Starling Household

[Midnights]

https://i.ibb.co/nqDBjDtv/IMG-6746.png

https://i.ibb.co/wT8ggD3/55-ED320-C-CC69-4-C3-E-B0-E1-2-DD98-BFB9-A1-D.jpg

https://i.ibb.co/678PHydh/IMG-6747.png

Upstairs, at the end of the hallway and just slightly tucked beneath the sloped roof, was Rowan’s bedroom—a space that felt like stepping into her interior world. The walls were a deep, moody blue, almost navy in certain light, which made the glow of her warm string lights feel like stars scattered along the edges. Her bed sat in the corner beneath a window that looked out onto the pine-covered backyard, the glass often fogged from steam or rain, like today.

The bed itself was low to the ground and piled with layered throws and mismatched pillows in neutral tones and dark jewel colors—rich greens, deep burgundy, soft gold. There were always a few books stacked on the nightstand, half-read and dog-eared, alongside a ceramic mug that usually held cold tea or a forgotten pencil. The shelves on her walls held crystals, candles, old Polaroids, and scraps of poetry she’d copied down on bits of paper. Her closet door was always slightly ajar, one boot or heel peeking out, and her vanity was more cluttered than she’d ever admit, filled with earrings, perfume bottles, and the occasional dried flower from a show bouquet.

It was the kind of room that didn’t just belong to someone—it felt like them. Quiet but intense. Carefully curated and subtly chaotic. Full of secrets, softness, and the space to dream.

Just like Rowan.

[Rowan Starling]

It was a dreary Sunday, a day painted in shades of grey as the rain hung heavily in the air, creating an atmosphere that felt like the world was holding its breath in anticipation. Evergreen, usually vibrant and alive, was rendered quiet under the steady drizzle, and Rowan Starling found solace in the soft embrace of her surroundings—no plans, no obligations weighing down her mind. The familiar hum of her space enveloped her, punctuated only by the occasional buzz from her phone and the comforting rhythm of raindrops pattering against the window, a melodic backdrop to her languid day.

She and Mason exchanged messages throughout the day, their conversations ebbing and flowing like the rain outside. The exchanges were light-hearted: a flurry of memes, snippets of half-formed thoughts—casual texts that seemed insignificant but wove together to form a deeper connection with each ping of her phone. It was a thread, delicately pulled on both ends, uniting them in a language all their own.

She lost herself in aimless reading, flitting between three books, unable to settle into any narrative for long. At some point, she surrendered to sleep, curling up beneath her soft blanket as the storm settled in for the long haul. The afternoon slipped away gently, punctuated by the soft glow of Netflix illuminating her living room. The volume was set low enough to mingle softly with the rain, creating a warm cocoon of familiarity.

She slipped into Mason's hoodie somewhere in the intersection of her nap, and the third rewatch of an old favourite—an uncommitted loyalty to a series.

Navy blue and a touch oversized, the fabric wrapped around her like a gentle embrace, still holding onto the faint scent of him—woodsy, warm, inherently familiar. She had taken it deliberately after that unguarded moment in the costume closet, where it had caught her eye among the tangle of feather boas. Deep down, she knew she had to keep it, not merely as a keepsake but as a tangible piece of him.

The knock at her door came suddenly—three quick raps, sharp against the backdrop of the rain’s steady percussion. Her body warmed from the couch, legs bare beneath the fabric of the hoodie, as she padded softly down the hallway. The sleeves of the oversized garment brushed against her legs, playfully swinging past her fingertips as she approached the door.

When she opened it, time seemed to suspend momentarily.

There stood Mason on her porch, a vision of rain-soaked charm: his curls dampened by the downpour, jacket casually unzipped, his eyes wide as they searched hers, startled yet holding a light of something unspoken.

Words hung unspoken between them, a silence filled with meaning.

But his gaze dropped instantly to the hoodie enveloping her.

His hoodie.

She witnessed the shift in his expression—starting with surprise and gradually melting into something profound, a blend of wonder and realisation as if he were seeing the universe align in that tiny moment. There was reverence in how he looked at her as if she had become the singular focus amidst the stormy chaos outside.

Rowan held his gaze, leaning casually against the doorframe, a playful eyebrow raised in amusement, her lips curving into a confident, knowing smile that spoke volumes.

She didn’t intend to offer him an explanation.

No, she desired more; she wanted him to absorb everything—the message embedded in her choice, the significance of the fabric that wrapped around her like a shared secret.

And as she met his quietly astonished gaze, the way he looked at her—filled with a reverent clarity—spoke all the words they didn’t need to say, communicating a shared understanding that transcended the storm raging beyond the confines of her doorway.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason blinked, once—twice—as if unsure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

And then he exhaled.

Slowly.

Like the sight of her standing there—bare legs, flushed cheeks, the sleeves of his hoodie falling past her fingertips—had stolen every bit of breath from his lungs and forced him to remember how to breathe again.

“…You,” he said, voice low, almost reverent, “thief.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, but there was heat behind it—something molten and heady rising beneath the boyish tease. His eyes dragged over her, slow and lingering, not just admiring, but committing her to memory. The storm curled around them like background noise, but Mason only saw her.

His hoodie on her.

Rowan Starling in his damn hoodie.

“I thought I lost that forever,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, close enough now that the scent of rain and cedar clung to him like a second skin. “I spent an entire Saturday tearing my room apart looking for it. Even accused my brother of stealing it.”

He tilted his head slightly, curls damp and wild, one hand bracing the doorframe just above her shoulder. His voice dropped lower, warmer—velvet over embers.

“But it was you, wasn’t it? All this time. You kept it.”

His fingers reached for the sleeve, brushing the edge of it where it grazed her thigh, slow and deliberate. “Looks better on you anyway,” he said, mouth curving into something far more dangerous than a smile. “Kind of unfair, honestly. You standing there like that. In my hoodie. That look in your eyes.”

A beat passed, charged and electric.

And then, softly—like he was saying something sacred, not just teasing—he added:

“You’re gonna ruin me, Starling.”

His thumb ghosted along the hem again before he leaned in, voice grazing her skin like a whisper against her cheek.

“But if that’s the plan… I’m not fighting it.”

[Rowan Starling]

“Oh, come on, Mason,” she declared, her voice fluttering through the air like a playful breeze, its light and airy tone laced with an undercurrent of simmering intensity. She stepped forward, effortlessly closing the distance between them, her piercing gaze locking onto his with an unwavering determination that felt electric. As she spoke, her voice softened to a sultry whisper, smooth as silk yet edged with a teasing mischief.

“I didn’t steal it. I rescued it.”

A brief silence enveloped them, thick with a tension that felt almost tangible, hanging in the air like the quiet before a storm.

“From the supply closet,” she continued, her tone inflected with mock indignation. “You carelessly abandoned it there, crammed beneath two flamboyant feather boas and that utterly ridiculous pirate hat, complete with a droopy feather. Honestly? How tragic.”

With a playful tug at the hem of the oversized hoodie, her fingers danced over the fabric as though reverently acknowledging its unfulfilled potential, the soft material whispering against her skin.

“This hoodie deserved a fate far greater than that lackluster prison. And I breathed new life into it,” she proclaimed, her voice sparkling with delight and an undercurrent of something deeper.

“I wore it. I practically lived in it. And sure, maybe I didn’t plan on keeping it for this long, but…” Her lips curled into a knowing smirk, a hint of mischief glimmering in her eyes. “It began to feel as though it was meant for me.”

Closing the gap even further, she edged almost flush against him, the warmth radiating between them crackling with unspoken emotions.

“And maybe part of me relished the idea of having something of yours,” she whispered, her voice dipping to an intimate murmur that felt like a secret shared between them alone. “Something soft—something that still held your scent, wrapping me in a familiar embrace, like a warm hug on a cold day.”

Rowan tilted her head slightly, her cascading curls framing her face like a halo, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper that sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“So if I’m going to ruin you…” she murmured, the playful glint in her eyes sparkling like stars on a clear night, “just remember—you left the hoodie behind. I gave it a new narrative.”

She paused for a heartbeat, her expression shifting as she flashed him a grin that was both sharp and sweet, a delightful dance of mischief reflecting in her gaze.

“You’re welcome.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason just stood there for a moment, soaked from the rain, stunned into silence—not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because God, she had a way of stealing the breath right out of him.

She rescued his hoodie?

He huffed a low laugh, slow and disbelieving, eyes dragging over her in that impossibly casual, devastating way of his—soaking in every word, every flicker of expression, every inch of bare skin peeking out beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. His chest rose and fell with the effort of holding himself still.

“You know,” he said, voice low and rough with amusement, “most people just ask if they can borrow something. You? You stage a whole dramatic monologue like you’re auditioning for a West End revival.” He leaned in slightly, close enough to catch the ghost of her perfume and that maddening, stolen-smug-smile. “But I’ve got to admit—it worked. I don’t think I’ll ever look at that hoodie the same way again.”

Then his voice dipped, softening like the storm behind him.

“And you relishing the idea of having something of mine?” He shook his head slowly, eyes still locked on hers. “Rowan, you have no idea what that does to me.”

He brushed his knuckles gently against her sleeve, letting the contact linger just long enough.

Then—almost as an afterthought, but not really—his gaze flicked past her shoulder again, toward the quiet, dim glow of the house. The world behind her felt untouched, paused, like it was waiting for whatever came next.

His next words were barely above a murmur, but laced with unmistakable weight.

“Are your parents home?”

Because if they weren’t…
Then maybe that hoodie wouldn’t be the only thing she ended up keeping.

[Rowan Starling]

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just stared up at him with that maddeningly calm expression—like he was the one on trial, not her.

“Oh, please,” she said, cocking her head as she stepped into his space, casual as anything. “You act like I planned to keep it. Like I schemed.”

Her lips curved into a slow smile, revealing exactly how much she had enjoyed it.

“Sure, I might have buried it under a pile of costume chaos and maybe worn it during emotionally vulnerable moments. But that’s not theft, Mason,” she said, leaning in, her eyes sparkling. “That’s sentiment.”

Then, quieter, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, “And maybe… maybe I liked having something that smelled like you. Maybe it made those late nights feel a little less empty.”

She looked down briefly, her fingers tugging at the hem of the hoodie as if to steady herself.

Then he asked the question.

Her gaze snapped back to his, sharp, sudden, and alive.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. “No,” she said, her voice dropping like dusk. “They’re out. My mom’s at book club, and my dad’s pretending to care about rec league trivia night.”

A heartbeat passed.

“Are you coming in?” she asked, her voice airy, but her eyes were very serious. “Or are you planning to stand there dripping all over my welcome mat while giving me heart palpitations?”

She leaned closer, brushing her shoulder against his chest. The sleeve of her hoodie dragged softly against his skin.

“Because I should warn you…” Her voice dropped to a whisper now, her lips almost grazing his. “If you cross that threshold, you might not get this hoodie back.”

A beat passed.

And then, sweet as sin, she added, “Or your self-control.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stared at her, utterly spellbound.

The hoodie—his hoodie—had never looked so good in its life. On her, it wasn’t just fabric and thread anymore—it was a statement, a claim, a secret shared between them. It clung to her like a memory, soft and oversized, and he couldn’t stop staring at the way the sleeves swallowed her hands or how she tugged at the hem like she didn’t quite realize she was doing it. It was stupid, probably, how much that small, unconscious gesture did to him.

His grin curved slow, lazy, and dangerous. “You know,” he said, stepping just inside the doorway, “I was going to demand it back. Righteously. With principle.”

He pretended to survey her, head tilted, eyes flickering from her face to the oversized sleeves to the hem she kept fidgeting with. “But now?” he continued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Now I’m thinking I might owe you a thank you for rescuing it from the glitter-and-feather graveyard.”

He leaned in just enough to make it clear he was playing with fire. His hand brushed the edge of the fabric where it hung off her hip, fingers ghosting over the soft cotton like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“It looks insanely good on you, by the way,” he added, voice lower now—half flirty, half reverent. “Like, unfairly good. Like I’m developing a hoodie-related kink in real time and I’m not even sorry.”

He let the silence linger for a beat, the tension crackling like static.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers with unmistakable intent. “But if you’re going to keep wearing my clothes and saying things like that…”

His fingers gently hooked the edge of the hoodie’s pocket, drawing her a fraction closer.

“…you should probably be prepared to deal with the consequences.”

His smile was slow and wicked and sweet all at once. “And spoiler alert: I’m very bad at pretending I don’t want to kiss you when you’re dressed like that.”

[Rowan Starling]

“I’m not exactly in the mood to be dissuaded.”

Her delicate fingers traced the strong line of his jaw, gently tilting his face toward her as though she were aligning constellations in the night sky. For a heartbeat, she held him in her gaze—her eyes dancing between his lips and the depths of his gaze, caught in indecision, weighing the allure of a kiss against the sweet anticipation that cradled it.

Then, with careful intention, she stepped back a fraction—just enough to create a tantalising distance.

Her hands slipped from the warmth of his skin, the fabric of her oversized hoodie sliding past her fingertips like a whispered goodbye. She held her arms before her, straight and inviting, fingers flexing gently that begged for something more—a silent plea that echoed between them.

The smirk that had danced on her lips softened into an expression imbued with vulnerability, raw and unguarded, like a fragile secret laid bare.

“I want it,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, hanging in the air, almost too quiet to hear. “Not just the hoodie. You. All of it.”

For the briefest moment, her voice trembled, hesitation flickering across her features, but she steadied herself, the words gaining strength, soft yet unwavering.

“I want to be wrapped up in you, Mason. Picked up, swallowed whole, cocooned in that ridiculous hoodie of yours and your oversized everything—where it’s warm and comforting, like a soft blanket on a cold night, and I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it all figured out.”

She locked her gaze onto his then, really looking—the kind of gaze that cut through the chaos and reached deep into the heart. “And I know I don’t need you to make me feel okay. But, God, right now? I want you to.”

“Come here, Hayes,” she whispered her voice a blend of playfulness and raw emotion, intertwining in an inviting and haunting way. “Ruin me, rescue me… just hold me.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason let out a slow whistle, eyebrows lifting as a crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Well damn, Starling,” he said, tone teasing, “if I’d known pouring my soul out would earn that kind of monologue, I would’ve started confessing my feelings a lot sooner.”

He took a dramatic step forward, arms spread like he was about to deliver a Shakespearean soliloquy. “You want to be wrapped up? Picked up? Swallowed whole?” He paused, eyes glittering with mischief. “Babe, I’m like six feet of emotional baggage and hoodie fluff. Your wish is literally my entire personality.”

Then, his voice dipped, playful turning to something warmer, softer—but still laced with that signature spark. “But seriously—be careful what you ask for. Because once I’m holding you, I’m not exactly known for letting go. I cuddle like a koala on espresso. Except without the chlamydia."

He stepped close again, this time for real, his hands settling on her hips as he gave her a little tug forward. “You want to be ruined?” he murmured, his grin gentler now. “Too late, Starling. You already ruined me the moment you started looking at me like I was worth the wreckage.”

He leaned in, nuzzling her temple with exaggerated affection. “Also, fair warning—I’m absolutely stealing dramatic lines like ‘cocooned in your oversized everything’ for my next audition. I’m gonna win a Tony just quoting you.”

Then, quieter—sincere beneath all the teasing—he added, “Come here. Let me be your hoodie and your safe place and your hot emotional support boyfriend, all in one ridiculous, slightly damp package.”

He pulled her in like gravity had finally won. “Now shut up and let me love you dramatically, Rowan Sage Starling.”

[Rowan Starling]

Her mind surged and crackled, short-circuiting between the phrases “six feet of emotional baggage entwined with hoodie fluff” and “a koala on espresso,” unpredictable yet absurdly charming.

By the time he reached the part about “your wish is my entire personality,” she felt completely unmoored, blinking at him as if he had just deftly rewritten her understanding of affection, reshaping what it meant to feel chosen into something revolutionary.

God, he was infuriating. And oh-so-unfair. And yet, impossibly him—an enigma wrapped in warmth.

Her lips parted to fire back a response, something clever and cutting brimming at the edges of her tongue. But then he pulled her closer, his hands warm against her hips, his eyes gleaming as if she were made of starlight and whispered secrets. In that instant, her mind fogged over, leaving her grappling for even a single word in English.

Her heart fluttered erratically, squeezing tight against her ribcage as if trying to convince her that maybe, just maybe, this kind of love could exist without a backdrop of conditions or chaos.

“You’re ridiculous,” she managed to whisper, though the breathiness of her voice betrayed her. “Like… cosmically ridiculous. I hope you realise that.”

Yet, even as those words tumbled from her lips, she found herself leaning into him, her fingers slipping beneath the cosy hem of his hoodie, feeling an undeniable sense of belonging—as if she had been meant to find this warmth all along.

“And for the record?” she continued, her voice dropping low as her lips brushed the soft shell of his ear, making her breath hitch. “If you quote me in an audition, I expect a heartfelt thank-you in your Tony acceptance speech. I want a dramatic shoutout. Maybe even a single tear.”

She angled her gaze up to meet his, eyes narrowing playfully yet filled with a seriousness he couldn’t ignore. “And if I let you keep loving me so unabashedly, Mason Hayes… you better brace yourself. I don’t fall easily. But when I do, I go all in—no holding back.”

A heartbeat passed in silence, the world narrowing around them before she added softly, “So don’t let go. Ever.”

With that, she captured his lips in a kiss—slow and deliberate, like a promise carefully woven in the velvety darkness. It was as if gravity conspired to pull them together, binding their fates in an unbreakable tether.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason barely had time to catch his breath—his mind still looping over cosmically ridiculous like it was the highest praise he'd ever received—before her kiss landed like a soft meteor strike straight to his chest.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to look at him, he let out a stunned little laugh, wide-eyed and dazed. “Okay, not to be dramatic,” he murmured, still half-charmed and half-winded, “but if I die right now, I need you to tell the EMTs I went out doing what I loved: being absolutely roasted by the girl of my dreams.”

His fingers curled tighter around her hips, anchoring himself in the present, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t some fever-dream conjured by hoodie theft and emotional vulnerability. “Also, fair warning,” he added, voice dropping with that familiar mischievous edge, “I will ugly cry in that Tony speech. Like—Tobey Maguire in Spider-Man 3 levels of sobbing. It’ll be cinematic. Undignified. You’ll regret ever inspiring it.”

He nudged her nose with his, all affection and electricity. “And just so we’re clear? I wasn’t planning on letting go. Like, ever. I’ve already mentally drafted our joint Halloween costume for three years from now, and spoiler alert—it’s unhinged. There's glitter. Possibly capes.”

Then, as her lips brushed his again, he pulled back just a sliver, glancing toward the door with mock suspicion. “Okay, but listen—I swear to God, if your mom, a delivery guy, or like, a rogue raccoon interrupts this kiss too, I’m putting us both in witness protection and starting over in a different zip code. We’re due one uninterrupted makeout session. Statistically. Cosmically.”

[Rowan Starling]

She didn’t even allow him the chance to finish his thought.

A delicate yet firm hand covered his mouth—warm against his skin, decisive in its action, carrying a hint of mischievous satisfaction.

Rowan lifted a single brow, her expression an intriguing blend of amusement and impatience. The corners of her mouth quirked up, a silent battle between a smirk and the effort to maintain her stern demeanour.

“You told me to shut up,” she remarked coolly, her eyes flickering with that signature Scorpio intensity, “and yet here you are, unable to keep quiet.”

Her hand lingered for a moment before sliding away with deliberate slowness, fingertips grazing his jawline, sending a warm shiver down his spine. She moved closer, their breaths intertwining in the chilly air, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper that lingered with unspoken intentions.

“My room is upstairs, Hayes.”

With a playful tilt of her head, a shiver of excitement fluttering through her despite the cold, she arched a challenging brow and added, “Are we going to stand in this doorway all night? My legs are freezing. And you seem to talk far too much for someone who just kissed me like that.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, glancing over her shoulder with a wicked glint in her eye, her curls dancing enticingly with each step.

“Well?” she called back, already ascending the staircase, the anticipation in her voice palpable. “Are you coming, or are you still busy crafting the emotional narrative for our Halloween costume?”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stood there for a heartbeat, lips parted in stunned silence, as if someone had just handed him the lead in a play he thought he’d bombed the audition for.

My room is upstairs, Hayes.

Her curls bounced as she ascended, each step like a challenge tossed over her shoulder, and he—well, he was riveted.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like it might clear the static. “Okay. Right. Yep. Upstairs. That’s… that’s where rooms usually are. Brilliant deduction, Hayes.”

And then he was moving—trailing after her like some enchanted, hoodie-clad theater kid stumbling into Act II with no clue what the plot twist was but loving every second. “I’m not saying you just invited me into the sacred lair of Starling, but if this were a fantasy novel, this would absolutely be the chapter with a dramatic shift in tone and a warning in italics.”

Halfway up the stairs, he paused with mock concern. “Just—quick statistical observation—every time we get within kissing distance, the universe tosses in an interruption like it’s a running gag. If your dad materializes out of thin air holding a trivia trophy, I’m rolling down these stairs like a tragic understudy who missed his cue.”

But his grin said otherwise. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He looked up at her, eyes bright with disbelief and something deeper. “Lead on, Starling. I’ll follow you through doorways, plot twists, emotional vulnerability—whatever you’ve got. I’m yours.”

And with that, he took the next step—toward her, toward whatever came next, his heart practically pirouetting in his chest.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan had made it to the landing when his voice floated up behind her—equal parts adoration and unfiltered Mason chaos—and it stopped her in her tracks.

She turned slowly, one brow arched in that signature you’re impossible, but I might love it way, arms folded loosely as she leaned back against the wall. From up there, she could see the whole boy—wide-eyed, hoodie-clad, rambling like his mouth couldn’t quite keep up with his heart. And God, her heart squeezed at the sight.

“If this is Act II,” she said, voice low and amused, “you better pray it’s not a tragedy.”

And then, softer—just enough for the moment to shift: “Because I don’t think I could handle losing you in the final scene.”

It hung between them for a beat—something real, something raw—and then she smirked, letting the levity return like a curtain lifting.

She reached out a hand, fingers curling in silent invitation. “Come on, Hayes,” she murmured, “before you talk yourself into another metaphor.”

And when his hand found hers—warm, certain, all-in—she tugged him the rest of the way up, eyes never leaving his.

This wasn’t just a scene change.

It was the start of something entirely unscripted.

Rowan’s bedroom door clicked shut behind them with a softness that belied the storm swirling in her chest.

She didn’t hesitate.

No masks. No performance. Just fire and instinct and the boy who had somehow made her feel seen in a way no one ever had—not beneath a spotlight, not behind a filter, not even in the mirror.

Before she was on him, Mason barely had time to take in the string lights, the stacks of dog-eared books, and the faint scent of vanilla and cedar that clung to the walls.

Her mouth crashed into his with a hunger that felt like it had been waiting for years. Her hands slipped beneath his hoodie like they had a right to be there, palms greedy, tracing heat along the planes of his back, his chest, the subtle lines she’d never let herself imagine too closely until now.

She kissed him like a secret she was tired of keeping.

And he kissed her back like he’d been holding his breath since the ninth grade.

They stumbled together, half-laughing, half-gasping through the tension winding between their bodies, until the back of her knees hit the bed, and she tumbled backwards into the mess of pillows and sheets with a breathless gasp.

Mason followed a stunned chuckle caught in his throat, his hands catching himself on either side of her, curls falling into his eyes, that dazed grin still flickering at the edges of his mouth like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

Rowan didn’t give him time to second-guess.

She pulled him down to her, enveloping him in legs and arms and fevered kisses, her body arching toward his like she could burn away the fear and the fragility and the waiting. She wanted all of him—his heartbeat, his breath, his softness and chaos and the way he looked at her like she was more than just a pretty picture in a curated life.

She kissed him until the only thing left in the world was them.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s breath hitched as her body folded into his like she’d been designed for the exact curve of his frame. His hands trembled slightly where they braced on either side of her, not from hesitation—but from awe. From the wild, electric miracle that this was actually happening.

He hovered for a second, their noses brushing, lips just shy of crashing again. His heart was doing a full Broadway tap number in his chest, and his voice came out low, a little shaky, a little overwhelmed in the best way.

“Okay, before I completely combust,” he murmured with a lopsided grin, “are you positive about this, Starling?”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss just beside her mouth—gentle, grounding, reverent. “Because, like, I’m one thousand percent in. Completely. Wholeheartedly. Hopelessly. But also very committed to the idea that you get to set the pace, and I’m just lucky to be cast in your orbit.”

He met her gaze then—earnest, steady beneath the tangle of curls and flushed cheeks. “I mean it. You say stop, I stop. You say slow down, I’ll build us a whole metaphorical intermission.”

Then, with a crooked smile that couldn’t decide if it was giddy or utterly gone, he whispered, “But if you say go… I’m yours. Fully. No edits. No stage directions. Just me.”

Then, just for a second, something in him cracked wide open. The grin softened into something breathless—need threaded with wonder. His fingers curled into the sheets beside her, like he needed something to anchor him from flying straight out of his own skin.

“Because if you say go,” he said, voice rough with everything he didn’t quite have the words for, “I won’t hold back. I’ll love you like I’ve been waiting my whole damn life for this moment. For you. All of you. And I won’t be gentle about how much I want you, Rowan—not just tonight, but in every version of forever you’ll let me have.”

[Rowan Starling]

For a heartbeat, Rowan forgot how to breathe.

Mason’s words shattered something deep within her—not just the usual flutter of vulnerability, but the terrifying, soul-baring kind that left her raw and exposed. It was as if she were on the precipice of a revelation, feeling for the first time that perhaps, just perhaps, she deserved this kind of tenderness—this kind of reverence that sparked a light inside her previously hidden behind layers of armour.

Her fingers, previously curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt near his shoulder, tightened even further—just enough to feel anchored as if the ground might give way beneath her if she let go.

“Mason…” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread woven with emotion, barely audible and decidedly wrecked. Her gaze locked firmly with his, a tempest of feelings swirling in her stormy eyes, searching his for assurance, for connection. She wanted to memorize every flicker of emotion that crossed his face, every syllable that spilled from his lips—an echo of the revelation setting her heart alight.

With trembling resolve, she let her hand drift upward, brushing his jaw with a featherlight touch that felt both electrifying and painfully deliberate. “You say you’re mine, but… you don’t even know what that means, do you?” The last word cracked on her lips—not from doubt, but from the wonder of it all—the overwhelming, impossible truth that someone like him could look at her without flinching. Without running.

Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes, not the chaotic, messy kind, but a quiet shimmer that spoke of hope and tenderness, born from the ache of finally being chosen in a way she had never dared to dream.

“You’re… ridiculous,” she murmured, a smile breaking through her careful facade despite herself. “And reckless. Maybe a little insane.”

Leaning in, she brushed her nose against his, mimicking the sweet intimacy he had shown her just moments before—soft, magnetic, and charged with a palpable energy. “But if you mean all of that… if you’re truly all in…” Her lips hovered tantalizingly close to his, heart racing and walls trembling in the wake of her vulnerability.

“Then go, Hayes.”

And with that, she kissed him like she had finally shed the constraints of her past. Like the masks she had worn and the carefully crafted scripts had disintegrated into dust. Like she was done hiding—done pretending she didn’t crave him just as fiercely as he desired her.

[Mason Hayes]

For a breathless moment, all Mason could do was blink at her like she’d just rewritten the laws of gravity.

“You just Hayes’d me,” he murmured, dazed, lips still brushing hers. “I think I’ve been emotionally outmaneuvered.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm and a little disbelieving, his heart thundering like he’d sprinted through the final scene of a play and realized he’d improvised the entire act. His hands—still braced beside her—trembled just enough to give him away, but his eyes were clear. Fierce. Hers.

“Okay, confession time,” he said, dropping his forehead lightly to hers, breath mingling. “I’ve… technically been in this scene before. The lighting was dim, the music was playing, clothes were definitely involved… but I always bailed before the final cue.”

He shrugged one shoulder with mock gravity. “Turns out, when you’re not in love and your heart isn’t trying to stage dive out of your chest, the moment doesn’t really land.”

He looked at her then, really looked, the humor settling into something softer beneath the surface. “But this? You?” His voice dropped. “I’ve never felt more sure about anything. Even if I’m kind of terrified I’ll mess up my blocking.”

One hand slid along her waist, his thumb brushing just under the hem of her shirt with a featherlight touch. “I’m nervous, yeah. But it’s not because I don’t want this—it’s because I do. So much it’s making my brain glitch.”

Then, eyes sparkling with that signature blend of wonder and mischief, he added, “So… if you’re still saying go, just know I’m yours. Fully. Whole cast, no understudies. Slightly anxious, maybe a little over-rehearsed, but so in.”

And with a smile so crooked it could’ve earned its own standing ovation, he kissed her again—deep and dizzy and grinning into her mouth like the luckiest fool in the world.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan lay in quiet stillness, a different sort of calm enveloping her. This wasn’t the hard-edged stillness she often donned like a shield—lips pressed tight and spine straight, daring the world to challenge her. No, this was a gentle serenity, a softness that rarely slipped through the armour she had built around herself. This was a glimpse of her true self, unguarded and unpolished.

Across from her stood Mason, his eyes wide and luminous, brimming with an open-hearted vulnerability. He had just offered her the most delicate part of himself, his hands trembling and his voice a tremor of authenticity. There was no bravado masking his uncertainty; he merely existed at that moment—raw, real, and profoundly sincere.

Rowan didn’t flinch at his honesty. She didn’t tease him with playful banter or mask her emotions with a witty deflection that would shift the focus away from the moment. Instead, she stepped closer to him, the heat of connection palpable. One of her hands rose, moving steadily as if to ground him with her touch, her fingers tracing the sharp angle of his jaw.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath above the silence between them. There was no judgment in her tone, no hesitation—only unvarnished truth—just her.

“That doesn’t change anything for me.”

Her thumb grazed the corner of his mouth, lingering there like a promise of understanding and acceptance. Rowan could feel the flutter of his nerves beneath her fingertips—tangible, electric. Yet, she didn’t withdraw her hand.

“You think that makes you less ready? Or less wanted?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, her eyes locked onto his, searching for the rustle of doubt within him. “Because I’ve done this before?” She paused, letting her words' weight settle like a gentle caress. “Mason, I’ve never done this. Not with someone who holds my gaze like I’m more than just a fleeting moment. Not with someone who makes me feel like I can finally lay down the performance and breathe.”

Her voice remained steady, low, and almost sacred in its intimacy. The quiet wrapped around them like a cocoon—a thunderous silence that spoke volumes.

“I’ve had sex,” she stated boldly, strong in her admission, refusing to downplay her experiences. “But I’ve never felt this kind of trust. I’ve never allowed anyone to see me the way you do. I’ve never experienced being known as a relief rather than a risk.”

She closed the gap between them, her hands sliding around his waist, drawing him in deeper, entwining them within the moment's gravity. Their foreheads met gently, intimacy radiating between them as she whispered.

“There’s no map for this,” she confessed, each word laced with vulnerability. “No perfect cue, no script to follow.” A fragile yet courageous smile danced on her lips. “Just us. Saying yes. One breath at a time.”

And then, quieter still—almost reverential—“I want you, Mason Hayes. It's not a version of you scrambling to catch up. Not someone pretending to have it all figured out. Just… you.”

Leaning back slightly, she searched his gaze, which now sparkled with something delicate and fierce. A slow, wry smile played at the edges of her mouth, a mixture of playfulness and an ache of sincerity.

“Besides…” Her eyes sparkled, igniting with warmth. “Nervous theatre boys with big hearts and messy hair?” She shrugged lightly, her voice imbued with affection. “Kind of my type.”

Mason hovered in silence, overwhelmed. His eyes spoke volumes—widened and shimmering, a hint of disbelief lacing the edges as if he couldn’t quite process the words she had shared. It was as if some of him had braced for rejection, still catching up to the reality that it wasn’t coming.

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” she reassured gently, her hand sweeping up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I didn’t share all that to elicit a response. I just… needed you to know. So, it's okay if your mind is still buffering or reciting monologues in iambic pentameter or whatever it does when overwhelmed.”

His soft, breathless laugh made her smile—more an exhale of surprise than amusement, but it radiated warmth.

God, he was breathtaking when he gazed at her like that—as if she were a wonderful plot twist in a story he had never anticipated.

Rowan leaned in again, this time slower, more assured. Her lips brushed against his—an unhurried connection, without demand or urgency. It was simply an offering of warmth and presence, a kiss that didn’t seek anything beyond the moment's beauty. It glowed rather than burned.

As she withdrew, she didn’t break away completely. Instead, she pressed her forehead against his, inhaling his essence like a soothing balm that anchored her in this shared reality.

“I don’t want perfect,” she breathed, her voice a tender whisper. “I crave real. The messy, the beautiful. The nervous and new—ours.”

Her fingers gently curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding herself in their connection. “So whenever you’re ready… I’m here.”

The space around them felt quieter yet rich with possibility. It was dense with unspoken promises, a tapestry woven of silent affirmations and the shared breath of two souls perched at the precipice of something uncertain but, for the first time, willing to embrace the fall.

And Rowan Starling, who had spent so much of her life slipping into roles until the lines between them blurred, finally felt as if she were exactly where she belonged.

There is no act, no spotlight. It's just the vibrant beginning of something new.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away.

In fact, for a few seconds, his brain fully short-circuited.

Oh.
Oh no.
She’s perfect. She’s soft and fearless and terrifyingly beautiful and she just said all that like it was no big deal? Like it didn’t just melt every vertebra in my spine?

His heart was having an out-of-body experience. His knees were having a mild existential crisis. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a sarcastic voice chimed in with:

Great. Now would be a fantastic time to forget how words work.

He swallowed hard, trying to pull himself back into the moment, but his inner monologue had other ideas.

Coolcoolcool. She just said she’s had sex, she’s confident and luminous and knows what she wants, and you… have an elaborate mental ranking of your top five favorite Shakespeare insults.

Do not say something weird right now.
Do not say something weird right—

“I’ve never had someone talk to me like that,” he said, finally, the words escaping before his panic spiral could crash-land in awkward territory.

His voice was soft, reverent. Honest.

“Like I’m… enough. Like being nervous doesn’t make me broken. Or behind.”

He still looked stunned, like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke he hadn’t realized was serious. But his eyes never left hers—wide and shining and deeply, unmistakably Mason.

“I kept thinking you’d expect me to be cooler about this,” he admitted, a sheepish laugh curling around the edges of his words. “Like, because I do theatre and I wear boots that make me look vaguely brooding, maybe you’d think I was… I don’t know, Casanova with a monologue habit?”

He winced dramatically. “Spoiler alert: I am not Casanova. I once nearly passed out from nerves when someone tried to kiss me behind the auditorium in sophomore year.”

A pause, a breath, and then quieter—earnest.

“But the fact that you’re more experienced doesn’t make me feel weird. It doesn’t make me feel less. If anything, I just feel…” His fingers brushed gently along her waist. “Lucky. That you chose me. That I get to be the person you say all that to.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where their hands almost touched, then returned to hers, steadier now.

“I want this. Not because I think I’m ready in some checkbox kind of way. Not because I know what I’m doing. But because it’s you. And I’d rather be nervous and real with you than polished with anyone else.”

He smiled then, a little crooked, a little overwhelmed—but unmistakably genuine.

“So yeah, I might say something weird. I might absolutely forget what to do with my limbs. There is a very real possibility I will quote something deeply unfortunate from a musical at the worst possible time.”

He leaned in closer, eyes searching hers.

“But I want you. Not the idea of you. Not a version of this with less vulnerability. Just… you.”

He lingered there, their foreheads pressed together, breath shared like a secret. Then, with a crooked smile tugging at his lips and a spark of mischief in his eyes, he murmured:

“For the record? Brave girls with sharp minds and terrifyingly good cheekbones?”

His thumb brushed hers.

“Yeah. Definitely my type.”

She laughed, soft and breathless, and he felt it ripple through him like a ripple across still water. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the quiet, into her—the realness of it all wrapping around him like a favorite song he didn’t know he’d been missing.

No role. No act.
Just Mason—unfolding, raw, a little awkward, entirely present.

And for once, it felt like exactly enough.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just looked at him—looked at him—while the heat of his words still curled in the space between them like smoke. Mason’s forehead rested against hers, breath shaky, his body braced above hers as if the weight of what he’d just said had left him both untethered and grounded.

And God, her heart hurt in the best way.

Because he wasn’t posturing, he wasn’t performing. He was just there—unfolding, raw, unpolished, completely, achingly real.

She reached up slowly, her fingers finding the curve of his jaw and her thumb brushing across the corner of his mouth, where a nervous smile started to flicker.

“You don’t have to be anyone but this,” she whispered, her voice quiet, steady, meant only for him. “You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just… honest. And that’s more than enough.”

Her other hand slid to his chest, resting above the frantic rhythm of his heart.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Mason. Not with words. Not with confidence. Not with whatever you think this moment should look like.”

She let out a breath, her gaze locked on his. “This isn’t about how much you know or how many times you’ve done something or whether you forget where your elbow is supposed to go.”

A soft laugh escaped her—unforced, unguarded.

“It’s about this. Right now. Us. Figuring it out together.”

She leaned slightly, brushing her lips against his—not urgent, not even meant to lead anywhere. Just a kiss for the sake of closeness. Of anchoring.

And when she pulled back, her hand lingered at the base of his neck, holding him there. Close. Safe.

“You don’t need perfect lines,” she murmured. “You already said everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

She watched his face soften, and the tension in his shoulders started to ease. Then she guided him down just enough so that their foreheads touched again, her hands threading into his hair.

“I want this. I want you. Exactly like this.”

And in the quiet that followed, she didn’t fill the space with more words. She didn’t have to.

She stayed beneath him, holding him, letting the moment's gravity fold around them like warmth, like truth.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to lead.

She just had to feel.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason blinked.

Which, okay, was kind of a weak response to what she’d just said—but his brain was still back on “you're not behind.” Like it had to roll that phrase around a few times before it fully registered in the part of his soul that usually panicked in bold, italicized overthought.

You’re not broken.

God. What was she doing to him?

Somewhere in the mess of neurons firing behind his eyes, his inner voice was spiraling:

Don’t cry. Don’t make a weird joke. Definitely don’t propose marriage. Just—breathe. Smile. Look charming. You practiced this! No wait, that was for the monologue in Act Two—

Then she kissed him.

Just softly. No crescendo. Just warmth. Just her.

And in that moment, it was like every nerve in his body quieted.

She meant it. All of it.

And somehow, impossibly, that flipped something in him.

He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, forehead to hers, his chest rising slow and even now under her hand. The shaky breath was gone. The hesitation, gone.

“Okay,” he said, low and a little breathless. “That’s… kind of unfair. You say things like that, and then kiss me like that, and expect me to just survive it?”

His hand slid along her waist, fingers curling just enough to feel her warmth, her shape, his thumb brushing over the skin beneath the hem of her shirt—like he needed proof she was really there. That this wasn’t some stress dream he’d cooked up backstage.

“I was trying so hard not to rush this,” he murmured, his voice darker now, a little rougher at the edges. “But you look at me like that, say my name like that…”

He leaned in, letting his lips graze her jaw, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth—not kissing, not quite, just tasting the proximity of her. Building tension like it was instinct.

“And suddenly I’m not so worried about the lines anymore.”

When he kissed her this time, it wasn’t tentative. It was hungry—not wild, not unhinged—just sure. The way someone kissed when they knew what they wanted. When they weren’t performing anymore, just feeling.

His hand slid up, fingers threading into her hair, while the other settled low on her hip, pulling her closer like gravity had finally gotten tired of pretending.

He didn’t need a script.

Not when she gave him this. Not when she was this.

Unscripted. Unedited.

And now?

Now he was ready to lose himself in the scene.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan sensed the undeniable shift in the air long before she saw it.

Mason stood before her in one fleeting instant, his eyes wide and unblinking, as though she had upended the laws of emotional gravity—his mouth slightly agape, every tense line of his body a portrait of disbelief and awe. Then suddenly, he was there, grounded and present, drawing her into a kiss that felt like a culmination of unspoken truths finally aligning.

A soft gasp escaped her lips, and he drank in the sound as if it were something divine, held sacred between them.

His hand on her hip tightened just enough to tether her to him, pulling her flush against the mattress as if all the pretence of distance had evaporated and gravity had finally accepted their undeniable connection. When his fingers wove into her hair, her body responded instinctively, arching and curling beneath him, melting into the moment as if surrendering to their shared energy.

The soft fabric of his hoodie shifted with her movement, its hem inching higher over her thighs, unveiling more skin, more of her truth. She hadn’t donned it to entice him, not really. It had been a choice born of comfort and warmth—an embrace that smelled distinctly of him. Of safety. Of belonging. Yet now, it felt like a second skin, riding up just enough to make a silent declaration—a reminder that there was nothing else beneath it.

Mason's breath hitched as his palm brushed over the bare skin of her thigh, a revelation that did not go unnoticed.

Yet, he didn’t hurry.

God, how he didn’t rush.

His kisses were steeped in a reverence she hadn’t realised she yearned for—deep and slow, each infused with a sense of wonder. He approached her like a long-lost treasure as if he couldn't quite fathom that this moment was real. Each kiss felt like a gentle question, and she answered without hesitation.

Yes, I want this.
Yes, I trust you.
Yes, I’m still here.

Rowan’s hands slipped underneath the hem of his hoodie, the soft fabric now his, and pressed against the warm expanse of his lower back, pulling him closer, deeper—an unspoken plea for more. She didn’t articulate it. No words were necessary. Her body was now fluent in need and warmth, voicing everything she had once feared to reveal.

As he trailed kisses down her neck, deliberate and slow, she tilted her head back against the pillow, surrendering with a breath that felt like liberation.

Not weakness.
Not defeat.

Just a gentle letting go.

Of the masks she wore. Of the unrelenting pressure. Of every version of herself that had believed love existed only for the perfect.

With Mason, she realised she had nothing to prove.

She was already enough.

As his hands roamed with careful curiosity, exploring the places where her emotional armour had once taken refuge, Rowan permitted herself to remain in this moment. She was surrounded by the warmth of the boy who truly saw her, the weight of his body pressing down just enough to ground her, and the soft resonance of his breath grazing her skin like a whisper.

No lights. No stage. There is no rehearsed script.

Just them. Just this.

And in that electric pause—finally—nothing else mattered.

[Mason Hayes]

Okay. Okay.

Mason Hayes had officially flatlined.

There were probably still vital signs somewhere, but his brain? Absolute static. Like someone had unplugged the soundboard and left him with nothing but Rowan—Rowan, in his hoodie, Rowan under him, Rowan looking up at him like he was gravity and starlight and something worth pausing the entire universe for.

And then—then—his hand grazed the smooth, bare skin of her thigh.

Bare.

As in nothing underneath the hoodie.

As in—holy hell, she was wearing only his hoodie.

His inner voice was doing backflips. Actual Olympic-level choreography.

Play it cool, Mason. Don’t look like your soul just left your body. Don’t say something stupid. For the love of all things holy, DO NOT ASK IF THIS IS REAL LIFE OUT LOUD—

But his face had already betrayed him. Eyes wide, lips parted, pupils dilated like he was staring straight into the heart of a solar flare. He looked down at her—this girl who could shatter him with a look—and managed to find his voice, low and rough at the edges:

“Rowan…”

It was barely a word. More like a prayer wrapped in disbelief.

He hovered there for a second, caught between instinct and reverence, watching the way she breathed beneath him. The hoodie had shifted again—slipping higher—and he could see the warm flush blooming along her neck, her collarbone, her chest.

She was breathtaking.

Not just hot. Not just beautiful.

Breathtaking. Like art. Like truth.

His hand slid up slowly, reverently, gliding from her thigh to the curve of her waist, and then—God help him—up to the zipper of the hoodie. His knuckles brushed her ribs. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him.

But he still paused.

He looked at her—really looked—and asked the question without words.

Are you sure?

She didn’t nod.

She didn’t have to.

Her hand found his, steady and soft, and guided it to the zipper with a confidence that knocked the breath right out of him. Her touch said yes, her eyes said yes, her whole body said yes.

So he moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

The metal teeth of the zipper whispered open, one inch at a time, exposing warm skin and soft curves and the wild, perfect truth of her. She was radiant. And trusting him.

And Mason—God, Mason—had never wanted to get something so right in his entire life.

He kissed her again, slower now, deeper, his hand sliding beneath the parted hoodie to feel her skin, her heartbeat, the warmth of her against his palm. His forehead rested against hers, breath mingling, and for a split second he grinned.

“I’m not gonna survive this,” he whispered, voice rough with wonder and a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. “You realize that, right?”

Then his mouth was back on her neck, and everything else fell away.

No nerves. No doubts.

Just this girl. This moment.

And the kind of love that didn’t need rehearsal.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt a palpable shift the moment his fingertips brushed against her bare skin—a surge of electricity coursed through her, igniting her senses. Her entire body stilled in that heartbeat, as though she had stumbled into an unexpected scene that defied any rehearsal she had prepared.

And God, how she adored him for it.

His breath hitched in his throat, and she could see the surprise widening his eyes as if he had found himself in a place he never thought he was allowed to be. The depth of his gaze revealed his disbelief at his proximity to her—at the very act of seeing and touching her. It wasn’t reluctance that held him back; no, she could feel his want simmering just beneath the surface, every inch of him alive and aware. Mason Hayes was not just good; he embodied a rare goodness that felt almost extraordinary in a world dulled by indifference.

But sometimes, even the best boys needed a little encouragement to enter the light.

And so, with a gentle touch, she offered it to him.

Her hand found his, a warm, deliberate connection that radiated steadiness and assurance. She guided his movement with a soft insistence, allowing them to flow without strain or pressure—just the quiet permission of her presence. As his fingers reached the zipper, she held his gaze, grounding him with unwavering confidence, creating a safe harbour in a moment that could easily unravel.

“You’re okay,” her eyes conveyed messages far deeper than mere words, each subtle curve of her lips reassuring him of her trust. Her body remained open and inviting, the softness of her form embodying a welcome; it was filled with desire and patience. With the caress of her thumb, she offered gentle, deliberate circles on the back of his hand, fueling his courage as he trembled beneath the weight of their shared intimacy.

She felt Mason hesitate, suspended in a delicate balance between awe and uncertainty. Rowan sensed his trepidation and subtly moved to reassure him. She arched slightly into his touch, a nonverbal signal inviting him further—a silent declaration that he was welcome and that every hesitant movement he made was perfectly acceptable.

And when the zipper finally unfastened, inch by reverent inch, he looked at her as though he had just unwrapped the heavens themselves. Rowan met his wide-eyed wonder with an unguarded smile that radiated a warmth full of unspoken love and something infinitely sacred. She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, allowing the gesture to speak volumes.

“It’s okay,” her gaze whispered. “I trust you.”

Then he kissed her—slowly, deeply, and with a hint of trembling uncertainty. She responded kindly, pouring every ounce of tranquillity and assurance into their connection. There was no rush, no agenda; she anchored him with her presence, being exactly what he didn’t know he needed.

As his voice broke and he confessed, his voice laced with wonder that he feared he might not survive this moment, Rowan laughed softly—a sound so tender it nearly shattered her.

“You will,” she thought as he whispered sweet nothings against her neck, his fingers charting her form like a melody he had yet to realise he was familiar with. “You’re doing beautifully.”

This wasn’t about achieving some standard of perfection. It wasn’t about confidence either.

It was about trust.

And for the first time, she had offered it without reservation.

His lips found their way back to her neck, each kiss deliberate and reverent. Rowan surrendered to the sensation, closing her eyes as her breath caught in her throat, entirely consumed by the warmth of his mouth moving against her skin. He kissed as if he couldn’t fathom that she was permitting this closeness—every brush of his lips asking questions that she answered only with an endless “yes.”

Rowan didn’t rush him. She didn’t provide directions or fill the silence with playful banter, as she might have with someone else who didn’t matter quite as much as Mason Hayes. He required no performance—he craved nothing but the freedom to exist within this moment.

So she gave it to him.

Her hand remained on his, gentle and unwavering, providing the grounding he longed for. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers—barely detectable yet entirely real—the way he caressed her as though she might vanish if he pressed too firmly, as though the trust she offered was both light and fragile.

But it wasn’t.

She was solid beneath him, warm and entwined in the present moment, a delightful mixture of openness and yearning.

When he slipped his hand beneath the parted hoodie, his palm making contact with her bare skin, a hitch escaped her breath—not from anxiety but from the exquisite caution he displayed and the depth of feeling he was accessing.

He didn’t fumble. He didn’t rush.

He felt.

And Rowan welcomed him into that space.

Tilting her head, she offered him greater access to the delicate arch of her throat while her fingers threaded through his curls with reassurance, devoid of urgency—only fostering closeness. She felt his shaky exhale against her collarbone, but it was steadier now. The weight of him settled comfortably between her thighs, and still, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away.

She drew him closer.

“Mason,” she whispered—not to startle him, not to prompt a reply, but to breathe his name into the air—a gentle reminder that he was here, with her, and that this moment was theirs to cherish.

He lifted his head slowly, their eyes meeting in a moment of vulnerability.

And God, he looked utterly wrecked.

Not from raw lust nor fear but from something deeper—the profound awareness of being utterly absorbed in the experience.

Rowan smiled, soft and sure, a smile that wasn’t laced with seduction or bravado, nor did it demand answers.

It was an acknowledgement of being seen.

“You’re doing perfect,” she breathed her voice a hushed secret, a promise. “You don’t have to think so hard.”

Her hands moved gently to cradle his face, her thumbs tracing the contours of his cheekbones, grounding him in their shared connection. “You don’t have to know. Just feel.”

And he did.

Oh, how he did.

When he kissed her again, it transformed—a careful kiss that still emanated softness, yet beneath it simmered a burgeoning confidence—a confidence rooted not in mastering the skill of the kiss but in the warmth she imparted simply by being there with him. How she enveloped him, physically and emotionally, assured him that this boy—her boy—was undeniably worth every moment of slowing down.

And maybe, just maybe, so was she.

They remained like that, wrapped in their world, cocooned in trust and tenderness.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s breath trembled, caught somewhere between disbelief and devotion, as if he were trying to memorize the moment while still inside it. His hands hovered inches above her, reverent, like he feared even the weight of his skin might disrupt the sanctity of what they were building between them. The way she looked at him—unguarded and open, her heart glowing right there on the surface—was undoing him more than her bare skin ever could.

Don’t think. Just feel.

That’s what her eyes told him. What the warmth of her touch urged into his bones. What the rhythm of her breath, shallow and steady, was trying to anchor inside of him.

And for once, he listened.

He pulled back—not because he wanted space, but because he needed to look at her. To really look at her. She lay there in the soft sprawl of tangled sheets, wearing nothing but his hoodie and trust like a second skin. And it wrecked him. Not because she was beautiful—though she was, devastatingly so—but because she had chosen him. Not the polished version of himself he wore onstage or in passing smiles, but this quiet, trembling boy full of too many feelings and nowhere to hide them.

He stood slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

His hands moved with a tenderness that bordered on holy. No theatrics, no rush. Just a silent surrender. A soft unraveling. The cotton peeled away from his frame, followed by the rest—belt, denim, every last scrap of armor he’d ever worn to keep the world at arm’s length. He shed it all for her.

And when he stood there—bare, heart exposed in every possible way—it was not confidence that filled the space.

It was something far more fragile. Far more profound.

Trust.

He wasn’t trying to be anything in that moment. He simply was. And Rowan, oh God—Rowan looked at him like he was the last miracle in a world that had long since stopped believing in them. Not because he was perfect, but because he wasn’t. Because he was raw and real and trying.

He moved back toward her with aching slowness, drawn to her not just by gravity, but by the unbearable gentleness of knowing she would catch him.

He climbed into the bed like a confession. Carefully. Quietly. Until the heat of her skin met his and they both gasped—not from shock, but from recognition. From the undeniable knowing of something fated.

His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing the place just beneath her eye as if he could ease the weight she carried there. She leaned into his touch, offering herself not with performance or expectation, but the devastating grace of someone who simply believed in him.

Their foreheads touched, and for a moment, the silence between them was the loudest thing in the world.

“Mason,” she whispered. His name like a prayer, like an incantation, like she could pull him back from the edge of whatever cliff he was standing on.

He kissed her then.

And it changed everything.

No longer trembling. No longer uncertain. Still soft—but now with the kind of softness that comes from being seen and chosen and kept. The kind of kiss that said, I didn’t know I needed you until I couldn’t imagine the world without you.

Their bodies curled into one another slowly, cautiously, like two pages folding into the same story.

Every inch of skin they revealed was an act of bravery. Every touch an offering. Every heartbeat a vow.

And in that sacred hush where nothing else mattered, where time and fear and history fell away—they didn’t just fall.

They landed.

In each other.

Whole. Unraveled. Alive.

And when the world finally faded to black, it did so gently—wrapped in the quiet sigh of sheets, in the whisper of skin against skin, in the exquisite ache of a love that had waited so long to be fully felt.

Not perfect.

But real.

And somehow, that made it everything.

[Rowan Starling]

God, this was unfair.

Not in the tragic, star-crossed way her favorite characters always whined about. No. This was personal. This was the universe setting her up just to see how long she could go without combusting.

Because there he was—Mason Hayes—lounging like he owned the whole world, hoodie rumpled, back propped against her headboard like he hadn’t just casually wandered into her safe place and decided to make himself at home.

And she was stretched out across him, head in his lap, hair being threaded through his fingers like it was something worth lingering over.

Which, fine.

Maybe she wasn’t exactly fighting it.

The candles flickered low on her dresser. The fairy lights threw soft constellations across the ceiling. The scent of the cinnamon candle—stupid, traitorous, romantic—curled into the air like some secret spell she definitely hadn’t planned.

Her (https://i.ibb.co/fGPbLcJQ/40-B0766-D-1-E7-C-4-BC2-8-C21-6-A7631-F01166.png) voice dipped lower, almost automatically, as she read.

“‘You love me. Real or not real?’”

She deepened it a little, smirking when Mason’s fingers twitched against her scalp.

“‘Real,’” she added, soft, low, pitching it perfectly like the narrator was carrying the whole damn weight of the world on that one word.

She flipped the page with a flourish, grinning to herself when she caught him stifling a laugh out of the corner of her eye.

God, he was so gone.

And worse? She was too.

“You’re making it impossible to concentrate, you know that?” she muttered without looking up, voice dry, teasing, letting the corner of the page snap lightly against his knee. “If I forget who dies next, that’s on you.”

His hand just dragged lazily through her hair again, and she almost dropped the book completely.

Focus. Focus, Starling.

Another paragraph. Another scene. Her voice slipped easily into a rougher rasp for Haymitch, something snappier for Katniss, and a completely over-the-top velvet tone for President Snow that earned a low, half-stifled chuckle from above her.

“Don’t judge me,” she warned, pointing at him blindly with her free hand, not daring to break rhythm. “This is peak theater kid behavior. I’m contractually obligated.”

She smiled to herself when his fingers paused just long enough to tug a soft curl loose and let it fall back again, featherlight against her temple.

Her heart thudded in her chest, too loud, too real.

Because reading a book—her favorite book—with her head in his lap and his fingers carding through her hair like she was something delicate?

Yeah.

If twelve-year-old Rowan could see her now, she’d be disgusted. And stupidly proud.

She tucked her knees up a little tighter under the blanket, book resting heavier against her stomach now, voice softening as she slipped into another scene.

Quiet. Real. Uncomplicated.

She didn’t have to armor up around him.

Didn’t have to pretend to be cooler or tougher or sharper than she was.

Here—cinnamon air, fairy lights, familiar pages between her hands and his touch threading through her hair—she could just be.

“‘You love me. Real or not real?’” she repeated again, quieter this time, not because the book said so, but because it felt right.

Her fingers tightened around the book’s spine.

And somewhere inside her, deep and dangerous and thrilling, she thought:

Real.

Real.

Real.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she said it like that—soft and steady, not as Katniss, not as a character at all, but as herself. As Rowan.

As the girl who had slipped under his skin so completely he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began anymore.

His hand stilled against her hair for a second, heart hammering so hard he was pretty sure she could feel it through the denim brushing her temple.

Real or not real?

God.

She didn’t even know.

She didn’t even know what she was doing to him.

He let out a slow, uneven breath, the kind you let go of when you realize you’re sitting in the middle of the thing you’ve been wishing for without even knowing it.

Rowan Starling.

Curled up in his lap.

Reading to him.

Trusting him with her voice, her favorite book, her heartbeat tucked so close he could almost taste the cinnamon on her skin.

It was so unfair.

It was the most unfair, perfect thing in the world.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured before he even realized he was speaking, voice low and a little wrecked.

He saw her smirk from the corner of his eye—victorious, dangerous—but it didn’t scare him.

It made him want to kiss her so badly he ached with it.

So he did.

He leaned down, slow and certain, brushing his nose lightly against her hairline first—giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted to (she didn’t)—then pressing his lips to her temple.

Soft.

Full.

Unrushed.

He lingered there for a second, breathing her in, the candlelight pooling around them like they were sitting inside a heartbeat.

Then he whispered, against her skin, against the part of her that seemed to breathe for him now:

“Real.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, right above her eyebrow, letting his fingers slip back through her hair like he could stitch the moment into the fabric of forever if he was careful enough.

“You’re impossible, Starling,” he said, grinning against her skin, voice all warm and wrecked and Mason. “You set me up. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Another kiss, softer, closer to her temple this time.

“And for the record?”

He shifted slightly, enough to tilt her chin gently up with the barest pressure of his fingers, enough to meet her wide, too-bright eyes under the fairy lights.

“I’d say ‘real’ a thousand times if you asked.”

He kissed her properly then.

Mouth to mouth. Sweet and steady and absolutely unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of spending it anywhere else but here—wrapped up in her, in cinnamon and candlelight and soft paperback pages and every version of love that didn’t need anything flashy to mean everything.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against hers, smiling so wide he didn’t even try to stop it.

“Hope you know,” he whispered, thumb brushing slow and reverent along her jaw, “I’m never walking away from this.”

From her.

From real.

From everything they were building between kisses and broken sentences and smiles that hurt in the best possible way.

And as the fairy lights flickered like stars over their heads, Mason Hayes decided:

Yeah.

This was home.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t even lift her head from where it was tucked so perfectly in Mason’s lap.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.

She just smiled into the fabric of his jeans—quiet, private, a little too real for her own good.

Because of course he was saying things like that. Of course he was brushing her hair back with the kind of care that made her chest feel too tight. Of course he was sitting here like he actually meant every ridiculous, wrecked word.

God, he was so doomed.
And so was she.

“You’re such a sap,” she mumbled, the words vibrating against his thigh, lazy and affectionate and laced with way more fondness than she’d ever admit if he called her out on it.

Her fingers idly tugged at the hem of his hoodie where it draped near her hand, twisting it around her knuckles like she could tie herself to him in tiny ways he wouldn’t even notice.

Or maybe he would.
Maybe he already did.

She let her thumb brush slow, distracted circles against the side of his knee, heart beating steady and wild at the same time.

“And for the record,” she added, voice low and dry and stupidly soft, “reading Katniss was a tactical move. Full offense. No regrets.”

She smiled wider when she felt him shift a little under her, like he was trying not to combust again.

Good.

Let him be wrecked for once.

She tipped her face slightly, catching the edge of his hoodie with her nose, breathing him in—soap and cold air and something that had already started to smell like home.

“Real,” she whispered, just because she could. Just because it was.

A beat passed. Then another.

The candles flickered in the corners of the room, the fairy lights buzzing faintly overhead, the whole world narrowing to the soft scratch of turning pages, the steady, grounding weight of him.

Rowan grinned against his lap, smug and dizzy and stupidly, ferociously hers.

“Told you you’d lose,” she said under her breath, voice feather-light but smug enough to make her chest spark.

She didn’t even try to go back to the book.

She just laid there—fingers knotted in the hem of his hoodie, his hand stroking absent, reverent patterns through her hair—and decided that maybe losing to Mason Hayes wasn’t losing at all.

Maybe it was the smartest, sharpest win she’d ever let herself have.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason felt like he was physically melting into the mattress.

Not in a bad way—not in a "help, I’m a puddle" way (though if she kept smiling into his jeans like that, he was definitely approaching puddle territory).

No, this was a different kind of melting. The slow, steady, soul-has-left-the-body-because-it’s-too-happy kind. The kind that wrapped itself around his ribs and made breathing feel almost unnecessary when she was here, folded against him, whispering real like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Her calling him a sap? Her twining his hoodie around her fingers like she was claiming him in tiny, invisible ways?

Yeah. Wrecked didn’t even begin to cover it.

Mason grinned down at her—hopeless, wrecked, and absolutely zero percent sorry—and kept stroking his fingers through her hair because honestly? He was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to stop.

“Oh, you absolutely cheated,” he said, voice low and stupidly fond. “Weaponizing Mockingjay quotes? That’s emotional terrorism, Starling. There are probably laws about it.”

He felt her laugh—low and victorious—and it thudded through him like someone had struck the strings of a guitar wired straight to his heart.

He tightened his hand just a little in her hair—gentle, grounding—like he could anchor both of them to this exact moment. To the way she felt tucked against him, smug and soft and so stupidly, recklessly his.

“Gotta admit though,” he added, tipping his head back against the wall, letting the fairy lights blur and sway across the ceiling, “if losing means you smiling into my lap like I just handed you the moon?”

He exhaled a rough, quiet laugh, warm against the crown of her head.

“I’ll lose every time.”

His thumb traced a slow, absentminded arc along the shell of her ear, the kind of touch you don’t think about when you’re trying to be suave—the kind you fall into when you’re just gone.

And Mason Hayes was gone.

Gone on the way she made him feel steady without having to fix him. Gone on the way she could call him a sap and still lace his hoodie around her hand like she didn’t ever want to let go.

Gone on the way she’d whispered real back to him like it was a vow.

“Full offense,” he muttered against her hair, grinning, “you’re stuck with me now.”

Another long beat passed—just breathing, just fingertips, just the slow gravity of them curling closer without even trying.

Then, quieter, like he was telling her the secret that had been humming under his skin all night:

“And for the record?” he whispered. “You didn’t make me lose. You made me win.”

He bent his head, kissed the crown of hers—soft, sure, infinitely hers—and smiled into the candlelit dark.

Because somehow, unbelievably, impossibly—

Mason Hayes had found the thing he didn’t even know he’d been searching for.

And it was her.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan shifted before she could talk herself out of it.

Slow. Careful. Like moving too fast might shatter the fragile, burning weight of what she needed to say.

She pushed herself up, her palms bracing lightly against the mattress on either side of his hips, her head rising from his lap. The second she moved, Mason’s hand slipped from her hair—but he didn’t pull away. He stayed right there, looking at her like she was something holy.

God, he was stupid beautiful.

Fairy lights caught in the curls falling over his forehead. The soft, wrecked grin still playing at the edges of his mouth like he couldn’t help it. His heart practically visible behind his ribs.

Rowan sat up fully, facing him now, knees folded between them.

For half a second, she just… looked.

Let herself have it.

The reckless, terrifying, unbelievable fact that this was real.

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she leaned in.

She kissed him.

Soft. Steady. Like the easiest thing she’d ever done. Like punctuation on a sentence she hadn’t said yet.

Her hands found the sides of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring herself there as she tilted her head slightly and brushed her nose against his—slow, careful, a little bit clumsy in the way that meant it mattered.

And when she pulled back just enough to whisper it, her voice shook. Just a little.

But not enough to stop her.

“I didn’t think,” she said, breath catching on the words, “I could ever love someone like this.”

Her thumbs brushed over the edges of his hoodie sleeves, grounding herself in the feel of him.

“And I definitely didn’t think…” she swallowed, smiling—small, a little broken around the edges but still blindingly full of hope, “…that anyone would love me the way I am.”

Her forehead dropped lightly against his again. Their noses bumped. Neither of them moved away.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Raw. Real. Hers. “For seeing me. For staying.”

Her hands smoothed the front of his hoodie absently, like she could memorize every wrinkle, every bit of him that had stayed soft even when she had been nothing but armor.

“And for not running when I gave you every reason to.”

She kissed him again—quick, sure, a little desperate—like she could push the words deeper, make him believe them the way she did.

Because she did.

She loved him.

More than she had thought she was even capable of loving anyone.

And Mason Hayes?

He made it feel terrifying and easy all at once.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason Hayes could’ve actually levitated.

Like, physically floated off the bed and up through the damn ceiling, just from the way she said it—loved him—like it was messy and real and stitched right into her bones.

He sat there, completely wrecked in the most embarrassing, Mason way possible: stupid wide grin, heart hammering at hummingbird speeds, hoodie strings tangled around her fingers like she was tying him to her on purpose.

(Which, if she was, good luck ever getting him back. He was hers. Astronomically, cosmically, obnoxiously hers.)

His hands hovered for a second—like he didn’t even know where to start—and then he was everywhere at once: palms cradling her face, thumbs brushing under her jaw, forehead resting lightly against hers because standing the full blast of her saying those words without physical contact would actually kill him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, voice wobbling between a laugh and a breathless prayer. “Like, scientifically unfair. Weaponized adorableness.”

He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her cheeks. Soft little rapid-fire kisses like he was trying to cover every inch of her with proof that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d stay exactly where she wanted him, for as long as she wanted him.

“You think you’re the one who’s lucky?” he said, voice breaking into a bright, wrecked laugh. “Starling, I wake up every morning and can’t believe you even tolerate me, let alone—”

His throat caught.

He kissed her again, slower this time, hands sliding down to hold her face like she was something precious and ridiculous and absolutely necessary for his continued existence.

“I would stay through every version of you,” he murmured against her lips, so sincere it hurt. “The messy ones. The loud ones. The scared ones. The ones that don’t think they’re lovable.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her—eyes shining, grin soft and boyish and so full of stupid, endless love that he couldn’t have hidden it if he tried.

“I’m staying because there’s no place in the universe I’d rather be than right here, getting crushed by how much I love you and trying really hard not to cry about it like a tragic Victorian ghost.”

A beat.

He sniffed dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear away with the back of his hand. “Woe is me. Struck down by feelings. Felled by the hot, feral girl who thinks she’s hard to love. Somebody call the authorities.”

He felt her laugh—really laugh, against his chest—and the sound went straight to his ribs, softening every wrecked part of him.

“And for the record?” he added, tugging her closer by the hoodie strings she’d tangled herself into. “You’re never getting rid of me. You’re stuck. You read ‘Mockingjay’ quotes at me while cuddled into my lap. That’s legally binding.”

Another kiss, pressed long and slow into her hairline.

“Real,” he whispered again, the word humming right against her skin.

And God, if this was what being wrecked felt like?

He hoped he never recovered.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan couldn’t even pretend she was unaffected.

Not when he was looking at her like that—like she wasn’t just real, but the only thing that had ever been real. Like he was a dying man and she was the thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

It was… it was a lot.

A terrifying, bone-deep, curling-under-your-skin kind of lot.

And still, somehow, it didn’t scare her.

Because it was him.

Mason, with his ridiculous hoodie strings now practically wrapped around her fists because she didn’t know how to let go. Mason, kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks like she was made of something rare and precious and not just the sum total of her own messy edges.

Mason, who talked about being crushed by feelings like it was a badge of honor instead of something to be ashamed of.

God, she loved him.

She loved him so much it made her fingers clench tighter in the fabric at his chest, made her lean up and catch his mouth in a kiss that wasn’t careful this time—wasn’t sweet or slow.

It was hers.

Claiming him the way he already seemed to claim her, no questions asked, no terms or conditions.

When she pulled back, her forehead dropped against his again, breathless, burning.

“You are so—” she tried, voice cracking on the first word. She let out a huff, half-laugh, half-wrecked. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?”

It wasn’t mean. It was affection in the way she only ever gave it when she couldn’t find safer words.

Because what she wanted to say—what she was barely holding back—was I love you so much it feels like I’m coming apart.

Instead, she smiled. Twisted and lopsided and all teeth.

“And you’re stuck too, genius,” she whispered. “Legally binding. No refunds. No exchanges. You’re my tragic Victorian ghost now. Hope you’re ready for a lifetime of dramatic sighs and unnecessary angst.”

She tilted her chin up, brushing her nose lightly against his again, like she could nudge them both into a reality where this feeling didn’t have to be so scary.

It was just theirs.

“And if you ever try to walk away,” she added, voice dropping to something dangerously soft, “I’m showing up at your house with a baseball bat.”

A beat.

Then she kissed him again—quick, biting, more teeth than technique, like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.

The fairy lights hummed overhead, flickering gold against the tangle of their bodies, the barely-finished paperback still sprawled half-forgotten on the bed beside them.

And somewhere in the house, faintly, she could hear her mom calling:

“Food’s ready!”

Rowan didn’t move right away.

Didn’t even flinch.

Because Mason’s arms stayed tight around her, because his nose was still brushing hers, because the candles kept burning low and steady, and because whatever this was between them—

It wasn’t going anywhere.

Neither was she.

Not now.

Not ever.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason was stuck.

Absolutely, categorically, dramatically stuck.

Because here he was, in a fairy-light-lit bedroom that smelled like cinnamon and felt like safety, tangled up in Rowan Starling—the girl who loved him with teeth and baseball bat threats and ridiculous, soft, terrifying sincerity—and yet downstairs was her mom. Calling for dinner. Being the sweetest human alive and totally oblivious to the fact that he was approximately five seconds from declaring her daughter his entire universe in the most embarrassing way imaginable.

He groaned—low and dramatic, burying his face into Rowan's shoulder with all the subtlety of a boy who had already lost every ounce of chill he ever had. “I’m having a crisis,” he mumbled into her hoodie, voice muffled and completely wrecked. “Do I stay here and dissolve into a puddle of emotions with you, or do I do the responsible, good-boyfriend thing and drag us both downstairs before your mom thinks I’ve kidnapped you into some kind of literary-themed afterlife?”

He lifted his head slightly, giving her the most exaggerated, pleading, puppy-eyed look humanly possible. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, I'd love nothing more than to just stay right here forever—tragic Victorian ghost style, haunting your room with devastating affection and over-the-top declarations of love—but your mom made food, and I'm like, morally bound to respect your mother’s cooking.”

He sighed again, dramatically, pressing another quick kiss to her forehead before leaning back with an expression of profound, soulful suffering.

“You see my problem? My heart says ‘stay here and kiss your perfect face approximately two million more times,’ but my very strong need for your mom’s approval and those legendary garlic mashed potatoes says, ‘drag your girl downstairs and eat dinner like a functional human being.’”

He paused, tugging her gently toward him again, eyes shining with that hopeless, lovesick warmth. “Honestly, Starling, loving you this much is wildly inconvenient. It’s affecting my judgment, my time management skills, and my ability to form coherent thoughts. It's tragic, really. You should feel bad.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he swung his legs off the bed, keeping his fingers intertwined with hers as he stood, pulling her gently up after him—soft and steady and annoyingly sweet about it. He kissed her temple again, quick and sure, smiling into her hair.

“Come on, your mom's probably wondering if we disappeared into Narnia or something.”

And then he smirked, bumping her shoulder playfully with his.

“But later? You're mine again. No exchanges. No refunds. Lifetime subscription to Mason Hayes' patented dramatic sighs and Shakespearean-level declarations. You signed the contract, Starling. Now you're stuck too.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan tightened her grip on his hand as he tugged her upright, her face half-buried in his hoodie now because God, he was ridiculous.

And worse? She loved it.

Loved the dramatic speeches. Loved the forehead kisses. Loved that he looked genuinely torn between making out with her for eternity and chasing down garlic mashed potatoes like his life depended on it.

She bumped his hip with hers as they crossed her bedroom, her fairy lights tossing soft gold across his messy curls.


“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough that it still felt like a secret. “Otherwise I’d leave you to your tragic ghost fate and eat all the potatoes myself.”

She heard his scandalized gasp—full musical theater levels of betrayal—and smirked into his arm as she pulled open the door.

“And for the record?” she added, glancing up at him, her voice low and a little smug as their fingers tangled tighter. “You’re absolutely mine too. Lifetime subscription. No refunds.”

She leaned in, kissed his jaw—quick, wrecking, impossible to recover from—and grinned as he stumbled a step like she’d actually short-circuited his brain.

Then she dragged him toward the stairs with a wicked little tug, laughing under her breath.

“Now move it, Hayes. You can make tragic ghost eyes at me after mashed potatoes.”

Rowan tugged him down the stairs without mercy, their hands still laced like it was second nature now. She could feel him practically vibrating with nervous energy behind her—trying to act cool, probably overthinking every step.

She smirked to herself.

Good.
He deserved a little emotional chaos after how thoroughly he wrecked her upstairs.

The house smelled amazing—garlic, butter, something a little sweet underneath it all—and the low, familiar clatter of dishes made everything feel a little too normal after the way her heart had been trying to escape her chest ten minutes ago.

Her mom appeared around the corner first, grinning that soft, knowing mom-smile like she already knew every secret Rowan thought she was hiding. “Hey, you two. Dinner’s ready.”

Rowan flashed her a casual, easy smile, pretending her whole body wasn’t still buzzing from Mason’s hands in her hair.

“We’re coming,” she said, giving Mason’s hand one last squeeze before letting it go.

The second her fingers slipped free, she felt the cold creep in—not bad, not lonely, just… a reminder of how much she already missed him when he wasn’t touching her.

She shoved the feeling down and led the way to the table, where her dad was flipping through an old paperback like he hadn’t just heard them practically fall down the stairs.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, plopping into her usual chair without ceremony. She nudged the chair next to hers with her foot—the silent invitation obvious.

She didn’t need to look to know Mason would sit there.

She could feel him.

Could feel the way he hovered just a second too long before lowering himself down, still buzzing, still probably giving himself a silent pep talk.

Rowan smirked again and reached for the serving spoon, loading her plate with mashed potatoes like her stomach wasn’t doing slow flips under the table.

“So how was the market today?” she asked her mom, falling into the easy rhythm of dinner conversation like it wasn’t a big deal that her boyfriend was sitting inches away, trying to remember how forks worked.

Every so often, she felt his knee bump hers under the table.

Accidentally at first.

Then… maybe not so accidentally.

She didn’t call him out. She just shifted closer, letting her boot tap his sneaker, casual, deliberate. Her mom caught it—Rowan could tell by the way her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh—but said nothing, bless her.

Halfway through dinner, Rowan dared a glance sideways.

Mason was doing his best to look attentive, nodding at something her dad was saying, but his hand had drifted halfway across the space between them under the table, fingers brushing her jeans like a secret apology for every stupid, chaotic feeling he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Rowan bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too hard. She shifted again—just enough to press her shin against his—and kept eating like it was nothing.

Because this?
This was everything.

The fairy lights upstairs.
The garlic mashed potatoes.
The way his knee kept finding hers like he couldn’t help it.

Later, she’d drag him back up to her room.

Later, she’d kiss him until neither of them remembered why breathing mattered.

But for now?

She just let herself sink into it—the flicker of candlelight, the low murmur of her parents’ voices, the secret gravity pulling her closer and closer to the boy who’d already made himself home.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason was a goner.

Utterly, catastrophically, happily a goner.

He sat there, one knee bumping hers under the table like he physically couldn't help himself, trying to pretend he was listening intently to her dad talk about the local farmer’s market (there was something about honey samples? goats? he had no idea), but really, every brain cell he had was currently dedicated to:

A.) not making tragic Victorian ghost eyes at Rowan
B.) not reaching over and pulling her into his lap like some deranged golden retriever with a crush
C.) not proposing marriage because she brushed her boot against his sneaker like it meant something.

Which, okay.

It did mean something.

It meant everything.

Mason shifted in his seat, trying to casually nudge his fingers closer to hers under the table, as if maybe, maybe he could survive this night without combusting in front of her entire family and having to live with that particular brand of legendary shame forever.

Spoiler: he was barely surviving.

And when she bumped him back—light, deliberate, smug like she knew exactly how much havoc she was wreaking?

Yeah.

He almost dropped his fork.

He caught it mid-air like a freaking ninja, cleared his throat way too loudly, and forced himself to focus on scooping an absolutely inappropriate mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

(Distraction through carbohydrates: a time-honored Mason Hayes survival tactic.)

Meanwhile, Rowan was just sitting there.

Cool. Effortless. Absolutely gorgeous under the warm kitchen lights, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with this little half-smile that made his ribs hurt.

Real, he thought helplessly. Real, real, real.

She was real and she was here and she was—God help him—bumping her stupid perfect knee against his like it was some secret Morse code for "you're mine."

He swallowed hard.

Almost said it out loud.

Instead, he cleared his throat again (less ninja this time, more dying seal) and flashed her mom his most award-winning, all-American good-boyfriend smile. “Uh, yeah, the, uh... the honey samples sound awesome, Mr. Starling.”

Crushed it.

Rowan’s hand slid against his under the table. Not fully linking fingers, not grabbing him—but just... there. Brushing.

And Mason nearly blacked out.

He pressed his knee back into hers, slow and sure, answering her the only way he could without doing something massively stupid like standing up and announcing to her family that he was irrevocably, annoyingly, stupidly in love with their daughter.

(Yet. He wasn’t ruling it out long-term.)

He dared a glance at her out of the corner of his eye—and she was already looking at him, her mouth twitching at the edges like she was barely, barely holding back a laugh.

He grinned.

Big. Dopey. Gone.

Under the table, his pinky caught hers—just the smallest, tiniest touch.

And he decided right then and there:

He was never letting her go.

Not for all the mashed potatoes in the world.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan barely heard the scrape of chairs or the polite murmur of goodbyes.
Her mind was already upstairs.
Already two steps ahead.
Already tangled in Mason.

She didn’t tug him hard—just enough. Just enough pressure on the sleeve of his hoodie to say now without needing a word.
She caught the way his breath hitched. The way he followed without hesitation.
Good.

The door clicked closed behind them.
Fairy lights hummed low and golden.
The cinnamon candle flickered.
The book still sat abandoned on the bed.

Rowan turned.

And for a second—just a second—she let herself look at him. Really look at him. Hoodie rumpled, curls a mess, cheeks flushed from dinner and smiling and too much softness he couldn’t hide from her anymore.

She moved first.

Of course she did.

Fist curled in the front of his hoodie, dragging him down to her level, crashing their mouths together with zero ceremony.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t neat.

It was necessary.

Mason caught her with a groan—hands already sliding under her sweater, desperate and grounding, anchoring her like he thought she might bolt.

She pushed him back onto the bed with more force than she meant.
He didn’t complain.
Just landed there, stunned and laughing, wide-eyed like she’d knocked all the air out of him and he liked it.

Rowan didn’t wait.

She climbed after him, straddling his hips, pinning him with her knees against the mattress.
Watching his stupid beautiful face tilt up to her like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Her hands slid up his hoodie—slow at first, then greedy.
Warm skin.
Fluttering heartbeat.
Muscle and softness and Mason, all under her palms like he was built to be mapped by her touch.

She kissed him again, slower now, surer.

Felt the way his whole body leaned into it—into her—like he didn’t know how to exist without it anymore.

Good.
Neither did she.

Her hands moved without thinking—up his chest, dragging nails lightly just to feel him shudder underneath her.
He arched up into her.
Lost a sound against her mouth that she swallowed down like it belonged to her.

God, he was easy to wreck.

And even better? He wanted her to.

She barely pulled back—just enough to breathe against his lips.
His hands found her hips, squeezing like he thought she might float away if he didn’t anchor her.

She brushed her nose against his—soft, claiming—then kissed him again, slower, sinking into it like she could crawl inside his chest and live there if she wanted.

When she finally spoke, it was wrecked and breathless against his skin.

“Real,” she whispered, just to hear the way his fingers clutched at her.
Just to feel him tremble with it.

She didn’t need him to say it back.

She already knew.

It was written in the way he touched her like she was something sacred.

In the way he let her take whatever she needed without flinching.

In the way he kissed her like they had all the time in the world and he wasn’t afraid of any version of her, even the ones she still didn’t know how to name.

Rowan kissed him again, slow and aching, hands sliding over him like she was committing him to memory.
Every inch.
Every sigh.
Every heartbeat.

When they finally broke apart, she stayed there—forehead pressed to his, fingers twisted in his hoodie, breathing him in like she could survive off it.

The room blurred around them.
Fairy lights, candlelight, messy bedsheets, forgotten dinner plates downstairs—none of it mattered.

Just Mason.

Just this.

Just real.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason could barely see straight.

Not because of the fairy lights blurring into halos overhead or the soft flicker of the cinnamon candle, or even the way the world outside her bedroom door felt so distant it could’ve been another planet.

No.

It was her.

It was Rowan Starling wrecking him in the most exquisite, unfair, holy-shit-I’m-the-luckiest-dumbass-on-Earth way imaginable—straddling him, hoodie fisted in her hands, kissing him like she’d invented it and he was just some grateful idiot lucky enough to be the first to find out.

And God, he was so grateful.

He let his hands slide up her sides, fingers greedy and reverent at the same time, like he could somehow map every line of her if he just tried hard enough. She kissed him again, slow and deep, and he couldn’t help it—he arched into her, chasing the taste of her, making a noise in the back of his throat that would haunt him if he had even an ounce of dignity left.

(Spoiler: he didn’t.)

Still, there was a tiny, stubborn, wildly inconvenient part of his brain firing weak little warning signals:

Her parents. Downstairs. Still alive. Still possessing ears.

Mason groaned, half into her mouth and half at the injustice of existence.

His hands curved around her hips, squeezing lightly as he dropped his head back against the mattress, breathing hard, brain absolutely short-circuiting.

“Okay,” he rasped, trying very, very hard to sound reasonable and not like he was dying inside, “I wanna let you climb me like a tree, I swear—”

He broke off with a breathless laugh when she nipped at his jaw in response, making him shudder like a total loser.

“—but I’m also having, like, small, responsible thoughts,” he managed to gasp out. “Like, teeny-tiny ones. Whispering that if your mom walks in right now, I’m gonna have to change my name and flee to another country. Possibly one with no extradition treaty.”

Rowan’s breathless laugh puffed against his skin, smug and devastating, and he could feel her grin even without looking.

God help him.

And—because he was Mason, and he had the emotional impulse control of a golden retriever—he brushed his nose against hers, voice low and teasing and stupidly full of love.

“But also, not to, like, ruin the mood—” (he was absolutely going to ruin the mood) “—but I do kinda want to know what happens next in the book. Y’know. In case Peeta gets abducted by glitter aliens or something while we’re too busy making out.”

He tilted his head just enough to catch her expression—wrecked and amused and stupidly beautiful—and smiled, slow and sure.

“Fair warning, though,” he whispered, eyes sparkling up at her, “the second you finish that chapter, I’m dragging you right back down here. No escape. No survivors.”

He kissed her again, quick and grinning and so full of affection it practically hummed out of his skin.

Because real wasn’t just heavy and holy and terrifying.

It was also this.

The laughter against her mouth.
The knee bumping hers under the table.
The way he could still be wrecked by a single kiss and still want to tease her into laughing between breaths.

He tightened his arms around her waist, tucking her even closer, and whispered against her jaw:

“God, I love you.”

Then he grinned, hopeless and shining.

“Now. Read to me before I make even worse choices.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan couldn’t breathe.

Not in the bad way. Not in the panic way.

In the too much, too good, too real way.

The kind of breathless that only happened when the boy you loved was sprawled out beneath you, hoodie rumpled, cheeks flushed, voice wrecked from kissing you like you were gravity and he was just some idiot willing to fall forever.

She was supposed to be reading. Finishing the chapter. Being responsible.

Instead, she was hovering over him, laughing into his mouth, feeling his hands skim reverent patterns up her sides like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t memorize her right now.

God, he was ridiculous. Sweet and stupid and hers.

And when he rasped out that thing about responsible thoughts and fleeing the country? When he nudged his nose against hers like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss her again or breathe her in?

Rowan’s heart pulled so tight it physically hurt.

She grinned—wild and feral and so stupidly in love she didn’t care if it showed—and bumped their noses together again, teasing.

“You’re the one who started this, Hayes,” she whispered, voice low and warm, letting her fingers slip into his curls and tug just lightly. “Don’t act like you’re some innocent casualty.”

He shivered under her hands, and she felt it—felt the way she wrecked him. Felt the way he let her.

God, she loved him.

And when he joked about glitter aliens and “no survivors” and getting wrecked by a Hunger Games book, she laughed so hard she had to bury her face in the curve of his neck for a second just to catch her breath.

