. Obviously.”

Another beat.

“And I’m not sharing my cookies next time unless you give me a scene partner worthy of the arena.”

Rowan bumped her shoulder into his with a casual kind of warmth, her voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “You pick the book. I’ll pick the weapon.”

And just like that, it was settled: chaos would commence—somewhere between poetry, sarcasm, and a bookstore battlefield.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason tried to play it cool.

He really did.

But Rowan Starling had just offered him Peeta’s apron and full access to her Hunger Games villain era, and frankly, his brain short-circuited somewhere between “blackmail purposes” and “worthy of the arena.”

He cleared his throat like a man preparing to deliver a TED Talk. Or perhaps... a dramatic monologue in the middle of Barnes & Noble.

“Alright, Miss Everdeen,” he said, scooting an inch closer like that somehow gave his words more gravity. “If we’re going full Hunger Games, I’m going to need a book with emotional depth, narrative gravitas, and at least one unhinged character I can base my entire performance on.”

He snapped his fingers dramatically, eyes lighting up.

“Twilight. Final answer.”

He held up a hand before she could interrupt. “Before you judge me, just picture it: I show up in the Peeta apron and a vampire cape. I monologue about eternal suffering while aggressively frosting cupcakes. You throw cookies like throwing stars. I reenact Edward leaving Bella in the woods but with slightly more jazz hands and slightly less emotional repression.”

He wiggled his brows. “Oscar-worthy, honestly.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in with mock-serious intensity.

“Now, your turn. Pick your weapon. I’m personally hoping it’s something deeply impractical, like a haunted typewriter or an aggressively large Shakespeare bust. I feel like that really sets the tone.”

He bumped her shoulder back, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Come on, Starling. If we’re going to go down in a blaze of YA glory, we might as well make it cinematic.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan blinked once. Twice. Then fixed him with a look so flat it could’ve leveled a small country.

“You absolute menace,” she said, her tone dry enough to make the Sahara jealous. “The Cullens didn’t wear capes, Hayes. They donned chic designer trench coats and bore the weight of deep-seated emotional repression. Honestly, I expected more from you.”

She leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand, her eyes gleaming with a playful challenge. “And Twilight? Really? You had every unhinged YA series at your disposal, and that’s the one you choose? We could’ve explored the morally gray world of Shadowhunters or the dramatic realm of fae with traumatic backstories—but no. You want to monologue about immortality in a Peeta apron while I hurl baked goods at you. That’s your grand vision.”

She didn’t sound mad; instead, she exuded delight.

“And I hate that I kind of want to see it.”

Her fingers reached for his collar, smoothing out a wrinkle with a gesture that held warmth and a hint of threat. “But for the record? If you show up wearing a cape, I will revoke your frosting privileges.”

She leaned back now, a smug expression gracing her features, regal in her composure.

“As for my weapon…” She pretended to ponder, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop. “A vintage hardcover of Wuthering Heights, annotated in blood-red ink and emotional trauma. Or perhaps just a sharpened eyeliner pencil accompanied by a passionate monologue about Katniss dismantling the patriarchy. It really depends on the vibe.”

Then, with a teasing flick of her fingers, she tapped the tip of his nose and said in a mock-sweet tone, “Start stretching, drama boy. You’ve got a performance to rehearse.”

And just like that, she had plunged into the delightful chaos with him—her eyes bright, voice steady, ready to commandeer the entire bookstore stage.

[Mason Hayes]

“The Twilight saga,” he said, clutching his chest with both hands like he’d been personally wounded, “is a generational cornerstone. A cultural touchstone, Starling. Show some respect for the holy text that gave us baseball vampires and one of the most unhinged love triangles in cinematic history.”

He sat back in mock horror, looking at her like she’d committed a literary crime. “They sparkled, Rowan. They played thunderstorm baseball in slow motion. The Cullens didn’t need capes—they had attitude, cheekbones, and inexplicably perfect skin despite literally never sleeping. Legends.”

Then, like a switch flipped, he straightened, narrowed his eyes, and dropped his voice an octave. “Also, let’s be honest—I mostly picked Twilight because I wanted an excuse to wear a cape. A dramatic, floor-length, swishy one. Maybe velvet. Maybe with embroidery.”

He struck a pose like a tragic antihero whose backstory involved moonlight and betrayal.

And with absolutely no warning, Mason launched into action, placing one dramatic hand over his heart.

“Say it out loud,” he intoned gravely, already attracting the bewildered stares of three freshmen popping their heads in from the hallway like groundhogs summoned by chaos. “Vampire.”

He pointed at Rowan with the exaggerated flourish of a soap opera actor. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you… and your judgment. And your eyeliner pencil of destruction. But I will endure, because my love is eternal and chic as hell.”

He paced a small circle like it was a Broadway stage and he was playing all three leads in a one-man dystopian romantic thriller.

Then he dropped to one knee with his best tragic Edward Cullen expression. “If it weren’t for the baby pink frosting on your molasses cookie, I would’ve had nothing to live for in that bookstore battlefield.”

Then he leapt up, grabbed a plastic fork from his bag like it was a sacred dagger, and held it aloft.

“Behold! Wuthering Bites: The Musical—featuring tortured feelings, eyeliner-based violence, and at least one very passionate soliloquy about sparkling masculinity!”

He paused just long enough to grin at her, flushed with laughter and totally unbothered by the half-dozen people now pretending not to watch from the edge of the hallway. Which, to be fair, was impossible.

“Your move, Katniss,” he said, breathless, dramatic, utterly in love. “But just so we’re clear—I’m absolutely showing up in a cape. With glitter. And probably eyeliner.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan blinked at him, deadpan. “You absolute disaster of a human.”

But her voice was full of amusement, and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth betrayed her long before she could fight it off. She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back in her chair like a queen watching her jester spiral into theatrical oblivion, and raised a single eyebrow.

“I take it back,” she said sweetly. “You should wear the cape. You’ve earned it. Maybe we’ll get you a matching bedazzled diary too, so you can chronicle your immortal suffering in glitter gel pen.”

She reached out and calmly plucked the plastic fork from his hand like she was disarming a rogue toddler.

“And this,” she said, holding it up like an exhibit in a court case, “is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

Her eyes glittered with mischief now, voice turning mock-serious. “Also, I’m going to need a full script of Wuthering Bites: The Musical by Friday. With choreography. And original score. If I don’t get at least one dramatic ballad called ‘Sparkle and Suffer,’ I’m walking.”

Then she leaned forward, hands braced on the table, eyes locking with his in the quietest, most devastating way.

“But for the record,” she murmured, too soft for anyone else to hear, “you’re lucky I love disasters.”

She stole the last bite of his cookie.

And smiled like she was already planning the next act.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason beamed like he’d just been knighted with a glitter-coated sword.

Finally. She was seeing the light. The sparkling, overly dramatic, YA adaptation light.

He executed a dramatic, sweeping bow for their hallway audience—one hand pressed to his chest, the other flung wide like a curtain-call flourish. “Thank you, thank you. I dedicate this performance to Catherine Hardwicke, Stephanie Meyer, and the dramatic potential of plastic cutlery.”

The three freshmen reluctantly peeled themselves away, one of them muttering something that definitely sounded like “what just happened,” before disappearing down the hall in a blur of whispers and snack wrappers. As soon as they vanished, Mason turned back to Rowan with the pleased expression of a man who had caused precisely the amount of chaos he intended.

He perched on the edge of the bench like a lounge singer-meets-community theater lead, eyes twinkling. “You know,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table like a drumroll, “I wasn’t going to reveal this until opening night, but you’ve earned a sneak peek of the Wuthering Bites choreography.”

Without waiting for permission—because really, when had that ever stopped him—he popped up to standing and took two exaggerated steps back like he needed space for greatness.

“Okay, imagine this: dim lighting, fog machine on low, tragic piano intro. Then—bam.” He struck a pose, one hand on his chest, the other reaching for the heavens. “Sparkle and Suffer: Requiem for a Vampire’s Soul.”

He twirled once with the energy of a caffeinated figure skater, dropped to his knees with flourish, and mimed biting into a dramatically oversized neck.

“Verse one,” he said between movements, “is interpretive dance meets slow-motion agony. Then the chorus hits—key change, obviously—and that’s when the jazz hands come in. Not subtle jazz hands,” he clarified. “Haunted jazz hands.”

He stood again and wiggled his fingers with eerie flair, then threw in a few awkwardly heartfelt arm flourishes, like someone trying to summon ghosts via ballet.

“Final number? Ballroom-style waltz with a fog machine encore and maybe a disco ball. Tragic, sparkly, transcendent.”

Then he stopped, panting lightly, curls flopping into his eyes, the proudest grin on his face like he’d just delivered a Tony-worthy sneak preview.

He looked at her with all the shameless affection in the world. “You can’t stop me. You already said I could wear the cape.”

And when she just shook her head and rolled her eyes, Mason leaned forward, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and added, “Also, I’m naming the diary Twiblooded. It’s gonna have ribbon bookmarks and emotionally devastating stickers.”

And just like that, the next act was already in motion.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan just stared at him. Like one might stare at a majestic, unhinged bird doing jazz hands in the middle of a library fire drill.

“Okay,” she said, voice perfectly flat, “first of all, I hope you know there’s no coming back from ‘haunted jazz hands.’ That phrase lives in my brain now. Rent-free. With a skylight.”

She held up a finger, dead serious. “Second, if you ever actually waltz through fog with a disco ball while singing about immortal longing, I’m calling the Tony committee myself. They won’t know whether to cry or run.”

But she was smiling. Fighting it, sure—but it was there. That soft, impossible-to-hide smile that said she’d watched every second of his chaos and secretly kind of loved it. Maybe a little too much.

“Also,” she added, crossing her arms and tilting her head, “you’re dangerously close to being banned from using the words ‘Twiblooded’ and ‘emotionally devastating stickers’ in the same sentence. There are laws, Hayes. Federal ones.”

Still, when he flopped back into the seat beside her with that breathless, starry-eyed grin, Rowan didn’t scoot away. She nudged his knee with hers instead.

“And just so you know,” she said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp, “if this musical actually happens, I want executive producer credit, final say on all costumes, and the right to dramatically close the curtain with a single, soul-crushing eye roll.”

She looked at him sideways, expression caught somewhere between affection and disbelief. “God help me, I’m in.”

She reached over and plucked a crumb off his shirt like it was payment for her suffering. “But if you show up to tech rehearsal in glitter eyeliner and say something like ‘the drama lives within me,’ I’m walking.”

Pause.

A smirk.

“Okay, I’ll walk in slow motion. With fog. And a cape.”

Because if Mason was going down in YA-inspired musical flames, Rowan Starling was absolutely going down with him—sparkling, smirking, and unapologetically dramatic.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason looked at her like she’d just handed him a signed contract and a glitter-dipped sword.

“Rowan Starling,” he said reverently, placing a hand over his heart as if she’d just pledged eternal loyalty to the High Court of Theatrical Nonsense, “you have no idea how much joy it brings me to hear you say those words. Executive producer credit? Done. Final say on costumes? Obviously. Curtain control via soul-crushing eye roll? Honestly, how could we not?”

He leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “And for the record, I cannot wait to see you in a cape.” His voice dropped an octave, mock-serious. “You’ll be devastating. Iconic. Probably banned from multiple school assemblies for causing spontaneous swooning.”

Before she could roll her eyes again—or weaponize another cookie crumb—Mason grinned and pressed a quick, giddy kiss to her cheek. Just a brush of warmth, light and easy, but it lingered longer in the space between them than either of them admitted.

“I’ll try to tone down the haunted jazz hands at the next rehearsal,” he said against her temple, though the mischievous curl of his mouth suggested he would do no such thing.

He flopped back with a dramatic sigh, legs stretched too far under the table like a boy who’d just survived the emotional rollercoaster of staging Wuthering Bites: The Musical. “God, I love pretend scenarios we’re definitely never going to do and yet I’m already emotionally invested in.”

Rowan nudged his side with her elbow. “It’s the glitter gel pen diaries. That’s where the real commitment begins.”

He was about to respond—something stupid, probably, about embroidered velvet bookmarks—when the bell rang.

They both froze.

“Oh—crap,” Mason blurted, scrambling for his bag with the same frantic energy of a man late to his own fictional tech rehearsal. “We lost track of time! I blame your face.”

“You always blame my face,” Rowan said, already halfway out of her seat, grabbing her things with well-practiced chaos.

“Because it’s distracting,” he shot back, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as they rushed for the hallway. “You’ve got... main character eyes. It’s a problem.”

“Tell it to the Tony committee, Hayes.”

He laughed—unapologetically, brightly, the sound of a boy who would absolutely stage a YA vampire musical just to make her smile again.

And as they disappeared into the crowd, the last of the pretend glitter still sparkled in the air between them.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s fingers tightened gently around hers as he led her up the final flight of stairs, the metal steps creaking beneath their feet with every careful step. The hallway behind them was already swallowed in shadows—school long since closed, lights turned off except for the occasional glowing EXIT sign casting eerie red halos on the walls.

He paused at the door to the roof, pulling a bobby pin from his pocket. “Don’t ask,” he murmured with a grin she couldn’t see, but that lived in the softness of his voice.

The lock clicked.

He opened it slowly, revealing a narrow slice of the night sky—and then held it open for her like it was some kind of secret.

The air hit them immediately. Cool and crisp, like it had been waiting all day behind that heavy door just to breathe again. A breeze stirred his jacket, and he let go of her hand only long enough to step out, make sure the coast was clear, then turn back with a gesture that said come on—this is for you.

They crossed to the center of the roof, where he’d already laid out the blanket, tucked into the corner near the low brick wall. A thermos sat beside it, still warm, still waiting. He’d gotten here early—skipping dinner, skipping everything—because he’d wanted it to be perfect.

Because she used to draw constellations in the margins of her notebooks, back before the world decided who she was supposed to be.

Because he remembered.

Mason dropped to sit first, legs stretched out, palms bracing behind him as he tilted his head back to the stars. They weren’t brilliant tonight—not the kind of stars you saw in mountain towns with no light pollution—but they were enough. Scattered like freckles across the sky. Real.

The kind of stars you only noticed if you were still long enough.

He patted the space beside him, then looked over—not with a smirk or challenge, just that quiet, open awe he always seemed to wear around her. Like every moment with her was something he didn’t quite know how to hold without trembling a little.

“You know,” he said softly, more to the sky than to her, “I used to wonder if you knew how rare it was. The way you saw things. The way you used to draw maps like the universe was something you could keep in your pocket.”

He exhaled slowly, watching the clouds of his breath disappear into the dark.

“I thought if I could get you up here, maybe it would feel like that again. Like something untouched.”

He reached for the thermos and poured two cups, the steam rising in silver ribbons.

“I’ll shut up now,” he said, placing one near her side. “Just wanted you to see it. The real sky. Not the kind people stare at through filters.”

And then he leaned back again, head tipped toward the heavens, heart full of all the things he didn’t say.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan (https://i.ibb.co/5HzNK1k/F64-A4-B27-CFEC-41-E7-B48-A-45-CC9-EC2-F4-E7.png) didn’t speak right away.

She stood still, just inside the open door, the wind teasing at the edges of her sweater, curls lifting like they recognized the altitude. The rooftop stretched quiet in front of her—just concrete and sky and Mason, looking at the stars like they might give him permission to dream a little louder.

She could’ve made a joke. Could’ve deflected with a sarcastic comment or teased him about the thermos like it wasn’t the softest thing anyone had ever done for her.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a moment for armor.

She crossed the space slowly, boots echoing in the hush between them, and sat down beside him without a word. Close enough that their knees touched. Close enough to feel the heat of the cup before she even reached for it.

The stars weren’t impressive. Not really. They were faint and scattered, dulled by the glow of town lights. But sitting there, her fingers wrapped around something warm, the smell of cinnamon and clove curling in the air between them—it was enough.

More than enough.

Rowan glanced over, watching the way Mason’s profile softened in the dark. How he looked up like he was trying to memorize the map of the sky and not just sit under it. And something in her chest pulled tight. Not in the painful way. In the way that felt like coming home.

“You remembered,” she said quietly.

Not just the notebook. Not just the stars. But her. The version she thought no one had been paying attention to. The girl who used to believe in constellations and signs and secret wishes. The one who still did, sometimes, when it was late and no one was watching.

She took a sip. The cider was perfect.

“You’re such a dork,” she added after a beat, voice soft with affection. “Breaking into the roof and bribing me with nostalgia and warm drinks. What are you trying to do, Hayes?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She just leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing into the space between them like she’d been holding her breath for days.

And the stars?

They didn’t get any brighter.

But somehow, they felt closer.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move at first.

He just let her lean into him, every muscle in his body going soft around the weight of her trust. That tiny exhale against his hoodie? It knocked the wind out of him in the best kind of way. Like she didn’t even know how much that sound meant. Like maybe she didn’t realize she’d just handed him the stars and said: Here. They’re yours now.

He turned his head slightly, enough to rest his cheek against the top of her beanie, letting his eyes close for a beat.

“You really think I’d go to all this trouble just for nostalgia and warm drinks?” he murmured, grinning. “Please. I’m aiming much higher than that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her. The dark, the wind, the stars barely holding their own behind her, and still she outshone them without even trying. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her lashes catching the starlight, and that stupid little pendant she always wore glinted like a secret.

“Okay, listen,” he said, nudging her playfully with his shoulder, “if I was trying to romance you into submission with rooftop cider and softboy theatrics... would it be working?”

He already knew the answer. It was in the way she hadn’t joked. Hadn’t deflected. Had just sat down and let herself be with him—no performance, no mask.

Still, he grinned wider, voice dropping into that mock-serious tone he used when he was both teasing and deadly sincere.