She pulled back just enough to look at him—Mason Hayes, lit up like some messy, beloved miracle under her fairy lights—and tucked his hair back from his forehead with the softest touch.

“Peeta doesn’t get abducted by glitter aliens,” she murmured, mock-serious. “But if you keep looking at me like that, you might.”

She kissed him—slow, deep, anchoring herself to the feel of his mouth, the stupid smile she could feel blooming under it even when he tried to kiss her back properly.

And when he pulled away, whispering “ I love you” like it was the only thing he knew how to say anymore, she felt it crack something open inside her.

Something permanent.

Something real.

She rested her forehead against his, breath catching on the edges of everything she couldn’t quite shape into words yet.

Instead, she kissed him once more—soft, quick, mine—then reached blindly for the book beside them, flipping it open against his chest without moving off him.

“Fine,” she said, voice lighter now, teasing, threading her fingers back into his hair like she wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon. “But you better be prepared to get emotionally devastated by the next five pages.”

She grinned against his jaw, feeling him smile too—lazy and wrecked and so stupidly in love she could taste it between them.

“Your fault,” she added, flipping to the right paragraph and clearing her throat with faux-dramatic flair. “You asked for this.”

And just like that, she started reading again—voice steady even as her heart beat wild under her hoodie, under his hands, under everything they’d built and broken and healed together.

Because this?

This was real.

And Rowan Starling had never been more sure of anything in her life.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason couldn't even think anymore.

Not in any organized, human way.

Not when she kissed him like that, forehead-to-forehead, fingers in his hair, flipping open that poor battered book against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world to half-straddle him and start emotionally demolishing him one paragraph at a time.

He was supposed to be listening.

Supposed to be following the plot. (There were rebels. There were districts. Someone probably needed therapy.)

Instead, all he could hear was her.

The sound of her voice—low and steady and threading straight through the middle of him. The way her thumb kept brushing tiny, unconscious circles into the side of his neck like she was trying to ground him but was absolutely making it worse.

He grinned up at her, utterly wrecked and knowing it, and didn't even pretend to be subtle about it.

"I regret nothing," he whispered, loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough to interrupt her reading.

(Okay. Maybe a little loud enough to interrupt her reading.)

Rowan shot him a warning look without even breaking cadence, flipping a page with a practiced flick of her wrist like she wasn’t about to physically end him with a Katniss monologue.

Mason smiled wider, teeth and dimples and every ounce of stupid, lovesick chaos he had left in him.

And then—because he was Mason Hayes and Mason Hayes had zero self-preservation when it came to her—he slid his hands back under her hoodie, fingertips skating lightly along the bare skin at her waist.

Innocently.

Supportively.

Emotionally responsibly.

Rowan’s voice faltered for half a second—barely—but Mason caught it. Caught it and felt it bloom under his palms like he’d just found a secret lever to completely wreck her.

He wiggled his eyebrows shamelessly up at her.

"Emotional devastation," he murmured, way too pleased with himself. "Thought we were a team, Starling."

She glared at him—half-hearted, mostly fond—and kept reading, but he could feel the way her knees tightened around his hips. Could feel the way her breath snagged a little more often between sentences now.

God, she was so easy to love.

So ridiculously, breathtakingly easy.

Mason leaned his head back against the pillows, hands still curved around her waist, and let her words wash over him—the book, the heartbeat in her throat, the fact that he could feel the exact moment she relaxed fully into him again, trusting him to catch her if she fell too deep into the story.

It was almost too much.

Almost.

He grinned lazily, closing his eyes for a second, and said—just loud enough for her to hear:

"Real, Starling."

Like a reminder.

Like a promise.

Like the only thing he wanted her to know—on the page, between kisses, under fairy lights, and every second after.

[Rowan Starling]

God, he was infuriating.

In that stupid, beautiful way that made her want to both kiss him senseless and shove him off the bed just for being so unbearably him.

Rowan didn’t even bother hiding her smirk when his hands slipped under the hem of her hoodie, fingers dragging slow, lazy shapes against her skin like he wasn’t actively dismantling her spine one featherlight touch at a time.

She tried—truly tried—to keep reading. To stay locked into the rise and fall of Katniss’s voice, the steady cadence that usually grounded her.

But Mason was not helping.

Her voice hitched. Barely. But his grin sharpened, like he caught it—like he knew exactly what he was doing to her and had zero plans of stopping.

She shot him a look. Behave, she warned silently, flipping the page with more force than necessary.

He just wiggled his eyebrows like a menace.

Rowan pressed her lips together, biting down the laugh that wanted to break free, and kept reading—but she sank closer, let her knee nudge against his hip, let her fingers slip from the book’s spine to rest against the side of his neck.

If he was going to be an emotional terrorist, fine.

Two could play that game.

Her thumb brushed the pulse point under his jaw, slow and deliberate. Felt the way it stuttered under her touch. Wrecked you right back, Hayes.

And then—because he deserved it—she leaned down between paragraphs, mouth ghosting along the edge of his ear.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, low enough that it melted straight into his skin, “and you’re lucky I love you.”

He exhaled like she punched the air out of his lungs.

Good.

She grinned, satisfied, and kissed the spot just below his ear, slow and lingering, before she pulled back and pretended to read again like nothing had happened.

(She didn’t even make it two sentences before she felt his whole body tense like he was barely holding it together.)

Victory.

Rowan turned the page, pretending she wasn’t fully aware of every place their bodies touched—her thighs bracketing his, the way he tightened his hands slightly at her waist every time she shifted, the way his heart beat so loud she could practically feel it.

And when he whispered it—Real, Starling—soft and reverent and so Mason she could’ve cried?

She didn’t tease him.

She didn’t joke or smirk or hide.

She closed the book softly against his chest, let her hands frame his stupid, beautiful face, and whispered right back:

“Real.”

A beat.

“And you’re stuck with me, Hayes. No takebacks. No extradition treaties.”

She kissed him then—full and slow, smiling against his mouth when she felt him melt into it completely—then pulled back just enough to see his face.

“Finish the chapter?” she teased, arching an eyebrow.

Then, softer, thumb tracing his cheekbone.

“Or should we just call it a win and start rereading from the beginning?”

Because honestly?

She could’ve stayed right here forever, tucked against him under a halo of fairy lights and cinnamon-sweet air, rewriting every broken piece of herself one page, one kiss, one real at a time.

And by the way he was looking at her—

Like she’d just handed him the stars without asking for anything in return—

She knew he would’ve stayed too.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason could’ve actually melted into the bed.

Right there. No ceremony. No goodbyes. Just instant puddle-of-feelings mode the second she said it—real—and looked at him like he wasn’t just her slightly disaster-prone, overly dramatic boyfriend but something bigger. Something he hadn’t even known he could be until her.

She framed his face in her hands like he was something precious, like he was something chosen, and Mason?

Mason was gone.

Hopelessly, gloriously, stupidly gone.

He grinned—messy, soft, wrecked—and tipped his forehead against hers, eyes fluttering closed for a second like he had to physically reset before he could even attempt to answer.

"You," he breathed, voice so low and full it barely made it past his lips, "could read the dictionary to me, and I’d still think it was the best night of my life."

He felt her laugh against him—quiet, bright, the kind of sound that made his chest ache in the best way.

"And," he added, because he couldn’t not, because he was Mason Hayes and emotional overkill was part of the brand, "if you wanted to start from the beginning? If you wanted to read the whole series out loud with dramatic voices and plot predictions and me crying at inappropriate moments?"

He opened his eyes, letting her see it—every ridiculous, too-much, heart-on-his-sleeve inch of it.

"I’d be the happiest, dumbest, most absolutely feral book boyfriend you ever accidentally signed up for."

He grinned wider, tilting his head to nuzzle against her palm shamelessly like a cat who’d just found his favorite sunspot. “Seriously. Want me to build you a blanket fort? Carve us matching Hunger Games-themed bookends? Start an unnecessarily aggressive book club with just the two of us where the only membership rule is ‘must worship Rowan Starling as literary goddess’?”

He felt her forehead thunk lightly against his again, her body shaking with barely-contained laughter.

Good.

That was the goal.

He brushed his thumbs along her hips, grounding himself in her even as his mouth ran away with him.

"Whatever you want, Starling," he whispered. "Finish the chapter. Reread the whole thing. Shove me off the bed because you realize you can do way better."

He smiled, soft and stupid and unbearably him.

"I’m happy doing anything... as long as it’s with you."

A beat.

Then he kissed the tip of her nose—quick, devastating, so full of affection it almost tipped him over again—and added, deadpan:

"But if we do start over, I demand dramatic President Snow impressions at least once every fifty pages. I have standards, Starling. Don't let me down."

And God, the way she smiled at him like he hung the freaking constellations?

Mason didn't stand a chance.

And he never, ever wanted one.

[Rowan Starling]

She hated him.

She hated him so much it made her chest ache. It made her fingers twitch with the urge to hold onto him tighter, to crush the stupid soft grin right off his face with a kiss he’d probably write a sonnet about afterward.

Rowan tucked her face against his hoodie for a second just to hide the stupid smile clawing up her cheeks. It didn’t work. Nothing worked with him. He short-circuited her defenses like it was easy, like she’d left the doors wide open and handed him the keys.

“You’re such a menace,” she muttered into his chest, voice wrecked and muffled and not even pretending to be annoyed.

She pulled back just enough to look at him again—at the wrecked, glowing mess of a boy who was somehow hers—and she shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe him even though she could, even though she absolutely could.

“You’re gonna regret asking for the Snow impression,” she said, dead serious. “I do an absolutely horrifying version. Like. Genuinely cursed.”

She watched his eyes light up, saw the little quirk at the corner of his mouth, and felt something in her ribs collapse in on itself. In a good way. In a terrifying, permanent way.

Because he meant it.

He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t trying to be the loudest voice in the room or the cleverest or the safest.

He just wanted her.

All of her.

Rowan exhaled a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and kissed him—quick, fierce, like she was anchoring herself before she got swept under completely.

“You’re the dumbest, sappiest, most annoying thing that’s ever happened to me,” she whispered against his mouth, heart slamming full-force into every word.

“And I love you so much it’s embarrassing.”

Her voice cracked a little on the last part, and she didn’t care. Not even a little.

She kissed him again—longer this time, slower—feeling his hands tighten on her hips like he needed her to stay right there, like letting go wasn’t even a consideration.

“I’m serious,” she said, pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against his again, breathing him in. “If you start crying when Rue shows up, I’m not responsible. I warned you. It’s brutal.”

She felt him laugh—felt it rumble up through his chest, into her palms, into her.

And Rowan smiled.

Not the guarded kind. Not the sharp, sarcastic kind.

The real one.

The one she only ever gave him.

“Now shut up,” she said, grabbing the book from where it had fallen beside them. “You asked for dramatic voices. You’re getting dramatic voices.”

She settled back against him, flipping to the page like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t just given him every piece of herself without even meaning to.

Maybe she had.

Maybe he already had them all anyway.

And maybe, for once, she was okay with it.

Because Mason Hayes wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was she.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say a word.

Which, honestly?
Miracle.
Historic event. Someone should’ve called Guinness.

Because every part of him—every loud, lovesick, over-caffeinated molecule—wanted to do something.
Crack a joke.
Make some ridiculous over-the-top declaration about dying happily in her arms if necessary.
Drag her back down and kiss her until she forgot what reading even was.

But he didn’t.

Because Rowan Starling, sitting there wrecked and real and brilliant, holding a battered book in one hand and half his heart in the other, had just told him she loved him.

Loved him.

Enough to say it raw. Enough to let her voice crack without scrambling to cover it up. Enough to curl up against him like there was nowhere else she wanted to be in the whole damn universe.

So Mason Hayes—resident golden retriever, emotional tornado, king of not shutting up—just… stayed quiet.

Stayed right there.

Let her climb back into his lap, hoodie strings dragging across his hands where he still held her hips like she might disappear if he loosened his grip even a little. Let her flip open that book and clear her throat with the most ridiculous faux-seriousness like she wasn’t actively ripping his heart into tiny, grateful pieces.

And when she started reading again—voice dipping low for Katniss, getting rough and sharp for Haymitch, and then—

Oh God.

Then.

That cursed, horrifying, deeply concerning President Snow voice.

It was awful.
It was glorious.
It was so magnificently, stupidly her that Mason had to bury his face in the curve of her neck for a second just to muffle the noise that wanted to escape him.

Rowan laughed once under her breath—victorious—and kept going.

Mason stayed there.

Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t ruin it.

He just listened.

Listened to her reading like it was stitched into her bones.
Listened to the way her voice softened around Rue’s name.
Listened to the way she made every word matter without even trying.

He breathed her in—cinnamon and home and the electricity of something he was so dizzyingly lucky to have found—and pressed the tiniest, softest kiss to the spot just under her jaw.

Not to distract her.
Not to start anything.

Just because he could.

Because sitting here, wrapped up in her voice, letting her wreck him one chapter at a time, was the best thing Mason Hayes had ever done.

His hands slid up under the back of her hoodie again—resting against bare skin, warm and steady, anchoring himself to her even as the story pulled them both deeper.

And he thought, half-dazed, half-certain:

I could do this forever.

She shifted slightly against him, still reading, and he curled his arms tighter around her waist like he was memorizing the shape of this moment.

No jokes.

No dramatics.

Just her.

Just real.

Just exactly where he wanted to be.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t pause when she felt Mason’s arms tighten around her. Didn’t stop when he pressed that barely-there kiss under her jaw, either.

She just smiled—small and secret, like it was a pocketknife tucked under her ribs—and kept reading.

Because she knew what he was doing.

Knew it without him saying a word.

He wasn’t trying to distract her. Wasn’t trying to turn this into some dramatic, movie-scene kiss fest (although, let’s be real, Mason Hayes could absolutely star in a tragic teen romance if he ever wanted to).

No.

He was just… here.

Loving her in the quiet. In the steady. In the real.

And somehow, that ruined her more than any grand, sweeping gesture ever could.

Her fingers shifted against the page, voice steady even as her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She leaned a little more into him without breaking the rhythm of the story—like gravity had given up pretending they were two separate people.

She felt the way he was breathing.

Felt the stupid hoodie strings tangled between them.

Felt the way his thumb brushed slow, absentminded circles against the small of her back like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

She loved him so much it made her stupid.

Without breaking stride—without losing the cadence of Katniss standing broken in the ashes—Rowan let her free hand drift up.

Found the side of his neck.

Curled her fingers there, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing the line of his jaw as she kept reading.

Because this was her version of a love letter.

Not the big, shiny declarations.

Not the fireworks.

Just this.

Holding him steady. Reading her favorite words into the air between them. Letting him know—without having to stop or apologize—that he was home.

She kept going.

Because if she stopped, if she looked at him right now, she was pretty sure she’d combust completely. And she wasn’t ready to be a pile of emotional shrapnel on her own bedroom floor just yet.

Later.

Maybe later she’d let herself really feel it—the way he made her soft and reckless all at once.

But for now?

She just smiled into the worn, familiar crackle of the page.

And kept reading.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink when she slid her fingers up the side of his neck like it was nothing—like he was nothing, just some living, breathing part of her she’d decided to keep.

And suddenly?

He wasn’t just listening to her voice anymore.

He was in it.

In the warmth of her weight curled against him. In the lazy cadence of her words filling the space between them. In the soft, steady orbit of two people who weren’t pretending anymore.

He thought: I could do this forever.

Then immediately thought: Wait. Seriously? Forever?

And then—because he was Mason Hayes and his brain was an anxious, over-dramatic theme park—he spiraled.

Because what if forever meant arguing over sock piles and forgetting anniversaries and not always being this okay? What if they lost this softness? What if he ruined it? What if she realized someday that she didn’t want a boy who quoted musicals and panicked over grilled cheese and couldn’t go five minutes without cracking a joke?

What if she outgrew him?

Rowan turned a page.

Shifted just slightly, breath warm against his collarbone, still reading like none of his internal chaos mattered.

And he smiled.

Big. Quiet. Wrecked.

Because that was the thing about Rowan Starling.

She didn’t ask him to always be okay.

She just let him exist.

Let him be.

So Mason Hayes—boy of many words and even more worries—decided, just for this minute, to stop spinning.

To let the quiet wrap around him like a promise.

To love her, not in the panicked, all-consuming way his brain was used to—but in the soft, steady rhythm of her voice and the way her hand fit so perfectly at the side of his throat.

He exhaled. Let his eyes close. Let her keep going.

And thought:
Okay. Yeah.
Forever doesn’t sound so bad.

But then—

Then she sighed.

Right in the middle of a sentence, soft and distracted, like her body was relaxing into him without thinking about it. Like whatever line she was reading couldn’t compete with the shape of him underneath her.

And Mason cracked.

He opened his eyes. Looked at her—really looked. At the way her lashes caught the fairy light. At the curve of her mouth as she kept reading, completely unaware that he was falling in love with her again, harder, right there on the spot.

“Rowan,” he whispered.

She looked up, blinking like he’d pulled her out of a dream.

And then he kissed her.

Not careful. Not playful.

Just full.

Of everything he couldn’t say without ruining the moment. Of every real and forever and please don’t go he wasn’t ready to voice.

Her breath caught, and her hands slid into his hair, and the book slipped somewhere off to the side without ceremony.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers, voice low and wrecked and smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I tried to behave. I really did. But you sighed. And I’m weak.”

And God, the way she smiled at him right then?

Yeah.

He’d interrupt a hundred pages for that.

[Rowan Starling]

She laughed against his mouth—quiet, breathless, a little ruined.

Then she pulled back. Just a little. Just enough to look at him properly, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her heart doing that stupid-soft stutter it only ever did for him.

“You’re such a dork,” she said again, like a prayer this time. “But you’re my dork.”

And then—
She fell.

Not hard. Not dramatic.
Just… back.

Let herself collapse into the tangle of pillows behind her like gravity had given up pretending she was supposed to sit upright anymore.

The book was somewhere on the floor now. Her sweater was half-ridden up from shifting against him, and the fairy lights above her head blinked soft gold against the ceiling, like they were trying to remember how to be stars.

She stretched one arm up, languid and boneless, then crooked her finger lazily toward him.

“Well?” she murmured, eyes half-lidded but still lit with that impossible fire she always carried. “You gonna kiss me again, or just sit there looking guilty and pretty?”

She was teasing. Barely.
But her pulse fluttered at her throat, and her voice was lower than it should’ve been.

Because the truth?

She hadn’t meant to fall—
but here she was.

Flat on her back.
Open. Waiting.

His.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason froze.

Just for a second.

Not because he didn’t want her—God, he wanted her, so much it made his ribs ache—but because she said it like that.

My dork.

Because she was laid out in front of him like an invitation, sweater crooked, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, and he could have her—all of her—if he just stopped hesitating.

His gaze flicked to the door.

A breath caught.

A full mental slideshow of worst-case scenarios tried to load: her mom walking in, her dad with a shovel, an unfortunate tumble off the bed mid-makeout, his entire existence being reduced to that one guy Rowan dated until he spontaneously combusted from emotional overload.

And then—

Then she crooked her finger.

Called him pretty.

Said kiss me again like it wasn’t already killing him not to.

Mason blinked once.

Then thought:

Fuck it. Worth it.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t make a joke or a dramatic fake swoon or even warn her.

He just moved.

Climbed over her like gravity had given him up too, bracing himself above her with one hand on the mattress, the other already threading into her hair. His mouth found hers like it belonged there—no hesitation, no apology, just heat and want and real.

This kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t patient.

It was now.

It was Mason finally letting go of the brakes, of the what-ifs and the maybes and the half-held back I love yous.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Like he’d waited his whole damn life for someone to see him, choose him, ruin him beautifully—and then let him do the same.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone as their mouths moved in rhythm, hot and breathless and stupidly, stupidly perfect. And when she arched just slightly into him, his heart nearly gave out on the spot.

They broke for air, barely, lips still brushing, his forehead tipping to hers like he needed that contact to stay grounded.

His voice came out hoarse and stunned and smiling.

“You’re gonna destroy me, Starling.”

A pause.

Then, softer—vulnerable and real:

“And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

[Rowan Starling]

She felt it the moment he froze.
The flicker of panic, the quick breath, the way his eyes darted to the door like he was bracing for impact—like her mom might materialize with a broom or divine judgment.

Rowan didn’t move.
Didn’t rush him.

She just stayed where she was, one hand still crooked in invitation, chest rising and falling like she wasn’t coming apart under the weight of want.

Because she knew him.
Knew the way his brain worked in spirals. Knew how easily he could trip on his own heart and call it a warning sign. Knew, too, that sometimes all he needed was a reason not to run.

So she gave him one.

Called him pretty.
Dared him to kiss her again.
Said it like it was nothing—when it was everything.

And when he moved?

God.

She could’ve cried from how right it felt.

He kissed her like the earth had stopped spinning and she was the only thing left worth holding. Like every ghost of hesitation had burned up on re-entry, and all that was left was them.

She arched into him without thinking, fingers fisting in his hoodie, mouth parting to meet every ounce of that impossible, consuming heat. It wasn’t neat. Wasn’t slow. It was honest. It was now.

And when he whispered it—

“You’re gonna destroy me, Starling.”

Her breath caught.
Because yeah.
That was the line.
The moment.
The beat where it all broke open.

“And I’ve never wanted anything—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She didn’t have to.

Rowan’s hand slipped between them, fingers brushing the hem of her sweater. Her eyes didn’t waver, not even for a second. Not when she peeled it up, not when her skin hit the air, not when her bare chest met the soft golden light of her bedroom.

No games.
No nerves.
Just truth.

Her voice came low, steady, and a little breathless.

“You don’t have to want it like that,” she said.
“Like it’s gonna break you.”

She reached for him again, slower this time—hand at the side of his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. Her body flushed against his, all skin and heartbeat and choice.

“I want you to have it,” she whispered.
“All of it. Me.”

A beat.
Then, a tilt of her head and a crooked half-smile, voice dipping into something sly and familiar:

“And before you spiral—yes. I locked the door.”

She leaned up just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth, then murmured against his skin, wicked and warm:

“Now shut up and let me ruin you gently.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s brain short-circuited in the prettiest way.

Not because she was half-naked in front of him. Not because she said me like it wasn’t a weapon aimed straight at his soul.

But because she knew.

Knew.

She read the flicker in his eyes like a line of dialogue. She felt the split-second where his heart leapt to his throat and whispered are we sure? are we safe? what if—

And she answered him without hesitation.

I locked the door.

That did it.

The knot in his chest loosened. The world tilted. And some ancient part of him—the one raised by a terrifyingly intuitive single mom and a lifetime of being the “good kid” who didn’t take risks—finally… let go.

Because if Rowan felt okay? If she wanted this?

Then there was nothing left to doubt.

Still, the words almost slipped out anyway. This is going to break me. He felt them, raw and trembling, right at the edge of his tongue.

But he swallowed them down.

Not out of fear.

Out of reverence.

Because she already knew. She’d seen it—seen him—and was still lying there with her sweater peeled off and her heart wide open.

So Mason Hayes—nerd, romantic, sometimes-anxious, always-too-much Mason Hayes—made a decision.

If I’m getting ruined, he thought, then I’m taking her with me.

He leaned in slow. Purposeful.

Let his hands slide up her sides—bare now, warm under his palms—until his thumbs brushed just under the curve of her ribs. His touch wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t timid either. It was reverent. Like he was trying to memorize the map of her before the stars shifted.

“You really want me to shut up?” he murmured against her jaw, lips brushing skin he was already drunk on. “Because that’s… bold, Starling.”

His mouth found her neck—slow, open, sinful—and he felt her breath stutter against him. That sound. That was going to live in his head forever.

“I have, like, five poetic metaphors and at least two musical references I could throw at you right now,” he whispered, words dragging hot across her collarbone, “but if you're serious about ruining me gently…”

His teeth grazed her skin, barely.

“...then I guess I should start with you.”

And just like that, he went quiet.

Mason kissed his way down her neck, letting his hands explore with more intention—fingers skimming over ribs, tracing the soft dip of her waist, sliding along the edge of her back where he knew she was most ticklish and least likely to admit it.

He took his time.

Because this was his offering.

Not rushing.

Not taking.

Just worshipping.

He kissed the top of her breast, slow and reverent, then looked up at her through the glow of fairy lights and breathless tension

“Still good?” he asked, voice low and wrecked and so full of her it could barely hold its shape.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just looked at him.

Eyes blown wide, lips parted, breath hitching right there in her throat—and then, slowly, she gave him a single, steady nod. No words. Just permission. Just yes.

Mason exhaled like he’d been holding it in for years.

“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. Like the word was a vow.

His hands slid down from her ribs, slow and sure, tracing every dip and curve he could reach as he moved lower—until his thumbs hooked gently into the waistband of her sweatpants.

He paused just long enough for her to catch his gaze again.

And when she didn’t stop him—when her breath caught and her fingers curled against his shoulder like she needed him closer—he tugged.

Not rushed. Not awkward.

Just steady.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly how lucky he was to be doing it with her.

The fabric gave way, inch by inch, exposing more of her, more warmth, more skin, more Rowan—and Mason swore he saw stars for a second. Real ones. Not fairy light reflections, not imagination.

Just the kind that came from being this close to something he didn’t think he’d ever deserve.

But God, did he want to.

He helped her shift, soft hands and whispered praise, his lips brushing whatever part of her he could reach—her hip, her stomach, her thigh—like he couldn’t bear the thought of missing a single inch.

And when her sweatpants were gone, when she was bare beneath him and looking at him like he wasn’t just ready but meant to be here?

Mason Hayes smiled.

Slow. Wrecked. Home.

“Okay,” he whispered again, kissing the inside of her thigh like a prayer.

“Let’s take our time.”

[Rowan Starling]

He didn’t look away.

Not once.

Not when she pulled off her sweater, not when her breath caught, not when her body gave itself over to the quiet, trembling trust of being seen.

And God—he saw her.

Not like a fantasy. Not like a girl in a borrowed moment. Like Rowan.

Like the whole, messy, complicated her—and somehow, he still wanted closer.

She felt the shift in him the second she said it—I locked the door.
The tension in his shoulders melted. The hesitation cracked. And something deep in his chest uncoiled like a thread pulled loose.

And then he touched her.
Really touched her.

His hands moved like they were reading, like she was a story he’d studied and highlighted and dog-eared with care. He didn’t rush. Didn’t take. He gave. Gave his full attention. Gave her warmth, steadiness, reverence.

Rowan felt her eyes sting—not from nerves, not from fear, but from how safe it felt. How easy. How real.

When he kissed her neck, slow and deliberate, she didn’t hold back the shiver. Didn’t try to bury the sound that slipped out of her mouth when his lips found that spot just below her jaw.

“Bold, Starling,” he whispered.

And she almost laughed.

Almost.

But then he kept going.
And every joke melted off her skin like steam.

Her body arched into him, natural, instinctive, her fingers curling into his hoodie like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. He worshipped her like she was something holy, and maybe for once, she believed it. Believed she could be soft. Be wanted without conditions. Be loved in that quiet, deliberate way he touched her.

And when he looked up—breathless, reverent, completely wrecked—and asked “Still good?”

She didn’t trust her voice.
Didn’t need to.

She nodded once, slow and certain.

Yes.

Yes, she was good.
Yes, she was sure.
Yes, she wanted this.

When his hands slipped lower, thumbs brushing her hips, she didn’t flinch. She watched him—eyes wide, skin flushed, breath trembling in her chest—and let him undress her like she was art he’d waited a lifetime to uncover.

She lifted her hips for him. Let the sweatpants fall. Let herself be.

And it didn’t feel exposed.
It felt… offered.

She was burning and grounded all at once, every nerve lit, every inch of skin a secret she was finally ready to share. Not because she owed him. Not because the moment asked for it.

Because she wanted to.
Because he earned it.
Because this was theirs.

And when he kissed her hip, then the inside of her thigh—slow, quiet, careful—she bit down on her bottom lip, chest rising like a tide.

He whispered it again. “Let’s take our time.”

And Rowan Starling, who’d spent her life building walls and setting fires just to see who would stay, looked down at the boy between her knees and finally let herself believe—

Maybe he would.

Maybe he already had.

She thought her heart might break from how gently he was holding her.

Not physically—though yeah, his hands were warm and sure and everywhere—but emotionally. The way he looked at her like she was something rare. Like he was afraid to miss a single second of this, of her, in case it vanished.

Rowan had been touched before.
Kissed before.
Wanted, even.

But never like this.
Never like she was being chosen. Over and over, breath by breath, without needing to shrink or soften or disappear.

Mason saw all of her.
And he stayed.

He was still kissing her like it meant something. Not hurried. Not performative. Just there. His mouth ghosting over the inside of her thigh like it was sacred. His hands smoothing up her sides, grounding her when she didn’t even realize she’d started floating.

She blinked hard.
Swallowed.

Her fingers found the back of his neck, tangled softly in the ends of his hair. She needed to touch him—needed that tether, that realness—because otherwise, she might start to think this was some dream conjured by candlelight and want.

But it wasn’t.

It was Mason.
Mason, wrecked and focused and wholly present.
Mason, who kissed her stomach like it had a heartbeat.
Mason, who made her feel like being vulnerable was a power, not a weakness.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice low and hoarse.

He looked up immediately.
Always ready. Always listening.

She cupped his cheek, brushed her thumb along the curve of his jaw like she was memorizing it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, barely above a breath. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Something flickered in his eyes—shock, gratitude, something deeper than either—and she saw it. Felt it. The way her words hit something soft and scared inside him and gentled it.

Then she smiled. Just a little.

“Still think I’m gonna destroy you?” she asked, teasing on the surface but layered underneath with something raw. Vulnerable. Hopeful.

Because maybe—just maybe—he was destroying her, too.

And she wasn’t scared of that anymore.
Not with him.
Not like this.

[Mason Hayes]

He didn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Because in that moment—looking up at her, flushed and radiant and entirely his—Mason Hayes forgot how to speak.

Something in him cracked wide open, quiet and deep, like the shift of a fault line. Her words hit like a match to dry kindling—You don’t have to hold back. And just like that, something ignited.

No more hesitation.

No more second-guessing.

Just her.

Just this.

Just now.

His hand slid up the back of her thigh, warm and slow, as his mouth found the inside again—closer this time. More deliberate. Less holy, more hungry. He kissed her like he’d been starving. Like she was the first thing in the world that ever made him feel full.

Still careful. Still gentle.

But no longer hesitant.

His hands moved with reverence, but purpose now—learning her by feel, by sound, by the way her breath hitched and her hips shifted in his palms. He wasn’t trying to rush it. He wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He was focused.

On her.

On every reaction, every soft gasp and stifled moan, every shiver he earned with nothing but patience and mouth and hands that only ever wanted to worship.

Mason was destroyed, yeah.

But he planned to take her with him.

Lovingly.

Thoroughly.

His tongue brushed against her, slow and coaxing, and the sound she made in response nearly undid him completely. His grip tightened—barely—on her hips, grounding her, holding her open and steady as he dragged his mouth against her like she was something meant to be devoured.

She was shaking now. A little. And it made him impossibly soft and impossibly hard at the same time—because God, she trusted him with this. With her.

He pressed one kiss—slow, deep, maddening—to the center of her, and then glanced up through his lashes, curls messy, lips already swollen, voice a low wreck against her skin.

Thank you, his eyes said.

Because she’d handed him something sacred.

And Mason Hayes?

He planned to treat it like the miracle it was.

So he went back in.

No talking.

Just kissing her like it mattered.

Because it did.

[Rowan Starling]

She couldn’t breathe.

Not in the panicked, drowning sense—but in that sharp, exquisite way that happened when something was too much and just right at the same time. Like her lungs had forgotten how to work without him against her. Like the air didn’t matter if he wasn’t the one drawing it from her.

Because God.

Mason Hayes.

His mouth.
His hands.
His focus—so unwavering it felt like gravity had shifted just to keep her still.

She wasn’t used to being touched like this.
Like she wasn’t just beautiful, but worth the effort.
Like every inch of her was something he’d been waiting to discover with reverence and care, not entitlement.

She couldn’t even speak.
Not when his tongue brushed her, slow and sure.
Not when his hands pressed down just enough to hold her in place, his palms anchoring her hips like she might float away otherwise.

She whimpered—quiet, guttural, honest.
Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers trembling, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

He just looked up at her like she was the answer to every question he’d ever asked. His curls were falling into his eyes, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was already swollen, glistening, hers.

And that look.
That soft, ruined, thank you in his eyes.

It broke something in her.

Because it wasn’t just want. It wasn’t lust or hunger or instinct. It was worship. And not the performative kind. Not hollow praise.

It was Mason.
Who overthought everything.
Who cracked jokes when he got nervous and memorized Sondheim lyrics for fun.
Who panicked about grilled cheese and prom and the possibility of not being enough.

And right now?

He was everything.

Her hands moved instinctively—one still over her mouth, the other in his hair, fingers threading through it like she needed the contact to believe it was real.

She felt herself shaking.
Not from fear. Not from nerves.
From how seen she felt.
From how safe.

When he pressed that kiss to her center—slow, deep, unhurried—she made a sound she’d never made before, something startled and wrecked and real, and she knew she’d never forget this moment.

Not ever.

Because she wasn’t falling anymore.

She was there.

Laid bare. Held steady. Loved in a way that didn’t require armor or performance or perfection.

Just Rowan.
Just this.

And with every breath, every pass of his mouth, every tremble he pulled from her, she let it in.

Let him in.

Because Mason Hayes wasn’t destroying her.

He was rewriting her.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t rush.

Didn’t press for more than she gave him.

Didn’t need to.

Because this—her breath catching, her thighs trembling beneath his hands, her fingers twisting in his hair like they didn’t know how to let go—was more than enough. It was everything.

She whimpered again, softer this time, like her body was learning the language of being adored in real time. And Mason… he answered in kind. With mouth, with hands, with devotion.

Each kiss was deliberate. Each flick of his tongue, a vow: I see you. I want you. I’ve got you.

His hands slid up her sides again, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing the soft skin just under her ribs. He could feel the flutter of her breathing there, wild and unsteady, and it only made him gentler. Not hesitant—just grounded.

He wanted to make her come undone slowly.

Like a story worth savoring.

He pulled back just a little, just long enough to kiss the inside of her thigh—soft and slow and sinful. He didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to. He felt her hand still tangled in his hair, felt her hips stutter like she was caught between begging him to keep going and needing a second to survive it.

When he did glance up, the sight nearly broke him.

Rowan, flushed and trembling and so damn beautiful in the glow of fairy lights, was looking back at him like he was undoing her in the most careful way possible.

And he was.

God, he was trying so hard not to get lost in her completely.

But the way she watched him—the way she held eye contact even when her lips were parted and her lashes fluttered and her body writhed beneath his mouth—made restraint impossible. Made worship feel like instinct.

He leaned in again.

This time slower. Deeper. More.

Her gasp cracked in the middle, and his fingers flexed on her thighs, holding her open, holding her close. His tongue moved with purpose now—measured, teasing, learning—and every time she gasped or whimpered or arched into him, he adjusted.

He memorized her like this.

Because it mattered.

Because she mattered.

And when her body started to shake harder, when the tension built behind her thighs and in her stomach and in the way her fingers gripped his curls like a lifeline—

Mason didn’t let up.

Didn’t speed up.

Just anchored her.

With mouth, with hands, with everything.

Because he could feel it.

She was close.

And when she unraveled, he wanted it to be slow and devastating and holy.

Exactly the way she’d undone him.

Exactly the way she deserved.

[Rowan Starling]

She was shaking.

Every breath, every nerve, every inch of her felt strung up on a wire pulled tight—tighter—just waiting to snap. But it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t panic.

It was him.

It was Mason.

His mouth. His hands. His absolute, unshakable focus. Like she was the only thing that had ever held his attention long enough to ruin him.

And God, she was ruined, too.

Her fingers were knotted in his hair, probably too tight, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in deeper—tongue slow, deliberate, devastating. She could feel how much he cared in the way he moved. How much he loved her.

And it was love.

Being known.

Being wanted.

Being undone by someone who wasn’t trying to take anything from her—just give.

Her hips arched instinctively, breath breaking into a gasp so sharp it nearly startled her. But Mason didn’t falter. He just tightened his hold on her thighs, anchoring her like he wanted to hold her through it. Through all of it.

Rowan’s eyes fluttered closed, her head tipping back against the pillow. The fairy lights behind her eyelids blurred into a soft haze, and the pressure building in her stomach was coiling tight, tighter, almost.

She tried to breathe through it.
Tried to keep control.

But he was relentless in the gentlest way. Tasting her like a secret. Kissing her like a prayer.

And when he shifted just slightly—his mouth dragging against her in a way that felt like poetry and sin—something inside her broke.

A whimper escaped her lips.
High, strangled, helpless.

And that was it.

Her body arched once—sharp, instinctive—fingers clenching in his hair, thighs trembling under his hands, and then she shattered.

Completely.

Beautifully.

Right there in his arms.

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t showy.

It was real.

Soft and slow and utterly consuming, like her entire body had just exhaled all the pain she’d ever carried and made room for him instead.

She collapsed into the pillows, chest rising in uneven breaths, skin flushed and glowing, fingers still twitching where they’d held him like a lifeline.

And when she finally looked down at him—still between her legs, still hers—she didn’t even try to smile.

She just looked at him.

Wrecked. Raw.
So full of love it almost hurt.

And she whispered, voice barely there, but real:

“Hi.”

Because it was all she could manage.

Because what else do you say to the boy who just made you feel like that?

[Mason Hayes]

He looked up the moment she whispered it—hi—like it was the only word that had ever mattered.

Mason’s mouth was kiss-swollen, his curls a mess from where her fingers had clutched them, and his cheeks were flushed pink with exertion and something more sacred. Reverence. Worship.

But when he met her eyes?

He smiled.

Soft. Wrecked. So in love he didn’t know where to put it all.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

He just shifted forward, slow and steady, pressing the gentlest kiss to her inner thigh before he made his way up. One kiss at a time. Her hip. Her stomach. The place between her ribs and heart, where her breath hitched again because he wasn’t trying to start something—

He was honoring it.

All of it.

All of her.

By the time he reached her face, he was breathing a little unevenly too, like holding himself together had been a full-body effort. He hovered over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other brushing a stray curl from her damp temple.

Then, finally—finally—he kissed her.

Not frantic. Not hungry.

Just full.

Of everything he couldn’t say.

It lingered. Tasted like love and sweat and the candle still flickering nearby, but mostly like her—like something real he was lucky enough to be part of.

When he pulled back, his voice came rough, unsteady.

“…Hi.”

Then softer, eyes scanning her face like she might vanish if he blinked too long:

“Are you okay?”

Because that’s who Mason was.

Even now. Especially now.

Still making sure she was safe.

Still asking, even after she’d given him everything.

Still treating her like the rarest thing in the room—even when she was curled in sweatpants, beneath fairy lights, flushed and breathless and wrecked in the best way possible.

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together slowly, reverently, like it was the most important part of this whole moment.

Because maybe it was.

[Rowan Starling]

She squeezed his hand.

Not hard. Not dramatic.
Just enough to say yes.
Enough to say I’m here. I’m okay. I’m yours.

Her throat felt tight. Not from tears—though yeah, they were dangerously close—but from the sheer weight of it all.

What he’d just given her.
What she’d let herself feel.
What it meant that he was still looking at her like that.

God, that look.

Like she was magic and miracle and myth all tangled into one girl with smudged eyeliner and a cracked voice and hands that still hadn’t figured out where to land.

She reached up slowly, brushed her thumb across his bottom lip. It was swollen. Kiss-bitten. A little messy from her.

And yet—he smiled.

That wrecked, dazed, home kind of smile that undid her more than anything else ever could.

“I’m more than okay,” she whispered. “You…” Her voice cracked, and she let it. “You made me feel—”

She didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

Because he kissed her again.
Softer this time.
Slower.

And when their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the space between them, she let herself say the rest in a whisper too raw to take back:

“I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

A beat.

A breath.

And then—because she was still Rowan Starling, still incapable of staying too soft without flinching just a little—she gave him the tiniest smirk.

“Also, for the record,” she murmured, voice dry again, “that was definitely louder than I meant to be.”

Then, quieter:

“But you didn’t seem to mind.”

And he laughed—wrecked and breathless against her skin—and just like that, the room filled with something even stronger than silence.

Belonging.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the cocky kind. Not the boyish, over-the-top grin he used when he was trying to be funny or flirt his way out of trouble. No—this was different.

This was quiet. Warm. A little stunned. A little reverent.

She’d just handed him the moon, and he was still standing there blinking at the sky, wondering how the hell he got this lucky.

He stayed close—forehead against hers, one hand still twined with hers between their bodies, the other lightly brushing up and down the side of her hip like he couldn’t quite stop touching her, even if it was the softest kind of contact. Even if it was just to prove she was real and here and his.

Her voice, soft and raw and holy in the hush between them, made his chest ache in the best way. I didn’t know it could feel like that.

He wanted to respond with something brilliant. Something poetic. Or at least something that didn’t sound like his brain had been temporarily replaced with static.

Instead, he kissed her hand.

Right in the center of her palm, soft and slow and sincere, like she’d just said I love you and he wanted her to feel it returned without having to say a word.

And then she smirked.

That made him laugh—low, startled, and delightfully wrecked all over again.

“Louder than you meant to be?” he repeated, one eyebrow arched as he pulled back just enough to look at her properly. His curls were a mess, his face flushed, but his eyes were clear and glinting with mischief now. “Rowan, I was pretty sure we were gonna get a knock on the door and a pamphlet about purity.”

She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a snort, and Mason couldn’t help it—he beamed.

“You didn’t just wake the house, Starling,” he added, tone faux-serious. “You woke the spirits of our ancestors. They’re probably floating around, high-fiving each other and whispering, ‘damn, kid’s got stamina.’”

She slapped his chest lightly, and he caught her wrist, grinning down at her like she was the punchline and the poem.

“I’m kidding,” he said, voice dropping, affectionate and warm. “They didn’t hear a thing.”

He hadn’t worried about it.

Not during.

Not when she’d been shivering under his hands and gasping into his mouth and falling apart so beautifully that the only thing he could possibly think about was her. Her face. Her voice. The way she gave herself over like trust wasn’t something she’d ever struggled with.

And now, looking at her—flushed and tangled in fairy lights, lips still parted slightly from all the things she hadn’t said yet—he couldn’t imagine thinking about anything else. Ever.

Still, a small, slightly wicked smile tugged at his lips.

“Although,” he said, dropping his head to nuzzle along her jaw, kissing the soft underside near her ear, “one day…”

Another kiss, lower now, her shoulder, her collarbone.

“…when it’s just us?”

He felt her breath catch.

“No risk. No parents. No polite post-dinner small talk hanging over our heads…”

He kissed her chest, right over her heart, and whispered:

“I’m going to make you that loud on purpose.”

Then he pulled back, not to be smug, not to smirk—but to meet her eyes.

And when he did, everything in him softened.

“I want to learn every way you say yes,” he said. “Every sound, every breath, every look. All of it.”

He kissed her once more. Slow. Purposeful.

Then tucked her against his chest, pulled the blankets up over both of them, and whispered:

“Until then… this is perfect.”

And God, it was.

Because the girl in his arms didn’t just take up space in this bed.

She took up space in him.

[Rowan Starling]

He said it like a vow.

Not just the words—I want to learn every way you say yes—but everything that came before and after. Every kiss. Every breath. Every careful brush of his fingers up and down her side like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

And maybe that’s what undid her most.

Not the teasing. Not the way he nuzzled into her neck like he’d live there if she let him. Not even the way he smiled when she groaned at his stamina joke, like she was his favorite sound on Earth.

It was this.
The part where he meant it.

He meant it.

Rowan had never been someone’s miracle before.

She’d been a secret. A crush. A distraction. A girl with sharp eyes and sharper boundaries. But with Mason?

She was sacred.

He looked at her like she’d handed him something holy—and not just her body, but her trust. Her walls, broken open. Her quiet. Her fire. Her yes.

And he kissed her like it was the first time every time. Even now.

Even after.

She felt the heat settle low in her belly again when he said it—when it’s just us… I’m going to make you that loud on purpose—but it wasn’t lust this time.

It was love.

Messy and overwhelming and terrifying. But safe.

She let him pull the blanket over them. Let her body tuck naturally into the curve of his chest, her arm slung across his stomach, her bare leg tangled between his. He was warm and steady and so close it made her breath stutter all over again.

And when he whispered this is perfect, she felt it land.

Right in the place where doubt used to live.

She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Then leaned up, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, the spot right between his brows.

“You really mean it, huh,” she whispered. Not a question. Not really.

But he nodded anyway. Sleepy and sure.

Rowan sighed.

Then—because she couldn’t help herself—she smirked, voice barely above a murmur as she pressed her lips to his jaw.

“Good,” she breathed.
“Because I’m not done saying yes.”

And then she curled into him fully, every inch of her bare and unafraid, and thought—

So this is what it feels like.
To be chosen.
To be kept.
To belong.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason lay on his side, propped on one elbow, the blanket pooled at his waist and Rowan’s warmth folded into him like a missing piece he’d finally found. Her breathing had steadied—soft, rhythmic—but the tremor in her limbs still pulsed beneath his palms. He eased a hand through her hair, combing the curls away from her damp temple, letting the back-and-forth motion settle both of them.

His gaze drifted to the closed, blessedly locked door. Relief flickered there, quickly replaced by a low hum of anticipation. One day, without walls and parents and polite conversations waiting downstairs, he’d coax every unguarded sound from her throat. He’d memorize them the way he memorized guitar chords—patiently, reverently—until each note felt like music he’d written for her alone.

But not tonight.

Tonight she deserved the gentle rise after the crest, the quiet after the storm.

He brushed his lips across her hairline. “Water break,” he murmured, the words half-laugh, half-command. He eased away just far enough to snag the forgotten water bottle from the nightstand, twisting the cap and holding it to her lips until she drank a few slow sips. When she finished, he set it aside and drew the blanket higher around her shoulders.

His hand stayed at her waist, thumb tracing lazy patterns against bare skin. “You know,” he said quietly, voice threaded with awe more than teasing now, “every plan I made for my life just rearranged itself tonight. Didn’t even ask permission.” He smiled, soft and helpless, when her fingers tightened on his chest in reply. “Pretty sure the new blueprint starts with, ‘Make her say yes again,’ and just… spirals from there.”

He dipped to kiss the corner of her mouth—one slow press, nothing that asked for more than she could give. Then he ducked lower, visiting the steady thud of her heartbeat with his lips. “Whole universe in there,” he whispered, barely louder than breath. “I want to explore every part of it, but not at full speed.” His smile crooked, gentle and teasing all at once. “Gotta pace myself. Wouldn’t be very chivalrous to wear out my tour guide on the first night.”

She shifted closer, the motion stealing his words for a heartbeat. He tucked her beneath his chin, locking their steady breathing into the same rhythm, one palm at the base of her spine—grounding, promising, content to wait.

Outside the window, the night hummed with quiet cricket song and distant street noise, but inside the room everything had narrowed to cinnamon candlelight and the pulse beneath his fingertips. Mason felt it—the delicate equilibrium between desire and care, between already and not-yet—and decided he could live in this balance forever if that’s what she needed.

Still, his grin returned, playful and certain. “Recovery time granted,” he murmured against her hair. “But fair warning—there’s a countdown running in my head.” He let his thumb sweep a final lazy circle on her hip. “When it hits zero, I fully intend to test your volume settings again.”

For now, though, he stayed perfectly still, listening to her breathing, imprinting this softness in memory. Let tomorrow have its louder symphonies. Tonight belonged to hushed promises, recovering heartbeats, and the sweet, steady knowledge that the next time she was ready to say yes—he’d be there, waiting, more than willing to listen.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt weightless. Not the kind that came from floating, but the kind that followed release—after you’d carried something heavy for too long and finally, finally set it down. She was curled against Mason, her body bare and flushed and warm, her cheek resting against his chest where his heartbeat thudded slow and steady. His fingers traced lazy circles against her hip, grounding her, soothing her, like she was something fragile he intended to keep whole.

She didn’t know how he did it. How he made her feel like this. Like all the sharp edges she spent years perfecting didn’t scare him off—like they only made him want to get closer. He’d seen all of her. Every scar, every wall, every soft part she’d tried to hide beneath sarcasm and silence. And instead of turning away, he had leaned in. Loved her anyway.

Her body still pulsed with aftershocks—small, aching reminders of how completely he’d touched her, how fully she’d let herself be held. But her mind was quiet now. Finally. The noise was gone. The self-doubt. The bracing. The instinct to bolt before someone changed their mind. She was here. With him. And she was safe.

She exhaled slowly, the breath rising into the hush between them like a confession. “I’m so happy,” she whispered. Her voice cracked just slightly, but she didn’t hide it. Didn’t pull back. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

She felt him still against her, still listening, still there. So she kept going—eyes closed now, words drowsy and full of something deeper than sleep. “I didn’t think I’d ever be this safe with someone,” she murmured. “Didn’t think I’d ever want to stay.” A pause. Her hand slid along his side, fingertips splayed, like she needed to feel more of him just to believe he was real.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she breathed, barely audible now, “but I’m so glad I get to keep you.”

Sleep was pulling at her in waves, soft and irresistible. But just before it took her, she pressed one final truth into the quiet space between them. No armor. No defense.

“I’m in love with you, Mace.”

And then she was still. Held safe in his arms. Letting go of everything she used to be afraid of, and dreaming—for the first time in a long time—of everything she might get to keep.

[Mason Hayes]

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t so much as shift the rhythm of his breath when she said it—not because he wasn’t shattered by it, but because he was. Completely. Wordlessly. Gloriously undone.

Rowan Starling, curled against him like gravity had finally decided to be kind, had just said the words he’d imagined a thousand times in the safety of his own head. And none of those imagined versions came close to this.

To her voice—hoarse and sleepy and laced with truth.

To the way her fingers curled against his ribs like she was claiming him even in her exhaustion.

To the crack in her words when she said “I’m so happy” like it surprised her.

God.

He felt like he was being stitched together by the very thing that wrecked him.

Mason stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide and wet in the dark, his heart thudding so loud he was afraid it might wake her. But she was already drifting—breath slowing, muscles softening, trust settling into every inch of where her skin touched his.

He let his hand drift from her hip to her back, splaying wide across her spine like he could shield her from every cold thing in the world. His thumb swept once, twice, a silent promise written in movement.

I’m not going anywhere.

He kissed the crown of her head, slow and reverent.

“I’m yours, Starling,” he whispered into her hair, so soft it was more prayer than reply. “Always.”

And maybe she didn’t hear him.

Maybe she was already too far gone in that warm, weightless place she finally let herself sink into.

But he said it anyway.

Because love wasn’t just what you said when someone was awake to hear it. It was what you said when they were safe enough to sleep in your arms. What you meant when you traced circles on their back long after the words had been spoken.

He smiled into the dark, his lips brushing her temple, her name on repeat in his chest like a heartbeat.

She’d said she was in love with him.

And Mason Hayes?

He’d never slept better in his life.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan woke to the hush of early light and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Mason was still asleep, warm and tangled around her, his arm slung low across her waist, fingers curled softly against her skin like his body hadn’t gotten the message that the night was over.

She didn’t move right away.

Just lay there.

Let herself feel the weight of it—of him—of how impossibly safe she felt in the quiet cocoon of their closeness. The candle had gone out sometime in the night, leaving only the faint trace of cinnamon and wax, and the golden blur of sunlight slipping in through the curtains.

He was still here.

Still wrapped around her like she was something to protect, not possess. Still anchoring her, like sleep hadn’t undone the part of him that always, always reached for her.

She shifted slowly, careful not to wake him too fast, and turned to face him. His features were soft in sleep—peaceful in a way they never were when he was awake and overthinking and trying too hard to be enough. His curls were a mess. His lips barely parted. His lashes cast small shadows across his cheeks.

Her heart ached in that quiet, full way that always came with looking at him too long.

She reached up gently, brushed her finger along the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t stir.

So she did it again—slow, feather-light, from the space between his eyebrows down to the tip of his nose and back up, her touch more reverent than playful. Like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Mason,” she whispered, her voice still raw from sleep and everything that came before it.

Still, he didn’t wake—not fully. He shifted, faintly, breath catching for just a second before it settled again. But his expression didn’t change.

She smiled.

Leaned in, tucked a strand of hair away from his face, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured. “And I love you so much it’s actually becoming a problem.”

He made a faint sound—almost a sigh, maybe a groan—but still didn’t open his eyes.

She bit her lip, then let it go. Rested her forehead gently against his.

And whispered one more time, softer than the rest:

“Still true, by the way.”

Then she closed her eyes again, let herself fall back into the safety of his arms, her hand finding his chest, her breathing syncing to his. No rush. No fear. Just her, and him, and the echo of I love you still humming softly in the space between them.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stirred slowly.

Not the jarring kind of wakefulness, but something gentler—like the warmth of her voice had slipped into his sleep and brought him back piece by piece. His lashes fluttered. His breathing hitched softly. And then he sighed, content and unhurried, like every part of him already knew he was exactly where he wanted to be.

His arm tightened around her waist, palm splayed protectively over the curve of her back, fingers flexing once like they didn’t quite believe she was real. Still here. Still his.

He cracked one eye open and found her watching him.

That smile—the one that always undid him in the quietest way—already blooming across her face. Her hair was a little wild, her cheeks flushed from sleep and candlelight memories, and her eyes… God, her eyes. They looked at him like he was something steady. Something safe.

Mason’s voice came rough with sleep, a little slurred, but undeniably full of warmth. “Morning, Starling.”

She didn’t answer with words, just brushed her thumb across his chest and tucked in a little closer. That was enough.

His smile deepened.

“Didn’t dream you, then,” he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut again for a second. “That’s good. Would’ve been a real shame to wake up alone after last night.”

He felt her soft exhale against his collarbone and grinned lazily into her hair. There was nothing performative in the way he held her now. Just ease. Just affection. Just the kind of quiet closeness that felt like it could stretch on forever without ever needing to be named.

His hand found hers beneath the blanket, fingers weaving through instinctively. He held her there—grounding, gentle, like it was second nature now.

“I think I could do this every day,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Wake up like this. With you.”

A pause.

Then, lightly, teasingly: “Though I should warn you, I’m about to get even more insufferably romantic than usual. I might start making you breakfast in the shape of constellations.”

She laughed softly, and he smiled like it was his favorite sound in the world.

“Not joking,” he added, opening his eyes just enough to meet hers. “You’ve created a problem.”

Then—because he couldn’t help himself—he leaned in and kissed her. Soft, warm, morning-slow. No pressure. No rush. Just gratitude. Just affection. Just everything he hadn’t figured out how to say yet pressed gently to her lips.

When he pulled back, his voice was low and sure.

“I love you,” he said simply. “Still. Again. Probably more than I did ten minutes ago, which is honestly impressive.”

And then he tucked her tighter against him, their fingers still linked, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

No panic. No second thoughts.

Just Mason.

Fully here. Fully hers.

[Rowan Starling]

She laughed softly against his chest, the sound muffled by skin and blankets and the warmth that still wrapped around both of them. His words curled around her like the sheets—light, teasing, and somehow devastatingly sincere all at once.

Breakfast in the shape of constellations.

Of course he’d say something like that.

Rowan tilted her face up to look at him, her smile still lingering, her eyes soft in that quiet, unguarded way she barely recognized in herself anymore—except with him. Only with him.

“You’re lucky I like the stars,” she murmured, brushing her nose lightly against his jaw. “Otherwise that would’ve been peak insufferable.”

But she didn’t move away. Didn’t tease further. Instead, she just held his gaze for a moment, her expression stilling into something deeper.

“I think I could do this every day too,” she said quietly. “Not just the waking up part, but… the us part.”

Her thumb swept once over the back of his hand, slow and absent, like she was memorizing the shape of where they fit together.

“And if you want to tell me you love me every ten minutes for the rest of our lives,” she added, voice barely above a breath, “I won’t stop you.”

She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Lingering. Sure.

“I’ll probably say it back,” she whispered.

And then she curled into him fully, their fingers still linked, her smile still tucked into the place just beneath his chin.

Because he was here.
Because he was hers.
Because love, in this quiet morning light, finally felt like something that didn’t have to be earned or chased or feared.

It just was.

Rowan stayed curled against him for a while, letting the quiet settle between them like a blanket. Mason’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, steady and slow, and her thumb traced idle shapes along the inside of his wrist, where their fingers were still loosely laced together.

She could feel the sun climbing higher outside her window, painting the walls in soft gold, and for once the ticking of time didn’t feel like a countdown. Just a rhythm. A hum. A reminder that they were still here—still in it.

But eventually, she blinked up at him, her voice low and soft and laced with something a little more playful than before.

“It’s Sunday,” she said, eyes lingering on his lips for a second longer than necessary. “Which means at some point today, my mom’s going to realize I’m not awake and start sending me suspiciously cheerful texts about cinnamon scones and seasonal tea.”

She smiled a little, pressing her fingers gently into his side. “And also, you know… book club.”

She watched him, reading the flicker of thoughts behind his eyes.

“I was kind of hoping you’d stay for a while,” she added, quieter now. “Unless you need to go home. Which is okay—if you do.”

Her fingers brushed a strand of his hair back, her touch easy but careful. “I just didn’t want to assume. But if you’re not in a rush, I thought maybe we could be lazy for a bit. Steal a few hours.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“Unless you’ve already had enough of me.”

The teasing in her voice was light, but the glint in her eyes held something real—hopeful, steady, willing.

Because it was Sunday.
And she didn’t want to spend the rest of it pretending she wasn’t still thinking about last night.

She wanted more of this.
Of him.
Of whatever quiet magic they’d made between candlelight and the steady, patient kind of love that didn’t disappear when the sun came up.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stretched under the covers, limbs lazy and warm, her body tucked so perfectly against his it felt like the most natural thing in the world. His hand slid slowly along her back, not with any urgency—just a quiet appreciation, like he was still marveling at the fact that he got to hold her like this.

“Have I had enough of you?” he repeated, voice still rough with sleep and affection. “Rowan, if I could tattoo last night onto my soul, I would.”

He kissed the top of her head, lips brushing her hairline, and let the moment hang there for a second—soft and full of everything he didn’t quite know how to put into words.

Then, lightly, “Only thing I need before book club is a shower, and I say that for your sake, not mine.” He grinned down at her, one eyebrow raised like he was waiting to be roasted for the admission. “But other than that?”

He shifted just enough to nudge her onto her back, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her properly, curls a mess, hoodie strings still tangled between them.

“I want to be exactly here,” he said, softer now. “With you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

He glanced toward the window, the light filtering in pale and golden across the floor, then back at her, and for a split second his mind very clearly wandered. He coughed.

“…And for the record,” he added, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly, “I definitely thought about showering with you just now. Like. Immediately. No hesitation.”

He gave her his most charming, I’m-in-too-deep-and-I-like-it smile, and traced a slow line with his knuckles along her jaw. “But I figured that might be pushing my luck. And I like being alive.”

He leaned in, kissed her gently, then pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips, “So I’ll behave. For now.”

But his gaze flicked over her—bare skin still tucked under the blanket, that lazy morning softness on her face, the one she never wore for anyone but him—and yeah. He was toast. Completely. Happily.

“If you want lazy,” he said, settling back into the pillows and pulling her with him, “I’m a professional. I’ve got an advanced degree in doing absolutely nothing when it involves staying in bed with a gorgeous girl and the faint scent of cinnamon.”

He tightened his arm around her waist, brushed his thumb lightly over the curve of her hip.

“And hey, if your mom asks why you’re not downstairs,” he whispered, mock-serious, “you can tell her I’m currently keeping you hostage with kisses and warmth and some very intense cuddling. All very threatening stuff.”

He smiled again, kissed her shoulder, and then rested his cheek against her temple.

No rush. No nerves.

Just Mason—completely, contentedly hers.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan looked up at him, her eyes still heavy with sleep but undeniably clear. That boyish grin, the tangled curls, the hoodie bunched at his ribs—it was all so him, and it undid her in the quietest way.

She could’ve made a joke. Should’ve, maybe. Something about his soul tattoo being too dramatic or how he definitely did need that shower. But instead, she reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, her fingertips lingering a second longer than necessary.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly, but there was no edge to it. No teasing. Just warmth. Adoration, easy and unguarded. “And so annoyingly sincere.”

Her fingers traced lightly along his jaw, and her smile faltered into something more vulnerable. “But you should know… I don’t really let people stay.” She hesitated. Not to scare him. Just to be honest. “I don’t usually want them to.”

She let the silence hold for a breath. Let him feel the weight of that truth, even as her thumb swept along the corner of his mouth.

“But I want you to,” she added, quieter now. “I want you to stay.”

Her hand dropped back to his chest, fingers splaying across the fabric of his hoodie like she needed to anchor herself there.

“So if this is you asking?” she murmured. “Then yeah. Stay.”

A pause.

“You can always shower here. Solo, of course. I'm sure I can find you something to wear while we wash your clothes before book club.”

And then she smiled—soft and a little shy—and looked up at him like she already knew he would.

She looked up at him like he’d hung the stars the night before and forgotten to take credit.

There was no armor in her expression. No clever retort poised behind her lips. Just adoration, open and unfiltered, softening every line of her face. She blinked once, slow, then reached up and cupped the side of his face like she was still trying to decide if he was real.

And then she kissed him.

Not carefully. Not shy. Just fully and without hesitation, morning breath and all—because it didn’t matter. He’d already seen her messy, flushed, undone. He’d kissed her with candlelight sweat on her skin and the ache of her voice still trembling in her throat. This was nothing. This was hers.

She sighed into the kiss, her fingers sliding back into his curls, the other hand slipping down to rest lightly on his chest.

“I really love your hands,” she murmured when they parted, her voice low and still heavy with sleep. Her eyes flicked down, then back to his. “Not even in the way you’re probably thinking.”

Her fingers trailed down his arm, slow and deliberate, until they found his wrist, then the back of his hand. She brought it up and pressed it to her bare side—just under the swell of her ribs, where his palm fit too perfectly to be fair.

“Here,” she whispered. “You touch me like I’m… I don’t know. Like I’m something you want to learn. Not just hold.”

She felt his breath stutter against her cheek, and she smiled—sleepy and sure and completely wrecked by how safe it felt to let him feel her like this.

Not rushed. Not expectant. Just real.

Her body shifted against his beneath the covers, pressing a little closer, letting his hand roam where it wanted—where she wanted it. Not for heat. Not for more.

Just for the quiet holiness of being known.

She kissed him again—slower this time. Then pulled back, resting her forehead against his, her breath catching on a laugh.

“I wasn’t lying about stealing hours,” she murmured. “Might want to steal a few more.”

And then she closed her eyes again, one leg tangling with his, her hand finding his and guiding it right back to her skin.

Because she loved his hands.
Because she loved him.
And because being touched like this—like she was already enough—wasn’t something she’d ever stop wanting.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t try to be clever, even though his brain—traitorous and adoring—offered at least six different responses involving constellations and how many hours he could realistically steal before book club.

Because she said stay.
Because she meant it.

And now she was looking at him like that—bare skin pressed to his, sleepy and soft and completely unguarded. Her words echoing in his chest louder than any kiss ever could.

So he just nodded. Barely.

And let himself feel it.

His hand stayed right where she’d guided it—just under her ribs—fingers curved gently into the dip of her waist. He let his thumb stroke small, absent circles there, like he was reading her in braille. And maybe he was. Every inch of her said something new. Said stay. Said yes. Said here.

And Mason?

He wanted to memorize all of it.

He let his palm drift up, slow and reverent, not with any goal—just a quiet kind of worship. Over the slope of her ribs. The warmth beneath her skin. The shape of her, familiar now but still holy. Like rereading a favorite book and finding new meaning every time.

She sighed under his touch, and it undid him in that quiet, deep way that didn’t ask for permission or explanation.

His other hand rose to cradle her jaw, tilting her toward him. Their noses brushed. Their foreheads met. Her eyes fluttered closed, and his heart did something reckless behind his ribs.

He kissed her. Softly. Thoroughly.

Not because he wanted to take it further. But because he didn’t want her to forget—not for a second—that he was here. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I want to touch you like this forever,” he whispered, lips barely brushing hers. “Like you’re a story I never want to stop reading.”

She breathed out something like a laugh, but her arms pulled him closer, and that was the only answer he needed.

His hand slipped lower again, tracing the curve of her side, resting against the dip of her back. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft, and every part of him hummed with restraint.

Because God, did he want her.

But not just like that.

He wanted the slow parts. The stretch of morning. The thrum in his fingertips when she sighed. The ache behind his ribs when she smiled against his neck and tangled her legs through his like she already belonged there.

He kissed her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then the corner of her mouth again, slow and reverent.

“Shower’s gonna be a nightmare,” he murmured against her skin, half-wistful, half-teasing.

But he made no move to get up.

Not yet.

His hand stayed on her back. His forehead stayed pressed to hers.

And when she shifted just enough to pull him closer again, he let himself melt into her all over again.

Because her skin under his hands felt like home.
And Mason Hayes had never felt more sure of anything in his life.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt it before he even moved.

That stillness—that soft, deliberate pause in him—where he always went quiet just before something mattered. Before something landed. It made her heart beat slower and harder all at once. Made her want to memorize the way he looked at her in the hush between her saying stay and him choosing to.

And then he did.

Not with words. Not with declarations.

Just a nod. Just his hand. Just the way his thumb traced her ribs like they were worth knowing—over and over—until her body stopped bracing and simply… let him.

She hadn’t known she could be held like this.

Not just touched.
Held.

Like her skin was something sacred. Like her breathing was a rhythm he wanted to learn by heart. Every pass of his hand across her waist felt like a question she didn’t have to answer, because he already understood.

When his other hand found her jaw, her breath caught. Not because she was startled, but because she’d hoped he would. Hoped he’d pull her closer like that—tilt her face just enough so she could fall into the space between them without hesitation.

And when their foreheads touched, when he kissed her like that—slow and sure and certain—Rowan felt something loosen deep inside her chest. Something knotted. Something ancient.

She hadn’t even known it was still there until he made it safe to let go of.

His whisper ghosted against her lips, and her smile bloomed with it—not bright, not giddy, just full. Real. Her arms slid around him, slow and steady, pulling him closer like her body had already decided what her words couldn’t say yet.

She didn’t want him to stop.
Not the touching.
Not the reading.
Not the staying.

She shifted again beneath him, the sheets warm around her legs, the sunlight barely starting to creep across the floor, and guided his hand down to her lower back with quiet insistence. Just to feel him there. Just to keep him where he already belonged.

Her mouth brushed his shoulder. Her nose nudged the space beneath his jaw. She breathed him in, every soft cedar-skin-warmth note of him, and let the calm of the moment settle into her bones.

She didn’t need more.

Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

Because this—his hand on her spine, his forehead resting against hers, their bodies curved around each other like punctuation marks in the same sentence—was enough.

It was more than enough.

And as she lay there, wrapped in Mason Hayes and the steady beat of something real, Rowan knew with terrifying clarity:

She wasn’t waiting to be let down.

She was being loved.
Exactly right.
Exactly here.
Exactly now.

She pulled back just enough to see his face, her hand still resting over his heart. And then, voice low and steady, she whispered, “You make it really hard to believe I ever thought I was better off alone.”

A breath. A small, almost-laugh that caught in her throat.

“I didn’t know I could be this soft and still feel like myself.”

Her fingers traced a line along his jaw, not because she needed to—just because she wanted to. Because she could.

“I want to give you everything,” she said. “But right now, I think I just want to be held a little longer.”

She looked at him, eyes wide and tired and full of something bigger than either of them had planned for.

“Stay with me. Like this. Just a little more.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t fear.

It was trust.

And when she tucked herself back into his arms, her cheek against his chest, her leg wrapped loosely around his, Rowan didn’t feel like she was asking for too much anymore.

She felt like she was home.

[Mason Hayes]

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t rush to respond with one of his usual deflections or jokes or borrowed lyrics that sometimes said more than his own words could. Because this—this—wasn’t a moment for clever. It wasn’t a moment to be filled.

It was a moment to stay in.

So that’s what Mason did.

His arm curled more securely around her, pulling her just a little closer, like his body already knew what to say even if his mouth hadn’t caught up yet. His hand, the one she’d placed at the small of her back, stayed there—steady and warm—his thumb brushing a slow rhythm into her skin like he was writing her a love letter without ink.

And maybe he was.

Maybe this was the only language he’d ever really need.

Her words echoed in his chest, not loud, not even sharp—but like something quiet that rewrote the way he’d been stitched together.

She didn’t know she could be soft and still be herself.

And God, if that didn’t undo him.

He pressed a kiss into her hair—just above her temple, just firm enough that she’d feel it. His nose nudged her hairline like he couldn’t help it, like he needed that anchor as much as she did. And when he finally whispered, his voice barely more than breath, it wasn’t to add something poetic or profound.

It was simple.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Because he wasn’t.
Because she’d asked him to stay.
And because she didn’t know it yet, but Mason had never wanted anything more than to be chosen exactly like this.

He let his hand roam again—nothing demanding, nothing that chased heat. Just exploration. Reverence. Like she was a poem he’d only read halfway and already knew he’d memorize by heart. Her spine. The curve of her waist. The dip just above her hip where his fingers liked to rest.

Her skin was warm. Bare. Soft. And even though desire still hummed quietly under the surface—faint but insistent—he wasn’t in any hurry.

There would be more. He knew that now.

More mornings. More skin. More yes.

But this—her breath syncing with his, her trust folded between them like another layer of the blanket—this was the part he wanted to stretch forever.

He smiled against her hair and tilted his head enough to press a kiss to the shell of her ear. Then, barely audible:

“Ten more minutes.”

A beat.

“Then maybe another ten.”

Another kiss to her shoulder. His hand brushed along her back, light and careful.

“Actually… you might be stuck with me here all day.”

He felt her body shift just slightly—maybe a breath of a laugh, maybe nothing at all. But her arms stayed where they were, wrapped around him like they belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And for the first time in his life, Mason didn’t feel like he had to earn it.

He just… stayed.

Because she’d asked.
Because he loved her.
Because this was everything he’d never let himself believe he could have.

And he wasn’t letting go.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak.
She couldn’t.

Not with the way his arms tightened around her like she was something worth holding onto. Not with the way his hand kept tracing over her back, slow and steady, writing things into her skin that her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Things like I’m here. Things like you’re safe. Things like this is real.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let herself sink.

Not just into his chest, or the warmth of the sheets, or the soft weight of his mouth pressing gently into her hair. She sank into the truth of it. Of him. Of what it meant to be held like this and not feel the instinct to flinch.

He wasn’t in a hurry.
Wasn’t pulling away.
Wasn’t asking her to be anything other than exactly what she was—bare, half-asleep, heart still bruised around the edges from how deeply he kept letting her feel things.

Her fingers flexed lightly against his ribs. She could feel the way his breath shifted, deeper now, calmer. Like her silence didn’t scare him. Like he already knew she was still here—just quiet, just full, just feeling.

And when he whispered, I’m not going anywhere, something broke open inside her. Quietly. Without fanfare. Like a door she didn’t realize she’d been holding shut finally easing open.

Because she believed him.
Fully.

And that alone nearly undid her.

She tilted her face up, just enough to brush her lips beneath his chin—soft, almost absent. Not a kiss. Just presence. Just gratitude. Just I hear you without having to say it.

His hand kept moving, slow and reverent, and she let it. Let him memorize her. Let him trace over the places she used to tuck away, like they were worthy of being seen in daylight and loved anyway.

She smiled faintly when he murmured ten more minutes, then maybe another ten. The kind of smile that wasn’t wide or showy—just honest. The kind that lived in her chest, not her mouth.

Then came actually… you might be stuck with me here all day, and that—that—made her laugh. Quietly. Into his neck.

“You say that like it’s a threat,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep, but soft around the edges. “Like I wouldn’t keep you here myself if I thought I had a shot at pulling it off.”

She kissed his collarbone. Barely there. Just breath and affection and her mouth against skin that had already become the safest place she knew.

“I don’t need forever today,” she murmured. “But this? Right now? I want every second of it.”

She pulled the blanket higher over both of them, fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, and tucked herself in again—closer now, impossibly so. As close as her body could get without dissolving into his completely.

And then—quietly, almost to herself, but she knew he’d hear it—she whispered:

“Stay as long as you want, Mase.”

Because she meant it.

Because for once, her walls weren’t the thing keeping someone out.

They were the thing he’d already stepped through.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason Hayes was trying to be good.

Really. He was.

The kind of good that kept his hands slow and respectful, that let her curl into him without pulling her closer just because he could. The kind that whispered "ten more minutes" when what he really meant was forever, if you’ll let me.

And for the most part? He was doing okay.

Until she said that.
Until she whispered that.
Stay as long as you want, Mase.

His brain, already teetering on the edge of decent boyfriend and feral boy with a goddess in his bed, short-circuited for a half second. And the thing was—she hadn’t even said it like a line. It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t calculated. It was just… honest. Soft. Bare.

And God, he loved her for it.

Which only made things worse.

Because now she was looking up at him with those tired, unguarded eyes, and her leg was tangled with his in a way that absolutely did not respect his sanity. And her fingers were brushing under the hem of his hoodie like she didn’t even realize what she was doing.

Or maybe she did.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes shutting briefly as he tried to focus on literally anything else—global warming. String theory. The vaguely threatening tone her mom used when asking if he’d “like another scone.”

But then she shifted closer. Pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Sighed into him.

And yeah, no. He was toast.

His hand, still tracing lazy circles along her back, dipped just a little lower—still innocent, still sweet, but definitely leaning into dangerous territory. His other hand slid to her waist, palm warm and slow, fingers splaying wider like he was trying to memorize the shape of her again.

“Rowan,” he murmured, half a prayer, half a warning. “You’re making it very difficult for me to be the good guy right now.”

She didn’t respond, at least not with words.

But her body leaned in. Her hand slipped under his hoodie. Her thigh hitched just enough to make him lose his last thread of composure.

“Okay,” he whispered, his grin pressed into the space behind her ear, “new plan. You lay there and keep being perfect, and I’ll try not to ruin the wholesome morning vibes by accidentally making out with you for the next hour.”

His thumb brushed just beneath the band of her sleep shorts.

Just once. Light. Testing.

Then he cleared his throat like a man on the brink.

“I need a cold shower.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t make any real effort to get up.

He just sighed, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “In a minute.”

Because truthfully? There was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than tangled in her arms, desperately clinging to his last thread of restraint, and falling harder with every breath.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt it the second he shifted—just the slightest change in the air between them. Not urgency. Not tension. Just heat. Slow-building, unmistakable, him.

And God, the way he was trying to hold it back. The way his breath stuttered and his hands hesitated like her skin was something breakable and sacred, like she wasn’t already half-draped over him and melting from the inside out just because he existed.

He was trying to be good.

She could feel it in every inch of him.

And it was adorable.
And infuriating.
And deeply unfair.

His voice was hushed and reverent, saying her name like it was a sin and a sacrament in the same breath. The one who kept touching her like his hands didn’t know how to stop learning her. Like he didn’t spend last night wrecking every coherent thought in her brain with that exact same mouth currently whispering about “being good.”

She blinked up at him, dazed and amused and utterly undone, and tilted her head just enough to catch his eye.

“Why,” she murmured, voice low and wrecked in that slow, golden-morning kind of way, “are you suddenly trying to behave?”

Her hand slid a little higher beneath his hoodie, fingertips pressing lightly against the small of his back.

“Because if I remember correctly…” She leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, “you were very naughty last night.”

Her teeth grazed lightly against his skin, more tease than bite, and she felt the shiver roll through him. Felt the way his fingers tightened slightly against her waist.

“And now you want to pretend we’re wholesome?” she whispered, smiling against his neck. “Now?”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh and shifted closer, her leg wrapping around his again, dragging them just a little deeper into the tangle of blankets and each other.

“You’re already failing, Hayes,” she added softly. “Might as well stop pretending.”

Her hands flattened against his back, pulling him in with deliberate ease. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just welcoming.

Because she didn’t need the heat.
Not yet.
Maybe not for a while.

But she did want the closeness.
The weight of him.
The way her name tasted in his mouth when he lost a little bit of control.

She pressed a kiss just beneath his ear, slow and reverent and unhurried.

And then, barely above a breath:

“Stay in bed with me. Be good later.”

She didn’t say please.
She didn’t have to.

She knew he was already hers.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason swore, if the universe had a switchboard, his name just lit up under “Emergency: Failing to Be Good.”

Because Rowan Starling, tangled in his arms, sleepy and golden and impossible, was not playing fair.

She wasn’t even trying to.
And God help him, he didn’t want her to.

“Okay,” he said, voice low and strained, his forehead pressing against hers like he needed the contact to stay tethered. “I was trying to be sweet. Gentle. Adorably well-behaved. You know, boyfriend of the year.”

Her hand on his back did not help. Her mouth on his jaw definitely did not help.

“But you’re over here doing this,” he muttered, fingers skimming down to her hip like they had a mind of their own. “And saying things like ‘be good later’ with your leg wrapped around mine like you’re trying to ruin me before breakfast.”

His breath hitched as she shifted, her skin brushing his beneath the covers like she knew exactly what she was doing.

He didn’t move for a second—just looked at her. Really looked.

And what he saw?

Soft lips. Drowsy eyes. That slow, sly smile that curled when she knew he was unraveling under her hands.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, letting his hand slip beneath the hem of her sleep shorts, just resting there—warm, careful, not pushing—“what you do to me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He wasn’t sure he could handle one.

So instead, he kissed her.

Not the playful kind. Not teasing. Not even the slow, reverent sort he’d memorized the night before.

This was the kind of kiss that said I’m all in. That said I’m yours, and you know it, and I don’t care if the world burns as long as I’m here.

And then, when he finally pulled back—barely—he grinned against her mouth.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers, “if you keep making it impossible to behave, I’m going to do the very responsible thing and blame you.”

His thumb stroked slow circles along the bare skin of her hip, and he laughed softly, low and affectionate.

“But yeah,” he whispered, tucking her even closer, “we can be good… later.”

Because this? Her skin against his. Her laugh tucked under his breath. Her body curled into his like he belonged there?

This was already everything. And Mason wasn’t going anywhere.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt him unravel under her hands and didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t apologize.

She leaned in.

Because he looked at her like she was wrecking him—in the best way—and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been looked at like that before. Not like something to chase. Not like something to tame. But like something real.

And maybe she was being unfair.
Maybe she was pressing all the right buttons with bare legs and sleep-mussed hair and a grin that knew exactly how far it could go.

But he started this.
With the ten minutes.
With the staying.
With the way his hands mapped her like she was something holy and his.

So when his forehead pressed against hers and he whispered about trying to be good, her smile only widened—slow and satisfied, but softened by the love pulsing behind every breath.

“I like you sweet,” she whispered back, brushing her nose along his. “But I love you like this.”

Her fingers splayed wider against his back, anchoring herself in the curve of him. “Wrecked. Dramatic. One bad decision away from blaming me for something you clearly want to do.”

His breath hitched again, and she felt it—low in her stomach, high in her chest—the full-body awareness of what they were doing. Of what they could do. Of how safe it still felt to want him this much.

And then he kissed her.
Really kissed her.

And everything in her went quiet.

Not blank, not uncertain—just still. Like her body had been waiting for that exact moment and finally got the answer it needed.

When he pulled back, just enough to grin against her mouth and joke about responsibility, she laughed—low and wrecked and his.

“Fine,” she whispered, breath catching as his thumb swept over the edge of her hip again. “Blame me. I’ll take the fall.”

She kissed the underside of his jaw, slow and indulgent. “But I’m not the one who said ten more minutes and then melted the second I put my leg over yours.”

She felt him twitch under her fingers and smiled.

“And I’m definitely not the one who whispered forever with my hands all over your back last night,” she added, her voice quieter now, but no less certain.

She looked at him then—really looked—and everything in her settled.

Because this wasn’t about heat.
Not really.

It was about the way he touched her like he never wanted to stop.
The way he let her take up space.
The way he held reverence and want in the same breath and made her feel like neither of them had to choose between soft and more.

She tucked herself in again, their legs still tangled, her body flushed and full and content.

“We can be good later,” she whispered, her voice curling around the promise. “But right now? I just want to be yours.”

And God, she already was.
In every way that mattered.

Rowan didn’t wait.

Didn’t overthink.
Didn’t hesitate.

She leaned in and kissed him—really kissed him—like the words she’d just whispered weren’t enough. Like the only way to prove she meant them was with her mouth on his and her hands sliding up his back and her entire body curving into his like it was instinct.

And maybe it was.

Because the second their lips met, everything else disappeared.

The teasing. The restraint. The clever back-and-forth they both loved so much.

This wasn’t that.
This was more.

It was slow but deep, the kind of kiss that melted straight through her chest and pooled behind her ribs. The kind that stole her breath even as it gave something back. Her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie like she needed to hold on or risk floating away.

He tasted like warmth and sleep and every good thing she’d ever been scared to keep. And when she opened her mouth to him, it wasn’t about heat—it was about belonging. About saying I’m here. I want this. I want you.

Her leg hitched a little higher over his hip, not for leverage, but closeness. Her hand slid into his hair, slow and gentle, and she kissed him again—longer this time, deeper. Like she couldn’t get close enough. Like the space between them didn’t deserve to exist.

When she finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, her lips were parted, her eyes half-lidded, and her voice nothing but air and honesty.

“You,” she whispered, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You’re it for me. I don’t want anyone else. Ever.”

Then, quieter:

“I just thought you should know before we start being good again.”

She kissed him once more—quick, soft, sure.

Then let herself stay right there, forehead resting to his, her breath still catching on the edges of his mouth.

Because if this was what it meant to be “bad,”
she never wanted to be anything else.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say a word.

He couldn’t. There wasn’t language for the way she looked at him—like he was both the fire and the match, like she was willing to burn slowly if it meant keeping him close. There wasn’t a sentence in existence that could hold how she felt beneath his hands: warm, pliant, real. Entirely his and entirely herself all at once.

He didn’t try to be good anymore.

Not when her leg hitched higher around his hip. Not when her breath hitched against his neck. Not when her mouth was right there—flushed and parted and already kissed into something soft and sinful.

He reached for her.

Both hands, now—bolder than before. One splayed low on her back, pulling her into the shape of him, the other sweeping up, knuckles grazing the side of her breast, brushing her ribcage like he was still reading her—page after page, again and again, like he hadn’t memorized her already in the dark.

His lips found her throat.

Not gently this time.

Open-mouthed. Hot. Possessive without being unkind. Tracing the curve where jaw met neck, dragging lower, tongue flicking over pulse points like he wanted to taste the rhythm she only ever gave to him.

She moved under him—closer, needier—and he followed, always. His hips pressed against hers with slow, deliberate pressure, the drag of skin on skin making the edges of his control blur.

He kissed down her collarbone, then back up—claiming ground and then surrendering to her completely. His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her just enough so he could kiss her the way he needed to: deeper, dirtier, like the sweetness of before had been a promise and now he was keeping it.

She moaned softly into his mouth and his whole body went still for a beat—just one—like he needed to lock that sound somewhere in his chest before he could breathe again.

His hands slid lower.

Along her thighs. Over the curve of her hip. One hand hooked beneath her leg and pulled, shifting her fully beneath him now, the blanket falling around their bodies like a second skin.

He didn’t rush.

But there was urgency in him now, a simmering, reverent need coiled low in his spine. His mouth found the underside of her breast, his teeth grazing, not biting. His hand moved between them, fingers dragging against skin he already knew and still wanted to relearn like it was the first time.

She arched.

And God, he was gone.

Because this wasn’t about being good anymore. This was about worship.

Not from a distance. Not in metaphor.

But with his body. His mouth. His hands. Every part of him that had ever wanted to say I love you, I want you, I’m yours—he said it now, without a single word.

Just skin. Just breath. Just heat.

He kissed her again—slower this time, lips parted, breath shallow—and let his body press her deeper into the mattress. His hand slid lower again, testing the edge of what she wanted, what she was ready for, what she would let him give.

And when she met him there—hips lifting, breath breaking—he made a silent vow with the way he moved against her:

There would be no pretending.
No restraint.
No “later.”

Just now.
Just this.
Just them.

And the way he was going to learn every last way she said yes again.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak.

She couldn’t, not with the way he touched her now—like he’d stopped holding back. Like the quiet reverence of earlier had given way to something deeper, heavier. Still tender, but burning beneath the surface.

Her breath hitched as his hands moved—bold, sure, no longer asking permission, just knowing. Knowing her body. Knowing her. The press of his mouth against her skin sent sparks skittering down her spine, and when he dragged his lips along her neck—open, unhurried—she tipped her head back and let the sound escape her throat without apology.

He answered it without a word.

One hand found her waist again, firm and anchoring, while the other slipped beneath the soft fabric clinging to her hips. She arched instinctively, her leg curling tighter around him as the warmth between them built, slow and deliberate.

It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t frantic.

It was a rhythm they already knew.

The weight of his body settling against hers. The give of the mattress. The rustle of sheets as they shifted, closer and closer, until even air felt unnecessary between them. She met him with equal pressure—hips, hands, heart. Her fingers laced into the hair at the nape of his neck, grounding him when the rest of the world fell away.

His lips caught hers again—deeper now, almost reverent in their intensity—and she kissed him back with everything she didn’t have words for. Every breathless promise. Every I want you. Every yes.

And when he moved against her—when he pressed into her with care and heat and everything she’d quietly hoped for—Rowan didn’t just feel wanted.

She felt chosen.

There were no jokes now. No clever distractions. Only heat. Only him. Only the sacred way his touch made her feel like the most honest version of herself—unhidden, undiluted, utterly known.

And when she whispered his name against his mouth, broken and sure, she felt the way he held it.

Carefully. Completely.

Like it was something worth worshipping.
Like she was.
Like they both were.

And everything else—the minutes, the morning, the rest of the world—faded.

Because this moment?
This was theirs.

Raw. Gentle. Real.
And she didn’t want it to end.

Her breath caught as his mouth found hers again, deeper this time, laced with all the things they hadn’t said but were speaking anyway—in the way he touched her, in the way she let him.

Her hands slid up his back, fingertips tracing the slope of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine beneath fabric that suddenly felt like a barrier. Something unnecessary. Something that didn’t belong between them anymore.

Without a word, Rowan sat up just slightly, her body still wrapped in his, and slipped her hands beneath the hem of his hoodie. She paused—just for a breath—her eyes meeting his with something open, something sure.

And then, slow and unshaking, she pulled it over his head.

His curls fell messily back into place, his skin warm and flushed in the soft light, and for a second she just looked at him. Let herself see him—not just the lean lines and familiar freckles, but him. Mason. The boy who had whispered patience into her skin. Who kissed her like a vow and touched her like a prayer.

She brought her hands to his chest, palms flat, absorbing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And then she leaned in, pressing her lips just below his collarbone—slow, deliberate, full of the quiet kind of worship he had given her all morning.

“You,” she murmured, her voice low and rough from emotion, not sleep. “I want this.”

Not later.
Not eventually.
Just now.

The version of them that was stripped of everything except want and trust and the sacred hush of morning tangled in limbs and linen.

Her arms slid around his bare back again, and she pulled him in, her body already molding to the rhythm they were building between them.

Because she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Because he had made her feel safe enough to want fully.
Because he was here.

And she didn’t want a single part of him hidden.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move at first.

Not when she pulled the hoodie from his frame with slow, sure hands. Not when her eyes swept over his bare chest like she was tracing every place he’d ever ached to be touched. He just watched her—breath shallow, pulse pounding—not from nerves, but from the way she looked at him like he was already hers.

When she pressed her mouth to his chest—just below his collarbone, soft and reverent—his eyes fluttered closed. Her lips were warm, her breath a steady bloom against his skin. And it unraveled something inside him. Not in a sharp, breaking way—but in the slow undoing of a knot that had lived in his ribs for years.

He let his hands find her again—bare skin now, his fingertips sweeping slowly along the curve of her back. Down to her hips. Back up again. He didn’t push. Didn’t take. Just mapped her with the kind of devotion he used to reserve for dog-eared books and unfinished songs.

But this was better.

This was real.

She moved against him, wrapping herself around him again, and he breathed her in—every inch, every shift, every subtle invitation. Her leg curled tighter around his, her chest pressed flush to his, and the heat that had been building all morning stretched like a flame licking up his spine.

He kissed her shoulder. Then her neck. Then lower.

No rush.

Just discovery.

He took his time reacquainting himself with her body—the press of her waist, the hollow of her throat, the shiver that moved through her when he dragged his mouth along the edge of her ribs. She was warm beneath him, soft and strong, every sigh from her lips like fuel.

His hands grew bolder, sliding along her thighs, her sides, her back, his touch slow but hungry—like she was a story written in a language only he could read.

And he wanted to read it all.

He wanted to memorize the sounds she made when he kissed the inside of her knee. Wanted to learn how her breath hitched when he rolled his hips into hers—slow and purposeful, fully clothed and still unbearable in its intensity.

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t rushing. He just needed her to feel it—the full weight of his need, quiet and reverent and impossibly deep.

The sheets twisted around their legs, the light from the window stretched long and golden across her skin, and his mouth found hers again—open and warm and deep enough to leave them both gasping into the quiet.

Her hands roamed too, tentative at first, then confident—sliding over his bare back, fingertips trailing heat like brushstrokes. She touched him like he was something worth keeping. And he was helpless to do anything but sink into her completely.

The space between their bodies was gone now.

Heat layered over heat.

And as he moved against her, slow and careful and so full of want it threatened to burn through his skin, Mason knew without question:

He could live in this moment.

In the sound of her breath. The press of her hands. The way she said yes without needing to speak at all.

And if she let him—he’d spend every morning learning how to love her better.

One touch at a time.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt him everywhere.

In the heat of his breath against her throat. In the drag of his fingertips along her ribs. In the way he kissed her like she was the only thing in the world worth slowing down for.

And God—he wasn’t rushing. He could’ve. She wouldn’t have stopped him. But instead, he was treating her like a secret he didn’t want to fumble. Like she was precious even when she was pressed against him, wanting, breathless, wrecked.

She pulled in a sharp, quiet inhale when his hips rolled into hers, slow and steady and maddeningly clothed. It wasn’t even about friction—it was about the way he knew. The way his body answered hers without either of them having to ask.

And when his mouth found hers again, deep and open and almost too much, she kissed him back with everything she didn’t know how to say. Every yes. Every stay. Every don’t stop.

Her hands moved without thought, sliding down the strong lines of his back, the flex and curve of him beneath her fingers. He felt so good, so real. And when she reached the waistband of his boxers—bare skin meeting hers all the way down—she hesitated. Just for a beat.

Not from doubt.

From reverence.

She looked at him then, gaze flicking up beneath the weight of their kiss, and her fingers curled gently under the band of cotton at his hips.

Not tugging.

Not yet.

Just touching.
Just asking.

The way she always wanted someone to ask her.

And she felt the moment he felt it. The way his whole body went still above hers, breath catching in his throat like she’d lit a fuse and kissed him while it burned.

She didn’t speak.

She just kissed him again, slow and deep and sure—her hands still right there, waiting for him to meet her in the silence.

Waiting for him to tell her without words:

Yes. I want this. With you. Now.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer with words.

He didn’t need to.

His hands slid up her sides, firm and trembling all at once, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold her tighter or slower. And then—carefully, deliberately—he settled them just beneath her ribs, grounding her. Grounding himself.

The look he gave her wasn’t wild. It wasn’t overwhelmed.

It was focused.

Like every inch of him was tuned to hers, every muscle coiled with purpose but softened by the impossible tenderness he only ever seemed to show her.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath stuttering against her lips as her fingers held him in place—not pulling, not pushing, just there. The weight of her touch was nothing and everything. A question. An invitation. A promise.

He kissed her again. Not with hunger. With certainty.

A deep, slow press of mouth to mouth that said: yes.

Then he moved.

Not quickly.

Not all at once.

But with the kind of precision that came from knowing exactly what she wanted—and what she didn’t even realize she was asking for. His weight shifted, settling deeper against her. His hand slid down to her hip, anchoring them as they found a rhythm again—not frantic, but closer now. Less room. Less pretense.

She breathed him in—his scent, his warmth, the press of his chest against hers—and let her hands trail across his skin with new purpose. She was learning too. The slope of his back. The tension in his shoulders. The tremble that gave him away every time she kissed just beneath his jaw.

Their mouths found each other again, and this time the kiss turned open, gasping, full of all the yes they couldn’t say aloud.

They didn’t rush it.

They just moved together—slow, sure, wrapped in linen and morning light, caught in the soft, burning hush of a moment that was all theirs.

No noise. No outside world.

Just touch.

Just breath.

Just the quiet, ever-growing truth between them that said:

We’re ready.

[Rowan Starling]

His hand reached down, fingers brushing lightly against the waistband of his boxers, pausing there.

Not rushing.

Not assuming.

Just asking—without words.

Rowan felt her breath catch, but not from nerves. From the way he looked at her in that moment: completely open, entirely hers. There was no pressure in his eyes. Only trust. Only quiet, aching hope.

She nodded once, and her hand moved to his, steady and sure. Together, they eased the fabric down—his boxers sliding past his hips, then his thighs, pooling silently at his feet. He stepped out of them, and for a moment, the world stilled.

Her eyes flicked down—not out of shock, but reverence. Noticing him. All of him. Then she looked back up, and there it was again—that silent gravity between them, pulling them closer than breath.

She reached for him, slow and deliberate, wrapping her fingers around him like she was learning him by feel, not just sight. Mason’s eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising with a sharp, unsteady inhale as her hand began to move. She watched him—watched the way his mouth parted, the way his fingers dug a little deeper into her hips like he couldn’t believe she was real.

But she was.

She was right there, with him, for him—every inch of her alive with the weight of this moment. Their skin was flushed. Their breath came faster. And still, it wasn’t about urgency.

It was about knowing.

So when she guided him forward—her legs parting, body welcoming—it wasn’t hesitation that passed through her. It was clarity. It was purpose.

He pressed into her with a breathless, aching care, and she felt her hands rise to his shoulders, clutching at him—not from pain, but from the overwhelming closeness. She gasped against his neck as he filled her, slow and steady, grounding her like no one else ever had.

They stayed like that for a beat—foreheads touching, eyes closed, hearts thudding out of sync until they weren’t.

And then they moved.

Together.

No rush. No fear.

Only the rhythm of trust. Of love. Of two people saying yes in every possible language.

And for once, the rest of the world could wait.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason lay atop Rowan, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the warmth radiating between their intertwined, naked bodies. He was already inside her, the initial entry a shared sigh now settling into a slow, languid rhythm. The air hung heavy with unspoken anticipation, each breath mingling with hers, a silent conversation of shared desire. He looked down at her, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb, his gaze lingering on the slight flush that colored her skin. He wanted to memorize every detail, the way her eyelashes rested against her cheek, the subtle rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

He shifted his weight slightly, pulling back just enough to feel the gentle tug of resistance before pushing slowly forward again. A soft sound escaped Rowan's lips, a breathy sigh that sent a thrill through him. He watched her face, the subtle flicker of her eyelids, the almost imperceptible clench of her fingers on the sheets.

He increased the pressure of his hips, the pace still slow but with a growing intensity. His hands moved from her face, sliding down her body to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, eliciting a soft moan. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth gently grazing her earlobe as he whispered her name. He felt her shudder beneath him, her nails digging into his back, a silent plea for more.

He obliged, his movements becoming more deliberate, more purposeful. His lips trailed down her body, kissing the hollow of her throat, the gentle curve of her collarbone. His tongue traced a slow, wet path down her sternum, stopping just above the swell of her breasts. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and saw the raw desire reflected back at him.

He reached down, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her inner thigh. He teased her entrance with his fingertips, feeling her muscles tense in anticipation. He moved his hand between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit, circling it slowly, rhythmically. He felt her arch beneath him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He continued his ministrations, building the tension, drawing her closer to the edge, but holding back, savoring the anticipation, knowing that the release, when it came, would be all the more powerful for the wait.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan’s breath hitched as Mason’s fingers worked their magic, her body trembling beneath his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, overwhelmed by the dual sensation of him inside her and the teasing circles around her clit. A low, needy moan escaped her lips, her hands gripping his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as if anchoring herself to him. The slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips, combined with the tantalizing pressure of his fingers, was driving her to the brink, and she could feel the heat building deep within her core.

“Mason…” she whispered her voice a breathy plea, raw with desire. Her hips instinctively rocked against him, seeking more of that delicious friction, urging him to push her over the edge. She opened her eyes, meeting his intense gaze, and their connection sparked like wildfire. How he looked at her—like she was the only thing that mattered—made her heart race even faster.

Her hands slid down his back, fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles as they flexed with each thrust. She pulled him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against her, the heat of his skin searing into hers. “Don’t stop,” she murmured, her voice trembling with urgency, her lips brushing against his jaw as she spoke. The graze of his teeth on her neck earlier still lingered as a tingling memory, and she tilted her head to offer more of herself to him, silently begging for another bite, another mark to claim her as his.

Her body arched again as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm, her thighs trembling around him. The pressure was almost unbearable now, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter with every passing second. She could feel herself teetering on the edge, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “Mason, I’m so close…” she whimpered, her voice breaking with desperation. Her nails dug deeper into his back, her entire body tensing as she surrendered to the wave of sensation threatening to crash over her.

She needed to feel him let go with her, to share that explosive release. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm with a hungry urgency of her own. “Please,” she breathed, her lips finding his in a searing, desperate kiss, her tongue seeking his as if to convey everything her words couldn’t. She was his in this moment, completely and utterly, and she wanted nothing more than to fall apart beneath him, to shatter into a thousand pieces with his name on her lips.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason felt Rowan’s breath hitch, a tremor running through her as his fingers continued their slow, deliberate dance. He saw her eyelids flutter closed, lost in the swirling sensations he was creating. The low moan that escaped her lips sent a jolt of pure pleasure through him, her nails digging into his shoulders, anchoring him, urging him on. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. “Just like that.” The gentle rocking of her hips against his, seeking more, begging for release, fueled his own growing need.

He met her gaze, the raw desire reflected in her eyes mirroring his own. The way she looked at him, like he was everything, ignited a fire in his chest. Her hands slid down his back, her fingers tracing the muscles that flexed with each thrust. He felt a surge of possessiveness as she pulled him closer, needing to feel all of him against her.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured, her voice thick with need, her lips brushing his jaw. He nipped at her earlobe, whispering, “Never. You feel so good, Rowan. So fucking good.” The memory of his teeth on her neck sparked a fresh wave of heat, and he angled his head, offering more of that sensitive skin, silently inviting her to leave her own mark.

He felt her arch beneath him, her thighs trembling as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm. "You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and rough. "Like how I'm touching you?" The tension was building, coiling tighter, closer to the breaking point. He heard her whimper, her voice laced with desperation. “Mason, I’m so close…”

The words were a spark to the kindling of his own desire. He needed to feel her shatter, to share the explosion with her. His movements became more urgent, more forceful, his own breaths coming in ragged gasps. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm with a fierce hunger. "Me too, baby," he groaned. "So close. Gonna come with me?"

"Please," she breathed, her lips finding his in a searing kiss. Her tongue tangled with his, a silent language of shared need, of complete surrender. He felt the first tremors of his own release building, a wave of heat gathering momentum, threatening to consume him. He groaned into her mouth, his body tensing, the world narrowing to the feel of her, the sound of her, the taste of her. "Fuck, Rowan," he hissed, as the wave crested. "I'm coming!" He felt himself on the precipice, the edge dissolving beneath him, and then, with a final, desperate cry, they tumbled together into the white-hot oblivion of shared climax.

[Rowan Starling]

As Mason's fingers continued their tantalizing dance, Rowan could feel her body responding in a way that left her breathless. The sensations were intense, her nerves tingling with anticipation as she felt herself on the verge of something extraordinary. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with desire and trust, knowing he would guide her through this exquisite journey.

Mason's touch was masterful, his fingers teasing her clit in perfect sync with his thrusts, driving her higher and higher until she felt like she was floating. His warm breath against her skin sent shivers down her spine, his lips leaving a fire trail in their wake. The sound of their bodies coming together, the soft moans and gasps, created a symphony of passion that filled the room, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy.

Rowan's body began to tremble as the tension grew, her muscles contracting in anticipation of the release she knew was coming. She could feel her orgasm building, like a storm gathering on the horizon, threatening to break at any moment. She looked into Mason's eyes, filled with desperation and longing as she whispered, "Mason, I need you."

He understood her silent plea, his desire burning brightly as he felt her slip closer to the edge. With a hungry groan, he wrapped his arms around her, his fingers digging into her hips as he drove deep, once, twice, a third time. And then, as if they were dancing to a music only they could hear, they both surrendered to the overwhelming force building between them.

The release was like nothing Rowan had experienced before, a wave of pure ecstasy that washed over her, consuming her in its depths. Her body convulsed, her muscles clenching around him as she cried out, her voice echoing in the stillness of the room. Mason's climax mirrored hers, his body tense and rigid as he poured himself into her, their shared pleasure binding them together in a way that transcended mere physical connection.

As the storm subsided, leaving them both breathless and spent, Mason pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her like a warm, comforting blanket. They lay there for a few moments, their bodies still entwined, their breaths slowly returning to normal. And in that quiet, peaceful aftermath, Rowan knew she had found something truly special that would change her life in ways she could never have anticipated. She looked up at Mason, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and whispered, "I love you, baby."

[Mason Hayes]

The tremors that wracked Rowan’s body as she climaxed echoed through Mason, his own release a mirroring inferno of sensation. He held her tight, burying his face in her neck as the waves of pleasure receded, leaving them stranded in the warm afterglow. The quiet intimacy of the moment was profound, a silent understanding passing between them as their breaths slowly returned to normal. He felt her stir in his arms, her head tilting upwards, her eyes shining with a love that mirrored his own. “I love you, baby,” she whispered, the words a soft caress against his soul.

A surge of emotion welled up in Mason’s chest, a powerful blend of love, gratitude, and a deep sense of belonging. He tightened his hold on her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you too, Rowan,” he murmured, the words heartfelt and true. He held her close, savoring the feel of her skin against his, the steady beat of her heart beneath his ear. The world outside their tangled limbs faded away, replaced by the quiet contentment of shared intimacy.

They lay intertwined for a long while, the silence punctuated by the occasional sigh or soft murmur. The lingering heat of their passion slowly cooled, replaced by a comfortable warmth. Eventually, Mason shifted, reluctantly breaking the embrace. He looked down at Rowan, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "I really am going to need that shower now," he said, his voice laced with a playful teasing.

[Rowan Starling]

The TV was still on—volume low, casting soft, flickering light across the living room like a mood lamp designed by chaos. Some reality show she’d watched a thousand times was playing in the background, all fake drama and overdone voiceovers, but Rowan liked it. The noise filled the quiet. It kept things light. Familiar.

She was stretched out across the couch, her back against a pillow, both legs draped over Mason’s lap like it was their designated place—like they belonged there. He was sitting up, posture half-slouched, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair a complete mess. One of his hands rested lightly on her shin, the other idly scrolling through his own screen. She felt the gentle press of his fingers tapping now and then, unconsciously keeping rhythm with her breathing.

Her phone rested against the bend of her knee, glowing with the soft light of an open tab on baby names.com. The cheerful banner blinked like this was all normal. Easy.

It wasn’t.

They’d been scrolling for ages—her thumb already aching, her patience fraying just slightly—and they hadn’t agreed Rowan (https://i.ibb.co/KjL2VxQF/IMG-8606.png) on a single name. Not one.

Rowan wanted something soft. Unique. Something that felt like poetry whispered under a blanket or carved into a tree somewhere no one else had found. Names like Indie. Lior. Reverie.

But every time she found something she liked, Mason would look at her like she’d handed him a tax form.

She peeked at him without turning her head—just a shift of her eyes—and sure enough, he was deep in concentration, still scrolling, likely hunting for something wildly dramatic and vaguely medieval that she’d have to shoot down again.

Rowan snorted softly as she swiped past yet another name that sounded like it belonged to the frontman of a punk band or a forgotten Greek war god. Of course he’d favor the bold ones. He was going to be that dad. The kind who made flashcards for bedtime stories and accidentally turned snack time into a trivia contest.

Her phone buzzed—a new name suggestion from him.

She checked it. Blinked. Then made a face that would’ve made her mom proud—full offense, no apology.

Her laugh broke free, low and amused, bubbling up in her chest. She reached for the throw pillow beside her and lobbed it lightly into his side, earning a perfectly casual catch and a grin in return.

She loved him. She really did.

Even if his current top baby name contender sounded like a wizard who got kicked out of Hogwarts for being too intense.

Rowan turned her attention back to her phone and typed in Indigo.

Strong. Gentle. A little dreamy. Something with weight and softness all at once.

She looked at it for a second longer than she expected to.

Maybe—just maybe—it was one they could actually agree on.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t look up at first.

Not when the pillow hit him. Not when Rowan’s laugh curved low and smug through the room like she’d just successfully insulted both his ancestors and his taste in fonts.

He caught the pillow mid-scroll, flipped it dramatically into his lap like some kind of statement piece, and kept tapping.

“Rude,” he muttered, no real heat behind it—just the kind of over-the-top offended tone that always meant I’m losing this argument and pretending I’m not. “I’ll have you know Draven is a perfectly respectable name.”

Rowan snorted again.

He glanced sideways then, just enough to catch the exact moment she bit her lip—trying not to smile too hard, clearly amused and clearly still rejecting his wizard baby vision.

God, he loved her.

Even when she was being mean about his fantasy-novel-inspo list. Especially then.

His hand drifted back to her shin, thumb resuming its lazy, unconscious rhythm against her skin like it couldn’t stand not touching her for more than five seconds. The TV flickered across her face in soft colors—casting little gold and pink highlights in her hair—and the moment felt... still. Warm. Domestic in the kind of way that made his chest go weird.

He peeked at her screen, because of course he did.

And there it was.

Indigo.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just stared at it.

Indigo.

It hit different than the rest. Not because it was wildly unique or somehow laced in ancient lore (though, for the record, it could be the name of a really cool rogue pirate character). No, this one—

This one felt like her.

It was soft, but solid. Dreamy, but rooted. Cool without trying.

His gaze flicked up to her, and for a second, he didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Just... let himself feel the weird, hopeful ache of this could be it.

He tilted his phone toward her and typed one word.

Yes.

Then added a little heart emoji.

When she glanced over—eyes bright, half-curious, half-surprised—he gave her a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t already feel like the first page of something.

And then, because he was still Mason Hayes and could only handle sincerity for so long without imploding, he added under his breath, “Still not ruling out naming our second kid Draven. Just saying. Indigo and Draven? That’s a power duo. One writes poetry in a haunted greenhouse. The other is the haunted greenhouse.”

Rowan groaned and tossed another pillow at him.

He ducked and laughed and caught her hand mid-throw, pulling it down into his lap with a grin that felt like a yes. Like this. Like the start of something messy and hilarious and real.

“Indigo Hayes,” he said, testing it out like a song he hadn’t realized he already knew by heart. “Yeah. I like it.”

And he did.

He liked it a lot.

[Rowan Starling]

She stayed quiet for a moment longer, thumb brushing over his knuckles like she could ground them both with that single motion.

“I mean,” she said eventually, still staring at the ceiling, “I was fully prepared to fight you on every name from now until delivery. Like, I had a strategy. I made mental lists. I was going to stage a gentle intervention when you got to your inevitable Lord of the Rings phase.”

She turned her head toward him, eyes soft but amused. “But Indigo? That one kind of cracked me open a little, Hayes.”

Her free hand settled back on her stomach without thinking, protective and tender all at once.

“I want her to have a name that feels like her. One that gives her room. Like… something that doesn’t already come with someone else’s expectations attached to it.”

She glanced down, watching his hand still resting gently there too. “But I also want her to have something simple behind it. Something quiet. Grace, maybe. Or Rose. Something soft she can lean on if Indigo ever feels like too much.”

Rowan paused, letting the words settle. Then she looked back at him again, arching a brow.

“So yes. You’re allowed one hauntingly cool name. But no hyphens. No middle names stolen from Norse mythology. And if you suggest ‘Ravenna’ I swear to God, Mason…”

But she was already grinning, her voice too full of love to sound like a threat.

“She’s gonna grow up knowing exactly who she is,” Rowan whispered, more to herself than him. “Because we’re going to show her. Every day.”

Then, without ceremony, she nudged his arm with her foot again. “Now scroll. I’m not naming my daughter Indigo Moon. We are not those people.”

And just like that, they were back in it—two idiots on a couch, arguing over baby names with trash TV in the background and a future slowly blooming beneath their hands.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Mostly because he was very busy trying to pretend his heart hadn’t just cannonballed directly into his stomach and started doing a backstroke around his ribcage.

She said her.

She said Indigo.

She said she.

And that alone probably would’ve sent him spiraling, but then she went and said things like “room” and “soft” and Grace, maybe, like she was building their daughter a name with both hands and a quiet kind of hope, and Mason just—

Yeah. He was gone.

Fully gone.

He blinked a few times to keep himself from blurting something ridiculous like Can we name her Indigo Grace Hayes so I can cry about it in private for the next six months?

Instead, he nodded slowly—serious and reverent and exactly as dramatic as Rowan always accused him of being. His fingers tightened around hers just slightly, grounding himself in the feeling of her thumb brushing his knuckles like it was keeping his entire nervous system online.

When she threatened him—again—with Ravenna and Norse mythology, he finally exhaled a shaky laugh.

“I was barely going to suggest Ravenna,” he muttered, trying for casual and failing miserably. “I was this close to holding that one for our inevitable broody second child who only wears black and insists on being called 'The Storm.'”

Rowan made a noise like she was preparing to launch another pillow at his face.

He deserved it.

Still, when she nudged his arm and barked that final order—scroll—he saluted with mock solemnity, grabbing his phone again and clearing his throat dramatically.

“Right. Yes. Back to the trenches. Operation: Not Indigo Moon is officially underway.”

He scrolled. Purposefully. Pretending not to still be thinking about how she looked when she said the words our daughter like it was a spell and he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it.

After a beat, he leaned closer—pressed a soft, entirely unearned kiss to her bare shoulder—and whispered, “She’s already got the coolest mom in the universe. We could name her Steve and she’d still turn out magic.”

Rowan groaned.

He grinned.

And then they kept scrolling.

Wrapped in throw blankets and sarcasm and the ridiculous, terrifying, heart-swelling fact that they were naming a person together. Their person.

And yeah, maybe they were still figuring it out.

But between Indigo, Grace, and all the absurd names he still hadn’t confessed to shortlisting in his Notes app—God, they were getting closer.

One name at a time.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan smirked, letting her head tilt back against the cushion as she watched him pretend to scroll, clearly still emotionally short-circuited from her saying Indigo out loud like a real thing. A real person. Their person.

“You know,” she said slowly, her foot nudging his thigh, “for someone who insists on being the cool one, you’re really soft.”

He didn’t respond—at least, not with words. Just a little grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth, fingers still curled around hers like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

She gave his hand a squeeze.

“I like Indigo,” she murmured, almost to herself now. “It’s strong but not loud. A little weird but not weird-for-the-sake-of-it. It feels like a name you grow into.”

Her voice softened.

“And Grace… Grace gives her something still. Something that says it’s okay to be quiet. To be soft. To just… be.”

She glanced over, caught the way he was looking at her again—like he’d never seen her before, and also like he saw everything at once.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that Steve comment,” she added, flicking his arm. “You name our child Steve, I’m sending you to the storm bunker with your Notes app full of warlock names and anime villains.”

But there was no heat in it. Just affection. Just her trying not to smile too hard at the way he looked at her like she’d just handed him the stars.

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then rested her head against his shoulder, legs still draped across his lap.

“Indigo Grace,” she said again, trying it out like a melody she wasn’t done humming.

Then, teasing: “Now we just have to figure out a last name.”

Pause.

“…Kidding.”

Mostly.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move for a full beat. Just sat there, her words echoing like a bell rung low and close to his ribs.

Indigo Grace.

His brain? Fully melted. Like candlewax and spilled coffee and whatever it is that happens when someone says something so perfect it short-circuits all logical systems in your soul.

He was still trying to recover from “our person” and “it’s okay to be soft,” and now she was kissing his cheek and tossing out fake threats about naming their baby Steve like it wasn’t the most deranged emotional rollercoaster he’d ever been willingly strapped into.

“She’s definitely gonna be cooler than us,” he mumbled eventually, because that’s all he had left. His vocabulary had been reduced to stunned compliments and stunned-er compliments.

Rowan’s smile pressed into his shoulder. He felt it like warmth.

He squeezed her knee with one hand and threaded his fingers tighter with hers with the other—quiet, firm, completely unbothered by the fact that his heart was now living somewhere halfway between her laugh and her belly.

Indigo Grace.

He pictured her. Not fully—just flashes. A curl of dark hair. A tiny hand wrapping around his thumb. A stubborn little frown that mirrored Rowan’s when someone said something dumb in science class. He imagined bedtime stories and jelly on the couch and glitter in places glitter absolutely shouldn’t be.

And weirdly? He didn’t panic.

He leaned into it.

Because if Rowan could say that name out loud and mean it—if she could look at him with that half-smirking, half-miracle look she always gave when he was being ridiculous and she loved him anyway—then yeah.

They were gonna be okay.

Maybe even great.

(As long as he never suggested Steve again.)

“Last name’s definitely Hayes,” he said finally, mock-serious. “Because Indigo Grace Starling sounds like someone who writes poetry about vampires in a haunted lighthouse. And Hayes balances that out with the energy of a man who accidentally microwaves his iPhone.”

Rowan didn’t answer right away—just made a soft noise that was mostly laughter and partly you’re lucky I love you.

Mason looked down at their hands again, still tangled like they’d always known how.

And in the quiet that followed, he whispered it again under his breath, just to hear how it sounded in the space between them.

“Indigo Grace.”

Then, with a grin curling against the corner of his mouth, he added:

“She’s gonna have your eye roll and my taste in cereal. We’re doomed.”

Rowan only hummed. But she didn’t let go.

And Mason—heart full, screen forgotten, thumb still brushing her knuckles—wasn’t going anywhere.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t laugh this time.

She wanted to. He was doing the whole dorky, dramatic Mason thing again—the cereal jokes, the haunted lighthouse commentary, the way he said doomed like it was a love language—but her chest felt too full. Too soft. Too caught in the quiet hum of Indigo Grace rolling off his tongue like he’d been saying it his whole life.

She kept their hands tangled.

She wasn’t letting go of that.

Her other hand drifted absentmindedly to her belly again, just resting there. Still nothing to see. Still just a whisper of what could be. But the weight of it—of her—felt real in a way that made her breath catch. Real in a way she didn’t know how to explain without sounding like she’d gone fully sentimental.

Which, maybe, she had.

“Indigo Grace Hayes,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “Sounds like someone who makes fairy crowns out of weeds and convinces the neighbor kids to build a castle out of cardboard.”

She felt him shift slightly beneath her legs, felt the way his thumb didn’t stop moving against her skin, and smiled.

“She’s definitely gonna be cooler than us,” Rowan agreed, voice low, full of something warm and reverent. “But if she ends up writing poetry about haunted lighthouses, that’s still your fault.”

Then, after a beat, quieter:

“I’m glad it’s Hayes.”

She didn’t say why. Didn’t have to. He’d feel it in the way she squeezed his hand, in the way her voice softened around his name like it wasn’t just a last name—it was home.

Rowan tilted her head back to look at him fully, catching the last of his grin before he dipped his head to kiss her shoulder again. He always did that. Kissed her like he had to. Like her skin had gravity.

“I guess now we need to come up with a boy name too,” she said lightly, brushing her toe along the side of his thigh. “Y’know. In case she’s not a she.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And no, before you ask, Draven is still banned. So is anything that sounds like a medieval weapon or the name of a morally gray antihero with a tragic backstory.”

A pause.

Then: “I’ll let you have one fantasy name if I get to name the next pet something normal. Like… Harold.”

She grinned at the look on his face and leaned forward to press a kiss to his jaw.

“We’re gonna be a mess,” she whispered. “A hot, cereal-eating, haunted-poetry-writing mess.”

Her lips brushed his cheekbone.

“But we’re gonna be a good one.”

And yeah.

She meant it. Every word.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move right away.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe, maybe.

He just sat there like someone had hit pause on whatever scrappy, unhinged version of the future he’d been building in his head—and then replaced it with this one. With Rowan. With Indigo Grace. With a mess he actually wanted to make.

He wasn’t always good at quiet moments. He filled them with jokes, or trivia, or weird facts about the lifespan of bees—but this one?

This one held him still.

Because the way she said Hayes—soft and warm and like it meant something—hit him harder than anything ever had. Like suddenly he wasn’t just a boy in a hoodie trying to love her hard enough.

He was home.

Mason swallowed. His chest felt too full. His brain too loud in all the right ways.

“You’re gonna name a cat Harold,” he said finally, voice thick with emotion and sarcasm, “and I’m supposed to not counter that with a son named Blade?”

She glared. He grinned.

“Fine, fine,” he added, eyes flicking down to where her hand still rested over her stomach, “no antiheroes. No fantasy bro names. I can work within limits.”

He tapped their joined hands once against her leg, thoughtful.

“What about something weird-but-approachable?” he mused. “Like… Ezra. Or Cassian. Or—wait. What about Orion?”

Rowan stared at him.

Mason raised both eyebrows. “What? It’s spacey. It’s poetic. You love space metaphors. And it sounds like the kind of kid who wins science fairs and has a cool frog terrarium.”

She didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth tugged.

God, he loved that. The way she tried to stay unimpressed and still failed completely.

“And if we have twins,” he continued, deadpan, “we name them Indigo and Orion and immediately start a band. Like, cosmic indie folkcore with banjo solos and ambient whale noises. I can be their manager-slash-snack dad.”

Rowan groaned, flopping backward on the couch like the dramatics were too much to endure, but her fingers never left his.

And that?

That meant everything.

Mason leaned down and kissed her shoulder again—couldn’t not—and let his lips linger there, just breathing her in. Her laugh. Her steadiness. The absolute miracle of her choosing him again and again.

“You’re right,” he murmured into her sleeve.

“We’re gonna be a mess.”

He pulled back just enough to catch her gaze, a grin spreading across his face again—mischief and awe all tangled together.

“But babe? We’re gonna be a legendary one.”

And when she rolled her eyes and kissed him anyway?

Mason knew it.

They already were.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t even try to hide her eye roll.

He was insufferable. Truly. A menace wrapped in curls and sarcasm and just enough emotional sincerity to wreck her on a regular basis. But when he said things like that—when he kissed her shoulder like it was something sacred and looked at her like she was the start of the universe—how was she supposed to stay mad?

She didn’t answer him at first.

Just stretched a little farther across the couch, her legs still draped over his lap, the rest of her sinking into the cushions like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. She was. She knew it. Even if the world still felt a little too big some days.

Her hand slipped from his and found his hoodie drawstring, tugging it gently. A quiet I’m still here. A quiet you’re mine.

“Ezra,” she said after a beat, as if testing the shape of it in her mouth. “Okay… I kind of love that.”

She felt his heart stutter under her palm.

“It’s soft,” she continued. “But strong. Feels like a kid who knows who he is, even if he doesn’t always say it out loud. Kind of like you.”

He didn’t speak—just stared at her like she’d handed him the stars.

“And Orion,” she added with a little smirk, “definitely the kid who corrects the teacher about comet trajectories but still gets invited to every birthday party.”

She paused.

“But no frog terrarium. I’m drawing the line there.”

Her gaze found his again—half-amused, half-serious. “And if we do have twins and name them Indigo and Orion, you better be ready for their joint science project to take over our kitchen. I’m talking glitter volcanos, solar system mobiles, possibly live-action Mars rover simulations.”

Mason looked way too thrilled at the idea, which only made her laugh more.

Rowan shook her head, nose scrunching, and leaned forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“You are so lucky I love you,” she murmured.

She let the moment hang for a second, her thumb brushing along the curve of his jaw, her other hand finding its way back to her stomach, like her body remembered before her brain did.

Then, softer: “But yeah. Indigo. Ezra. Orion. Whoever they turn out to be…”

She looked at him again—really looked.

“We’re gonna be a lot of things. Tired. Confused. Probably sticky.”

A smile tugged at her lips.

“But you and me? We’ll be solid.”

And somehow, saying that—naming it, aloud, in the quiet hum of the living room—made it feel more real than anything else had so far.

They were building something messy and beautiful and entirely their own.

And God, Rowan couldn’t wait to see who showed up next.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t even try to hide the way his face split into the world’s most ridiculous grin.

It wasn’t suave. It wasn’t cool. It was pure, unfiltered Mason Hayes short-circuiting at full emotional capacity—eyes wide, curls flopping into his face, mouth half-open like he couldn’t quite believe the girl of his literal dreams just casually said the words Ezra, Orion, and we’ll be solid like she hadn’t just restructured his entire genetic makeup.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, dazed, like it was a compliment. And it was.

Because that was the thing about Rowan Starling—she didn’t need to throw big gestures or use flowery declarations. She just said things like probably sticky with all the reverence of a love song, and somehow, that was what got him. Every time.

His hands moved before he could overthink them, one landing lightly on her shin again, the other finding its way over hers, right where it rested on her belly. Still barely there. Still just a possibility. But suddenly it felt massive. Holy. A them in the making.

“Okay,” he said, very seriously. “No frog terrariums. But I reserve the right to build a model solar system using exactly fourteen types of glitter.”

Rowan made a sound that could only be described as deeply skeptical amusement.

He leaned down and kissed her knee like it was a vow. “You said probably sticky, babe. I’m just honoring the prophecy.”

She didn’t laugh this time. Not quite. But the look in her eyes—the one that softened at the corners and made his throat tighten? Yeah. That was better than any laugh.

His voice dropped a little as he brushed her hand with his thumb. “You and me. We’re solid.”

He said it like a confirmation. A promise.

Then—without warning—he plucked her phone off the cushion, typed Ezra into the notes app right under Indigo Grace, and gave her a look.

“What?” he said, chin tilted, eyebrows raised. “I’m cataloguing future excellence.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, which he accepted as a personal victory, then watched in real time as she melted back into the couch with a sigh.

Their sigh. The we’re-tired-but-we’re-safe one.

He wanted to bottle it.

He looked over at her again—this girl who somehow made every terrifying thing feel less like a disaster and more like a story worth living—and thought, Yeah. I could do this forever.

Mason didn’t say that out loud.

He didn’t have to.

Because when she leaned her head against his shoulder, and her fingers laced back into his, and the TV droned on with its perfectly terrible dialogue in the background, they were already writing the first chapter of something he knew they’d never want to edit.

Chaos. Crumbs. Cereal bowls and middle names.

And all of it—every last second—would be theirs.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move for a long moment.

Didn’t speak either—just stayed folded into the couch like the gravity in this exact spot was stronger than anywhere else in the world. And maybe it was. Because here? With him? With one of his hands curled around hers and the other still resting over her stomach like they’d always known to do that?

Yeah.

This was the softest kind of magic.

She glanced at the phone in his hand—Ezra typed in neatly below Indigo Grace—and fought the ridiculous urge to swipe it from him and write Not Orion in all caps just to be a menace. But she didn’t. Because even she had to admit… Ezra was kind of perfect. Soft. Easy. Like something you could grow into.

Like someone who wouldn’t flinch when the world got hard.

But more than that?

She knew how much it mattered to him. The space metaphors. The way his eyes lit up when he said names like Orion like they meant something ancient and beautiful. And maybe they did.

So she shifted slightly and murmured, “Ezra Orion.”

She didn’t say it like a question. She said it like a gift.

Like a compromise that didn’t feel like giving anything up.

“It matters to me,” she added, fingers tightening just slightly around his. “That it feels like you, too.”

Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand once. Then again.

She tilted her head slightly to look at him—Mason Hayes, her fiancé, her problem—and said with zero hesitation, “We’re still not naming anyone after a star chart.”

Then she smiled. For real. That slow, quiet kind of smile that only he ever really got.

“But Ezra Orion? Indigo Grace? Yeah. That feels like us.”

She didn’t say I love you—not out loud.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the way she shifted just enough to sit up and slide into his lap, her legs folding to either side like it was second nature. Her arms wound around his neck, slow and sure, and her forehead pressed against his like they were the only two people in the world who knew what this moment meant.

And maybe they were.

Because no one else got to see him like this. Quiet. Steady. Soft in all the places she used to be scared to touch.

Her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck as she leaned back just slightly to look at him.

“We’re not gonna get it all right,” she said. “We’re gonna screw some things up. Forget appointments. Drop crackers in the car seat. Have entire conversations about what kind of wipes are best.”

She smiled, nose brushing his.

“But if this is how it starts—messy and soft and slightly glitter-covered—I think I’m good with that.”

And she was.

Because Mason made her laugh when everything felt too big.

Because they could sit in silence and still feel understood.

Because Indigo Grace and Ezra Orion were more than names.

They were beginnings.

And both of them felt like home.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move either.

Couldn’t, really. Not when she climbed into his lap like it was just breathing—like she belonged there, and maybe he belonged there too. His hands found her hips without thinking, grounding himself in the warmth of her weight, the way she curled into him like they were puzzle pieces that had been waiting a little too long to click into place.

Ezra Orion.

His brain, for once, was quiet.

No jokes. No chaos. Just that name echoing through him like it had been written in the stars long before they ever opened that dumb baby name app.

Rowan said it like a secret she was ready to keep.

And Mason—God, Mason just stared at her. Completely and unapologetically smitten. Her hair was falling over her shoulder. Her ring caught the light like it was showing off. Her eyes looked tired and wild and sure. And he was done for.

He didn’t say “I love you,” either.

He just leaned forward, touched his forehead to hers, and let out the kind of breath people usually reserve for mountaintops or miracles.

His fingers slid under the hem of her hoodie—just barely—resting warm and steady over the soft, still-small curve of her stomach. That impossible new gravity between them.

Ezra or Indigo. Doesn’t matter. He already loved them both.

And when she said they’d screw it up? That they’d drop crackers and debate baby wipes and argue about bedtime playlists?

He smiled. That stupid crooked Mason Hayes smile that made her roll her eyes and kiss him anyway.

“Good,” he whispered against her mouth, right before he kissed her like it meant something permanent. “Because I plan on being the most embarrassing dad alive.”

And honestly? That felt like a pretty decent start.

To everything.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because Mason was already holding her like she was something sacred, like she’d just handed him the whole universe in a name—and maybe she had. The way he looked at her then, forehead resting against hers, breath slow and reverent like he was trying to steady the world around them—God, it did something to her.

Softened her. Anchored her. Lit something warm and pulsing behind her ribs.

So she brought both hands to his face, slow and sure, fingers sliding up to cradle his jaw like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. Her thumbs brushed along his cheeks, right where the flush had started to rise—because of her, always because of her—and she leaned in.

Not to speak.

Not to tease.

Just to kiss him.

Softly.

Once on his forehead. Then each cheek. The tip of his nose. The space just beside his eye.

Like a trail of tiny, quiet yeses.

Yes, I see you.

Yes, I’m with you.

Yes, I’m still choosing this.

He didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Just let her take her time like he knew what she was saying without a single word.

When she finally kissed his lips—slow, steady, more smile than heat—she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his again.

Her fingers stayed at his jaw, gently framing him.

“I’m kind of obsessed with you,” she whispered. “In case that wasn’t painfully obvious.”

He let out a soft sound that might’ve been a laugh, but she didn’t give him time to recover.

“Also—when our kid grows up and tells their friends their mom named them Indigo and their dad wanted to call them Blade, I want you to know I’m absolutely blaming you for every therapy session that follows.”

Her lips curved into a grin, even as she brushed another kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“But I’ll love you through all of it. Even the bedtime playlist arguments.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face fully now, hands still holding him like something precious.

Because he was.

He always had been.

And now?

He was hers. Completely. Stupidly. Permanently.

And that—this—was the kind of forever she hadn’t even known she was allowed to want.

Until Mason Hayes showed up and gave it to her. One kiss, one name, one hand over her stomach at a time.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason swore he was breathing, but everything about this moment made it feel like he wasn’t doing it right.

Because how were you supposed to breathe when someone looked at you like that?

When they kissed you like every part of you was worth knowing?

When they touched your face like you were a prayer they didn’t want answered too fast?

He didn’t move—couldn’t. Not when her hands were on his jaw and her voice was whispering confessions like I’m kind of obsessed with you with zero irony and one hundred percent sincerity.

His heart didn’t just stutter—it jumped. Like it wanted to fist-bump gravity just for getting them here.

And then she said the thing about Blade.

And therapy.

And bedtime playlists.

And he lost it—not loudly, not in the way he sometimes did when she roasted him in public—but in the quiet, Mason Hayes way. That crooked grin. That bright-eyed, heart-too-full way. Like he’d never quite recover from being chosen by someone this sharp and soft and real.

He leaned in, nose brushing hers, voice low and wrecked with affection.

“Indigo is gonna tell her entire class that her dad wanted to name her after a sword and a constellation and the concept of vengeance, and you are not gonna stop her.”

He felt her laugh against him. Felt it everywhere.

“And bedtime playlists?” he added, fingers drifting to where her hand still rested over her belly. “That’s a hill I’ll die on. There will be lullabies and mood lighting and probably a themed playlist called ‘Sleep Like a Star Baby, You’ve Got This.’”

She groaned. He grinned wider.

But then his thumb moved—just barely—over the hand she was using to hold him still. Slower. Quieter. Reverent again.

And his voice softened.

“But I’ll love you through all of it too,” he said.

No smirk. No joke.

Just truth.

Just Mason, still holding on, still memorizing her in the dim afterglow of choosing each other again.

Because yeah, she named their kid Indigo.

And yeah, she kissed him like he was something sacred.

And maybe he didn’t have the words to explain what that did to him.

But he’d spend the rest of his life trying.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She couldn’t.

Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that. Not when his thumb was tracing slow, quiet circles over her hand like it was a sacred text only he was allowed to read.

She didn’t need poetry when he talked like that.

Didn’t need vows when he looked at her belly like he already loved what hadn’t even been seen.

So instead, she leaned in—just slightly—and let her forehead rest against his, noses brushing. Her fingers curled against his hoodie like she was afraid to let go, even for a second. Like her grip was the only thing anchoring her to this moment.

“You’re gonna ruin her,” Rowan whispered, not accusing. Just awed. “In the best way.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, really look—eyes scanning every inch of that open, crooked, Mason smile. The one that cracked her open and made her feel known.

“She’s gonna hear those playlists and think the stars are only quiet because her dad told them bedtime stories,” she said, softer now. “She’s gonna think magic is just… how we live.”

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. Once. Twice.

And then she smiled. Slow. Crooked. The kind of smile that made it very clear she was just as doomed as he was.

“We’re not even parents yet, and I already want to make fun of other couples for not being us.”

She kissed his forehead. His cheek. The curve of his jaw. All of it slow. All of it certain.

And then, right at his ear—barely above a whisper:

“I’m even more in love with you.”

She let it hang there for a moment. Let him feel it.

Then, with a little breath of laughter, she added, “Even when you name hypothetical playlists like you’re a moonlight DJ in a toddler rave.

Then: “But if she grows up dramatic, it’s definitely your fault.”

And when he didn’t argue, when he just smiled and kissed her shoulder again?

She knew.

This was it.

This was her favorite part.

Rowan didn’t mean to yawn, but it escaped before she could swallow it back. Soft. Contagious. The kind that tugged at the edges of everything—her limbs, her thoughts, her heart—until they all went a little loose.

She shifted just slightly, thinking maybe it was time to move, to stretch, to peel herself off the couch and drag him upstairs where the blankets were warmer and the light didn’t flicker with bad commercials. Her hand was still resting over his, the one curled protectively on her stomach. The TV buzzed with half-hearted drama. The names Indigo and Ezra were tucked somewhere between their joined palms like they’d always been there.

She looked up, ready to push herself upright.

But Mason beat her to it.

Without so much as a warning, he tightened his arm around her back and the one under her knees, and stood—smooth, steady, like she weighed nothing at all.

Rowan let out a small, surprised laugh against his chest, her aend instinctively wrapping around his neck as he held her like it was second nature. Like carrying her upstairs was just what people did when they were stupidly in love and couldn’t be bothered with separate footsteps.

“Mason,” she murmured, mock-scolding into the fabric of his hoodie, “you’re going to throw your back out and I’m not calling your mom.”

But she didn’t ask him to put her down.

Not even a little.

Because her cheek was pressed over his heartbeat. Because she was warm, and safe, and loved in that quiet, easy way that only happened after everything else fell away. And because she knew—without question—that he wasn’t carrying her out of romance or pride.

He just didn’t want to let go yet.

And honestly?

Neither did she.

So Rowan let him carry her toward the stairs. Toward their room. Toward whatever came next.

Still barefoot. Still laughing. Still completely wrapped up in the boy who had turned a couch, a name, and a maybe into something real.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t trust himself to.

Rowan had curled into him so effortlessly—her hand on his chest, her voice brushing past his collarbone like a secret only meant for him—and it knocked the wind out of him in the best way. Again.

He carried her up the stairs like it was instinct. Like her weight against him was a language he knew fluently now. And maybe it was. The soft of her laugh. The curve of her fingers curled into the drawstring of his hoodie. The way she didn’t ask him to carry her but let him anyway.

God, he loved her.

He couldn’t even say how long he’d loved her—not really. It wasn’t a date he could circle on a calendar. It was more like a thousand tiny moments that snuck up on him and rearranged his insides while he wasn’t looking.

By the time they reached the bedroom, his arms were starting to ache—but he didn’t put her down. Not yet.

He just stood there in the doorway with her wrapped around him, the room lit soft by the hallway glow, and thought: This is real. She said yes. We made a person.

Rowan stirred against his chest, nudging his jaw with her nose like she knew exactly what was going on in his head and didn’t mind that he was spiraling again.

He smiled—soft, crooked, a little ruined—and kissed the top of her head.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, not because she needed reminding, but because he did.

He stepped inside and lowered her gently to the edge of the bed, his hands still on her waist longer than they needed to be. Like letting go would make all of this blur into something imaginary. A dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

But she was still looking at him like that.

Like he was real. Like he was hers. Like this was the beginning of something good.

He dropped to his knees in front of her without thinking. Rested his hands on her thighs, his thumbs drawing slow circles over the fabric of her leggings.

His eyes flicked to where her hand had returned—instinctively, protectively—to her stomach.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he whispered. “Indigo. Or him—Ezra. Or whoever they are.”

He looked up at her again. The girl who’d said yes in a library fort made of books and fairy lights. The girl who roasted him for naming their hypothetical child after a constellation but also kissed him like he was the only boy she’d ever trust with her whole heart.

“We haven’t even met them yet,” Mason said softly, “but I already love them so much it’s doing something weird to my chest.”

Rowan brushed his hair out of his eyes with that same gentle reverence she always used when he got too overwhelmed to be clever.

And Mason—who had never once shut up in his entire life—went quiet.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then her stomach. Then her ring finger.

Because this was it.

The life he didn’t know he was allowed to dream about.

And somehow—against all odds—it was already his.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak. Didn’t move much either.

She just stared at the boy on the floor in front of her like he was something worth memorizing.

Because he was.

Because Mason Hayes—dramatic, loyal, chaotic, soft Mason Hayes—had just knelt in front of her like a vow without a ceremony. Hands warm on her thighs. Eyes full of something that shook her more than all the big, loud milestones ever could.

And when he kissed her—knee, stomach, ring finger—like each one held a different kind of meaning, she felt it.

All of it.

The gravity.

The grace.

The way loving him had never felt like falling. Just… landing. Over and over again.

When his forehead finally rested against her leg, she let her fingers move without hesitation. Right into his hair. Right where they belonged.

She threaded them through gently, slowly. Not to soothe him. Not really.

But to anchor him.

Her thumb brushed along his temple as her other hand moved to rest lightly over his where it still held her thigh like he needed the contact to stay standing, even while sitting.

“You’re allowed to be soft,” she said quietly, her voice steady even if her heart wasn’t. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

Another sweep of her fingers through his curls. Gentle. Reverent. Real.

“We’re figuring it out together, remember?” she whispered. “No maps. No perfect lines. Just us. And them. And whatever messy, beautiful thing we build in between.”

His breathing slowed against her. Not by much. But enough.

So she leaned down—only slightly—and pressed a kiss into the crown of his hair.

“I love you,” she murmured, barely audible, like it was meant just for the space between them. “Even when your heart’s doing weird stuff in your chest.”

She smiled, soft and lopsided, and traced small, calming shapes across his scalp, over and over. Until his grip on her steadied. Until the moment didn’t feel quite so loud.

She didn’t need a sword. She didn’t need a ceremony.

Just this.

Him on his knees, and her holding his heart gently in her hands, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because maybe it was.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t lift his head at first.

He couldn’t.

Not when her hands were in his hair like that. Not when her voice had gone all quiet and sure, like she was trying to convince his bones to believe something his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

You’re allowed to be soft.

God.

That did something to him.

Not the kind of thing that made him cry on the spot—though, let’s be honest, he was dangerously close—but the kind that cracked open the places he didn’t even realize he was guarding.

Because she got it.

Of course she did.

She always had.

And it shouldn’t have surprised him—not really—that she would know how to hold him steady even when he was the one trying to be the anchor. That she’d sit there, her fingers tangled in his curls like safety netting, and remind him without flinching that it was okay to not be unshakable all the time.

That he didn’t have to be the strong one.

He just had to be hers.

So he breathed. Deep this time. Like he meant it.

And then he finally looked up.

Rowan’s face was still soft around the edges, her expression unguarded in that way it only got when she was so full of feeling she forgot how to hide. Her thumb brushed along his cheek again, the way she always did when she needed him to really hear her.

And he did.

God, did he.

He reached up—slowly—and took her hand from his face, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm like it was a thank you in another language.

Then he stood, not fast, not dramatic—just steady. And he didn’t move far.

Just leaned in close and pressed his forehead to hers, their noses brushing, breath shared.

“This is my favorite place,” he whispered, voice low and a little raw. “Right here. With you.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because when she smiled—tired, certain, still a little stunned by how big this life was getting—he felt it in every inch of him.

And when she tugged him down onto the bed beside her, curling their bodies into a familiar shape beneath the quiet hum of their growing forever, he went easily.

Willingly.

Because this wasn’t about running toward something perfect.

It was about choosing each other over and over again.

Even when they were scared.

Even when they didn’t have a map.

Especially then.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move until he looked up at her.

Until his eyes—those wide, open, too-honest eyes—met hers and held. Like the world wasn’t moving anymore. Like it didn’t have to.

She didn’t speak. Just let him take her hand. Let him press his lips to her palm like it was something holy.

Maybe it was.

Because Mason Hayes had never needed grand gestures. Just this. Just presence. Just a little permission to be soft.

And Rowan?

She would give it to him every day, in every way she knew how.

So when he stood, forehead finding hers like instinct, her breath caught—but not from nerves. Not from fear.

Just from how much she loved him.

It ached sometimes. The sheer size of it.

The way it filled up all the empty space between who she’d been and who she was now.

She reached for him without hesitation.

Fingers curled in the fabric of his hoodie, tugging gently until he followed—until he was next to her, then beneath her, then all around her. Rowan folded herself into him like muscle memory. Her leg hitched over his hip. Her arms circled his waist. Her cheek found the hollow just under his jaw where his heartbeat lived loud and steady and hers.

She stayed there for a beat. Then another.

And without a word, she reached back and dragged the covers over them, tucking them in like a punctuation mark.

She could’ve said something.

A joke, probably.

Maybe a threat about what would happen if he started snoring.

But she didn’t.

She just kissed the spot under his ear. Let her hand drift down his back. Let the quiet settle around them like it was enough.

Because it was.

Because this—this mess, this miracle, this heart-thudding, name-choosing, maybe-parenthood storm they were in—was theirs.

And so was this bed.

And so was this moment.

And so was he.

Rowan didn’t rush it.

Didn’t try to fill the silence with anything other than her breath steadying against his neck, or the soft shift of fabric as the blankets settled over them like dusk. Mason’s arm tightened around her waist automatically—sleepy reflex or something deeper, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. It felt like belonging either way.

She tucked her foot between his, nudging her cold toes against his calf just to hear him groan like she’d committed an unforgivable act of betrayal.

And then he laughed. Quiet and half-asleep already.

God, she loved that sound.

She tilted her head just enough to press a kiss to his jaw—lazy, lingering—and whispered, “You know you don’t have to try so hard, right?”

No teasing in her voice. Just a truth spoken into the dark.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath it to trace slow circles over the bare skin of his back. Not with any real motive—just because she could. Because she knew his body by now: the slope of his spine, the warmth of his skin, the way he always twitched a little when she ran her nails lightly over the base of his neck.

And he let her. He always let her.

Like he knew she wasn’t just touching him—she was grounding herself. Reminding them both that no matter how wild and unpredictable tomorrow might be, this was real.

Him.

Them.

This bed, these blankets, this impossibly beautiful, slightly terrifying future they were folding themselves into one breath at a time.

She shifted again, just enough to look at him—half-shadowed in the soft glow spilling through the cracked door.

“You already are everything she needs,” Rowan murmured. “You don’t have to prove it. Not to me. Not to her.”

He opened his eyes, barely.

But he smiled.

Rowan brushed her thumb along his cheek, then leaned in close enough that her words were a kiss too.

“And if you ever forget that, I’ll remind you.”

He didn’t answer—just buried his face in the crook of her neck, exhaling like he was letting go of something heavy.

She held him tighter.

She didn’t know if they’d get everything right.

But curled up like this—in a tangle of limbs and promises and cotton sheets—she knew one thing for certain:

They’d get through it.

Together.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away.

He just curled closer, his arms tightening around her like instinct—like maybe if he held her a little tighter, his heart might finally calm down.

But it didn’t. Not really. Not with her saying things like you don’t have to try so hard in the dark. Not with her fingers tracing slow, soothing circles under his shirt like they were the only thing tethering him to Earth.

So he breathed. Let it settle. Let the silence wrap around them for a moment. Then, voice low and rough with something unspoken, he whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to get anything right this badly.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t interrupt.

So he kept going.

“I used to think I’d be the fun uncle, y’know? The one who brings weird gifts and teaches their niece or nephew how to sneak cookies without getting caught.” His thumb swept gently across the stretch of her side beneath the blanket. “I never imagined this. Not really. Not me being the one who stays up with a baby at 2 a.m. or… folds tiny socks into drawers.”

A beat.

“But then you looked at me with that look,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers, “the one that makes me feel like maybe I could hold the world without dropping it—and suddenly I’m Googling what swaddling is and pretending I’m not crying over a onesie that says Little Comet on the front.”

He felt her smile against his skin, and God, he’d never been more grateful for a laugh in his life.

“But I’m scared,” he admitted, softer now. “Not because I don’t want it. But because I do. So much it hurts sometimes. I want to be good at this. I want to give them the kind of parent they brag about. The kind who makes them feel safe when the world gets too loud. The kind who learns how to braid hair even if I suck at it and shows up to every school play and… holds your hand through every meltdown, even if you pretend you don’t need it.”

Her breath caught slightly.

Mason kissed her temple.

“And if I get it wrong sometimes—when I get it wrong—I hope you’ll remind me to breathe. Like you did tonight. Like you always do.”

He shifted just enough to look at her then—really look at her, even in the dark. His hand found hers over the swell of her stomach, not yet visible but already real.

“I love you, Rowan Starling,” he said quietly. “More than I know how to hold sometimes. But I’m gonna try. Every day. For you. For them. For us.”

He kissed her once. Soft. Sure.

Then smiled that crooked Mason smile—the one that said I’m terrified, but I’m staying anyway.

“And hey… if they end up loving dinosaurs and poetry, I’m taking full credit.”

Rowan laughed again, and that was it.

That was the moment he let himself believe it:

They weren’t just going to survive this.

They were going to live it.

Together.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away either.

She couldn’t.

Not with her throat tightening the way it was. Not with his voice breaking open like that—soft and honest and so full of love she could feel it bloom behind her ribs like spring.

So she just held on.

Arms around his waist. Legs tangled beneath the blanket. Her hand resting over his, where it curved instinctively around the place their future was slowly beginning to grow.

She exhaled, slow and steady, and tilted her head just enough to brush her nose against his.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispered, the words threading through the quiet like a secret she’d been saving just for him. “I am too.”

Her thumb traced a line across his jaw. Familiar now. Safe.

“But scared doesn’t mean wrong. It just means this matters.”

She leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d be doing this either,” she admitted. “The baby. The person I can fall asleep next to without building a wall first. But then you came along with your dumb grin and your library facts and your entire heart, and you made it feel possible.”

Her voice dipped a little lower. Not fragile—firm. Like a tether.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Mason. You just have to be here. And you are. God, you are.”

She moved her hand to his cheek, thumb brushing just below his eye, like she could catch whatever fear he hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’ll teach you the braid thing,” she added after a beat, smiling gently. “And we’ll mess up the bedtime routine, and you’ll probably cry the first time she calls you dad, and I’ll pretend I’m not also crying in the hallway.”

Her forehead pressed against his. Her hand slid back down to their joined ones, resting over her stomach again—barely a bump, but already the center of everything.

“And when it feels like too much?” she whispered, “We’ll figure it out. Together. One meltdown, one midnight snack, one dinosaur onesie at a time.”

She kissed him again—slower now. Not a promise, not a fix. Just a presence. Just a yes.

“I love you too,” she breathed into his skin. “More than I thought I could. More than I’m ready for. But I’m in it. All the way.”

A pause. Then, teasing: “And you better believe she’s getting the glitteriest Little Comet onesie money can buy. With matching socks.”

Mason groaned into her neck.

She laughed. Quiet and warm and entirely at peace.

Because this wasn’t just a maybe anymore.

It was a yes. A heartbeat. A future with his hand in hers and their whole, terrifying, beautiful story just beginning.

And Rowan? She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak, either.

Just stayed there for a moment—eyes on him, breath syncing with his—while her thumb traced the edge of his jaw. Mason looked at her like she’d handed him something delicate and rare, something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t stop holding anyway.

And Rowan? She felt it too.

That impossible stretch between fear and certainty. The quiet gravity of being this close to someone who saw all of you and didn’t flinch.

So she leaned in.

Her hand curled into his curls, fingers threading through the mess of them like she’d done it a thousand times and never gotten tired of it. Her lips brushed his once—soft, slow, like she was still learning the shape of him. And when he didn’t pull back (God, he never pulled back), she deepened the kiss.

Not urgent.

Not dramatic.

Just full.

Full of every unspoken thing they’d spent the last few days circling.

The yes.

The fear.

The fact that she loved him more every time he stopped trying to be anything but his whole, messy self.

Mason’s hands gripped her waist tighter, not to hold her still, but to keep from falling apart entirely.

She felt it. All of it.

And she kissed him like she meant it.

Because she did.

Because this was the good part.

And she wanted him to feel it in his chest—how wanted he was. How chosen. How safe it could be, even here, even now.

When she finally pulled back, breath a little unsteady, lips still brushing his—

She smiled.

One hand still cradling his jaw. One heartbeat away from forever.

“Let’s figure it out,” she whispered. “One kiss at a time.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t speak at first.

He couldn’t. Not when her words had rearranged something in his chest. Not when the weight of her hand over his, the light brush of her thumb along his jaw, had made the world feel quiet in that rare, reverent kind of way.

He’d thought he’d known what love was. Thought it lived in jokes and playlists and the way she rolled her eyes at him like it meant something sacred.

But this?

This was different.

This was her saying I’m scared too, and you’re not alone, and you don’t have to be perfect to be mine.

This was her saying us.

His throat tightened.

Her kiss hadn’t been grand or planned or anything he’d expected—but it cracked something open in him anyway. Not a wound. Just a truth. Something vulnerable and blinding and stupidly beautiful.

Because she meant it. The fear. The forever. The dinosaur onesies.

And God, he loved her.

He pressed his forehead to hers again, breath catching just slightly at the closeness. Then he let his eyes drift open, blinking slowly as her face filled his entire world.

“You know,” he said, voice a little hoarse, a little wrecked in the best way, “I was trying really hard not to ugly cry through that entire monologue. So… thanks for blowing that plan to hell.”

Her lips curved, but she didn’t laugh—not fully. Because she saw it. The shift in him. The way he was holding her like she’d handed him the answer to a question he didn’t know he’d been asking.

“But also,” he added, brushing his nose against hers, “you just said midnight snacks and matching socks, so unless this baby shows up fully formed with a snack tray and fashion sense, I think we’re all just winging it from here.”

She made a soft sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—and Mason leaned in to kiss her again. Not careful. Not controlled.

Just there.

Just his.

When he pulled back, he rested one hand on the side of her neck, thumb brushing the skin beneath her ear like he could memorize her pulse if he tried hard enough.

“I want all of it,” he said softly. “The baby that cries for no reason. The dinosaur phase. The glitter. The weirdly emotional daycare drop-offs. I want the disasters and the quiet wins and the nights where we fall asleep with Cheerio dust in our hair.”

He kissed her again—just once, just barely.

“I want it with you.”

His hand dropped to her stomach, palm wide, warm, steady.

“With them.”

He paused, watching her eyes like they were the only map that mattered.

“And yeah, I’ll probably cry the first time I hear ‘dad.’ I’ll definitely cry at graduation. And if they ever say something like ‘My favorite place is next to you,’ I’m gonna have to lie down for a while and you know it.”

She didn’t argue. Because they both knew it was true.

Mason exhaled. Then pulled her closer. Arms wrapped tight, breath brushing her temple.

“Let’s mess this up beautifully, Starling,” he whispered. “Let’s be the kind of people who don’t get it right the first time, but keep trying anyway. Let’s be the ones who build something real.”

His mouth found hers again, this time slow and deep and certain.

Because maybe this wasn’t about getting it right.

Maybe it was about choosing each other, again and again, one kiss at a time.

And he could do that.

Forever.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer at first.

Not with words.

She just held him tighter—one hand sliding into the back of his hair, the other splaying across his chest like she could calm the frantic rhythm of his heart by simply being there. Her thumb brushed his collarbone slowly, thoughtfully, like she was tracing the shape of the moment. Of him.

She felt it too.

The shift.

The soft, quiet weight of a future starting to settle over them—not heavy, not crushing, but steady. Like something she could build a life inside of.

So when Mason kissed her—slow and certain—she let it anchor her. Let it say all the things she didn’t have to. Then, when they pulled back, foreheads pressed together, breath shared, she finally spoke.

“I’ve never wanted to mess something up so beautifully in my life.”

She whispered it against his mouth, her voice warm with affection, light with disbelief. Because it was real. All of it. The baby. The Cheerio dust. The storm and the stillness.

Her fingers found the side of his face again, cupping his cheek as her lips pressed soft kisses along the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, his temple. Little blessings. Little thank yous.

“You’re gonna cry when they say ‘dad,’” she murmured, smiling against his skin, “and I’m gonna pretend not to take pictures while doing exactly that.”

She felt his laugh in his chest.

“And when you get emotional over a preschool finger painting? I’ll frame it next to our wedding photo just to really ruin you.”

She leaned back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“But you’re already doing it right, Mase.”

Her voice was steady now, her thumb brushing over his jaw like punctuation.

“Not because you have it all figured out. But because you care this much. Because you show up. Because you say things like ‘let’s build something real’ and mean it.”

She kissed him again—slower now, lingering.

Then let her hand drift down between them, fingers curling over his where he still rested them gently on her stomach.

“We already are.”

She smiled. Tired. Sure. More in love than she knew what to do with.

And as the quiet wrapped back around them like a blanket, she didn’t move to break it.

She just stayed there. Tangled with him. Breathing.

“Y’know,” she whispered, a teasing softness curling behind her words, “you’re not gonna be able to call me Starling much longer.”

He blinked, still dazed, still breathless from everything she’d just poured into him.

Rowan smiled.

“That’s gonna be my old name. I mean, I guess you could still say it, if you’re really that attached to your dramatic flair…” Her voice dropped to a faux-serious hush. “But I will be a Hayes, thank you very much. A Mrs. Hayes. Indigo’s mom. The woman who puts up with your bedtime playlist obsession and your irrational need to own a thousand tiny dinosaur onesies.”

She kissed his jaw again, then leaned her forehead into his neck and stayed there, breathing in the moment like it was enough to carry her through anything.

Because it was.

And when she finally spoke again, her voice was laced with something warm and permanent.

“I love you, Mason Hayes. You and your dumb playlists and your thousand Pinterest boards and your very serious fear of swaddling.”

Then, sleepily:

“But you better still call me Starling sometimes. I think I’d miss it.”

And she would.

Not because she needed it—but because he made it mean something. Because when Mason said her name, it wasn’t just a name. It was a promise.

And Rowan?

She was keeping it.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t know how to breathe for a second.

Not with her wrapped around him like that. Not with her thumb moving slow and steady over his collarbone like she could unwrite every bad day he’d ever had. Not when her voice—God, her voice—said things like you’re already doing it right and I love you, Mason Hayes like she wasn’t actively setting fire to his heart in the softest, most permanent way possible.

She was ruining him.

In the best, brightest, most irrevocable way.

He closed his eyes, forehead still resting against hers, and let it all hit him—the baby. The ring on her finger. The way she kissed him like it meant something every single time. It did. It meant everything.

When she called him Mason Hayes with that sleep-laced smile and then smirked about being Mrs. Hayes?

Yeah. He almost ascended.

And she knew it. The menace. The love of his life. The beautiful, terrifying future mother of his child who was absolutely going to turn their living room into a glitter bomb of preschool art and still somehow make him feel like the luckiest man on the planet.

He swallowed hard. Laughed under his breath. Then finally—finally—found his voice.

“Okay,” he murmured, thumb tracing tiny circles against her stomach. “Okay, first of all… Mrs. Hayes? Yeah. That just took ten years off my life in the best way. I’m probably never recovering.”

She made a soft sound against his neck, half-smirk, half-sigh, and it made his heart do that ridiculous skip again.

“Second,” he continued, “I’m one hundred percent still calling you Starling. Even when we’re seventy and arguing about how many Halloween skeletons is too many. Especially then. It's a term of endearment and a battle cry.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing a curl away from her temple. His voice dropped, a little rougher now.

“But when I say Mrs. Hayes…”

He exhaled. Pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Then her cheek. Then her jaw.

“That’s not just about marriage. That’s me saying you’re it. My person. My always. The reason I believe in doing hard things. The reason I want to.”

His hand found hers again, the one still curled protectively over the gentle curve of her belly. Their baby. Their beginning.

“I wanna mess this up with you,” he whispered. “Spectacularly. Beautifully. With glitter in the carpet and way too many bedtime books and playlists so embarrassing our kid begs us to stop.”

He paused, smile creeping back in.

“And if it helps, I’ve already mentally bookmarked at least three Etsy shops for custom onesies. One of them says Made From Snacks and Poor Decisions. Another has sparkles. I can’t be stopped.”

Rowan groaned into his neck, and he laughed, arms tightening around her like he could keep them both right here, in this moment, forever.

He would’ve, if he could.

Because she was the best decision he’d ever made.

Because her hand in his felt like proof that maybe he hadn’t screwed everything up after all.

Because their future? The one they’d been terrified of?

It already felt like home.

He kissed the top of her head.

“I love you too, Starling,” he whispered into her hair, letting the words settle deep.

Then, quieter, with a grin:

“But you are gonna cry when I frame that preschool finger painting next to our wedding photo. Just warning you.”

And just like that, the world felt lighter again. Not easier. But shared.

And that made all the difference.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t tease. Just stayed wrapped around him like the whole world had narrowed to this: his heartbeat under her palm, his hand over her stomach, and the way he kept saying things that made her want to cry and laugh and kiss him all at once.

She shifted slightly, just enough to catch his eyes in the low light, and brushed her thumb along his cheekbone. “You really know how to wreck a girl, Hayes.”

He opened his mouth, probably to make a joke.

She didn’t give him the chance.

“I mean it,” she said, softer now. “You say stuff like that and I feel like I’m going to combust.”

He smiled—because of course he did—but she saw the way his eyes stayed steady on hers. Serious. Soft. Still afraid.

So she leaned in and kissed him. Slow, grounding. Not to shut him up this time, but to say: I hear you. I see you. I’m not going anywhere either.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.

“I hope she gets your wonder,” she murmured. “The way you look at the world like it might surprise you if you’re just paying enough attention. That thing you do where you get excited over small stuff like it’s the biggest thing.”

Her fingers slid down to where their hands were joined over her stomach.

“And if it’s a boy,” she added, lips quirking slightly, “he’s getting a name big enough to grow into. Ezra Orion’s going to have stories written about him—because how could he not, with us as his origin story?”

Mason laughed, low and quiet.

She smiled into it.

“And yeah,” she continued, voice dropping again, “you’re gonna cry at everything. First steps, preschool graduation, when they draw you with big hair and laser eyes.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of his mouth.

“And I’ll be there for all of it,” she said. “Even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired and covered in spit-up and you’ve put the diaper on backwards.”

She kissed him again—slow, certain.

“Because I picked you,” she whispered. “Not just for the pretty moments. For all of them.”

She tucked herself closer, her cheek against his shoulder now, her voice half muffled by the fabric of his hoodie.

“And just so you know? If you keep calling me Mrs. Hayes like that, I’m going to combust. Like actually. There will be no wedding because I’ll be dead.”

He made a sound she felt more than heard, his arms wrapping tighter around her.

“But you better keep calling me Starling,” she added, grinning now. “That one’s yours.”

And in the quiet that followed, Rowan let herself believe it too.

They weren’t just going to survive this.

They were going to build something good.

Something messy and imperfect and theirs.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason couldn’t breathe.

Or, more accurately, he could—but only because Rowan was the one anchoring him to the ground.

Her words, her smile, the way she said I picked you like it was obvious—like it was simple. Like she hadn’t just melted his entire brain and rearranged his internal organs with that one line.

His arms stayed locked around her, the way they always did when the world tilted just slightly. But now it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t panic.

It was awe.

Complete, unapologetic awe.

She loved him. She picked him. For the baby. For the chaos. For the laser-eyed preschool drawings and the backwards diapers and the love that was going to stretch them in every possible direction.

He dipped his head, letting his nose brush her temple.

“Okay, but,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse, a little wrecked, “you’re the one out here monologuing like a literal goddess and I’m just… trying to remember how breathing works.”

Rowan let out a quiet laugh, and he felt it right against his chest—warm and soft and home.

“I’m serious,” he continued, still low, still smiling like a man in freefall who didn’t want to be caught. “You talk about me crying during preschool graduation like you’re not gonna be sobbing at the kid’s first crayon doodle and framing it like it belongs in the Louvre.”

She nudged him, and he grinned, nosing into her hair, arms tightening like he could fold them closer than skin.

“And I am gonna call you Mrs. Hayes,” he added. “Constantly. In public. Just to see you combust.”

Rowan groaned into his hoodie and muttered something about dramatic husbands, which only made him grin wider.

“But Starling…” His voice softened again, turning over the word like a secret. “That one’s permanent. That’s how I found you. That’s how I’ll always know you.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, then another to her temple, like punctuation.

“I don’t care if we’re covered in cereal dust and exhaustion,” he said. “I don’t care if the baby’s name ends up being something completely ridiculous and they inherit your eye-roll gene and my inability to shut up.”

A pause. A smile.

“As long as it’s you. As long as it’s us.”

He exhaled into her hair, let himself feel the moment, let the weight of it settle soft instead of heavy.

Because she wasn’t just holding him anymore.

She was choosing him.

And Mason Hayes?

He’d spend the rest of his life proving that he never took that for granted.

Even if he cried over every macaroni necklace and glitter-covered craft project for the next twenty years.

Especially if.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

She just stayed exactly where she was—curled against him, arms looped loosely around his waist, her forehead tucked beneath his jaw like she was claiming the space for keeps.

Because she was.

Because moments like this didn’t happen by accident. They were built. Chosen. Protected.

And he’d earned every damn second of it.

Her fingers toyed with the drawstring of his hoodie for a moment, twisting it, untwisting it. Thinking. Then, finally, she looked up at him—face still soft, a little tired around the edges, but glowing in that way that only happened when she wasn’t trying to hide.

“You know you’re not allowed to say things like that and expect me not to cry, right?” she whispered.

She didn’t, though. Not yet. Her voice wobbled, sure. But the tears stayed where they were—warm, quiet, behind her eyes, not falling. Not this time. Not when she wanted to see all of him clearly.

Her hand came up to rest against his jaw, thumb brushing lightly over the stubble there. She tilted her head just slightly, forehead pressing to his, breath caught between them.

“I’m still gonna frame the crayon doodle,” she murmured, “but not because I’m a sap. Because it’s proof we’re doing something right.”

She kissed him. Just once. Just slow.

And then, without pulling back, she whispered, “And I swear to God, if you call me Mrs. Hayes in front of the baby group, I will dropkick your lunch.”

Her lips curved against his, though, and she kissed him again before he could fire back.

“But ‘Starling’ can stay,” she added a beat later, quieter now. “Because you’re right. That’s how you found me. That’s how I found me.”

She exhaled slowly, her fingers slipping down to his collarbone. Her touch was light, but her voice steady.

“I don’t care what we name them. I don’t care how many snacks they drop in the backseat. I don’t care if the house is a mess or if we get every other thing wrong.”

She leaned in then, nose brushing his.

“I just want them to grow up seeing this. Us. Trying. Choosing each other. Every day.”

Another pause, then softer:

“I want them to know that they came from love, even though they weren't planned and came a lot sooner than we expected.”

She smiled then, a little crooked, a little undone. The kind of smile that always meant she was terrified and in love and doing it anyway.

“And babe,” she said, brushing a kiss over his cheekbone, “you’re 1000% gonna cry at every macaroni necklace. So just know I’m saving every one of them. And I’m gonna tape them next to the wedding photos. And when you try to argue, I’ll remind you how you once cried at a viral video of a baby goat in pajamas.”

She grinned.

“You’re screwed.”

But she said it like a vow.

And then she tucked her head back beneath his chin, arms around him again, and whispered—

“We’re really doing this, huh?”

Rowan shifted before he could respond—slow and smooth and entirely deliberate.

She slid into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times before, knees bracketing his hips, arms resting loosely on his shoulders. And when she reached back to tug the covers up and over both their heads, she grinned.

Not shy. Not rushed.

Just Rowan.

Creating a cocoon.

A world where only they existed.

“Now it’s official,” she whispered, adjusting the blanket until the dim light from the hallway disappeared completely. “We’re in our little chaos fort.”

Her fingers found the curls at the back of his neck, tangling there like she had no plans of letting go. And when she leaned in, forehead to his again, she didn’t say anything clever. She didn’t have to.

Because her body was warm against his, steady and sure. Because she looked at him like they weren’t just playing at forever—they were already living it. Piece by imperfect piece.

“You can cry in here if you need to,” she said softly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It’s a judgment-free blanket zone.”

Mason made a sound like a laugh and a groan combined, but she caught it with a kiss—quick, soft, somewhere near his jaw.

“You talk a big game, Hayes,” she added, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “but you’re wrapped in a blanket fort, holding your pregnant fiancée, and talking about glitter. So really, we both know who the emotional menace is.”

She felt him laugh under her palms, and something in her chest loosened.

They were really doing this.

Together.

And if Rowan had anything to say about it, it would be messy and ridiculous and full of love in all the ways that mattered.

She kissed him again—slow this time. Sure.

Then rested her cheek against his, still wrapped in the quiet dark of their homemade sanctuary.

And whispered, “We’ve got this.”

Because they did.

Because she chose him.

And tomorrow could wait.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s brain short-circuited.

In the best way, sure—but still. Gone. Done for. Lights out.

Because this?

This was too much.

Rowan in his lap, blanket over their heads like they were hiding from the world and maybe themselves a little too. Her voice low, her hands in his hair, her heart pressed right up against his—this was the exact moment he knew he was never going to survive her.

Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not in any way that mattered.

He let out a laugh—half breath, half disbelief—and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Okay,” he said into her skin, “first of all, I stand by the baby goat video. It was wearing pajamas. It had tiny hooves. I’m not made of stone.”

Rowan made a muffled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a snort, and Mason grinned against her neck.

“Second of all…” He tilted his head to look up at her, curls pushed back by her fingers, eyes soft in the glow of their blanket cocoon. “You can’t just say stuff like ‘you’re how I found me’ and then roast me for glitter onesies. That’s emotional whiplash, Starling.”

But his smile didn’t falter. Not even a little.

Because her knees were bracketing his hips. Because she’d kissed his jaw like he was something sacred. Because she’d said we’re really doing this like it was a promise.

And he’d believe her every single time.

Mason reached up and cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing across her cheek like he was still trying to memorize her face from two inches away.

“I hope they get your chaos,” he murmured, quieter now. “Your fire. The way you burn through fear just by showing up anyway. That thing you do where you love people so hard it makes them better.”

His voice caught a little—but he didn’t flinch.

“I hope they’re as weird and smart and stubborn as you, and I really hope they know how lucky they are to come from that.”

He kissed her then. Lightly. Right on the corner of her mouth.

“And yeah,” he added, more of a breath than a sentence, “I’m gonna cry. At everything. I’m gonna cry when they open their eyes. I’m gonna cry when they hold your finger. I’m gonna cry when they fall asleep on my chest and when they draw a T-Rex that looks like a potato.”

He exhaled, nose brushing hers.

“But mostly I’m gonna cry because somehow this life—the one I didn’t think I was allowed to want—is mine. And it’s with you. And I’m never gonna stop being grateful.”

He didn’t even care if his voice cracked anymore. She’d already seen the worst of him. And somehow, she stayed.

So when she curled into him again, cheek against his, their breaths mingling in the blanket-dark, Mason let it settle in:

This wasn’t some dream he had to wake up from.

This was home.

A blanket fort, a future neither of them saw coming, and the girl who still kissed him like she hadn’t already wrecked him completely.

He tucked a curl behind her ear, let his hands rest low on her back, and smiled against her temple.

“Starling?” he whispered.

Her hum was sleepy. Trusting.

He closed his eyes.

“You’re it for me.”

And somehow, he knew—without needing her to say it back—he was it for her too.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer at first.

Mostly because her entire chest had caved in around her heart and decided that breathing was optional now.

Because Mason—her Mason—was saying things like “you’re it for me” and “I’m gonna cry when they draw a T-Rex that looks like a potato” in the same breath, and it was the most devastatingly beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

So yeah, she needed a second.

She blinked, just once, slowly. Let her hand drift up from his jaw to his cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth like she could quiet the storm he’d just stirred in her. He always did that—said something ridiculous and then followed it up with something that turned her soul inside out.

And he had the audacity to do it with dimples.

Her voice was low when she finally spoke. Barely there.

“You keep saying you’re the lucky one,” she murmured, shifting just enough to rest her forehead against his. “But Mason… I didn’t know I was allowed to want someone like you.”

He tried to answer, but she kissed him—soft, slow, like punctuation. Like breath.

Then again, slower.

“You made me want more,” she said, her hands sliding down to curl around the back of his neck. “More than surviving. More than playing it safe. You’re the reason I stopped holding my own heart at arm’s length.”

She kissed him again, this time a little deeper, a little longer—like maybe if she kissed him enough, she could make him feel everything she didn’t know how to say all at once.

And then, just because it was him, she whispered right into his mouth, “And also, I’m definitely framing that potato dinosaur.”

He laughed. She felt it everywhere.

Their knees bumped. The blanket slipped just a little.

But neither of them moved to fix it.

Rowan tugged him closer instead, arms wrapped around him, their bodies tangled in the most ordinary, holy way.

“I don’t need perfect,” she said softly. “I just need this. You, me, and our gloriously messy, glitter-covered, cereal-stained life.”

She kissed his temple once more, then let her head rest against his shoulder, her fingers still playing with the edge of his hoodie.

And in the dark, with his heartbeat steady under her palm and the future curling gently inside her belly, she whispered the only thing she hadn’t said yet tonight.

“But yeah, I love you too. In every version. Even the one where you sob over a crayon masterpiece shaped like an alien goat.”

Rowan didn’t pull away.

Not after the way he said it—You’re it for me. Not after the way his voice cracked like the truth had been sitting too long behind his ribs, waiting for permission to come out.

She stayed right there, her breath mingling with his, her fingers resting against the slope of his cheek.

And then she kissed him.

Slow. Sure. Deep—not in desperation, but in the way that said I know. I feel it too. Her hands moved up, brushing gently through his hair, curling around the back of his neck, anchoring him there with her. With them.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Her lips moved across his like a promise: steady, quiet, real. One kiss faded into another. Then another. Like she was committing every piece of him to memory. His mouth. His breath. The way his shoulders relaxed beneath her palms like the whole world had stopped spinning for a second, and this was the only thing still standing.

Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones—tender. Focused. She held his face like something precious, something chosen, something already home.