“Because I’ve got a backup plan involving fairy lights, a mixtape, and dramatic monologues under the moonlight if this doesn’t seal the deal.”

He reached over, twining their fingers together—her gloves brushing the edge of his sleeve, familiar now in the way that made his chest ache just a little. Not with doubt. With wonder.

Because it was her.

And he had her.

And this time, he wasn’t the background noise in someone else’s story.

He was the guy on the roof with the girl who used to draw constellations—and right now, that felt like everything.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to.

Not when they were already shoulder to shoulder on the worn blanket Mason had laid out like an offering. The brick wall behind them blocked just enough wind to keep the moment warm, the thermos between them still steaming quietly like it was in on the secret.

Her fingers were tucked beneath his. Gloved. Cold. But steady.

And when he said it—Would it be working?—she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes. She just turned her head against his shoulder, cheek brushing the fabric of his hoodie, and looked at him like the stars weren’t the brightest thing up here after all.

“Okay,” she said, low and dry. “But if you recite a monologue under the moon, I’m heckling. Respectfully. But loudly.”

She squeezed his hand once, then pulled away from his side—but not to leave.

To face him.

She knelt on the blanket, knees sinking into the soft fabric, one hand still in his, the other bracing at his chest. Her eyes searched his face, slow and unguarded, like she was studying something she didn’t want to forget.

And then she kissed him.

Once.

And again.

Then deeper—her free hand sliding up, curling behind his neck to draw him closer, her mouth pressing to his like she meant it. Like she wasn’t just kissing him, but telling him a truth she couldn’t say out loud. Her breath hitched softly, not nervous, just overwhelmed. Present. Wanting.

He met her there, motionless except for the way his fingers tightened around hers. Letting her lead. Letting her choose.

And she did.

She deepened it until he couldn’t breathe straight—until the stars above them blurred and all that existed was this moment, this warmth, this ridiculous boy who saw her, who remembered the constellations she used to sketch in margins and decided she deserved the real sky.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his. Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw.

She was breathless. So was he.

But her smile—God, her smile—was the softest thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re lucky I’m a sucker for emotionally vulnerable theater boys with questionable playlists,” she whispered, her voice still caught in the kiss.

Then she dropped back beside him, cheeks flushed, heart steady.

“Now shut up and stargaze with me,” she said, nudging his boot with hers, “before I fall even harder and pretend it’s the altitude.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason was gone.

Not in a dizzy, clueless kind of way—but in the absolutely wrecked, thank-God-she-can’t-hear-my-heartbeat-right-now kind of way. Because when she kissed him like that—hands on his chest, fingers in his hair, stealing the breath right out of his lungs—he stopped being a person who used words to say things.

He just became hers.

And when she pulled back, all flushed and smug and stunning with her forehead still against his and that little whisper of a smile playing on her lips?

Yeah.

He was never recovering.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just let the moment burn slow and golden, matching the shape of her laugh to the imprint of her mouth on his and thinking, this is the kind of kiss you build a universe around.

Then, finally—finally—he found his voice.

“I mean,” he said, breathless and grinning like an idiot, “questionable playlists? Rude. You loved my dramatic 'rain on prom night' playlist and you know it.”

He flopped back onto the blanket beside her, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still stretched between them just so he could keep their fingers twined. His heart was pounding like it hadn’t caught up with the fact that she’d kissed him first. Again.

God, he loved when she did that.

He tilted his head to glance over at her, hair tousled from her hands, eyes reflecting starlight. “Also, for the record, you just kissed a theater boy so good he forgot his next line. Hope that’s the kind of power you were going for.”

He bumped her shoulder gently with his.

Then, quieter: “I’ll shut up now. But only because you told me to. And because I’d rather fall quietly next to you than miss a second of this.”

And he meant it. Every word.

Because lying on a rooftop in the middle of nowhere, hands locked with Rowan Starling under a sky that didn’t need to sparkle to feel infinite?

That was the best role he’d ever landed.

And for once—it wasn’t a performance.

It was just him.

And her.

And all the space in the world to be exactly who they were.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan’s pulse hadn’t slowed.

Not really.

Not since that kiss—heat flaring beneath her skin, her fingers still tingling from where they’d fisted in the front of his hoodie like he was the only thing keeping her grounded. Which… maybe he was.

She could still taste the cinnamon on his lips. Still feel the way he went perfectly still in that soft, awestruck way he always did when she let her guard down first. No performance. No teasing. Just her. And him. And this stupid perfect rooftop with its chipped mugs and thrift store blanket and the city exhaling beneath them like it knew something they didn’t.

She let her head tip to the side, chin resting lightly against the curve of his shoulder, just so she could watch him.

God, he looked wrecked.

Not in a bad way. In the “she kissed me and now I don’t remember my name” kind of way. Flushed cheeks, dumb grin, hair slightly messy from her hands. Still holding her like it meant something. Like she meant something.

And he didn’t even try to cover it up.

That was the part that got her.

He never tried to make himself smaller, or cooler, or harder to reach. He just let her see it—the full spectrum of softness and sarcasm and stupid little theater boy chaos. And the fact that he looked at her like she was the star in all this?

Yeah.

That ruined her in the best possible way.

She slid her hand over his chest again, this time just to feel the steady beat of his heart under her palm. Let it anchor her. Let it say all the things she wasn’t quite ready to whisper yet.

And then, without looking away, she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear:

“Okay, Hayes. I’ll give you this one. That playlist? Top-tier emotional damage.”

She smirked when she felt his laugh under her hand, but didn’t let up.

“And for the record,” she added, voice softer now, “I kissed you like that because I wanted to. Not because of the cider or the stars or the dramatic monologue you were absolutely building in your head just now.”

A beat.

She tilted her face up toward his, close enough to steal another kiss—but didn’t.

Not yet.

“You’re not a role I’m playing, Mason. You’re… you. And I’m still here.”

She let that truth settle between them, simple and impossible all at once.

Then she curled against him again—one hand on his chest, the other tucked into his.

And for the first time in a long time, Rowan Starling let the quiet feel like a home.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Because there it was—that. That rare, unguarded softness she only ever let slip when the world went still enough to hold it. And it was all his. Not in a possessive way. In the kind of way that said, you’re trusted. You’re seen. You’re wanted.

Her words hit him like a sucker punch and a symphony all at once.

You’re not a role I’m playing.

He let out a slow breath, one hand tracing gentle, aimless lines along her spine as she curled into him. She fit there like she’d always belonged—like his chest had been built for the weight of her head, her heartbeat, her truth.

And God, he didn’t want to move.

But he did want to give her the sky.

“Okay,” he whispered after a long moment, voice low, cheek resting lightly against the crown of her hair, “I’ve got one more idea.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead—just a soft brush of lips and reverence—then nudged her gently, guiding her hand from his chest so he could shift.

Still slow. Still careful.

He tugged her down with him until they were both stretched out on their backs, side by side on the blanket, shoulders brushing, fingers still twined. The city lights painted a faint halo along the edges of the roof, but up above—above, it was all ink and flickers. Messy constellations and stardust smudges. A sky so full of maybe that it felt like a promise.

“There,” he said, his voice warmer now, brighter, like he was smiling with it. “Now we’re properly stargazing.”

He turned his head slightly to look at her—dark curls spilling over the blanket, lashes casting soft shadows across her cheeks. She looked peaceful. Beautiful. Real.

Like the girl from the margins of his memory had stepped out of her doodled constellations and kissed him breathless.

“You know,” he added, quieter now, “every time I used to see you sketching those stars, I wondered what you were looking for.”

He paused, watching the way her fingers shifted in his.

“I think I get it now. You weren’t just mapping the sky. You were trying to find yourself in it.”

His voice dropped to something just above a whisper.

“And maybe… maybe you were drawing your way to me.”

He let the words hang there. Not in a desperate way. Not in a please say it back way.

Just in that soft Mason Hayes way—the kind that offered truth like a gift, not a demand.

Then he looked back up at the sky and squeezed her hand once, like a vow he didn’t have to speak.

Because she was still here.

And so was he.

And that? That was everything.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak at first.

She just let the silence stretch—comfortable, grounding—as their fingers stayed threaded between them and the night unfolded above. Mason’s words sat gently in her chest, like warmth settling into old ache. And she let them.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

She had been looking for something. Sketching constellations, tracing lines between stars like maybe if she could name them all, she’d figure out what part of the sky she belonged to.

And now?

Now he was here. Not asking her to be anything but herself. Just… seeing her.

She turned her head slightly, cheek brushing against the blanket as she looked at him.

“I think I was trying to chart a version of the world that felt safe,” she said quietly. “One that didn’t shift every time I let my guard down.”

She paused, watching the soft rise of his chest beside her, the way his mouth curved even when he wasn’t quite smiling.

“And then you showed up. And you didn’t ask me to explain everything. You just… stayed. Asked questions. Waited. Made the quiet feel like it had space in it.”

Her thumb moved lightly across the back of his hand.

“I wasn’t trying to find you. But I think I was hoping someone like you existed.”

She didn’t look away. Not this time.

“And yeah,” she added, voice even softer, “maybe I was drawing my way to this. To you.”

She shifted closer until their shoulders touched again, steady and sure, then turned her gaze back up to the sky. The stars weren’t perfect. The city lights muddied the view. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

She had everything she needed, right here.

“Still,” she murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, “I think this view’s better now.”

She didn’t kiss him right away.

She just held his hand like a promise.

And for once, the map she used to keep in the margins didn’t matter.

Because she wasn’t looking for a way out anymore.

She was home.

Here’s the continuation, keeping the tone grounded in intimacy and trust—quiet, reverent, and fully in Rowan’s

She wasn’t looking at the sky anymore.

Not really.

Not when he was this close. Not when his hand was warm in hers and his words still echoed like something ancient and true.

Rowan shifted again—just enough to face him fully, to take in the soft slope of his profile, the way his eyes still held the stars even when he wasn’t looking up. Her heart beat steady in her chest. Not frantic. Not afraid. Just… certain.

She leaned in.

Slow. Intentional. No rush, no games. Her fingers let go of his, only so she could brace herself gently against the edge of his hoodie. She kissed him—full, quiet, real—like the moment had been waiting for them to catch up to it.

And when he kissed her back, she deepened it.

Not because she needed more, but because he was safe to want more with.

Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of his hoodie—hesitant at first, then certain. Palm pressed against the warm fabric of his t-shirt, just over his ribs. Not to pull him closer. Just to feel. Just to be there, tethered to the heartbeat that always found rhythm with hers.

He exhaled into her mouth, and she felt it—every unspoken thing passing between them.

When they finally parted, breath shallow, she didn’t pull away.

She stayed close, forehead to his, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re it, Mason,” she whispered.

Like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s heart stuttered.

Not from surprise. Not even from the weight of her words—though God, if they didn’t hit like gravity finally making sense. No, it stuttered because of the way she said it. Like a secret she’d been guarding with both hands and finally decided to let him hold.

You’re it, Mason.

He closed his eyes, forehead pressed to hers, and let the world narrow to the space between them. Her breath. Her pulse. The faint scent of cinnamon and cold air caught in her hair.

And then he smiled.

Not the cocky, I-just-got-the-girl kind of grin. No, this one was quieter. Realer. Like he’d just remembered how to breathe through the wonder of being loved exactly as he was.

“I’ve been waiting years to hear you say that,” he murmured, voice barely audible, like it didn’t belong to the night so much as it belonged to her.

A pause.

Then he shifted just slightly, one arm curling under her as he guided her head to his chest—easing them both back down onto the blanket until she was tucked into his side, exactly where she fit. He looked up at the sky again, the stars blurry from proximity and emotion, and huffed a soft breath of laughter.

“Okay… so don’t freak out,” he said, heartbeat a little faster now, not from nerves but from the thrill of telling her this part—of finally sharing it, like a secret he’d kept tucked close to his ribs.

“But I’ve had something of yours in my wallet since sophomore year.”

He waited.

Then, slowly, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, careful not to jostle her too much. His fingers found the worn edges of an old, folded scrap of paper—the corners curled, the ink faint in places. He held it out for her to see, resting it against the space between them.

One of her constellation doodles.

A small, hand-drawn sky, stars connected by faint lines in that slightly messy, fiercely intentional way she always sketched when she didn’t think anyone was watching. There were notes in the margin. Half a quote. A name of a star misspelled. And still—perfect.

“You dropped it after Mr. Halpern’s class. I don’t think you even noticed. But I did.”

His thumb brushed over the paper with the kind of reverence most people reserved for things sacred.

“And I kept it. Not because I was being creepy or anything,” he added with a sheepish laugh, “but because I remember thinking… this? This is someone worth finding.”

He turned his head toward her, voice going softer again.

“And now you’re here. So, yeah. That view up there?”

He tilted his chin toward the sky.

“It’s fine. But this—” his hand slid back into hers “—this is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

And for once, Mason Hayes—soft-spoken, stage-strong, secret-keeper—didn’t need the stars to make a wish.

Because the girl who used to write them into the margins?

She was here.

She was real.

And she’d just called him it.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

She just stared at the constellation in his hands—her constellation. Ink faded, paper bent, familiar stars mapped by a version of her who hadn’t known she was being seen.

And he’d kept it.

Since sophomore year.

Her heart cracked open, slow and quiet. Not from pain. From all the softness that didn’t know where to go until now.

She reached for the paper gently, like it might dissolve if she touched it too hard, and traced her fingertip over the crooked little star in the corner. The one she’d drawn too big. The one she’d meant to be the anchor.

Rowan swallowed, then tucked the paper between their joined hands.

“You kept this,” she said softly. “And I thought I was the sentimental one.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not really.

Because somehow, she’d always believed she loved harder. Quieter, yes, but harder. Like she had to hold on to every version of him she’d ever known, even the ones who didn’t know how to look at her yet.

But this?

This meant he’d been holding on just as long.

She leaned in again, hands on either side of his face, and kissed him like she was sure. Like her whole body understood something her mind had only just caught up to. Her fingers slipped back under his hoodie, flat against his chest, over the heart that had never stopped choosing her.

It was slower this time.

Deeper.

Not rushed or frantic or cinematic.

Just real.

When she finally pulled back, lips barely apart from his, she said it again—but softer this time. A truth, not a declaration.

“You’re it.”

And then she lay her head on his chest, tucked beneath his arm, and let the sky disappear.

Because she didn’t need it anymore.

She’d already found her way home.

[Mason Hayes]

“You can’t just say stuff like that,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges. “Not when you’re touching me like that. I’m one compliment away from full emotional combustion.”

His fingers found the hem of her sweater and toyed with the edge—not pushing, not teasing. Just anchoring. Just feeling.

“Seriously,” he added, tone still warm but thick with affection. “You say ‘you’re it’ one more time and I’m going to lose all ability to function as a human being. Like—I’ll just short-circuit. Drooling. Useless. You’ll have to carry me down the stairs and explain to the janitor why your boyfriend’s brain melted from excessive praise.”

A pause.

Then a breathless, quieter confession:

“But I love it. The way you say it. Like it’s always been true.”

He let that settle between them. The weight of his body grounding hers, the heat between them less about lust and more about the way desire and devotion could coexist. How wanting her didn’t cheapen the way he loved her—it amplified it.

Because yeah, he was hot and bothered.

But more than that?

He was hers.

“Might be worth it though,” he added with a grin she could feel against her hair. “Just to hear you say it again.”

Then, softer:

“Say it in the morning. Say it when I’m annoying. Say it when I mess up.”

His thumb brushed along her spine. Steady. Honest.

“Because if I’m it for you?”

He exhaled.

“Then I’m already everything I ever wanted to be.”

And with that, Mason Hayes shut up.

For once.

Because she was tucked into his side like she was made to fit there, and the world could keep spinning without another word.

He already had the only one he needed.

It.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt his words like warmth under her skin—radiant, impossible not to sink into. He always did that. Disarmed her with humor, then hit her with something so achingly sincere it left her breathless.

She traced a lazy circle just above his waistband, then rested her palm flat over his heartbeat.

“Don’t combust,” she whispered, tone dry but lips curved. “There’s one more thing I need you alive for.”

A pause.

Then she looked up—no smirk, no sarcasm. Just her. Just real.

“I love you, Mason.”

No crescendo. No drumroll.

Just the truth. Unvarnished. Undeniable.

She said it like she’d been holding it for a while. Like it had lived beneath her ribcage for months, growing quiet roots every time he smiled at her like that, every time he saw her without flinching.

And now?

She was done keeping it to herself.

Her thumb brushed his jaw, soft and steady.

“I love you,” she said again, like she wanted him to memorize it.

Like she already had.

Her words hung in the space between them like starlight—small, soft, impossible to ignore. She didn’t rush to fill the silence. She didn’t need to. Saying I love you wasn’t a panic button, wasn’t a test. It was a release.

A vow.

Rowan didn’t look away from him. She watched the way the air shifted around his expression, how the usual flicker of a comeback didn’t quite make it to his mouth this time. For once, he wasn’t teasing. He was still. Uncharacteristically still.

And she knew—she knew—he felt it too.

Her chest ached in that full, weightless kind of way. Like everything inside her was stretching to make room for how much she meant it. How long she’d meant it. How terrified and sure she was all at once.

She dipped her head slightly, resting her forehead against his. Their noses brushed. Her fingers laced behind his neck.

“Just so we’re clear,” she whispered, breath tickling the air between them, “this isn’t conditional. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to win it.”

She closed her eyes.

“You just have it.”

His pulse was steady beneath her hands, and God, she hoped he knew what that meant. That she didn’t give this lightly. That loving him—this soft, sarcastic, Shakespeare-quoting chaos of a boy—wasn’t a plot twist. It was inevitability.