And then, with a softness that held more weight than anything she could’ve said aloud, her fingers slipped down to the hem of his hoodie.

She tugged gently.

Not urgent.

Just close.

Just here.

The fabric bunched under her palms as she pulled him closer—not that he was far. Not that he ever would be again. But something about the weight of that cotton in her fists, the familiarity of it, made everything else in the world feel smaller. Simpler. Safer.

He breathed out her name, but she didn’t answer.

She just kissed him again.

Longer, this time.

Deeper.

Her hands still gripping his hoodie like it was the only thing anchoring them to the present. Like if she let go, she might float straight off this planet and into whatever came next.

And maybe she would’ve.

If not for him.

If not for this.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to rest her forehead against his, she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t need to.

Because her silence said everything:

She believed him.

She chose him.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s throat felt like it was made of glass.

Because she didn’t say it—not right away—and still somehow it landed harder than anything else ever had.

The way she kissed him.

The way her hands curled into his hoodie like she couldn’t stand the space between them for even a breath longer.

The way she held his face with that unbearable softness, like he was something worth keeping still. Something worth loving without caution.

And God, he was trying to keep it together. Really. But the way she kissed him—the way she meant it—made it impossible.

Because Mason had never been anyone’s always before.

Not like this.

Not like her.

His arms slid around her tighter, pulling her in like he needed her to feel it—his answer, his promise, everything he couldn’t get out fast enough without it cracking down the middle. His lips caught hers again, again, again, each one slower than the last, until their breathing tangled and their hands stopped searching for a way to say more.

Because they were the more.

He pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathless now, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with all of that,” he whispered, voice rough from everything she just gave him. “You kiss me like I’m worth everything and expect me to still function?”

He felt her smile, just barely, right where their mouths almost touched.

He grinned, too—wrecked and overwhelmed and glowing under the weight of her.

“I swear to God, Starling, if you keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna need to build a second blanket fort for the emotional fallout.”

He didn’t move, though. Not an inch.

Just let one hand find her back—palm flat, steady, grounding—and the other stayed over her stomach, fingers splayed wide like he was already trying to hold the universe in place with his bare hands.

And maybe he was.

Because that’s what this was. That’s what she was.

His whole damn universe.

Right here. Right now.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “More than music. More than moonlight. More than every name I ever wrote down before yours.”

Then, a grin curling into the corner of his mouth—

“And I’m absolutely gonna cry at that potato T-Rex. It’ll be the most important art I’ve ever seen.”

She snorted softly.

But she didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

They stayed like that for a long moment—blanket slipping off one shoulder, hoodie slightly bunched, knees bumping together like they were seventeen and figuring this out for the first time.

Only now, they weren’t scared of the future anymore.

Not really.

Because it had names now.

Indigo.

Ezra.

Love.

And her.

Always her.

His Starling.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak.

She couldn’t. Not when her whole chest felt like it was swelling and settling all at once. Not when Mason—her Mason—was saying things like every name I ever wrote down before yours, and touching her like he already knew exactly what kind of world they were going to build together.

So she kissed him again.

Not like before. Not desperate or rushed or searching.

But slow. Anchored. Familiar.

Like she’d done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more just to keep him grounded in what was real.

Her hands moved back to his face—thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, fingers sliding behind his ears, cradling him like he was something rare. Like she could keep him from falling apart by just holding him right.

And then, gently, they drifted lower.

Not hurried. Not with intent. Just curious. Comforting.

She slipped her hands beneath the hem of his hoodie, fingertips brushing warm skin. Her palms flattened over his chest, slow and steady, like she was learning him all over again—every inch, every breath, every heartbeat he’d just promised to give her for the rest of forever.

Mason inhaled sharply—not startled, just undone.

She could feel it in the way his body stilled under her touch. In the way his hands moved automatically to her hips again, grounding them both.

Her thumbs moved in slow circles just beneath his collarbone. A map, a memory, a silent vow. And she kissed him again, just once, as her forehead came to rest lightly against his.

Her voice was barely a breath.

You’re mine, too.

And softer still: Always.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move from where she sat curled in his lap, surrounded by sheets and soft air and everything that had brought them here.

Her fingers didn’t leave his skin.

Because this was the moment. Not loud. Not cinematic.

But real.

Rooted.

Him.

Her.

The baby they hadn’t expected. The life they were building. The soft unraveling of two people who kept choosing each other, even in the quiet.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t speak either.

Couldn’t.

Because the second her hands slipped under his hoodie, all of his breath stalled somewhere in his chest like it forgot how to move without her permission. Her palms were warm—steady—pressed over his ribs like they already belonged there. Like his body knew her touch before his brain had the chance to catch up.

His heart thudded beneath her fingers.

And she felt it. God, he knew she felt it.

But she didn’t tease.

She didn’t push.

She just held him. Like a prayer. Like she was anchoring him to something better than the fear in his throat or the ache behind his eyes.

And when she whispered you’re mine, too—always, Mason swore he could feel the words slip right through his skin and build a home in his bones.

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like he didn’t care if the world caught fire around them. His arms stayed wrapped around her, fingers spread wide at her hips, holding her close without gripping too tight—like he never wanted her to forget that he knew the difference between protection and control.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to kiss the inside of her wrist. Once. Then again, slower. Like he was thanking every choice they’d ever made that led them here. Like he was thanking her.

“You know what you do to me,” he finally murmured, voice low, wrecked in that quiet kind of way. “I mean—you’ve gotta know. Right?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Just kissed him again, hands still beneath his hoodie, still steady over his heart like she was keeping time.

“I’d give you anything,” Mason whispered, pulling her just that much closer. “But the thing that gets me… is you never even asked for it.”

He tilted his head back just enough to look at her—eyes bright, glassy at the edges. Not broken. Not overwhelmed.

Just full.

And maybe a little in awe.

“You just loved me,” he said. “And suddenly I wanted to be the kind of man who could carry forever without flinching.”

His hand came up to her back, fingertips tracing the spine of her like a bookmark. Like she was his favorite story and he wanted to keep rereading every chapter.

“Whatever version of us is coming next,” he said, “I’m all in.”

And he meant it.

Every heartbeat.

Every sleepless night.

Every crayon drawing, every name whispered into a blanket fort, every time she kissed him like that and reminded him what home felt like.

His fingers found the edge of her shirt, just where it met the rise of her back, and he rested them there—not with intent, but reverence. Just to feel the warmth of her. Just to remind himself this was real.

Because it was.

They were.

And maybe they didn’t have everything figured out.

But they had this.

They had now.

And now, Mason Hayes would take over everything else in the world. One kiss, one whisper, one soft, steady hand over his heart at a time.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t pull back. Not fully.

Her fingers stayed right where they were—curved under the edge of his hoodie, palms flat over his chest, tracking the rhythm of a heart that had somehow become hers.

But after a beat, she lifted her head, just enough to meet his eyes in the soft hush between them.

“You always talk like I saved you,” she murmured, voice low, warm, threading gently through the quiet. “But you’re the one who made me stay.”

She didn’t mean the house.

Or the couch.

Or even this night.

She meant her. Her skin. Her story. Her body that had learned to flinch at softness, that had been taught too early that forever meant losing something.

“You never tried to fix me,” she added, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “You just… saw me. And didn’t flinch.”

Mason didn’t say anything. But the look on his face—the way he leaned into her touch like it was gravity itself—was answer enough.

Rowan smiled, a little crooked.

“Also, for the record?” she said softly, lips brushing his cheek now. “You’re already the kind of man who carries forever without flinching. You’ve been doing it since the second you offered to alphabetize my panic attack playlist.”

That pulled a soft laugh from him, breath catching against her shoulder.

She grinned into the sound, then leaned in, her voice dropping closer to his ear.

“I love you, Mason Hayes. For the mess. For the quiet. For the glitter. For all of it.”

She shifted just enough to nudge her nose against his.

“And if you ever try to pretend you’re not going to be the most annoyingly devoted dad to ever buy a mini backpack and cry over finger paint, I will remind you of this moment.”

He groaned—quiet, flustered—and she kissed him again, slow and lingering.

Then, lighter now, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth:

“But don’t worry. I’ll be the one ugly crying at preschool graduation. You’ll just be the backup.”

Her arms looped tighter around his shoulders, pulling the blanket more firmly over both their heads as she settled against him with a sigh.

“God help this kid,” she whispered, half-laughing. “They’ve got no idea what they’re walking into.”

But she didn’t sound afraid.

She sounded ready.

She sounded home.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason wasn’t breathing right.

He was trying—he really was—but every word she gave him made his chest feel like it was stretching too wide, like his ribs couldn’t keep up with the size of what was happening between them. Or maybe inside him. Because Rowan—curled in his lap, whispering forever like it wasn’t a threat but a promise—was undoing him in ways he didn’t even know he could be undone.

She was warm and sharp and impossible and his. And she was looking at him like he’d done something worth being remembered for.

His hands stayed exactly where they were—one at her hip, the other still cradling the space between them, the barely-there swell of their maybe-miracle. His thumb rubbed absent circles over her skin like he was trying to imprint it into his bones.

“You always talk like I saved you,” she’d said.

God.

Mason had to shut his eyes for a second. Just one.

Because that sentence alone cracked something open in him. Because she meant it. Because she didn’t throw it out like a compliment—she handed it to him like a truth. And he didn’t know how to hold something that heavy, except to hold her.

So he did.

He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into the side of her head, then her temple, then lower—his lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her neck like it was a map he’d been memorizing in his sleep.

“You stayed,” he whispered, finally, voice ragged and low. “You stayed because you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

He didn’t pull back.

Didn’t give her room to disagree.

“You stayed when it would've been easier to run. When I didn't have answers. When I couldn’t promise anything except showing up.”

His fingers curled into the back of her shirt, gentle but grounded.

“And if you think I don’t wake up every morning thanking whatever cosmic disaster made you look at me like I was worth sticking around for, you’re insane, Starling.”

The nickname slipped out soft, but full—like it had weight again. Like it was hers, and he wanted her to know that. Always.

He felt her smile against his collarbone.

He smiled too—helpless, dizzy, wrecked.

Then, voice muffled into her hair, he added, “But yeah. I am gonna be an embarrassingly devoted dad. I’m gonna buy that mini backpack and forget to take the price tag off. I’m gonna ugly cry over finger paintings. I’m gonna carry juice boxes like contraband and forget how sunscreen works.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“I’m gonna mess it up.”

His voice cracked a little, but he didn’t look away.

“But I’m not gonna leave. Not once. Not ever.”

His thumb brushed under her eye—just in case the tears she’d fought off earlier decided to show up now.

“And when our kid realizes they’ve got a mom who can build forts out of blankets and trust and grit, who names playlists like spells and keeps people safe just by being—they’re gonna be just as wrecked by you as I am.”

His forehead pressed to hers again.

“I hope they are.”

Then, with the smallest, softest grin—

“And for the record, I was already planning to cry at graduation. You just beat me to admitting it.”

She laughed. God, she laughed, and the sound practically rewired him.

And when she tucked herself against his chest again, arms looped and blanket draped, Mason Hayes didn’t feel like a boy with too many fears and not enough answers.

He felt like home.

Because she chose him.

Because he chose her.

And tomorrow—whatever it looked like, glitter and all—they’d figure it out. One ridiculous, tender, forehead-kissing, crayon-framing step at a time.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move.

Not for a long moment.

Not when he kissed her temple like it was a vow. Not when his voice cracked and his arms folded her tighter against the center of him like she was something fragile and holy and already his. She just breathed him in—his warmth, his weight, the quiet reverence threaded through every single touch like he didn’t know how to do anything less than love her completely.

And then, slowly, gently, she exhaled.

One arm still looped around his shoulders, she lifted her other hand and slid it into the curls at the back of his neck—soft, rhythmic, grounding. Her fingers moved in slow strokes, like she was soothing something invisible in him. Like she knew exactly where it hurt, and how to stay with it.

Then, still wordless, she leaned back just enough to study him.

God, he looked wrecked. Eyes too bright. Cheeks pink from the weight of it all. Mouth soft, open, still waiting.

Waiting for her.

So she gave him everything.

She kissed his jaw first—slow, steady, deliberate—like she was making a promise without needing to say a word. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth, and finally, finally, his lips. Not desperate. Not performative. Just full.

Present.

Real.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I knew you were going to cry over the backpack.”

That startled a breath-laugh out of him, and her smile pressed right into his as she leaned back in, nose brushing his.

“I also know you’re gonna be the one they ask to chaperone every field trip,” she murmured, her thumb sweeping just below his eye, “and you’re gonna say yes even when you don’t want to. Because you won’t want to miss anything. You’ll carry the snack bag. You’ll make a playlist. You’ll be the embarrassing dad with the matching lunchbox who forgets sunscreen but remembers their favorite granola bar.”

She paused, smiling against his mouth.

“And I’m gonna love you for all of it.”

Then she shifted again, resting her hands flat over his chest, feeling the solid thud of his heartbeat under her palms.

“We’re gonna mess up. We’re gonna yell when we’re tired. We’re gonna argue over crib assembly instructions and cry in the bathroom sometimes and maybe not know what the hell we’re doing.”

She looked up at him—really looked—and added, softer now:

“But if I get to do it with you, I’m not afraid of any of it.”

Then, smirking just a little, she added, “Okay, maybe the glitter. The glitter terrifies me.”

He made a wounded noise. She kissed it off his mouth.

And then, arms circling his neck again, she rested her forehead against his and whispered, “You’re it for me, too.”

She didn’t have to say the rest.

That she picked him.

That she’d keep picking him.

That no matter how scary this got—how real, how messy—he was the safest place she’d ever known.

So she stayed curled in his lap, blanket cocooned around them, the tiny beginning of something impossibly huge resting quietly between their hands.

And when the silence came again, it wasn’t empty.

It was everything.

Rowan didn’t speak for a moment—not right away.

She just breathed.

Deep, slow, warm against his collarbone. Like the world had gone quiet, and this—the weight of him around her, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the hush that followed a thousand truths spoken between two people who’d already promised more than words—was all that remained.

Then she shifted, gentle and unhurried, rolling off of him with the kind of trust that didn’t need explanation. Her hand drifted across his chest one last time, fingers catching in the hem of his hoodie, before she settled into the mattress beside him.

Close. Barely a breath of space between them.

The blanket slipped slightly as she turned on her side, hair falling loose around her face like a curtain of sleep and quiet promises. One of her hands stayed tucked beneath her cheek, the other reaching, just barely, until her fingers found the hem of his sleeve.

“Will you play with my hair until I fall asleep?” she mumbled, voice low and soft and not quite sleepy yet—just tender. Like the question wasn’t about her hair at all, but about being held a little longer. About being cared for in the quiet ways.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to.

Because she already felt him shift closer, his hand moving to find her hair with that same instinctive gentleness he always saved just for her. His fingers started to move—slow, steady, patient—combing through her curls like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she just lay there, letting the warmth of it settle into her chest. Letting herself have this.

The safety. The softness. The everything.

Not asleep. Not even close.

Just there.

With him.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

He just watched her—watched the way her body softened beside him, the way her fingers barely reached for the edge of his sleeve like it meant something. Like she didn’t want to ask too much, even now. As if she hadn’t already handed him her heart wrapped in steady breaths and whispered futures.

He shifted closer, wordless.

Moved the blanket back over her shoulders with one hand, then slid the other into her hair—slow and sure. His fingers curled into the strands gently, working through them like he was sifting through something sacred. He took his time. Not because he wanted to stretch the moment, but because he knew this mattered. Knew she needed the quiet. Knew it was his job, now, to be the place where she could rest.

“I’ve got you,” he said finally, voice low. Calm. Certain.

Not a promise. Not a performance.

Just fact.

His thumb traced the shell of her ear, and he felt her exhale. A little deeper. A little easier. Her lashes fluttered once before settling again.

Mason let his gaze linger on her face. He memorized the way the light curved around the slope of her cheek, the way her mouth tugged just slightly like she was still smiling even half-asleep. He didn’t feel loud anymore. The whirlwind in his chest had eased the second she whispered “you’re it for me” like it wasn’t just a phrase but a decision. A grounding.

God, he wanted to be everything for her.

But right now?

He just wanted to be this.

The warmth in her hair. The quiet at her back. The steady hand that stayed when everything else in life had once left.

His thumb moved again. A rhythm. A lullaby without a tune.

And Mason let the silence stretch.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just full.

Full of the future he could already see unfolding—slow mornings like this one, glitter disasters, macaroni necklaces taped next to wedding photos. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really. But if every night ended like this—Rowan wrapped around his sleeve, their baby tucked between promises they hadn’t figured out how to say yet—he didn’t need all the answers.

He just needed this.

Still brushing through her curls, Mason leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple so lightly he wasn’t sure she’d feel it.

Then he whispered, barely louder than a breath, “Sleep, Starling.”

And in the quiet that followed, he stayed.

Because that’s what love looked like tonight.

No declarations. No fireworks.

Just a hand in her hair. A blanket shared. And the knowledge that she had never, not once, asked for too much.

[Rowan Starling]

The smoke hit first.

Not dramatic, not billowing—just enough to curl into Rowan’s nose and make her stomach drop. She twisted toward the oven, eyes narrowing, the timer still blinking back at her like it had done its job and this was her fault entirely.

The meatloaf looked like it had fought in a war.

Charred edges, sunken middle, a vaguely horrifying sizzle coming from the pan like it was hissing at her for trying in the first place. She pulled it out anyway, oven mitts clumsy against the sides, and set it on the stovetop with a defeated thunk.

So much for domestic goddess energy.

The overhead fan clattered to life as she jabbed at the button. Smoke began to drift upward in lazy spirals, and Rowan waved it away, muttering to herself under her breath. Her dress clung to the back of her legs from the heat of the kitchen, and she could already tell her mascara was probably not where she left it this morning.

Footsteps behind her. Soft ones. Familiar.

Rowan (https://i.ibb.co/cKqv5sv7/725-AE04-F-7877-4339-BDC7-BCB58802-A6-E6.png) didn’t turn.

“I know,” she said flatly, still staring down at the crime scene in the pan.

A beat passed, and she finally looked over her shoulder, brows raised, hair sticking to her cheek.

“It was going fine until it wasn’t.”

She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked mildly unhinged—cheeks pink from the oven heat, eyes probably wild from secondhand shame. Still, he stepped closer. She could feel it—the quiet weight of him, the steadiness.

Her arms crossed tight over her chest, potholder still in hand.

“It was supposed to be cute,” she confessed, voice dipping with something closer to embarrassment than frustration. “I was going to feed you like one of those Pinterest wives who arranges parsley on top of everything.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgment. It was amusement. She could feel the warmth of it radiating off him, the way his shoulders probably shook just a little as he held back a laugh.

She turned back toward the stove with a sigh. Smoke still lingered. The meatloaf looked worse by the second.

“I tried,” she said softer now, glancing at him through her lashes. “Don’t tell my mom. She’ll never let me live this down.”

His response wasn’t verbal—it was the kind of grin she’d grown to trust more than words. The kind that said you’re okay, even if dinner isn’t.

She leaned her hip against the counter and blew a strand of hair out of her face. Outside, the quiet hum of spring hung in the air. Her parents wouldn’t be home for hours—they were deep in book club debates and espresso shots by now. The house was theirs for the evening.

“I swear,” she muttered, deadpan. “If you suggest takeout, I’m going to cry.”

But her eyes didn’t mean it. Not really. They were still soft around the edges, still holding that flicker of hope she hadn’t been able to burn—no matter how many things she ruined trying to get it all right.

He didn’t have to say anything.

The warmth of his presence was enough.

Even with the smell of charred meat and cinnamon candles clashing in the air, Rowan felt something good settle into her bones.

Dinner might’ve gone up in smoke.

But the night?

Still salvageable.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason knew something was wrong the second he opened the door and smelled… chaos.

Not smoke exactly—though, yeah, definitely some of that—but ambition. Effort. Like someone had tried really hard to make the night special and ended up in a lowkey war with the oven.

And God, he loved her for it.

He rounded the corner just in time to catch her muttering to herself, standing over a tray of what he assumed used to be meatloaf. Now it looked more like an abstract art piece titled Domestic Regret (Medium: Fire and Tears).

She didn’t turn. Just said “I know” in that voice—flat, fierce, just barely hanging onto the edge of frazzled.

And Mason?

He nearly lost it.

Because she looked ridiculous—hair stuck to her cheek, cheeks flushed, potholder clenched like she was about to throw down with the stove itself—and still, somehow, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

It was like catching the sun mid-sneeze. Glorious. Human. Utterly hers.

He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, biting down the grin threatening to split his face. When she finally looked over her shoulder, he caught the flash of her eyes—wild, exasperated, a little pink with embarrassment—and loved her more for it.

When she said it was supposed to be cute, Mason nodded solemnly.

“Honestly?” he said, finally walking over. “It still kind of is.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the way her shoulders stayed tense, like the weight of a thousand Pinterest fails was collapsing on her at once. So he stepped closer—close enough that their arms brushed, close enough that she could feel him smile before she saw it.

He peeked into the pan and winced—just enough to be dramatic.

“So… we’re thinking medium-rare? Or more of a ‘served in silence while we process our regrets’ vibe?”

She gave him a look. He beamed.

“I mean, sure, it’s a little... post-apocalyptic,” he added, nudging her gently with his shoulder. “But I love the effort. You really captured the emotion of a kitchen betrayal. That’s art.”

When she said not to tell her mom, Mason leaned in conspiratorially.

“Swear it,” he whispered. “Cross my heart. This dies with me and the meatloaf.”

Her glare softened into something closer to a pout. He reached up and gently brushed the hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger for a second longer than necessary.

“You tried,” he echoed, voice gentler now. “That’s kind of my favorite thing about you.”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because despite the smoke, despite the defeated slump of her shoulders, despite everything that didn’t go right—she was still standing here, trying. For him. For this.

He could’ve kissed her right then.

Instead, he turned and opened the cabinet behind her, grabbed two bowls, and plopped them on the counter.

“You said no takeout,” he said lightly, pulling out a box of cereal and flashing her a grin. “But you didn’t say anything about an emergency Froot Loop dinner.”

He held the box up like a white flag—or a marriage proposal, depending on how low the bar was.

Then, quieter, as he met her eyes again:

“Seriously. You made a mess. Big deal. We’ll burn a hundred more things before we get this whole ‘domestic bliss’ thing down. Still wanna do it all with you.”

He watched her expression shift—soften—and felt something warm settle deep in his chest.

Because dinner was ruined.

But the night?

The night was theirs.

And so was everything after.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan stared at the cereal box like it had personally insulted her ancestors.

Then—slowly, carefully, as if the moment might shatter if she moved too fast—she lifted her gaze and looked at him.

And that was it.

That stupid boy with the crooked grin and the singed meatloaf jokes and the audacity to be that gentle with her on a night she felt like a walking disaster—he was everything. Everything good. Everything safe. Everything hers.

Her eyes stung again, but she didn’t cry.

She sniffed, wiped the back of her wrist across her cheek with a grumble that could’ve meant anything from “thanks” to “shut up before I marry you,” and then stepped forward to swipe the cereal box out of his hands.

“I cannot believe I burned meatloaf,” she muttered, voice still a little thick but sharper now. Alive. “Like—not even something complicated. Not soufflé. Not croissants. Meatloaf. The most middle-class meal to ever exist.”

She turned toward the cupboard, grabbing two mismatched bowls—hers a chipped old favorite, his a stolen mug—and plunked them down with the grace of someone surrendering to reality.

“I was trying to be sweet,” she said, almost to herself now, pouring cereal with a vengeance. “Sunday dinner. Parents gone. Real grown-up energy.”

She paused.

Glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

“You really think it was cute?”

Because part of her still wasn’t sure. Part of her still felt like the ash and chaos were the only parts that showed. Like she’d failed some unspoken test.

And Mason—being Mason—just looked at her like she’d invented the moon.

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched at the corners anyway. A near-smile. Dangerous.

“You’re so annoying,” she said under her breath, handing him the mug full of cereal. “I screw up dinner and you go full golden retriever on me.”

Then she sat on the counter beside the sink, feet dangling, the overhead light making her hair shine like static and stubbornness.

“Fine,” she said, raising her spoon like a toast. “Here’s to us. Meatloaf murderers. Kitchen-challenged adults. Domestic disasters with excellent cereal taste.”

She took a bite, crunched loudly, and looked at him over the rim of her bowl.

“We’re still gonna pretend this night was romantic, by the way. I want you to remember this as the time I lovingly burned dinner for you while pretending not to panic.”

A beat.

Then, softer, a little less performative:

“Thanks for showing up for the messiest parts of me, Hayes.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

Didn’t have to.

Because she felt it—his hand brushing against hers, warm and steady, like it had always known where to find her.

And even with the ruined meatloaf and the smoky kitchen and the cereal dinner balanced in mismatched bowls—

She felt full.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t know how cereal became a love language.

But apparently, it was.

Because Rowan Starling—queen of eyeliner and sharp comebacks, girl who could dismantle someone with a glance—just looked at him like he might actually be magic. Like he was the safe thing in the room for once.

And then she took the cereal box.

Like a challenge.

Like a declaration.

He didn’t even care that she insulted meatloaf like it was a family heirloom. Didn’t flinch when she launched into her impromptu TED Talk on how middle-class her dinner aspirations had been. He just watched her—bowl in one hand, vengeance in the other—and smiled so wide it was probably criminal.

Because this?

This was romance.

Not the version they sold in movies. Not candles and violins and soufflés with words he couldn’t pronounce. No—this was Rowan barefoot in her kitchen, cheeks still pink from smoke and stress, pouring cereal like she was reclaiming her dignity one colorful loop at a time.

And he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

When she asked if he really thought it was cute, he didn’t say yes.

He said, “Cutest thing I’ve ever seen, actually.”

Deadpan. Serious. Maybe even a little breathless.

Because he meant it.

Every scorched edge. Every snarky deflection. Every sharp-to-soft moment she let him witness.

She rolled her eyes and handed him the cereal mug like it was a peace treaty she’d grudgingly signed, and he took it like it was made of gold.

He followed her lead, hopping up to sit beside her, their legs swinging just slightly out of sync, and raised his spoon with a stupid little flourish.

“To domestic disasters,” he echoed, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long may we overcook.”

They crunched in companionable silence for a moment, the sound oddly comforting beneath the hum of the fan and the distant echo of a playlist still going somewhere in the background.

And then—

She hit him with it.

Not a joke. Not a jab.

Just: “Thanks for showing up for the messiest parts of me.”

And yeah, he felt it.

Right in the chest. The kind of feeling that didn’t have a name. The kind that settled in deep and stayed there, tucked behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.

He didn’t say anything back.

Didn’t have to.

He just reached out, let his fingers brush against hers, slow and warm and certain.

Because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was stay.

Through burnt meatloaf. Through the soft edges and the sharp ones. Through every unspoken panic and every bite of cereal shared at a chipped kitchen counter.

This wasn’t just dinner.

It was a beginning.

Messy. Unfiltered. Real.

And for Mason Hayes?

It was perfect.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t look at him right away.

Couldn’t.

Not when his fingers were brushing hers like they belonged there. Not when her chest was still a little tight from the weight of trying too hard and not getting it right—and him being here anyway.

But she felt it.

That thing he always did. That showing up without demanding anything in return. That quiet kind of steady that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

She took another spoonful of cereal, chewing slowly, pretending she wasn’t absolutely unraveling over a man who treated a meatloaf disaster like it was a love letter.

And then—when she trusted her voice not to crack—she said, “You know I’m not used to this, right?”

She kept her eyes on her bowl, voice quiet. Not sad. Just honest.

“This whole… being allowed to screw up and not have it mean I’m the screw-up.”

She nudged her foot lightly against his. No kick. No sass. Just contact. Proof of presence.

“I used to think I had to be good at everything just to be worth keeping around. That if I burned the dinner or forgot the thing or—God forbid—had feelings about anything, it’d be too much.”

Finally, she glanced up at him, just enough to catch the edge of his expression.

Soft. Wrecked. Still here.

“But then you show up,” she said, a little stronger now, “and you’re standing there with your dumb mug full of Froot Loops like that’s always been the plan.”

Her mouth tugged upward—halfway between a smirk and something far more dangerous.

“And it just… unstitches something.”

She tapped her spoon against the rim of the bowl, a little too casual now, because vulnerability had an expiration date and she was getting close to hers.

“You keep doing this thing,” she added, bumping his shoulder gently, “where you make me believe I’m allowed to exist in the in-between. The burnt meatloaf and half-washed dishes and not knowing what the hell I’m doing.”

A beat.

And then, quieter:

“I like existing there. With you.”

She didn’t let the silence hang. Not long.

Instead, she clinked her spoon against his with mock ceremony and took another bite.

“You still owe me dinner,” she said, voice lighter now. “But I’ll accept this chaos as an installment plan.”

Her fingers brushed his again. This time, she didn’t pull away.

And yeah—maybe it wasn’t the romantic night she’d planned.

But it was theirs.

And somehow, that was better.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t speak right away.

He couldn’t.

Because Rowan was saying things that felt like keys. Unlocking doors in her that had probably been bolted shut since middle school. Since she learned that love was conditional and soft wasn’t safe.

And here she was, in the aftermath of a meatloaf massacre, telling him the truth.

Not the polished kind. Not the cute kind.

The real kind.

I used to think I had to be good at everything just to be worth keeping around.

That line?

It cracked something wide open in him.

Not because he hadn’t suspected it—but because she said it. Out loud. With her eyes on a cereal bowl and her foot gently nudging his like she couldn’t bear the silence that followed truth.

He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t fill the air with platitudes or promises or some Hallmark line about how perfect she was to him no matter what.

Instead, he set his mug down carefully, turned just enough to face her more fully, and said:

“You know the first thing I noticed about you?”

He waited, watched her raise one brow like she half-expected him to say something idiotic.

He didn’t.

“The way you walked into a room like you owed it nothing,” he said. “Like you weren’t asking permission to take up space. Even when I know now that you were probably holding your breath the whole time.”

She blinked. Stilled.

“And I just kept thinking…” He gave a soft laugh. “God, if she ever lets someone love her for real? They’re never gonna stop.”

He nudged her foot back with his. Gentle. Steady.

“So yeah. Burn the dinner. Drop the ball. Cry in the cereal aisle if you need to. I don’t care.”

His voice lowered, not dramatic—grounded.

“You’re not the screw-up, Ro. You’re the girl I want to eat flaming meatloaf with at midnight and then marry anyway.”

Her spoon paused midair.

He smiled, crooked and hopeless.

“I like the in-between too.”

Then—just to keep her from bolting emotionally—he picked up his spoon again and clinked it against hers like they were toasting to surviving their own chaos.

“You know,” he said, as casually as he could while still feeling everything, “this might be my favorite dinner ever. I mean, I’m not not offended you tried to cook without supervision, but…”

He grinned. “You’re worth every smoke alarm.”

When she didn’t pull her hand away, when her fingers brushed his and stayed, Mason felt something shift.

Not big.

Not loud.

But lasting.

This was it.

A girl in a sundress on a kitchen counter with cereal and ash in the air—and him, standing still in the wreckage like it was the view he’d been waiting his whole life to find.

They weren’t perfect.

But they were here.

And Mason was never going to stop showing up.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Her throat felt tight again—not the crying kind this time, not quite. It was the kind that came when someone said something that felt… true. Deep-in-the-marrow true. The kind that hit a place you didn’t even know was still bruised until someone looked at it gently.

And God, did he look at her gently.

Like he saw all the corners she’d tried to sharpen. All the years she’d spent building armor out of wit and stubbornness. All the hours spent wondering if being loved meant being smaller. Easier. Perfect.

She stared at her cereal for a beat, then looked up—really looked—and found him already watching her like she’d just rewritten the sky.

“You wanna marry me over meatloaf?” she asked, trying for light, teasing, familiar.

But her voice didn’t land quite where she meant it to. It was a little too quiet. A little too shaky at the edges. Because yeah, it was a joke—but not really.

And he knew it.

Of course he did.

Because he was still sitting there, calm and open and so heartbreakingly steady. Because when he said she wasn’t the screw-up, he didn’t flinch. He just… meant it.

Rowan set her spoon down. Pressed her palm flat to the counter. Then reached across the small space between them and curled her fingers around his wrist—not tightly. Just enough.

Just to make sure he didn’t vanish with the feeling.

“I didn’t think anyone would stay through this version of me,” she said. “The one who burns dinner and overthinks grocery lists and spirals when the laundry piles up. This is the part I usually hide.”

Her thumb brushed his wrist, slow and certain now.

“But you didn’t blink. You didn’t run. You just… sat down and made cereal feel like a love language.”

She smiled then. Soft. Barely there.

And then, quieter:

“You know how dangerous that is, Hayes?”

A beat.

Then, without waiting for his reply, she shifted closer—legs still swinging, back still a little tense, heart wide freaking open—and leaned into his shoulder.

Just barely.

Just enough to say I’m here without having to say I’m scared.

“Maybe,” she murmured, half into his hoodie, “I like the in-between too.”

And that?

That was as close to a vow as she’d ever made.

She stayed like that for a while—long enough for the cereal to go soggy, long enough for the silence to settle like something sacred—and thought about what it meant to be seen like this. Not in spite of the mess. But because of it.

And when she finally moved, it was only to grab the bag of marshmallows from the pantry and drop them between them with a shrug.

“For dessert,” she said, like it was obvious. “Because meatloaf deserves a sweet ending.”

And maybe she did too.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t breathe for a second.

Not when she asked if he wanted to marry her over meatloaf—not because she was really asking, but because part of her was.

Not when her fingers found his wrist like she was testing gravity, making sure he was still solid beneath her touch.

And definitely not when she said this is the part I usually hide.

Because fuck.

This wasn’t a confession.

It was a trust fall.

And she was choosing to fall into him.

He looked at her—really looked—and all he could think was, God, how did I get here?

Not in a lost way.

In a how lucky can one person be kind of way.

Because here was Rowan Starling: girl made of fire and fury and fight, sitting next to him with cereal cooling in a chipped bowl and honesty spilling out of her like it had nowhere else to go.

And she was scared.

He could feel it in the way her legs still swung, like she needed motion to keep from unraveling completely. In the way her head just barely touched his shoulder, like she wanted to disappear into the moment but didn’t quite know how to stay there yet.

But she was trying.

And that was everything.

“You think I don’t love this version of you?” he said, his voice low, steady. “Ro, this is the version.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just sat there, letting the quiet wrap around them like a blanket, letting her lean in without pressure, without performance, without needing to prove anything.

Then—after a long moment—he shifted too.

Turned just enough to rest his temple lightly against the top of her head, his free hand brushing her knee like a quiet I’m still here.

“You don’t have to impress me,” he added, softer now. “I’m already in. With the overthinking. With the laundry piles. With the burnt meatloaf of course."

She laughed then—tiny and muffled—and he swore he could feel it vibrate in his bones.

“You have no idea how dangerous you are,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

Because she was unraveling in front of him and letting him stay.

Because she was letting the mess breathe, and still reaching for his hand.

Because she was building something with him in between all the trying-too-hards and could’ve-gotten-it-rights.

He glanced at her as she reached for the pantry and dropped a bag of marshmallows between them like it was a mic drop. He grinned.

“For dessert,” she said.

And Mason, completely gone for this ridiculous, radiant girl, just nodded.

“Only if we toast a few,” he said, already reaching for a fork. “Over the stovetop. Like the most romantic arsonists imaginable.”

Rowan rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move away.

And as the smoke from earlier faded and the kitchen settled back into quiet hums and sugar, Mason thought:

This is it.

This is what love looked like.

Not perfect. Not polished.

But real.

Cereal, marshmallows, soft confessions, and all.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Mostly because she couldn’t.

Because her throat had done that thing again—the tightening, the swelling, the half-laugh, half-cry ache that came from being completely seen and loved anyway.

She hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Hadn’t meant to crack herself open like an egg on a weeknight over cereal and marshmallows and burnt pride. But he made it so goddamn easy.

Too easy.

And now here he was—sitting beside her, warm and solid and calm as ever—saying things like I’m already in like it was obvious.

Like she hadn’t spent years thinking she had to be brilliant or funny or perfect just to keep people around.

She stared at the marshmallows. Focused on their soft edges and unnatural bounce because if she looked at him too long, she’d dissolve. Right here. On the linoleum.

But when he leaned in, temple pressed to hers, hand steady on her knee—God, she folded into it like instinct. Like muscle memory.

“I don’t know how you do that,” she murmured, voice rough with emotion. “Make everything feel like it’s not about the mess.”

She tilted her head a little, cheek brushing his jaw.

“I’ve had people love the idea of me. You’re the only one who’s ever stayed through the version that forgets the timer and buys the wrong milk and panics over whether the baby’s room should have blackout curtains or fairy lights.”

She exhaled, slow and full.

“You make staying look easy. Even when I don’t.”

Then, because the moment was starting to feel too big—too soft—she nudged the marshmallow bag with her elbow and reached for one.

“Toasted marshmallows over the stove,” she said, forcing her voice light again. “You know my mom would be horrified, right?”

But her smile stayed this time. Real. Settled. A little crooked at the edges.

She handed him a fork. “You’re the arsonist, Hayes. Lead the way.”

And as he lit the burner and pulled her a little closer, Rowan leaned in too—still wrecked, still messy, still just figuring it out.

But here.

And when she looked over at him—lit by the blue flame of a burner, laughter already on his tongue and her love story tucked in the curl of his grin—she thought:

This is it.

This is what home feels like.

Rowan leaned her elbow on the counter, chin resting in her palm, eyes locked on Mason as he moved around their smoke-scented kitchen like a man on a marshmallow mission. The burner flame flickered blue against the curve of his jaw, casting soft shadows while he roasted the sugar like it was some kind of sacred ritual.

She couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the camera-ready kind. The dumb, soft kind—the kind that tugged at her cheeks and made her chest feel warm even though the window above the sink was cracked and letting in the early evening breeze.

This wasn’t the night she planned. Not even close.

But it was the kind of night she’d remember.

The kind where she wore her favorite sweater and sat on the counter with sticky fingers. The kind where the meatloaf flopped but the laughter didn’t. The kind where she let herself want this without apology.

She popped a marshmallow in her mouth and immediately winced as it stuck to her lip. With a soft, amused groan, she scraped it off with her pinky and muttered under her breath, “This is such a disaster.”

And it was.

A gloriously dumb, slightly unhinged, totally domestic disaster.

Marshmallows were on a paper towel. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat next to an open bag of pretzels. Her phone was playing a soft acoustic playlist from the corner of the room, something with humming and a guitar riff she liked. The smoke from earlier had settled into the air like seasoning.

And she was happy.

Stupidly happy.

Her stomach still hurt from laughing. Her fingers smelled like sugar and soap. Her cheeks were warm. And maybe—maybe for the first time in a while—she didn’t feel like she had to earn the moment.

She tilted her head, eyes following the curve of the scene. The counter. The scorched pan in the sink. The flicker of the stove. The boy who didn’t run when things burned.

She reached out, tugged lightly on his sleeve, and kissed him once. Soft. Simple.

Sticky with sugar and something far more permanent.

Then she whispered against his shoulder, more to herself than anything:

“I love this life.”

And she meant it.

Exactly as it was. No edits. No filters. No do-overs.

Just… this.

Imperfect. Messy. Real.

Hers.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t even try to hide the grin that was pulling at his face.

Not when she kissed him with marshmallow on her lips. Not when she whispered I love this life like it wasn’t the single most important sentence he’d ever heard fall out of someone’s mouth. Not when she looked around at a kitchen full of wreckage and still somehow called it home.

Because it was.

Not just the place.

Her.

The life they were building—sticky-fingered, smoke-scented, soft around the edges—it was her. And he’d burn every meatloaf from now until forever if it meant coming back to this version of her every night.

The one who let herself want things.

The one who believed she didn’t have to be perfect to be kept.

He glanced over at her, perched on the counter like she belonged there, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, floral dress wrinkled, eyes full of something soft and wild and real.

And God.

He was gone.

“You love this life,” he repeated quietly, voice low like he didn’t want to break the moment. “Ro… I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to hear you say that.”

He reached over and brushed his thumb gently across the corner of her mouth, wiping away a smudge of sugar like it was holy.

“You don’t know what it does to me—seeing you let yourself be happy. Not perfect. Not curated. Just… you. Here. In this kitchen. In your favorite sweater and socks that don’t match.”

He rested his forehead against hers.

“I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.”

He didn’t say it like a proposal. He said it like a promise.

Because he meant it.

Not just the wedding. Not just the big moments with vows and champagne and a playlist full of their songs. But the rest of it.

The Tuesday nights when everything burns and they eat cereal in mugs. The Sunday mornings when she’s quiet and curled into his side. The bad days. The boring ones. The beautiful, ridiculous, unfiltered life they were already living.

That’s what he wanted forever to look like.

Mason leaned back just enough to look at her again—really look—and felt his heart ache with how lucky he was.

Not because she let him in.

But because she stayed.

And she wasn’t just staying in his life anymore.

She was building it with him.

He picked up another marshmallow, stabbed it with the fork, and held it up like it was something sacred.

“To the mess,” he said, smiling.

“To meatloaf disasters. To cereal for dinner. To you and me and every burned corner and soft middle and half-laughed, half-cried night we’ve got coming.”

He held the marshmallow over the flame until it turned golden and cracked, then blew it out and offered it to her.

“I’m all in, Ro. For every version of this.”

She took it—of course she did.

And when she bit into it and smiled like it meant something?

Mason knew.

He wasn’t waiting for life to start anymore.

It already had.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t, honestly.

Because everything about the moment—the warmth of the stove still lingering in the air, the sugary smoke curling around them like a second kind of gravity, the way his words settled into her like they belonged there—made her feel like her whole chest was one deep breath away from splitting open.

He said he was all in.

Like it was simple. Like it wasn’t the scariest and most beautiful thing she’d ever been handed without strings.

She stared at the marshmallow in her hand for a second longer than necessary, then popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly like it might help ground her.

It didn’t.

She was already floating.

And not in the way she used to when things felt too good to be true—tense, ready to fall.

This was different.

This felt… safe.

Real.

She leaned forward, chin propped on her palm again, eyes locked on his. That crooked smile. That firelight in his gaze. That voice still echoing in her head like a vow.

I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.

God, she could feel the truth of it settling beneath her ribs.

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” she murmured, lips quirking into something wicked-soft, “when I turn into a complete menace over table centerpieces and try to order our wedding cake from a place that exclusively sells things shaped like ghosts.”

Her voice was teasing. But her eyes—her eyes were full of something else entirely.

Wonder. Gratitude. That slowly growing belief she didn’t have to earn this.

She pushed her cereal bowl aside and swung her legs gently against the counter, reaching for the hem of his hoodie and curling her fingers in it.

“I’m not used to being chosen like this,” she said softly, almost absently. “Like the mess isn’t something people try to fix or survive. Like it’s part of the reason you want to stay.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And she let herself believe it.

Let herself want the Tuesday nights and the cereal spoons and the slightly-too-charred marshmallows and the boy who never asked her to be anything but exactly herself.

Then she reached up, tugged his hoodie just enough to bring him back to her mouth, and kissed him slow.

It wasn’t loud or showy.

It was promise. It was thanks. It was I want this too.

And when she pulled back, eyes bright, voice steady, she added—

“You’re gonna be stuck with me for a long time, Hayes.”

Like it wasn’t a threat.

Like it was a gift.

Because it was.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare do anything that might break the gravity of her fingers curled in his hoodie, or the way her mouth had just fit against his like a vow instead of a kiss.

Because Rowan Starling—this version of her, messy and magic and trusting him with pieces of herself she used to hide—had just told him he was stuck with her.

And Mason?

He couldn’t imagine anything better.

He felt it in his chest, sharp and quiet, the way her voice softened when she said she wasn’t used to being chosen like this. Not loudly. Not out of obligation. But because someone saw every crack and loved her not in spite of them—but because of them.

He looked at her—legs swinging against the counter, cardigan sleeves pushed back, marshmallow sugar on her fingers and a firelight gleam in her eyes—and thought:

This is it.

This is the girl he gets to wake up next to for the rest of his life. The girl he gets to make dinner with, mess up recipes for, dance barefoot in the kitchen with at 11 p.m. when the smoke alarm’s finally stopped beeping.

He reached up, gently ran his thumb over her jaw, and let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh—more of a soft holy shit.

“Stuck with you?” he said, voice low and a little ragged. “Ro, you’re the best part of the plan.”

He leaned in, their foreheads brushing now.

“I want the ghost cake. The centerpiece arguments. The stress breakdown in aisle six over mismatched napkins. I want every second of it, even the parts that drive us both nuts.”

A smile tugged at his lips.

“I especially want the part where you’re still sitting on this counter in ten years, talking trash while we burn frozen pizza and raise kids who think marshmallows count as dinner.”

He bumped her knee with his, a soft nudge that felt like forever.

“You don’t have to get used to being chosen,” he said. “Just get used to me never stopping.”

And it wasn’t just something sweet to say.

It was the whole truth of him.

Because she could test him, push him, tease him, challenge every part of the life they were building—and he’d still be here. Arms wide. Hoodie soft. Spoon ready.

Because choosing her wasn’t a hard thing.

It was breathing.

He kissed her then, slow and sure, like he was sealing something in place.

Not a moment.

A life.

And when he pulled back, eyes bright and chest full in that achey, delicious way love tends to hit at 2 a.m., he just whispered:

“You’re my home, Rowan. Always.”

Then he grabbed the marshmallow bag again and grinned.

“Now come on. Let’s burn dessert like it's a ritual. You’ve got years of chaos to plan, and I wanna be fully sugared up when you pick ghost-shaped invitations.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—just let herself feel it. Let herself sit in the warmth of his words like they were a blanket thrown over all the cold places she used to keep hidden.

Because he meant it.

Not just the kiss. Not just the forehead press or the ghost cake jokes or the soft holy-shit way he looked at her like she was everything. He meant all of it.

He meant her.

And God, she was still learning how to hold that.

Still figuring out how to let someone see every frayed edge and choose her anyway. Not because she was shiny or impressive or got the meatloaf right—but because she was Rowan. Chaos and care and dry sarcasm and second-guessing and all.

Her voice wavered, just slightly.

“You know you’re gonna regret giving me full control over the wedding theme, right?” she said, soft but teasing, her fingers toying with the edge of his hoodie again. “I’ve got a saved folder called ‘spooky but sentimental.’ You have no idea what’s coming for you.”

But her eyes were still glassy. Still open in that way she never used to let herself be.

Because the truth was?

She didn’t care about the cake. Or the centerpiece meltdown. Or even the vows, not really.

She just cared that he was still here. That he was going to be.

Always.

“You say I’m your home,” she murmured, letting her palm flatten lightly against his chest, “but you feel like mine too.”

It was quieter than her usual comebacks. Less armor. More ache.

She looked up at him, all steady eyes and slight smirk.

“And if we’re doing this marshmallow-burning, forever-mess kind of thing…” Her thumb brushed the cotton over his heartbeat. “You better be ready to dance with me in the kitchen at seventy, because I plan on playing our stupid playlists at full volume until the neighbors hate us.”

She grinned now, real and wide, and pulled the marshmallow bag out of his hand like she was claiming something holy.

“Now hand me a fork, Hayes.”

A beat.

“Let’s burn some sugar and call it a win.”

Because this was what they were.

Disaster dinners. Soft confessions. Love that didn’t need permission.

And for the first time in her life, Rowan didn’t want to run from it.

She wanted to stay.

Rowan stabbed a marshmallow with the kind of precision that only came from years of pent-up emotion and a lifelong avoidance of fully letting her guard down. But now? Tonight? She wasn’t hiding.

She held the marshmallow out toward the flame, watching it puff and blacken slightly at the edges.

Her voice came out casual, like she hadn’t rehearsed it in her head five times already.

“So, uh. My dad offered up his office,” she said, rotating the marshmallow slowly, her eyes on the tiny blaze. “Said it made more sense than cramming a crib into my closet. Figured Indy could use more than a sliver of wall space and a dream.”

She glanced at Mason, cheeks already warming from both the fire and the weight of the words. “He even boxed up all his stuff last night. Said he was ready for her. That we all were.”

The marshmallow caught fire for half a second—Rowan blew it out before it turned to charcoal and handed it to Mason like it was no big deal. But her fingers lingered near his for a beat too long.

She didn’t need him to say anything. Didn’t need a speech.

She just needed him to know that this—this family, this life—they were all in. That it wasn’t just her anymore, slowly unfolding around the edges. Her parents were too. Offering rooms. Making space. Believing.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, marshmallow smoke still curling in the air around them.

“I didn’t ask him,” she murmured. “He just… did it.”

A pause.

“I think part of me didn’t believe they’d really want this. Not like this. Not now. But I was wrong.”

She didn’t cry this time.

Didn’t fall apart.

She just breathed in, let it fill the quiet.

“They want her. They already love her.”

She tilted her chin toward him, half-smile playing on her lips now. “That office was sacred ground, you know. Printer from the Jurassic era. Framed crossword puzzle from 1998. The man once threatened to haunt me if I moved his stapler.”

She bumped her knee against his gently, soft and warm and full of something weightless.

“But he gave it up for her. Just like that.”

And in her voice—underneath the sarcasm and the steady—was that glimmer again. The one that said maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe this whole thing could actually be beautiful.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason took the marshmallow from her fingers like it was breakable.

Not because it was molten sugar. But because it came with something else—something bigger. A weight she hadn’t named, but offered all the same.

Her dad gave up his office.

Without being asked.

Without conditions.

Just did it.

Mason didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t. Not with the way his chest had gone all tight and aching and full in the space of a heartbeat. Not with the way Rowan leaned her head against his shoulder like she finally believed she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

He just sat there, quietly stunned, the charred marshmallow resting in his hand like some kind of sacred offering.

And maybe it was.

Because this wasn’t just about a room. It wasn’t just about drawers or wall space or turning sacred stapler territory into a nursery.

This was belonging.

This was Rowan’s past—sharp-edged and private—opening.

And letting him, letting Indy, step fully into it.

He turned slightly, enough to press a kiss into her hair.

“You didn’t have to ask,” he echoed softly. “Because they already see her as theirs.”

He didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t joke. Didn’t pull it into something lighter.

Because this was not light.

This was weight in the best way.

This was her dad boxing up pieces of his identity and saying, This matters more.

Mason let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing lightly against her knee where it had bumped his.

“You realize,” he murmured, “you just casually told me that your dad—Captain Stapler Defense—voluntarily gave up his sacred zone without even being bribed?”

He tilted his head just enough to see her face, the smile she was fighting off, the way her eyes still held that soft shine even beneath the sarcasm.

“That man once made me sign a guestbook to borrow a pen,” he added. “And now he’s clearing out decades of office clutter so his granddaughter has room to nap and scream and throw teething rings at the walls.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, something amazed and tender.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved your family more.”

He meant it. Every word.

Because this wasn’t just Rowan believing. It was her whole world leaning forward and making room for a future they hadn’t planned—but wanted. Fully. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

Mason turned back to the flame, finally roasting his own marshmallow, rotating the fork slowly between his fingers.

“I hope she grows up knowing she was never an accident,” he said after a beat. “That from the second she existed, she had people making space. Moving things. Rearranging whole lives just so she’d know she belonged.”

He looked back at Rowan—her cardigan sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair falling over her eyes, hands sticky with sugar and heart wide open.

“And I hope she sees how brave her mom is.”

He didn’t say it to make her cry.

He said it because it was true.

Because this—this life they were building in charred desserts and quiet evenings—was full of more courage than anything he’d ever seen on a field or stage.

He handed her his marshmallow.

Burned just enough. Gooey at the center.

“Here,” he said. “Trade you for another truth.”

A beat.

“I love this life too.”

And he did.

So much it scared him sometimes.

But he wasn’t running.

Not from her. Not from this.

Because she was the kind of story he wanted to live inside of. Forever.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She just looked at him—really looked—like maybe this was the first time she was letting herself feel how big it all was. How safe. How loved. Like it wasn’t just Mason who wanted this life with her—but her whole family, folding her new beginning into theirs like it had always belonged there.

Her fingers curled softly into the cuff of his sleeve. She didn’t pull. Didn’t squeeze. Just held on, like she needed that tiny point of contact to keep from floating away entirely.

“He boxed it all up,” she murmured, eyes still on the half-melted marshmallow in his hand. “The framed comic strips. The old computer. Even the mug with the ‘World’s Okayest Lawyer’ label he swore was ironic.”

A pause. A shaky little breath.

“He said it was time to make space for something better.”

Her voice cracked a little on the word better. But she didn’t try to hide it. Not this time.

Because maybe this was the part she didn’t talk about. The part that never felt quite hers—the idea that softness could exist without being torn apart. That her mistakes didn’t cancel out her worth. That something she helped make could be wanted so fiercely, so easily.

“I didn’t even ask him,” she added. “Didn’t say a word.”

And maybe that was the part that undid her the most.

Because for so long, love had felt like something she had to chase. Something conditional. Something earned. But now—now it showed up in a room being emptied. In Mason’s hand brushing hers. In the marshmallow he gave her just because.

She took it.

And when she bit into it, when the sugar stuck to the corner of her lip and the warmth hit her tongue, she laughed.

A real one.

Small and soft and alive.

Then, eyes glinting under the kitchen light, she leaned in just enough to whisper against his jaw, “We’re gonna have to repaint, you know.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers, like the weight of all that emotion had tipped into something she could carry now.

“Something weird. Something her. Not pink.”

She popped the rest of the marshmallow into her mouth, chewed, then mumbled through the sweetness, “You already know I’m vetoing beige.”

And just like that—it was happening.

The healing. The hope.

The start of something they hadn’t dared to name before.

She swung her legs off the counter, landed barefoot on the kitchen tile, and turned to face him fully—bare shoulders, sticky hands, and every bit of her heart wide open.

“I want her to walk into that room and know it was made just for her,” Rowan said. “And that she was wanted long before we ever met her.”

She stepped forward, gently took his hand again, and pressed her fingers between his.

“And that she’s got a dad who would build furniture, and fight off every matching napkin in Target if it meant making her feel safe.”

A beat.

Then, quietly: “And a mom who finally believes she can do this. Because you stayed.”

Her eyes shimmered.

But this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was joy. Big, wobbly, life-altering joy.

And when she smiled, Mason didn’t have to say a thing.

Because they were already living the answer.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s heart was wrecked.

Not in the dramatic, heartache way. In the holy shit, how did I get so lucky kind of way. The kind of wrecked that rearranged you. Made you quiet inside. Made you still.

Because Rowan Starling was standing barefoot in their smoke-scented kitchen, hands sticky with marshmallow and truth, looking at him like she wasn’t just choosing this life—they were building it together, piece by imperfect piece.

And she was still here.

Not clinging. Not bracing. Here.

She said her dad boxed it all up. The office. The comics. The mug. Said he made space for something better, and Mason felt the word better hit him straight in the ribs. Because she didn’t say it lightly. Didn’t toss it out like it meant nothing.

She said it like someone who’d spent her whole life doubting if she was enough—and was finally starting to believe she was.

He didn’t try to fill the silence when her voice cracked.

Didn’t try to fix it.

Just watched her take that marshmallow from his hand like it was something sacred, like letting herself be taken care of didn’t make her weaker—but realer.

And when she laughed?

That quiet, caught-off-guard kind of laugh that lit up her whole face?

Mason swore he’d remember that sound forever.

Then she whispered against his jaw—we’re gonna have to repaint, you know—and he just about lost it again.

God, he loved her.

Loved the way she pivoted from emotional collapse to weird paint decisions like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loved that she didn’t want pink. Loved that she’d already vetoed beige. Loved that she was standing in the aftermath of all her fears, ready to design a future anyway.

When she stepped off the counter and turned to face him fully, something in him clicked into place.

Not like a lock.

Like a landing.

He took in all of her—bare shoulders, messy hair, soft grin, sugar on her fingers—and felt it: that big, quiet joy she was finally letting herself feel.

And then she said it.

That she wanted their daughter to know the room was made for her. That she was wanted long before she arrived. That Rowan believed she could do this—because he stayed.

Mason blinked, hard.

His throat tightened.

Not because it hurt—but because it didn’t.

This was the moment he knew he’d never doubt again.

That she believed in the life they were building. In herself. In them.

He squeezed her hand gently, brushing his thumb between her fingers.

“Okay,” he said, voice quiet but full. “No beige. No pink. We’ll paint it something weird and wild and completely her.”

Then, slower:

“I’ll build the furniture. You pick the playlist. We’ll eat cereal off the floor if we have to. But I promise you—she’ll know.”

He stepped forward, kissed her forehead, then let it linger.

“She’ll know love like it’s air,” he murmured. “Because it’s all over this house.”

He smiled then, big and ruined and real.

“And yeah,” he added with a soft laugh, “I’m definitely fighting those napkin sets at Target. You know I don’t back down from a challenge.”

She laughed again. Brighter this time.

And Mason?

Mason just held her tighter.

Because this wasn’t a someday.

This was now.

And they were ready.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way her chest was pulling tight and warm at the same time. Not with the way Mason was looking at her like she was already someone’s whole world and not just a girl standing barefoot in a kitchen that still smelled like defeat and burnt meatloaf.

She watched him—watched the way he softened around her without losing his shape. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or noise. The way he let her speak, and stumble, and be.

She wasn’t used to that.

Wasn’t used to someone listening without waiting for their turn to talk. Wasn’t used to being met with warmth instead of strategy.

But here he was.

Offering to build furniture and battle Target napkin sets and turn a nursery into a galaxy for a baby who hadn’t even been born yet—but who already had a home.

And a dad who would fight like hell to make sure she always knew it.

Rowan blinked, hard, trying to swallow the lump in her throat before it turned into tears again. She took a breath. Then another. And when she looked at Mason—really looked—her whole heart turned over.

“I don’t want wild,” she said softly, voice almost shy.

He looked at her, eyebrows twitching like he was preparing for a color war.

“I want this,” she said, eyes holding his. “Exactly this.”

And then she moved, slow and sure, walking over to the table where her phone sat charging beside a half-eaten marshmallow and an old mug she’d forgotten about. She tapped the screen, pulled up the photo. Turned it around.

The nursery mockup. Her nursery.

Soft stars. Wooden crib. A navy wall with little gold animals. Warm lights tucked into corners like constellations.

“This is her room,” she said quietly, holding the screen between them. “This is the one. No lavender. No beige. Just this. Cozy. Strange. Quietly magic.”

Her fingers brushed his as he took the phone, staring at the photo like it was sacred.

“She’s gonna wake up under stars,” Rowan said. “And know she’s safe. And wanted. And that even the weird little fox on the wall has her back.”

She smiled then—wider, easier.

“And if she ever asks about it, I’ll tell her how her dad fought valiantly for moon-shaped pillows and nearly lost a finger to an overzealous glider assembly.”

She stepped back into his space, let her head rest against his chest again, and exhaled. Long. Steady.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Rowan would never get tired of saying it.

“Okay,” she said after a beat, lifting her head and catching his eye with something stronger than tears. “You’ll build the crib. I’ll order the stars. And if we both survive assembling that bookshelf without ending up in couples’ therapy, we’re officially ready for parenthood.”

She smiled. Really smiled.

Then kissed his cheek.

“And for the record?” she added. “I’m gonna win the Target napkin war. You just don’t know it yet.”

Because Rowan Starling wasn’t scared anymore.

This was the life.

Not perfect.

But hers.

And that made all the difference.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Barely breathed.

Because when Rowan said I don’t want wild. I want this—he felt something shift in the center of his chest.

Like his whole heart just sat down.

Like it had been pacing for years, waiting for the right moment, the right person, the right future to belong to—and now it was here.

Right here.

In her voice. In her eyes. In the way she walked barefoot across the kitchen to retrieve her phone, like it wasn’t just a phone anymore but a piece of something holy. A glimpse at the life they were building in real time.

When she turned the screen toward him, he took it like it might burn him if he wasn’t careful.

And maybe it did.

Because that nursery mockup?

It wasn’t just soft stars and cozy blues and golden foxes.

It was her. Her hope. Her heart. Her belief that this could be beautiful—not in the way it looked, but in the way it felt.

Quietly magic, she’d said.

And she was right.

Because that’s what she was.

That’s what this was.

And God, when she said she’d tell their daughter how her dad fought valiantly for moon pillows and nearly lost a finger to a glider?

Mason grinned through the ache in his throat and the sting behind his eyes.

“I barely survived that Allen wrench last time,” he whispered, thumb still hovering over the screen. “But for her? I’ll risk it again.”

She stepped into his space then, head resting against his chest, like all the pieces had finally landed where they were supposed to.

And when she said I love you?

That was it.

The whole world tilted back into place.

He wrapped his arms around her, slow and steady, resting his chin against the top of her head like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

“I love you too,” he murmured, voice rough with everything he couldn’t fit into three words. “So much it makes no sense.”

When she lifted her head, all spark and steady now, talking about bookshelves and couples’ therapy and stars you could order off the internet, Mason laughed—really laughed—because this was exactly how he wanted to be loved.

This was it.

“I’ll build the crib,” he said, voice still a little wrecked. “You order the stars. And we’ll tag team that bookshelf like our relationship depends on it.”

She kissed his cheek, warm and easy, and threw her final line like a victory flag:

I’m gonna win the Target napkin war. You just don’t know it yet.

Mason just grinned, tugging her hand gently into his again.

“Let the record show,” he said, “that if I go down in a blaze of themed paper goods, I’ll die happy.”

And he meant it.

Because this?

This wasn’t chaos.

This was home.

Messy. Magic. Ours.

And Mason would build it with her a thousand times over.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t smile right away.

Not the usual kind, anyway.

Not the sharp-edged grin she gave people when they complimented her without meaning it. Not the polite one she wore at family gatherings when someone said something passive about her “growing up so fast.” Not the fake one she used to survive rooms she never quite fit in.

This smile was slower. Warmer. Like it had to melt its way through a hundred old fears before reaching her mouth.

Because Mason didn’t laugh when she said she didn’t want wild.

He didn’t tease or roll his eyes or say “really?” like it surprised him.

He just listened.

Held the phone like it mattered. Like her vision—the quiet stars, the dark blue walls, the glow of something soft and real—wasn’t ridiculous or overly sentimental or something they’d scrap the second a parenting blog said it wasn’t practical.

He looked at it like it was sacred.

Like she was sacred.

And that?

That did her in.

She stepped into him without thinking, let her forehead rest where his shoulder met his neck, and exhaled into the space between them like it could hold the weight of everything she didn’t have words for yet.

His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, and God, she melted. Marshmallow-sticky hands and all.

Because he didn’t just stay.

He believed.

In the room. In the story. In her.

She felt his chin against her hair, the way his body held steady even as his voice cracked on those three words—and maybe for the first time in her life, she didn’t flinch from being told she was loved.

She believed him.

She looked up, cheeks flushed, heart wide open, and said softly, “We’re gonna be a really weird little family, aren’t we?”

And she meant it in the best way.

Because she wanted the kind of love that burned meatloaf and read bedtime stories with character voices and debated Target napkins like it was serious legislation.

She wanted the kind that built bookshelves slowly, with too many curse words and not enough screws. The kind that danced around half-unpacked boxes with a baby in one arm and a playlist they forgot to turn off.

She kissed his cheek again, softer this time.

“I love you,” she said again, not because he needed to hear it—but because she needed to feel herself say it. “I love this life. I love what we’re making. Even the burnt parts.”

Then, with a smirk, she added:

“And for the record? I’m gonna frame the Target napkin I beat you with. Put it right over the changing table. Our first war trophy.”

And for once?

She didn’t feel like she was bracing for it all to fall apart.

She just felt held.

And that was everything.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move when she stepped into him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe too deep.

Because the second Rowan’s forehead touched his collarbone, everything else dropped away.

The burnt meatloaf. The Target jokes. The marshmallows half-scorched on the stove.

All of it faded under the weight of what it meant for her to let herself lean in—not out of exhaustion, not because she needed rescuing, but because she trusted the space between them to hold her.

And God, did he feel it.

Not just the shape of her against him or the quiet warmth of her exhale—but the shift. The way she let go without apology. The way she stopped armoring herself against something that wasn’t coming.

He didn’t rush it.

Didn’t say anything about the sticky fingerprints or the slow, holy collapse of someone finally letting herself be loved.

He just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in.

Like a vow.

Like this was the thing he wanted to protect more than anything.

When she looked up, cheeks flushed and lashes damp but eyes clear, Mason felt the breath catch in his chest.

And then she said it.

We’re gonna be a really weird little family, aren’t we?

He laughed—quiet, warm, a little broken around the edges.

“The weirdest,” he said. “Absolutely feral.”

And he meant it with his whole damn soul.

Because if he got to wake up to marshmallow-fingered chaos and bookshelf battles and a daughter who knew she was wanted before she was even born?

That was the dream.

That was everything.

When she kissed his cheek and said I love you again, Mason didn’t try to say it back right away. Not because he didn’t feel it—God, he felt it like gravity—but because he wanted her to hear her own voice say it. Wanted her to feel the truth of it echo back in her bones.

Then she hit him with the napkin line—and he nearly lost it.

He tilted his head, grinning at her like she was the most dangerous thing on Earth.

“You’re actually gonna frame it,” he said. “A napkin. Over the changing table.”

His smile softened. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

But he wasn’t scared.

Not of the sleepless nights or the baby spit-up or the therapy-worthy bookshelf assembly.

Because Rowan wasn’t bracing anymore.

She was staying.

With him.

In this life they were building out of burnt corners and soft middles and quiet miracles disguised as ordinary nights.

Mason leaned in, rested his forehead against hers, and whispered:

“I love you too. More than the stars. More than the room. More than the fact that you’re gonna absolutely destroy me in every domestic competition we ever have.”

A beat.

Then: “Frame the napkin. I’ll frame the receipt.”

He kissed her. Light. Sure.

And when he pulled back, hand still curled around hers, he just said:

“Let’s make this life the best kind of weird.”

Because this?

This was it.

Love. Laughter. Victory napkins.

Home.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t laugh right away.

She wanted to—God, she did—but her throat was tight and her heart was full and Mason had just said things that rearranged her ribcage.

So instead, she stood there a second longer, forehead pressed to his, hand still tangled in his hoodie like she could hold the moment still.

She could feel his breath now. Feel the weight of what they were building—not just in paint swatches and nursery plans and burned dinners, but in this.

The staying.

The letting go.

The choosing each other even when the night didn’t go right, even when the meatloaf caught fire and her voice cracked and she wasn’t soft or poetic or anything but messy and real and hers.

When he said I love you too—more than the stars, more than the room, more than every dumb little domestic fight she was absolutely going to win—she finally let herself smile.

Not the smirk.

Not the practiced one.

The real one.

The kind that lived in her bones and only came out when she felt safe.

“You’re gonna regret saying I can win,” she whispered, voice low and thick with feeling. “Because now I have to make it competitive.”

She bumped his shoulder, just barely, and sniffed once before adding, “And yes, I’m framing the napkin. With gold foil. Maybe sequins. Depends how dramatic the win is.”

But her fingers stayed wrapped in his, thumb brushing slow over the top of his hand.

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then just let her head rest on his shoulder again.

“I used to think this kind of love was… fiction,” she said, quieter now. “Something people like us didn’t get. That if you burned dinner or cried in the middle of a sentence or forgot to buy milk three times in a row, they’d leave.”

She paused. Let it settle.

“But you’re still here. And you’re still holding me like it’s the best part of your day.”

She tilted her face up again, met his eyes.

“I think… I think I’m finally okay with not being perfect. Because you keep showing me how good the mess can be.”

She kissed him then—slow and certain, not a victory kiss, not a desperate one. Just full.

Then she pulled back, grinning through the softness, eyes shining like maybe she was finally letting herself be as full of joy as she was love.

“Let’s make this life so weird and so good our daughter writes essays about it someday,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And if she inherits your taste in snacks, I swear to God, I’m filing an appeal.”

She looked around their kitchen—smoky, cluttered, covered in marshmallow ash and open plans—and exhaled.

Then: “This is her first room, Mason. Not the nursery. This.”

She gestured around them.

“Sticky counters. Dumb jokes. Her parents too in love to care that dinner burned. She won’t remember it—but it’s where she started.”

Rowan looked at him again.

Rowan didn’t wait for permission. She just stepped back, let out a breath that felt too big for her chest, and rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan.

Because the moment had already happened. It lived in the stillness between them, in the way he held her like she was something steady. It didn’t need more words.

What it needed, honestly?

Was someone to clean up the goddamn mess.

She turned toward the sink, grabbed a dish towel off the counter, and muttered under her breath as she picked up the scorched meatloaf tray. “Okay, girl dinner has officially been redefined as ‘near kitchen fire with a side of emotional damage.’”

The tray clattered softly against the stainless steel basin, and she ran the water hotter than necessary—half on purpose. The hiss of the faucet was a kind of reset. A way to keep her hands busy while her heart kept unfolding.

Behind her, she could feel the warmth of him still watching. Still there.

She didn’t look. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she scrubbed in slow circles, pretending the meatloaf betrayal was the worst thing that happened tonight.

“I was gonna do candles,” she said absently, wiping down the counter next. “Put on that one playlist I made for when we have a night in. I even googled how to make an edible flower salad. Like an actual herb witch.”

She snorted. “Clearly the universe said: ‘Girl, calm down. Here’s a fire instead.’”

One dish down. Then two. She moved with that quiet rhythm she only ever found in this house—this kitchen. Something ordinary. Safe. Something that had grown familiar in a way nothing else ever had.

She let her hip rest against the counter, eyes drifting toward the pantry door. “She’s gonna make so many messes in here,” she murmured, quieter now. “Cereal on the floor. Flour footprints. Crayon on the cabinet doors.”

A pause.

“I want her to see that mess isn’t the end of the world.”

She folded the towel slowly, set it next to the now-empty drying rack, then ran her hand across the counter one last time.

“I want her to see someone burn dinner and still sit down to eat cereal and laugh about it.”

She turned around.

And she smiled.

Soft. A little uneven. Real.

Because the meatloaf was ruined. The kitchen still smelled faintly like smoke. Her sweater had flour on the sleeve and her eyes were a little pink—but she didn’t feel broken.

She felt full.

She padded barefoot back toward him, let her fingers find his hoodie, and leaned in like the moment had been waiting for her to return to it.

And against his chest, right where it was warmest, she whispered, “Okay. Crisis averted. Kitchen reclaimed.”

She smiled again. “Next time, you’re on meatloaf duty.”

And this time?

She didn’t apologize for any of it.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stood in the center of the kitchen, hands loose at his sides, and watched the love of his life reclaim the wreckage like it was her damn right.

Because it was.

She didn’t ask for help. Didn’t soften her jokes or try to backtrack what she’d said. She just turned around, grabbed a towel, and started scrubbing a tray like she hadn’t just said a dozen things that permanently rewired the structure of his heart.

This is her first room.

God.

He almost sat down on the floor right then and there.

Because she meant it. The smoky kitchen, the uneven playlist, the marshmallow ash in the sink—this wasn’t just the setting of a bad dinner. This was the beginning of something. The before. The part of the story their daughter would never remember but would always feel.

And Rowan saw that.

Rowan named it.

She burned the dinner, broke a little in his arms, then stood up, cleaned her counter, and told the universe she was staying.

Not just staying, but owning it.

And that? That did something to him.

He watched her talk about flower salads and herb witch ambitions like it was nothing, like she hadn’t just handed him a blueprint for their entire life.

And when she muttered next time, you’re on meatloaf duty and leaned back into him—barefoot, exhausted, glowing with all the softness she never used to show—Mason finally moved.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, slow and sure, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

“I’ll make the meatloaf,” he murmured. “But you’re still in charge of the magic.”

She huffed something like a laugh, shoulder bumping lightly into his chest.

“No, seriously,” he said, lips brushing her hairline. “You made burnt dinner feel like a memory I want to frame. Who does that?”

He felt her smile against him. Small. Satisfied.

And when she didn’t move—when she let herself be held like it was the most natural thing in the world—Mason let the quiet stretch.

Let it settle.

Because this wasn’t a recovery moment. It was a rite of passage.

She was the girl who used to think love only lasted as long as she kept the chaos contained.

And now?

She was barefoot in a smoke-scented kitchen, talking about crayon marks and flour footprints like they were parts of the dream.

And he loved her for it.

He kissed her temple, then rested his chin on her shoulder.

“She’s gonna see all of it, Ro,” he said softly. “The mess, the laughter, the meatloaf disasters. And she’s gonna think that’s what love looks like.”

He paused. Let his fingers brush over hers.

“And she’ll be right.”

They stood like that for a long moment, just breathing, just being, until the only thing left in the air was comfort.

And when she finally turned in his arms, meeting his eyes with that smile—the real one, the one that came from her bones—Mason thought:

This is the story.

Not the big moments. Not the perfect ones.

But the ones where she chose to stay.

And let him stay, too.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

Just let her hands stay where they were—wedged between them and still slightly wet from rinsing ash off the worst of the baking tray. Mason’s arms circled her like gravity, and she leaned back into it, not because she needed the weight—but because she liked it.

There was something about the quiet that made her brave.

Maybe it was the way the kitchen smelled like burnt brown sugar and soap, or the fact that she could still feel marshmallow stickiness on the side of her hand. Maybe it was Mason. Just… Mason. Standing behind her like she was the center of the universe and he was just happy to orbit.

She stared at the counter for a moment longer, then turned slowly in his arms, letting her fingertips catch the edge of his sweatshirt.

“If I let you make meatloaf next time, you’re not allowed to gloat when it turns out good.”

She tipped her head up and squinted at him. “And it will turn out good. You’re annoying like that.”

He grinned. She nudged his stomach with her elbow.

Then, more softly, her gaze flicked to the window behind him—the one that looked out over the backyard, still washed in the pink of a dying sunset. “I used to think moments like this only belonged to people who wore matching socks and didn’t grow up holding their breath.”

Her voice dropped a little, tone rough around the edges like she was still getting used to hearing herself say things like that aloud.

“But this? This is better.”

She looked at him fully then.

“All of this,” she said, one hand gesturing vaguely to the kitchen mess, the bowls on the counter, the playlist still humming in the background, “it’s the dumbest, weirdest, best thing I’ve ever helped build.”

She paused. Then added, “And just so we’re clear? I’m putting glitter stars on the nursery ceiling. Like glow-in-the-dark ones. I don’t care if it’s tacky. Indy’s gonna love it.”

She didn’t wait for approval. Just pressed her forehead to his chest again and closed her eyes, letting the steady sound of his heartbeat settle into the quiet.

“Also,” she said after a beat, muffled against his shirt, “I saw Dad sneaking his mug back into the garage. He couldn’t fully part with it. I think we’ll let him keep that one.”

It was easier to breathe in moments like this. No weight. No armor. Just the two of them, standing in a kitchen full of smoke and sugar and future plans.

She smiled against him.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t even pretend to be okay.

Not with her looking at him like that. Not with her fingers twisted in the hem of his hoodie, eyes soft and unguarded and real. Not when she said this is better like she finally believed it could be.

He stared down at her, jaw clenched lightly just to keep himself from blurting out something completely unhinged like marry me tomorrow in the cereal aisle.

Instead, he leaned down—just a little—and brushed his nose against hers.

“First of all,” he said, voice low and half-laughing, “if I make a perfect meatloaf on the first try, I fully expect a gold medal. Or at least one of those participation trophies that says ‘World’s Okayest Chef.’”

She squinted at him, unimpressed.

He grinned wider. “Second of all? I love that you think I don’t also forget the milk three times and panic over if glitter stars count as a fire hazard. Like, Ro, I’ve read approximately zero baby books and still think ‘onesie’ sounds like a Marvel sidekick.”

His arms tightened around her, just slightly, like he couldn’t help it.

“But third—and most importantly?” His voice softened, and the grin faded into something quieter, deeper. “You say this is the dumbest, weirdest, best thing you’ve ever helped build—and I swear to God, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

He reached up, gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and let his thumb graze her jaw like he was still making sure she was real.

“You. This kitchen. The glitter-star-covered future we’re making? It’s already everything.”

A pause. Then he added, “And I hope Indy loves the ceiling. Because when I sneak in at night to check on her? I’m gonna love it too. Even if they peel off in July and fall directly on my face.”

She laughed into his chest, and Mason felt it down to the center of him.

When she mentioned her dad sneaking his mug back into the garage, he grinned, kissing the top of her head with exaggerated reverence.

“Let him have it,” he murmured. “He earned it. You both did.”

Then, quieter—right near her ear, like a promise tucked in the folds of her cardigan:

“You’ve got this, Ro. You really do. And I’ve got you. Always.”

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide.

So he held her there—messy kitchen, smoky air, half-clean dishes and all—and thought:

This is the moment I’m gonna replay forever.

Not because it was flashy.

But because it was true.

Because the girl in his arms finally believed in their love enough to call it hers, and that?

That was everything.

Mason kissed her temple again. “Now c’mon,” he whispered with a grin. “Let’s go plan a galaxy ceiling before I lose you to dish duty again. And for the record? I’m gluing a meatloaf trophy next to your framed Target napkin.”

Because he was hers.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She couldn’t.

Not with his voice still in her ear, all low and wrecked and stupidly sincere. Not with his arms around her like he didn’t care if she smelled like burnt ketchup and crushed hopes. Not when her heart was doing that thing again—the thing where it climbed into her throat and curled up like it lived there now.

So she stayed where she was.

Let herself be held. Let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t all some fragile dream she’d jinx by leaning too far into it.

Then he said meatloaf trophy, and it was game over.

She huffed a laugh and pulled back just enough to look at him. “If you think I’m letting you superglue something to my mother’s wall, you’re actually more sleep-deprived than I am and we don’t even have the baby yet.”

Mason looked smug. Rowan narrowed her eyes.

“And FYI,” she added, jabbing a flour-dusted finger into his chest, “your onesie ignorance has officially disqualified you from the baby registry login. I’ll be taking it from here. Say goodbye to your dreams of dressing her like a potato.”

He tried to argue. She shut him up with a quick kiss. Then another. Then one more, just because she could.

And when her lips left his and she looked up at him, all soft-eyed and certain, she said, “This is better.”

Not because it was a line.

Not because he needed to hear it.

But because she meant it.

Because meatloaf disasters and Target napkins and glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars were suddenly more than enough. Because she could picture the room now—hers and Indy’s and his. Because the before didn’t feel so loud anymore. Not with him here.

She leaned in again, forehead to his, and whispered, “Let’s go make the ceiling weird.”

Then she reached for his hand, laced their fingers, and led him down the hall.

And maybe the kitchen was still a disaster.

And maybe they’d burn the next dinner, too.

But for the first time in her life, Rowan didn’t feel like she was walking into the unknown alone.

Not everything had gone right tonight.

But the important stuff? The real stuff?

That had landed exactly where it was supposed to.

She turned toward Mason, who was still leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching her like she was the best kind of problem he’d never get tired of solving.

Rowan rolled her eyes at the look on his face—but couldn’t quite stop the smile pulling at her mouth.

She stepped closer, bare feet brushing against tile, and slipped her fingers into his. Gave them a gentle squeeze.

“Come on,” she said, voice low but warm. “We’ve got a ceiling to argue about.”

And then she tugged him gently toward the hall—no big gesture, no dramatic speech. Just her hand in his, firm and certain and full of momentum.

Because the kitchen was clean.

The day had been loud and weird and full of small failures.

But upstairs?

Upstairs was the beginning.

The room that used to be her dad’s office. The one with the empty walls and the echo she could finally imagine filling. The one she wasn’t afraid of anymore.

So she pulled him with her—slow and steady, already plotting where the dresser would go, what kind of rug would make the floor feel less cold, which corner might be perfect for reading.

And Mason didn’t resist. Didn’t ask where they were going. Just let himself be led.

Because she was moving.

Forward.

With him.

And this time, she wasn’t looking back.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t follow her right away.

Not because he was hesitating—but because his heart was still catching up.

Because Rowan Starling—Rowan his—had just whispered let’s go make the ceiling weird and then grabbed his hand like it was something inevitable. Like forever had a pulse and it lived between their palms.

And for a second, he just stood there. Leaned against the counter like he was trying to keep his knees from giving out. Watching her walk barefoot toward the hallway like she knew where they were going, even if the map was still being drawn.

He was so stupidly in love with her, it hurt a little.

Not in a bad way.

In the too-much-softness-for-one-body kind of way.

When she looked back—eyes daring him, fingers already halfway to his—he couldn’t help it. He grinned. One of those crooked, dumb, completely smitten grins that only ever showed up for her.

Then she said it again.

We’ve got a ceiling to argue about.

And yeah, he was gone.

Utterly, irreversibly gone.

He took her hand and let her pull him forward—because honestly? There was nowhere else he wanted to be. Not in a perfect night. Not in a better version of their life. Just here. In the house that still smelled faintly like burnt sugar. With the girl who wanted glow-in-the-dark stars and had just revoked his onesie privileges.

As they moved down the hall, her fingers tightening in his like she meant it, Mason leaned in just enough to murmur near her ear:

“You know, if this is how you lead me into battle, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

She shot him a look.

He smirked. “Even if we end up with a moon phase mural and a rug that looks like a forest floor. I’m ready. Emotionally and spiritually.”

Rowan shook her head like he was exhausting, but her thumb was still brushing slow over his knuckles. Still choosing him.

When they reached the nursery door—the old office, the new beginning—Mason paused.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to kiss the back of her hand and whisper, Let’s make it feel like her.

Because this wasn’t about the paint or the pillows or the Target debate of the week.

It was about the fact that Rowan was walking forward now. Not because the road was easy, but because he was beside her. Because she wanted him there.

And that?

That was everything.

Mason followed her into the room like it was the start of a new season—one filled with messes and late nights and ceiling stars that glowed just bright enough to remind them where they began.

Together.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything when they stepped into the room.

She just crossed the threshold barefoot, the hardwood cool against her skin, the air quieter here—like the space knew it was holding its breath, waiting to become something more.

The lights were still off. The moonlight from the window cut silver across the floor, catching the bare walls and empty corners and the place where her dad’s desk used to sit. But it didn’t feel hollow.

Not anymore.

She let go of Mason’s hand, stepped further inside, and without a word, lowered herself to the floor. Not carefully. Not dramatically. Just… all at once. Like her knees gave out or her heart told her to.

She lay back, one hand beneath her head, the other resting lightly over the small curve of her belly.

Mason stood in the doorway, still, silent, watching.

Rowan didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, she wasn’t thinking about colors or themes or furniture. She was thinking about the sound of lullabies barely whispered. About warm milk bottles at 2 a.m. and the weight of a sleepy body curled against her chest. About the first time she’d whisper “you’re safe” and mean it with every cell in her body.

She blinked up at the ceiling. Blank and pale and waiting.

And then she started to cry.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just soft tears down the sides of her face, into her hair and the floor and the silence.

She imagined what it’d feel like to stand in this room with the lights dimmed and her daughter warm against her chest. To rock her, humming something half-memorized, and feel those tiny fingers curl into the collar of her shirt. To tuck her in for the first time and not know what the hell she was doing, but try anyway. To kiss her forehead and walk out backwards, afraid to leave but knowing she had to.

The ceiling blurred above her.

Rowan let it.

She didn’t wipe her cheeks.

Didn’t try to be okay.

Because this wasn’t falling apart.

It was letting herself hope.

Letting herself believe.

And when she felt Mason’s knees hit the floor beside her, his hand slide into hers again without a word, she curled her fingers into his and squeezed.

Still staring up. Still crying.

But not alone.

Not even a little.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move at first.

Just stood there in the doorway like the world had tilted and he didn’t want to risk stepping wrong.

Because Rowan?

Rowan had just walked into a ghost of a room and laid herself down in it.

Like her whole body had finally stopped bracing.

Like she was giving the moment permission to become something else—something more.

He watched her from the threshold, chest aching, heart doing that slow, reverent thing it only ever did with her. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say a word. Just stared up at the blank ceiling like she could already see what it would become.

And when she started crying?

God.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. But it shattered something in him all the same.

Because he knew the difference.

Knew what it looked like when she cried from fear—tight-lipped, fists curled, trying not to need anyone.

And he knew what this was.

This was grief melting into belief. This was the soft ache of possibility. This was her letting herself feel the future without apologizing for how much she wanted it.

So he moved.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just walked across the moonlit floor and knelt beside her—knees to hardwood, hands to hers, heart already on the floor between them.

When her fingers curled into his, Mason exhaled like he hadn’t been breathing until she let him touch her again.

And he stayed like that.

Not trying to fix it. Not filling the silence.

Just there.

Kneeling next to the strongest, softest person he’d ever known, in a room that wasn’t just a room anymore.

It was theirs.

The first place their daughter would feel safe.

The first place Rowan let herself believe she could do this—and that she didn’t have to do it alone.

Mason didn’t look at the ceiling.

He looked at her.

Tears running into her hair, eyes shining in the moonlight, one hand resting on her belly like she was already holding the whole world.

He squeezed her fingers gently.

Then leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered, like a vow meant for her skin and the silence alone—

“She’s gonna love this room. But not half as much as she’s gonna love you.”

And then he lay back beside her.

Right there on the floor.

Not to pull her up.

But to meet her where she was.

To look at the ceiling with her.

To build the future one breath at a time.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer him at first.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way her throat tightened at his voice. Not with how gently his lips had touched her skin—like the vow didn’t need an altar, just her temple, just this moment.

She squeezed his hand harder than she meant to, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

And when he lay down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, fingers still threaded through hers like he wasn’t going to let go for anything—Rowan let herself believe it.

All of it.

She kept her eyes on the ceiling, letting the tears slide toward her hairline, her temple, the floor. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Mason didn’t ask her to.

“I used to think I’d never want this,” she said quietly, voice thick but steady. “Not because I didn’t care. Just… I didn’t think I could ever feel ready. Or soft enough. Or real enough.”

Her thumb ran in slow circles over the back of his hand.

“And now I can’t picture anything else.”

She turned her head slightly, cheek brushing the floor as she looked at him sideways. His eyes were already on her, that steady, quiet kind of love burning in them like he didn’t know how to be anything but here.

“I think I want stars,” she murmured. “But not perfect ones. Not the kind that look like they came from a Pinterest board. I want the messy kind. The kind she helps us make with glow paint and a flashlight and way too many tutorials.”

Her voice broke on a laugh.

“And I want a corner chair I’ll never sit in. And books we’ll read a thousand times until she starts reciting them back to us.”

She paused.

Then: “And I want her to know I tried. From the beginning.”

Rowan looked back up at the ceiling. It was nothing. Blank. Bare. But it held everything.

“I want her to know this room was never perfect. But it was always hers.”

She felt Mason shift, his shoulder pressing closer to hers, and somehow it made her braver.

“And when she cries?” Rowan whispered. “I’ll let her. And I won’t make her feel small for it. And when she says she’s scared, I’ll tell her that’s okay. That I was too. That I still am.”

She swallowed hard.

“And when she asks me how I knew I could do it—I’ll say because of you.”

She didn’t look at him this time.

Didn’t need to.

Just squeezed his hand again.

Then closed her eyes.

Let the ceiling blur.

And breathed.

The ceiling didn’t shift.

Didn’t change or glow or shimmer.

But something in Rowan did.

It was quiet. Small. The kind of shift you only notice when everything else has gone still.

She didn’t open her eyes when she spoke again—just let the words drift out, soft and certain, like they’d been sitting under her ribs for years, waiting for the right moment.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t you.”

Her voice was so low it almost disappeared into the room with them, but Mason didn’t miss it. She felt it in the way his thumb stopped moving against hers. Felt it in the silence that followed—stretched and still, like he knew not to rush her.

“I need you to know that,” she whispered. “I wasn’t just scared of becoming a mom. I was scared of becoming someone I couldn’t come back from. Like… if I got this wrong, there’d be no fixing it. No rewinding.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

“But then it was you.”

Her throat caught, but she kept going.

“You—burning toast, forgetting the milk, glue-sticking furniture together like it’s war. You, looking at me like I’m allowed to mess up. Like staying doesn’t depend on whether I get it right the first time.”

A breath. Then another.

“You made me want this. All of it. Not just the baby. The days after. The mornings where we forget to wash the bottles and the nights where everything feels too loud and too much and still—we’re here.”

She finally opened her eyes again.

Turned her head to look at him, even though it made the tears spill sideways down her cheek.

“You’re the reason I’m not running. You’re the reason this feels like something I can do instead of something I have to survive.”

Her smile was small, but steady.

“And I think she’s gonna feel that. From both of us.”

She reached out and pressed his hand to the lowest curve of her belly—right over the quiet, steady truth of what they were growing.

“Because she was never the scary part,” Rowan said softly. “Being alone in it was.”

She looked at him, fully now, eyes shining.

“But I’m not.”

And neither was he.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say a word.

Not because he didn’t have anything to say—God, he had everything to say—but because Rowan had just handed him a piece of her soul, still warm, still beating. And the only thing sacred enough to do in return was listen.

She said she wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t him.

She said he was the reason she wasn’t running.

And Mason swore he felt the floor shift beneath him. Or maybe it was just his heart—realigning, locking into place around hers like it had been waiting for this moment since the first time she let him stay past goodbye.

He didn’t move when she started crying again.

Didn’t rush in with a joke or a fix or some clumsy reassurance about how they’d figure it out. He just stared at her in the moonlight—bare face, bare voice, bare heart—and felt his ribs go soft around the truth of her.

And when she reached for his hand and placed it over the softest curve of her belly?

That was it.

Mason's breath caught.

Not in fear. Not in shock.

In awe.

Because Rowan Starling—the girl who’d learned to armor every inch of herself—had just let him in.

Not just into the room.

Not just into the plan.

But into the part of her that was building a life.

Their life.

Their daughter.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink.

Just turned fully onto his side, never letting go of her hand, and pressed his forehead gently to hers.

His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. Meant for her.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A pause. A breath. The kind that came from deep in his chest, where the promise lived.

“You could get it wrong a hundred times, Ro,” he whispered, “and I’d still stay. Because you’re not something I’m surviving either. You’re something I chose. And I’ll keep choosing you.”

He felt her breath hitch.

Felt her thumb twitch where it still brushed his hand.

“You’re not gonna be perfect,” he said. “Neither am I. But we’re gonna be good. Messy, loud, exhausted—but good. Because she’s already got the best parts of you growing inside her. And the rest?”

He smiled, kissed her jaw so gently it made his throat ache.

“The rest, we build together.”

Another pause. Then—

“And for the record? If we forget to wash bottles and the kitchen smells like mystery snacks for three days and the bookshelf collapses because I used glue instead of screws... I’m still gonna look at you like you’re magic.”

His thumb brushed against her belly where his hand still rested.

“She’s gonna feel how much we love her. But more than that—she’s gonna feel how much you were loved. Every version. Especially the ones that didn’t think they were ready.”

He leaned back just enough to see her face again, even with the tears still shining there.

And he said, not like a question, not like a line—just a truth he’d never stop meaning:

“You’ve got me.”

Then he lay still beside her.

Hand on her belly.

Heart in her hands.

And let the silence hold them both.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when the air between them had already caught fire with something softer than certainty. Something truer.

She just looked at him.

Eyes wide and wet and steadier than she’d felt in days. Because Mason wasn’t trying to patch her up or polish the cracks—he was just… there. Saying the right things without trying to make them pretty. Holding her without asking her to stop crying. Choosing her like it was the only thing that ever made sense.

She exhaled. Shaky, then stronger.

And when she finally spoke, it wasn’t planned. Wasn’t polished. It was just hers.

“You scare the shit out of me, you know that?”

Her voice cracked a little, but her mouth twitched like a smile.

“Not in the bad way. Just in the… I didn’t think people like you were real kind of way. The kind of way that makes it hard to believe I get to keep you.”

She turned her face just slightly, forehead still pressed to his.

Her fingers tightened in his.

“And now there’s this room. This baby. This future that I didn’t even know how to want until you made it feel safe to want it.”

She shifted, just enough to press her hand over his where it rested on her belly.

“You’re right. I’m not gonna be perfect. You’re gonna mess up a bookshelf. I’m probably gonna cry about stupid things like socks and hormones and how long it takes to fold a onesie. But I’m not scared like I used to be.”

Her voice softened to a whisper.

“Because you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like a safe place to fall.”

She closed her eyes, let the quiet hold for a moment longer.

And then, half-laughing, half-sighing:

“If I ever forget to tell you how much this means—remind me. Especially when I’m hormonal and yelling about glitter glue or how much I hate our stroller.”

She opened her eyes again, met his.

“And if I ever try to say you’re not enough? Tell me I’m lying. Then kiss me until I remember I’m full of shit.”

Her thumb brushed slow against his wrist.

“I love you so much, Mason. I love you in all the ways I never thought I’d get to. And if she grows up knowing half of what I get to feel with you every day… she’s gonna be just fine.”

Rowan shifted then—pressed a kiss to his shoulder, to his jaw, to the curve of his mouth—and finally let her body rest fully beside him.

“You’ve got me too,” she whispered. “Completely.”

And she didn’t need to say anything else.

Not when the whole room already knew.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t breathe at first.

Not really.

Because there she was—curled beside him on a floor that used to mean nothing and now felt like the foundation of their whole damn future—saying things no one had ever said to him. Not like that. Not with a voice that cracked and softened all in the same breath. Not with fingers laced through his like she didn’t know how to let go.

He’d heard a lot of big declarations in his life. Some fake. Some fleeting. Some too loud to feel real.

But this?

This was Rowan Starling, calling him a safe place to fall.

Telling him she loved him with every inch of her fight and every inch of her surrender. And Mason—who’d spent so long learning how to show up without needing the spotlight—felt it land in his chest like a second heartbeat.

He didn’t smile right away.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t deflect with something cocky or sweet, even though his throat ached with everything he wanted to give her.

Instead, he shifted closer, their noses almost touching now, and brushed her hair behind her ear with a reverence that bordered on awe.

“You scare the shit out of me too,” he said quietly. “Because every time you look at me like that, I start believing I might actually be enough for all of this. For you. For her.”

His hand moved again—rested softly back over her belly, this time with more intention. More certainty.

“And I’ve never wanted to be good at something more.”

He leaned in, kissed her slowly—like a promise he didn’t need to speak out loud.

Then pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers again.

“I’m gonna remind you,” he murmured. “Every damn time you forget. Every glitter glue meltdown, every onesie disaster, every second you try to tell yourself you’re anything less than what she needs.”

He paused, voice dropping even lower.

“And if you ever try to say I’m not enough?” A small, crooked grin curved his mouth. “I’ll tell you you’re full of shit. Then I’ll kiss you until you remember who the hell you are.”

His thumb brushed slow against her knuckles.

“Because I know exactly what I’ve got, Ro. And I’m not letting any of it go.”

He kissed her temple next—then just held her, arms curving around her like the safest place in the world wasn’t a room or a house or even a town.

It was her.

And this?

This wasn’t a maybe.

This was home.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer at first.

She couldn’t.

Not with her throat tight and her heart doing that dumb, traitorous thing where it tried to climb into her mouth.

Because God—he really was unbelievable.

Here she was, cracked wide open in the passenger seat with grocery-store tears and emotional whiplash, and he was somehow still making her laugh, still looking at her like she hadn’t just admitted to being a mess of jagged nerves and unspoken fears.

Still choosing her.

She glanced over, watched the way the light hit his profile—nose slightly red from the sun, eyes soft with something she didn’t have to name anymore. Not really. She knew what it was.

Because it lived in her too.

In the way her hand curled tighter around his. In the way she didn’t flinch when he said every version.

He meant it.

All of it.

Even the Shakespeare apron threat.

“Okay,” she finally said, voice dry but shaky-soft beneath it, “but if you go full Sonnet 116 at the baby shower, I will tell your mom you cried over that Folgers commercial last week.”

She saw his jaw drop—exactly the kind of indignation she was hoping for—and her laugh slipped free before she could catch it.

“Equal blackmail, Mason. That’s what this relationship runs on.”

A beat.

Then her voice gentled again, eyes still on the road but her heart right there with him.

“And I love that apron.”

That part wasn’t a joke.

She did love it. The dorky, frayed, ketchup-stained apron he always wore while making grilled cheese and declaring himself the King of Domestic Excellence.

She loved everything it meant.

Safety. Steadiness. Stubborn devotion wrapped in sarcasm and snack food.

She loved him.

Rowan reached across the console and brushed a piece of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering just a little too long.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she murmured, but her thumb grazed his temple like a vow. “And you make everything harder in the best, most ridiculous way.”

Then, quieter, like it cost her a little to say it out loud:

“But I don’t want easy. I want us.”

And she meant that.

Every aisle.

Every flaw.

Every word.

Mason didn’t say anything to that.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t grin. Didn’t try to undercut the weight of her words with something playful—even though that was usually his move.

He just looked at her.

Really looked.

Like she’d just handed him the last piece of something he didn’t even realize he’d been trying to build this whole time.

And for once, Rowan didn’t look away.

Didn’t shrink under the intensity of it. Didn’t dodge with a smirk or a sigh or a self-deprecating joke about how she was definitely going to cry over this later.

She just let him see her.

All of her.

And then—

The tires crunched gently over gravel as they pulled into the driveway, the soft creak of the turn cutting through the quiet like a breath held too long finally being released. Their house came into view—the one tucked just far enough off the road to feel like its own world. Porch light still off, wind chimes barely moving, curtains drawn like the place knew they’d be coming home a little changed.

Mason eased the car into park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The hum filled the silence between them, low and steady.

Rowan stared out at the porch for a moment, heart thudding like it needed time to catch up to her mouth.

Then, slowly, she unbuckled her seatbelt and looked at him again—really looked.

“I know I don’t always make this easy,” she said softly. “Loving me. Being patient. Sticking around while I figure out how not to bolt when it gets real.”

A breath.

“But I’m trying. I’m… really trying.”

Her fingers found his again over the console—familiar, warm, a little shaky.

“And I want you to know… I wouldn’t be this far if it wasn’t you sitting in that seat.”

She let the words settle. Let the truth of them wrap around her ribcage like armor she didn’t have to fight in.

“I wouldn’t be me—not like this—if it wasn’t you.”

And then, just before she reached for the door handle, her smile curved—gentle and small, but real as hell.

“So come on, apron king,” she whispered, voice a little hoarse but glowing with something unshakable. “Let’s take the groceries in before I start sobbing in the car like a Hallmark cliché.”

She paused. Shot him a sideways look.

“And for the record? You are adorable. But don’t let it go to your head.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move for a second.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because God—Rowan had just obliterated him. Completely. With nothing but her voice, her eyes, her whole damn heart laid bare like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He felt it everywhere.

In his throat, tight and aching.

In his chest, pulsing too loud, too fast.

In the way his fingers closed around hers like he could hold the moment still if he just tried hard enough.

And yeah—maybe she’d joked about crying in the car like a Hallmark cliché, but he was dangerously close to doing it for real. Like, ugly-cry levels. Snot and everything. All because she’d said I wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t you.

Who says things like that? Who means them?

She did.

Rowan.

His Rowan.

The girl who once threatened to leave him in a Trader Joe’s parking lot for humming the Friends theme song off-key. The girl who flinched at softness, weaponized sarcasm like armor, and now—now—was looking at him like she didn’t just trust him with her grocery list, but her entire f**king life.

Mason cleared his throat.

Twice.

Then finally managed, voice way too thick to be casual, “Okay, first of all—rude. I am adorable, and that’s canon now. Second—did you just admit I make you a better person? Because I am recording this conversation in my brain and playing it back every time you roll your eyes at me.”

Rowan groaned, but her hand didn’t let go.

“And third,” he added, a little softer now, “there is no universe where I don’t help you carry the groceries. Even if you’re a Hallmark cliché. Especially if you’re a Hallmark cliché.”

He reached for the keys, killed the engine, and turned to her fully—his hoodie sleeve brushing hers, his gaze steady and serious beneath all the teasing.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ro.”

The words were quiet. Unadorned. But laced with something unshakable.

“I don’t care how hard it gets or how messy or how many times you try to convince yourself you’re too much. You’re not.”

He touched the back of her hand, thumb skimming light and deliberate over the seam of her knuckle.

“You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

And then, because he knew the moment was close to tipping too far into Serious Emotional Territory—and because he was Mason Hayes, patron saint of bad timing and worse jokes—

He bumped his shoulder into hers and whispered, “Also, I was going to recite Sonnet 116 again while unpacking the oat milk, but I guess I’ll save that for our wedding vows. Hope you like iambic pentameter.”

Rowan shoved him.

He laughed.

But neither of them let go.

And when they got out of the car—grocery bags in hand, the last of the sunlight catching in her hair and his stupid grin leading the way—Rowan didn’t look back.

Because everything she needed?

Was walking beside her.

Into a house full of snacks, safety, and whatever kind of forever they decided to build from scratch.

[Rowan Starling]

She didn’t speak at first.

Couldn’t.

Because somewhere between you’re it and I hope you like iambic pentameter, Rowan Starling lost the ability to function like a normal human being. Her chest was doing that thing—tight and wild and full—and she had to blink a few times just to make sure she didn’t burst into tears over the sound of his voice and the way he said our wedding vows like it wasn’t hypothetical.

Like he meant it.

Like it was already decided.

She shoved him, yeah. Rolled her eyes. Huffed like he was the most insufferable man to ever quote Shakespeare in a grocery store parking lot.

But she didn’t let go.

Her fingers stayed curled around his like they’d been there a thousand years, like maybe this—this—was always the destination. Even when she was too afraid to name it.

And now?

Now they were walking toward the porch, arms full of off-brand bagels and dignity barely intact, and she didn’t feel scared.

Not really.

She felt… sure.

Which was maybe even more terrifying.

But she glanced over anyway—at his messy hair and his smug little grin and the crinkle by his eyes that always gave him away—and she smiled.

Small.

Certain.

Completely wrecked.

“You realize,” she murmured as they reached the door, “that if you ever actually read me Sonnet 116 in that apron, I will marry you on the spot.”

She wasn’t kidding.

He knew it too, based on the way he froze with the keys halfway to the lock, like he was calculating how fast he could memorize the thing by sundown.

Rowan laughed—low and real and more herself than she ever used to believe she was allowed to be.

Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek just below the laugh line, and whispered, “But you don’t have to prove anything, Mason. You already did.”

They stepped inside together, warm light catching on hardwood, the scent of fresh paint barely lingering beneath the bag of basil she’d insisted on grabbing last minute. She dropped the reusable totes onto the kitchen counter and reached for the oat milk, catching Mason already putting away the snacks like he was auditioning for Domestic Partner of the Year.

It should’ve been ordinary.

But it wasn’t.

Not the way he moved behind her, opening cupboards and humming a little under his breath. Not the way she caught him glancing at her every few seconds, like maybe he was afraid she’d vanish if he blinked too long.

She put the last box of cereal into the pantry and turned to find him already holding out a spoon for the peanut butter with a stupid grin on his face.

“Snack tax,” he said.

She rolled her eyes—but gave in.

They finished unloading the groceries in a quiet rhythm. Easy. Familiar. Like this version of love had been waiting for them the whole time.

And when it was done—when the fridge hummed contentedly and the paper bags were stacked beneath the sink—he reached for her hand again.

Didn’t say anything.

Just tugged.

Up the stairs.

Carefully. Slowly. Like he wanted the moment to stretch.

And when they reached the top—when they stood outside the nursery, the door still shut, the air carrying just the faintest trace of something new and clean and warm—he stopped.

She looked at the handle.

He didn’t open it.

Didn’t offer.

And she didn’t push.

Because yeah, she could guess. The way he’d been fussing with swatches and muttering about VOC-free finishes. The way he kept slipping out early in the morning with that determined look in his eye and paint on his wrists.

He’d done something in there.

Something for her. For Indy. For them.

And God—she wanted to see it.

But more than that?

She wanted the surprise.

So she stayed quiet. Rested her head against his shoulder. Let her fingers drift to the hem of his hoodie like she needed to ground herself in this version of home.

And when he kissed her temple, slow and sure and sweet?

She didn’t need to see the room to know it was already perfect.

Because Mason painted it.

Because Mason loved her.

Because this was their life now.

A little messy. A little sacred.

And completely, irrevocably theirs.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason swore he was fine.

Totally fine.

Perfectly composed and chill and definitely not freaking out because Rowan had just said “I will marry you on the spot” in that quiet, matter-of-fact way she got when she was dead serious about something like lemon zest or the Oxford comma.

And yeah, okay—his hand did stall a little on the key.

And maybe he was calculating if he had the apron clean and where the hell he left that battered poetry book she once pretended not to snoop through.

But then she kissed his cheek.

Whispered that he didn’t have to prove anything.

And Mason?

He went under.

Totally, utterly done for.

He followed her into the house with the dumbest grin known to mankind, watching her move like she belonged there. Because she did. Every part of her. Every sharp line and soft edge and snarky comment about his choice of granola.

God, she fit into his life like a last puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing until it clicked.

He made a game of putting away the snacks—one-handed, dramatic, juggling things like she might hand him a trophy—and kept looking over just to see her roll her eyes. She didn’t even fake being annoyed anymore. Just handed him the peanut butter with a look that said you’re exhausting and I’m keeping you forever in the same breath.

And when she actually let him steal the first bite?

Mason nearly proposed with his mouth full of almond crunch.

They packed everything away, moving like they’d been doing it forever. Not flashy, not performative—just them. Banter and breadcrumbs and hands brushing in the pantry. And when it was done—when the kitchen looked like a Pinterest board and smelled like basil and oat milk—he didn’t even think.

He just reached for her hand again.

Because that’s what he did now.

Reached for her.

Every time.

She let him lead her up the stairs, quiet and close, her hand trailing along the railing like she didn’t want to miss a second of the silence between them.

And when they stopped outside the nursery door—his heart full of paint fumes and Pinterest panic and hope so sharp it made his ribs ache—Mason didn’t say anything.

Didn’t open it.

Because he wanted it to be hers. Not just a room. Not just a reveal.

A moment.

A choice.

And when she didn’t press? When she just leaned against him, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder like it was made for her, hands fisting gently in the hem of his hoodie?

Yeah.

That was it.

Mason closed his eyes for half a second and breathed her in.

Lavender. Grocery-store air. And the absolute certainty that if he lived to be a hundred, this would still be the thing he looked back on when people asked what love felt like.

He kissed her temple.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because she knew.

Because she was here.

Because they were building a whole damn life out of cracked walls and cereal aisle confessions and the way she never let go of his hand, even when she was terrified.

And maybe the nursery behind that door wasn’t perfect.

Maybe the paint bled a little and the mobile he ordered came half-assembled and slightly haunted-looking.

But the love?

That part was flawless.

Because it was hers.

Because it was theirs.

And Mason would repaint that whole room a thousand times if it meant getting to stand here like this—wrapped in the quiet knowing that everything he ever wanted was already in his arms.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move.

Not right away.

Because standing there—just outside the nursery door, his arms around her, her cheek pressed to the familiar beat of his heart—was enough. More than enough. It was everything.

She felt the weight of it in her bones. In the stillness. In the way he didn’t rush to show her what he’d done, like some overexcited puppy desperate for approval. He didn’t need applause. He wasn’t looking for gold stars or gasps or gratitude.

He just wanted to give her something.

Something real. Something hers.

And that?

That wrecked her in the softest, most reverent way.

She curled her fingers tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding herself. Letting the moment stretch around them like a cocoon. No rush. No noise. Just the quiet hum of belonging.

This man—her man—who wore love like a badge of honor and still acted surprised when it came back to him tenfold. Who painted a nursery he wouldn’t let her see because the gift wasn’t the color or the theme or the stupid haunted mobile.

It was the effort.

The choosing.

The care.

She exhaled slowly, almost silently, like releasing all the years of holding her breath. Of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of convincing herself she couldn’t have this—didn’t want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

And she knew she couldn’t put it into words the way he could. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she could feel it. Every time he touched her. Every time he let her be both soft and sharp, scared and sure.

Every time he built her a future with his bare hands and then waited—patiently—for her to walk through the door.

So she didn’t open it.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, she tilted her head up just enough to find his mouth and kissed him. Slow. Unhurried. Like a promise she wasn’t afraid of anymore.

Then she whispered, barely audible, right against his lips:

“I already love it.”

And she meant the room.

She meant the moment.

She meant him.

Always.

Rowan pulled back from the kiss, her fingers still hooked in the hem of Mason’s hoodie, her breath soft against his jaw. She didn’t say anything else—just let her eyes linger on his for a beat longer, her thumb brushing gently against his side like a quiet thank you for the million things he wouldn’t let her see yet.

Then she took his hand.

Didn’t tug. Didn’t lead fast.

Just guided.

Down the hall, toward their room. Toward warmth. Toward quiet.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some cinematic slow-motion scene. Just her bare feet on the hardwood, the soft shuffle of their bodies in sync. Mason followed without hesitation, like gravity—like wherever she went, he already knew he’d follow.

She nudged the bedroom door open with her hip, releasing his hand only to reach for the hem of her hoodie. She peeled it off with slow, tired fingers, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony. The leggings followed next, kicked off into a soft little heap near the foot of the bed. She didn’t care. Didn’t need to care.

Because this was theirs.

Because she was home.

And then—half out of instinct, half out of longing—she crossed to the dresser, tugged open the drawer that always smelled like him, and grabbed one of his worn graphic tees. It was too big, frayed a little at the collar, and so soft it felt like a hug. She tugged it over her head, the hem falling halfway down her thighs, sleeves bunching at her elbows.

It smelled like laundry and Mason and something she couldn’t name but always felt safer in.

Then she climbed into bed.

No theatrics. No teasing.

Just exhaustion and trust, layered into every movement as she tucked herself under the quilt, knees curling toward the warmth where he’d soon be. Her cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes flicking to where he still stood just inside the door like he didn’t want to break the quiet.

And she didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t have to.

Because everything about her—the shirt, the sigh, the way her hand reached for the empty space beside her—said come here.

Said home.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move right away either.

He just stood there—barefoot on the hardwood, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, heart doing Olympic-level flips in his chest like cool cool cool, don’t cry, don’t ruin this, act like a person—and watched her.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a look how lucky I am way.

Just…

Stunned.

Totally, unapologetically stunned.

Because God, the way she kissed him? The way she whispered “I already love it” like it wasn’t just about the nursery, like it was about him, like it was about all of it? His brain short-circuited somewhere between she said that and I get to keep her.

And now?

Now she was walking down the hallway in her dumb little socked feet like she didn’t just emotionally obliterate him, like she didn’t just kiss him with a kind of certainty he was pretty sure he'd be chasing for the rest of his life.

He followed, obviously. Would’ve followed her anywhere. Into a storm. Into a courtroom. Into the cereal aisle of hell itself. But this?

This was better.

This was home.

She opened the bedroom door with her hip like a rom-com goddess who didn’t even realize she was one, and he stayed still just long enough to watch her peel off her hoodie—his hoodie, thank you very much—and let it drop like she belonged here.

Because she did.

Because she always had.

And then she reached for his shirt, and listen—

Mason was gone.

Brain? Gone.

Heart? Absolute puddle.

She tugged it on, all oversized cotton and fraying edges and him, and Mason swore if he were a cartoon character, little animated hearts would’ve popped out of his eyes right then and there. Like boing and sproing and someone call an ambulance, I’m in love.

She climbed into bed, and he should’ve said something—something cute, something witty, maybe a well-timed wow, that shirt’s illegal levels of hot on you—but she looked over her shoulder at him like come here, and his whole soul went stupid.

He padded over quietly, climbing in behind her like muscle memory. Like this had always been the plan. His arms slid around her waist like they were following orders, pulling her back against him, anchoring himself to the one thing that ever made gravity feel like a gift instead of a burden.

And for a second?

He didn’t say anything.

Just breathed her in.

Let the quiet wrap around them like a weighted blanket. Let his cheek press to the back of her shoulder where the neckline of the shirt slipped just enough to feel like maybe fate had a sense of style.

Then, softly—just loud enough to brush her skin—

“You know I’m gonna cry the second you open that door, right?”

She huffed a laugh. Didn’t call him out for it.

So he grinned.

“And like, not a cute cinematic tear,” he continued, voice sleep-soft and smile-stupid. “Like full-on, red-faced, soap opera sobbing. The baby’s gonna hear it from inside the womb and be like damn, Dad, get it together.”

Her shoulders shook with another quiet laugh, and he kissed the spot just beneath her ear like a thank-you note folded into a vow.

“And hey,” he added, pulling the covers tighter around them, “for the record? You in my shirt, in our bed, in this life we made?”

His voice dropped to something lower. More real.

“Best thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen Jurassic Park in IMAX.”

Rowan made a noise like you are such an idiot, but she didn’t move.

Didn’t fight it.

She just curled deeper into his arms, her hand finding his at her waist, fingers slipping between his like they belonged there.

Mason closed his eyes.

Held her tighter.

And somewhere in the quiet, between laughter and lavender and the soft hum of their breath syncing up, he whispered one last thing:

“You’re it for me, Ro. Always were. Always will be.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Not when her whole body had already answered for her—curling into the shape of his chest like gravity knew the way, like every part of her had been made to land here. Safely. Softly. Finally.

She could still feel the echo of his words in her spine, warm and reverent and stupidly, unfairly good. Still feel the brush of his lips beneath her ear, like a promise made without expectation. And yeah, she’d teased him, called him an idiot under her breath—but God, her heart was traitorous. Because all it wanted to do was stay.

Stay wrapped in him like a blanket that never judged. Stay right here in the quiet, where the world narrowed to heartbeat and breath and the scent of him on his shirt. Stay where love wasn’t loud or cinematic—but steady. Everyday. Endless.

She didn’t cry.

But it was close.

Her thumb stroked his knuckles, slow and instinctual, grounding her. Grounding them both. And when her voice finally came, it was small. Hoarse. Like it had been folded and tucked somewhere safe until now.

“I’m really glad it’s you,” she whispered. “Like… really.”

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to see his face to know how he’d look at her—like she was saying something sacred. Like she was saying everything.

So she let the silence answer too.

Just for a beat.

Then—

“Also,” she added, voice muffled by the pillow, “if you cry when I open that nursery door, I’m never letting you live it down.”

He laughed—quiet, helpless—and she grinned into the mattress.

“But I want that,” she said, more to herself than him. “The stupid crying. The almond crunch proposals. You in your dumb apron, holding up baby clothes like they’re battle armor.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop.

“I want all of it.”

She reached for his hand again. Twined their fingers tighter. Anchored them there, in the almost-evening hush of a room that had seen a thousand versions of them—but never this one.

Not yet.

And when she whispered, “I already love the life we haven’t even met yet,” it wasn’t about the nursery.

It was about tomorrow.

And every day.

She didn’t mean to kiss him again.

Didn’t plan it, didn’t think it through.

She just… looked at him. At the boy with the too-long lashes and the warm arms around her and the voice that never said the right thing at the right time, but always managed to say the one thing that mattered most.

And something in her chest cracked wide open.

Because how was this her life?

How was he hers?

Mason Hayes, who made grocery stores feel like grand gestures and paint fumes feel like love letters. Who laughed with his whole chest and cried over crayon box colors and held her like she was something sacred, even when she felt anything but.

She turned in his arms slowly, the soft cotton of his shirt shifting around her like it belonged there—like she did.

And then?

She kissed him.

Slow. Certain. Just enough pressure to say I know. I feel it too. I’m still not over you, and I never want to be.

He made a sound low in his throat—half surprise, half reverence—and kissed her right back, like he couldn’t believe she’d picked him either. Like this whole thing was still too good to be true.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead stayed pressed to his, breath mingling in the stillness between them.

And quietly—barely more than a whisper—

“I still can’t believe I get to kiss you whenever I want.”

She wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t fishing.

Just telling the truth.

Because some days, it still didn’t feel real. That he looked at her the way he did. That she got to wear his shirts and steal his snacks and fall asleep to the sound of him breathing steady beside her.

That she got to want him—and be wanted right back.

Mason didn’t speak. Just brushed his thumb along her cheek like he was making sure she was really there.

And Rowan?

Rowan closed her eyes, let her palm rest flat against his chest, and listened to the rhythm she now knew by heart.

Because this wasn’t just love.

It was home.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

[Mason Hayes]

He didn’t deserve her.

Not even a little bit.

Mason lay there with his arms full of the girl who used to make his heart stutter just by looking in his direction—who still did, who always would—and tried not to let the tidal wave of emotion crawl up his throat and ruin the moment.

Because God, how did a guy like him—chaotic, weird, too-much-in-all-the-wrong-places Mason Hayes—end up here?

With her.

With Rowan Starling, who once wore her armor like it was stitched into her skin. Who rolled her eyes like breathing and loved people in secret because that felt safer than saying it out loud. Who used to run from everything soft because it never lasted.

Now curled against his chest like maybe this time, it could.

He watched her eyes flutter closed again, lashes fanning across her cheek, her hand rising and falling with his breath where it rested over his heart. And yeah—okay—his throat was doing a thing. But he let himself feel it.

Didn’t hide.

Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t make a joke.

Instead, he leaned in, kissed her forehead like he meant it (because he did, more than anything), and whispered back:

“Yeah, well… believe it.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips tugged into a smile, and that was enough to make his chest hurt in the best possible way.

“I know I’m a lot,” he said softly, thumb brushing over the curve of her jaw. “I talk too much, I think too loud, I’m, like… aggressively emotionally available now. But Ro?”

His voice dropped lower.

“I never knew how to be brave until you.”

She blinked then—slow, sleepy, but watching him. Really watching him.

“And if you’re still wondering why it’s me?” he added, mouth tilted in that lopsided, stupidly earnest smile of his. “It’s ‘cause loving you doesn’t scare me. Not even a little.”

He ducked his head slightly, pressing their foreheads together again like they could sync thoughts if they just stayed close enough.

“You’re not breakable, Ro. You’re just real. And I’d rather build something messy and true with you than perfect with anyone else.”

A pause. A breath.

Then—

“You kissed me like it was gravity. Like it wasn’t even a choice. And I swear to God, that’s gonna haunt me forever—in the hot way, obviously.”

She huffed a laugh, which made him grin wider.

“But if you ever doubt this again—if the fear comes back or the world gets loud—I want you to remember this part,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Me. Here. Holding you like a lifeline. Choosing you with my whole damn chest.”

He kissed her again then—soft, deep, full of every word he didn’t have language for.

And when he pulled back, brushing her hair off her forehead, his grin softened into something quieter.

“Also,” he added, “if you ever wanna make out in the nursery like teenage rebels with a mortgage, I fully support it. Could really up the resale value.”

She groaned into his chest like why are you like this, but she was laughing too, shoulders shaking against him.

And Mason?

Mason held her like it was the only thing he’d ever been good at.

Because in this room, in this house, in this life they hadn’t even finished building yet—

She was his favorite blueprint.

And he was already home.

[Rowan Starling]

He was warm beneath her palms.

Real in a way she still hadn’t quite wrapped her head around—even now, even after all this time. And maybe she never would. Maybe that was the point.

Because some things?

Some things were too good to make sense of.

She felt his hands settle at her hips—steady, reverent, like he didn’t want to push, didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to risk waking her from whatever this was. And she got that. God, did she get that. Because she used to feel the same way. Used to live in that constant flinch—like happiness was a trap door waiting to snap.

But with Mason…

It wasn’t.

With Mason, it was this.

Soft cotton and open hands and laughter in her lungs. A whole future wrapped in the sound of his heartbeat. A life she never planned for, never dared to ask for, and now couldn’t breathe without.

Her forehead dropped against his, breath catching in her throat as she closed her eyes. Let it all in. The weight of him. The steadiness. The way he made her feel like she could finally stop running from herself.

“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth.

Simple. Certain. Undeniable.

“I love you in the grocery store. I love you when you’re wearing that dumb apron. I love you when you cry at commercials and when you hum off-key and when you get paint on your nose.”

A soft laugh broke in her throat, and she smiled.

“I love you when I’m scared. I love you when I’m brave. I love you when I don’t know which one I am.”

She opened her eyes then—met his fully. No flinch. No mask. Just her.

“And if the world burns down tomorrow,” she whispered, “I’m still glad I get this. You. Me. All of it.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid she might float away otherwise.

But she wouldn’t.

Not now.

Not with him to hold her down.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s throat was already tight by the time she said I love you the second time.

By the third, he was wrecked.

Not in the dramatic, sob-on-the-floor kind of way—but in the quiet, bone-deep way that happened when the world shifted beneath you and you realized, oh. This is the moment everything changed.

Because Rowan Starling didn’t just say I love you like it was sweet. She said it like it was sacred. Like it cost her something once, and now she was choosing it anyway. Choosing him.

And maybe that was the part that undid him most.

She could’ve run. She didn’t.

She could’ve closed up. She didn’t.

She could’ve made a joke or deflected or brushed past the heat rising between them like she used to, like he used to expect her to.

But instead?

She just… stayed.

In his arms, in the moment, in the truth of everything she’d said. Her voice full of cracks and courage. Her fingers twisted in his shirt like she was anchoring herself there—like she wanted to.

And Mason Hayes—complete disaster of a man, wildly in love and two steps from getting on one knee in sweatpants—could barely hold it together.

“Okay,” he breathed, voice rasping around the weight in his chest. “Well. That’s it. You’ve officially broken me.”

His hands slid from her hips to her back, pulling her closer, gently, slowly—like if he didn’t hold her tight enough, she might vanish in a puff of lavender-scented heartbreak.

“You can’t say things like that and expect me to survive, Starling,” he muttered against her hair. “I’m already planning, like, seven grand gestures and a playlist that’s mostly Taylor Swift now.”

He felt her laugh, soft against his chest, and something loosened inside him.

God, he loved that sound.

“I love you too,” he said quietly, seriously now, because she deserved more than just jokes. “In every version. In every universe. Even the one where I’m a barista with a man bun and you’re still pretending not to like me.”

A beat. A breath. Then:

“I love you when you steal the covers. I love you when you leave your books all over the house like breadcrumbs to your brain. I love you when you doubt yourself, and I love you when you let me remind you who you are.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing her cheek like it was instinct.

“And if the world burns down tomorrow?” His mouth tilted, gentle but sure. “I’ll meet you in the ash. Wouldn’t want to haunt anyone else.”

She laughed again—wet and beautiful—and he caught her mouth with his like a secret.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just theirs.

The kind of kiss that said stay. The kind that said home.

And when they finally broke apart, breathing the same quiet air between them, he rested his forehead against hers and added, with a grin just barely softened at the edges—

“But, uh… can I still wear the apron? Asking for a domestic icon.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t laugh right away.

She smiled, sure—wide and crooked and a little dangerous—but the sound that came out of her was more breath than laugh. Something soft and overwhelmed and wrecked in a way she wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

Because Mason Hayes had always been too much. Too loud. Too sweet. Too infuriatingly sincere.

And God, she loved him for it.

For all of it.

She stayed in his lap, forehead still pressed to his, fingers still curled in the front of his shirt like she was trying to keep the moment from drifting too far away. And then—still breathless, still glowing—she kissed him again.

Just a whisper of a kiss this time. Warm and slow and steady.

Like yes.

Like of course.

Like always.

“You can wear the apron,” she murmured against his mouth, voice low and completely unbothered. “But only if you’re ready to be objectified while making pancakes.”

She felt more than heard his grin.

“And you’re not allowed to complain when I write ‘Property of Rowan Starling’ across the ass in Sharpie.”

Her voice was teasing, sure. But her hands were still soft where they held him. Her body still loose and safe and home where it rested against his. Because everything she said—the jokes, the claims, the I love yous tucked inside the banter—meant something now.

And she wasn’t scared to let them.

Not with him.

Not here.

Not anymore.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason let out a strangled sort of laugh—the kind that was half flirty bark, half are you trying to kill me?—and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my God,” he groaned into her skin, voice muffled but brimming with helpless amusement. “You’re gonna be the death of me. Sharpie on the ass? Really? That’s the legacy we’re leaving our child?”

But his arms tightened around her anyway.

Because of course she’d say that. Of course she’d make something as simple as pancakes feel like foreplay and forever at the same time. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He leaned back just enough to look at her—really look at her. Eyes dancing, cheeks flushed, that little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth like she’d already won whatever game he didn’t realize they were playing.

“You realize,” he said slowly, tipping his head like he was thinking very seriously about this, “that you’ve just given me full license to get a custom apron that says Starling’s Snack. In script. With hearts.”

Rowan tried to roll her eyes.

Failed spectacularly.

Because he looked so proud of the idea.

And because, underneath the chaos and the teasing and the entirely too-serious apron talk, there was that same steady truth again—that tether between them. Real. Constant. Unshakable.

He kissed her then, soft and quick and laced with more affection than he knew what to do with.

Then:

“You’re it for me, Ro. In the kitchen, in a thunderstorm, in a grocery store parking lot with expired coupons and bad ideas—you’re it.”

His hand brushed her jaw, thumb grazing just beneath her cheekbone.

“I’m yours in every universe. With or without ass Sharpie.”

He paused, then added with a raised brow and a crooked grin:

“But preferably with.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan let out the kind of laugh that shook straight through her—shoulders trembling, head tipping forward against his as her fingers curled tighter in the front of his shirt.

“God, you’re so dumb,” she said, almost fondly, her voice barely above a whisper.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she slid one hand up to his jaw, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth, and met his eyes with something that looked a lot like wonder.

Because this was the part she never believed she’d get. The comfort. The clarity. The kind of love that could make her laugh through tears and still feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

“Starling’s Snack?” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the words, her mouth twitching at the edges. “That’s what we’re going with? Not like… Chef of Chaos? Domestic Disaster Husband? Cinnamon Roll Daddy?”

She tilted her head, biting her lip like she wasn’t entirely kidding.

And then, quieter—less of a joke now, more of a confession—she whispered, “You know you’re it for me too, right?”

Rowan leaned in again, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Then his jaw. Then the soft skin just below his ear, where she could feel him inhale like it knocked the air out of him.

“I don’t care what you wear,” she murmured, lips brushing his skin with every word. “An apron, a hoodie, nothing at all…”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—serious now, full of that soft defiance only he ever got to see.

“You’re mine either way, Mason Hayes.”

A beat.

“And if you think I won’t also write that on your ass, you don’t know me at all.”

She didn’t give him time to recover.

Didn’t wait for another apron joke or one of his dangerously sweet declarations.

Because the way Mason looked at her—like she was everything good in the world, like he couldn’t believe his luck even now—it made her ache in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with want.

So Rowan leaned in—slow and sure—until her lips brushed his, soft and deliberate. A tease. A warning. A promise.

And then she kissed him.

Properly.

Fully.

Like she meant it.
Because she did.

One hand slid into the back of his hair, tugging just a little, while the other rested over his heart, grounding them both. Her body pressed into his as she deepened it, slow and certain, like she was memorizing the feel of him all over again.

When she finally pulled back—barely, just enough to breathe—her voice was lower, lips still brushing his.

“My parents are at the bookstore a little longer,” she murmured, one brow arching as her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up. “Book club’s running late.”

A pause. A shift.

Then she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Which means we’ve got time. You know… if you wanna do something wildly irresponsible.”

Her grin was all wicked mischief and flushed confidence, and Mason looked like she’d just short-circuited the last rational thought in his head.

[Mason Hayes]

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a groan—just Mason Hayes in complete and utter agony, the good kind, the kind that came with too much adrenaline and too much heart and zero common sense.

“Okay,” he said, very seriously, “first of all—‘Cinnamon Roll Daddy’? That’s illegal. That should not be allowed. I need at least a five-minute warning before you deploy something that unholy in my lap.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, practically.

Because she was still right there—smirking and gorgeous and lit up from the inside like a fever dream in one of his old hoodies—and she’d just said you’re mine.

And if she thought he was coming back from that anytime soon?

Yeah, no. Not happening.

He tilted his head, just enough for his nose to brush hers, his hand sliding slow along her hip like it had every right to be there.

“Second of all,” he murmured, voice pitched low and wrecked and just barely holding it together, “I have never wanted to make a dumb decision more in my entire life.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth. Then back up.

“And I’m including the time I ate a full rotisserie chicken on stage during a dress rehearsal because I thought it would be ‘method.’”

He was teasing.

Sort of.

But the heat beneath it was very, very real.

Because Rowan Starling was looking at him like that—like he was hers to claim, to wreck, to keep—and he wasn’t sure how the hell he was supposed to stay upright under that kind of pressure.

So he didn’t.

Didn’t fight it. Didn’t overthink it.

Just surged forward and kissed her like the world had narrowed to this single moment of yes.

Like it was okay to want her like this.

Like she wanted him right back.

His fingers curled into the hem of her borrowed t-shirt, thumbs brushing bare skin, reverent and greedy at the same time. And when she sighed into his mouth—God help him—he made a sound that could only be described as utterly feral but still in love.

They were chaos.

They were ridiculous.

They were gonna get caught.

But when he pulled back for half a second, forehead resting to hers, breathless and beaming, all he could say was—

“You had me at Sharpie on my ass.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan was gone.

Not in the oh-no-I’ve-lost-my-head kind of way—though, let’s be honest, it was close—but in the full-body, full-heart kind of surrender she never used to let herself feel. Not like this. Not with anyone but him.

Because Mason Hayes was a damn fire hazard when he smiled like that.

And when he kissed her like that?

She didn’t stand a chance.

Her breath caught on the tail end of his grin, her forehead still pressed to his, her body flush against his in a way that felt more like a promise than a choice. And God, the way he’d said you had me at Sharpie on my ass like it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever uttered?

She couldn’t even be mad.

She laughed—low and a little breathless, cheeks hot from too much adrenaline and affection—and threaded her fingers through his hair again just to feel him melt.

“I’m not saying I plan to write ‘Property of Starling’ in cursive,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his in a kiss that didn’t quite land, “but I am saying I’ve got nice handwriting.”

She kissed him again, this time for real—deeper now, with more heat and more weight and just enough teeth to make it count.

And when she pulled back, just barely, she was smiling.

Not coy. Not smug.

Just… sure.

“I want you,” she said, voice hushed but steady. “Like, now-now.”

A beat.

Then, with a tilt of her head and an eyebrow that really should have been illegal:
“And my parents are definitely still at the bookstore. Which means we’ve got at least twenty minutes to make a very irresponsible decision.”

She leaned in again, lips brushing his jaw this time.

“So… what do you say, Cinnamon Roll Daddy?”

Rowan didn’t break eye contact.

Not even when her hands slipped down to the hem of the oversized shirt—his shirt, technically—and paused there, her expression unreadable for half a second. Like she was giving him a moment to stop her. Like she was daring him to.

He didn’t.

So she pulled it off.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The cotton slid over her skin and hit the floor with a soft sound, like punctuation. And suddenly, the room wasn’t just warm—it was charged. Like every molecule had aligned around this moment.

Around them.

She didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The way she looked at him said it all.

I trust you.
I want this.
I want you.

Then she leaned in again, her mouth brushing his in something just short of a kiss, voice a whisper against his lips:

“Don’t waste the fifteen.”

And that was it.

That was the match.

That was the fire.

[Mason Hayes]

He didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she looked like that—flushed and radiant and his, standing there in nothing but bare skin and bravado, her belly curved like the softest kind of miracle between them, and that mouth of hers daring him to move.

Mason Hayes might’ve been a lot of things—overdramatic, constantly starving, emotionally deranged in the most poetic way—but at this exact moment?

He was gone.

Ruined.

Absolutely, irrevocably hers.

“Okay,” he said, breath catching like a punch to the gut. “You do not get to look like the most gorgeous creature on earth, take off my shirt, and then hit me with ‘don’t waste the fifteen.’ That’s—there should be a law against that. That’s emotional terrorism.”

But he was already moving.

Already closing the space between them like a man possessed—hands reverent but starved as they slid along her waist, her sides, her back, mapping her like a language he’d been fluent in for years but was still finding new ways to worship.

“Jesus, Ro,” he breathed, forehead falling to hers, his voice low and wrecked and shaking with restraint. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

His lips brushed her jaw, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth like he couldn’t decide where to land, couldn’t decide what to do with all this want without falling to his knees.

“You’re literally glowing. Like, unfairly. Like some sort of ethereal forest goddess who just wandered into your childhood bedroom and decided me, of all people, was worthy of being ravished before your parents come home from book club.”

His hands slid down again—soft over the swell of her hips, her thighs—until his thumbs hooked gently beneath her underwear, slow and asking.

“But sure,” he whispered against her skin. “Let’s be irresponsible.”

Then he kissed her.

Really kissed her.

Deep and hungry and laced with every bit of awe he’d been holding back—every heartbeat of how are you real and how did I get this lucky and I would die for you and your dumb Sharpie jokes.

He pulled her with him as they backed toward the bed—the one with the familiar creak and the worn quilt and the posters still tacked up from high school. The room that didn’t belong to just her anymore. Not since him. Not since them.

And when the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sat, tugging her gently into his lap like she belonged there.

Like she always had.

His voice broke the silence again, this time rougher, closer to reverent:

“You are everything, Rowan Starling. You know that?”

And just before he kissed her again—hands warm on her hips, eyes dark with want but soft with love—he added, lower now, almost like a secret:

“You’re the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’m counting the time I caught a lighting gel on fire during tech week while shirtless.”

Then he kissed down her throat, over the slope of her shoulder, lips dragging reverent and slow, like prayer and promise and heat wrapped in reverence.

Because this wasn’t just want.

This was worship.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t rush.

She didn’t need to.

The moment was already heavy with heat and hush, thick with everything unspoken and everything understood. It clung to her skin like summer air, like breath shared in a space too sacred to name. And she was aware—so achingly aware—of every inch of him beneath her. The rise and fall of his chest. The tension thrumming through his muscles. The way his eyes searched hers like he was memorizing her all over again.

Her hands moved with purpose—gentle, sure—as she reached for his wrists. His skin was warm under her fingertips, pulsing with something that felt a lot like reverence. Like awe.

She guided his palms upward, skimming past the curve of her waist, across her ribs, until they settled—tentative and trembling—beneath her chest.

She stayed there.

Let him feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his palms, wild and certain and real. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Because this wasn’t about fear anymore.

This was about trust.

“Feel that?” she whispered, her voice thick and quiet, the words catching on the heat between them. “That’s what you do to me.”

Her heart drummed against his touch like it was trying to answer for her—every beat saying stay, stay, stay.

His hands didn’t move. Just held her there—soft, steady, like he understood that this wasn’t about claiming. It was about honoring. About being let in.

Her breath stuttered once, then evened as she leaned in, eyes never leaving his. She kissed him again—slow and deep, lips parting just enough to let the weight of the moment sink into every inch of her. Her fingers curled in his shirt. His mouth moved against hers with that same aching tenderness she always forgot how much she craved until he gave it back to her like a vow.

And when they parted—barely—she let her forehead rest against his, the space between them nothing but shared breath and skin and truth.

Her fingers grazed his collarbone, trailing slowly to the sides of his neck. “I used to think being seen meant being exposed,” she said, voice softer now, eyes on his mouth, his jaw, the space where they fit. “Like someone would take what they found and twist it. Hurt me with it.”

Her eyes flicked back up to his.

“But you don’t do that,” she breathed. “You see me… and I feel safe.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he held her—bare hands to bare skin, eyes wide and reverent, breath caught like she was something holy—said it all.

And Rowan?

Rowan didn’t look away.

She let him keep looking.

Because for the first time, she wanted to be seen.

[Mason Hayes]

He was breathless.

Not just from the way she moved—graceful, certain, like the moment belonged to her and she was offering it—but from the way she let him in. The way she trusted him. With her heart. Her body. Her truth.

His hands stayed right where she’d placed them—shaking slightly, reverent, like he knew what a privilege it was just to touch her like this. To feel the thrum of her heartbeat against his palms. To know, without question, that it was for him.

“I feel it,” Mason whispered, voice wrecked and low, almost like he didn’t trust it not to break. “Every beat. Every part of you trying to tell me something I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to deserve.”

His thumbs brushed the curve of her ribcage—barely a movement, but it said everything. That he was here. That he was staying. That he’d never treat her heart like a weapon. Only ever like something sacred.

“You don’t have to hide with me,” he added, breath warm between them. “Not your sharp edges. Not your soft parts. Not the pieces you think are too much or not enough. I want all of you, Ro. Every version.”

His voice cracked just a little, like he couldn’t hold it all in.

“You make me feel like I could build a life that’s actually good. Like I could be more than just the guy who says too much and cries during Finding Nemo and screws up stage directions because I’m staring at you from the wings.”

He smiled then—crooked and dazed, like her. Like love.

“You’re my best part,” he whispered, tilting his head just enough to brush his nose against hers. “And if you want to keep looking at me like that… like I’m not a disaster in pajama pants, I’ll—God, I’ll spend forever trying to earn it.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. Less about hunger and more about devotion. About staying in this moment and letting it change him.

And when they broke apart, he didn’t open his eyes right away. Just rested his forehead against hers, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, thumb sweeping her skin like he couldn’t help it.

“Thank you,” he breathed, almost like a prayer. “For choosing me. For seeing me back.”

Then, quieter—softer still—

“For letting me love you like this.”

And he did.

So completely.

So irrevocably.

Like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at him—really looked—like her heart was trying to memorize the moment. The way his eyes stayed on hers. The way his hands never moved unless she told them to. The way he said every version like he meant it.

And he did.

God, he did.

So she leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Steady. A little shaky. But sure.

When she pulled back, her hands stayed at his jaw, thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth like she couldn’t stand not to touch him.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” she said, voice soft and uneven. “You already did. Just by being this. By showing up. By staying.”

Her smile flickered through the tears she didn’t bother to blink away.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I don’t have to choose between being strong and being soft. Like I can be both. Like I can be me—and that’s enough.”

She laughed then—quiet, breathless, full of something that felt a lot like awe.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I didn’t think I could love someone this much without losing myself. But you… you make me feel like I’m more me when I’m with you.”

She leaned her forehead against his, eyes closing as she exhaled.

“And pajama pants or not, you’re it for me. The best part. The safe place. The whole damn future.”

Another kiss—slower this time. Anchored. Sacred.

When she pulled back again, her voice was barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mason. You’re stuck with me.”

And she meant it.

Every word. Every breath.

Forever.

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Just stayed there, forehead to his, feeling the weight of it—them—settling like something holy in her chest.

Then she kissed him again.

Slower this time. But deeper. More deliberate.

Like she was trying to tell him something in the way her mouth lingered on his. Like she needed him to feel it everywhere—what she couldn’t quite say in words, not all at once.

Her fingers slid down from his jaw, warm against his neck, and then lower—tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

Just asking.

A silent, breathless can I?

And when he didn’t pull away—when his breath hitched just slightly, but his hands stayed right where they were, grounding them both—she kept going.

Kept kissing him like it was a promise.

Like she was unwrapping something sacred.

Her hands slipped beneath the cotton, palms brushing over warm skin, and she smiled against his lips—small, soft, wrecked.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she whispered, lips ghosting over his. “Just be here.”

She tugged his shirt higher, her touch reverent and slow.

“I want you. All of you.”

And the way she said it—barely a breath, but steady—left no room for doubt.

It wasn’t about lust.

It wasn’t about escape.

It was about love.

The kind that reached down deep and stayed.

[Mason Hayes]

He swore he could feel the earth tilt.

Just a little. Just enough.

Because the way she said I want you didn’t sound like a tease. Didn’t sound like a challenge. It sounded like home. Like gravity. Like everything he’d been aching to give her finally had somewhere to land.

Mason didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

His breath caught somewhere between her whisper and the drag of her hands under his shirt, and it stayed there—lodged behind his ribs, burning slow.

So he let her lead.

Let her pull the fabric higher, slow and sure, until he had to shift—arms lifting just enough for her to slip it off, the cotton forgotten somewhere behind them.

Her fingers mapped his skin like he was something worth remembering. Like he was something beautiful.

And God, maybe he was. If only because she looked at him like this.

Still, reverent, lips parted like he was already wrecking her—and didn’t even know it.

He reached for her, finally. One hand slipping to her waist, the other to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the hinge of her jaw like he needed to make sure she was real.

And then he kissed her.

No hesitation. No restraint.

Just heat. Just truth.

His mouth moved over hers like worship. Like every breath he hadn’t known he was holding was meant for this. For her.

He kissed her like she was his whole damn future.

Because she was.

When they broke for air, his forehead stayed pressed to hers, breath shallow, heart thundering.

And even then—stripped bare, undone, utterly hers—he still didn’t speak.

He just looked at her.

Like she was the miracle.

Like forever had already started.

And then—God, he couldn’t help it—he kissed her again.

Deeper this time. Hungrier.

His hands slid to her hips, grounding her there, pulling her flush against him like he needed to feel every breath she took. Like if there was space between them, he might forget how to breathe.

He kissed her like he had something to prove.

Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment and never wanted it to end.

And when he finally pulled back—barely, reluctantly, lips brushing hers like an aftershock—his thumb swept over her cheek, slow and reverent.

No words.

Just that look.

That breathless, stunned, worshipful look that said everything he didn’t have to:

You. Always. Only.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t break the kiss when she started to move—just let it deepen, let it stretch out slow and aching as her body shifted beneath his. Her hands slipped from his hair to his shoulders, fingers pressing into bare skin, guiding him down with her inch by inch.

Until her spine met the mattress.

Until her head hit the edge of the bed, curls spilling like wildfire over the side, catching light from the hallway like embers from a dying star. The cotton sheets were cool against her back, but he was warm—blazingly warm—where his body hovered just above hers.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow, hungry breaths. But her eyes—God, her eyes—they were steady. Locked on his like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And maybe he was.

She smiled then—slow and sure, something wrecked and wild blooming in her throat—and tugged gently at his wrist, her thumb brushing over the vein there. Grounding. Pulling.

“Come here,” she whispered, breath brushing his lips.

And he did.

He crawled over her with quiet reverence, his movements careful but full of urgency, like touching her meant something more than just touch. Like it meant everything. His knees sank into the mattress on either side of her hips, arms braced beside her head. The way he moved—confident, trembling, like gravity had given up on him—made her stomach twist in the best way.

When he finally settled above her, Rowan took him in—eyes dragging over his flushed cheeks, parted lips, the strong line of his throat. His chest was bare, rising and falling like he’d just run a hundred miles to get to her.

And still, she smiled.

Because he had. In all the ways that counted.

All the pieces she’d hidden—the ones she’d polished sharp or softened to survive—she gave them to him now. Freely.

Her voice came quiet. Barely a breath. But it held the weight of everything.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, honest and undone. “I’ve been yours since the moment you saw me and didn’t look away.”

She reached up again, fingers brushing over his jaw, memorizing every line, every freckle, every stubbled edge like it mattered. Because it did.

Then—tender, wild, and so sure it cracked something open inside her—she smiled. The kind of smile that split sky from stars.

“So take me, Mase. Not because you think you have to earn me. Not because you think you’re lucky.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, nails gently scraping his scalp, drawing him closer.

“But because this is us. And we’re worth everything.”

She kissed him again—deeper now, fuller, like she was pouring every word she’d ever swallowed down into the space between them. Like the shape of her mouth against his was a vow.

And this time, when her body arched up to meet his, when her legs wrapped tightly around his hips and her arms pulled him down until he was pressed flush to her, there was no space left.

No distance.

No fear.

Just love.

Raw. Real. Forever.

Her lips barely left his. Just skimmed. Brushed. Ghosted like silk as her breath spilled between them.

And then she smiled again—this time smaller, more fragile, like a secret she’d been saving just for him.

“You feel that?” she breathed, voice trembling with intensity. “That’s me. Choosing you.”

She didn’t rush. She let him feel it. Her heartbeat against his. The weight of her body wrapped around him like she was meant to be there. Like this was always the end of the road.

Her thumb swept across his cheek, warm and slow. She looked at him like he was already her whole world.

And then she said it—soft, steady, utterly certain.

“I can’t wait to be your wife.”

Her breath caught, a quiet little hitch as her palm slid between their chests, fingers spreading over his heart.

“To take your name. To build a life with you that looks nothing like anyone else’s—but still feels like ours.”

Her other hand drifted down, fingertips gliding over his back, his ribs, curling low at the base of his spine. Her voice dipped with it.

“To be the mother of your daughter.”

That one hit her hardest.

Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry—not yet. She just looked at him, like she already saw their future unfolding. Midnight feedings. Little giggles. Tiny hands wrapped around theirs.

And then she moved.

She pulled him down.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

She kissed him hungrily—mouth parting under his like she’d been starving for this, for him, for the life they’d started with one heartbeat and never let go.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her legs tightened around his hips. Her body arched up, meeting him with a kind of desperation that wasn’t about sex.

It was about belonging.

About choosing him—over and over and over again.

This wasn’t just love.

This was everything.

[Mason Hayes]

He was gone the second she said it.

Not in the I-can’t-think sense—though God, thinking was barely a possibility anymore—but in the deeper, darker way. In the way you don’t just want someone.

You need them.

Mason Hayes had always known he was a goner for Rowan Starling.

But now?

Now he was a man on fire—and she was the only thing that had ever made burning feel like home.

Her words weren’t just soft.

They were seismic.

Take me.

Because this is us.

And that was it. That was the match.

The wreckage.

The surrender.

His body pressed down into hers with a reverence so intense it bordered on ruin. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. No space, no air, no distance. Just skin and breath and the unbearable ache of loving someone this much. His hands moved like they knew her already—every curve, every secret, every place that made her tremble and sigh and pull him closer.

And when she said I can’t wait to be your wife—God, he swore he could feel the world tilt again. Like time itself had cracked open at the edges and let him glimpse the forever she was handing him.

The future she wanted with him.

Their daughter.

Their life.

Their everything.

He kissed her then—harder this time, deeper, like he needed her breath to survive. His mouth opened over hers with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with appetite and everything to do with devotion.

It was heat, yes.

But it was also love.

Unapologetic.
All-consuming.
Utterly hers.

His hands skimmed down her body—slow, sure, anchoring. One cupped her thigh, guiding her leg higher around his waist; the other slid along her ribs, fingers flexing like he needed to memorize every inch. His breath was ragged when it met hers, tangled and uneven and real.

And then he dropped his forehead to hers, eyes burning, chest shaking with it.

The need.

The want.

The reverence.

“You,” he breathed, voice rough and wrecked and low. “Only ever you.”

And then he moved.

No more hesitation.

No more space.

Just Mason—home in her arms, worship in his hands, fire in his kiss—and every single part of him saying yes. Yes to the now. Yes to forever. Yes to her.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the beginning of something sacred.

And he was all in.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan (https://i.ibb.co/rP28Ckt/481-A0-CE4-BAA6-4474-A076-DD108-D9365-A3.png) was pretty sure they’d lost the plot somewhere between “floral options” and Mason sketching a velociraptor in the margins of their seating chart.

“That’s… definitely not a groomsman,” she muttered, arching a brow as she reached for the highlighter. She circled cake tasting twice—mostly to keep herself from laughing at how proud he looked of his dino.

They’d been at the kitchen table for almost two hours now, surrounded by crumpled post-its, a nearly empty bag of sour gummy worms, and Mason’s handwriting getting increasingly dramatic in all caps across their wedding checklist.

Somewhere between the candle samples and deciding if burgundy table runners were too on the nose, he’d kicked his feet up on the chair across from her and started calling their potential playlist the Setlist of Eternal Love and Slight Chaos™.

And honestly? It fit.

She sat cross-legged in her chair, Mason’s hoodie drowning her frame, hair still damp from the shower and falling in soft waves over her shoulder. One of his hands was resting against her ankle under the table—absentminded, warm, grounding. She didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.

She looked at him then—really looked.

Burgundy pen cap between his teeth, focus narrowed on whether to go with the fall orchard venue or the moody conservatory. Barefoot. Soft-eyed. Wearing that damn faded theatre camp t-shirt she always threatened to steal permanently.

And it hit her again.

This was her person.

Messy handwriting, dinosaur groomsmen, and all.

Her future husband.

She smiled, biting her lip as she nudged his foot under the table.

“You know we’re still gonna end up crying like idiots no matter where we do it, right?”

Then, softer—without looking up from the list, just letting it fall between them like truth—

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t look up right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t fire back with a joke or pretend to take notes like a man on a mission.

He just… paused.

Burgundy pen cap still in his mouth. Fingers frozen mid-doodle. His gaze softening so fast it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

Because that voice—that quiet, steady, effortless truth of hers?

Yeah.

It got him every damn time.

Slowly, he lowered the pen and looked at her.

Really looked.

At the way his hoodie fell off one shoulder, how her legs were tangled beneath her like she lived here—which she did, thank God—and how her eyes never flinched when she said things like I can’t wait to marry you like it was just fact.

Like it wasn’t a miracle.

Like she hadn’t cracked him open and made a home out of the mess inside.

His fingers tightened slightly around her ankle beneath the table, thumb brushing the soft skin there, grounding himself in the fact that she was real. Here. His.

“You say that,” he said eventually, voice a little rougher than he meant it to be, “and then expect me to just keep breathing?”

He tossed the pen onto the pile of abandoned color swatches, pushed his chair back with a screech that echoed through the kitchen, and rounded the table in three slow, deliberate steps.

And then he was there.

Dropping to one knee.

Not like a proposal. Not this time.

But like he needed to look up at her when he said what came next.

His hands slid up her thighs, slow and reverent, until they framed her hips. He pressed his forehead to the space just above her knee and exhaled, like being near her was the only oxygen that ever made sense.

Then he looked up.

Eyes full of every vow he hadn’t put on paper yet.

“You’re it, Ro,” he murmured. “You’re my always.”

And then he leaned in—hands firm, grip steady, gaze never leaving hers—and kissed her leg like it was holy. Like the wedding didn’t start in a conservatory or an orchard, but here. At this kitchen table. In bare feet and highlighters and hoodie sleeves too long for her wrists.

He rested his cheek against her thigh, voice low and serious and cracked right down the middle.

“I’d marry you tomorrow in a parking lot if it meant I got to keep you forever.”

Then, quieter—more breath than words—

“You sure you’re ready for a lifetime of Setlists of Eternal Love and Slight Chaos™?”

He grinned up at her.

Soft. Wrecked. So full of her it was stupid.

Then he kissed her again.

This time right above her knee, and again, a little higher, and again—lazy, reverent, heated now in a way that had nothing to do with wedding logistics and everything to do with the girl in front of him.

The girl he got to love forever.

The only thing on the list that ever really mattered.

[Rowan Starling]

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just blinked down at him, hands still curled around the highlighter like they were mid-checklist, not mid-heartbreak.

Because that’s what he did to her sometimes.

Broke her open in the gentlest way possible.

No drama. No grand gestures. Just Mason—on one knee in their kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, mouth on her leg like he was praying.

And all she could do was stare at him, at his stupid theatre camp curls and the fact that he meant it. Every word. Every vow. Every ridiculous, perfect, maddening inch of him.

“You’re such a menace,” she said eventually, voice quiet but steady. “You realize that, right?”

One hand left the table and slid into his hair—because she needed the contact now, needed to anchor herself to him like he was the only real thing in the room.

“You get all soft and sincere and ‘I’d marry you in a parking lot’—and expect me to just sit here?”

She tugged gently at his hair. Just enough to make him look up again.

“You think I won’t drag you to the courthouse tomorrow and call it a day?”

But her voice cracked a little on tomorrow, and that’s how she knew it was real. That’s how he’d know too.

She leaned in, forehead resting against his, breath shared in that tiny space between all their noise.

Then, softer:

“You wreck me, Mase. And I still want it. All of it. Every chaos-soaked, glitter-stained second.”

She kissed his temple, his hairline, the tip of his nose.

Then leaned back, picked up the highlighter again, and muttered—

“One more velociraptor on this seating chart and I’m putting you at the kids’ table.”

Which earned her a grin. That soft, wrecked, all-in grin that always made her feel like the bravest person in the room.

And she wasn’t done.

Not really.

She looked back down at the checklist—half-scribbled, half-destroyed by pen doodles—and let herself picture it again. The ceremony. The candlelight. The chaos. Him.

She exhaled. Steady. Certain.

“I’d say yes a thousand times, Mason Hayes. Even if all we had was sour gummy worms and bad handwriting.”

Then she looked back at him.

“Lucky for you, I like the way you love me.”

And her smile—tired and tender and full of something wild—said the rest.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Not when she looked at him like that. Not when her voice got all soft and cracked and full of forever.

Not when she said tomorrow like it might actually happen.

Like she’d really drag his chaos-drenched, Velociraptor-loving ass to a courthouse in a hoodie and mascara-stained cheeks and call it the best day of her life.

And the thing was?

He’d go.

No hesitation. No questions. Just where and what time, babe? and a quiet little vow to kiss her hand every morning for the rest of their lives.

His throat was tight—like something too big to name had lodged itself there—but he still grinned. Couldn’t not. That crooked, crooked thing he always did when he was trying to play it cool but had just been emotionally wrecked beyond recognition.

She had no idea what she did to him.

“I’m not at the kids’ table,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he let his hands slide a little higher on her thighs. “I’m the groom. I outrank the raptors.”

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers were still in his hair—still curling, still holding, still grounding.

He leaned into it. Let his lips trail up the inside of her knee with a reverence that had nothing to do with performance. This wasn’t a bit. Wasn’t even flirting anymore.

It was worship.

“You say I wreck you,” he said, letting the words slip out between kisses—light, slow, spaced out like he needed to taste every inch of her just to stay tethered. “But Ro, you...”

His breath hitched as he looked up again.

“You ruin me.”

And he meant it. In the best way. In the God, please keep doing it way.

In the you are the love of my entire stupid life way.

He rose slowly, hands still on her thighs, kissing his way up until his mouth found her collarbone, then the curve of her jaw, then her cheek.

And when he finally reached her mouth again, he kissed her like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Like every I love you and every I do and every hell yes lived right there between their lips.

He pulled her closer, one hand slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie she was swimming in, palm flat against her waist. The other cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye, just in case a tear decided to make a run for it.

“I’ll marry you in the courthouse,” he whispered against her lips, breath warm, body trembling, “in the kitchen, in the goddamn snack aisle at Target. Just tell me when.”

And then—

Because he couldn’t help it.

Because he was Mason freaking Hayes, chaos gremlin and heart-eyed menace—

He grinned.

“You’re mine, Rowan Starling. The rest is just confetti.”

And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t soft.

It was deep. Heated. Lit with all the things he didn’t have words for yet.

Because this?

This was his forever.

And he wanted to start it now.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan could feel her heart in her throat.

Not in the soft, fluttery way people described in poems—but in the oh-hell-it’s-happening, knees-weak, brain-empty kind of way. Like everything inside her had cracked open just wide enough to make room for this.

For him.

For Mason Hayes, who made dinosaur jokes in the margins of wedding plans and still somehow made her feel like the most sacred thing in the universe.

And now he was kneeling.

Hands warm on her thighs, lips reverent on her skin, voice wrecked like she’d just given him the sun.

She was already gone.

But this? This ruined her.

“Mason,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-gasping, barely able to get his name out without dissolving. “You absolute menace. You kiss like a prayer and propose like a man having an emotional crisis in a rom-com.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, curling there like she couldn’t stand the idea of letting him go. Like if she wasn’t touching him, none of this would feel real.

“My life is now an ongoing montage of post-it notes, snack aisle vows, and you making velociraptors weirdly romantic,” she said, blinking through the blur. “And I wouldn’t trade a single second.”

She tilted his face up gently with both hands, her thumbs brushing along the curve of his jaw. That grin—God, that grin—was still hanging there like it belonged to someone who didn’t even realize he’d just broken her open in the most beautiful way.

Her voice dropped, went soft, went full of every ounce of truth she’d been carrying since the first night he looked at her like she wasn’t too much.

“You look at me like I’m your whole damn world, Mase… and I still don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

A beat.

A breath.

And then: “You ruin me too.”

She leaned in, forehead to his, chest to chest, hoodie riding up around her thighs but she didn’t care. Not when his hands were on her waist. Not when his thumb was still brushing beneath her eye like he knew her tears before she did.

“You ruin me in the best, worst, most completely beautiful ways. And I swear—” she laughed, voice shaking, “—if you ever stop saying unhinged, lovesick things in the middle of my parents’ kitchen, I might combust.”

She kissed him then—hard. Deep. Like every I love you she’d ever swallowed was rushing to the surface.

And when she finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes glassy, she whispered the only thing that mattered anymore.

“Yes.”

She kissed him again, smiling into it now.

“Yes to the courthouse. To the kitchen. To Target.”

Another kiss, messier this time. Desperate.

“Yes to the raptors. To the Sharpie vows. To whatever version of forever you want—because if it’s with you, I’m all in.”

And this time when she looked at him, it was through tears and laughter and the kind of love that rewrote bones.

“You’re mine too, Mason Hayes,” she said, breathless, glowing. “And you’re so damn lucky confetti makes me cry.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason was gone.

Fully, stupidly, cosmically gone.

His heart had already been pounding like a middle school drumline, but when she said yes—when she kissed him like she wanted to carve her name into every beat of his pulse—he just… melted.

Right there on the kitchen floor, surrounded by post-its and glitter pens and leftover gummy worms, Mason Hayes became a puddle of heart-eyes and high-grade devotion.

She was everything.
His fiancée.
The soon-to-be mother of their kid.
The girl who ruined him with a smile and saved him with a Sharpie.

And now? She was saying yes to forever like it was the only word she’d ever needed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, grinning so wide it was borderline painful. “I’m gonna marry you.”

He said it like he couldn’t believe it. Like it hadn’t just happened five seconds ago. Like the words tasted like cotton candy and sparkler smoke and every warm summer night they’d ever spent dreaming too loud.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he said again, more reverent this time, like he was trying it on for the first time and finding out it fit better than anything he’d ever worn. “And you’re gonna have my baby. And you’re still letting me draw raptors on our seating chart.”

He let out a choked laugh—half cry, half wheeze, all Mason—and pressed his forehead to hers again, breath catching like he couldn’t hold it all in.

“You’re the dream, Ro. You always were.”

And then he kissed her.

Not soft this time. Not worshipful.

Hungry.

Like he’d waited his whole damn life for her mouth. Like saying yes had snapped something in him, something wild and sure and aching.

His hands gripped her waist, thumbs dragging under the hem of his hoodie where it bunched around her hips, pulling her closer like he needed to feel every inch of her saying yes, yes, yes.

Her legs curled tighter around him. Her fingers tangled in his hair. The world narrowed to lips and breath and heat and that stupid kitchen tile biting into his knees.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured against her mouth, voice wrecked and warm and full of awe. “Not now. Not ever.”

He kissed down her jaw, over the line of her throat, slow and hot and reverent. Like he was tracing the places he’d say his vows if he didn’t already know she’d feel them in every touch.

And when he looked back up at her—cheeks flushed, hair wild, eyes shining with laughter and tears and forever—he swore she was made of starlight.

“I can’t wait to watch you become a mom,” he said, thumb brushing over her stomach. “Can’t wait to build a life that’s chaos and pancakes and tiny socks everywhere.”

His smile turned soft again. Real.

“And I really can’t wait to see what our kid draws in the margins.”

Then he kissed her again—long and deep and certain.

Because yeah. He was ruined.

And it had never felt more like home.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t realize she was crying until she laughed.

One of those hiccupy, borderline-hysterical, absolutely-overwhelmed laughs that cracked right through the center of her chest and left everything warm and open in its wake.

Because he’d said it.

Again.

I’m gonna marry you.

Like it had just occurred to him. Like it was some cosmic punchline and the whole universe was in on the joke. And then he’d kissed her like his soul had been waiting lifetimes for it.

She was ruined.

No, worse. She was happy.

Stupidly, fully, unreasonably happy.

“Mason freaking Hayes,” she gasped, still catching her breath, still wrapped around him like she had no plans of ever letting go. “You are such a disaster and somehow I still want to raise a whole-ass human with you.”

Her hand slid into his hair again, tugging gently—just enough to make him look at her. To feel it.

“You realize our kid is gonna come out drawing velociraptors in permanent marker on the walls, right? And it’s gonna be your fault.”

She grinned through the tears, nose scrunching, lips swollen from too many yeses.

“And you know what?” she whispered, cupping his face in both hands. “I can’t wait.”

Her thumb swiped the corner of his mouth like she could collect the remnants of his joy and keep it for later.

“I can’t wait for the chaos. For the glitter in the carpet. For the pancakes at midnight and the baby socks on the dog and you crying over kindergarten art projects.”

Her voice cracked.

But she kept going.

“I can’t wait to raise a tiny person who knows what love looks like because they see it. Every day. Right here.”

She kissed him again, slower now. Like sealing a vow.

And when she pulled back, forehead pressed to his, her breath was shaky but her smile was steady.

“You’re it for me, Mase. In every timeline. In every kitchen. On every floor.”

Then, a beat. Her voice dropped to a whisper—raw, reverent, real.

“So yeah. Let’s get married. Let’s raise a raptor baby. Let’s ruin each other forever.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it wasn’t a question.

It was a promise.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason barely remembered how to breathe.

Somewhere between her laugh and the word raptor baby, his heart had gone off-script entirely—just pounding out a rhythm so loud it felt like his whole body was trying to memorize her.

Because this? This was his actual dream sequence. Not the polished kind. Not the one with matching outfits and curated playlists.

No.

This was the Rowan Starling brand of forever.

Messy. Hiccupy. Glitter-smeared and loud and so full of love it nearly brought him to his knees again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, glowing. “Like actually kill me with how perfect you are. And I’ll die smiling, just so we’re clear.”

He kissed her again—quick, breathless, reverent—before resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed like he was trying to tattoo this moment into memory.

“And for the record,” he mumbled, lips brushing hers between words, “that kid is definitely drawing raptors on the walls. But they’ll be accurate, because I’ll teach them proper tail proportions.”

Her laugh made his whole chest ache—in the good way. The best way.

He brushed his thumbs under her eyes, catching tears before they could fall too far, then leaned back just enough to look at her properly. To see her. All flushed and fierce and tender, tangled in his hoodie with that storm of emotion still flickering behind her lashes.

And something in him clicked into place. Like, cosmically.

“You’re it for me too,” he said quietly, the words soft but unshakable. “You were it when I was thirteen and you told off Mr. Fenton in science class. You were it when you climbed into my car that night and didn’t look back. You’re it every time you let me see the real you—messy, brave, loud, brilliant.”

He paused, his thumb tracing her cheekbone like he could anchor himself there forever.

“You’re the reason I believe in timing. And magic. And Target runs that accidentally turn into wedding planning.”

He swallowed, smile turning crooked.

“I wanna build every version of home with you. Even the ones with glitter in the grout and pancakes at midnight and plastic dinos stuck in the heating vent.”

And before she could speak, before she could crack another joke or cry another tear, he kissed her like the sky might fall if he didn’t.

It was deep. Steady. Certain.

And when he pulled back, the grin returned—slow, boyish, smitten beyond saving.

“C’mon, Starling. Let’s ruin each other forever,” he said, hand sliding into hers like it was muscle memory. “But first—we gotta finish the seating chart.”

He reached for the highlighter like he wasn’t still vibrating with joy, and whispered conspiratorially:

“Tell me… how many raptors is too many?”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry, laugh, or climb him like a tree.

Because of course he said all of that.

Of course he went from soft-eyed cosmic devotion to highlighter-wielding raptor conspiracy without missing a beat. Like her soul hadn’t just been obliterated by that forehead-pressed, wedding-in-the-aisles, “you’re it for me” monologue.

She was ruined.

Wrecked.

Deliriously, stupidly in love with this disaster of a man who made her feel like every version of herself—loud, sharp, soft, chaotic—was home.

“Mason Hayes,” she whispered, grinning so hard it hurt, “if you say one more perfect thing, I will sob into this seating chart and you’ll have to explain to our child why their mother cried on a diagram of table five.”

He looked smug. So of course she kissed him again—fast and firm—just to shut him up before he could get worse.

Which he definitely would.

“And yes,” she added, still breathless, still glowing, “our kid’s going to draw anatomically correct raptors on every surface. The walls. The fridge. Probably the dog.”

She laced their fingers together beneath the table, squeezed once.

“I can’t wait.”

Then, a beat. Her voice dropped, low and soft, carrying something a little heavier. A little brighter.

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to have everything. The mess. The magic. The stupid little house with glitter in the grout and dinosaurs in the vents. You make forever feel like breathing.”

And then, because she couldn’t help it—

“…But Mason, if you put more than four raptors on this chart, I’m calling the venue.”

She snatched the highlighter from his hand, kissed his cheek, and pressed her forehead back to his with a smile that reached somewhere eternal.

“Let’s ruin each other forever,” she whispered, “but with taste.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason looked like a man on the edge of completely losing it—in the best, most love-struck way possible.

Because taste?

The girl who once flipped off a boy for mocking her annotated poetry journal just told him to ruin her forever with taste.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, mock-offended, eyes wide and adoring, “you mean to tell me my vision of a velociraptor-themed table centerpiece isn’t sophisticated enough for you? Rowan. Babe. This is art. This is legacy.”

He leaned in dramatically, one hand clutching his heart, the other gesturing vaguely like he could summon the ghost of Monet to defend him.

“Our child’s gonna inherit my sense of dinosaur aesthetics and your crippling perfectionism. We are doomed. And by doomed, I mean unstoppable.”

Then, quieter—because she was glowing like starlight and he was already halfway to worship again—he brushed his nose against hers.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he murmured, voice raw with wonder. “I mean, I can, because I know how much you love chaos… but still.”

He kissed her temple.

“I love you.”

He kissed her cheek.

“I’m in love with every version of you.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

“And I promise—three raptors. Maybe four. But only if they’re wearing bow ties.”

And when she finally melted into him again, head tucked under his chin, highlighter discarded, seating chart forgotten—Mason closed his eyes, held her close, and smiled like he already knew.

This was the beginning of the rest of everything.

And it was hers.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan was gone.

Like, fully gone. Emotionally compromised. Mentally melted. Somewhere between crying and laughing and plotting her escape from this absurdly perfect man who just declared velociraptor centerpieces a legacy.

She curled into him anyway.

Because Mason Hayes was somehow the only person on earth who could make her feel like the floor was falling out and like she was finally safe — at the same time.

Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she exhaled a little too hard.

“You know I used to be normal,” she muttered, voice muffled in fabric. “I had boundaries. Spreadsheets. A Google Doc titled Acceptable Life Outcomes.”

She tipped her face up just enough to look at him, brows raised in mock betrayal.

“And now look at me. I’m engaged to a man who draws bow ties on raptors and thinks glitter is a wedding essential.”

He grinned — she could feel it — and it only made her spiral further.

“You’ve ruined me,” she said flatly. “Absolutely ruined me. And I like it. That’s the worst part.”

She tried to stay serious. She did. But the way he smelled like home — soap and tea and stupid hope — made her chest pull tight in a way that felt suspiciously like joy.

“And don’t even get me started on what you’ve done to my anxiety,” she added, poking his side half-heartedly. “I used to panic over dinner reservations. Now I’m planning a wedding with a man who just used the phrase ‘dinosaur aesthetics’ and I haven’t even flinched.”

She sat up slightly, straddling his lap now, and framed his face in both hands.

“I said yes to forever, and you know what that includes, right?” she said, eyes narrowing. “That includes waking up next to your morning hair. That includes sharing the last granola bar even when I pretend I’m not hungry. That includes watching you cry at every Pixar short, and explaining to our child why Daddy once tried to glue googly eyes on the mailbox.”

Her voice cracked — not from emotion, but from laughter she couldn’t contain.

“And it includes this,” she whispered. “This chaos. This magic. This… us.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his nose, then his cheek, then his lips — warm, lingering, adoring.

When she pulled back, her forehead stayed resting against his, and her voice dropped to something soft. Honest.

“I don’t need perfect, Mase. I don’t need polished or planned or Pinterest-worthy. I just need you. Exactly like this.”

A beat passed. Her smile returned, wicked and bright.

“But if you add a fifth raptor,” she warned, poking his chest, “I will call your mother, and I’ll make her pick a side.”

She laughed, then kissed him again — deeper this time.

Then, quieter:

“And if she picks you, I’m calling Aunt Susan.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason made a sound that could only be described as a choked laugh-sob. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s being lovingly threatened with familial warfare over glitter and dinosaur décor while simultaneously having his heart surgically removed via forehead kiss.

He was so gone for her.

“Aunt Susan would absolutely take your side,” he said, mock wounded, eyes wide with theatrical betrayal. “She already offered to knit the baby a ‘Team Rowan’ onesie. In pastel vengeance pink.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, anchoring them both in the ridiculous, radiant joy of the moment.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, voice dropping, “I’d share every last granola bar. Even the good kind. The peanut butter chocolate chip ones I hoard in the back of the pantry like a gremlin.”

His hand slid up her spine, slow and reverent, the kind of touch that said I see you. All of you. And then, like a confession:

“I don’t need perfect either. Just this. Just you. Crying on seating charts and declaring war over raptor quotas and making me want to be ridiculous and brave and better. Every damn day.”