She tilted her chin, kissed him once—deliberate, slow, not asking for anything in return.

Just giving.

Just offering.

And when she pulled back, her voice was steadier than she expected.

“I love you,” she said one last time, like a truth and a promise and a challenge, all wrapped into one.

Then she smiled against his mouth.

“Now please don’t combust. I really like this hoodie.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason Hayes had never been rendered speechless.

Not really. Not in the way that counted.

Sure, he’d missed a line once or twice on stage—had gone blank during a quiz, gotten flustered during a pop presentation. But this? This was a different kind of blank. Not empty. Not panicked.

Overwhelmed.

Like his brain short-circuited at the exact second his heart decided to go off-script.

I love you, Mason.

Once, and it cracked something open.

Twice, and he swore his ribs would never close the same way again.

Three times—and he was gone.

Somewhere between the brush of her thumb on his jaw and the kiss that wasn’t asking for anything—he realized she’d just given him everything. And he was supposed to say something. Anything.

But how the hell did you respond when the girl you’d been quietly orbiting for years looked at you like a galaxy she’d chosen to stop chasing?

Say something, his mind begged.

Say something, you idiot. She just handed you the stars.

His throat worked, but no sound came.

She was still so close. Her fingers behind his neck, the warmth of her breath brushing his cheek, the steady weight of her love settling into every part of him he hadn’t known was starving for it.

And God, she meant it.

Not because she had to.

Not because he earned it with rooftop cider and mixtapes and jokes he barely believed she laughed at.

But because she saw him. And still chose him.

His voice finally broke free—shaky, rough around the edges, but real. So real.

“I love you too.”

He exhaled, a little breathless. A little stunned. Like he couldn’t believe he got to say it back and mean it this much.

“I love you, Rowan.”

He swallowed hard, then let out a crooked laugh against her temple.

“And how—how—am I supposed to not combust after you say that out loud three times like some gorgeous emotional summoning spell?”

He tilted his head, forehead against hers, and grinned through the chaos blooming in his chest.

“You basically just looked me dead in the soul and said ‘boom,’ Starling.”

His arms tightened around her instinctively, as if afraid she might vanish now that the words were out in the world.

“But, uh…”

He cleared his throat, eyes darting to her lips, then away again like even looking at her might set him off.

“You should know that every time you say I love you, my brain stops working and my body starts considering very non-wholesome activities that would absolutely get us kicked off this roof.”

His smile turned shameless. Flushed and giddy and completely wrecked by her.

“I mean—I’m trying to be the sweet, respectful boyfriend here, but you keep saying things like that and suddenly I’m picturing a very dramatic slow burn version of us making out until sunrise.”

A beat.

“Which I won’t initiate,” he added quickly, holding up one hand in mock surrender, “unless you do. In which case, I’ll go down in history as the most enthusiastically combusted boyfriend of all time.”

He looked at her again—really looked.

And all the joking melted into something quieter. More reverent.

“I love you,” he said once more, softer this time. A secret just for her. “You’re not getting that one back.”

Then, with her tucked against him again, he pulled the blanket higher around them, heart still pounding like it hadn’t caught up to the moment yet.

Because she loved him.

Because he’d said it back.

Because somehow, against every odd, every reputation, every shadow they’d both lived in—

They’d found their way to this rooftop.

And to each other.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t laugh.

She should’ve. He’d teed it up perfectly—dramatic flailing, heartfelt sarcasm, the kind of ramble only Mason could deliver with flushed cheeks and absolute sincerity. But she didn’t.

Because something about the way he said I love you—like it unraveled him just a little—made her want to gather him up and never let go.

So instead of laughing, she kissed him.

Slow. Intentional. Not to make him breathless, but to answer him in a language she’d always trusted more than words. Her hand slid under his hoodie, fingers brushing the warmth of his side, and she leaned in like the space between them had always been a myth.

“I don’t want it back,” she murmured, lips grazing his as she spoke. “You said it. It’s mine now.”

She pressed her forehead to his, breathing him in—cinnamon and cold air and everything steady.

“And you,” she added, quieter now, like it was the secret she hadn’t known how to say until this second, “you’re it for me too.”

Her thumb traced along his jaw, then dropped to the edge of his hoodie again, just to feel the rhythm of him beneath her palm. Not frantic. Not overwhelmed.

Just here. With her.

“You talk a big game,” she whispered, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back again. “But you should know… I fully intend to kiss you until the stars forget how to shine.”

And then she did.

Not hurried. Not careful.

Just real.

Like love when it stops being a story and starts being the truth.

Rowan leaned in again—closer, slower—one hand slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie like it belonged there, fingers splayed across the warm curve of his back. Her other hand moved to his jaw, steady and sure, guiding him to her like gravity had always meant for them to meet right here.

And then she kissed him.

Not soft. Not testing.

Deep.

Like the kind of kiss that rewrites timelines. That says I love you with no air left for doubt.

He made a sound—half breath, half surrender—and her fingers curled tighter against his side, anchoring them to the moment, to the rooftop, to each other.

The stars blurred behind her closed eyes. The night hushed.

All she could feel was him.

Mason, kissing her back like he’d waited a thousand lifetimes. Mason, warm and solid beneath her hands. Mason, hers.

When she finally pulled back—barely, just enough to breathe—she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested against his again, noses brushing, breath shared.

“I meant it,” she whispered, voice thick. “Every word.”

And then she kissed him again.

Because once wasn’t enough. Because when it was this real, this right, this wreck-you-slow kind of love—how could it ever be?

She kissed him until the cold didn’t matter. Until her hands stopped shaking. Until she knew he felt it too.

That this wasn’t a scene.

This was them.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason kissed her back like his life had been leading up to this exact moment—like he’d spent the last few years collecting every piece of himself just so he could give it to her now, all at once, with no take-backs and no fear.

And God, she was kissing him.

Not just the quick, flirty kind she threw at him in the parking lot when she thought no one was looking. This was something else. Something that made his pulse stutter and his brain go no thoughts, just Rowan. Her fingers beneath his hoodie were warm and reverent, like she wasn’t just touching skin—she was touching him, the parts of him that had waited, quietly, for someone to see.

His body reacted instantly, drawn to her in a way that wasn’t new, but never stopped feeling electric. He wanted her—of course he did. He always had. But this time, it wasn’t about tension or temptation. It was about knowing. About love. About the way she was laying herself bare for him, and how every inch of his soul ached to hold her right there and never let her forget how wanted she was.

And still…

He was a gentleman first.

Even if she kissed like she was rewriting the constellations just to make room for them.

Her breath was still ghosting his lips when he smiled—messy, overwhelmed, so in love. His voice was low when he finally spoke, laced with longing and reverence.

“You can’t say things like that to me,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “I already told you, I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

He kissed her again—slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that asked permission even as it answered yes. His hands slid to her waist, holding her gently, firmly, grounding them both. Then one hand slipped up her back, fingers brushing under the hem of her sweater, just barely.

Not demanding. Not pushing.

Just asking.

Because as much as he wanted her—God, did he want her—he wanted her to know she never had to give more than she wanted. That he’d still be here. Still hers. Whether they kissed until the sky fell or stopped right here and just held on.

His lips lingered against hers, and he whispered it like a vow:

“I love you.”

Again.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Because he couldn’t.

And when he pulled back—forehead pressed to hers, eyes fluttering open just enough to drink her in—he said, softly:

“Tell me what you want, Starling. Because whatever it is… I’m already in.”

He didn’t say it to impress her.

He said it like it was fact. Like her name had always been written into the fine print of his heartbeat, and now he was just handing her the pen.

But when she didn’t answer right away—when she just stayed there, curled into him, lips parted, breath warm—he smiled. Slow. Crooked. A little breathless.

“No pressure,” he added, thumb brushing just beneath her lip. “But if you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna start believing the stars came out tonight just to watch us.”

His grin softened into something quieter. More reverent.

“You wreck me, you know that?”

He looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

And then he pulled her closer—just enough to hold her the way she deserved to be held. Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like every version of her was safe with him.

And he didn’t need the night to go further. Didn’t need the kiss to deepen.

Not unless she wanted it.

Because this—her heartbeat against his, the weight of her love spoken aloud, her hands tangled in him like he was something worth holding onto—this was already everything.

And Mason Hayes?

Yeah.

He was hers.

Fully.

Finally.

And without a single doubt.

[Rowan Starling]

She didn’t rush.

Rowan just breathed for a second—really breathed, like she’d forgotten how until this exact moment. Until the weight of Mason’s words settled into her ribs, quiet and anchoring and real. He loved her. He loved her. And somehow, that didn’t feel like a shock.

It felt like gravity finally telling the truth.

So she leaned in. Pressed her mouth to his again—slow, purposeful. No teasing this time. No sarcasm to deflect how much she meant it. Just her, kissing him like a thank you. Like a promise. Like every “I love you” she hadn’t said yet was stitched into the shape of her mouth against his.

Her gloves were still on. She felt the fabric between them. A barrier. Too much.

She pulled away gently, slid both gloves off without a word, and dropped them to the edge of the blanket. Her fingers were cold, but she didn’t care. She touched his jaw, his cheek, the side of his neck—soft, steady, reverent. And when she felt him lean into it, when his breath caught just slightly in his throat, she moved closer.

Rowan let her hand slip beneath the hem of his hoodie—just enough to feel the warmth of him. The rise and fall of his breathing. Her palm pressed flat against his stomach, and her heart stuttered when she felt how hard it was beating.

Not from nerves.

From this. From her.

She didn’t go further.

Didn’t need to.

Because right now, it wasn’t about what came next. It wasn’t about where it led.

It was about here.

About the stars above them. The blanket beneath them. The way his hand covered hers like he was afraid to let her go.

Rowan rested her forehead against his and whispered, “You’re it for me, too.”

Then she kissed him again, deeper this time, slower—like she was trying to memorize the shape of his breath. And maybe she was. Maybe that was the point.

Because she loved him.

And tonight?

She wanted him to feel it in every single way she knew.

Rowan shifted closer, letting the thick wool of her sweater stretch as she leaned in, her hand pressed flat beneath the hem of his hoodie, against the warm rhythm of his chest. It was steady. Solid. Real. And it grounded her more than the brick at her back or the blanket beneath her knees ever could.

The rooftop was cold, but she wasn’t. Not like that. Not with this—his arm at her back, the weight of him beside her, the way his breath hitched when her fingers brushed his skin like a secret. Like she’d unlocked something she hadn’t meant to, but wouldn’t give back now that it was hers.

She kissed him again, slower this time.

Not out of hesitation. Out of purpose.

There was no audience here. No lights. Just city noise humming beneath them, distant and unbothered. And her, learning the shape of his mouth like it might tell her something about the kind of boy who brings cider to rooftops and remembers the drawings you forgot you ever gave.

Her sweater caught slightly against his as she shifted—knees tucked under her, one hand still resting against the heat of his side. Her other hand found his hair, fingertips threading lightly through the curls at his neck. He tilted toward her, instinctive, open, and she felt it all at once: the want, the care, the quiet reverence of being chosen and choosing in return.

When she finally broke the kiss, she stayed close.

Let her forehead rest against his. Let her breath settle. Let the world go blurry at the edges, like maybe the stars had tilted a little just to make space for this.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She just let her fingers trace lazy, silent shapes across his stomach—small, grounding motions that said I’m still here. That said this matters. That said everything.

Because it did.

Because he did.

Because for once, she wasn’t chasing calm in books or margins or constellations.

She’d found it.

Right here.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason was still trying to breathe like a functional human being.

Which, frankly, was a challenge when Rowan Starling was looking at him like that and touching him like this and kissing him like every inch of air between them was negotiable.

Her hand on his stomach wasn’t even doing anything wild—just resting there, warm and grounding—but his entire nervous system had basically filed for early retirement.

And her fingers? Drawing those slow, lazy shapes? Yeah. That was it. He was toast.

“This is dangerous,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Rowan pulled back just enough to blink at him, brows drawn in a soft frown. Not worried. Just curious.

He took a breath, eyes wide with mock-gravity. “You touching me like that while I’m trying to have an emotionally grounded rooftop moment? That’s, like, a violation of genre rules.”

She stared at him. He powered through.

“I mean, where’s the slow dissolve? The fade to black? The—hell, I don’t know—a musical number to transition us gently into the next act?”

That finally earned him a laugh. Not a loud one—just a breath, just a smile—but God, it lit her face like a second moon.

Mason’s grin softened, and he reached up to brush a curl behind her ear.

“Not saying stop,” he added, voice dropping low, the warmth curling around every syllable. His palm skimmed along her back, under the sweater now, fingertips reverent as they settled at her waist. “Just saying if you don’t stop, I’m about thirty seconds from spontaneous combustion—and it’s gonna be on theme.”

She smirked at that—slow, knowing—and he couldn’t help it. He kissed her again, quick this time, then slower, then all in.

Because yeah, he was flirting. Yeah, he was teasing.

But underneath it?

He was wrecked.

By her. For her. Because of her.

And if she really wanted to kiss him until the stars forgot how to shine?

He’d let the whole damn sky go dark.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan could still feel the shape of his laugh against her mouth.

He’d said something ridiculous—of course he had—and part of her wanted to roll her eyes, call him a menace, maybe shove him lightly just for being too good at this. But the other part, the louder one, the one that didn’t flinch anymore when things got real?

That part wanted to memorize everything.

The way his breath hitched when her fingers brushed skin. The way his eyes flicked to her lips like they were magnetic. The way he let her in—completely, fearlessly—even when he was joking about spontaneous combustion.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Instead, she shifted closer, straddling the line between control and surrender like it was a balance beam made of velvet and stars. Her sweater bunched slightly at the wrists as she leaned in again, palms flat against his chest now, slow and certain.

She kissed him quiet.

Not to hush him, not really.

Just to prove she could.

And maybe a little to see if that grin of his would curl against her lips the way it always did—like she was his favorite surprise.

Her fingers moved on instinct, not rushed, not planned—just curious. The way his heart jumped under her touch made hers do the same. She slid one hand beneath the hem of his hoodie again, not for heat, not even for closeness, but because it felt right. Because he felt like hers.

And when she pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, breathless, eyes so full of light it hurt—she smiled.

“I like you like this,” she whispered, voice barely there. “Completely undone. All mine.”

Then she pressed a kiss to his cheek, then another near the edge of his jaw, and finally rested her head against his shoulder, her arms wrapping loosely around his middle.

She didn’t need more than this.

The quiet. The closeness. The promise humming between them like a favorite line in a book she already knew by heart.

He made her feel like a story worth telling.

And tonight?

She wasn’t scared of the ending.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason had no idea how his heart was still functioning.

Because this—her—was the kind of magic that rewired a person. She’d kissed him into stillness, touched him into reverence, and now she was curled against his chest like that was where she’d always belonged.

And maybe she had.

He looked down at her, at the crown of her head tucked beneath his chin, and wondered—really wondered—if he’d ever stop feeling like this. Like every molecule in his body had been rewired to respond to her voice, her smile, her heartbeat pressed against his ribs like it belonged there.

Probably not.

Honestly, hopefully not.

Because Rowan Starling had just told him—shown him—that he was hers. That she loved him. That he didn’t have to earn it or chase it or prove it.

And Mason? He’d been in love with her for so long that sometimes he forgot it wasn’t obvious. Forgot that it wasn’t tattooed across his forehead or stitched into the cuffs of his sleeves. But now it didn’t have to be hidden. Now she knew.

Now she was here.

“I don’t think I’m ever coming back down,” he whispered, more to himself than her, voice thick with awe and something breathless. “Like, this is it. I’m a rooftop boy now. My address is your shoulder.”

He felt her laugh against him—soft and warm and silent—and he smiled so wide it ached.

His hand slid beneath the edge of her sweater, palm resting flat against the small of her back, fingers splayed like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t hold on with both heart and body. But he didn’t push. Didn’t take.

He just held.

Because this wasn’t about hunger—it was about home.

“You wreck me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “You actually wreck me.”

A beat passed. Two.

Then, playfully, softly, “But also? That whole ‘completely undone, all mine’ thing? Yeah. Um. Gonna need you to be really careful saying stuff like that, because I will turn into a puddle. An actual, romantic soup. Right here. On this roof.”

He felt her arms squeeze tighter around him.

And in that moment—wrapped in a blanket that smelled like thrift store laundry and cider steam, her heartbeat tucked into his, their breath mingling with the sky—Mason Hayes knew one thing for sure:

He had won the girl of his dreams.

And there wasn’t a single version of the future where he didn’t wake up every day stunned and stupidly, gloriously grateful that she was real.

And his.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak.

She couldn’t—not with the way her throat ached, full of everything she wanted to say and none of the words to shape it. So instead, she shifted, just slightly, curling tighter into him. Her fingers slid beneath the hem of his hoodie again, tracing that familiar curve of his back, the one she’d memorized without even realizing it.

He was rambling, in that Mason way—soft and sincere and completely overwhelmed—and every word made something inside her splinter and knit itself back together stronger.

Romantic soup. Rooftop boy. Her shoulder as an address.

God.

She could feel his heartbeat against her palm. Steady, uneven, real. Like her name lived there now.

And when he said she wrecked him—said it like a confession, like a miracle—she felt something in her chest stretch wide open.

Because she knew what it was to be wrecked. She’d spent years learning how to rebuild herself from the rubble. But this? This wasn’t destruction. This was surrender. Quiet. Certain.

She pulled back just enough to look at him—just enough to see the way the moonlight curved along his jaw, how his lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks, how wrecked could also mean wonder.

Then she leaned in.