He kissed her again, slow and steady, like he was memorizing her mouth. Like he wanted to file it under every version of home.

And then, against her lips, he whispered:

“You’ve ruined me too, Rowan Starling.”

A beat.

A smile.

“But if we do go with five raptors, I’m making them seasonal. Fall wedding? One’s wearing a tiny scarf.”

She made a sound of pure disbelief.

Mason just kissed her nose, grinning.

“Go ahead and call Aunt Susan,” he dared, voice smug and sunlit. “She helped me order googly eyes in bulk.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan (https://i.ibb.co/JWwpKr9w/4152600-D-1-CD5-46-F1-9-F2-B-599-B28-FBCA1-E.png) squinted at the tiny silver screw in her hand like it was mocking her.

She’d already dropped three of them, stepped on one, and somehow managed to get another tangled in her hair — which should’ve been impossible, but apparently pregnancy had granted her the fine motor skills of a raccoon.

The nursery (https://i.ibb.co/TqMcvvTB/53-A5-EED5-B4-E0-48-D0-B34-F-1-F376315-B3-FF.png) was warm with late afternoon light, the air still faintly smelling of paint and new wood. The crib pieces stretched across the floor in organized chaos — or, well, her version of organized chaos. Mason’s version sat neatly in piles labeled with Post-its and quiet judgment.

He was sitting cross-legged across from her, calm and methodical, flipping through the instruction manual like it was the holy text of baby furniture. Of course he was.

She, on the other hand, had decided patience was for people who didn’t have a mild competitive streak and a growing bump making it hard to sit cross-legged for more than five minutes.

Rowan glared at the paper in his hands. The smug, perfectly folded paper. The one she’d already seen him reread four times.

Nope. Enough of that.

Without warning, she leaned forward, snatched the directions right out of his grip, and lobbed them over her shoulder with dramatic flair. They fluttered to the floor like a paper dove giving up on life.

“There,” she said, wiping her hands like she’d solved world peace. “We don’t need those. It’s self-explanatory.”

Mason didn’t say anything — which, honestly, was worse than if he had. She could feel the look. That quiet, amused, okay-let’s-see-how-this-goes look.

Rowan ignored it. Or tried to.

Instead, she grabbed a long wooden panel that definitely looked like it belonged on the crib and turned it one way, then the other, then upside down, squinting at the edges like they might whisper secrets if she stared long enough.

“This makes sense,” she muttered to herself. “Totally makes sense. Four screws, two dowels, no problem.”

The problem, it turned out, was that the panel had no visible holes. Or maybe she was holding it wrong. Hard to tell.

She glanced back at Mason, who was now quietly sorting hardware like some kind of Zen monk surrounded by chaos. It was both endearing and infuriating.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, pointing a screwdriver at him. “I’ve got this.”

He didn’t reply — just lifted an eyebrow and kept organizing.

Rowan rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Okay,” she said under her breath, half to him, half to herself. “Maybe not self-explanatory, but definitely figure-out-able. There’s a difference.”

She fit one piece into another. It didn’t line up. Tried again. Still didn’t line up.

Then, determined, she shifted to her knees, baby bump nudging the box of leftover parts, and huffed. “You know what?” she said, picking up a random screw like it was the secret to the universe. “I’m going rogue. Who needs directions when you have confidence?”

She twisted the screwdriver once, twice—then stopped.

“…Okay. Maybe just a tiny peek at the diagram wouldn’t hurt.”

Her voice was softer now, mostly to herself, mostly out of pride.

But still—she wasn’t admitting defeat.

Not yet.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason watched her like she was the center of gravity in a room full of scattered stars.

God, he loved her.

Even when she was jabbing a screwdriver at him like it was a saber of righteous defiance. Even when she hurled the manual over her shoulder like a warrior queen declaring war on flat-pack furniture and common sense. Even when she refused to admit that her version of “organized chaos” was actually just… chaos.

Especially then.

He didn’t say anything when she snatched the instructions — just let her have the moment. Let her try. Because she was trying, and that mattered. She wanted this to be something she built, something she could say she’d had a hand in. He understood that. He respected it.

But he also wasn’t about to let their future kid sleep in a crib that had one leg longer than the others and screws left over that somehow “didn’t fit anywhere.”

So he kept sorting — quietly, methodically, respectfully — watching her every now and then over the edge of a labeled baggie. Her bump shifted when she moved, just enough to make his heart ache in the best way. He could already picture their daughter someday asking why the slats on the crib were a little crooked, and Rowan lying straight-faced through her teeth: “It’s avant-garde. Ask your father.”

He bit back a grin.

When she muttered something about going rogue, he just hummed low in his throat like he hadn’t heard. But when she finally — finally — said she maybe needed to peek at the diagram, he looked up fully.

“Just a peek, huh?” His voice was soft, teasing, the kind of warmth you wrapped around yourself. “Not a full surrender?”

He reached over without standing, dragging the manual back toward them with two fingers, and set it between them like a peace offering.

“No shame in calling in backup,” he added, eyes flicking from the mess of panels to the quiet shimmer of determination on her face. “Especially when it’s a team effort. We’re building something important here, Ro. Might as well make sure it doesn’t collapse when she learns to stand.”

He scooted closer on the floor, careful not to disrupt her chaos piles, and nudged her knee with his.

“I know you want to do it yourself. I know this matters,” he said gently. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me. Or to her. You’re already the fiercest, most capable person I know. I’m just here to make sure the thing’s baby-proof, and that you don’t put the side rails on backwards. Again.”

He said it with a grin — but the emotion underneath was real.

His hand found hers instinctively, fingers brushing over the screw still clutched in her palm.

“We’re figuring it out together,” he murmured. “Every weird bolt and wobbly leg. Every late-night feed and diaper blowout. Every laugh, every mess, every little piece of her world — it starts here.”

Then, without giving her the chance to get flustered or deflect, he leaned in and kissed her — slow and warm and full of everything he wasn’t always good at saying. A quiet I’m with you. A steady I’m ready.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and he smiled against her mouth.

“Now hand me that rogue screw, future Mrs. Hayes,” he said, voice low and fond. “Let’s make sure this crib survives the apocalypse. Or, you know, a teething toddler with a grudge.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Partly because her brain short-circuited the second he called her future Mrs. Hayes, and partly because — damn him — he was right. About all of it.

Her heart did that traitorous flutter thing, the one that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing with the screwdriver still in her hand. The air between them smelled like cedar shavings and lemon polish and the faint sweetness of paint, but all she could really focus on was the warmth in his voice — the kind that could melt all her stubborn edges if she wasn’t careful.

She looked at him — really looked at him — sitting there with his steady hands and that quietly smug half-smile, the kind that said he’d let her throw the manual again if it made her feel better.

“Don’t start with me, Hayes,” she said finally, her tone mock-dangerous but soft around the edges. “You can’t just say adorable, emotionally stable things while I’m in the middle of proving my dominance over Allen wrenches. It’s unfair warfare.”

Still, her hand relaxed in his.

She glanced down at their fingers, his thumb tracing her knuckles, and felt the smallest laugh slip out. “You know, I was this close to making this a one-woman show. You, me, a baby, and a moderately unsafe crib. Would’ve been iconic.”

Her eyes flicked toward the tossed manual behind her, still sprawled dramatically across the floor like a crime scene. “But fine,” she sighed, reaching for it with exaggerated reluctance. “Maybe we’ll use the sacred texts of flat-pack wisdom. For the baby’s safety. And your peace of mind.”

She met his gaze again, that teasing smile curving her lips — the one she knew he’d never recover from. “But for the record? You definitely just kissed me so I’d cave. Manipulation, sir. That’s what that was.”

When he chuckled under his breath, she leaned forward and kissed him again — a quick, playful press of gratitude disguised as rebellion.

Then she pulled back, tapped the manual once with her screwdriver, and nodded solemnly.

“Alright, partner,” she said. “You read. I’ll build. And if this thing ends up lopsided, we’re calling it modern art.”

She tossed him a wink, then nudged one of the crib legs with her foot. “Hand me that rogue screw, then. Let’s build our apocalypse-proof masterpiece.”

Her voice dropped just slightly, quieter. “Together.”

[Mason Hayes]

He was so screwed.

Not because she was holding a screwdriver like she’d challenge Zeus to a duel with it, or because the instruction manual was probably cursed by the Swedish furniture gods themselves.

No. He was screwed because Rowan Starling was sitting on the nursery floor, flushed from effort and a little paint on her arm, calling him “sir” and talking about apocalypse-proof cribs like it was a normal Tuesday.

And somehow, impossibly, she was his.

“Unfair warfare,” he repeated with mock offense, lips twitching. “Babe, if emotionally stable flirting is now a war crime, you’re gonna have to report me to the UN.”

But then she looked down at their hands. And laughed. And kissed him again.

And for a second, the whole damn world tilted.

Not in the dramatic, end-of-times way. More like… one of those moments where everything realigned without warning. Where the gravity of her, of them, of this baby they were building a world for, hit him all over again.

When she reached for the manual and threw him that wink, his chest actually hurt. Like there was too much in it — love and pride and some low-grade panic about misplacing a washer.

But mostly love.

“Alright, boss,” he said, solemn as a man could be while sitting cross-legged in paint-splattered sweats. “I accept my role as head reader and official rogue screw wrangler. Together, we will tame this beast.”

He picked up the manual with reverence and then immediately grimaced. “Okay, so this is either crib instructions or a scroll from the Dead Sea. If I start speaking in tongues, just slap me.”

He passed her the missing screw, his fingers brushing hers — lingering, deliberate.

Then he leaned in, catching her off guard, and kissed her again. Slower this time. Not to win. Not to distract. Just because he had to.

Because sometimes he couldn’t believe she picked him.

When he pulled back, he rested their foreheads together, smiling in that quiet, wrecked way he got when the weight of her hit him all at once.

“I love you,” he said, soft and sure, voice barely a breath. “And this whole… crib-building, manual-fighting, rogue-screw-finding life with you? I wouldn’t trade it for a damn thing.”

Then, with a dramatic exhale and a grin that didn’t quit, he flipped to step one and read aloud like it was gospel.

“Alright, Captain Starling. Let’s build something indestructible.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan looked at him over the top of the crib rail, screwdriver still in hand, one knee propped up, a rogue screw balanced in her palm like she might flick it at him if he got too sentimental.

“Six months,” she said, shaking her head with mock disbelief. “We’ve only been doing this for six months, and you’re already out here pledging allegiance to the furniture gods and talking about indestructible futures.”

She leaned forward a little, lips twitching. “You realize that, right? Six months. That’s, like… two hundred breakfasts, twenty-four grocery trips, and exactly one catastrophic IKEA meltdown where you swore the nightstand was gaslighting you.”

Her grin softened, the sarcasm slipping into something quieter. “But it feels like ten years. Like we’ve already lived a whole lifetime in between paint fumes and takeout boxes.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand, smudging a streak of white paint higher across her temple. “And honestly? I don’t even know if that’s terrifying or perfect. Probably both.”

He smiled at her then — that slow, ruinous one that made her ribs feel like they were expanding too fast — and she laughed, shaking her head. “God, don’t look at me like that, Hayes. You’ll make me forget which side of this crib is up.”

Her hand dropped to her small bump, thumb tracing idle circles there. “You love me,” she teased softly, voice dipping into something warm and unguarded. “Even though I can’t tell a washer from a wheel and I’ve already lost one of the Allen wrenches.”

Then, smirking, she tossed him a look over her shoulder. “I should probably be worried that we’ve only been together for half a year and I’m already this domesticated. But then you say stuff like that—” her eyes flicked down to the manual in his hands, “—and I think maybe the universe knew I needed someone who actually reads the directions.”

Rowan reached across, tapped the edge of the manual with the tip of her screwdriver, her grin returning. “Alright, Mr. Stability. Let’s make this indestructible crib. But if it turns out crooked, we’re calling it avant-garde parenting.”

She paused just long enough to steal another kiss — quick and mischievous, paint-smudged and real — before whispering against his mouth, “Six months or sixty years, I’m still not reading the instructions.”

[Mason Hayes]

She said six months like it was a warning.

Like it was supposed to slow him down — this impossible feeling blooming under his ribs, steady and loud like a heartbeat he didn’t know he’d been missing until she crawled into his life, took the screwdriver, and made a home out of him.

But all he could think — as she smirked and tapped the manual with that damn screwdriver like she was knighting him into domestic battle — was that six months had never felt like this with anyone else.

Like gravity.

Like belonging.

Like waking up next to her every morning and wondering how he ever lived in silence before she laughed at his cereal choices or stole his hoodies or cried over that stupid commercial with the penguin.

He looked at her — really looked — over the edge of that half-built crib. Paint on her temple. Fingertips smudged. One hand curled instinctively over the swell of her stomach like she was already shielding the universe.

And he was gone for her.

Again.

Still.

Always.

“Okay,” he said, voice softer now, the usual grin lingering but laced with something wrecked. “First of all, I was 100% right. That nightstand was gaslighting me. I still stand by that.”

He shifted closer until their knees bumped, careful not to disrupt the balance of tools and half-assembled side panels. “Second…” He touched her paint-streaked cheek gently with the back of his hand. “You call it domesticated. I call it revolutionized. You built this chaos with me. You built us.”

A pause. Then, lower:

“And third — if you ever actually start reading the instructions, I’m calling an exorcist.”

He smiled when she huffed a laugh, and leaned in, brushing her forehead with a kiss before finding her mouth again — slow, certain, no teasing this time. Just truth.

“I love you,” he whispered into the space between them. “Even if you lose every Allen wrench we ever meet.”

His palm flattened over her hand where it rested on her bump, grounding them both. “You and me and this little chaos gremlin you’re brewing? We’ve already got the most indestructible thing in the world.”

Then he exhaled, nudged the manual with dramatic flair, and added, “Now pass me that washer. I have a deeply avant-garde piece of furniture to interpret.”

And as her laughter echoed through the room, warm and real, Mason Hayes didn’t need to count the months anymore.

He already knew this was it.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan let the screwdriver fall into her lap with a soft clatter.

She didn’t answer him right away — couldn’t. Because he’d said it so easily, like loving her was the most natural thing in the world. Like he didn’t even realize how impossible that still felt some days.

She stared down at their joined hands — his palm over hers, both resting on the curve of her stomach — and swallowed. “You know,” she started quietly, voice small but steady, “I never… pictured this.”

She laughed once under her breath, a little shaky. “Not the crib or the paint fumes or even this thing inside me doing cartwheels every time you talk. Just—this. You. Me. All of it.”

Her gaze flicked up to him, soft and open. “I used to tell myself I wasn’t built for this kind of life. Not the easy kind. Not the forever kind. I thought maybe I’d just keep running until I got too tired, and then I’d… I don’t know. Learn to live around the empty parts.”

She huffed out a breath that was half-a-laugh, half-a-confession. “Marriage? Family? A guy who actually reads the directions and means it when he says ‘I love you’? That wasn’t on the list. I didn’t think I got to have that.”

Rowan shifted closer, her knee brushing his. “And then you showed up. With your dumb jokes and your decent hair and that stupid, relentless kindness that makes people believe they’re worth something. You just—walked right in like you’d been here the whole time.”

She smiled then, small and crooked, her voice catching in the middle. “It’s mind-boggling, honestly. That someone like you—someone so steady and good and annoyingly pure—looked at me, of all people, and thought: yeah, her.”

Her hand left her stomach and found his jaw instead, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “You make me want to be softer,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You make it feel safe to want things I stopped letting myself want.”

She drew in a breath, trying to steady the wave of feeling crowding her chest. “So yeah,” she added, teasing creeping back into her tone, “I might lose every Allen wrench we ever meet. But I’m pretty sure I found the one thing I didn’t even know I was missing.”

Her eyes met his, shimmering but sure. “You.”

Then, softer still, she leaned in and kissed him — paint, laughter, love, and all.

[Mason Hayes]

For a moment, all he could do was look at her.

Like really look.
Paint-smudged and floor-sitting. Barefoot and brilliant. Holding a screwdriver like it was a magic wand and saying things that made his whole damn heart ache in the best possible way.

Because this?
This was the kind of moment that cracked something wide open in him.

And Rowan, God—Rowan had no idea what she looked like from this angle. Not just beautiful, though she was that and then some, but real.
Vulnerable in a way she didn’t offer easily. Letting him see the parts she used to guard with teeth.

He swallowed hard, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand like he could memorize every line, every freckle, every second.

“I didn’t picture this either,” he said quietly. “Not because I didn’t want it, but because I didn’t think I’d ever be enough to have it. To have you.”

His voice cracked just a little, but he didn’t try to fix it. Not now.
Not when she’d just given him that — her fears, her past, her hope.

“I thought maybe I’d always just be the guy who helps other people build things,” he admitted. “You know? The one who cheers from the sidelines and pretends that’s what he wanted all along.”

He laughed under his breath, soft and a little awed.
“And then you walked in. Big eyes, sharp tongue, hurricane energy — and you just stayed. You stayed, Ro. Even when you were scared. Even when I was scared. You stayed, and you let me.”

His gaze dropped to where her hand rested over her stomach again, protective and unshakable.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “And if all I ever get to do is build things beside you — furniture, futures, freaking IKEA meltdowns — I’m the luckiest idiot alive.”

She smiled, watery and wrecked and perfect.

So he leaned in, kissed her gently — once on the temple where paint still clung, once on her mouth, slow and sure — and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll read the instructions,” he whispered. “You build the world.”

Then he reached past her, grabbed the manual with a dramatic flourish, and grinned.
“But just so we’re clear, I am writing ‘avant-garde parenting’ on the birth plan. Right next to ‘emotional support snacks’ and ‘no one tells Rowan to push unless she asks.’”

Her laugh was quiet, breathy, warm against his cheek.

And in that paint-filled room, surrounded by half-built furniture and their not-so-little secret doing somersaults in her belly, Mason didn’t need a single blueprint.

He already knew he was home.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan blinked hard, partly because her vision had gone blurry and partly because she refused to let him see her cry before she could come up with something sarcastic enough to level the emotional playing field.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice catching in the middle like her throat hadn’t gotten the memo about the whole keep it together plan. “First of all, you can’t just say stuff like that when I’ve got a screwdriver in my hand. It’s dangerous. I could cry and accidentally stab you. Tragic, really.”

But the teasing didn’t quite hold. Her smile wobbled. The air in the room felt heavier in a good way — like it was holding something sacred, fragile, and theirs.

She reached for his wrist, slow and certain, brushing her thumb over the paint he’d missed. “You know what’s crazy?” she murmured. “For years, I thought being scared meant I was doing something wrong. Like I was supposed to have it all figured out before anyone could love me. Before I could build anything that lasted.”

Her hand moved to his chest, right over his heart. “But you don’t make me feel like I have to be perfect to be worth staying for.”

She smiled softly, eyes tracing his face like she was memorizing him. “You just make me feel… steady. Like maybe I can still be a hurricane and have a home at the same time.”

Rowan glanced down at her belly then, her voice gentling. “And for the record, she already kicks harder when you talk. Indigo’s gonna be a handful.” She huffed out a small laugh. “Probably gets that from you. Definitely gets the stubbornness from you.”

When he grinned at that, she shook her head, cheeks still wet. “And if you’re putting avant-garde parenting on the birth plan, I’m adding one of those mini fridges full of pudding cups and juice boxes. Emotional support snacks are a nonnegotiable.”

Then she leaned forward until their foreheads touched again, her breath warm against his. “And Mason Hayes,” she whispered, the tremor in her voice giving her away completely, “you are already enough. You always were. I just needed to show up long enough to make you see it.”

Her fingers tightened lightly around his. “Now come on,” she said, pulling back with a small grin. “Let’s finish this crib before Indigo files a complaint about working conditions.”

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, laughing softly when he passed her another screw. “And for the record?” she added, glancing up through her lashes. “You reading the instructions while I build the world is the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move at first.
Couldn’t.

Not when she looked at him like that — all soft defiance and smudged vulnerability, her cheeks streaked with tears she pretended weren’t there, her fingers still curled around a screwdriver like she could rebuild the entire universe if he gave her a good enough reason.

And damn it, he would.

Every day, if she let him.

He let out a quiet breath, something slow and stunned and stupidly full of love.

“I swear,” he said, voice thick, “if I live to be a hundred, nothing — and I mean nothing — will ever top hearing you say that while threatening me with a screwdriver.”

She laughed again, watery and bright, and something about the sound just wrecked him.

He reached up, brushing the back of his hand gently across her cheek, catching the tear she hadn’t wiped away yet. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he echoed, his voice lower now, more reverent than teasing. “You never did. You just had to let me in.”

He leaned in, kissed her temple, her jaw, the tip of her nose — all light and lingering like he was tracing the blueprint of something sacred.

“I’d live in a hurricane if it meant waking up next to you,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers again. “Storm and all.”

His other hand slid down to rest on her belly, cradling the gentle swell with infinite care. “And hey, if Indigo’s already throwing punches, I say we start her training early. Get her a baby-sized punching bag. Or a tiny drum set. Just really lean in.”

Rowan snorted at that, and he grinned.

“But pudding cups are nonnegotiable,” he agreed. “Obviously. It’s a Hayes household. Emotional support snacks are a birthright.”

They sat there for a beat — noses brushing, fingers linked, the nursery warm with sunlight and second chances.

And then Mason gently squeezed her hand, gaze flicking to the half-assembled crib. “Okay, boss,” he said, a spark returning to his tone. “Let’s build this thing. For Indigo. For you. For our rogue-screw, emotionally-overwhelmed, snack-powered little empire.”

He passed her the next piece of hardware like it was precious. Like she was.

And when she looked up at him through her lashes, still smiling — still wrecked and radiant and his — Mason just shook his head and whispered, “You’re never gonna believe how good we are at this.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, laughing softly, that half-snickering, half-teary sound that always came out when she couldn’t quite decide whether to be sentimental or sarcastic.

“Oh my God,” she said, voice catching just a little, “you’re seriously going to immortalize my emotional breakdown as the Great Screwdriver Confession of 2025, aren’t you?” She nudged him lightly with her foot, eyes shining. “For the record, I was being very brave and only slightly threatening.”

She took the piece he handed her, turning it between her fingers before glancing up again. “And don’t act like you didn’t love it. You’re the one who fell for the girl with power tools and commitment issues.”

Her grin softened then, eyes flicking down to where his hand still rested on her belly. “And for the record, you’re lucky she takes after you. Because if Indigo gets my temper and your smirk, we’re doomed. She’ll out-argue both of us before preschool.”

Rowan picked up a screw, twisting it into place with surprising steadiness, the motion quiet and certain. “But honestly?” she said after a moment, tone gentler now. “If she’s got a storm for a heart and still finds someone who’ll sit in the eye of it with her like you do with me… I’ll call that a win.”

Her fingers brushed his as she reached for another bolt, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. “And yes, pudding cups are a birthright. Indigo deserves the good kind — the fancy ones with the whipped cream layer. None of that off-brand nonsense.”

She shot him a look, teasing but soft. “You think I’d trust our future snack legacy to discount pudding? Absolutely not.”

The crib creaked a little as she tightened the next piece, and she laughed under her breath. “Look at us,” she said quietly. “Two teenagers who couldn’t even make it through a drama club rehearsal without arguing, and now we’re here. Building cribs and futures and pretending we know what the hell we’re doing.”

Her hand settled over his, her thumb tracing slow circles across his knuckles. “You were right, though,” she added, voice low but certain. “We are good at this. Maybe not the building part.” Her eyes flicked toward the slightly crooked frame and then back at him, smiling. “But this? Us? Indigo? Yeah. We’re good at this.”

She leaned in and kissed him, quick and easy, like muscle memory — the kind that fit right into the rhythm of the room, of them, of every quiet, beautiful mess they’d made together.

Then, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, she grinned. “Now grab the next piece, Hayes. Let’s finish this before Indigo starts college.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t.

Not when her kiss still lingered on his mouth like a secret he never wanted to stop being told.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, all grin and glittering eyes and that impossible mix of sharp wit and soft heart that had always made him feel like the luckiest idiot alive. And maybe he was. Maybe being completely, stupidly, all-the-way-in-love with Rowan Starling — stubborn, brilliant, lowkey terrifying Rowan Starling — was the best kind of idiocy.

He picked up the next piece, pretending not to be choked up, and passed it to her. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice roughened by more than just emotion. “Captain Snack Support reporting for duty.”

A beat passed. Then, quieter: “You know, I think about that all the time. Us in the auditorium. Bickering over stage blocking and prop budgets like we were one missed cue away from throwing scripts at each other.”

He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“And somehow… this happened.” He looked around the half-finished nursery — the mismatched screws, the crooked frame, the soft paint on her cheek. “You and me. A whole actual life. You’re still terrifying, by the way. Just — now I want to build everything with you instead of avoid eye contact in the wings.”

His gaze drifted back to her belly, then to her face.

“She’s already got the best parts of us. She’s gonna be loud and smart and dramatic and full of questions we won’t know how to answer — and we’ll probably mess a million things up. But if she gets even half of what I feel looking at you right now?”

He reached out, cupped her jaw with paint-streaked fingers.

“She’s going to be the luckiest kid in the universe.”

And then he kissed her again. Slower this time. Not quick or playful or part of the rhythm — but something deeper. Like thanks. Like promise. Like reverence wrapped in a little bit of fear and a whole lot of awe.

When he finally pulled back, breath hitching slightly, he rested his forehead to hers and whispered:

“Let’s screw this thing in crooked and call it love.”

Then he passed her the final bolt with a grin. “And if Indigo ever asks how we built her crib, we lie. We say we crushed it. Nailed every screw. Instructions? Followed to the letter.”

He paused, eyes dancing. “But we do tell her about the pudding cups.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan bit the inside of her cheek, trying — and failing — not to smile. The kind that started small and soft, but grew until it felt like sunlight was breaking through her ribs.

“Oh, we are absolutely lying,” she said, laughing quietly as she took the final bolt from him. “Indigo’s gonna grow up thinking we’re basically HGTV legends. I’ll even throw in a few heroic details — like how you saved me from a rogue Allen wrench or something. It’ll be beautiful.”

She twisted the bolt into place, then sat back on her heels to admire their not-so-straight handiwork. “You realize she’s gonna inherit my chaos and your need for symmetry, right? Which means every art project and science fair from here on out will end in tears and glitter.”

When she looked up again, her grin softened. “And I don’t know if that makes her lucky, but it definitely makes her ours.”

She brushed her fingers over the paint on his jaw, like she was both teasing and memorizing him at once. “You’re really out here calling me terrifying while you’re over here building cribs and saying stuff that could end civilizations.” Her voice gentled, quieter now. “You make me feel like maybe I wasn’t supposed to have it all figured out — I was just supposed to find you.”

Her hand slid down to rest beside his on her belly, fingers lacing over his. “And if she ends up loud and stubborn and impossible to reason with,” she murmured, eyes flicking between his and the soft swell of her stomach, “then we’ll know she’s perfect. Because she’ll be ours, and she’ll be loved enough to never question it.”

She leaned in again, brushing her lips across his in a kiss that lingered — warm, sure, filled with quiet laughter against his mouth. Then, when she pulled back, she whispered with a grin, “But for real? You tell her about the pudding cups. I’m not taking the blame for that one.”

Rowan leaned her head against his shoulder, looking at the crooked crib with a small, content sigh. “You know,” she said after a beat, voice low and fond, “if love ever did have instructions… I think we ignored them beautifully.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason let out a quiet breath, the kind that felt too big for his chest.

Because Jesus Christ.

There she was — full of sunlit smiles and sly jokes and that soft, break-your-heart kind of honesty that hit him harder than anything ever had. And somehow, somehow, she was looking at him like he was worth all of it.

He didn’t deserve that. Not really. Not this kind of magic. Not a girl like Rowan Starling — all storms and steel and baby blue hoodies he still swore she stole from him.

But she was here.

And she was his.

And that crooked-ass crib behind them was somehow proof that they’d built something real.

“Ignored them beautifully,” he echoed under his breath, leaning his head against hers with a soft chuckle. “That might be my new favorite Rowan quote. Top five, easily. Right above: ‘This chair doesn’t need legs if the vibe is strong enough.’”

His thumb skimmed along her knuckles where their hands were joined over her stomach. The paint on her skin. The bolt grease on his. They were a mess. But they were their mess.

“I’m gonna tell her everything,” he added after a moment, voice lower now. “How you built her crib with a screwdriver in one hand and a death glare in the other. How you threatened to stab me lovingly. How you smiled like the whole world was right here, in this room.”

His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I’ll tell her how brave you were. How much you loved her before she ever showed up. And how the minute I saw you like this — paint-smudged and bossy and so fucking alive — I knew I was done for.”

He turned his head slightly, kissed her temple, slow and reverent.

“You’re gonna be her whole universe,” he whispered. “And I’m gonna be the guy making snack runs and fixing lopsided furniture and reminding you both that chaos can still be beautiful.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his smile crooked, like the crib. “And hey… if we screw it all up along the way, at least we’ll have glitter and pudding cups.”

Then he held up their linked hands and kissed her fingers one by one, soft and certain. “No instructions. No blueprints. Just you. Me. Her. And whatever the hell comes next.”

A beat passed.

Then, smirking, he added, “But I am buying extra bolts next time. Just in case we ignored the part that said ‘tighten until fully secure.’”

Because God help him, he was all in.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan laughed under her breath, quiet and warm, the sound spilling out before she could stop it. “You keep a running list of my quotes now? God, you’re worse than Jovie’s fan club.” She nudged his shoulder lightly. “And for the record, that chair was stable. It just needed… spiritual support.”

She looked down when his thumb brushed across her hand, tracing the same paint smudge she’d already forgotten about. Her fingers twitched against his — like instinct — and then stilled, lacing tighter around his. “You’re really gonna tell her that?” she said softly, smiling to herself. “All of it? Even the part where I spent ten minutes trying to use the wrong screw and then swore it was the manufacturer’s fault?”

Her grin deepened, bright and a little self-aware. “She’s gonna think her mom’s a genius and a menace at the same time.”

But then his voice changed — that quiet, steady one that always found its way under her ribs. And she couldn’t joke through that. Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that.

Her smile faltered into something smaller. Realer. “You make it sound like I built Rome,” she whispered, tilting her forehead to his. “I just wanted her to have something made by us. Something messy and real and…” She trailed off, eyes flicking up to his. “Something that feels like this.”

She let out a soft laugh when he kissed her temple. “You realize you’re signing up for a lifetime of snack runs, right? Like, that’s not just a pregnancy clause. That’s forever. I’m not above sending you out at 2 a.m. for pudding cups when she’s twelve and emotional about homework.”

He called her brave, and for a second, she had to breathe through it. “You’re the one who makes this easy,” she said quietly. “All the brave does is show up — you’re the reason it feels safe too.”

When he kissed her fingers, she smiled again — lazy, unguarded, the kind of smile that meant she was completely gone for him. “No instructions, no blueprints,” she echoed, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “That’s us, huh? Just building our weird little empire one crooked crib and snack run at a time.”

Then her eyes glinted, mischievous again. “And hey, about those extra bolts? I’m not saying you’re paranoid, but if Indigo’s anything like me, she’s absolutely going to climb out of this crib by eight months old. So yeah — stock up.”

She leaned in, her voice low, teasing. “Also… just so you know? If I wasn’t five months pregnant, you wouldn’t be talking right now.” Her grin curved slow and wicked. “You’d be thanking your lucky stars I don’t still have the energy for that kind of cardio.”

She laughed softly, the sound catching somewhere between affection and trouble. “Now hand me that wrench, Hayes. Let’s finish building her future before I decide to make you part of the décor.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason choked on a laugh — the kind that hit too suddenly and cracked straight through the middle of him. “Okay, first of all,” he said, wide-eyed and grinning, “do not threaten me with a good time while I’m emotionally vulnerable and surrounded by hardware.”

He reached for the wrench with one hand, the other still tangled with hers like he couldn’t quite bear to let go. “Second of all, you saying ‘make you part of the décor’ is the exact kind of terrifying poetry that tells me Indigo’s going to rule the world by age five.”

He passed her the tool, but not before tugging her fingers to his lips again — a kiss, a thank you, a prayer, all in one.

“And yeah,” he added, voice dipping slightly, “I am keeping a list of your quotes. I’ve got a whole Google Doc called ‘Things Rowan Says That Should Be in Stone or at Least on a T-Shirt.’ And that chair did not have spiritual support, it had one functioning leg and your blind faith.”

He paused then, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the next truth to land.

“But yeah. I’ll tell her everything. Even the wrong screw part. Especially that part. Because it means her mom doesn’t give up when things don’t fit the first time. She figures it out. She swears at it, sure, but she stays. And that matters.”

He reached up and brushed a smudge of paint from the curve of her jaw. His voice went soft. “You didn’t build Rome, Starling. You built a home. That’s bigger.”

He leaned in until their noses almost touched, until all he could see was her. Her freckles. Her smirk. Her light. “And for the record, if she gets your chaos and my symmetry? We’ll raise a beautiful contradiction.”

His grin turned wicked. “Although, if she gets your cardio skills, I’m terrified. Do we start baby-proofing the ceiling now or later?”

He laughed again, the sound wrecked and full of everything she’d ever made him feel — all the years of almost, of missteps and missed chances, all the days since she’d started showing up and staying.

And then, gentler: “You know, it’s wild. I used to think love had to be some huge declaration, some show-stopping grand gesture. But this?” He motioned to the half-built crib, the scattered tools, the way her hand fit perfectly over his heartbeat. “This is louder than anything.”

He kissed her again — soft and slow, lips pressed to hers like punctuation on a chapter he never wanted to end. And when he pulled back, forehead still against hers, he whispered:

“Let’s finish building her future. And maybe a chair that doesn’t need divine intervention to stand.”

He reached for the next piece, still smiling. “Just don’t let Jovie hear I’m the one who followed directions. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her belly. “You’re the only person I know who can make a threat sound like a compliment,” she said between breaths, shaking her head. “And don’t flatter yourself, Hayes — emotionally vulnerable or not, you’d still deserve whatever chaos you get.”

She reached for the wrench, pretending to snatch it with mock authority, but her hand lingered when his fingers brushed hers. That stupid soft kiss to her knuckles made her heart skip the way it always did — and the way it still shouldn’t, even now, even after all these months. “You’re ridiculous,” she said quietly, the edge gone from her voice. “And that’s not terrifying poetry, by the way. That’s called creative honesty. Indigo’s gonna learn from the best.”

When he mentioned the Google Doc, her jaw dropped in mock horror. “You did not,” she gasped, smirking through it. “You actually have one? Mason, that’s—okay, that’s borderline romantic and deeply concerning. And for the record, the chair was fine. If you’d believed in her, she would’ve made it through the semester.”

Her voice softened when he kept going — when the teasing fell away and he said the kind of things she’d never get used to hearing. “You’re such a sap,” she murmured, smiling down at the half-built crib. “But you’re right. I do swear a lot. And I do stay. Mostly because you never make me feel like I have to earn staying.”

She tilted her head when he brushed her jaw, eyes flicking up to his. “Rome can keep its marble,” she said softly. “I’ll take paint smudges and bad IKEA decisions any day.”

Her lips curved into something smaller, gentler. “And for the record? Chaos and symmetry sound like a pretty solid mix to me. We’ll balance out. You’ll alphabetize her toys, and I’ll teach her how to charm her way out of time-out.”

He joked about baby-proofing the ceiling, and she snorted. “Please. By the time she’s walking, she’ll be scaling cabinets and gaslighting us both about it. We should just accept defeat early.”

Then he said this is louder than anything, and it hit her in the ribs. She blinked once, slow. “Yeah,” she said finally, voice soft but sure. “It really is.”

When he kissed her, she leaned into it like it was the most natural thing in the world — warm, certain, familiar. When he pulled back, she kept her forehead against his, eyes closed for a beat longer. “You talk too much,” she whispered, a grin tugging at her mouth. “But if you keep saying stuff like that, I’m never gonna shut you up.”

She took the next piece from his hands and set it carefully in place. “Now come on, Captain Reputation,” she said, nudging his knee with hers. “Let’s finish before she starts kicking again. I think she’s already judging us.”

A pause. Her grin softened into something quieter. “And Mason? For the record… this? You’re right. It’s everything.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason tried — really tried — not to look completely gone for her in that moment. But it was hard when she laughed like that — full-body, tip-your-head-back kind of laughing, the kind that felt like applause in the middle of a quiet scene. His chest tightened, all ridiculous and warm.

“Okay, rude,” he said, eyes wide in mock offense. “I’ll have you know my chaos is award-winning. I once got a standing ovation for tripping over a stage sword and confessing my love in the same scene. It was very moving.”

He handed her another bolt, biting back a smile when her fingers lingered. “And yeah, I kiss your hand like we’re in a period drama,” he added, deadpan. “It’s called range, Starling.”

Her gasp at the Google Doc made him double down, grinning like the menace he was. “Oh, it’s real. Titled Rowanisms: A Chronicle of Chaos, Brilliance, and Mild Threats. Color-coded by mood. There’s even a ‘Don’t let her read this or she’ll set it on fire’ section. Very exclusive.”

He laughed at her defense of the chair — honest-to-God cackled — but as she spoke softer, his grin steadied into something deeper.

Because God, she had no idea what she did to him.

“You staying isn’t something you have to earn,” he said, his voice softer now, brushing a thumb against her wrist. “It’s the whole damn point. You stay, and suddenly the world feels like something I can stand in.”

She called him a sap. He grinned. “I’m a romantic disaster,” he confessed. “Fully self-aware. And honestly, if Indigo’s first word is ‘alphabetize,’ I’ll cry happy tears. Just sayin’.”

He shifted slightly, helping secure the next piece. The crib was coming together, a little wobbly maybe, but real. Tangible. The kind of thing that would hold a future they weren’t totally ready for — but were still choosing anyway.

He looked at her — really looked — as she described their daughter gaslighting them before she could even speak, and yeah, that was probably true.

“I give it three years before she’s directing school plays and bossing me around backstage,” he said fondly. “Five bucks says she steals my copy of Hamlet and rewrites it with a glitter ending.”

And then — her voice softened.

It’s everything.

His chest ached, sweet and full, and he tried to blink it back like she hadn’t just completely ruined him again.

“Starling,” he said, leaning in with a crooked smile, “you say stuff like that and I become the off-brand pudding. Just—completely soft. No spine. Just vibes.”

He kissed her temple, then her jaw, then pulled back only enough to help guide the next crib rail into place. “Also,” he added, with faux seriousness, “just so we’re clear — when Indigo grows up and asks why one side of her crib is slightly lower than the other, we’re blaming it on a rogue musical number. Full tap-dancing ghost scenario. I’ll commit.”

He glanced up at her, that crooked grin softening at the edges. “You and me? We’re chaos and curtain calls. Snacks and symphonies. Messy, brilliant, stubborn as hell — and totally in sync where it counts.”

He reached for the final screw, fingers brushing hers again. “Let’s finish it,” he said gently. “Our girl deserves a throne. Even if it’s slightly uneven.”

And with that, he settled in beside her — heart steady, hands sure — ready to build whatever came next.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan grinned, eyes bright, trying — and failing — not to completely melt. “You seriously just compared yourself to pudding?” she said, biting back a laugh. “You realize that’s never coming off your record, right? Indigo’s first solid food is going to be pudding just so I can tell her this story.”

She leaned against him, pretending to examine the crooked crib rail like she was a professional contractor instead of someone who’d put one screw in backward twenty minutes ago. “Also, you tripping over a stage sword and confessing your love sounds exactly like the origin story of my favorite idiot. I can’t even be mad about it. It’s on-brand.”

He passed her another bolt, and she rolled her eyes, but her voice softened when their fingers brushed. “And don’t act like you’re some tragic romantic hero with range. You’re just trying to distract me so I don’t notice you’ve been tightening the wrong side.” She leaned in closer, her bump brushing his arm, and whispered, “Nice try, Shakespeare.”

When he mentioned Rowanisms: A Chronicle of Chaos, Brilliance, and Mild Threats, she stared at him like she might combust. “You color-coded me? Oh my God, you’re lucky I can’t bend down fast enough to chase you right now,” she said, mock furious but laughing. “Delete that ‘don’t let her read this’ section or I’ll add you to my list — and it’s not color-coded, it’s cursed.”

But then he said you staying isn’t something you have to earn, and her smirk faltered. Just for a second. “You always know how to do that,” she murmured. “Say something that makes me laugh, then immediately ruin my eyeliner.”

She exhaled, brushing her thumb over his wrist in return. “You’re a romantic disaster,” she agreed softly, “but you’re my disaster. And if Indigo’s first word is ‘alphabetize,’ I’m staging an intervention. Or at least a counterattack. Her second word’s gonna be ‘chaos.’”

When he joked about Indigo rewriting Hamlet with glitter, Rowan snorted so hard she almost dropped a screw. “That’s our girl,” she said proudly. “Tragic, dramatic, and fabulous.”

He said it’s everything, and she looked up, all the teasing melting away. “It is,” she whispered. “Even the wobbly parts.”

Then, after a long pause and the faint sound of the crib creaking under their combined effort, she added, “And if you ever call yourself off-brand pudding again, I’m upgrading to deluxe gelatin dessert on your contact name.”

When he kissed her temple, she smiled against it, then caught his jaw lightly with her paint-stained hand. “You’re lucky I can’t get up,” she said, grinning. “Because if I could, I’d climb you like this half-built crib.”

Her tone turned teasing again as she looked at the crooked railing. “And for the record, when Indigo asks why her crib’s uneven, I’m saying it was a creative choice. You can take the tap-dancing ghost credit if you want, but I’m calling it architectural whimsy.”

She reached for the final screw, bumping his hand in the process. “Teamwork,” she said with a smirk. “Or at least controlled chaos.”

And then, softer — so soft he almost missed it: “You’re my favorite kind of uneven, Hayes.”

She squeezed his hand once, smiled, and nodded toward the last bolt. “Now let’s finish our daughter’s throne before she starts practicing her rebellion in there.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason was grinning like an idiot. Just completely gone.

“You’re out here threatening to rename me deluxe gelatin dessert and somehow that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he muttered, shaking his head like he stood no chance — because honestly? He didn’t.

Not with her laughing like that. Not when she looked at him like that.

He nudged her knee with his, eyes still on her instead of the crib. “And listen, I stand by the pudding metaphor. You kiss me like that again and I go full gelatinous. It's tragic. I lose all structure. OSHA would be concerned.”

She said you’re my favorite kind of uneven, and his breath caught so hard he almost forgot how to use the screwdriver.

Because damn.
That wasn’t just a line.
That was her wrecking him, in the quietest, most perfect way.

“I—” he started, but stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “Starling, if I didn’t already believe in soulmates, that line alone would’ve converted me.”

He didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes went soft — all glint and glass and boyish devotion.

Then, like a reflex, he leaned in and kissed her again.

Not rushed. Not showy. Just full. Deep. The kind of kiss that didn’t need an audience. The kind that said this is it, this is home, this is us.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath still a little uneven. “You’re lucky I’m too emotionally compromised to flirt properly right now,” he murmured. “Because I’d absolutely start reciting Shakespeare and do a whole monologue about how you’ve bewitched me, body and soul.”

A beat.

“Wait, crap — that’s Austen, not Shakespeare. Don’t tell Indigo I got that wrong. She’ll think I’m a fake theater kid.”

He turned his attention back to the crib for exactly two seconds before stealing one last look at her — paint-smudged, grinning, glowing with the kind of light that only came from building something real.

He squeezed her hand back. “Let’s finish this thing,” he said quietly. “And then I’m drawing up blueprints for a snack throne. You deserve both.”

Because if Indigo was getting a throne,
then so was the queen who made it.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan blinked at him, trying to look unimpressed, but her mouth was already curving. “You’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “I threaten you with dessert-based humiliation, and you take it as foreplay. We’re doomed.”

He bumped her knee, and she smirked, brushing her hair off her cheek. “Also, OSHA would one hundred percent shut us down,” she shot back. “You? Gelatinous. Me? Five months pregnant and unsupervised with a screwdriver. This whole operation’s a walking safety violation.”

But then he said if I didn’t already believe in soulmates, and she felt it — the shift, that little ache that always followed when he got serious out of nowhere. Her teasing stilled for just a second. She met his eyes, all soft warmth and disbelief wrapped into one. “You really have to stop saying stuff like that mid–construction project,” she murmured. “You’re gonna make me cry on the hardware.”

He kissed her, and she leaned in without thinking, the taste of him mixing with paint and sugar and home. When he pulled back, she laughed quietly, eyes still closed. “You do realize if Indigo ever hears you say things like that, she’s never gonna let you live it down. Like, first word out of her mouth might actually be cringe.”

Then he fumbled the quote, and she gasped, mock scandalized. “Oh, you better believe I’m telling her that one,” she said, hand pressed to her chest in exaggerated horror. “The great Mason Hayes — the leading man of the Evergreen High spring play — mixing up Austen and Shakespeare? Oh, she’s gonna dine on that story for years.”

She poked his chest with the screwdriver for emphasis. “Don’t think being emotionally compromised gets you a free pass, Mr. Fake Theater Kid. I’ve got receipts.”

Her voice softened, though, as she caught the way he looked at her again — like she was still mid-monologue and he hadn’t remembered to breathe. She gave his hand a squeeze. “You know,” she said, quieter now, “you say stuff like that, and suddenly I remember why I agreed to let you near power tools.”

She tilted her head, watching him line up the last piece of the crib, still smirking. “But fine. Let’s finish this ‘throne.’ And when you build my snack chair, make sure it reclines. Queen deserves lumbar support.”

She leaned over just enough to bump her shoulder against his, grinning. “And Mason?” she added, voice dropping playful but tender. “For the record — if Indigo ever asks, I’m totally telling her the crib was a masterpiece. But I’m definitely telling her you got Austen wrong.”

She kissed his cheek, low and warm. “A queen’s gotta keep her king humble.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason practically melted.

Right there on the nursery floor — paint-streaked, covered in Allen wrench regret, knee-deep in misaligned crib pieces — he was done for.

“Okay,” he whispered dramatically, eyes wide and hand over his heart like she’d just delivered a Tony Award-worthy monologue. “You’re threatening me with receipts and literary slander and somehow I’m even more in love with you. What does that say about me?”

He wiggled his eyebrows, but his voice turned a little breathless when she kissed his cheek like that. Warm. Casual. Devastating.

“You’re dangerous, Starling,” he murmured, eyes catching hers. “Like, weapon-grade tenderness over here. You call me pudding, roast my stage credentials, and then kiss me like that? That’s psychological warfare.”

Then he sighed deeply — fake dramatic but somehow still sincere — and gestured to the nearly finished crib. “Alright, let’s finish building our daughter’s crooked palace of doom. And then I’ll get started on your snack throne. Reclining. With cupholders. Maybe even Bluetooth.”

He leaned close, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Because if I’m gonna be emotionally wrecked and out-quoted by my own child, I at least wanna be doing it next to you. Preferably with snacks.”

And just before turning back to the last bolt, he tapped her finger with the screwdriver like a pinky swear. “Also? Don’t ever stop keeping me humble. It’s weirdly hot.”

He shot her a grin that was entirely Mason — all goof and glow and theater boy wrecked — then got back to work, humming softly under his breath as they finished the last pieces together.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan’s laugh came out low and warm, the kind that curled around a person and stayed. “You have got to stop calling me dangerous like it’s a compliment,” she said, tilting her head toward him. “You make it sound like I should have a warning label.”

Her grin widened. “Although… weapon-grade tenderness? That one’s going on a T-shirt. Don’t tempt me, Hayes.”

He gestured toward the crib, and she looked at it the way someone might look at a miracle that didn’t quite follow the blueprints—tilted, imperfect, still standing. “Crooked palace of doom,” she repeated, amused. “You say that like it isn’t exactly the vibe we’re going for. She’s going to be born into pure chaos; might as well make it aesthetic.”

When he whispered about snacks, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “Deal,” she said softly. “You bring the snacks, I’ll bring the attitude. That’s our system.”

He tapped her finger with the screwdriver, and she caught it before he could pull away, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’ll keep you humble,” she promised. “Somebody has to make sure your pudding-theater-boy ego doesn’t inflate and float out the window.”

Her tone softened as he turned back to the last bolt, humming under his breath. She watched him for a moment—this ridiculous, earnest, perfect disaster of a man—and reached over to steady the panel he was tightening.

“There,” she murmured when it finally clicked into place. “We did it.”

The crib wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdy enough, beautiful in its lopsided way. She leaned against him, her bump fitting comfortably against his side, and smiled. “Our first masterpiece,” she said quietly. “Crooked, chaotic, completely ours.”

Then, teasing again: “Now get to work on my throne, Hayes. The queen demands snacks.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stepped back to admire the crib like it was an off-Broadway set piece he’d personally saved from collapse. Hands on his hips. Head tilted. Brow furrowed just enough to look artistic about it.

“Well,” he said solemnly, “she may lean to the left like a hungover pirate ship, but I’m proud of her. Indigo’s first command center. Perfect for plotting her baby villain arc.”

He looked over at Rowan, eyes dancing. “I give it four and a half stars. Lost half a point for structural integrity, gained ten for style and sentimental value. And for the record, if anyone asks, yes — it was absolutely intentional. Postmodern crib design. Very edgy. Very avant-garde.”

Then, with faux seriousness, he added, “We’ll just… put that side against the wall.”

When Rowan called it a masterpiece, his expression softened — the smirk still there, but gentled by the way she said it. The way she looked at him like maybe, somehow, none of this was a mistake.

“Our first masterpiece,” he echoed, voice dropping. “Built with love, paint smudges, and the world’s most aggressively labeled screws. We’re unstoppable.”

He nudged her shoulder lightly, catching the way her bump pressed against his side like it belonged there. Like she did. And he couldn’t help it — he glanced down at her hand, still flecked with dried paint, still holding his like she meant it.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Your snack throne is next. I’m thinking crushed velvet. Built-in snack drawer. Maybe a secret compartment for sour straws.”

He grinned. “Indigo’s gonna look at us one day and wonder how the hell she came from this — a tragic pudding monologue and a woman who could probably overthrow a small government with just her side-eye.”

Then, quieter, “But she’s gonna know it’s love. That we built something real. Even if it wobbles a little.”

He bumped her shoulder again, his voice all warmth and wonder. “And hey… if we can survive flat-pack furniture and me misquoting Austen, I think we can survive anything.”

[Rowan Starling]

Lyric Arden Hayes was six weeks old and already deeply opinionated.

It was February now — the kind of cold that seeped into the bones of the house. The windows were dark. The heater hummed low and constant. Outside, the world was still and frozen.

Inside, Rowan sat curled in the corner of the couch, one lamp on, blanket tucked around her legs.

Lyric was warm against her chest.

And furious.

Not screaming. Not inconsolable. Just frustrated in that small, newborn way — mouth rooting, head turning, little fists clenching like she couldn’t believe the world wasn’t immediately cooperating.

Rowan held the bottle steady.

Lyric turned her head away.

Then back.

Then away again.

A tiny noise — not quite a cry, more like a protest.

Rowan didn’t tense.

She didn’t rush.

She didn’t sigh.

She just adjusted her grip, sliding one hand under Lyric’s neck, supporting her head with careful fingers. “Hey,” she murmured softly. “It’s okay. We’ve got time.”

Lyric’s face scrunched — red, indignant, overwhelmed by hunger and confusion and being six weeks old in February at two in the morning.

Rowan brushed her thumb along Lyric’s cheek, slow and grounding. “I know. I know,” she whispered. “It’s not what you wanted. But it’s what we’ve got.”

Lyric’s tiny body stiffened again, mouth searching, then pulling away like she couldn’t quite decide what she was upset about.

Rowan stayed calm.

Her breathing stayed slow.

She pressed a kiss to the top of Lyric’s head, breathing in that warm, milky newborn scent. “You don’t have to panic,” she murmured. “We’re not in a rush.”

She let the bottle rest lightly against Lyric’s lips instead of pushing it in.

A beat.

Another.

Lyric’s mouth opened.

Latched.

Then pulled off again.

Rowan smiled faintly. “We’re negotiating. That’s fine.”

She adjusted the angle slightly — patient, steady, no sudden movements. Her thumb kept tracing small circles along Lyric’s back.

Finally — finally — Lyric latched for real. Small sucks. Hesitant at first. Then steadier.

Rowan exhaled slowly, shoulders softening.

“There you go,” she whispered. “That’s it.”

Lyric’s tiny hand opened and closed against Rowan’s shirt, still dramatic even in surrender.

The house stayed quiet. February pressed against the windows. Mason was asleep down the hall, exhausted from shifts and late nights and learning fatherhood in real time.

Rowan leaned her head back against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded but alert.

Six weeks old.

Brand new.

Already stubborn.

Already hers.

“You can fight me later,” Rowan murmured softly into the dim room. “Tonight, we eat.”

And Lyric, warm and small and very sure of herself, finally allowed it.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason woke up to the quiet kind of noise first.

Not a scream. Not a full-blown emergency. Just… the soft, insistent cadence of newborn frustration—tiny little protests that somehow still managed to fill the whole house. Like Lyric had opinions she needed on record immediately.

He blinked at the ceiling, disoriented for half a second, then rolled over and saw the other side of the bed empty.

Of course.

He sat up slowly, careful not to knock the glass of water off the nightstand like a cartoon dad in a sitcom, and padded into the hall in socks that didn’t match. The heater hummed. The floorboards sighed under his feet.

Halfway to the living room, he paused—because he could hear Rowan’s voice.

Low. Calm. Steady.

The kind of calm that didn’t come from pretending. The kind of calm that came from her actually being here, in it, with their daughter. Holding the moment like it wasn’t going to swallow her whole.

Mason leaned around the doorway and just… stopped.

Rowan was curled in the corner of the couch under the lamp, blanket around her legs, hair a mess in the softest way. Lyric was tucked against her like a warm little comma—angry at first, then gradually giving in, cheeks working as she finally latched.

Rowan didn’t look frantic. She didn’t look like she was bracing for impact.

She looked… capable.

Mason’s chest did that stupid, painful thing it always did lately—like pride and love and awe all tried to exist in the same breath and didn’t know how to share space politely. He’d watched Rowan be a thousand versions of strong. Sharp. Funny. Untouchable. All armor.

But this?

This was different.

This was her building safety out of nothing but her hands and her voice and patience she didn’t even know she had.

He walked in quietly, like he was entering a stage mid-scene and didn’t want to ruin the rhythm. He grabbed the burp cloth off the armchair, scooped up the bottle cap she’d set down, and moved to the kitchen without saying a word—because the silence felt earned.

He rinsed the spare bottle parts, checked the warmer out of habit, then stood there for a second with his palms on the counter, listening to the faint suck-suck-suck from the living room.

He wasn’t religious.

But sometimes, moments like this made him understand why people were.

When he came back, Rowan’s shoulders had softened, Lyric’s little fist still doing dramatic opening-and-closing choreography against her shirt like she was conducting the orchestra of her own meal.

Mason crouched beside the couch and slid his hand—warm, gentle—over Rowan’s knee beneath the blanket. A small squeeze. A quiet I’m here.

Then, without thinking too hard, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Rowan’s temple.

“You’re… unreal,” he whispered, like he couldn’t help it.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. He knew she wouldn’t want to break the spell. So he just stayed there, low to the ground, watching their daughter’s tiny jaw work, watching Rowan’s thumb trace those slow circles along Lyric’s back like she was writing a promise into her skin.

Lyric paused for a second—pulled off, offended by something only she understood.

Mason froze like he’d personally been caught causing it.

He lifted his brows at Rowan, silently offering: Do we intervene? Do we negotiate? Do we call a mediator?

Lyric latched again like, never mind. I’ll allow it.

Mason’s mouth twitched. He couldn’t help the soft huff of a laugh.

“Okay,” he murmured under his breath, mostly to Lyric. “Yeah. You’re in charge. We got it.”

His hand slid up Rowan’s shin, then back down—restless, affectionate, like his body needed contact the way his mind needed oxygen. He watched Rowan’s face in the lamp light. The exhaustion under her eyes. The steadiness in them anyway.

He swallowed.

Six weeks ago, he’d thought love was the biggest thing he could carry.

Then Lyric arrived and proved him wrong.

And Rowan—Rowan sitting here in February at two a.m., negotiating a bottle like it was diplomacy, keeping their baby calm with nothing but her presence—

She was his whole damn future.

Mason leaned closer again, his voice barely there. “You’re doing so good.”

Then he shifted his weight, careful and quiet, and offered Rowan the burp cloth with two fingers like it was a sacred relic. His other hand stayed on her leg.

“Tag me in when she’s done,” he whispered, eyes flicking to Lyric. “I can burp. I can bounce. I can do the little… aggressive dad sway.”

He demonstrated it in miniature—just a tiny shoulder rock—like he couldn’t resist being stupid for one second, even in a holy moment.

Lyric’s eyes fluttered, milk-drunk and satisfied, her whole body slowly unclenching like she’d forgiven the world for being inconvenient.

Mason watched it happen, breath held.

Then he tucked his chin down near Rowan’s shoulder, cheek almost against her hair, and stayed there—quiet as the house, warm as the lamp—while February pressed against the windows and their family kept learning each other in the dark.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t look up when he came in.

She felt him before she saw him—the way the air shifted when he stepped into the room, the quiet gravity of him moving carefully so he wouldn’t disturb whatever fragile peace had just settled over the couch.

Lyric had finally latched, little jaw working with dramatic determination, one fist still opening and closing like she was casting spells in her sleep. Rowan’s back ached. Her shoulder was numb. There was dried milk on the collar of her shirt and she hadn’t brushed her hair since… Tuesday? Maybe.

But she was steady.

When Mason’s hand slid over her knee under the blanket, she exhaled without realizing she’d been holding her breath. Just a small shift. A recalibration.

And then he kissed her temple.

You’re… unreal.

Rowan’s mouth twitched immediately.

She kept her voice low so she wouldn’t break Lyric’s rhythm, but the dry edge was there, soft and familiar.

“Oh, please,” she murmured. “You’re biased.”

Her thumb kept tracing slow circles along Lyric’s back, the rhythm automatic now. The baby made a tiny disgruntled sound, then latched again with renewed authority.

Rowan didn’t even blink.

“You’ve been in love with me since sixth grade,” she added quietly, like this was simply a fact entered into evidence. “Your objectivity is compromised.”

Her eyes flicked down to Mason where he crouched beside them, watching like this was a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth.

He looked wrecked.

In the best way.

She saw it—the pride, the awe, the way he still seemed surprised that she was capable of this. Like he hadn’t watched her carry entire worlds on her back before.

Lyric paused again, offended by something invisible, and Rowan adjusted without panic. A slight shift of her wrist. A murmured, “Hey, hey,” barely louder than breath.

When Mason froze like he’d personally triggered the disruption, Rowan’s lips curved again.

“Relax,” she whispered. “She’s dramatic. It’s genetic.”

Lyric latched again with righteous indignation.

Rowan lifted one eyebrow at him without looking away from their daughter.

“See? Negotiations successful. We avoided arbitration.”

When he offered the burp cloth like it was holy scripture, she took it with a small, grateful smile that didn’t need to be big to be real.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Not performative. Just… meant.

He demonstrated the aggressive dad sway and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Oh, she loves the sway,” Rowan said under her breath. “Very intense. Very alpha.”

Lyric’s eyelids fluttered, body slowly melting into that milk-drunk looseness. Rowan felt it happen in real time—the tension leaving, the little spine relaxing, the fist finally unclenching against her chest.

Rowan’s own shoulders softened in response.

Six weeks ago, she’d been terrified she’d get this wrong.

That she’d be too sharp. Too impatient. Too… her.

Now, in the glow of a February lamp at two in the morning, with Mason crouched beside her like a worshipper and their daughter slowly surrendering to sleep, she felt something steadier than fear.

She felt anchored.

When Mason tucked himself closer, his chin near her shoulder, Rowan leaned back just slightly into him—subtle, but intentional.

“You’re doing good too,” she murmured.

Her free hand reached down, brushing lightly over his wrist where it rested on her leg.

“You don’t get to just spectate and call me unreal,” she added softly. “You’re in this. You built this with me.”

A beat.

“And for the record,” she continued, eyes still on Lyric’s sleepy face, “if you’ve loved me since sixth grade, that means you knew exactly what you were signing up for.”

Her mouth curved again—tired, affectionate.

“Chaos. Drama. Aggressive swaying.”

Lyric made a small, satisfied sigh.

Rowan pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, then looked at Mason properly for the first time since he’d walked in.

Her eyes were tired.

But they were bright.

“She’s going to be fine,” Rowan said quietly. “We’re going to be fine.”

Then, softer, teasing threading through it again—

“But if you call me unreal one more time, I’m making you take the 4 a.m. shift. No negotiation.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s throat tightened so fast it almost annoyed him.

Because she said it like it was nothing—you’re doing good too—like she hadn’t just reached under his ribs and put a hand on his heart to make sure it stayed put.

He stayed crouched there for a second longer, eyes bouncing between Lyric’s sleepy little face and Rowan’s—tired, bright, dangerous in that quiet way she got when she meant every word and still refused to make a big deal out of it.

“Okay,” he whispered, because if he tried to be funny and honest at the same time, he was going to accidentally cry in his own living room and then he’d never hear the end of it.

His hand tightened on her knee beneath the blanket—just a small squeeze, like a reply.

Then her threat landed.

If you call me unreal one more time…

Mason’s mouth twitched. Of course it did. Of course he was going to poke it.

He lifted his brows at her—very solemn, very sincere, like he was about to testify in court—and leaned in a fraction, voice barely there.

“Noted,” he murmured. “No more compliments. I will simply… stare respectfully.”

He did it. For two seconds. Big, innocent eyes. Completely ridiculous.

Then he ruined it anyway—because it was Rowan, and he was him.

“You’re—” he started, then stopped himself like he’d hit an invisible electric fence. His eyes widened in exaggerated alarm. He held up a finger, pointing at his own mouth like, I almost died.

He leaned closer, cheek brushing her shoulder, and redirected with a whisper that still carried all the meaning.

“You’re steady,” he said instead. “And it’s… it’s hot. Like, profoundly.”

Rowan’s snort threatened the whole operation.

Mason froze, panicked, then looked at Lyric like, please don’t take that personally.

Lyric didn’t. Lyric stayed limp and milk-drunk, little mouth slack for a second, then made a tiny satisfied sound that somehow felt like approval.

Mason let out a careful breath and shifted, keeping his movements slow. He slid his hand from Rowan’s knee to the edge of the blanket and tucked it a little higher around her legs without making a production out of it—just fixing, smoothing, taking care.

Then he tipped his head toward the bottle with a silent question.

Rowan gave him the tiniest nod.

Mason eased his hand up, fingers gentle around the bottle’s base, and waited—because he’d learned fast that everything with Lyric was timing and consent and not acting like you were trying to win a speedrun.

When Lyric finally released with that dramatic little hmph like she’d finished a meeting, Mason took the bottle from Rowan’s hand and set it on the coaster with absurd precision.

“Okay,” he whispered to Lyric, all reverence and theater kid sincerity. “Excellent work tonight. Five stars. Strong latch. Powerful presence.”

He reached for the burp cloth—the holy scripture—and slid it over his shoulder like he was suiting up for battle.

Then he extended his arms to Rowan, palms up, wordless: tag me in.

When she passed Lyric to him, the transfer was careful and practiced now—tiny warm weight, floppy newborn head, the whole universe condensed to eight pounds of milk and opinion.

Mason tucked Lyric against his chest, supporting her neck the way Rowan had—exactly the way he’d watched Rowan do it a hundred times—and started the sway. Slow. Side to side. A little exaggerated, because he couldn’t help it.

He patted her back with feather-light taps.

One.

Two.

Three.

Lyric made a face like she was considering filing a complaint.

Mason whispered, “I know. I know. I’m new here. Be kind.”

He swayed again, a little deeper this time, like he was dancing with her. Like the living room was a stage and he’d been cast in the role of Dad Who Doesn’t Panic and he was trying very hard to hit his mark.

A small burp escaped Lyric—tiny, offended, miraculous.

Mason’s eyes went wide.

He looked at Rowan like he’d just performed open-heart surgery successfully.

Rowan’s expression said: don’t you dare.

He mouthed, I won’t, and immediately failed by whispering to Lyric, “That was iconic.”

Lyric’s eyelids fluttered. Her body melted more fully into him, her fist finally unclenching against his shirt like she’d decided the world could live another day.

Mason’s whole chest softened.

He kept swaying, quieter now, and lowered his voice even more.

“You’re right,” he whispered—aimed at Rowan, even though he didn’t look away from Lyric. “I did know what I was signing up for.”

A beat.

“Chaos,” he said, barely audible. Another sway. “Drama.” Another. “Aggressive swaying.”

His mouth curved—small, tired, stupidly happy.

Then he glanced up at Rowan, eyes warm and wrecked and very, very awake.

“And I’d sign up again,” he added, simple as breath. “Every time.”

He rocked Lyric a little longer until her breathing evened out, until her mouth fell open in that soft, milk-sleep way that made Mason feel like his heart was made of glass.

Then—still careful, still slow—he shifted closer to Rowan on the couch, so his shoulder brushed hers, so they were a single unit again.

He didn’t sit fully. Just leaned in.

His lips found Rowan’s hairline, a quiet kiss that didn’t ask anything.

Just love. Just home.

And when he whispered the last part, it was almost a secret.

“Fine,” he murmured. “No more unreal.”

He paused like he was thinking hard.

“…I’ll say ridiculously competent warrior queen of February instead.”

He waited a beat, then added quickly, “That’s not a compliment. That’s a job title. Completely different.”

Lyric sighed in his arms, asleep and satisfied.

Mason smiled into Rowan’s hair and kept swaying—gentle, steady, proud—like he could do this forever.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to.

She watched him instead.

Watched the way his shoulders softened once Lyric settled. The way his whole body seemed to recalibrate around her, like holding their daughter wasn’t something he was doing anymore — it was just something he was. Natural. Instinctive. Unshakable.

It did something quiet and devastating to her.

The way he swayed without thinking.
The way he whispered to Lyric like she understood every word.
The way he looked at Rowan only in flickers now — because he trusted her to still be there when he looked back.

Rowan let out a slow breath, sinking deeper into the couch, the blanket pooling around her legs. Her arms felt strangely empty without Lyric, even though she’d handed her off seconds ago — like muscle memory hadn’t caught up yet.

Her hand drifted, unconsciously, to her stomach.

Flat again.

Different.

Her thumb brushed lightly over the fabric of her shirt, like she was checking something was still there. Like some part of her expected to still feel kicks, still be carrying all that quiet weight.

Her eyes flicked back to Mason, watching him whisper iconic like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

Her mouth curved.

“God, you’re such a nerd,” she whispered, fond and exhausted and entirely gone for him. “She burped and you look like you just discovered fire.”

She shifted, turning just slightly toward him, her shoulder brushing into his side more deliberately now. Close. Anchored.

Her gaze softened as she watched Lyric — tiny, slack-mouthed, impossibly peaceful — tucked against his chest like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Because he did.

Rowan swallowed, something warm catching behind her ribs, but she didn’t let it turn into anything bigger. She kept it light. Always light, when it mattered most.

“You do realize,” she went on quietly, “that if you keep narrating her life like this, she’s gonna expect commentary for everything.”

Her lips twitched.

“First steps? You’re gonna be like, ‘incredible form, ten out of ten, really committed to the bit.’”

She reached out then, fingers brushing lightly over Lyric’s back — just a soft pass, checking, grounding, unable not to touch.

Then her hand slid sideways, hooking loosely into Mason’s shirt near his ribs. Not pulling. Just… there.

“I’m not correcting you,” she added after a beat, softer now. “About signing up again.”

Her thumb shifted, rubbing absently against the fabric beneath her fingers.

“Because yeah. Same.”

Her gaze dropped to Lyric again, then lifted back to him — steady, quiet, certain in a way she didn’t have to perform anymore.

“Even the aggressive swaying,” she muttered.

The corner of her mouth lifted.

Then his lips brushed her hairline.

And that—

That almost undid her.

Rowan went still for half a second, just feeling it. Letting it land. Letting it be what it was without turning it into a joke or deflection or anything sharp-edged.

Just that.

Just him.

She exhaled slowly, leaning into him just a little more, her head tipping until it rested lightly against his shoulder.

“Mm,” she murmured. “Good. Because if you called me unreal again, I was actually gonna throw something at you.”

A beat.

Her eyes slid sideways, a spark returning.

“And not, like, gently. Full aim. No hesitation.”

She watched him for a second, then shook her head faintly, a quiet laugh slipping out.

“Ridiculously competent warrior queen of February?” she repeated under her breath. “Wow. That’s… incredibly specific.”

Her lips twitched.

“I accept.”

Then, softer — almost teasing, but not quite:

“Add it to your document.”

She shifted her weight just enough to settle fully against him, her leg nudging his, her presence fitting into his without effort.

Her voice dropped, lazy with exhaustion now, but still edged with something warm.

“And for the record,” she added, eyes half-lidded as she watched Lyric breathe, “if I’m the warrior queen…”

A small pause.

“…you’re the guy narrating the whole thing like it’s a documentary nobody asked for.”

Her fingers tightened briefly in his shirt.

“But,” she admitted, quieter, “it’s a good one.”

Rowan let the room go quiet around her.

The sway of Mason’s body had become automatic now — slow, even, protective. Lyric’s weight rested against him like she had always belonged there. Like she had always known where to land.

Rowan turned her head just slightly and looked at him.

Really looked.

His hair was messier than it had been in high school. There was something steadier in his posture now. Less performance, more presence. He wasn’t playing at anything. He wasn’t trying to be charming or dramatic or impressive.

He was just holding his daughter.

And not even a year ago, he had just been the boy across the stage from her.

The lead. The one who projected to the back row. The one who waited for her cues with that careful focus like the world depended on it. She had known about the crush. Of course she had. It had lived in the way he lingered after rehearsal, the way his voice shifted when it was just the two of them running lines.

She hadn’t returned it then.

Not really.

Back then, her future had been somewhere else entirely. Packed in a dorm room with Sera. Light pink walls and soft gold accents. Paint samples taped up and arguments about which shade felt “ethereal but not nauseating.” Late-night takeout. Campus noise. Independence that tasted sharp and electric.

She could see it clearly even now — Sera cross-legged on a dorm bed, smearing gold trim a little too thick, laughing at nothing.

That life had been waiting.

College would have been there. The campus would still open its doors. Deadlines could shift. Plans could reroute.

But this?

This exact moment — Mason swaying in lamplight, Lyric’s cheek pressed against his chest, the low hum of winter against the windows — this wouldn’t wait.

Getting married in December hadn’t felt like a detour. It had felt like stepping forward. Signing papers with cold hands and warm certainty. Snow on the ground. Mason’s voice steady when he said her name. Lyric still tucked beneath her ribs then.
College could be deferred.

Marriage couldn’t.

A family couldn’t.

Not this version of it. Not with this exact alignment of timing and courage and choice.

Rowan studied Mason’s profile as he bent his head slightly toward Lyric, like even in sleep she deserved his full attention.

He had loved her first.

She knew that.

And something in her had shifted quietly one night — not dramatic, not fireworks — just a slow realization that the person who stayed, who showed up, who didn’t flinch at her edges… was the person she wanted beside her.

If that shift hadn’t happened, she would be somewhere else right now. Boxes half-unpacked. Walls drying in layers of pink and gold.

Instead, her walls were warm wood and soft light. Her nights were measured in ounces and burps and careful sways.

She didn’t feel trapped.

She felt anchored.

Her hand drifted over the blanket near Mason’s thigh, brushing the fabric absently. Not to get his attention. Just to feel him there. Solid. Real.

Not a stage partner.

Not a high school almost.

Her husband.

The father of her daughter.

The boy who once waited in the wings hoping she’d look at him — now standing in the middle of her life like he had always belonged there.

Rowan exhaled slowly, letting the weight of that settle.

The dorm room would have been pretty.

This was permanent.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say anything when Rowan went quiet.

He felt it before he saw it—the way her body stopped fidgeting, the way her breath changed, the way her gaze slid past him for a second like she’d opened a door in her head and wandered through it without meaning to.

He’d learned that look.

Rowan could be right there, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and still drift a thousand miles away. Not because she was leaving—never that—but because her mind had this way of replaying and measuring and holding too much at once. Like she was trying to make sure she deserved the softness she was finally letting herself have.

So he didn’t crack a joke.

He didn’t poke the moment.

He just stayed.

He kept swaying with Lyric tucked to his chest, slow and even, his hand supporting that tiny neck like it was the most important job he’d ever been given. Lyric’s cheek was warm against him, her little body heavy with sleep in a way that made his heart do that stupid, helpless thing where it expanded and hurt at the same time.

His eyes flicked down to her instinctively—making sure her mouth was relaxed, that her breath was steady, that the burp cloth was in the right place. His thumb brushed once along her back, barely a touch.

Then his gaze tracked back to Rowan without turning his head too fast, like sudden movements might startle her out of whatever she’d fallen into.

She was looking at him the way she did when she was thinking about the before and the after at the same time.

Mason’s chest tightened—softly, not painfully. Like an ache you didn’t want to fix because it meant something.

He kept his body angled toward her, shoulder still offering the same steady point of contact. His free hand stayed where it was under the blanket, resting against her leg like a quiet reminder: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Rowan’s fingers brushed near his thigh, absent and light. Not asking. Not pulling. Just touching to confirm reality.

Mason let his hand shift under the blanket until his knuckles found her fingertips and curled around them—gentle, careful not to trap her. Just enough pressure to say I feel you.

He watched her face, not trying to read the thoughts—he didn’t need to. He just recognized the shape of them. The way her eyes got shiny without tears. The way her mouth went still like she was holding a sentence behind her teeth.

He swallowed, kept swaying.

Lyric made a tiny sound in her sleep—a little sigh that melted into his shirt—and Mason’s attention dipped immediately, protective and automatic. He adjusted her by an inch, lifting her higher, supporting the base of her head with two fingers. He waited until her breathing smoothed again.

Only then did he look back at Rowan.

Still quiet.

Still there.

His eyes softened. His mouth tried to smile and didn’t quite manage it, because it felt too loud for what was happening.

He leaned in just enough to press his lips to Rowan’s hair again—one slow kiss at her temple. Not a declaration. Not a fix. Just love delivered quietly, like leaving a blanket over someone who fell asleep on the couch.

Then he breathed, barely audible, the simplest thing he could give her without dragging her out of her own head.

“Hey.”

A pause.

“I got you.”

And that was it.

He didn’t add more. Didn’t make it heavier.

He just stayed in the rhythm—sway, breathe, watch. Rowan and Lyric. Lyric and Rowan. The whole room held in this small circle of light and winter hush.

Rowan’s shoulders dropped a fraction, like something inside her had unclenched. She leaned into him more fully, head settling against his shoulder with a kind of surrender that still felt like a choice every time she made it.

Mason’s grip on her fingers tightened once—soft, steady—then loosened again so she could move if she wanted.

She didn’t.

Lyric shifted, heavier now, the kind of deadweight sleep that made Mason’s arms burn in the best way. He adjusted again, careful, and his lips brushed the top of Lyric’s head without him even thinking about it—just instinct, just reverence.

Then, because his brain was his brain and he was still him, even when he was trying to be noble—

He tipped his face toward Rowan’s ear and whispered, like it was a secret only the couch could hear,

“…If you’re doing the whole permanent thing in your head right now, just so you know—”

He swallowed the grin before it could show.

“—I’m still not reading the instructions either. I’m just… holding the manual for moral support.”

His eyes flicked to her, checking for the smile.

Still careful. Still watching both of his girls like the world could freeze outside forever and he’d be fine as long as they were warm in here.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t laugh right away.

She let the sway settle into her ribs. Let his breath at her temple ground her before she opened her mouth.

Her fingers tightened in his when he said he’d got her.

“I know you do,” she said quietly.

It wasn’t automatic reassurance. It wasn’t deflection.

It was acknowledgment.

When he whispered about the permanent thing and the manual, she exhaled through her nose, the faintest almost-smile pulling at her mouth.

“You’re such an idiot,” she murmured, but there was no bite in it. Just warmth. Just him.

She shifted slightly, turning her face up toward his so she could see him properly. The lamplight caught in his eyes. Lyric’s head was tucked under his chin like she’d chosen that spot on purpose.

“I was thinking about how different everything is,” she admitted.

Her thumb traced slowly along his knuckles under the blanket.

“Last year, this time… I was stressing about auditions and scholarship deadlines. About whether I should major in something practical or something that would make my dad sigh dramatically at Thanksgiving.”

A small huff of breath.

“I was picturing dorm rooms. Studio apartments. Maybe studying abroad if I could swing it.”

She glanced toward the dark window where February pressed cold against the glass.

“I thought my life was going to be loud and fast and somewhere else.”

Her gaze drifted back to Lyric’s sleeping face.

“And instead…”

Her voice softened.

“Instead it’s this.”

Not disappointment. Not regret.

Wonder.

She watched the way Mason adjusted Lyric without even thinking about it. The instinct. The gentleness. The quiet focus.

“I didn’t see this coming,” she said honestly. “Not like this. Not this soon.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“I didn’t think I’d get married before I even got my first student ID.”

She let the weight of that sit for a second—not heavy, just real.

“But when I picture the other version?” she continued softly. “The dorm room. The pink walls. Me and Sera pretending we’re independent adults who know what we’re doing…”

She shook her head just slightly.

“It feels smaller.”

She leaned in more fully then, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

“This feels big,” she said. “And full.”

Her fingers laced with his deliberately now.

“I’m tired all the time. I smell like milk. I haven’t had a full night of sleep in weeks.”

A faint breath of laughter.

“But I’ve never felt more… anchored.”

She lifted her head just enough to look at him again.

“I wasn’t spiraling,” she clarified gently. “I was just realizing how much shifted. How fast it did.”

A pause.

“And how I don’t want it back.”

Her eyes flicked down to Lyric again.

“I wouldn’t trade this.”

Then back to him.

“I wouldn’t trade you.”

Her hand squeezed his once—firm, certain.

“My life looks nothing like I planned,” she admitted softly.

Her lips curved.

“But it feels exactly like it’s supposed to.”

She leaned into him again, no hesitation now, letting the sway carry all three of them.

“I’m happy,” she said quietly. “Like… bone-deep.”

Then, because she couldn’t leave it entirely sincere for too long:

“And for the record, if you ever actually read the manual, I will absolutely question everything I know about you.”

Her head rested against his shoulder.

Warm.

Full.

Exactly where she wanted to be.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away.

He just sat there with Lyric tucked under his chin, warm and asleep, her weight settled into his arms in that way that made his whole body go still—no swaying now, no pacing, just holding. The house was quiet except for the heater and the soft, steady sound of Lyric breathing.

Rowan’s words landed slowly.

Dorm rooms. Deadlines. Study abroad. The other version of her life.

He didn’t flinch at any of it. He didn’t feel threatened by it. He just… pictured it, the way she did, like turning a photograph over in his hands and recognizing the person in it without missing them.

Because the truth was, he’d had a photograph too.

College brochures once. A couple of saved links. A half-serious plan scribbled into the margins of his life like: audition here, apply there, maybe move, maybe figure it out.

He’d talked about it like it was inevitable. Like it was the next act.

And then Rowan had looked at him—eyes wide, voice shaking, brave in that quiet way she got when she was about to say something that changed everything—and told him she was pregnant.

And those plans hadn’t even broken.

They’d just… gone quiet.

Like a stage light clicking off.

He hadn’t mourned them the way he thought he would. He hadn’t paced the room, panicked, tried to bargain for more time.

All he’d been able to think was: Okay. Here. With you.

Now he looked at her—her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes tired but bright, her mouth curving around the kind of happiness she still seemed surprised to feel—and something in his chest eased.

He shifted his hand to cover hers, lacing their fingers more firmly under the blanket like a confirmation. Like: Yes. Me too.

“You know what’s wild?” he said quietly, voice low so he wouldn’t disturb Lyric, but steady enough to hold the room.

He swallowed once, glanced down at their daughter’s sleeping face, and then back to Rowan.

“I thought I was gonna miss it,” he admitted. “The whole… college thing. The version where I’m running around with a backpack and pretending I have my life together because I bought a planner.”

A tiny, crooked smile flickered.

“But the second you told me—” He didn’t even finish the sentence out loud. He didn’t have to. It lived in the air between them.

His thumb brushed across Rowan’s knuckles, slow and grounding.

“I didn’t want anywhere else,” he said, simpler. “I didn’t want a different life. I just wanted you okay. And then I wanted her okay. And somewhere in the middle of that, I realized… this is the only plan that’s ever felt real.”

He held Rowan’s gaze for a beat, letting it land without jokes or deflection.

“You saying you’re happy,” he murmured, “that’s… everything.”

His voice softened, almost reverent.

“Because I love this life,” he said. “The milk smell. The 2 a.m. negotiations. The way you look at her like she’s a miracle and then look at me like I did something right.”

He shifted slightly on the couch—careful, controlled—adjusting Lyric just enough to keep her settled without waking her, then looked back at Rowan.

“And you,” he added, quieter. “You’re still loud and fast. You’re just… loud and fast in here now. With us.”

His eyes flicked to Lyric again, his mouth tugging like he was trying not to smile too big.

“And if I ever read the manual,” he whispered, dead serious, “it’ll be because I’m sleep deprived and hallucinating. So yes. You should question everything.”

Then he leaned in—not to kiss, not to make it heavier—just to press his forehead briefly to Rowan’s temple, a quiet touch that said I’m here, I’m staying, I chose this and I keep choosing it.

When he pulled back, his voice was barely there.

“I don’t want it back either,” he said. “Not for a second.”

And he stayed like that—still, steady, holding their daughter with one arm and Rowan with the other—like the rest of the world could keep its plans.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan listened without interrupting.

She felt the way his voice didn’t crack, didn’t hesitate when he said he didn’t want it back. She felt the steadiness in it. Not defensive. Not convincing himself.

Certain.

When he admitted he thought he’d miss it—the backpack, the planner, the pretending—her mouth curved faintly against his shoulder.

“You would’ve color-coded the hell out of that planner,” she murmured softly.

But she let the joke fall away just as quickly.

Her eyes held his when he said he just wanted her okay.

That part always got her.

The way he didn’t frame it like sacrifice. Didn’t frame it like something lost. Just something shifted.

She swallowed once.

“I remember your face,” she said quietly. “When I told you.”

Her fingers tightened around his hand under the blanket.

“You didn’t look trapped.”

Her voice softened.

“You looked… focused.”

She shifted slightly, brushing her cheek against Lyric’s head before looking back at him.

“I thought you’d panic,” she admitted. “Or at least ask for a minute.”

A small breath of a laugh.

“You just said ‘Okay.’ Like we were deciding what to have for dinner.”

Her gaze searched his face, slower now.

“You choosing it so fast is what made me brave enough to choose it too.”

She let that settle between them.

When he said he loved this life—the milk smell, the 2 a.m. negotiations—her eyes glistened just slightly, but she didn’t let it spill.

“I love it too,” she said. “I love how ordinary it is. How quiet.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckles again.

“I don’t feel like I missed something.”

A beat.

“I feel like I stepped into something.”

She leaned into the press of his forehead against her temple, closing her eyes for a second. Just breathing him in. The weight of Lyric between them. The heater humming.

When he said he didn’t want it back—not for a second—her shoulders dropped the rest of the way.

“Good,” she whispered.

Because she didn’t either.

They stayed like that for another few breaths, the house wrapped around them in soft lamplight and winter hush.

Then Rowan shifted.

Careful.

She untangled her fingers from his slowly, sliding her hand out from under the blanket. She leaned forward, bracing one palm on the couch to stand.

It took a second—her body still not entirely convinced she’d had a baby two months ago and recovered from it—but she made it up without wobbling.

She looked down at him—Lyric tucked against his chest, stubborn and soft and impossibly theirs.

Her head tilted slightly toward the hallway.

“We sleep when she sleeps,” she murmured, already half-turning.

Not dramatic.

Not negotiable.

Just fact.

She reached down and brushed her fingers once through his hair, quick and familiar.

“Bring her,” she added quietly.

Then she padded toward the hallway, glancing back once to make sure he was following—because of course he would.

Permanent didn’t feel heavy anymore.

It felt like going to bed together.

Rowan pulled the blankets back with slow, practiced movements, the kind that didn’t rustle too much.