Pressed her lips to his, slow and deep, like a vow she wasn’t afraid to speak with her body instead of her voice. She kissed him like he was the only real thing in the world. Like every breath she had left was meant for him.

And when she finally pulled away, eyes searching his, she didn’t say I love you again.

She didn’t need to.

It was in her smile.

In the way she cradled the back of his neck.

In the way she whispered, “I think I want to live on this roof with you.”

A pause.

Then, teasing, soft: “You can do the dishes. I’ll handle constellation duty.”

And she rested her head against his chest again, let the sky unfold above them, and held on. Not because she was afraid he’d disappear.

But because she finally believed he wouldn’t.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh, a sigh, and a dear God, this is my life now kind of swoon.

“You want to live on the roof with me?” he repeated, mock-scandalized, though his voice had that wrecked-lovingly-soft tone again. “Starling, we’ve only been fake-residents of this blanket fort for, like, an hour. You’re already talking long-term real estate?”

He gave a dramatic exhale, one hand lifting theatrically toward the stars above. “This is moving so fast. I didn’t even get to finish my emotional meltdown arc before you started assigning chores.”

But his other arm? The one not being obnoxious for effect? It curled tighter around her.

Because yeah, she was joking. And yeah, so was he.

But also?

He’d build her a rooftop house out of thrift store blankets and cider mugs and constellation maps if she asked. No questions. No hesitation. Just when do we start.

“And okay, fine,” he murmured, resting his chin lightly against her head, voice softening as it always did when she stopped him mid-spiral with a kiss. “You do constellation duty. I’ll handle dishes. But only if we agree on a star system where you’re the sun and I just rotate around you doing romantic errands and emotionally significant monologues.”

He felt her laugh, quiet and warm against his chest, and smiled like a boy who absolutely knew he was in too deep and liked it that way.

“Maybe we can grow basil up here. Like little rooftop garden vibes. We’ll name the plants after tragic literary characters and pretend we’re emotionally stable.”

A pause.

“Also, not to make this weird—but if you live up here with me, I am gonna need to kiss you like five hundred more times. Minimum. Per day. That’s just, like, rooftop policy. I don’t make the rules.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to kiss her temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

Then he said it again—low, fond, and utterly sincere.

“I love you, star girl.”

And in the stillness that followed, with her heart pressed to his and her body molded perfectly to his side, Mason Hayes decided something he already kinda knew:

There was no version of reality—no multiverse, no alternate timeline—where he’d ever stop being stupidly, head-over-heels in love with her.

Or this night.

Or the way she made him feel like he didn’t just belong somewhere.

He belonged with her.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer with words.

She just looked at him—looked—like he was some constellation she’d found in the dark and decided to memorize. Her fingers traced lazy shapes against his stomach, slow and thoughtful, then slipped a little lower, finding the edge of his hoodie again. She pushed it up this time—barely enough to press her palm to warm skin. To feel the steady thrum of his heart beneath her hand.

Mason’s breath hitched.

Not dramatically. Not for show. It's just a small, honest break in rhythm, like she’d touched something more than skin.

Rowan leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, slow and deliberate. Her other hand slid along his side, fingertips hooking just slightly in the waistband of his jeans—not demanding, not pulling, just resting there—a question written in touch, not pressure.

And she waited.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to. Because this was about being chosen, not chased.

When he didn’t move away—when his body stayed open, his hands still gentle on her back—she kissed him again. Deeper. Quieter. Like a promise stitched into silence.

And then she whispered against his lips, soft and sure: “You said five hundred kisses a day, right?”

Because she wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Rowan‘s hand moved lower. She grinned against his lips as she felt how firm he already was. Rowan was pleased that she didn't have to do any work. He was already ready for her. She pulled away from his lips, “When I do the next part, I need you not to combust, okay?” Her fingers tangled in his hair as she tried to prepare him before moving from his arms and settling herself between Mason’s legs.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s heart was no longer beating in his chest.

It was somewhere in his throat. Or maybe in her hands. Maybe both.

Because Rowan Starling was choosing him—with her hands, her lips, her body, her breath—and he felt it in every atom. She wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t testing. She was just here. Present. Real. Letting him feel all of it—her weight, her warmth, her want—and letting him be the one she trusted with it.

His breath caught again when her palm pressed lower, a full-body stutter that said more than words ever could. She grinned against his mouth, smug and golden and so goddamn beautiful it made his head spin.

“When I do the next part, I need you not to combust, okay?”

He choked on a laugh. “No promises,” he whispered, voice rough with affection and awe. “But I’ll die happy.”

And then she was shifting—leaving his arms, settling between his legs, every motion deliberate and unhurried like they had all the time in the world.

Which maybe they did.

Because this wasn’t about rush or release.

This was about her.

About him.

About the kind of love that didn’t ask to be earned, only accepted. Held. Answered.

His hand reached for hers, threading their fingers together before she could go any further—just for a second. Just long enough for her to look up at him and see it.

The wonder.

The reverence.

The silent, breathless thank you that lived somewhere behind his ribs and had been waiting for a night like this.

“I love you,” he said again, softer than breath, steadier than stars.

Then he let go.

[Rowan Starling]

When he finished, Rowan swallowed without hesitation. She also didn’t move right away.

She just stayed there, perched between his legs, sweater sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed, heart pounding with something that wasn’t nerves—just quiet satisfaction and maybe a little awe. Her fingers rested lightly on his chest, steadying herself more than him, though honestly? He looked like the one who needed grounding.

His eyes were open, sure. But barely.

Staring somewhere past her, up at the stars like they’d just given him a vision.

She tilted her head. Smirked. Let her thumb trace a lazy circle through the cotton of his hoodie.

Then, dry as dust, voice barely above a whisper:

“So. Do I need to check for a pulse, or…?”

No response.

She huffed a laugh through her nose, leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tap twice if you’re still alive, Hayes.”

Still nothing—at least not immediately. But his chest rose again, a little sharper now, like maybe breath was coming back in pieces. She grinned.

“Okay,” she murmured, settling back on her heels with a mock-thoughtful nod. “He lives. But barely. Gonna have to add ‘emotional CPR’ to my list of talents.”

And then—because she could, and because he hadn’t combusted yet—she leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth. A promise, a tease, a thank you.

“Recover at your own pace, drama boy,” she whispered. “I’ll be right here.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason had heard her.

He just couldn't respond yet. Not when his brain had turned into soft static and his body was still somewhere in the stratosphere. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak—it was that language had temporarily left the building.

Rowan Starling had rendered him nonverbal.

Not with some flashy performance. Not with a grand gesture.

But with intention. With care. With the kind of quiet that left marks deeper than noise ever could.

So yeah, when she teased him—“Tap twice if you’re still alive, Hayes”—he was aware. He just couldn't move yet. Not until his heart decided to stop skipping like a record stuck on this is the best moment of my life.

But then she kissed him again. Soft. Precise. Right at the corner of his mouth.

And that?

That broke the spell.

He blinked. Finally. Then breathed. And then—

“Oh my God,” he croaked, voice wrecked and hoarse and utterly full of wonder. “I have seen the face of heaven, and her name is Rowan Starling.”

His eyes fluttered toward her—barely able to focus, grin lopsided, flushed to hell and back. “I’m not even being dramatic. I mean, I am, but I’m also being scientifically accurate. I just briefly left my mortal form.”

He shifted just enough to sit up straighter—slow, careful, like his limbs were still reacquainting themselves with Earth’s gravity. One hand found her waist, then her cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of her flushed skin like he had to make sure she was real.

“You,” he said, voice steadier now, still breathless but grounded, “are dangerous. I need you to know that. Like... top-tier weaponized affection.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her jaw—each touch slow, reverent, like his thank-you had turned into a liturgy.

“And also, for the record?” he murmured against her skin. “You just gave me a memory I’m going to think about every day until I’m ancient and annoying and probably still wearing this hoodie.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her again.

Fully.

And that grin—his real one, the one that curled just at the corner and made his eyes go all soft and shiny—broke across his face like the night had shifted just for them.

“I’m in so deep, Starling. Like, astronomically deep. Like, if loving you were a planet, I’d need a telescope and a crash course in astrophysics just to explain it.”

A beat.

“And yes, you absolutely get CPR privileges now. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. Legally. I'm filing the paperwork.”

Then, with a quiet laugh that melted back into awe, he pulled her gently back into his arms, tucking her against his chest like she was something rare and warm and his.

Because she was.

And Mason Hayes?

Yeah.

He was gone.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak at first.

She couldn’t.

Because Mason Hayes had just said the kind of things you’re not supposed to get in real life. The kind of things that usually live in the margins of old books or in the lyrics of songs you never admit make you cry.

And he’d said them to her.

Not some dream girl. Not some curated version of who she thought she had to be.

Her.

She tucked her chin against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie—God, his hoodie—and let herself breathe it all in. The warmth of him. The tremble that still hadn’t fully left his body. The smell of cider and sky and something distinctly Mason.

He really was gone. And he really was hers.

“I think,” she said after a long, quiet moment, voice rough in that just-kissed kind of way, “if I ever had to write down the definition of ‘safe,’ it would just be this.”

Her hand slid up to his heart, slow and reverent, resting over it like maybe she could memorize the rhythm.

“You,” she added, even quieter.

She didn’t say much more after that. Didn’t need to.

Because the way she curled into him said everything.

I love you.

I trust you.

I’m not going anywhere.

And maybe—just maybe—the sky had rearranged itself for them tonight.

Because she wasn’t looking at stars anymore.

She was looking at him.

She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her palm, strong and steady, like it had nothing to hide.

Like it had been waiting for this—for her.

And it terrified her, how much she wanted to stay in this moment forever. Not because it wasn’t real, but because it was. Because Mason Hayes had become something sacred. Not untouchable, not perfect—but hers.

He made her feel like being known wasn’t dangerous. Like softness didn’t have to be earned. Like loving someone didn’t mean shrinking for them—it meant unfolding beside them.

She shifted just enough to press her mouth to the center of his chest, right over the rhythm that had welcomed her in like a song she used to hum without knowing the words.

“You’re not my escape,” she whispered into the cotton of his hoodie, more to herself than to him. “You’re my answer.”

And she meant it.

For every time she’d held herself together alone, for every night she’d sketched stars to feel less small, for every moment she thought love was just another thing she had to armor herself against—he was the answer.

Not because he fixed her.

Because he saw her.

Rowan exhaled slowly, one leg draped over his, their bodies tangled like they belonged in the same shape. She let her fingers drift—down his side, over the hem of his shirt, back to where their hands could tangle again.

Her thumb brushed his knuckle, and she smiled against his chest.

“I’m gonna ruin every future rooftop for you,” she murmured, a little breathless, a little smug. “Sorry in advance.”

She felt him laugh—and it echoed in her bones.

This was what home felt like.

And she wasn’t giving it up.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a sigh laced with pure adoration—and wrapped his arms tighter around her like he was afraid she might drift away with the breeze.

“You’re already my favorite ruin,” he murmured, voice still hoarse and wrecked in the way only she could make it. “Honestly, roofs had a good run. But if you’re the reason I can never sit on one again without needing a moment to collect myself, I’m not complaining.”

His fingers found hers again, threading through like muscle memory, like prayer.

She had her ear pressed to his chest, her leg draped over his, her breath rising and falling in perfect counterpoint to his own. And still, he felt the words swelling inside him, too big to contain.

“Also—just for the record?” he added, a grin blooming lazily across his face, “I definitely owe you.”

He leaned down slightly, lips brushing her temple in a soft, reverent pass.

“And I do plan to return the favor.”

His voice dropped slightly, teasing but threaded with longing. “I just need to, you know… remember how to form coherent thoughts again. Maybe relearn the alphabet. Possibly get my soul back from wherever it went while you were ruining my entire existence in the most perfect way imaginable.”

He felt her smile against his chest and grinned wider, smug in that dorky, completely lovesick way he only got with her.

“I mean, sure. You’ve ruined rooftops. But also…”

He tilted his head, looking up at the stars, then back down at her like she was the brightest thing in the sky.

“This isn’t ruined. This is ours now.”

He let that settle.

Then—because he couldn’t help himself, not with her tangled around him and the whole world narrowed to the space between their breaths—he whispered, “Honestly, I say we ruin all the rooftops. Just make it a thing. A lifestyle. Tour the country. Leave emotional devastation and excellent kiss memories in our wake.”

A beat.

“Obviously, I’ll pack snacks.”

He kissed her again—slow, sweet, sure—and tucked her closer, like the only thing that mattered in the world was making sure she knew she was safe, and adored, and his.

And in that rooftop silence, with her fingers wrapped in his and the stars still blinking on above them, Mason Hayes decided that if this was what being ruined felt like?

He never wanted to be whole again.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

She was too busy smiling into the fabric of his hoodie, heart beating slow and full in the space between his ribs and hers. His voice was still echoing in her—silly and sweet and reverent in that way he only got when the rest of the world faded out and it was just them.

And something in her chest had quietly, permanently rearranged itself.

Because he meant it. Because he always meant it.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part—how safe she felt in all his chaos. How real this had become. How entirely she wanted it.

Her fingers tightened around his, the rooftop blanket pulled haphazardly around their legs, her cheek resting right above his heartbeat.

She closed her eyes for a second, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb traced slow patterns over her knuckles. Her body was still flushed from before, but it wasn’t heat that anchored her here—it was gravity. Trust. That ridiculous hoodie smell and the fact that he held her like a secret he wanted to keep safe forever.

“You’re mine, Hayes,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the night air. “Just so we’re clear.”

And when she tilted her chin and kissed the line of his jaw—light, slow, final—it wasn’t about proving anything.

It was a promise.

Because tonight wasn’t about stealing moments.

It was about keeping them.

Rowan sighed—deep and reluctant—the kind of sound that came from her soul, not her lungs.

She didn’t move at first. Just pressed her nose into Mason’s hoodie, inhaled once like she could bottle this moment if she tried hard enough. Like maybe if she stayed still, the clock would too.

But time, predictably, didn’t care.

She shifted slightly, her leg brushing his, their fingers still tangled in the space between them.

“I hate this,” she mumbled against his chest. “Like… viscerally.”

Mason didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She felt the way he tightened his hold on her, just enough to let her know he hated it too.

She let herself stay there another breath. Two. Then sighed again—resigned this time—and tipped her face up to look at him, her expression somewhere between fond and tortured.

“But if I don’t make curfew, my mom’s going to assume I got abducted by aliens or joined a secret moon cult.”

A pause.

“She’s not entirely wrong, but still.”

Rowan sat up slowly, hoodie wrinkled, hair a little wild, eyes soft with something that didn’t need saying out loud. She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle tug.

“Come on, Hayes. Walk me down like the gentleman you are.”

Then, smirking faintly: “And try not to trip over your own devotion on the way.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh, head tipping back against the rooftop for one drawn-out second like he was appealing directly to the stars.

“Unreal,” he muttered dramatically. “I give you my heart, my soul, my hoodie—and you hit me with moon cult slander and a curfew.”

But when he sat up—hoodie bunched, curls a mess, grin utterly wrecked—it was clear he wasn’t even pretending to be mad.

He looked at her like she was the cult. Like he’d gladly follow her to the moon and back, no questions, no hesitation. Hell, he’d carry the snacks.

“You realize,” he said, voice thick with affection as he let her pull him upright, “this is the part where I say something really smooth and charming, but unfortunately, you already tapped me out emotionally and physically. So you’re just gonna have to settle for this.”

He kissed the back of her hand.

Soft. Sure. No crowd. No spotlight.

Just them.

Then he stood, tugging her gently with him, brushing his thumb along the inside of her wrist like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he tried.

“Also, for the record,” he added, leaning in close enough that his words ghosted against her jaw, “you saying ‘you’re mine’ like that? That’s going in the permanent collection. Right next to the ‘I love you’ and the time you ruined me with a single look.”

He straightened, pulled the blanket around her shoulders even though she was already warm, and gave her that crooked Mason Hayes smile—the one that looked like it belonged to a boy who hadn’t just fallen, but had leapt.

“Let’s go, Starling,” he said, tucking her hand into his like it was always meant to be there. “I’ll try not to trip over my devotion, but I make no promises about tripping over you.”

And with that, he led her back down into the quiet dark of the school, hoodie rumpled, heart full, mouth aching from smiling too much—and absolutely no regrets.

Because if this rooftop was the beginning?

Then the rest of the world had no idea what was coming.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan exhaled against his chest, letting herself rest there a moment longer—her fingers curled into the edge of his hoodie, her breath syncing slowly with his. The rooftop was quiet now, their laughter and heat and confessions still lingering like a held note in the air.

But time was creeping in.

And as much as she hated it—really, truly hated it—she had to say something.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, one hand still resting over his heart.

“Okay,” she said softly, almost like she was apologizing. “I have to be home in twenty minutes. And as much as I want to ignore reality entirely and live up here with you in hoodie-and-cider exile…”

She trailed off, lips pressing briefly into a guilty smile.

Mason groaned—dramatic and unhelpful—and let his head fall back against the rooftop like she’d just asked him to break up with gravity. She rolled her eyes but leaned down to press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose anyway.

“Don’t make it harder,” she said, voice teasing, but her fingers lingered a little longer at his wrist before she stood.

She bent to gather the blanket, folding it roughly into her arms. Mason joined her a second later, rumpled and flushed and hopelessly beautiful in the way that made her stomach ache. He reached for the thermos, then offered her his hand.

She took it without hesitation.

And as they made their way toward the stairwell—silent, warm, still tangled in each other—Rowan squeezed his hand once and murmured, “I love you, Hayes. Thanks for one of the best nights ever.”

Just a truth.

Because even as they stepped back into the hallway and the real world crept closer—

That rooftop?

It would always be theirs.