The bedroom was dim—only the small lamp on her nightstand still on, casting that soft amber glow that made everything feel quieter than it actually was. February pressed cold against the window, but the room was warm. Familiar. Lived in.

She slid into bed first, easing herself down onto her side, adjusting the pillows behind her back. She watched Mason cross the room carefully, Lyric still tucked against his chest like something fragile and priceless.

Her chest did that thing again.

Every time.

He moved like he’d been doing this forever. Like he hadn’t learned it all in a matter of weeks.

When he reached the bed, Rowan lifted the blanket slightly, creating the small, safe space between them.

“Slow,” she whispered automatically, even though he already was.

He lowered Lyric down into the space between them with deliberate precision—one hand supporting her head, the other steady at her back. Rowan slid her palm under Lyric’s tiny body the second she felt the mattress dip, making sure she was centered. Secure.

Lyric stirred for half a second, mouth puckering, fists twitching.

Rowan held her breath.

Mason froze.

Then Lyric exhaled and melted again, cheek turned toward Rowan this time.

Rowan let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She adjusted the edge of the swaddle, smoothing it gently over Lyric’s chest. Her finger traced once along her daughter’s tiny eyebrow, barely touching.

“There,” she murmured softly.

Satisfied.

She rolled onto her side fully, propping her head on her arm so she could see both of them.

Mason lay on his side too, mirroring her without thinking.

Lyric between them. Warm. Small. Real.

Rowan’s hand rested lightly over Lyric’s stomach, feeling the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

She looked at Mason across their daughter’s tiny form.

No stage lights. No audience. No dorm rooms. No deadlines.

Just this.

Her mouth curved faintly.

“She takes up less space than a backpack,” she whispered, barely audible. “And somehow more than everything.”

Her eyes softened as she watched Lyric’s lips twitch in sleep.

Rowan reached her free hand across the small space and hooked her fingers into Mason’s shirt near his collarbone, grounding herself to him without needing to say it.

“I’m glad it’s this,” she said quietly.

Not wistful.

Not questioning.

Certain.

She leaned forward just enough to press a gentle kiss to Lyric’s hairline, then another across to Mason’s knuckles where his hand rested near theirs.

Then she settled back into the pillow, still facing them both.

“Okay,” she breathed.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away.

He watched her do it first—the way she moved through the room like she’d done it a hundred times, like the rules of their new life lived in her bones now. We sleep when she sleeps. Not a suggestion. A law.

He followed without question.

Not because he was scared to disobey—because he wasn’t—but because the truth was he trusted her in this way that felt almost feral. Like she could call the play in the dark and he’d hit his mark every time.

He crossed the bedroom with Lyric tucked to his chest, and he could feel Rowan watching him like she always did lately—like she was still surprised by him, still taking inventory of the way he’d changed shape around fatherhood without losing himself.

He didn’t say anything about it.

He just moved carefully.

Slow, like she whispered. Even though he already was.

Lowering Lyric into that warm pocket between them felt like placing something priceless in the center of a small, private universe. His hand stayed under her head longer than necessary. His other palm hovered at her back even after she settled, like he could keep the world from shifting if he held steady enough.

When Lyric stirred, his whole body went still.

Not panicked—just… tuned.

Then she exhaled and melted again, and Mason let out a breath so quiet it barely existed.

Rowan traced Lyric’s eyebrow with that impossibly gentle touch, and something in Mason’s chest softened so hard it almost hurt.

He lay down on his side, mirroring Rowan without thinking, his arm bent under the pillow, his gaze fixed on the little rise and fall of Lyric’s breathing like it was the only clock that mattered.

Rowan whispered that line about the backpack.

Mason’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Lyric, because it was true in a way that made him feel dizzy. Six weeks old and already taking up more space in their lives than anything he’d ever planned for.

Rowan’s fingers hooked into his shirt near his collarbone, grounding herself, and Mason kept still so she wouldn’t lose it—so she could hold on as long as she needed.

She said she was glad it was this.

Mason’s throat tightened, but he didn’t make it a thing. He didn’t reach for a joke or try to soften it with charm. He just let it sit between them, heavy in the best way.

He shifted his hand closer to the center, careful not to touch Lyric’s face, and let his knuckles brush Rowan’s lightly—barely there. A quiet yes.

Then, because he couldn’t let the moment pass without giving her something back—something simple, something true—he whispered, so low it was more breath than sound:

“Me too.”

He watched Rowan kiss Lyric’s hairline, then his knuckles, and it hit him again—how ordinary this looked from the outside. Two kids in a dim room. A lamp. A heater. A baby between them.

And how completely it wasn’t ordinary at all.

He’d had plans once. He could still remember the vague outlines—brochures, auditions, the idea of somewhere else. But those memories felt like a different person’s life now. Not sad. Not stolen. Just… irrelevant.

This—Lyric’s tiny body, Rowan’s hand in his shirt, the quiet certainty of going to sleep together—this was what mattered.

Mason’s gaze moved from Rowan to Lyric and back again, holding them both in the same breath like he was afraid the world might try to take the moment away.

It didn’t.

Rowan exhaled an “Okay,” like she was closing a door gently.

Mason nodded once, almost imperceptible, like he was answering her without needing words.

Then he stilled completely—no swaying, no moving, just present—listening to the shared, soft rhythm of their breathing until the room felt like it had finally settled around them.

Home.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t close her eyes when he said me too.

She watched him instead.

The way he went still once Lyric settled. The way his gaze tracked every breath like he was memorizing it. The way he didn’t fill the quiet just to fill it.

Six months ago he would’ve.

Now he let it stretch.

Her hand stayed resting lightly over Lyric’s stomach for a moment longer before she slowly slid it away, careful not to disturb her. She shifted closer, inching her shoulder toward his until their foreheads were almost aligned across the tiny rise of their daughter between them.

Her other hand slipped under her pillow.

She didn’t grab his hand outright. Didn’t lace fingers.

She searched.

Found.

His ring finger.

The cool band there.

Her thumb brushed over it once. Then again. Slow. Thoughtful. She twisted it gently around his finger, back and forth, the metal catching faintly in the lamplight.

She hadn’t meant to start doing that.

It had just happened one night—weeks ago—when she’d woken up and needed proof. Proof that the December air and the vows and the way his voice had sounded saying her name hadn’t been something she’d imagined.

She twisted it again now, grounding herself.

“You know what’s still weird?” she whispered, voice low enough that it barely crossed the space between them.

Her eyes stayed on the ring.

“That we’re married.”

Not dramatic. Just factual.

Her thumb rolled the band slowly over his knuckle.

“I still expect someone to walk in and tell us it didn’t count because we’re eighteen.”

A faint breath of a smile ghosted across her mouth.

“Like it was a rehearsal.”

She twisted it again.

It had been December 6th. Cold. Sharp air. Her hands shaking even though she hadn’t been nervous about him—just about the size of the choice. The weight of it. The way it changed everything without asking permission.

She looked up at him now.

“I keep thinking about how fast it happened,” she murmured. “Senior year. A play. A secret crush I pretended not to see. Two pink lines.”

Her fingers paused on the ring.

“And now she’s here.”

Lyric made a tiny snuffling sound in her sleep. Rowan’s eyes flicked down immediately, instinctive. Her palm hovered for half a second before she relaxed again when the baby settled.

She found his ring again under the pillow.

Twisted.

“I don’t regret it,” she added softly. “Not a second. I just…”

She exhaled.

“…can’t believe we did it.”

Her thumb smoothed over the band, almost reverent.

“December 6th,” she whispered. “Lyric on the 24th.”

She looked at him fully now.

“That’s insane.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“I was supposed to be arguing with Sera about dorm décor and instead I was learning how to file a marriage license.”

She twisted the ring again, slower now.

“But when I think about it,” she continued, voice barely there, “I don’t feel like I lost something.”

Her gaze softened.

“I feel like I skipped to the part most people don’t get to until they’re older and tired of pretending.”

Her fingers slowed their movement.

“You’re my husband,” she said quietly, like she was still testing the word. Not doubting it. Just… feeling it.

Her thumb rolled the ring once more.

“I like that.”

Lyric’s breathing deepened between them. The heater clicked softly.

Rowan shifted closer still, her knee brushing his lightly beneath the blankets.

“I’m not asleep yet,” she murmured, almost teasing, but gentle.

Her thumb kept moving over the band.

“I’m just… making sure this is real.”

And she stayed there, eyes open, tracing the circle of gold like it was proof she could hold.

Rowan kept twisting the ring.

Slow. Thoughtful. The faint scrape of metal against skin almost rhythmic now.

She watched his face while she did it, like she was measuring something only she could see.

Then her expression softened in a different way.

“You know,” she murmured, voice still low so it didn’t disturb the steady rise and fall between them, “we wouldn’t be here like this without them.”

Her thumb paused on the band, pressing it lightly against his knuckle.

“My parents.”

There was no tension in her tone. No resentment. Just clarity.

“I keep thinking about that night,” she went on quietly. “When I told them.”

Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling for a second, remembering it in flashes—her mom’s stillness, her dad’s jaw tightening before he forced it to unclench. The silence that felt like it might split her in half.

“I thought they were going to be disappointed in me forever,” she admitted. “I thought they’d see me as… reckless. Like I’d thrown something away.”

Her thumb resumed its gentle rotation of his ring.

“They didn’t.”

Her voice thinned slightly, but not with sadness. With gratitude.

“They were scared,” she said. “But they didn’t shut the door. They didn’t make it harder than it already was.”

She swallowed.

“They gave us space. They gave us help. They didn’t try to make you the villain.”

Her eyes flicked to him deliberately when she said that.

“They treated you like you belonged here.”

That mattered more than she’d ever said out loud.

She traced the edge of his ring again, slower now.

“If they hadn’t let us stay,” she whispered, “if they hadn’t trusted us enough to let us figure it out under their roof…”

Her gaze dropped to Lyric.

“We wouldn’t have this quiet.”

The heater hummed. Lyric sighed in her sleep.

Rowan’s fingers tightened slightly around his ring finger, not possessive—anchoring.

“I think about how easy it would’ve been for them to panic. To push. To control it.”

A small breath left her.

“They didn’t.”

Her voice softened further.

“They chose to support us instead of punish us.”

She shifted closer to him again, her knee pressing more firmly against his beneath the blankets.

“That’s why I can lie here like this,” she said quietly. “Not scrambling. Not hiding.”

Her thumb made one last slow circle around the band.

“They gave us room to become this.”

Her gaze moved from his hand to his face again.

“And I don’t think I’ve thanked them properly for that.”

Lyric made another tiny noise and settled deeper between them.

Rowan leaned forward slightly, brushing her lips to Lyric’s forehead, then back again.

“I want her to feel that,” she murmured. “That kind of backing. That kind of grace.”

Her fingers stilled finally, resting over his ring without twisting it.

“We got lucky,” she said softly. “With each other. With them.”

She exhaled slowly, her voice quieter now.

“I don’t take that lightly.”

And she stayed there, not asleep, just resting in the fullness of it.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stayed still while she talked.

Not because he was afraid to move—because he wasn’t—but because he knew this version of Rowan. The one who got quiet and precise, like she was laying something fragile on the table and trusting him not to drop it.

Her thumb kept turning his ring like it was a worry stone. Proof. Anchor. Spell.

It did something to him every time she did it.

He let his attention settle on her face instead of Lyric’s breathing now, because Lyric was safe—warm between them, steady as a metronome. Rowan wasn’t unsafe, either, but she was… open. And that always felt rarer. Like it deserved his full focus.

He watched her eyes track memories he couldn’t see. December air. Paperwork. The way a whole life rerouted in a matter of weeks.

When she whispered we’re married, his mouth twitched—not into a joke, not yet. Just that soft, helpless little smile that showed up when his heart got too full and didn’t know where to put it.

“I know,” he murmured back, voice low enough to stay inside the blankets. “It’s… insane.”

Then she started talking about her parents.

Mason didn’t interrupt.

He felt his chest tighten at the part where she said they didn’t make him the villain. He remembered that night too—not every word, but the weight of it. The way her dad had looked at him like he was trying to decide what kind of man he was, and the way her mom had reached for Rowan’s hand like she was choosing her even in shock.

He hadn’t been sure he’d earned any of it.

He still wasn’t, if he was being honest.

Rowan’s thumb paused on the ring, pressing it against his knuckle, and Mason’s throat worked around something tender.

He shifted his hand under the pillow just enough to cover hers—slow, careful—so she could feel the answer without him needing to build a speech around it.

“I think about that too,” he whispered.

His fingers curled lightly over her hand, not stopping her from touching the ring, just joining her there. Meeting her in the proof.

“They didn’t have to,” he said, meaning it. “They could’ve made it… harder. They could’ve made you feel like you owed them for breathing.”

He swallowed, glanced down briefly at Lyric’s tiny nose and slack mouth, then back to Rowan.

“But they didn’t,” he repeated, softer. “They gave us a place to land.”

His thumb brushed the side of Rowan’s hand—one slow stroke, like punctuation.

“And you’re right,” he added. “We haven’t thanked them the way we should.”

A beat.

Then, because he was still Mason and he couldn’t live in sincerity without offering a little light, his mouth tipped into a small grin.

“I mean, I have thanked your mom approximately one thousand times,” he whispered. “But she keeps telling me to stop looking like I’m about to cry and eat the lasagna.”

The grin faded into something warmer.

“We can do it properly,” he said. “Not as, like, a big dramatic speech. Just… show it. Keep showing up. Keep taking care of what they trusted us with.”

His gaze flicked to Lyric again—just a quick check-in—then returned to Rowan like he couldn’t help it.

“You already do that,” he said quietly. “With her. With me.”

He let that sit, then shifted a fraction closer so their foreheads could almost touch across Lyric’s tiny body. The movement was careful, protective by instinct, like his whole life had become a series of gentles.

“You know what I thought when your dad didn’t shut the door on me?” he murmured.

He didn’t wait for her to answer.

“I thought—okay. If they’re letting me stay, then I don’t get to be a kid about this. I don’t get to treat it like a temporary miracle.”

His thumb brushed her ring finger now, mirroring what she’d been doing to him—quietly, reverently.

“I get to be the man who deserved the grace they gave you,” he finished, voice rough but steady. “And I’m trying. Every day.”

His eyes stayed on hers.

No performative vow. No grand speech.

Just honesty.

Then he leaned in—slow, careful not to jostle Lyric—and pressed a kiss to Rowan’s forehead. Not a distraction. A promise.

When he pulled back, the smile returned—small, charming, a little sleepy.

“And for the record,” he whispered, “I still can’t believe you’re my wife. Like… legally. Government involved. Paperwork. You signed a form that said ‘yes, this dramatic theater kid is my problem now.’”

He let the joke land softly, then added, quieter, meant only for her:

“I’m really glad you did.”

His hand stayed over hers on the ring, holding her there—not trapping, not possessive. Just present.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan listened to him the way he’d listened to her.

Still. Attentive. Like nothing else in the room outranked this.

When he said it was insane, her mouth curved faintly.

“It is,” she breathed. “In the best way.”

Her thumb kept turning his ring while he talked about her parents, about staying, about deserving the grace they’d given. When he said he didn’t get to treat it like a temporary miracle, something in her chest pulled tight.

“You never did,” she whispered. “You didn’t treat it like temporary. Not once.”

Her eyes softened when he said he was trying every day.

“I know you are,” she murmured.

She meant it without embellishment. She saw it in the 3 a.m. bottle runs. In the way he hovered without hovering. In how he never acted like he’d been forced into something.

When he kissed her forehead, she closed her eyes for half a second, letting it settle.

Then he made the government joke, and she huffed softly through her nose.

“Legally binding,” she whispered back. “Very serious.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his hand.

“I did sign that,” she added, teasing but soft. “Fully aware of the dramatic theater kid clause.”

She let the smile fade into something more thoughtful.

Her thumb slowed on his ring.

“You know we won’t stay here forever,” she said quietly.

Not restless.

Just certain.

She shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Lyric, and looked at him more directly across the small space between them.

“I love my parents. I’m grateful for this. But eventually… I want our place.”

She rolled the ring once more.

“An apartment that smells like us. Not my mom’s laundry detergent.”

A faint smile flickered.

“Somewhere with thin walls and terrible plumbing and a window that looks out at something loud.”

Her gaze held his.

“And then maybe not so terrible plumbing.”

A beat.

“New York,” she said softly.

Not dreamy. Not far-off fantasy.

Measured.

She traced the edge of his ring with her thumb again.

“You’re going to end up on Broadway,” she continued quietly. “One way or another.”

There was no question in it. No doubt.

“I’ve known that since senior year,” she said. “Since you stopped pretending you weren’t the best one on stage.”

Her voice lowered.

“You’re built for it.”

Lyric shifted slightly between them, and Rowan’s hand automatically smoothed down the blanket.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” she admitted, eyes flicking back to his. “Not fully.”

Her thumb stilled on his ring.

“I don’t know if I want school later. Or something creative. Or something practical. Or something completely different.”

She exhaled softly.

“But I know you.”

Her hand slid from twisting the band to resting flat over his hand.

“You’re not done with the stage.”

It wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t expectation.

It was recognition.

“And wherever that takes you,” she said quietly, “I’ll go.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

“If that’s New York. If that’s touring. If that’s some tiny apartment over a deli that smells like garlic forever.”

A faint, warm smile.

“I’ll follow.”

She leaned closer, careful of Lyric, until their foreheads almost touched again.

“Not because I don’t have my own path,” she added softly. “But because I want to build mine next to yours.”

Her fingers slid back to his ring again, twisting it gently like she needed the anchor.

“You’re destined for the stage,” she murmured. “I’ve always known that.”

Her eyes searched his face.

“And I’m not scared of it.”

A small pause.

“I’m excited.”

Then quieter still:

“We’ll figure out the rest.”

Lyric’s breathing stayed steady between them.

Rowan let her hand remain on his, not twisting now. Just holding.

Fully awake.

Fully choosing.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t answer right away.

Because the second she said New York—not like a daydream, not like a dare, but like a plan she’d already made room for—something in him went so still it almost scared him.

Not fear, exactly.

More like the feeling of standing at the edge of a stage right before the lights come up. That split second where everything in you goes quiet because you know what you want. You know who you are.

And she was looking at him like she knew it too.

He kept his hand under hers, their fingers warm around his ring, and let his eyes stay on her face. Rowan was tired. Awake. Real. Brave in that way that didn’t ask for applause.

“You’ve known,” he whispered, a little stunned by it. “Since senior year.”

He let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but softer. “Of course you have.”

Because Rowan Starling always saw things before he admitted them to himself.

Broadway.

It was the ultimate dream. It always had been. The kind of dream you didn’t say out loud too often because saying it made it vulnerable to reality.

But hearing her say it like it wasn’t ridiculous—like it was inevitable—made his chest ache in a way he didn’t have a word for.

He glanced down at Lyric between them, just to check. Still asleep. Still safe. Still their whole world in miniature.

Then he looked back at Rowan.

“I want that,” he admitted quietly. Honest. No performance. “Broadway. The lights, the orchestra, the whole stupid, impossible thing.”

His mouth twitched. “I want to be on a stage so big it scares me.”

A beat.

Then he softened, because the truth had more layers than the dream.

“But,” he added, voice gentler, “I’d also take community theater. I’d take a weird little black box in a town we’ve never heard of. I’d take playing a tree in Into the Woods if it meant I get to come home to you and her.”

He let the words settle, his thumb brushing once over the side of her hand.

“I don’t want the dream if it costs me my life,” he said simply. “And you two are my life.”

His gaze flicked toward the dark window, the winter pressed against it, and then back to her.

“A place of our own,” he murmured, tasting it. “An apartment that smells like us.”

He smiled—small, warm. “And not your mom’s detergent that somehow makes everything smell like… responsible adulthood.”

He squeezed her hand gently.

“We can start there,” he said. “A tiny place. Thin walls. Terrible plumbing. You yelling at a leaky faucet, me pretending I know what I’m doing, Lyric judging us from her bouncer like she pays rent.”

He paused, eyes softening again.

“And then we’ll go wherever it takes us.”

Not wherever it takes me.

Us.

He leaned closer, careful, so he didn’t disturb Lyric, and pressed his forehead lightly toward Rowan’s—hovering close without forcing the contact, letting her decide.

“I love that you’re excited,” he whispered. “Because I think… I think I was holding my breath about it. Like wanting too much would jinx us.”

His mouth curved, boyish and a little wrecked.

“But you don’t make it feel like a jinx,” he said. “You make it feel like… okay. Like we’re allowed to have more than one dream.”

He glanced down at his ring where her fingers rested.

“And I’m not scared,” he added, echoing her. “Not if you’re with me.”

Then, because he couldn’t help being himself—even in a moment that felt holy—he murmured, “Also, if we end up over a deli that smells like garlic forever? That’s just… immersive theater. Very method. Very New York.”

He watched her mouth twitch, that almost-smile she tried to hide.

And he softened completely.

“Row,” he said quietly, “I’ll follow you too.”

A beat.

“Not because you need me,” he added, voice steady, “but because I want my path braided with yours. Whatever you decide—school, something creative, something practical, something completely unhinged—I’m in. I’m your husband. That’s the job.”

He didn’t say it like a weight.

He said it like a gift.

Then he leaned in and kissed her—slow and careful, barely there, a promise pressed into the quiet.

When he pulled back, he stayed close.

“Let’s start with a place,” he whispered. “Ours.”

His eyes flicked once more to Lyric’s sleeping face.

“And then,” he added, smiling softly, “we’ll go chase the big lights. Together.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt it the second she said New York.

The stillness in him.

Not resistance.

Recognition.

When he whispered, You’ve known, her mouth curved gently.

“Of course I’ve known,” she murmured back. “You light up differently when you’re on stage. It’s not subtle.”

Her thumb rolled his ring once more, slower now.

“You stopped pretending halfway through senior year,” she added softly. “When you realized you didn’t have to shrink it to make it safer.”

She held his gaze when he admitted he wanted it—the lights, the orchestra, the big, terrifying stage.

Her eyes warmed, not surprised.

“I know you do,” she said quietly. “And you should.”

When he softened it—community theater, black boxes, playing a tree—she let out the faintest breath of a laugh.

“You’d be a very committed tree,” she whispered.

But when he said he didn’t want the dream if it cost him his life—if it cost them—her expression changed.

Steadier.

“You don’t have to choose like that,” she said gently. “It’s not either/or.”

Her fingers slid from twisting his ring to resting flat against his hand.

“We build it together. That’s the point.”

When he echoed her—an apartment that smells like us—she smiled properly this time.

“Exactly.”

At the detergent comment, she rolled her eyes softly.

“Don’t insult the detergent,” she murmured. “It raised us.”

Her knee brushed his under the blankets.

“I can see it,” she continued, voice low and sure. “Tiny kitchen. You dramatically diagnosing plumbing issues you googled five minutes ago. Me pretending I don’t care about aesthetics while secretly painting one wall something stupid and bold.”

Her gaze dipped to Lyric between them.

“And her growing up knowing we built it from scratch.”

When he said wherever it takes us, she felt the way he corrected himself without saying it.

Us.

She nodded once.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She leaned into the almost-touch of his forehead, closing the space herself.

When he admitted he’d been holding his breath about it—about wanting too much—her hand tightened slightly on his.

“You’re allowed to want it,” she said firmly, but softly. “You don’t jinx a dream by naming it.”

Her thumb brushed his ring again.

“You jinx it by being afraid of it.”

Her eyes searched his face.

“I’m not afraid of New York,” she said. “I’m not afraid of auditions. Or rejections. Or small apartments.”

A small pause.

“I’m only afraid of shrinking.”

She let that hang there.

When he said he wasn’t scared if she was with him, something quiet and proud settled in her chest.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The garlic joke pulled a smile from her before she could stop it.

“You’d absolutely call it immersive theater,” she murmured. “You’d romanticize the garbage truck schedule.”

But when he said he’d follow her too—path braided with hers—her teasing expression softened completely.

“That’s the only way it works,” she said. “Braided.”

Not leading. Not trailing.

Together.

She let him kiss her, slow and careful over Lyric’s sleeping form, and when he pulled back she stayed close—close enough to feel his breath.

“Our place first,” she agreed.

Her hand slid from his ring to rest against his chest now, over his heart.

“Then the big lights.”

Her gaze flicked to Lyric one more time.

“And she’ll think it’s normal,” she added softly. “Her dad on stage. Her mom figuring it out as she goes.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“That’s the life I want.”

She leaned her forehead fully against his this time, no hovering.

“Start small,” she murmured. “Dream big.”

Her thumb pressed once more against the ring, grounding herself.

“And we don’t let go of either.”

She didn’t close her eyes yet.

She just stayed there—awake, certain, choosing the future out loud with him in the dark.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason took that in like he was learning a new language.

Not the words—he got the words.

The certainty behind them.

Rowan didn’t say it like a pep talk. She said it like a rule of physics: you don’t jinx a dream by naming it. You jinx it by shrinking.

And he felt something unclench in his chest that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding tight since before Lyric was born. Since before the test. Since before December. Since before the idea of Broadway ever felt like something he was allowed to want without being punished for it.

He kept his forehead against hers, breathing slow, letting her hand on his heart do what it always did—make him feel anchored, even when his mind tried to fly.

“Okay,” he whispered, and it came out a little rough. Not a joke. Not a dodge. Just… acceptance. Like he was letting her hand him the truth and deciding, finally, to hold it without flinching.

He glanced down at Lyric between them—tiny and steady, the soft rise and fall like a metronome—and then back to Rowan’s eyes.

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “No shrinking.”

A beat.

And then, because he was still Mason and he couldn’t stand inside something sacred without adding a little warmth to it, his mouth tugged.

“Also,” he murmured, “I would absolutely romanticize the garbage truck schedule. I’d be like, ‘babe, listen—Tuesday mornings are the heartbeat of this city.’”

The smile in Rowan’s eyes hit him like relief.

Mason exhaled—half laugh, half surrender—and let his hand slide up, gentle, to cup the side of her face. Thumb near her cheekbone, like he was trying to memorize her in the dark.

“Braided,” he repeated, softer. He liked the word. He liked what it promised. No one dragging, no one abandoning, no one pretending they didn’t need the other.

Just together.

He swallowed, and his voice dropped even lower, honest without being heavy.

“I think… I think I needed you to say it like that,” he admitted. “Because in my head, it’s always been this huge thing. Broadway was like… either I made it or I didn’t. Either I got there or I failed. And then Lyric happened and it just—”

He paused, careful not to wake her, not to turn the room loud.

“It didn’t feel worth risking anything for,” he finished quietly. “Not you. Not her.”

He held Rowan’s gaze like he wasn’t going to look away from it.

“But you’re right,” he said. “It’s not either/or. It’s not dream or life. It’s… we build the life so the dream has somewhere safe to land.”

His thumb brushed once along her cheek, slow and steady.

“And I want her to think it’s normal,” he added, glancing down at Lyric again. “Not because it’s easy. But because she grows up watching us try. Watching us keep going. Watching you figure it out out loud without apologizing.”

His voice softened further, almost a whisper.

“Watching you not shrink.”

He let that sit for a second, then gave her the smallest, crooked smile.

“And if you paint one wall something stupid and bold,” he murmured, “I’m going to pretend to be horrified and then secretly love it forever. Just so you know.”

His hand drifted down, finding her fingers again near his ring—not twisting now, just holding.

“Our place first,” he said, steady. “A place that smells like us.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her again—slow, careful over Lyric, the kind of kiss that wasn’t a spark, it was a vow.

When he pulled back, he stayed close.

“Then the big lights,” he whispered. “And if the big lights take time… we do the small lights. We do whatever stage exists. Community theater, black box, church basement with folding chairs—”

His eyes warmed, that Milo-bright sincerity sneaking in.

“—as long as I get to look out and know you’re there. Even if you’re in the back with a diaper bag and a death glare for anyone who coughs during my monologue.”

He breathed out a laugh, then quieted again, voice simple.

“We don’t let go,” he repeated, echoing her. “Of either.”

And then he stayed there with her—forehead pressed, Lyric asleep between them, winter on the windows—feeling, for once, like wanting the future didn’t mean losing the present.

It meant choosing it. Out loud. Together.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan watched him absorb it.

Not defensively. Not flippantly.

Like he was actually rearranging something inside himself to make room for it. She could see it in the way his jaw shifted slightly, in the way his eyes didn’t dart away from hers this time. He wasn’t performing agreement. He was letting it settle.

When he said Okay—rough and real—her hand pressed a little more firmly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. His heartbeat was warm and constant under the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Solid.

“No shrinking,” she echoed softly.

The garbage truck comment earned him a quiet breath of a laugh, the sound barely stirring the air between them.

“You would absolutely narrate sanitation schedules like they’re poetry,” she murmured. “Very gritty urban romance.”

Her lips curved, but her gaze stayed serious.

But her expression softened again when he said he’d needed her to say it like that.

She held his gaze, steady. Unblinking. Making sure he knew she wasn’t just reassuring him to make him feel better.

“I know you did,” she said gently.

When he admitted that Broadway had felt like a pass/fail, like something that could cost too much, her chest tightened. She felt it in the way her ribs expanded a little slower.

“I don’t want you to trade it for us,” she said quietly. “I want you to carry it with us.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of his ring again, slower now, the gold cool against her fingertip.

“You don’t get punished for wanting something big.”

Her voice lowered, almost protective.

“And Lyric didn’t erase who you were before she got here.”

She glanced down at their daughter briefly—tiny mouth parted, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. The faint milk-sweet scent of her lingered between them.

“She added to it.”

When he said it’s not dream or life—it’s building the life so the dream has somewhere safe to land—her breath caught just slightly. The words felt right in her bones.

“That,” she whispered. “That’s it.”

She let that settle in the quiet room, the heater clicking faintly as it adjusted.

When he said he wanted Lyric to grow up watching them try—watching her not shrink—Rowan’s eyes flicked down instinctively, then back up. A faint crease formed between her brows.

Her jaw shifted slightly.

“I don’t always know what I’m doing,” she admitted quietly.

Not dramatic. Not self-pitying.

Just true.

“I didn’t know what I was doing when I applied to colleges. I didn’t know what I was doing when I said yes to you. I definitely didn’t know what I was doing when I took that test.”

Her thumb paused on his ring, resting there like she needed the contact.

“And sometimes I still don’t.”

Her voice softened further, the edges of it worn and honest.

“I don’t have some clear five-year plan in my head. I don’t know what I’m majoring in. Or if I’m majoring in anything.”

She swallowed once, throat moving under the dim light.

“I don’t always know where I’m going.”

Her gaze lifted fully to his, searching but not uncertain.

“But I know I’m not walking into the unknown alone anymore.”

Her fingers slid from twisting his ring to threading loosely between his, not gripping—just resting there, palm to palm beneath the pillow.

“And that matters more than I expected it to.”

She exhaled slowly, feeling the warmth of him, the weight of Lyric between them.

“Having you,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper. “And now her.”

Her eyes flicked down at Lyric again, lingering this time on the tiny rise and fall of her chest.

“It gives me… something.”

She hesitated slightly, like she didn’t love the word she was about to use.

“Purpose,” she said anyway.

Her nose wrinkled faintly, almost annoyed with herself.

“I hate explaining it that way. It makes it sound like I needed a husband and a baby to feel valid.”

She shook her head once, small but firm.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Her thumb brushed his hand lightly, grounding.

“I just mean… the ground doesn’t feel as unstable.”

A quiet pause.

“When I didn’t know what I wanted before, it felt like I was drifting.”

She could remember that feeling—late nights staring at college websites, feeling both excited and untethered.

She looked at him again, open and steady.

“Now when I don’t know what I want, it just feels like… figuring it out.”

Her mouth curved faintly, almost shy.

“With backup.”

She leaned closer, careful of Lyric, their foreheads touching again fully. The warmth of his skin against hers steadied her even more.

“I don’t need all the answers yet,” she murmured. “I just need to know we’re moving.”

Her hand pressed lightly over his heart once more, feeling the beat beneath her palm.

“And I need to know you’re still dreaming.”

Her thumb traced a slow circle over his shirt, absent and intimate.

“Because if you stop dreaming, I will absolutely drag you to auditions myself.”

A faint, warm smile tugged at her lips.

“I’m serious.”

She softened again almost immediately, her voice thinning into something quieter.

“You and her make the unknown feel… less sharp.”

Her voice dropped.

“That’s not weakness. That’s partnership.”

She brushed her nose lightly against his, barely there, careful not to jostle the sleeping weight between them.

“I don’t know exactly where I’m going,” she whispered.

“But I know who I’m going with.”

And she stayed there—awake, steady, fingers warm against his, listening to the three of them breathe in the dim February dark.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t interrupt.

He just listened—really listened—the way he’d learned to, the way Rowan deserved. Like her words weren’t something to fix or answer, but something to hold carefully in both hands.

When she said purpose and then immediately flinched from the word, he felt his chest tighten.

Not because he misunderstood her.

Because he understood her exactly.

He shifted his hand under the pillow until his thumb could brush her knuckles again—slow, grounding, a quiet I’m here—and kept his eyes on hers.

“You don’t need us to be valid,” he said softly, steady. “You were you before me. Before her. You’d still be… you.”

His mouth tugged faintly, that Milo-soft charm sneaking in like it always did when he was trying to make something heavy feel survivable.

“You’d just be yelling at college websites alone,” he whispered. “And I’d be dramatically spiraling in a rehearsal room alone. Which sounds… bleak, honestly.”

He let her breathe, let the joke land gently, then softened again.

“But I know what you mean,” he said. “It’s not about being saved. It’s about… not free-falling.”

His gaze flicked down to Lyric’s sleeping face, then back to Rowan.

“And I like being your backup,” he admitted, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Not because you can’t do it. Because you can. Because you always have.”

He swallowed, his voice quiet but sure.

“I like that you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Rowan’s forehead stayed against his, and Mason held that contact like a promise he could physically feel.

When she said she needed to know he was still dreaming, his breath hitched—tiny, honest.

“I am,” he whispered. “I swear I am.”

He smiled a little, almost embarrassed by how true it was.

“Even on the nights my dream is literally just… four consecutive hours of sleep,” he added, barely loud enough to be a joke.

Then, softer—because this mattered more—

“I’m still dreaming,” he repeated. “Broadway. Or whatever version of it exists for us. A stage. A life where I get to do what I love and still come home to you.”

His thumb traced one slow line over the back of her hand.

“And if I ever start shrinking,” he murmured, “you have full permission to drag me to auditions. I’ll go. I’ll complain theatrically. I’ll pretend I’m being kidnapped. But I’ll go.”

He let his gaze warm—fond, a little wrecked.

“Just… don’t make me do early call times without coffee. That’s where I draw the line as a husband.”

He watched her eyes soften, and something in him settled deeper.

Rowan didn’t need a five-year plan. Neither did he.

They needed motion. They needed each other. They needed the courage to keep saying yes to the next small step.

He lifted his free hand—careful over Lyric—and brushed Rowan’s cheek with his knuckles, like he couldn’t help it.

“I like who you are when you’re figuring it out,” he said quietly. “You’re still you. Just… less sharp around the edges, because you’re not alone in the dark anymore.”

He paused, then added, voice gentle and sure:

“We’ll take it one decision at a time,” he murmured. “Not because we’re afraid, but because we’re allowed to build this slow. You don’t have to know the whole map tonight.”

Lyric sighed in her sleep, a tiny sound, and Mason’s eyes dipped to her automatically—checking, protective—before returning to Rowan.

He smiled softly, then let his forehead rest against Rowan’s again, just for a beat—warm, steady, present.

“And whatever comes next,” he whispered, “we do it the same way we’re doing this. Together. No shrinking. No letting go.”

His hand squeezed hers once under the pillow, quiet punctuation on the promise.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t rush to answer.

She let his words settle the way he’d let hers settle—without scrambling to correct or soften or reframe them. The room felt smaller somehow, warmer, the lamplight low and honeyed against the wall. February pressed cold against the windowpane, but under the blankets everything was quiet and insulated.

When he said she didn’t need them to be valid, her eyes flickered slightly. Not defensive. Just absorbing the care in it.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know that.”

Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles under the pillow, tracing the familiar shape of his hand like she was mapping it from memory.

“But knowing it and feeling it aren’t always the same thing.”

The college websites comment pulled a faint breath of laughter from her, softer this time—less spark, more warmth.

“I would’ve absolutely been yelling at a laptop,” she murmured. “Very dramatic. Probably at 2 a.m.”

Her gaze softened, drifting for a second like she could almost see that version of herself.

“And you would’ve been spiraling in a rehearsal room pretending you weren’t.”

Her voice was slower now. Less edged. The energy she’d been holding all evening easing down.

“That’s what I mean,” she said gently. “We would’ve been fine. Just… alone in it.”

When he said it wasn’t about being saved—it was about not free-falling—her eyelids lowered halfway, lashes brushing her cheeks.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That.”

Lyric shifted faintly between them, a tiny snuffle, and Rowan’s hand drifted down automatically. Her palm rested lightly over their daughter’s chest, feeling the small, steady rhythm beneath the swaddle. She counted two breaths without realizing she was doing it.

When Mason said he liked being her backup, she shook her head slightly against the pillow, the movement slow and heavy with sleep creeping in.

“You’re not backup,” she murmured.

Her fingers shifted under the pillow, finding his again by instinct now rather than intention.

“You’re beside me.”

Her voice was quieter. Thinner at the edges.

When he promised he was still dreaming, she didn’t fully open her eyes to answer. She trusted the tone more than the words.

“I believe you,” she breathed.

The four-hours-of-sleep comment earned him the faintest hum of amusement, almost just air leaving her lungs.

“That one… feels achievable,” she murmured, lips barely curving.

She leaned in again, brushing the corner of his mouth with hers—soft, slow, less a kiss and more a sleepy confirmation.

“No shrinking,” she repeated softly, the words blurring at the ends.

Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle over his knuckles, but the movement was less precise now. Slower. The kind of motion that continued even as her body began surrendering to rest.

When he said they didn’t need the whole map tonight, she nodded once—barely perceptible, her forehead brushing his.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Her hand slipped from lacing with his to resting loosely between their palms under the pillow. Fingers not gripping. Just touching skin to skin.

“I like this version of us,” she murmured again, voice trailing.

“Not perfect. Just… honest.”

Her breathing shifted—longer inhales, slower exhales. The weight of the day settling into her muscles. The kind of exhaustion that came from loving hard and thinking deeply and getting up every two hours without complaint.

“We don’t have to figure it all out,” she said, the sentence thinning into a whisper. “Just… keep choosing…”

Her hand drifted once more to Lyric, fingertips brushing the soft cotton over her daughter’s chest. A final check. A final anchor.

“And we are,” she finished, barely audible.

Her thumb stilled where it rested near his hand.

Her forehead remained against his, but the subtle tension left her face completely now. Her mouth parted slightly in sleep. Her shoulders softened deeper into the mattress.

Her breathing evened out to match Lyric’s.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move for a few seconds after Rowan’s breathing changed.

He could tell the exact moment it happened—the tiny shift from awake-but-tired to gone. The way her forehead stayed against his, but the tension drained out of her face like someone had finally turned the volume down inside her head. Her hand went slack under the pillow, still touching his, but not holding on like she was bracing.

She was just… resting.

Safe.

Mason’s mouth softened into a smile he didn’t even try to hide.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead—slow, careful, the kind of kiss that felt like placing something back where it belonged. He held it there for a beat longer than necessary, because he could, because no one was rushing him, because the quiet was theirs.

Then he shifted—small, deliberate movements. He slid his arm a little lower under the pillow so his shoulder wouldn’t go numb. He tucked the blanket edge up by Rowan’s collarbone so the February air couldn’t sneak in. He adjusted Lyric’s swaddle by a fraction, smoothing the fabric flat across her chest and checking her tiny nose was clear, her chin tipped the right way.

Not paranoid. Not frantic.

Just… Dad.

He settled again on his side, closer, until he could feel the warm little weight of Lyric between them and Rowan’s steady presence right in front of him. He kept one hand near Lyric—not on her, just close enough to reassure his own brain that he’d feel it if anything changed. The other stayed under the pillow where Rowan’s fingers still touched his.

He stared for a second.

Two sleeping faces in amber lamplight. Rowan’s lashes dark against her cheek. Lyric’s tiny mouth slightly open, soft and milk-drunk even in sleep. The heater hummed. The room held.

Mason felt happy in a way that didn’t spike or ache—just settled. Confident. Content. Like something in him finally understood what “enough” looked like.

And of course his brain still wouldn’t shut up.

It pinged around like a bored stage manager.

They’re sleeping. Don’t move. Breathe quieter. Did you lock the front door? You did. Right? The bottle parts are in the sink. You’ll wash them in the morning. Or in ten minutes because you’ll convince yourself you forgot.

He stared at the ceiling for half a second, then back at them.

His girls.

He couldn’t believe he got to think that and not feel like he was borrowing someone else’s life.

He watched Lyric’s chest rise and fall, counted three breaths without meaning to, then forced himself to stop. He watched Rowan’s mouth part slightly as she exhaled, the tiniest sigh like her body had finally decided it could put the world down for a while.

Mason’s eyes burned a little—not with tears, exactly. Just with feeling too much and being too tired to pack it away.

He didn’t reach for a joke. Not out loud.

He just let the thought exist: This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

He shifted again—barely—tilting the lamp down a notch so the room dimmed further. Then he lay perfectly still and tried to follow Rowan’s breathing pattern, like if he matched it, his own mind would get the hint.

In. Out. Slow.

His gaze drifted between them, protective without being tense.

He checked Lyric’s swaddle again with his eyes. Fine. He checked the space between Rowan and Lyric. Safe. He checked Rowan’s blanket. Tucked.

Okay.

He closed his eyes.

Immediately, his brain tried to start a list.

Apartment. Our place. Thin walls. Bad plumbing. Broadway. Or a black box. Or community theatre. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.

He opened his eyes again and looked at them—like seeing them was the only thing that made the spinning slow down.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet.

“Okay,” he whispered, not to wake anyone—just to anchor himself.

Then he kissed Rowan’s forehead one more time, softer than before, and let his cheek rest into the pillow.

He stayed awake for a while after that.

Watching.

Listening.

Letting his mind run in circles until it finally got tired of itself.

And somewhere between one heater click and the next, with Lyric breathing steady and Rowan asleep against him, Mason’s eyes finally closed for good—still smiling, even as he drifted.

[Rowan Starling]

April had softened everything—except the cold.

Outside, the rest of the country was pretending it was spring. Sun, open windows, seventy degrees and people forgetting jackets.

Here, it still bit.

Not harsh. Just enough to keep the fireplace going at night.

Rowan had one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out across the couch, sock brushing lightly against Mason’s thigh (https://i.ibb.co/BY6zK6b/IMG-5708.png). The TV played low in the background—some show neither of them were really watching, just noise filling the quiet in a house that finally, finally had a sleeping baby in it.

Lyric was out.

Completely out.

Bassinet pulled close to the couch, blanket tucked just right, her tiny chest rising and falling in that steady, hypnotic rhythm that had become the center of everything.

Rowan glanced over once—quick, automatic—then back.

“Okay,” she said, shifting toward Mason with purpose.

She reached behind her and tugged her hair over one shoulder, already half-loosening it with practiced fingers.

“Pay attention.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. Just… focused. Like this mattered.

Because to her, it did.

She split her hair into three sections without looking down, hands moving like muscle memory.

“Three pieces,” she said. “Not two. Not four. Three. If you mess that up, we’re done here.”

A beat.

Her eyes flicked to him.

“I’m serious.”

But there was a hint of a smile sitting underneath it.

She started the braid slowly, exaggerating the movement just enough so he could follow.

“Right over middle,” she murmured, crossing the strand cleanly. “Then left over middle.”

Her fingers were quick but controlled, weaving it down, then pausing halfway.

“Now you.”

She turned slightly, shifting closer so her shoulder pressed into his, offering the unfinished braid like it was a test.

“Don’t overthink it,” she added. “It’s literally just… pattern recognition.”

She watched his hands move—hesitant at first, then trying—and her expression softened in that quiet, almost proud way she didn’t make a big deal out of.

“Your job,” she continued, voice lower now so it wouldn’t carry, “is to not be the dad who says ‘your mom can do it’ and walks away.”

Her gaze flicked to the bassinet.

“She’s gonna have hair. Probably thick. Probably a mess.”

Back to him.

“And I’m not doing every single braid for the next ten years.”

There it was. The real reason.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder as he worked through the next cross.

“Mine never learned,” she said, quieter now. “He just… didn’t try.”

A small pause.

“I don’t want that for her.”

Not elaborate.

Not emotional.

Just… different.

She straightened again, nudging his hand slightly when he hesitated.

“No—keep going. You had it.”

Her fingers brushed his lightly, guiding the strand into place.

“Right over middle,” she repeated. “Then left.”

The fire crackled softly behind them. The TV flickered across their faces.

Lyric slept.

And Rowan sat there, teaching her husband something small that somehow felt like it mattered a lot.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s first thought was that hair had no business being this complicated.

His second thought was that Rowan’s hair felt softer than anything he was emotionally equipped to handle at this hour.

He sat very still beside her, one knee bent on the couch, socked foot braced against the cushion, his whole body angled toward her like this was not a casual lesson but a sacred transfer of knowledge. The fire snapped quietly behind them. The TV flashed blue across the room. Lyric slept in the bassinet, tiny and impossible and already the reason the entire house seemed to breathe differently.

And Rowan was trusting him with this.

Not just her hair.

The why behind it.

Mason looked down at the half-finished braid between his fingers, trying to keep the three sections separate while his chest did something embarrassingly tender.

Right over middle.

Left over middle.

Okay.

He could do that.

Probably.

His fingers moved slowly, clumsier than hers, the strands slipping once before he caught them again. His brow furrowed with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for opening night cues and trying to decipher whether a baby noise meant hunger, gas, or tiny existential crisis.

“Okay,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “Right over middle. Left over middle. This is choreography. It’s just… scalp choreography.”

Rowan’s shoulder shook against him in silent amusement, but she didn’t interrupt.

That made it worse, somehow. Better. Bigger.

Because he knew what she was doing. She wasn’t just teaching him how to braid. She was handing him a piece of her childhood and saying, please don’t leave this undone for her too.

And God, Mason wanted to be worthy of that.

He glanced toward the bassinet. Lyric’s little mouth was parted, her hands tucked near her face beneath the blanket, lashes resting against cheeks that still looked too small to be real. She had no idea yet. No idea how loved she was. No idea that her mother was sitting beside a fire in April, teaching her father how to braid hair because love meant trying before anyone had to ask twice.

Mason swallowed.

Then he looked back down and crossed the next strand.

It was not beautiful.

It was, honestly, kind of tragic.

But it held.

A slow grin tugged at his mouth.

“Not to be dramatic,” he murmured, voice low so he wouldn’t wake Lyric, “but I think I’m becoming a girl dad in real time.”

Rowan’s hand brushed his wrist, guiding the tension without taking over. He loved that about her. The way she let him try. The way she corrected him without making him feel stupid. The way she always made room for him to become better.

He crossed another section. Then another.

His confidence grew by approximately six percent.

“Okay, wait,” he whispered, leaning closer to inspect his work. “This is either a braid or a tiny rope bridge for fairies. But structurally? I’m proud.”

He felt Rowan lean into him again, brief and warm, and the joke faded from his face before he could stop it.

Her father hadn’t learned.

Mason couldn’t stop thinking about that.

Not with Rowan sitting right here, older now but still carrying the shape of that small disappointment. Not dramatic enough to be called neglect. Not cruel enough to turn into a family legend. Just one of those quiet things. One of those he didn’t try things that stayed with a person longer than anyone realized.

Mason looked at the braid in his hands and understood, suddenly and completely, that fatherhood was probably going to be made of a thousand moments exactly like this.

Small chances to try.

Small chances to stay.

Small chances to say without saying: You matter enough for me to learn.

His voice came softer when he spoke again.

“I’m gonna learn,” he said.

No flourish. No bit.

Just the truth.

His thumb smoothed carefully over the section he’d just crossed, keeping the pattern intact.

“I don’t want to be that guy either,” he added, eyes still on her hair because if he looked directly at her, he might say too much and wake the baby with the sheer force of his feelings. “The one who taps out because something looks hard. Or because I’m bad at it the first time.”

A beat.

Then, because he was still him, his mouth curved faintly.

“Which is unfortunate, because I am very bad at this the first time.”

Rowan huffed softly, and the sound went straight through him.

Mason kept going.

Right over middle. Left over middle.

The braid tightened slowly beneath his hands, uneven but recognizable. The end of it rested against her shoulder, glossy and soft in the firelight, and Mason felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

The same kind he’d felt when Lyric burped for him the first time.

The same kind he’d felt when he figured out how to fold the stroller without nearly losing a finger.

The same kind he imagined he’d feel someday when Lyric stood between his knees with tangled hair and absolute faith that he could fix it.

That thought nearly took him out.

He blinked once and cleared his throat quietly.

“Someday,” he whispered toward the bassinet, “when you’re late for school and demanding two braids, matching ribbons, and emotional support cereal, just know I trained for this.”

Lyric slept on, unimpressed.

Mason nodded solemnly. “Tough crowd.”

He reached the end of Rowan’s hair and froze.

“Uh.”

He looked at the tiny elastic on the couch cushion like it was the final boss.

Then, carefully—absurdly carefully—he wrapped it around the end once. Twice. Three times. It snapped lightly against his finger, and he flinched like he’d been wounded in battle.

But the braid stayed.

Crooked.

Loose in one spot.

A little weird near the top.

Still a braid.

Mason stared at it.

Then looked at Rowan with the slow, dawning pride of a man who had just returned from war holding a flag.

“I did it,” he whispered.

His grin broke through fully then—bright, boyish, completely helpless.

“I mean, don’t put it on a wedding Pinterest board or anything, but I did it.”

He lifted the braid gently, reverently, then let it rest back against her shoulder. His fingers lingered for one second longer than necessary, brushing the ends before his hand dropped to her knee.

The room had gone quieter somehow. Or maybe he had.

He leaned in and kissed the side of Rowan’s head, just above her temple.

“Thank you for teaching me,” he murmured.

Then, after a pause, even softer:

“And for trusting me to try.”

He stayed close after that, shoulder pressed to hers, eyes drifting back to the bassinet.

Lyric breathed steadily.

Rowan’s braid sat slightly crooked over her shoulder.

The fire burned low.

And Mason Hayes—former theater kid, current husband, brand-new father, and apparently apprentice hair stylist—felt something settle deep in his chest.

Not triumph.

Not even pride.

Something quieter.

A promise taking root.

He would learn the braids. The bottles. The bedtime songs. The favorite snacks. The hard questions. The things Rowan’s father hadn’t known to try and the things Mason himself would mess up before getting right.

He would learn all of it.

Because Lyric deserved a father who tried.

Because Rowan deserved a partner who stayed.

Because this life—sleeping baby, cold April night, firelight, crooked braid and all—was the best role he’d ever been given.

And he intended to show up for every scene.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t move right away.

Not when he said it. Not when the words settled into the quiet between them, softer than the fire, heavier than anything he’d said all night.

I’m gonna learn.

It didn’t land like a promise people say when they’re trying to sound good. It didn’t feel like something he’d forget in the morning. It felt… rooted. Like something that had already decided to stay.

Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap before she even realized she was doing it.

She could feel the braid resting against her shoulder—uneven, a little loose near the top, tighter toward the bottom where he’d figured it out. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t reach up and smooth it or redo it out of habit.

She just let it sit there.

Because he’d done that.

Because he’d stayed with it.

Because he didn’t hand it back the second it got frustrating.

Her throat pulled tight in that quiet, inconvenient way she hated—no warning, no drama, just a sudden fullness that made everything feel closer to the surface than she preferred.

Her hand came up slowly, not to correct him, not to check the braid—but to rest lightly over his where it had settled on her knee. Warm. Slightly rough from nothing in particular. Familiar already in a way that still caught her off guard sometimes.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” she murmured, voice low, steady, shaped more by instinct than intention. “Not tonight. Not next week.”

Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles, small and grounding.

“She doesn’t even have hair yet.”

A breath slipped out of her, quieter this time, almost a ghost of a laugh.

“But she will,” she added, softer now. “And she’s gonna wake up one morning and decide she wants something complicated. Something specific. Something that makes absolutely no sense at six in the morning.”

Her eyes flicked toward the bassinet without turning her head fully, just enough to catch the shape of Lyric in the dim light. Tiny. Still. Completely unaware of the weight of all this.

“And I won’t always be here for it,” Rowan continued, the words coming easier once she let them. “There’s gonna be a day I’m out, or running late, or just… not in the room. And she’s gonna look at you like you’re the answer anyway.”

Her gaze came back to him then, not dramatic, not searching—just there.

“And I don’t want you to have to tell her no,” she said simply.

There was no accusation in it. No edge. Just truth.

Her hand shifted slightly, fingers curling more deliberately over his now, not guiding, not correcting—just holding.

“You don’t have to be good at it right away,” she added, softer. “You just have to try. You already are.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to the braid again, the corner of her mouth lifting—not because it was neat, but because it existed at all.

Because he’d made it exist.

And God, that did something to her.

She leaned into him without thinking about it, shoulder fitting against his like it had learned the shape already. The fire cracked behind them, low and steady, and she let herself settle there for a second longer than she usually would.

“I love watching you do this,” she admitted, quieter now, the words almost tucked into the space between them. “All of it.”

Her head tilted just slightly, enough that her temple brushed closer to his.

“Not just this,” she added, a small exhale following it. “But you with her. You figuring it out. You not backing off when it’s new or weird or… not yours yet.”

Her fingers shifted again, absent this time, tracing lightly along his hand like she was memorizing something she hadn’t expected to have.

“You’re already really good at it,” she said, almost like she didn’t want to make a big thing out of it. “Being her dad.”

That one sat differently.

Heavier. Truer.

She let it linger, then eased back just enough to breathe again, her mind catching on something softer, easier—something that didn’t feel like it might break if she held it too tight.

Mother’s Day.

It slipped in gently, almost out of place in the weight of everything else, but she followed it anyway. Let it lighten the edges.

Her fingers stilled over his for a second before she spoke again, voice shifting—still soft, but less heavy now. More… curious.

“Did you already make plans for Sunday?” she asked, glancing at him without fully turning her head, watching his reaction more than waiting for the answer.

There was a pause—just long enough for the thought to settle.

“And if you didn’t…” her mouth curved slightly, something a little more her slipping back in, “I might have an idea.”

She didn’t rush it. Didn’t pitch it yet.

Just let it sit there between them—like everything else had tonight.

Offered. Not forced.

Her shoulder pressed back into his again, steadier this time, like she’d decided she was staying exactly where she was.

Firelight flickering.

Baby breathing soft and even.

A crooked braid resting against her collarbone.

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to fix anything.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason forgot the braid for a second.

Forgot the fire. Forgot the half-watched show murmuring from the TV. Forgot the fact that his leg had started to go a little numb beneath him and that Lyric’s bassinet was close enough for him to count every tiny rise and fall of her chest if his brain decided to get dramatic again.

Because Rowan had just said he was good at being her dad.

Not trying.

Not learning.

Good.

And Mason Hayes, who had once convinced himself he could handle applause without it going to his head, discovered very quickly that praise from Rowan Starling was an entirely different category of ruin.

His throat tightened. Fast.

He looked down at her hand over his, the gentle weight of it, the way her thumb kept making these small, absent movements like she didn’t even realize she was grounding him too. The braid sat crooked over her shoulder, imperfect and loose and somehow one of the proudest things he had ever made.

She hadn’t fixed it.

God. That got him too.

He stared at it for half a second too long, then swallowed and looked toward the bassinet, where Lyric slept like she hadn’t just become the center of a promise she was too small to understand.

“I don’t want to tell her no,” he said quietly.

His voice was soft, but it came out steadier than he expected. Maybe because it was true in the easiest way. Maybe because the second Rowan said it, he could picture it: Lyric at six years old in pajamas and one sock, hair a disaster, demanding something with braids and ribbons and absolutely no patience for a father who hadn’t bothered to learn.

He wanted to be ready.

Not perfect.

Ready.

“I mean, I’m definitely going to tell her no when she tries to eat glitter or join a baby fight club,” he added, because he was still him and the emotion in his chest needed somewhere to go before it took him out completely. “But hair? Yeah. I can learn hair.”

His fingers turned beneath Rowan’s, palm up now, so he could hold her hand properly.

“I’ll learn all of it,” he murmured. “Braids. Ponytails. Whatever terrifying thing happens with bows. The one where people twist hair into, like, a cinnamon roll shape? I’ll figure that out too.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“And if she asks for something complicated at six in the morning, I’ll panic internally like a professional and then tell her, ‘Absolutely, small queen, your stylist is emotionally prepared.’”

He felt Rowan lean into him again, and something in him settled.

The thing was, she was right. It wouldn’t always be her in the room. It wouldn’t always be Rowan catching every need first, solving every tiny disaster with those careful, capable hands. There would be mornings that belonged to him. Bedtimes. Sick days. Rushed school drop-offs. Questions he didn’t know how to answer until he tried.

He wanted them.

Every messy, underprepared second.

When Rowan asked about Sunday, he went still in a different way.

Not caught.

Not guilty.

Just very suddenly aware that the tiny plan he had been building in secret—mostly in notes app bullet points and one whispered phone call to her mom—was not nearly as smooth as he had imagined it would be.

His eyes slid toward her.

“Define plans,” he said carefully.

He tried for casual. Failed immediately.

Because Rowan knew him. She had married him, which meant she had unfortunately been granted full access to his face when he was lying badly.

He sighed, shoulders dropping with theatrical defeat.

“Okay, yes. I have plans. Or… plan-adjacent materials.”

He glanced once at Lyric, then back at Rowan, voice still low.

“Nothing huge. I know it’s your first Mother’s Day, and I didn’t want to make it weird or overwhelming or accidentally turn it into a production where I cry into pancakes and give a speech while holding a baby footprint craft.”

A beat.

His expression shifted.

“There may still be a baby footprint craft.”

He gave her a look, half-apology, half-pride.

“But I wanted it to feel like you,” he admitted. “Not what people think a first Mother’s Day is supposed to be. Just… yours.”

His thumb brushed along her palm.

“Because you are really good at this too,” he said, quieter now. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you don’t feel like yourself. Even when you’re sitting here acting like teaching me a braid isn’t one of the most romantic things anyone’s ever done.”

He leaned in and kissed the side of her head, just above the crooked braid.

Then he stayed there for a second, lips near her hair, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of her.

“So yes,” he murmured. “I made plans.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly.

“But if you have an idea, I want that more.”

His smile turned soft, all boyish devotion and quiet certainty.

“Tell me what you want, Ro. First Mother’s Day. Your rules. I’m just the husband with the questionable braid technique and a baby footprint craft hidden somewhere in this house.”

[Rowan Starling]

She didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have something to say—but because the way he said it, the way he shifted when he admitted he had plans but still wanted to hear hers… it caught her off guard in that quiet, disarming way he had. Like he was handing her space and trust at the same time and expecting her to actually take it.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it—small, almost private, the kind of smile that started in her chest and worked its way up slowly.

Of course he had plans.

Of course he did.

He always did it like that—like dreaming wasn’t something loud or performative, just something he carried around in his back pocket and only pulled out when it mattered.

Her fingers found the edge of the table between them, tracing a faint groove in the wood, grounding herself for a second before she looked up at him fully. Really looked.

There was something in her chest that felt… steady. Not rushed. Not spiraling. Just… ready.

“I’ve been keeping up with it,” she said, voice quieter than she expected, but sure. “Since we talked about New York.”

Her gaze flicked to his face, watching for the shift, the way his eyes would focus in when something actually mattered to him.

“Broadway stuff,” she added, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t been checking it almost daily. “Casting calls. Open runs. Who’s doing what.”

Her fingers stilled, then pressed flat against the surface.

“There’s a three-month stint this summer,” she said, more deliberate now. “Little Shop of Horrors. Open casting.”

She let that sit for half a second, watching him—not pushing, not selling it. Just placing it between them.

“I want to go,” she said simply.

Not dramatic. Not tentative.

“I want to see you audition.”

Her shoulders shifted, a small adjustment, like she was settling into the truth of it as she spoke it out loud.

“And if you get it…” She exhaled, soft, thinking as she went. “I’ve got the college fund. I can use it—for a bit. Just while I figure things out there. Find a job. Get settled while you’re in rehearsals and doing…” Her lips twitched faintly, almost amused. “Whatever else theater people do besides dramatically suffer and memorize lines.”

Her eyes dropped for a second, then came back to him, steadier.

“If we’re good—if it works—we stay.” A small shrug, like it didn’t need dressing up. “And if it doesn’t, we don’t pretend it did. We come back. Save. Try again later.”

There was no panic in it. No edge.

Just… options.

Just movement.

Her thumb brushed lightly along the table again, but this time it wasn’t nervous—it was absent, thoughtful.

“I remember seeing you in it,” she said, softer now, something shifting underneath the words. “At school.”

Her nose scrunched slightly, a hint of self-awareness slipping through.

“I didn’t even want to go. It was for a drama credit, and I thought it was gonna be… bad.” A breath of a laugh, quiet, almost embarrassed. “Like—painfully bad.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his, holding it this time.

“But it wasn’t.”

There it was—that moment. Still clear. Still sharp.

“That was the first time I realized you weren’t just… some theater kid.”

Her voice didn’t soften—it steadied.

“You had range,” she said. “You had control. You knew what you were doing.”

A beat.

“And I don’t think you’ve fully seen that yet.”

Her head tilted slightly, studying him in that way she did—like she was lining something up in her mind and waiting for it to click into place for him too.

“I want you to,” she added, quieter.

Then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—

“Auditions are Saturday.”

She leaned back just a fraction, like she’d finally said the part she’d been holding.

“Flight leaves Friday. We come back Monday.”

A small pause.

“We can sightsee too,” she said, the faintest hint of a smile returning, softer now. “Make it… not just that.”

Her fingers moved, brushing against his hand briefly—not grabbing, not holding, just enough contact to anchor the moment in something real.

Then she stilled again.

Let it sit.

Let him meet her there.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t understand what she was saying at first.

Not because the words were complicated. They weren’t. Casting calls. Open runs. Three-month stint. Saturday. Flight Friday.

Simple words.

Easy words.

But they entered his chest all wrong—too big for the space they were given, too bright in the low light of the kitchen. For a second, all he could do was stare at her hand on the table, her thumb tracing that faint groove in the wood like she wasn’t actively setting a match to the quiet, carefully folded part of him that still kept Broadway stored away as a someday.

A someday dream.

A not-now dream.

A maybe-when-we’re-stable dream.

And Rowan had just placed it between them like it belonged on the table with everything else.

Like groceries. Like bills. Like Lyric’s burp cloths.

Like it was real.

His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Because she had been looking. Since New York. Since that conversation in the dark with Lyric asleep between them. She had taken the dream he’d admitted in a whisper and gone searching for a door.

His throat tightened so hard it almost hurt.

He looked up at her then, really looked, and there she was—steady, open, not selling him on it, not trying to make it sound easier than it was. That was the thing that got him. She wasn’t pretending it was simple. She wasn’t wrapping it in glitter and telling him they’d figure out the details because love conquered airfare and childcare and rent.

She was giving him options.

Movement.

A chance.

His eyes burned, and he blinked once, fast, because absolutely not. Not over Little Shop of Horrors. Not in front of the woman who would never let him live down crying over a man-eating plant musical.

But then she said she remembered seeing him in it.

At school.

And the room went very still.

He could see it suddenly—the old auditorium, the heat of the stage lights, the dusty curtains, the fake plant that had never opened right on cue. He could feel the nerves from that night like they’d been waiting under his skin all this time. He remembered looking past the first few rows and finding her in the dim, arms crossed, face unreadable.

He’d thought she was bored.

Of course he had. Rowan Starling had made unimpressed look like an art form.

But she’d seen him.

Not the loud version. Not the class-clown-theater-kid version. Not the boy who threw himself into everything because if he was entertaining enough maybe no one would notice how badly he wanted to matter.

She’d seen the work.

The control.

The part of him that wasn’t a bit.

Mason’s hand shifted on the table, his fingers flexing once before he caught the place where hers had brushed his. He didn’t grab. Not yet. He just let his knuckles rest close enough to feel the warmth she left behind.

“You’ve been checking casting calls,” he said quietly.

It came out like he was confirming something impossible.

His gaze dropped for half a second, not away from her exactly, but down to the table between them, to the ordinary wood holding the extraordinary thing she’d just offered.

Then he laughed once under his breath—small, stunned, not really amused.

“Ro.”

That was all he managed at first.

Just her name.

Because anything more felt like it might come out too big.

He looked back at her, and this time he didn’t bother hiding what it did to him. The awe. The fear. The sudden pulse of want so sharp it almost scared him.

“You want to spend your first Mother’s Day weekend watching me audition for a musical about a homicidal plant.”

His voice was soft, but there was that flicker in it—the Mason part, the part that still reached for humor when his heart was halfway out of his chest.

His mouth curved, uneven.

“That is either the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, or definitive proof that sleep deprivation has fully taken you.”

But the joke didn’t hold long.

Not with her looking at him like that. Not with all that certainty in her face. Not with the knowledge that she’d looked at his dream, measured the risk, and still said I want to go.

His fingers finally moved, sliding over hers on the table. Slow. Careful. Like he was afraid if he touched the moment too hard, it might vanish.

“You remember that show?” he asked, quieter now.

He already knew she did. She had just told him. But part of him needed to hear the shape of it again, needed to stand inside the fact that she had been carrying that memory all this time.

His thumb brushed lightly against her knuckle.

“I thought you hated it,” he admitted. “I thought you were sitting there doing that thing with your face where you look like you’re mentally writing a complaint letter to the universe.”

There it was. The corner of her mouth. Almost a smile.

It steadied him.

He breathed out slowly, then shook his head, gaze dropping for a second as the reality of Saturday circled back and hit him all over again.

An audition.

New York.

Her beside him.

Lyric, somehow part of it too—whether with them or waiting safely at home with grandparents who would probably cry over the logistics and pack six extra onesies.

He wanted it.

God, he wanted it.

The wanting moved through him before he could soften it into something reasonable. It was bright and embarrassing and alive. He wanted to stand in a room and sing until his lungs shook. Wanted to be scared for the right reasons. Wanted to walk down a New York street with Rowan’s hand in his and know they had chosen the leap together.

But he also saw everything else. The plane. The money. The baby. Rowan’s body still recovering in ways she didn’t always say out loud. The pressure he refused to place on her, even accidentally.

His hand tightened slightly over hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Not because he doubted her.

Because he loved her too much not to ask.

His eyes held hers, steady now.

“I need you to know that I want this. Like—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I want it so badly I’m trying very hard not to stand up and do something humiliating with jazz hands.”

A breath of a laugh left him, but his face stayed open.

“But not if it turns your first Mother’s Day into me spiraling about sheet music while you’re juggling bottles in an airport bathroom.”

He leaned forward a fraction, his voice lowering.

“I don’t want the dream if you become the cost of it.”

There.

The thing under the thing.

The fear he hadn’t wanted to name because naming it made it seem noble, and he didn’t want to be noble. He wanted to be honest.

His thumb moved over her hand again, tracing the same small rhythm she’d made against the table.

“But if you mean it,” he said, softer, “if this is something you actually want with me—not for me, with me—then…”

He exhaled, and the smile came back, helpless this time. Younger. Brighter.

“Then yeah.”

The words landed in him as he said them.

Yeah.

He felt the room tilt—not in panic, not in pressure, but in possibility.

“Yeah,” he said again, a little steadier. “Let’s go.”

His grin broke wider before he could stop it, the kind that always got him in trouble because it showed too much. Too much hope. Too much Rowan. Too much of the boy who still lived somewhere in him, staring at Broadway marquees online and pretending it was research.

He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm.

Not dramatic.

Not polished.

Just because he needed to.

Then he rested their joined hands back on the table and looked at her like she had just opened a door in the middle of their kitchen.

“You’re really dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, eyes bright. “Not in the scary way. In the ‘quietly rearranges my entire future while looking calm and hot at the table’ way.”

He shook his head, still smiling, still a little wrecked.

“And for the record, theater people also panic quietly in hallways, overuse throat coat tea, and pretend they’re not superstitious while absolutely being superstitious.”

A beat.

“So we’ll need tea.”

Another beat.

“And probably snacks.”

His expression softened again, all the charm giving way to something warmer and more rooted.

“But mostly,” he said, “I need you there.”

His voice dropped.

“Not because I can’t do it without you. I can.”

He looked at her fully.

“But because I don’t want to. I want to look out after and see you. Win, lose, humiliating dance call, whatever happens—I want you there.”

The words made his chest ache, but he didn’t pull them back.

He couldn’t.

Because this was what she had offered him. Not just a trip. Not just an audition.

A version of the future where wanting didn’t mean leaving them behind.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the baby monitor on the counter—habit, instinct, fatherhood stitched into the edges of everything now—then came back to Rowan.

“And if it doesn’t work,” he said, repeating her logic because he needed her to know he’d heard it, “we come home. We save. We try again.”

His mouth curved.

“And if it does work…”

He paused there, letting the possibility breathe.

A tiny apartment. Thin walls. Bad plumbing. Her painting one wall something stupid and bold. Lyric learning to sleep through sirens. Him coming home from rehearsal exhausted and euphoric to find Rowan on the floor with takeout containers and a baby toy in her hair.

His whole life, terrifying and shining.

“If it works,” he said quietly, “then we stay long enough to find out who we become there.”

He squeezed her hand once.

Then, because the feeling in the room was getting too big and his heart needed a pressure valve, he sat back slightly and pointed at her with mock severity.

“But you understand what you’ve done, right? I now have approximately forty-eight hours to become emotionally stable enough to audition for Little Shop in New York City.”

His eyes widened.

“That is not enough time. I’m going to need vocal warmups, a playlist, three emotional support bagels, and at least one moment where I stare out a plane window like I’m in the opening credits of my own coming-of-age film.”

He paused, softer now.

“And you.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles again.

“Always you.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt it the moment his expression shifted—before he said anything, before his hand moved, before the words even had time to settle between them.

It was in his eyes first.

That quiet, startled brightness.

Like something inside him had been touched too gently to defend against.

Her chest tightened around it.

She hadn’t expected that part to hit so hard.

She’d planned this carefully—kept it practical, grounded, wrapped in just enough realism that he wouldn’t dismiss it outright. She hadn’t come to the table with fantasy. She’d come with logistics. With options. With something he could hold without it slipping through his fingers.

But she hadn’t prepared for the way he would look at her.

Like she’d handed him something fragile and holy at the same time.

Rowan held his gaze anyway, even as something in her instinctively wanted to retreat from the intensity of it—to deflect, to roll her eyes, to soften the moment into something easier to stand inside.

She didn’t.

Not this time.

Her fingers stilled against the table when his hand edged closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him without contact. It was such a small thing, but it made her pulse shift, made her hyper-aware of the space between them—how deliberate it was, how careful he was being with it.

With her.

Her throat moved slightly when he said her name.

Just that.

Soft.

Like it carried too much weight to dress up into anything else.

Rowan’s gaze flickered over his face—the uneven curve of his mouth, the way he tried to tuck everything he was feeling behind something lighter and almost managed it. Almost.

She knew that version of him.

The one that reached for humor when something real got too close to the surface.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out yet.

Not because she didn’t have something to say.

Because she was watching him.

Feeling him.

Letting herself understand exactly what this meant to him before she spoke into it.

When his fingers finally slid over hers, slow and tentative, her breath caught—just a fraction—but enough that she felt it all the way down. Her hand didn’t pull back. It turned, almost instinctively, fitting into his like it had always known where to go.

That small, grounding contact settled something in her and unraveled something else at the same time.

She let him talk.

Let him circle it.

Let him say all the things he needed to say—fear wrapped in jokes, want softened into caution, hope trying very hard not to become something reckless.

And God, she could feel the want in him.

It wasn’t subtle.

It never had been, not when it came to things that mattered.

It lived in the way his voice shifted, in the way his hand tightened just slightly over hers, in the way he couldn’t quite sit still inside his own body when the possibility of it got too real.

Rowan swallowed, her gaze dropping briefly to where their hands were joined.

His thumb moving over her knuckle.

Mirroring the exact rhythm she’d been tracing into the table before he’d even understood what she was offering.

That hit her harder than it should have.

The quiet way he met her where she was without even realizing it.

Her chest pulled tight again.

When he asked if she was sure, she didn’t answer right away.

Not out of hesitation.

Out of care.

She lifted her eyes back to his, really looked at him this time—the openness, the restraint, the way he was trying so hard to hold both things at once. What he wanted. What he refused to risk losing.

Her free hand came up slowly, almost unconsciously, brushing along his wrist where it rested against hers. Not stopping him. Not grounding him.

Just there.

A quiet acknowledgment.

“You don’t get to decide for me what I can handle,” she said softly, her voice steady but not sharp.

There was no edge to it.

Just truth.

Her thumb pressed lightly against his pulse point, feeling it there—fast, alive, matching the way her own had started to race without her permission.

“I know what this is,” she went on, quieter now. “I know what it costs.”

A small breath.

Not heavy.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

“And I still want it.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

Not when she said it.

Not when it settled between them.

There was something almost stubborn in the way she held it there—like she was bracing for him to try and soften it again, to turn it into something smaller, safer.

She wouldn’t let him.

Not this.

Her fingers shifted in his, tightening just slightly, enough to make the contact intentional.

“You think I didn’t think about the airport?” she added, a faint, almost dry note threading through her voice. “Or the bottles. Or the fact that I’ll probably be half-asleep and wearing something with spit-up on it while you’re having a life-changing moment?”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—touched the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t fully form.

“Of course I did.”

Her expression softened after that.

Not weaker.

Just… more open.

“I just didn’t think any of that was a reason not to go.”

The honesty of it sat there, unpolished.

Unprotected.

Rowan shifted slightly in her chair, leaning forward just enough to close the space he’d created earlier, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was deliberate this time.

Grounded.

“I’m not doing this for you,” she said, quieter still, her voice dipping into something that felt closer to confession than conversation. “I’m doing it because I want to be there.”

Her eyes searched his—not for permission, not for approval.

Just for understanding.

“I want to see it happen,” she added. “Whatever ‘it’ ends up being.”

Her gaze flicked down briefly, to his mouth, then back up again, something softer slipping through the edges of her composure before she caught it.

“And if it’s a disaster,” she murmured, “then we get bagels after and pretend it wasn’t.”

A beat.

Barely a second.

“But I don’t think it will be.”

That part came out quieter.

More certain.

Like something she hadn’t meant to say out loud but didn’t take back.

When he said yes—really said it, not hedged, not softened—she felt it in her body before her mind had time to process it.

A shift.

A release.

Something in her chest loosening and tightening at the same time.

Her breath left her in a slow exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

And then he was smiling like that.

Too bright.

Too open.

Too much of the version of him that had always undone her a little without her permission.

Rowan huffed a quiet breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh threatening at the edges as she shook her head slightly.

“God, you’re dramatic,” she murmured, but there was no bite to it.

None at all.

Her fingers flexed in his when he turned her hand over, when his mouth pressed against her palm. The contact sent a sharp, unexpected warmth up her arm, settling somewhere low and steady in her chest.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

Instead, her fingers curled slightly when he set her hand back down, like she was holding onto something that hadn’t quite left her skin yet.

Her eyes stayed on him.

On the way he looked at her now.

Like she’d shifted something fundamental.

That should’ve made her uncomfortable.

It didn’t.

It just made her quieter.

More aware.

More careful with what she did next.

When he called her dangerous, her brow lifted just slightly, a faint, unimpressed expression flickering across her face out of habit—but it didn’t fully land. There was too much warmth sitting underneath it.

“Please,” she muttered, softer than usual. “You were already halfway there.”

But her thumb moved over his knuckles again as she said it, betraying her.

When he kept going—tea, snacks, nerves dressed up like jokes—she watched him with something that had softened past defense entirely.

Past teasing.

Into something steadier.

Something that stayed.

Her hand shifted again, sliding more fully into his, anchoring there.

When he said he needed her there—

That he wanted her there—

It landed differently.

Not as pressure.

Not as expectation.

As choice.

Her gaze dropped for a second, just long enough to steady herself, before lifting back to his.

“I’ll be there,” she said.

Simple.

No decoration.

No performance.

Just a promise.

Her voice didn’t waver.

Her hand tightened once more in his, grounding the words into something physical.

Real.

Her eyes followed his brief glance toward the monitor, instinct pulling her attention there too, a flicker of something softer moving through her at the reminder of the life sitting just a few feet away.

Then she looked back at him.

At everything he was holding.

At everything they were about to step into.

Together.

When he painted the future—small, imperfect, alive—something in her chest shifted again, quieter this time.

Not fear.

Not even hope, exactly.

Something steadier.

Something she could stand on.

Her lips pressed together briefly, like she was holding back more than she was saying.

Then she leaned in.

Not far.

Just enough that her forehead brushed his temple, her voice dropping into something softer, closer.

“You’re going to be insufferable for the next forty-eight hours,” she murmured.

A beat.

“And I’m going to let you.”

Her hand slid up from his, fingertips brushing lightly along his jaw—not dramatic, not lingering—just a quiet, grounding touch before settling back between them.

Her gaze held his again.

Steady.

Certain.

“Start with the playlist,” she added, softer now. “I’ll handle the snacks.”

A flicker of something warmer passed through her expression.

“And the bagels.”

Then, after a moment—quieter still—

“Always the bagels.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason went quiet in a way that felt different from hesitation.

It was the quiet of being corrected and realizing the correction had been deserved—not cruelly, not sharply, but clearly enough that it found the exact place it needed to land.

He had been trying to protect her from the cost of his dream.

She had just reminded him she was not something fragile he got to protect by deciding the shape of her life for her.

His fingers tightened around hers once before loosening again, an instinctive apology made with touch instead of words. Her thumb at his pulse point made it impossible to pretend she hadn’t felt how fast his heart had been going, how badly he wanted this, how afraid he’d been to want it too loudly in front of her.

He swallowed, eyes staying on her face.

The steadiness in her voice did something to him. It didn’t make the fear vanish. It gave it edges. Made it something he could hold without letting it spill over everything else.

She wanted it.

Not as charity. Not as sacrifice. Not as the selfless wife handing him a dream while she stood off to the side and carried the weight.

She wanted to be there.

That was the part that kept echoing.

Mason looked at her hand in his, at the way her fingers had slid more fully into place, at the slight warmth her palm left behind when she shifted closer. Her shoulder brushed his arm, deliberate and grounding, and it sent a quiet spark through him—not heat exactly, though there was always that too with Rowan, but recognition.

She wasn’t stepping away from the possibility.

She was leaning into it.

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose, careful to keep it quiet. The house had that late-night texture to it now, fire low behind them, television flickering forgotten color across the walls, Lyric asleep in the bassinet nearby with one tiny fist curled beside her cheek. Everything felt held together by soft noises: the heater, the baby’s breathing, the almost-silence after Rowan’s last words.

Start with the playlist.

I’ll handle the snacks.

Always the bagels.

God.

Of course bagels were what nearly took him out.

Not the audition. Not New York. Not the fact that his wife had been tracking Broadway casting calls like a covert agent with postpartum exhaustion and a fully operational snack strategy.

Bagels.

Because that was them. That was the shape of it. Big dream, practical carbs. Broadway, bottles, airport bathrooms, throat coat tea, and Rowan sitting across from him like the whole thing could be terrifying and still worth doing.

He let out a breath that almost became a laugh but didn’t quite make it there.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

One word first. Because anything else needed a second to gather.

His eyes flicked once toward the bassinet, automatic now. Lyric was still out, her chest moving in that tiny even rhythm that had become the metronome of his life. Safe. Sleeping. Completely unaware that her parents were whispering a future into existence a few feet away.

Then he looked back at Rowan.

Really looked.

At the calm she was holding. At the warmth under the almost-dry humor. At the soft set of her mouth after she’d touched his jaw and pulled away before it became too much. Rowan had always known exactly how to leave him wanting more without making him feel abandoned. A graze. A look. A promise made in the space before contact ended.

His voice came lower when he spoke again.

“You’re right.”

It cost him a little to say—not because he didn’t believe it, but because the words opened something in him he hadn’t realized he’d been keeping braced shut.

“I don’t get to decide what you can handle.”

He held her gaze, not flinching from it.

“And I’m sorry if that’s what it sounded like. I wasn’t trying to make you smaller. I just…” His mouth pulled to one side, not quite a smile. “I panicked because I love you, which is very noble in theory and very annoying in practice.”

There it was. A little bit of him. The theater-boy reflex. The soft landing.

But he didn’t hide behind it.

His thumb brushed along the side of her hand, slow enough to feel each knuckle.

“I know you thought about it,” he said. “The bottles. The airport. The spit-up outfit. The part where I’m pretending I’m not losing my mind while absolutely losing my mind.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“And the fact that you still want to go after factoring in all of that is… kind of the hottest logistical decision anyone’s ever made.”

The joke came out softer than usual, warmed through with gratitude.

Then the smile faded into something more serious, more open.

“I want you there,” he said again, because the first time had been true, but this time it felt rooted. “Not as backup. Not as proof I’m worth watching. Just because when something big happens, you’re the person I look for.”

His fingers shifted, sliding between hers more securely.

“And if it’s good, I want to see your face after. If it’s humiliating, I want to see your face after. If I accidentally sing the wrong sixteen bars and have to flee into the street and become a mysterious bagel vendor under a new identity—”

Her mouth twitched.

He loved that twitch. Lived for it, honestly.

“—I still want you there.”

He leaned in a fraction, not enough to crowd her, just enough that the warmth between them changed. The fire snapped softly behind him, and the scent of smoke and baby lotion and Rowan’s shampoo sat in the air like memory.

“You saying you’ll be there,” he murmured, “that does something to me.”

He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t make it pretty.

His throat tightened, and he let it.

“It makes it feel real. Like I’m allowed to go want it with my whole chest because I’m not leaving my life behind to do it. I’m bringing my life with me.”

His gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands, then lifted back to hers.

“And that’s you,” he said. “And her.”

His eyes cut toward Lyric again, softer this time, a small helpless smile touching his face before he came back to Rowan.

“And bagels, apparently. Foundational element.”

He could feel the energy starting to rise in his body now—the audition beginning to become a living thing in the room. Saturday. Flight Friday. Three-month stint. Little Shop of Horrors. He could already hear the first notes in his head, could already imagine the wrong shoes, the wrong cut, the fluorescent hallway, the clipboard, the nerves.

His knee bounced once under the table before he forced it still.

Rowan would notice. Rowan always noticed.

He exhaled, then gave up and let the grin break through.

“Playlist first,” he agreed.

He reached for his phone with the hand not holding hers, moving carefully, like sudden motion might wake Lyric or spook the fragile thing they’d just built between them. The screen lit his face blue for a second. He squinted at it, still smiling like an idiot, and opened his music app with the focus of a man preparing for battle and/or opening night.

“What are we calling it?” he whispered. “Because my instinct is something subtle and mature, like Mason’s Absolutely Chill New York Audition Playlist Where Nobody Cries at the Gate.”

He glanced up at her.

“Too long?”

Her look answered him, and he huffed a silent laugh, shoulders loosening.

“Fine. Working title.”

He typed anyway. Slowly. Dramatically. Knowing she was watching his thumbs move like he was committing a crime.

Then he paused, phone still in hand, and his expression softened again.

“Thank you,” he said.

The words were quiet. Not tossed in. Not casual.

Thank you for looking.
Thank you for believing.
Thank you for wanting to be there.
Thank you for making wanting feel safe.

He didn’t say all of that. He didn’t need to cram the room full of words until the moment buckled under them.

He just looked at her and let the rest show.

Then, because the emotion in his chest was getting dangerously close to becoming visible in a way Rowan would absolutely clock and probably be gentle about, which would only make it worse, he looked down at the phone again.

“Okay,” he murmured. “We need warmups. Something dramatic. Something calming. Something that makes me feel like I have cheekbones and purpose.”

A beat.

“And absolutely no songs that make me think about you too hard or I’ll show up to the audition emotionally compromised and accidentally propose again.”

He glanced at her from under his lashes, all crooked grin and barely contained wonder.

“Which would be awkward. Since we’re already married.”

His thumb hovered over the first song.

The future didn’t feel distant now.

It felt like a screen glowing between them, a sleeping baby nearby, Rowan’s hand in his, and the first note of something they hadn’t heard yet waiting to be pressed play.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt the shift in him before he ever said a word.

It was in the way his fingers tightened and then eased, like he’d caught himself holding on too hard and didn’t want to make it feel like pressure. It was in the quiet that settled around him—not empty, not uncertain, but full. Full of something landing. Full of something rearranging.

She didn’t move her hand away.

If anything, her grip softened into him instead of out of him, her thumb staying where it rested against his pulse, feeling the rhythm there—fast, alive, honest in a way he didn’t always let himself be. It grounded her as much as it did him. Reminded her that this wasn’t theoretical. This wasn’t some distant version of their life they were trying on for size.

This was happening right here. In their living room. With the fire low and the TV flickering shadows against the walls and their daughter breathing softly a few feet away.

Her chest tightened at the thought of Lyric—at the way his eyes flicked there, instinctive, protective, the way his whole body seemed to check in with her without even thinking. Rowan followed the glance without turning her head, just listening for that small, steady breath that had already rewired something in her permanently.

Safe.

Okay.

She let herself exhale.

When he looked back at her, really looked, something in her stomach dipped—not nerves, not fear, but that quiet, familiar awareness of being seen by him in a way that didn’t let her hide behind ease or humor or deflection.

She held his gaze anyway.

Because this mattered.

Because he mattered.

Because she had meant every word she’d said, even if some part of her still felt the tremor of it underneath.

Her lips pressed together for a second when he admitted it—when he owned the part where he’d tried to make the decision for her. Not in a way that pushed him away, but in a way that let the truth sit between them without softening it too quickly.

She felt it land.

Felt the apology in the space between his words, in the way his voice dipped, in the way his thumb traced along her hand like he needed to stay anchored to her while he said it.

And something in her loosened.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… enough.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction, tension she hadn’t realized she was holding easing out through her breath. Her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth when it pulled to the side like that, that almost-smile that always meant he was trying to thread sincerity through something lighter without losing either.

God, she knew him.

Knew the reflex. Knew the instinct to soften the edges before they got too sharp.

But he didn’t hide this time.

That was what caught her.

He stayed there. Stayed open. Stayed in it.

Rowan’s throat tightened unexpectedly when he started listing it—the bottles, the airport, the spit-up, the chaos of it—and she felt a small, almost incredulous huff of breath leave her at the accuracy of it. At the fact that he had seen it too. Not just the dream. Not just the stage and the lights and the possibility.

All of it.

Her gaze dropped to their hands for a second, watching the way his fingers slid more securely between hers, the weight of it settling into something steadier. Warmer.

“You think I didn’t factor in the spit-up outfit?” she murmured, her voice soft but threaded with that dry edge he knew so well. “Please. I already picked which one you’re embarrassing yourself in.”

But the humor didn’t fully take.

Not this time.

Because when he said he wanted her there—really said it, stripped of everything else—it hit somewhere deeper than she’d been braced for.

Her breath caught, just slightly, just enough that she felt it in her chest before she could smooth it out. Her eyes lifted back to his, and for a second she didn’t have anything to say.

Not because there was nothing there.

Because there was too much.

The way he framed it—not as support, not as obligation, but as instinct. As something he needed, not because he couldn’t stand on his own, but because she was part of what standing looked like for him.

It settled into her bones in a way that was almost overwhelming.

Her fingers curled tighter around his without thinking, anchoring herself in the contact.

“You don’t have to earn me being there,” she said quietly.

The words came out softer than she intended, but she didn’t pull them back.

Her thumb moved against his hand again, a small, absent motion that betrayed more than she would’ve said outright.

“I’m not… showing up because you’re doing something impressive.” Her mouth twitched faintly, but her eyes stayed steady. “I’m showing up because it’s you.”

There it was.

Simple. Bare. True.

Her chest rose slowly with her next breath as she let that sit between them, didn’t rush to cover it with something easier. The fire cracked behind him, a small, sharp sound that seemed louder in the quiet, and she became acutely aware of everything at once—the warmth of his knee brushing hers, the faint glow of his phone lighting his face, the soft, rhythmic inhale of their daughter in the bassinet.

Their life.

Right here.

Not something he was leaving.

Something he was carrying.

Her gaze softened when his did—when it flicked toward Lyric again, that helpless, almost disbelieving warmth in his expression that she was still getting used to seeing. It did something to her every time. Something deep and quiet and fiercely protective.

She followed the look this time, letting herself actually turn her head just enough to see their daughter, small and impossibly still, her tiny hand curled near her cheek like she’d decided the world could wait a few hours.

Rowan’s chest tightened again.

Then she looked back at him.

“And her,” she echoed softly.

Her voice held something different now. Something fuller.

Then, because the moment had stretched just enough that she could feel it tipping toward too much—too heavy, too exposed—she let the corner of her mouth lift.

“Yeah,” she added, glancing briefly at their hands again. “Bagels really pulled it all together.”

Her shoulder nudged his lightly, deliberate, grounding, just enough to bring them back into something that felt like them without losing what had just passed between them.

She watched the way his energy shifted after that—the subtle bounce in his leg, the barely-contained anticipation building under his skin—and it made something warm bloom in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to excitement.

Not just for him.

With him.

Her eyes tracked his hand as he reached for his phone, the glow lighting his face, catching in his expression in a way that made him look younger for a second. Or maybe just more open.

She leaned slightly into him without thinking about it, her head angling just enough that she could see the screen, her hair brushing faintly against his shoulder.

“What are we calling it?” he asked.

Rowan’s brow lifted slowly as she looked at him, then at the screen, then back at him again—an entire answer in the look alone.

Her lips pressed together, fighting the smile for exactly half a second before it slipped through anyway.

“Absolutely not,” she whispered.

There was no hesitation in it. No debate.

Her fingers tightened briefly around his hand, like she was physically vetoing the idea.

“Keep typing that and I’m taking the phone.”

Her voice stayed low, careful not to carry, but the threat in it was softened by the warmth underneath.

She watched him type anyway—of course he did—and the sight of it, the quiet normalcy of him being ridiculous in the middle of something that felt this big, made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite name.

When he paused—when his expression shifted again, softer, quieter—she felt it before he spoke.

And when he said thank you, something in her stilled.

Completely.

Her breath caught again, sharper this time, and she held his gaze without moving, without filling the space, letting the weight of it land exactly as he meant it.

She didn’t deflect it.

Didn’t brush it off.

Didn’t turn it into a joke.

Her free hand lifted almost without her deciding to move it, fingers coming up to rest briefly against his jaw, her thumb brushing just once along the edge of it—a mirror of what she’d done earlier, but slower this time. More deliberate.

“You don’t have to thank me for that either,” she said quietly.

Her voice was steady, but there was something softer underneath it now, something that didn’t quite hide.

“I’m already in it.”

Her hand lingered for a second longer before she let it fall back to her lap, not pulling away entirely but giving the moment just enough space to breathe.

Then she tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking back to the phone, to the blank beginning of something that suddenly didn’t feel abstract at all.

“Okay,” she murmured, voice shifting again—lighter, but still anchored in everything that had just been said. “Warmups first. And if you put anything on there that makes you spiral, I’m skipping it.”

Her gaze slid sideways to him, a hint of challenge in it now.

“I mean it. No dramatic ‘I was born to suffer for my art’ energy until at least the second round.”

Her shoulder pressed into his again, a quiet, steady contact.

“And for the record,” she added, softer, her eyes flicking up to his face, catching that crooked grin, that barely-contained wonder he hadn’t quite managed to hide, “if you propose again at the audition…”

A beat.

Her mouth curved.

“I’m saying yes again. But I am judging your timing.”

The words hung there, warm and easy and threaded through with something deeper that neither of them had to say out loud.

The future didn’t feel far away to her either.

It felt like this.

His hand in hers. His phone lighting the space between them. Their daughter breathing softly nearby.

And the quiet, certain knowledge that whatever came next—

They were already in it together.

Rowan watched his thumb hover, watched the way he lingered over the blank space like the right first note might decide everything that came after it.

It was endearing.

It was also very him—overthinking the entry point to something he already knew how to do.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it, something softer than amusement settling in her chest as she shifted just a little closer, her shoulder pressing more fully into his arm. The warmth of him was steady, grounding, familiar in a way that made everything else feel quieter by comparison.

“Okay, give me that,” she murmured, low enough not to carry past the small bubble of space they’d built.

She didn’t wait for him to argue.

Her fingers slipped easily from his, only to replace the contact a second later when she reached across and gently—but decisively—plucked the phone from his hand. Not abrupt. Not sharp. Just… certain. Like she already knew he’d let her.

Her thumb brushed briefly against his knuckles in the process, a small, unconscious reassurance that she wasn’t pulling away—just taking over.

For a second, the absence of his hand in hers registered more than she expected. A faint echo. So she compensated without thinking, her knee nudging more firmly against his, her hip angling closer so the contact stayed.

Always balancing.

Always staying connected.

Rowan tilted the phone slightly, the glow lighting her face now, catching in her eyes as her expression shifted—focus settling in, the same quiet competence she slipped into when she had something to do.

“Playlist comes after source material,” she said, almost to herself, though she knew he’d hear it.

Her thumb moved across the screen with easy familiarity, navigating without hesitation. Search. Tap. Scroll.

There was no dramatics to it.

No overthinking.

Just intention.

The faintest crease formed between her brows as she typed, her lips pressing together in concentration, the firelight flickering against the side of her face while the cooler blue from the phone softened the rest. It gave her that split-light look he always stared at too long—half warm, half shadowed, fully hers.

“Little Shop…” she muttered under her breath, finishing the search with a small, decisive tap.

A list populated.

She scanned it quickly, not rushing, but not lingering either—eyes moving with quiet precision until she found the one she wanted. Original cast. Clean. Reliable. No weird covers. No distractions.

“There,” she said softly.

Not triumphantly. Just… found.

Her thumb hovered for a second before she tapped into it, the track list opening up in a neat column of titles that felt suddenly heavier than just songs. Her gaze lingered there a moment longer than necessary, something in her chest tightening—not with doubt, but with the weight of what this actually meant.

This was real.

Saturday.

Flight Friday.

Three months.

Her fingers stilled on the screen for just a breath.

Then she exhaled slowly through her nose, steadying herself the same way she’d steadied him earlier.

And moved forward.

“We start here,” she decided quietly, glancing sideways at him—not fully turning her head, just enough that her eyes caught his, checking in without making it a question.

Her thumb tapped the first track.

The opening notes slipped into the room—soft at first, almost tentative, like the music itself was aware of the hour, of the sleeping baby nearby, of the fact that this moment didn’t need volume to matter.

Rowan adjusted the volume instinctively, lowering it just enough so it sat under everything else instead of over it.

Background.

Foundation.

Her head tilted slightly as she listened, her body already responding in small ways—subtle shifts in posture, a faint rhythm settling somewhere in her shoulders. Not performance. Not yet.

Just… familiarity.

She handed the phone back to him then, but not all the way.

Her fingers lingered on it, brushing his again as she passed it over, her touch deliberate this time. Grounding. A quiet echo of earlier.

“You don’t get to spiral about it like it’s some abstract thing now,” she said softly, her voice warm but edged with intention. “It’s just music.”

Her eyes held his for a second longer, something steady and unwavering in them.

“You know how to do this.”

The words weren’t big.

They didn’t need to be.

Her hand slipped back into his after that, like it had never left, her fingers threading through his with quiet certainty. She leaned into him again, her shoulder settling against his arm, her head tipping just slightly in his direction as the music continued to play low in the background.

For a moment, she let herself just listen.

To the track.

To his breathing.

To the soft, even rhythm of Lyric across the room.

Her thumb moved absently against his hand again, a slow, grounding motion that matched the pace of everything else.

Then, after a beat, her mouth curved faintly.

“Also,” she added under her breath, almost like an afterthought, though it wasn’t, “if you try to skip ahead to the song you think you’ll sound best in before actually warming up…”

A small pause.

Her fingers squeezed his once.

“I’m revoking bagel privileges.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason watched her take the phone like she had every right to reach straight into the mess inside his head and start organizing it.

And the stupidest part was, he let her.

Of course he did.

His fingers stayed half-curled for a second after the phone left his hand, still holding the shape of it, still holding the shape of her touch where it had passed over his knuckles. The absence of her hand hit him harder than it should have—small, ridiculous, embarrassing—but then her knee pressed into his, her hip shifting closer, and the whole room seemed to click back into place.

There.

Still there.

He looked down at her as the screen lit her face from below, blue-white against the amber firelight. That little crease appeared between her brows—the one she got when she was focused, when the world narrowed to the task in front of her and heaven help anything that got in the way. It should not have been romantic, watching his wife search a cast recording on his phone while threatening his future bagels.

It was devastatingly romantic.

Mason’s chest tightened as she found the album, selected it with that quiet certainty of hers, and let the first notes slip into the room.

The sound was low. Careful. Almost secretive.

Still, his eyes went to the bassinet before he could stop them.

Lyric stayed asleep, one tiny fist near her cheek, mouth relaxed, the soft rhythm of her breathing undisturbed. The music settled under the room instead of over it—beneath the muted television, beneath the fire’s occasional crackle, beneath Rowan’s shoulder pressed warm and steady into his arm.

His throat went tight.

Because suddenly it wasn’t abstract.

It wasn’t Broadway as a word, or New York as a skyline, or an audition as some glowing, impossible thing he could keep at arm’s length and call a dream.

It was music in their living room.

It was Rowan’s hand slipping back into his.

It was their daughter asleep nearby while the first thread of the future played quietly through his phone speaker.

Mason took the phone back when she handed it to him, but his attention barely stayed on the screen. It kept sliding to her—to the curve of her mouth, the steadiness in her eyes, the way she had just looked at him and made the whole thing sound simple without making it small.

You know how to do this.

The words landed somewhere deep.

Too deep for a joke at first.

His thumb hovered over the track list, not touching anything, while he let himself feel the shape of them. She believed it. Not in the vague way people believed in dreams because it sounded nice. Rowan believed in evidence. In pattern recognition. In things she had seen with her own eyes.

And she had seen him.

That was the part that made it hard to breathe.

He swallowed, then let his fingers close more securely around hers, the phone resting loose in his other hand.

“Okay,” he whispered.

It came out quiet. Less polished than he meant it to. Rough at the edge, but steady enough.

He didn’t say more right away. He just listened.

The opening track moved through the room like a memory. It carried him back to auditorium dust and old stage curtains, to cheap props and hot lights, to the electric terror of waiting for a cue. He could feel the old version of himself in his ribs—the boy who wanted to be seen so badly and pretended that made him ridiculous instead of hungry.

He had been hungry.

He still was.

That realization should have scared him more than it did.

Maybe because Rowan was sitting beside him, shoulder against his, thumb moving slowly over his hand like she was keeping time. Maybe because Lyric was asleep a few feet away, proof that dreams didn’t have to cancel each other out. Maybe because the room smelled like smoke and baby lotion and Rowan’s shampoo, and somehow that made New York feel less like escape and more like an extension of this.

His life.

Their life.

He glanced at Rowan when she threatened the bagels, and the pressure in his chest loosened just enough for a smile to break through.

“Not the bagels,” he whispered, properly scandalized. “That’s cruel and unusual. I’m pretty sure it violates at least three marriage laws.”

His voice stayed low, but his eyes warmed with it, that familiar spark finding its way back through the awe.

He looked at the screen again, scrolling only enough to see the list, not to skip. He could feel her watching him. Could feel the warning in the way her fingers tightened once around his.

So he didn’t touch the track.

He lifted his free hand slightly instead—two fingers raised like a solemn oath.

“I will respect the process,” he murmured. “I will not cherry-pick the song that makes me sound emotionally wounded but vocally impressive.”

A beat.

Then, softer, with a sideways glance: “Even though I do have range.”

Her look nearly made him laugh out loud. He caught it in his throat at the last second, turning it into a breathy little huff that wouldn’t carry to the bassinet.

Lyric didn’t stir.

Good.

Mason let his head tip back against the couch for a second, eyes half-lidded, listening. Not performing. Not yet. Just letting the score remind his body what it already knew.

Breath low.

Jaw loose.

Shoulders down.

He hadn’t warmed up properly in months. Not really. He sang around the house, sure—quiet nonsense songs about diaper changes and bottle temperatures and whether Lyric had betrayed them all with a blowout after bath time. But this was different.

This was the old muscle waking up.

His fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stopped them, too restless to stay completely still. Rowan’s thumb kept moving over his hand, and he focused on that instead. Her rhythm. Her steadiness.

He glanced down at her.

She was looking at the phone now, or maybe the space between the music and his face. Her expression had softened, but there was still intention there. She wasn’t letting him float off into panic. She wasn’t letting him shrink it into a joke either.

She was keeping him in the room.

Mason turned slightly toward her, careful not to jostle the couch too much, and brought their joined hands up just enough to press his mouth to her knuckles.

It was brief. Quiet.

Necessary.

When he lowered their hands again, his voice came out softer.

“You know you’re kind of terrifying when you’re competent, right?”

He meant it as a joke. Mostly.

But the truth underneath warmed it.

“You just took my phone, found the source material, started the soundtrack, protected the bagels, and emotionally bullied me into believing in myself in under ninety seconds.”

His mouth curved, helpless.

“That’s a skill set.”

The music shifted beneath them, still low, and Mason’s attention caught on it again. He heard a phrase he knew. Something in his chest answered before his brain did. His breath adjusted around the melody, not singing yet, just shaping it silently behind his teeth.

Rowan noticed.

Of course she did.

His cheeks warmed, and he looked down with a small, sheepish grin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “My theater kid firmware is booting up.”

He shifted forward slightly, elbows resting lightly on his knees, phone still in hand, Rowan’s hand still caught in his. The glow of the screen threw the track list across his fingers. His wedding band flashed once when he moved.

That caught him too.

Husband.

Father.

Auditioning actor.

All three sitting in the same room like they belonged together.

He had spent so long assuming ambition required shedding parts of himself to be lighter. Easier to move. Easier to chase. But now the opposite felt true. Rowan’s shoulder against him, Lyric asleep nearby, the weight of his ring on his hand—none of it dragged him down.

It held him steady enough to want more.

He stared at the screen for another beat, then locked it and set it face down on the couch cushion between them. The music kept playing anyway, small and sure.

No skipping.

No spiraling.

Just the start.

He turned his face toward Rowan fully now, letting himself look at her the way he’d been trying not to because every time he did, it hit too hard. The firelight caught in her hair. Her eyes were tired but alive, softened at the edges in a way he still didn’t take for granted.

“You’re already in it,” he said quietly, echoing the part that had lodged in him hardest.

His voice thinned a little, and he let it. No smoothing it over.

“I keep thinking I have to invite you into the dream carefully, like I’m asking too much. And then you just…” He breathed out, almost smiling. “You walk in, rearrange the furniture, put snacks on the table, and tell me the audition’s Saturday.”

His eyes flicked to the bassinet once more, automatic, then back.

“I love you for that,” he murmured. “A lot.”

The words were simple. Smaller than what he felt. But if he tried to say the whole thing, it would come out ridiculous or too big for the room, and Lyric would wake up to her father having an emotional event over a cast recording.

So he leaned in instead.

Slowly.

Not a big kiss. Not one that asked for anything. Just a warm press to Rowan’s temple, then another near the edge of her hairline, where she always smelled faintly like home and whatever baby soap had become part of both of them now.

He stayed there for a breath.

Then he drew back just enough to murmur, “Playlist after source material. Warmups before ego. Bagels always.”

His mouth tilted against her skin.

“I can follow directions when they’re yours.”

He felt her smile more than saw it.

That was enough.

For a while, they just listened.

Mason let the music run under the quiet, under the crackle of the fire and Lyric’s breathing and Rowan’s thumb brushing slowly over his hand again. His brain still moved too fast—cuts, keys, flights, bottles, whether he still had the right shoes, whether audition rooms in New York smelled like nerves the same way high school dressing rooms did.

But it didn’t spin out.

Every time it tried, Rowan was there.

Shoulder to arm. Knee to knee. Hand in his.

The dream was still huge.

Terrifying, even.

But it had a couch now. A sleeping baby. A wife who had already picked the bagels.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt the kiss before she fully processed the words that came before it.

It wasn’t the kind that demanded anything. Not the kind that shifted the air or deepened the moment into something heavier than it already was. It was softer than that—placed, almost. Intentional in a way that made her chest tighten more than if he’d pulled her in and kissed her properly.

Her breath caught just slightly as his mouth brushed her temple, then lingered near her hairline, and for a second she closed her eyes without meaning to. The scent of him—faint smoke from the fire, something clean, something warm—mixed with the quiet hum of the room, and it settled into her like something she could keep.

Like something she already had.

Her hand tightened around his automatically, fingers pressing into his like she needed to anchor the feeling before it slipped past too quickly. It was a small reaction, almost invisible, but she felt it all the way up her arm.

He pulled back, but not far.

Not enough to lose the warmth.

And she didn’t move away either.

Her head tilted just slightly toward him, instinctive, the space between them narrowing without either of them really deciding it should. The music carried softly under everything, low and steady, and she became acutely aware of how quiet the house was—how every small movement felt amplified by it.

His words—simple, structured, a little bit him trying to hold onto something steady—settled into her slower than she expected.

Playlist after source material.

Warmups before ego.

Bagels always.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it.

Not wide. Not bright. Just… there. Something warm at the edges, something that stayed.

“You better,” she murmured, her voice low, softened by the way the moment had shifted.

But there was no real warning in it anymore.

No edge.

Just familiarity.

Just them.

Her eyes drifted down for a second, catching the way he’d set the phone aside, face down, like he’d made a choice not to chase ahead. Not to control it. To just let it be what it was right now.

That did something to her.

Something quieter than pride, but just as steady.

When she looked back up at him, he was already watching her.

And that—God, that never stopped landing.

Not the look itself. The way he looked. Like he was still a little surprised by her. Like he was still figuring her out even after everything, and somehow that didn’t make her feel uncertain—it made her feel chosen.

Her breath slowed, her shoulders easing another fraction as she let herself sit in it.

“You don’t have to invite me into it,” she said after a beat, her voice softer now, but more certain than before.

Her thumb resumed its slow movement over his hand, a grounding rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with keeping them right here.

“I’m not… waiting at the door for you to decide if it’s safe for me to come in.”

A small pause.

Her gaze held his, steady, unwavering—not confrontational, just… honest.

“I’m already in the room.”

The words weren’t dramatic. She didn’t push them. Didn’t dress them up.

She just let them sit there, between them, as true as everything else that had been said tonight.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the bassinet again, softer this time, her chest tightening in that familiar, aching way that came with looking at their daughter. Even asleep, Lyric felt like gravity—like something everything else quietly revolved around.

Rowan’s fingers curled slightly against Mason’s hand again before she looked back at him.

“And so is she,” she added, quieter still.

There was something different in her voice now. Not heavier. Just deeper. Rooted.

Then, because she could feel the moment hovering on the edge of becoming too much again—too open, too unguarded—she let out a small breath through her nose, the faintest hint of a smile returning.

Her shoulder nudged his lightly.

“And for the record,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him, her tone shifting just enough to pull them back into something easier, “you make it sound like I did something impressive.”

Her brow lifted slightly, a hint of dry amusement threading through.

“I googled a cast album and threatened your breakfast.”

A beat.

Her lips curved a little more.

“Let’s not build a résumé around it.”

But she didn’t pull away from him.

Didn’t break the contact.

If anything, she leaned in a fraction more, her head angling just enough that it brushed lightly against his shoulder as the music continued to play low beneath them.

For a moment, she just listened.

Not analyzing. Not planning.

Just… letting it settle.

The notes were familiar, even if she couldn’t place every track by name. There was something about the rhythm of it, the structure, the way it moved that made her feel like she was stepping into something already in motion rather than starting from scratch.

Her thumb slowed against his hand.

Then stilled.

“You’re going to want to mark the cuts tomorrow,” she said quietly, her voice thoughtful now, slipping back into that steady, practical cadence he knew so well. “Not tonight. Tonight you just… let it sit.”

Her eyes flicked up to his again, softer, but still grounded in that quiet certainty she carried.

“Let your body remember it before you try to shape it.”

A small pause.

Her gaze lingered on his face—on the way he looked right now, a little overwhelmed, a little lit up, something vulnerable still sitting just under the surface.

Her chest tightened again, but this time it didn’t feel like something she needed to manage.

It just… was.

“And tomorrow,” she added, her voice gentler now, “we’ll figure out what actually feels right.”

Not what sounded impressive.

Not what he thought he should do.

What felt like him.

Her fingers squeezed his once, softer this time.

“You don’t have to prove anything in that room,” she said quietly. “You just have to show up as yourself.”

The words lingered between them, quieter than the music, but just as steady.

Then she let out a small breath, her mouth curving again, just enough to shift the air.

“And if that fails,” she added under her breath, tilting her head slightly toward him, “we pivot to the bagel vendor identity.”

A beat.

Her eyes flicked up, catching his.

“I think you’d do well in a beanie.”

Rowan didn’t move right away.

The space between them held—warm, charged, steady—and she let herself feel it without rushing to fill it, her eyes tracing the small shifts in his expression, the way he stayed with her even in the quiet.

Then, almost absently, she leaned forward.

Her hand reached past him, fingers brushing the edge of his phone where it rested, and she lifted it just enough to set it more securely onto the coffee table. The soft tap it made against the wood barely registered, just another small sound absorbed into the room.

Her body stayed angled forward for a second after, her gaze drifting naturally toward the bassinet again.

Lyric hadn’t stirred.

Still tucked into herself, still breathing in that soft, even rhythm that made something in Rowan’s chest ease every time she checked. The sight of her—so small, so completely unaware of the world shifting quietly around her—settled something deep and instinctive.

Rowan lingered there for a beat longer than necessary.

Then her eyes flicked toward the clock.

The time pulled a small, thoughtful pause out of her, her bottom lip catching between her teeth as she processed it—not late enough to matter, not early enough to ignore. Just that in-between space where the night felt suspended.

Her teeth pressed lightly into her lip, holding it there for a second as something shifted under the surface.

Then she exhaled.

And the corner of her mouth lifted.

A smirk—not loud, not exaggerated, just… there. Quiet. Certain. A flicker of something that felt like her, unfiltered.

Her gaze slid back to him, and she didn’t give herself time to think about it.

She leaned in.

The movement was smooth, instinctive, closing the distance like it had been waiting for permission that she’d just decided to give herself. Her hand found him again—fingers curling lightly into his shirt this time, not just holding but pulling him into her.

And then she kissed him.

Deep.

No hesitation. No testing.

Just warmth and pressure and familiarity that went beyond the surface of it—something that carried memory and present together in a way that made her chest tighten as she leaned into him fully.

Her other hand came up to his jaw, thumb pressing there, grounding him and herself all at once as the kiss deepened, slowed, settled into something that felt lived-in rather than rushed.

She pulled back slowly, her breath catching just enough to feel it, her lips still close to his as she hovered there for a second.

Her eyes searched his face briefly before she spoke, voice softer now, edged with something reflective.

“Do you remember when we got stuck in the supply closet?”

Her mouth curved faintly as the memory came into focus.

“You were dressed like a pirate,” she added, her tone warming with it, “and I had that flapper costume on.”

A quiet breath left her, almost a laugh.

Her gaze dipped for a second, then lifted again, steadier now.

“That was the first time I ever really let my walls down with a guy,” she said, the honesty in it simple, unpolished. “I didn’t care how I looked or what I said. I just… let myself be dumb with you.”

Her fingers shifted slightly where they held him, soft but certain.

“And it was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

She didn’t let the weight of it sit too long.

She leaned in again.

This time the kiss was slower, softer at first—like she was easing back into him instead of crashing forward. Her lips moved against his with a quiet familiarity, something that felt less like discovery and more like returning.

When she pulled away, she didn’t go far.

Her lips traced along his jaw instead, light and unhurried, following the line of it downward before drifting back up, her breath warm against his skin.

“I still have that hoodie,” she murmured, voice low, almost lost to the space between them. “The one you left under all the costumes and boas.”

A faint smile touched her lips as they brushed near his ear.

“You showed up that Sunday,” she continued softly, the memory unfolding in pieces, “when my parents were at book club.”

Her voice dropped just slightly, closer now, more intimate without being heavy.

“And I decided I didn’t want to be careful anymore.”

Her lips lingered near his ear for a second longer before she shifted back, just enough to look at him again.

Her expression softened as she met his gaze, something quieter settling in.

“And I took your virginity,” she added, her voice gentle, almost thoughtful.

A small pause.

Her smile came easier this time, softer, steadier.

“I knew I was in love with you by then.”

The words stayed between them, simple and real, as she held his gaze—present, grounded, and completely there.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason stopped breathing.

Not dramatically—not in the way he would’ve done it onstage, all hand-to-chest and tragic lighting. This was quieter than that. More dangerous. His body simply forgot what came next because Rowan had just said the words like they were nothing and everything at the same time.

I knew I was in love with you by then.

For a second, all he could feel was her hand in his shirt and the warmth of her mouth still lingering at his jaw. The music had gone soft beneath the moment, almost irrelevant now, just a low thread of sound under the fire and the faint white noise of the house settling around them. The bassinet sat close to the couch, Lyric asleep inside it, her breathing steady and small and impossibly grounding.

Mason’s eyes flicked there once.

Safe.

Still asleep.

Then back to Rowan.

God.

She looked so sure.

That was what undid him most—not the memory itself, not the mention of the supply closet or the Sunday afternoon or the hoodie he had absolutely pretended not to notice she kept. It was the way she held his gaze when she said it. Like she wasn’t tossing him a confession to see what he would do with it.

She was giving him a fact.

A piece of their history that had been true long before either of them knew what to call it.

His hand lifted slowly, almost like he had to remind himself he was allowed to touch her. His fingers found her jaw first, thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone, gentle despite the heat still sitting under his skin from the kiss. He could feel her pulse there. Or maybe it was his. Everything felt too close to tell apart.

“You knew then?” he whispered.

It came out rougher than he meant it to. Barely above the music. Barely above the fire.

A breath pushed through him, almost a laugh, but it broke apart before it became one. He looked down for half a second, smiling at nothing, at everything, at the impossible time loop of it all.

Pirate costume. Flapper dress. Feathers everywhere. A supply closet that smelled like dust and old paint and hairspray. The two of them trapped between prop swords and garment bags, trying not to laugh too loudly because rehearsal was happening somewhere on the other side of the door.

He remembered it with sudden, brutal clarity.

Not just the funny parts. Not just her rolling her eyes at his pirate voice or him pretending a sequined headband was cursed. He remembered the feeling underneath it. The strange, bright shock of Rowan laughing without guarding it first. The way she’d looked at him like she’d forgotten to be unimpressed. The way the air had changed between them in that tiny closet, crowded and absurd, like something had cracked open and neither of them had wanted to move too fast in case it shut again.

His thumb moved over her cheek again, slower now.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” he admitted softly. “Not the closet. That was unfortunately very real. I still have emotional damage from being attacked by three feather boas.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on hers.

“But you,” he said, quieter. “You laughing with me like that. Letting me see you like that. I remember thinking…” He swallowed, shook his head once, almost embarrassed by his own honesty. “I remember thinking I was never going to get over it.”

He let that sit there because it was true.

He hadn’t gotten over it.

Not then. Not later. Not when she took the hoodie. Not when she showed up that Sunday with that look in her eyes like she had already made a decision and was waiting for him to be brave enough to meet her there.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second before he pulled it back up, not because he didn’t want to kiss her—he did, badly—but because what she’d just given him deserved more than reflex.

“That Sunday,” he murmured, and his voice changed despite him. Lower. Softer. Wrapped in memory. “I was so nervous.”

His smile went crooked.

“Like, aggressively nervous. Oscar-worthy internal panic. I kept trying to act normal, which, as we both know, is not really where I shine.”

He felt her fingers tighten faintly in his shirt, and the small pressure went straight through him.

“But you weren’t careful,” he said. “Not in the way you usually were. You were still you—still sharp, still pretending you were in control of the room, obviously—but there was this part of you that just… stayed open.”

His hand slid from her jaw to the side of her neck, thumb resting near the edge of her pulse.

“And I knew I loved you.”

There it was.

Simple.

No joke to cushion it. No performance wrapped around it. Just the quiet truth of a boy who had been gone long before she ever gave him permission to be.

“I don’t know if I knew how to say it then,” he added. “Or if I would’ve survived saying it without combusting. But I knew.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again, warmer this time.

“And for the record, you did not take anything from me.” His brows rose slightly, that familiar Mason spark threading back in because the memory was tender, yes, but it was theirs, and theirs always had room for a little ridiculousness. “I was very much present. Enthusiastic, even. Probably too enthusiastic. Honestly, I should send Past Me a gift basket for not fainting.”

He leaned in then, unable to hold back anymore, and kissed her.

Not hard. Not rushed. Not the kind of kiss that forgot where they were or who slept a few feet away. It was slow and full, his hand steady at her neck, his mouth lingering like he was answering something he’d been waiting years to answer properly.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

He could feel the warmth of her breath. The faint tremble of the moment between them. The hum of music still playing low. Lyric’s tiny breath in the bassinet. The world, impossibly, holding.

“You kept the hoodie,” he whispered.

His grin softened into something almost boyish.

“I knew it.”

He’d suspected. Of course he had. He’d noticed the way it disappeared and never came back, the way Rowan acted like stolen clothing was a natural consequence of proximity, the way he never really wanted to ask for it back because the thought of her wearing it made his brain short-circuit in a way he couldn’t explain without sounding like a lovesick idiot.

Which, to be fair, he was.

He still was.

“I think part of me hoped you kept it,” he admitted. “Like if you had something of mine, maybe I wasn’t completely making up how real it felt.”

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw again, reverent and absent.

“And now you’re sitting here telling me you knew you loved me by then, and our daughter is sleeping right there, and we’re talking about New York auditions like it’s normal.”

A quiet laugh left him, stunned and warm.

“Ro, my brain is doing cartwheels and a full tap break right now. I need you to understand the scale.”

But beneath it, there was a steadiness in him he could feel. Not panic. Not disbelief.

Joy.

Big, quiet, ridiculous joy.

He looked at her and felt no urge to run ahead of the moment. No urge to turn it into a speech. He just wanted to stay right there, close enough that her hand could keep hold of his shirt, close enough to hear the small changes in her breathing, close enough to remember that every version of his dream now had her inside it.

“I love that you were in love with me before you were ready to say it,” he said, voice gentler. “I love that you let yourself get there in your own time.”

His eyes searched hers, open and unguarded.

“And I love that I get to know now.”

He kissed her once more, shorter this time, a soft press that tasted like gratitude.

Then he tipped his head slightly toward the bassinet, careful and fond.

“We should probably not wake the very tiny witness,” he murmured, his mouth still close to hers. “Because I do not want to explain to Lyric someday that her parents derailed audition prep because her mom confessed love in a dangerously hot way.”

A beat.

His eyes glinted.

“Actually, that sounds exactly like something she’d judge us for.”

He pulled back only enough to breathe, his hand sliding down from her neck to rest over hers where it still held his shirt. He covered it there, warm and sure, pressing her fingers lightly against his chest like he wanted her to feel what she’d done to him.

His heart was still racing.

He didn’t hide it.

“Playlist can wait a minute,” he whispered.

The fire popped softly behind them.

The music kept playing low.

Mason stayed close, smiling like a man who had just found out one of the best days of his life had been one of hers too.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t try to fill the silence.

She let the suspended quiet hold them.

Beneath her knuckles, the sudden, absolute halt of his breath felt like the center of the room giving way. She leaned into the calloused warmth that finally found the curve of her cheek, watching the disbelief unravel his features.

“I knew,” she murmured. Her voice was barely a scrape of sound in the quiet room. “I didn’t have a name for it yet, but I knew.”

A fierce, protective ache bloomed behind her ribs as he unspooled his own memories, pulling her right back into the dust and claustrophobic heat of that prop closet.

A quiet, involuntary exhale of a laugh slipped past her lips at his defense.

“You were ridiculous,” she countered softly.

Her thumb stroked a slow, rhythmic line against his collarbone.

“But you were looking at me like I was the only person in the room. It was terrifying.”

Her fingers curled deeper into the worn cotton of his shirt as he brought them back to that Sunday. She remembered his restless, vibrating energy. Hearing him admit just how completely gone he had been—that he had been actively trying not to faint while she was just trying to look brave—made the history between them feel impossibly heavy.

He had been standing there holding the exact same unspoken truth she was.
“You hid it well,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “Or maybe I was just too busy trying to keep my own heart inside my chest to notice.”

When the pull of his kiss finally came, she yielded to it completely.

Closing her eyes, she grounded herself in the slow, deliberate rhythm of his mouth. She breathed in the faint scent of woodsmoke clinging to his skin.
The world-altering gravity of his confession settled perfectly into the dimly lit, cluttered reality of her parents' living room.

She didn’t pull away when he broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.
A soft, betraying smile pressed into the narrow space between them at his accusation.

“It was lonely,” she deflected smoothly. “And you left it unguarded. That’s just negligence.”

His chaotic, sprawling joy vibrated directly against her skin.

She absorbed the absolute warmth of his acceptance. He didn’t resent the time it took her to say the words. He just loved that they were true.

She pressed back into the second, shorter kiss, her heart swelling as his attention shifted.

Following his gaze to the bassinet, the soft, rhythmic breaths of Lyric kept the universe tethered.

Rowan huffed a quiet breath against his mouth at the idea of their tiny, sleeping daughter judging them.

“She absolutely would,” Rowan agreed, her voice dropping to a low, intimate hum.

Then his hand slid down, pressing her palm flush against his chest.

The sheer, frantic speed of his pulse completely betrayed the steady, boyish amusement on his face.

He was racing.

Frantic, wild, and entirely hers.

The meager inch of space remaining between them suddenly felt completely intolerable.

Her free hand slid up his arm, her fingertips tracing the solid warmth of his neck before coming to rest on his shoulder.

She angled her knee on the cushion.

With a slow, fluid adjustment of her weight, she pulled herself from the dip of the couch. She moved over him, sliding one leg across his thighs, and sank smoothly into the cradle of his hips.

Straddling him.

Bringing her center of gravity entirely against his.

The shift aligned the hammering rhythm of his chest directly against her own.
Resting her forearms lightly on his shoulders, Rowan looked down at him. Her expression was stripped of all pretense. Just steady, incredible warmth.

“And you're right,” she breathed.

She settled completely into his space.

“The playlist has absolutely lost priority.”

The weight of him beneath her felt like gravity finally correcting itself.
Her thighs bracketing his hips. The solid wall of his chest rising and falling directly against hers.

The faint, amber glow of the firelight painted the edges of his face, catching the absolute, unguarded devotion in his eyes. It was almost too much to look at.

Almost.

She lifted her hand from the curve of his shoulder.

Her fingers brushed upward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before her palm settled fully against his cheek.

His skin was radiating heat. It was slightly rough under her fingertips where he hadn't shaved, a tactile, grounding friction that sent a quiet thrill straight down her spine.

He leaned into the cup of her hand instantly.

It was a reflexive, helpless little motion. It made her heart ache all over again.
She smiled, the edges of it soft and impossibly fond.

Leaning forward, she closed the minuscule gap between them and pressed a brief, affectionate kiss right to the bridge of his nose.

It was instinctive. Playful.

When she pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just far enough to share the same breath. Just far enough to see the way his eyes darkened, the way the air between them felt suddenly thick and deeply charged.

Every breath he took belonged to her. She could feel the erratic, hammering rhythm of his pulse against her sternum, answering the frantic thrum of her own.

“It’s a good thing I’m just as obsessed with you as you are with me,” she whispered quietly.

She let the words hang there in the quiet space.

A confession wrapped in a tease.

She felt the slight hitch of his breath. The subtle, involuntary tightening of his grip wherever his hands had landed on her. The heavy, wonderful truth of her words settling perfectly over them both.

She didn’t give him a chance to formulate a witty comeback.

She didn't want him to think at all.

Rowan lowered her head, tipping her chin just enough to find his mouth.

This time, she kissed him with absolute, deliberate intent.

Slow.

Deep.

A sinking, heavy pull that left the rest of the world entirely behind.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s brain simply stopped working.

For one stunned second, all he could register was weight and warmth and Rowan—Rowan moving over him like she had decided the space between them was offensive, Rowan settling into his lap with that steady, devastating confidence that made every thought in his head scatter like stagehands after a missed cue.

His hands found her automatically.

Not greedy at first. Not even smooth.

Just instinctive.

One palm landed at her waist, the other at the curve of her back, fingers spreading like he needed to confirm she was real, that she was here, that she had chosen this exact moment—fire low, music soft, their daughter asleep in the bassinet beside the couch—to climb into his lap and look at him like he was something worth keeping.

His heart was doing something deeply humiliating.

No rhythm. No dignity. Just a frantic, stupid, lovesick percussion section under his ribs.

And then she kissed his nose.

His nose.

Mason might have survived the straddling, theoretically. Maybe. With effort. With prayer. With a great deal of personal growth.

But the kiss to the bridge of his nose? That tiny, affectionate, completely unguarded thing?

That nearly ended him.

His eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he could stop them, his face tilting into her palm like he had no pride left and didn’t care who knew it. He felt the roughness of his own jaw beneath her hand, the warmth of her skin against his cheek, the soft pressure of her thighs bracketing him, and all he could think was that every version of his life before this had been in black and white.

Then she said it.

Obsessed.

Just as obsessed with him as he was with her.

Something low and helpless caught in his throat—not a laugh, not quite a groan, something trapped between disbelief and desire. His grip tightened at her waist before he could temper it, then softened instantly, because even in the middle of being absolutely obliterated, some part of him remembered softness. Remembered the bassinet a few feet away. Remembered that this love had a sleeping witness with tiny fists and judgmental eyebrows.

But Rowan didn’t give him time to be clever.

Thank God.

Because he had nothing.

No line. No bit. No theater-boy recovery.

Just her mouth on his.

And Mason sank into it completely.

The kiss pulled the air out of him slowly, not all at once. It was deep enough to make his spine press back into the couch, slow enough to make him feel every second of it. Her hand at his cheek. The weight of her body over his. The way she kissed like she wasn’t asking anymore, wasn’t testing, wasn’t bracing for him to vanish.

She kissed him like she knew he would stay.

That was the part that wrecked him most.

His hand slid higher along her back, holding her closer without crushing the space between them, his thumb moving once over the fabric of her shirt like he could write something there with touch alone. His other hand stayed at her hip, grounding her, grounding himself, because the whole room had narrowed to her breath and her warmth and the quiet, impossible truth that she had loved him even then.

In the closet.

In the hoodie.

Before the vows. Before Lyric. Before New York became something they could say out loud.

She had loved him.

Mason kissed her back with everything he couldn’t say without waking the baby. Every startled, aching piece of him. Every old version of himself that had waited in the wings hoping she’d look his way. Every new version that knew the shape of a bottle in the dark and the exact way Lyric sighed before falling asleep.

When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t by much.

His mouth stayed close to hers, breath unsteady, forehead brushing hers as he tried very hard to remember he was a functioning person and not a pile of emotional wreckage in sweatpants.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice rough and barely there. “So.”

A beat.

His eyes opened slowly, meeting hers in the firelight.

“I had a really charming comeback planned.”

He did not.

He had absolutely nothing planned.

His thumb flexed once against her hip.

“But then you climbed into my lap and kissed me like that, so now I have, like… one working brain cell, and it’s just screaming your name.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the humor didn’t erase the heat in his face, the stunned softness in his eyes. He looked at her the way he always did when the joke was only there because the truth was too big to hold barehanded.

His gaze flicked once, quick and automatic, to the bassinet.

Lyric was still asleep.

Safe.

Tiny chest rising and falling.

Mason exhaled quietly, then looked back at Rowan, his expression shifting again—less teasing now, more exposed.

His hand came up to her face, mirroring her touch from before. He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, careful, reverent, like she was still the girl in the flapper costume and also his wife and also the mother of his daughter and also the person who had just handed him a future with Broadway inside it.

All of those things at once.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he whispered.

No flourish.

No defense.

Just true.

“Embarrassingly. Historically. Probably medically.”

His smile softened.

“And I loved you then too. In the closet. That Sunday. Every version of it. I was just… too scared to say it without sounding like I was about to burst into song.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second, then came back up.

“Which, to be fair, I usually am.”

He leaned in again, slower this time, giving her every chance to pull back even though he knew she wouldn’t. His lips brushed hers once. Barely. Then again, warmer, lingering.

The house stayed quiet around them.

Firelight, low music, the soft breathing from the bassinet.

His hands settled more securely at her waist, not pulling now. Just holding.

“You’re my favorite thing that ever happened,” he murmured against her mouth. “Before I knew what to call it. After. Always.”

Then he kissed her again.

Not rushed.

Not reckless.

Deep enough to answer her. Gentle enough not to forget where they were. Full enough that when he pulled back, his chest actually hurt with how much he loved her.

He let his forehead rest against hers again, breathing carefully through the heat still humming under his skin.

Then, with the faintest crooked grin, he whispered, “Also, for the record… if Lyric wakes up and judges us, I’m blaming you.”

His thumb brushed her side, slow and warm.

“You started the lap situation.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt it all land at once, not in pieces, not staggered, just one steady, overwhelming press of him—his voice still rough from the kiss, the way the humor tried to come in first and didn’t quite hold, the softness in his eyes that never stayed hidden for long when it came to her. She didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Not with him this close, not with his breath still uneven against her mouth, not with his hands resting at her waist like he needed the contact just to stay grounded. She could feel the slight flex of his thumb against her side, that unconscious movement he always did when he was trying to play something off and failing, and it made something in her chest tighten in a way that wasn’t painful, just full, just real. The fire crackled low behind him, music barely there under it, and somewhere to her left Lyric breathed soft and steady in the bassinet, that small, constant reminder of everything they’d built, everything they were now, sitting quietly beside the version of them that had existed long before they knew what to do with it.

Her hand stayed at his chest, feeling the uneven rhythm under her palm, and she noticed it—the way it hadn’t quite settled yet, the way he was still catching up to her, to what she’d said, to what she’d done. She noticed everything. The way his eyes flicked down and back, the way his mouth softened after the words he didn’t dress up, the way his voice dropped when he stopped hiding. He meant it. Not in a grand way. Not in a way that needed to be performed. Just… true. And that hit her harder than anything else.

Her thumb moved once against him, slow, grounding, before her gaze dipped briefly—his mouth, still close, still warm—and came back up. She felt the second kiss before it fully happened, the way he gave her space for it even though he already knew her answer, the way he still chose to be careful with her even now. Even after everything. Her fingers slid up into his hair without thought, holding him there, not pulling, just meeting him, letting the kiss deepen again in that quiet, certain way that didn’t ask anymore. She kissed him back just as fully, just as steadily, letting herself lean into it without bracing, without holding anything back.

When he spoke again against her mouth, it softened something in her further, that line—so simple and so devastatingly him—and she felt her lips curve faintly against his before they parted just enough to let the words land properly. Her forehead rested back against his when he pulled away, breath still shared, her hand still in his hair, the other sliding up from his chest to his cheek again, thumb brushing along his skin the same way he had done to her.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured quietly, but there was no bite in it, no real teasing, just warmth threaded through every word.

Her eyes searched his for a second longer, softer now, more open.

“I mean that in the most devastatingly sincere way.”

A small breath left her, almost a laugh, almost something else, before her expression shifted—just slightly. Not losing the softness. Just adding something underneath it.

That flicker.

That choice.

She didn’t warn him.

She didn’t overthink it.

Her hands slid from where they rested—one from his cheek, one from his chest—down along him, light and unhurried, and then she moved. Not pulling away from him completely, just shifting, her weight lifting off his lap in one smooth, slightly messy motion as she leaned back into the couch. It wasn’t perfect. Her knee caught slightly on his thigh, her balance adjusting halfway through, but she didn’t stop, didn’t break the movement.

And she didn’t let him go.

Her hands stayed on him, guiding, pulling him down with her, and she felt it—the way he followed automatically, the way his body adjusted without question, the way he let her lead that shift without hesitation. He settled between her legs, close, grounded there, his weight redistributing in that careful way he always did when it was her.

The space changed.

Not distance.

Just angle.

Just enough room to see him again.

Really see him.

Rowan’s back pressed into the couch, her legs loosely around him, and when her eyes lifted to his again, there was something different in them now. Still soft. Still warm. But threaded through with something lighter. Something a little more dangerous in the quietest way.

Her mouth curved.

Slow.

Deliberate.

“How’s this position?” she asked, voice easy, like she hadn’t just orchestrated the entire shift to get him exactly there.

Her hands came back to him without pause, settling on his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her thumbs pressed in lightly, slow, absentminded, like she was just easing tension that might’ve been there, like she wasn’t paying attention to the way he felt under her hands.

Except she was.

Completely.

Her fingers slid down his arms a second later, tracing the length of them before drifting back up again, unhurried, repetitive, like she had nowhere else to be.

Her gaze didn’t leave his.

Not once.

“Feels like an upgrade,” she added softly, her tone quieter now, less teasing but not entirely innocent either, her thumbs brushing once more along his shoulders before settling there again, warm and steady.

She just looked at him. Not searching. Not teasing. Not even soft exactly—just still. Her gaze fixed on his like she was taking him in without trying to shape it into anything else.

Her hands were already back in his hair without thinking, fingers threading slowly through it. Quiet. Repetitive. Her nails grazed lightly along his scalp before smoothing down again.

She felt it—the way he leaned into it. Just a fraction. Just enough.

And she noticed. She always noticed.

Her eyes didn’t leave his, close enough to catch everything—the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the slight part of his lips, the way he hadn’t fully caught up yet. Like he was still somewhere inside everything they’d just said, everything they’d just done.

She let that sit. Didn’t rush to fill it. Didn’t soften it. Just stayed there with him.

Her fingers slowed slightly in his hair. Not stopping. Just easing. Her touch stayed steady. Familiar. Grounding.

The fire cracked low behind him. Music barely there. Lyric’s breathing soft and even beside the couch. The whole room felt still, wrapped around them.

Rowan felt all of it at once—the warmth, the closeness, the way his weight settled between her legs, the way her back pressed into the couch, the way her body reacted to him without effort.

Her other hand lifted slowly, resting along his jaw again. Her thumb brushed once along his cheek—slow, absent, tracing just beneath his cheekbone.

She felt him shift into it. Subtle. Barely there. But enough. Always enough.

There was no expression on her face. Not because she felt nothing, but because she felt too much to reduce it to something simple.

Her breath stayed steady. Even.

She didn’t look away.

She stayed right there with him, her hand still in his hair, fingers moving slower now, more deliberate, like she was aware of every strand she touched, every small shift he made under her. Her thumb traced along his cheek again, softer this time, like the rhythm of it had settled into something steady, something familiar.

Her eyes stayed on his—not intense, not searching, just there.

And then her lips curved, small, almost like she didn’t mean to let it happen.

“See,” she said quietly, her voice low so it wouldn’t break the quiet they’d built, her fingers slipping a little deeper into his hair as she held him there without pulling.

“When I think about doing this my whole life…”

She paused just a fraction, not because she didn’t know what came next but because she felt it land again in real time—the weight of it, the simplicity, the way it wasn’t complicated even though everything about them had been at some point.

Her thumb brushed his cheek once more, slower.

“My stomach does that stupid somersault, because I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

[Mason Hayes]

Mason felt the words hit him everywhere.

Not loudly. Not like some big cinematic swell. They landed quieter than that, somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere lower, somewhere old and aching and too tender to joke away right away.

Her fingers were still in his hair, slow and deliberate, and he had to fight the stupid, helpless instinct to close his eyes and just lean into it like a golden retriever with a marriage license. Because God, her hands. Her voice. The way she looked at him from beneath him, steady and soft and entirely unguarded, like she had decided there was no point hiding from him anymore.

That almost broke him.

His weight was braced carefully above her, one arm tucked against the couch cushion, the other near her waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go. He could feel her beneath him—warm, real, close enough that every breath she took shifted the space between their chests. The firelight moved across her face in low gold, catching in her eyes, along the edge of her cheek, in the small curve of that smile she hadn’t meant to give him.

And Lyric breathed softly in the bassinet beside the couch.

That tiny sound kept part of him anchored to the room. To reality. To the fact that this wasn’t a dream he’d made up after rehearsal one night when he was seventeen and too lovesick to be normal about it.

This was his life.

His wife under him on the couch, smiling like happiness still surprised her.

Their daughter asleep a few feet away.

The future humming quietly in the background beneath an old musical cast album.

Mason swallowed, and it took actual effort.

His mouth curved before he could stop it, but the smile came out uneven. Softer than usual. A little wrecked.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

One word. Barely anything.

But his voice betrayed him anyway.

It came out rough and warm and too full, and he knew she heard it because her eyes changed—just slightly. That tiny shift she always had when she caught something he hadn’t meant to show all the way.

His hand lifted to her face, slow enough to give her every chance to move, though he knew she wouldn’t. His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, then settled near the corner of her mouth, where the ghost of that smile still lived.

“Mine does that too,” he murmured.

A beat.

Then, because his heart was attempting to exit his body and he needed at least one stupid sentence to keep himself intact, he added, “Which is medically concerning, probably. We should both see someone. Very serious couple diagnosis. Chronic happiness nausea.”

Her mouth twitched.

There it was.

The smallest almost-laugh.

Mason’s chest loosened around it, but only barely, because then her fingers shifted in his hair again and every thought he had scattered like loose script pages in a wind machine.

He dipped his head and kissed her—not hard, not rushed, not careless. He kissed her like the room was sleeping around them and the moment had to be protected. Like if he moved too fast, he’d wake more than the baby.

Her lips were warm under his. Familiar in a way that still felt impossible. He knew the shape of her mouth now, knew the little breath she took when she softened into him, knew the way her hand tightened in his hair when she wasn’t trying to be in control anymore.

It still felt new every time.

He pulled back only enough to breathe, his forehead hovering close to hers. His thumb stayed at her cheek, moving once, slowly.

“I didn’t know either,” he said quietly.

The words came out before he could polish them. Maybe that was better.

His gaze stayed on hers, though part of him was still aware of everything else—the low burn of the fire, the soft vibration of the music, the tiny sigh from the bassinet that made him pause for half a second before Lyric settled again.

Only then did he keep going.

“I thought happy was supposed to feel… bigger, I guess. Louder.” His mouth curved faintly, self-aware. “Which, okay, coming from me, shocking.”

He saw the warmth in her eyes and had to look down for a second, to the place where his hand rested at her waist, fingers curled gently into the fabric there. She was so close. Close enough to make him forget how sentences worked. Close enough that the heat in the room had nothing to do with the fireplace anymore.

“But this?” he said, voice lower. “This is the stuff that gets me.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“You looking at me like that. Lyric asleep right there. You telling me your stomach flips when you think about keeping me.” A breath, shaky enough that he couldn’t hide it. “That’s… kind of fatal, Ro.”

His thumb dragged softly along her cheekbone.

“I’m trying very hard to survive it.”

He smiled then, but it faded almost immediately into something more honest.

Because she’d said my whole life.

Not someday.

Not maybe.

Not the bright, early version of forever people said when they were trying to make the future less scary.

She’d said it like she could feel the shape of it. Like she could imagine doing this—loving him, touching him, choosing him—not as an escape from everything else, but as a life.

Mason had wanted a lot of things in his eighteen years. Stages. Applause. His name on a program. To be good enough. To matter in the way people noticed.

But nothing—not one single thing—had ever hollowed him out and filled him back up the way Rowan saying she was happy did.

His hand slid from her waist to her hip, settling there with careful pressure. Not to pull. Just to hold. Just to let his body say what his mouth couldn’t quite manage without making it sound like a monologue.

“You know what’s unfair?” he whispered.

He dipped his head, brushing his nose along hers before his mouth found the corner of her lips. Not quite a kiss. Not quite not one.

“You say things like that in this voice,” he murmured against her skin, “and then I’m supposed to just keep being a functional person.”

He kissed her once, barely.

“Bad news, by the way.”

Another kiss, softer.

“I am not functional.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair, and his eyes fluttered despite himself. He leaned into it, just enough to make her know he felt it. That he noticed every little thing she did to him. That he was not, despite all evidence, immune.

The baby made a faint sound then—not awake, just newborn sleep noise, a small squeak that cut through the heat like a tiny judge clearing her throat.

Mason froze instantly.

Full stop.

Not moving. Not breathing. One hand still at Rowan’s hip, the other near her face, his eyes going wide in a way he knew probably looked ridiculous.

He looked toward the bassinet without lifting off Rowan entirely, every muscle locked in place like he’d been caught committing a felony by a six-week-old.

Lyric settled again almost immediately.

Mason waited an extra beat.

Then another.

When the steady breathing continued, he turned back to Rowan very slowly, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“She knows,” he whispered.

His face was dead serious.

“She absolutely knows. That was a warning shot.”

Rowan’s silent laugh moved through her body beneath him, and the sensation nearly undid him all over again.

He dropped his forehead to her shoulder for half a second, smiling into the fabric near her collarbone, trying not to laugh too loudly. The smell of her there—skin and shampoo and the faint sweetness of baby soap that seemed to cling to both of them now—settled him and ruined him at the same time.

When he lifted his head again, the playfulness had softened, but it hadn’t disappeared. It never fully did with them. That was part of the magic. Heat and humor, awe and absurdity, all tangled up until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his weight so he wasn’t pressing too much into her, careful even now. His palm smoothed once along her side, a quiet check-in.

“You okay?” he asked, barely above a breath.

Not because he doubted her.

Because he always wanted her to know she got to answer honestly.

Her gaze held his, and whatever she gave him in return—look, breath, touch—settled the last bit of worry in his spine.

He kissed her again.

This time deeper.

Still quiet, still careful, but with more weight behind it. A slow, sinking kiss that made the edges of the room blur without making him forget where they were. His hand cradled the side of her face; his other anchored at her hip, thumb moving in a small, absent rhythm. Her mouth opened to his, and something low and warm moved through him, not frantic, not reckless—just want threaded through with so much love it almost hurt.

He kissed her like he had time.

Like the whole life she’d just named stretched out in front of them and he didn’t need to rush toward any of it because he already had the important part beneath his hands.

When he finally broke away, his breathing was uneven. Hers was too.

He stayed close, lips brushing her cheek, then the soft place beside her ear.

“I love you,” he whispered there.

Simple.

No flourish.

Then, because the feeling was too big and he could feel himself tipping toward saying something embarrassingly earnest enough to make both of them need a minute, he breathed a laugh against her skin.

“And I am deeply obsessed with you,” he added, voice low, “which is apparently fine, because we’ve established it’s mutual. Very healthy. Very balanced marriage. Ten out of ten.”

He felt her smile against him before he saw it.

That smile.

God, that smile.

He pulled back enough to look at her again, and for a second he just let himself do it. Let himself stare. Let himself memorize the way she looked under him in the firelight, hair loosened from the crooked braid he had made, eyes bright and open, cheeks warm, mouth softened by kissing.

His wife.

The girl from the supply closet.

The girl who had kept his hoodie.

The girl who had known before she had words for it.

The mother of his daughter.

The person who made him want Broadway and quiet nights and bagels and rent and bad plumbing and every terrifying ordinary thing that came after this.

His throat tightened again, but this time he let the feeling sit without trying to turn it into anything else.

“You being this happy,” he said after a moment, voice softer, “is going to mess me up for the rest of my life.”

His thumb brushed her lower lip once, gentle, almost absent.

“In a good way,” he added. “Obviously. A devastating, legally binding, husband-related way.”

He glanced toward the bassinet again, checking on Lyric with the same instinctive sweep of attention that had become second nature. Still asleep. Still safe.

Then he looked back at Rowan, and the humor in his eyes softened into something steadier.

“We have to be quiet,” he whispered, as if either of them needed the reminder.

A beat.

His mouth curved.

“Which is tragic for me, because I have several emotions that would normally require volume.”

He leaned down again, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“But I can be quiet.”

His nose brushed hers.

“For you.”

A kiss, feather-light.

“For her.”

Another, slower.

“For the record-breaking Broadway audition playlist waiting patiently over there.”

Rowan’s breath hitched, and Mason smiled against her mouth, helpless and completely gone.

He didn’t push for more. Didn’t rush the moment toward anything it wasn’t already becoming on its own. He just stayed over her, warm and careful and fully present, letting his hand slide back into her hair, letting the firelight move over them, letting the quiet hold.

Outside, April cold pressed itself against the dark windows.

Inside, the room was all low music, sleeping baby, soft breath, and the impossible truth of Rowan beneath him, smiling like she had finally stopped waiting for happiness to be taken back.

Mason looked at her and thought, not for the first time, that every version of his future had narrowed and expanded at once.

A stage somewhere.

A city maybe.

A life definitely.

But this first.

Always this first.

He kissed her again, slow enough to make the room disappear.

And when he pulled back, barely, just enough to breathe, he smiled down at her like he knew exactly how lucky he was.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice warm and rough and entirely hers. “Your whole life, huh?”

His eyes flicked over her face, soft with wonder.

“Yeah.”

A quiet kiss to her forehead.

“Mine too.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan felt it before she sorted it into words.

The way everything in him softened and broke open at the same time, like he didn’t know how to hold what she’d just given him without it spilling out somewhere. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t overwhelming, but it pressed into her all the same—into her chest, into her stomach, into that quiet place that had always known he would feel things like this even if he tried to hide it behind something easier.

Her fingers stayed in his hair, slow, steady, and she felt the way he fought it, the way he wanted to lean in harder than he let himself. That small resistance told her everything. The way he held himself just enough together to stay present with her instead of disappearing into it. It made something warm and aching settle deeper in her.

Her gaze didn’t leave his.

She watched the uneven smile, the effort behind it, the way his voice dropped to something softer than he probably meant it to be. She heard the one word for what it really was—not small, not casual, just all he had in that second. Her thumb brushed along his cheek when his hand came up to her face, meeting him there without hesitation, leaning into it just slightly so he’d feel that she wasn’t going anywhere.

When he admitted it—mirrored her—something in her chest pulled tight in a quiet, steady way. Not surprise. Not even relief. Just recognition. Like of course he felt it too. Of course it landed the same way in him.

Her mouth curved at his attempt to make it lighter, the softest hint of a smile slipping through before she could stop it, and she knew he saw it, knew he needed it. The joke wasn’t really a joke. It was him trying to stay upright in something that felt bigger than him, and she let him have it without undercutting it, her thumb moving once more along his cheek in a quiet acknowledgment.

When he kissed her, she met him immediately, her fingers tightening slightly in his hair without thinking, her body responding before her thoughts could catch up. She felt the care in it, the restraint, the way he held back just enough to keep the moment from breaking. It made her soften further into him, her breath shifting against his mouth, her hand steady where it held him.

She noticed when he pulled back. The way he stayed close. The way his thumb didn’t leave her skin. The way he spoke again without dressing it up this time.

That landed differently.

Deeper.

Her eyes stayed on his as he talked about it—about how it wasn’t what he expected, how it wasn’t loud the way he thought it would be—and she understood that too. Because she felt it the same way. This quiet, this closeness, this life right here with the fire low and the music soft and their daughter breathing beside them—it wasn’t smaller. It was just… real.

Her hand slid from his hair to his jaw for a second, grounding him there as he kept going, as his voice dropped lower, as he tried to explain something he didn’t fully have words for. She could see it in the way he looked at her, in the way his breath hitched slightly when he said it. Fatal. The way he said her name in the middle of it.

Rowan didn’t interrupt.

She let him finish.

Let him feel it all the way through.

Her thumb traced along his cheekbone again when he said he was trying to survive it, her touch steady, reassuring without making a show of it.

When his hand shifted to her hip, she felt the intention in it immediately. Not pulling. Not taking. Just holding. Just anchoring himself there, and she let him, her body settling into that hold without resistance.

Her breath softened when he leaned in again, those half-kisses, that not-quite-space between them, and she felt the way he unraveled just a little more under her hands. When he said he wasn’t functional, she almost laughed, the sound catching low in her chest, her fingers tightening briefly in his hair before easing again.

Then Lyric made that small sound.

Rowan felt him freeze instantly, and that—more than anything—made something warm and helpless move through her. The way he went completely still, the way every part of him shifted toward her without actually leaving her, like he was trying to be everywhere at once.

She turned her head just slightly too, listening, her body going quiet with his.

When the baby settled again, she exhaled slowly, the tension easing out of her shoulders, and when he came back to her with that dead-serious look, that whispered suspicion, she couldn’t stop the small smile that broke through.

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, thumb brushing there lightly. “She absolutely thinks we’re ridiculous,” she murmured, voice soft, matching his, her tone warm with quiet amusement. “We’re already losing.”

When he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, she felt it everywhere. The weight, the warmth, the way he tucked himself there just for a second. Her hand moved automatically, smoothing through his hair again, slower this time, giving him that moment without making it bigger than it was.

When he lifted his head again, she was still there.

Still watching.

Still steady.

His question came soft, careful, and Rowan felt that too—the way he always made space for her answer, even now, even here. Her eyes held his as her hand slid back to his cheek, her thumb brushing once, grounding.

“I’m good,” she said quietly, simple and certain, letting him hear it in her voice, letting him see it in the way she stayed right where she was.

When he kissed her again, deeper this time, she felt the shift in it immediately. Not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just fuller. She leaned into it without thinking, her fingers sliding back into his hair, her other hand curling lightly into his side as she met him there. She felt the way he stayed with her, the way he didn’t rush past it, and something in her settled deeper because of it.

When he pulled back, her breath wasn’t even, but she didn’t try to steady it. She let it be there between them, warm and shared.

His mouth at her cheek, her ear—the words—

Rowan’s eyes closed briefly, just long enough to feel them land without interruption.

Then she opened them again, looking at him, really looking.

Her hand slid from his hair to his jaw again, thumb brushing along his lower lip where it had softened. “You’re stuck with me,” she murmured, voice low, steady, not teasing, just true.

She saw the way it landed.

Let it sit there.

When he kept going, when he softened it again, tried to make it lighter, she didn’t stop him. She just watched him, taking in every piece of it, the humor and the honesty tangled together the way they always were with him.

His words about her being happy hit something deeper this time, and Rowan felt it settle in her chest, quiet and solid. Her thumb moved along his cheek again, slower now, her gaze holding his.

“You’re allowed to be messed up by it,” she said softly, not dismissing it, not brushing it off. “I am.”

When his thumb brushed her lip, she felt that too, her breath catching just slightly before settling again.

And then—

his reminder.

The quiet.

The reason for it.

Rowan felt the shift in him again, that instinct to pull it all in, to contain something that didn’t really want to be contained.

Her mouth curved, just slightly.

“What exactly did you think was about to happen,” she murmured, voice low, teasing threading through it gently, “that required that kind of warning?”

Her fingers slipped back into his hair as she said it, not pulling, just holding him there, her gaze warm now, a quiet lightness settling over everything without taking away from the weight of what had already been said.

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t break the closeness.

Just stayed there with him, letting the moment breathe, letting him decide what came next.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason’s mouth parted.

Nothing came out.

Which felt, given his entire personality, both unprecedented and deeply rude.

He stared down at her for half a second too long, caught between the warmth in her eyes and the little thread of teasing in her voice, between the way her fingers had slipped back into his hair and the way his entire nervous system seemed to interpret that as a formal request to lose his mind.

He was aware of everything at once.

The couch cushion dipped under his knee. The fire had burned lower, turning the room amber at the edges. The old cast album had moved into some softer track he couldn’t place, strings and piano slipping through the quiet like they were trying not to wake the baby either. Lyric made no sound now except that small, even breathing that had become the most important rhythm in the house.

And Rowan was beneath him, looking at him like that.

Like she knew exactly what she had done.

Like she also knew he would never, ever recover.

His eyes narrowed a little, but it was useless. He could feel his expression betraying him already, softening around the edges before he managed to make it teasing.

“That,” he whispered, voice low enough to belong to the room instead of disturb it, “is a trap question.”

His hand, still near her face, shifted with embarrassing gentleness. His knuckles brushed along the line of her jaw, not because he needed to touch her there, exactly, but because apparently his body had stopped understanding distance as a concept. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers. Soft. Real. She leaned into him just enough to ruin him all over again, and his throat tightened around the next breath.

He tried to hold onto the joke.

He really did.

The joke had always been his first doorway into tenderness. The safe one. The one that let him step close without admitting how badly he needed to. But Rowan kept looking at him with that quiet, steady brightness, with happiness still sitting there in her face like something she had decided to trust, and the joke slipped out of his hands.

He swallowed.

“I was warning myself,” he admitted.

The words came out rougher than he meant them to. Barely more than breath.

His thumb stilled near the corner of her mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of her exhale. He watched the tiny change in her face when she heard him—not surprise, exactly. Rowan rarely looked surprised by the parts of him he thought he had hidden well. More like recognition. Like she had already known and had simply waited for him to catch up.

That undid him in a quieter way.

“I’m the problem,” he continued, and tried to make it lighter, but the softness had already gotten in. “Historically. Repeatedly. With evidence.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again because if he stayed there too long, he was going to forget every responsible thought he had ever had.

“I have very poor survival instincts around you.”

There.

That was closer to joking.

Almost.

Except it didn’t feel like one.

Not fully.

Because it was true in the strangest, safest way. He had spent years feeling like loving Rowan meant standing at the edge of something and trying not to fall. Now falling was the point. Now she was looking up at him from the couch in the low firelight with his daughter asleep beside them, telling him she was happy, telling him he was allowed to be wrecked by it, teasing him gently because she trusted the shape of his wanting not to turn careless.

That trust did something to him.

It made him warmer.

Quieter.

More careful, not less.

His hand slid from her jaw into her hair, fingers threading in just enough to cradle, not hold. He lowered his head, but he didn’t kiss her mouth. Not yet. He pressed his lips to the space beside her cheekbone, slow and almost unbearably soft, and let himself stay there for one second. Then another.

Her scent lived there now in layers he knew by heart—shampoo, skin, the faint clean sweetness of baby soap, the trace of their laundry detergent on the collar of her shirt. Home had become a smell. A person. A baby sleeping three feet away. A couch that should have been replaced months ago but had somehow become holy because of nights like this.

Mason breathed in carefully.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You ask me that while you’re doing the hair thing,” he whispered, with the faintest accusation, “and looking at me like you know exactly where all my bones are weak.”

His eyes flicked over her face, helplessly attentive. The curve of her mouth. The warmth in her cheeks. The way her lashes lowered for half a second when his fingers moved at the back of her head. The little, almost imperceptible shift of her breath when his thumb brushed her temple.

He saw all of it.

He always had, maybe.

Even before he had the right to notice it this closely.

Back then, he had noticed from across rooms and pretended not to. Noticed in rehearsal, in hallways, in those strange almost-moments when she wore his hoodie or stood too close or smiled like she was trying not to. He had collected details in secret because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Now he could touch them.

Now he could say her name into the quiet and watch her soften because of it.

A tenderness so sharp it almost hurt moved through him.

“I know,” he murmured.

His voice changed on the words, dropping out of the teasing entirely.

He hadn’t planned to say that. He didn’t even know what he was answering at first. Her being stuck with him. Her being messed up by happiness. Her letting him decide what came next. All of it, maybe.

“I know,” he said again, softer. “And I don’t—”

He stopped.

Because there it was.

The place where the sentence wanted to become too big.

His chest tightened. His hand flexed once in her hair, then eased immediately, the movement small but telling. Rowan’s eyes stayed on him, patient in a way that made him feel seen and exposed and loved beyond reason.

He breathed through it.

“I don’t take that lightly,” he finished.

It sounded simple.

It wasn’t.

His gaze moved briefly to the bassinet, not because Lyric had stirred, but because he couldn’t help it. She was still asleep, tiny and impossible, one fist tucked near her cheek like she was preparing to object to something in a dream. The sight of her softened him and steadied him at the same time.

His daughter.

Their daughter.

The proof that his life had become something he couldn’t have written without thinking the script was too sentimental.

When he looked back at Rowan, his eyes were warmer, a little darker at the edges with everything he was holding back and everything he was choosing to hold carefully.

“You’re happy,” he said quietly, like he was still getting used to the shape of it. “And you’re here. And she’s there. And I keep waiting for the part where my brain turns it into a joke because otherwise I have to just…”

His mouth curved, but barely.

“Stand here emotionally naked in the living room.”

A beat.

His brows pulled together faintly.

“Which is a bold choice, considering I am technically wearing sweatpants.”

The joke landed softly, almost under his breath, but he didn’t let it take the moment away. His thumb brushed along her hairline, and he watched her the whole time.

“But I mean it,” he whispered. “I don’t take it lightly. Not you. Not this. Not the fact that you let me be the person who gets to see you like this.”

His hand shifted lower, palm cupping the side of her face again.

“Not bracing,” he said, barely audible. “Not waiting for it to go wrong. Just… here.”

That was the part that made his voice falter.

He remembered the versions of her who had learned to measure happiness like it might come with terms and conditions. The versions of both of them, really. Teenagers with too much feeling and not enough language. Kids in costumes and borrowed clothes and half-lit rooms, standing near each other with entire futures pressed behind their teeth.

He hadn’t known then that love could become this.

Not easier.

Not simple.

But steadier.

A place to put his hands.

A baby asleep beside them.

A woman beneath him who could tease him about warnings because she trusted him to hear all the softness underneath.

His thumb moved once along her cheek, reverent despite the heat still humming under his skin.

“So, what did I think was about to happen?” he murmured, returning to her question at last, voice low and careful and threaded with warmth. “Honestly?”

He leaned closer, close enough that his nose brushed hers.

“I thought I was about to make a very compelling argument for why kissing my wife should count as a legally protected quiet activity.”

His mouth hovered over hers.

“And then I remembered that I am married to you, which means the court will find me biased.”

He kissed her once.

Soft.

Brief.

A promise more than an answer.

But when he pulled back, he didn’t go far. He stayed close enough to feel the way her breath changed, close enough for the room to narrow again until there was almost nothing but the two of them and the sleeping little miracle beside the couch.

His hand at her hip pressed once, grounding. Asking without asking.

Then he shifted.

Not away.

Just enough to ease some of his weight off her, careful in the way that had become instinct now. He lowered himself beside her more than over her, one arm braced along the back of the couch, the other sliding behind her shoulders so he could draw her with him without making it feel like an instruction. The movement was slow, quiet, built around Lyric’s sleep and Rowan’s comfort and the fragile peace of the room.

He settled them on their sides, tangled but softer now, her body still close, his knee brushing hers, his hand still in her hair. The angle changed the heat of it into something more sustainable, though not less intimate. Maybe more.

Because now he could look at her without hovering. Could touch her without feeling like every breath was a test of restraint. Could keep his face near hers and still see the bassinet in the edge of his vision.

The whole life, arranged within reach.

He exhaled, long and quiet, and his forehead found hers again.

“There,” he whispered. “Safer.”

A pause.

His mouth tugged faintly.

“For the general public.”

His fingers slipped through her hair in a slow, absent rhythm. Once. Twice. He watched the movement more than he meant to, watched dark strands catch faintly in the firelight, watched his own hand learn the shape of this quiet like it was something sacred.

Then he looked back at her.

Really looked.

The teasing faded again, but it didn’t vanish completely. It stayed at the corners of him, where it belonged, holding the tenderness up instead of hiding it.

“I like this,” he said.

The words were simple enough that he almost felt silly saying them. But his chest didn’t feel silly. His chest felt full to the point of aching.

“I like getting to be quiet with you.”

His thumb brushed the back of her neck where his hand rested, small and slow.

“I like that we can have the huge, terrifying, life-altering feelings…” His eyes flicked toward Lyric, and his smile softened. “At indoor volume.”

Another breath.

“I like that you’re not running from it.”

That one came out more vulnerable than he expected.

He felt it as soon as he said it, felt the old fear it came from, the place in him that still remembered wanting too much and thinking it might scare her. But Rowan didn’t move away. Her eyes stayed open and steady, and the tenderness in her face made something in him loosen.

He let it.

He was learning how to let things.

His hand slid from her hair to her back, palm resting between her shoulder blades, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric. He didn’t pull her closer. She was already close enough. He just held her there, in the quiet, while the fire shifted and the music slipped into another song and Lyric kept breathing her tiny, unimpressed rhythm nearby.

“I used to think if I ever got this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I would know exactly what to do with it.”

His mouth curved, self-deprecating.

“Very arrogant of me.”

His eyes searched hers.

“But mostly I just keep looking at you and thinking… don’t mess this up. Don’t rush it. Don’t make it smaller because it scares you how big it is.”

The honesty sat between them, warm and exposed.

His fingers moved once against her back.

“And then you touch my hair and I forget the entire character arc.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth because he couldn’t help it. Then her cheek. Then the tip of her nose, a quiet retaliation, soft enough to make his own smile break through.

When he drew back, his eyes were bright with it.

“There,” he whispered. “Nose kiss. Full circle. Devastating. Historic.”

His smile softened as he watched her.

For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything else.

He let the room breathe around them. Let his pulse settle where it could. Let himself feel the shape of her beside him, the weight of the night, the strange miracle of being this young and this tired and this certain. Outside, the glass of the windows reflected a room that looked ordinary from a distance—couch, fire, bassinet, two half-folded baby blankets abandoned on the chair, a mug gone cold on the table.

But from inside it, nothing felt ordinary at all.

It felt chosen.

His gaze drifted once more to Lyric, then back to Rowan.

“I do want the whole life,” he whispered.

No joke now.

No ornament.

Just the truth laid down carefully between them.

“The loud parts. The quiet parts. The auditions and the bills and the laundry we keep pretending isn’t developing a personality in the basket.”

His thumb moved along her spine.

“You in every room I’m lucky enough to come home to.”

His throat tightened, but he stayed with it.

“Her in the next room. Or this room. Or screaming through a wall at three in the morning because apparently sleep is a scam invented by people without infants.”

A small breath left him, almost a laugh.

“And me, probably making pancakes too big because I don’t understand moderation. You pretending not to smile about it. Broadway, maybe. Or not maybe. I don’t know. I want that too, obviously, because I am still me and therefore dramatic.”

His eyes held hers.

“But this is the thing I don’t want to miss while I’m chasing it.”

The room went very quiet after that.

Or maybe he just heard it differently.

His own heartbeat. Her breathing. Lyric’s tiny sleep sounds. The faint crackle of the fire.

Mason leaned in and kissed Rowan again, slow and careful and quiet, letting the kiss hold what the words couldn’t without becoming too much. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a promise with trumpets behind it. It was smaller than that and bigger because of it—his mouth against hers, his hand steady at her back, his whole body learning again that happiness didn’t have to be grabbed before it disappeared.

It could stay.

She could stay.

He could, too.

When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that their noses brushed.

His smile came slowly this time.

Warm.

Wrecked.

Entirely hers.

“And for the record,” he whispered, eyes flicking briefly toward the bassinet before returning to her, “I still think she started it.”

A beat.

“She made that noise with attitude.”

His hand moved gently over Rowan’s back, soothing even as his mouth curved.

“But I’ll forgive her. Because she’s very small. And because she has your face when she’s judging me.”

He tucked his forehead back against Rowan’s, eyes closing for half a second because the room, the night, the life of it all, was almost too much.

When he opened them again, his voice had gone softer.

“Stay like this with me for a little while?”

It came out almost shy.

Not because he doubted the answer.

Because asking still mattered.

Because even now—especially now—he wanted every closeness between them to feel chosen.

His fingers threaded gently through hers where they had come to rest between them, and he brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with ridiculous, aching sincerity.

“I promise to keep all catastrophic husband feelings at a whisper.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have one.

Because she felt it—every word he’d just laid between them—settling somewhere deeper than language. It didn’t rush through her the way his feelings moved through him, bright and immediate and alive in real time. It sank. Slow. Certain. Taking root in places she used to keep guarded out of habit more than necessity.

Her hand stayed in his.

She could still feel the imprint of his mouth against her knuckles, the softness of it, the intention behind something so small it almost could’ve been missed if it had come from anyone else. But not him. Not Mason. Nothing about him was careless, even when he tried to pretend it was.

Her thumb shifted slightly against his fingers.

Grounding.

There.

Present.

Her eyes didn’t leave his face. Not when he spoke. Not when he softened. Not when that quiet, almost-shy question slipped out of him like it still mattered to ask.

It did.

That was the thing.

It mattered more now.

Rowan exhaled slowly, her breath brushing his mouth because he hadn’t gone far enough for it to miss. The space between them wasn’t distance—it was awareness. Of him. Of the room. Of the tiny life breathing steadily a few feet away. Of the way everything had narrowed into something that felt both fragile and completely unshakeable at the same time.

Her fingers tightened just slightly in his.

A choice.

Always a choice.

Her other hand, the one resting against his chest, shifted upward—not quickly, not urgently, just enough to trace the line of his collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her touch was light, but deliberate. Mapping. Confirming. Like she needed to feel the reality of him under her hand to match what he had just said out loud.

Her gaze softened.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the sharp edge of her usual control gave way to something quieter.

Warmer.

“You ask like I might say no,” she murmured, her voice low enough to live in the same careful space his had been in.

There was no accusation in it.

No edge.

Just observation.

Her thumb brushed once across his knuckles, mirroring what he had done to her without thinking too hard about it. It wasn’t mimicry. It was instinct. Meeting him in the same language he spoke when words started to feel too small.

Her eyes flicked—briefly—to the bassinet.

Lyric hadn’t moved.

Still there.

Still steady.

Still theirs.

Something in Rowan settled further because of it.

When she looked back at him, there was no hesitation left.

Her hand slid from his chest to the side of his neck, her fingers slipping into the hair at the nape the same way they had before—but slower now. More aware of what it did to him. More aware of what it did to her, too. The quiet power of being able to undo him without needing to.

Her thumb pressed lightly just behind his ear.

A small, grounding point.

Her forehead leaned into his without breaking the line of their closeness, her nose brushing his again, familiar now. Easy.

“I like this too,” she added, softer.

Her voice shifted on it—not losing control, but letting something underneath it be heard.

The part she didn’t offer easily.

“I like that you don’t turn it into something else,” she continued, her gaze steady on his even this close, even with the softness in it. “That you let it be what it is.”

A pause.

Her thumb moved once through his hair.

“You don’t make it smaller,” she said, quieter. “Even when you’re trying to.”

There was the faintest trace of something dry at the edge of her tone—just enough to acknowledge him without breaking the moment open. It stayed gentle. Intentional.

Her hand slid from his neck back down to where his rested at her back, settling there, palm over his. Not to move it. Just to hold it in place.

To keep him exactly where he already was.

“You don’t have to keep warning yourself,” she added after a second, her voice barely above a whisper now. “You’re not going to ruin it.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

She didn’t rush the reassurance. Didn’t over-explain it. She just let it sit there, steady and unembellished, because that was how she meant it.

Because she had already decided it.

Her fingers pressed lightly into his hand against her back.

A quiet emphasis.

“Not like this,” she said.

Her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth—just for a second—before returning to his eyes again. Not shy. Not hesitant. Just aware. Choosing not to rush it, the same way he hadn’t.

Matching him.

Meeting him.

Her breath slowed.

The room stayed quiet around them, the fire shifting softly, the music threading low under everything, Lyric’s steady rhythm still anchoring it all.

Rowan leaned just slightly closer—not to close the space, not to take anything from him—but to exist fully inside it with him.

Her voice dropped softer still.

“Stay,” she said, echoing him—but it wasn’t a question when it left her. Not really.

It was agreement.

Her hand slid down, fingers threading through his again where they rested between them, tightening just enough to be felt.

Choosing.

Still choosing.

And then, after a beat—just enough time for the moment to settle into something lived-in instead of fragile—her mouth curved faintly at one corner.

“She definitely started it,” she added, quiet and dry, eyes flicking once toward the bassinet before returning to him. “I’ve seen that face. She’s strategic.”

A pause.

Her thumb brushed his hand again.

“But we’ll let it slide,” she murmured. “This time.”

Her gaze held his.

Steady.

Warm.

Certain.

And she didn’t move away.

Her fingers came up to his face, settling against his jaw first, then sliding higher until her palm rested along his cheek. Her thumb traced just beneath his eye, slow, deliberate, grounding.

She didn’t rush the touch.

Didn’t make it bigger than it needed to be.

She just held him there.

Real.

Her gaze softened—not dramatically, not all at once, but enough that the quiet intensity in her eyes warmed into something steadier. Something he could lean into without question.

“This is real,” she said quietly.

No hesitation.

No room for interpretation.

Her thumb brushed once more along his cheek, feeling the faint warmth there, the life in him, the way he always felt just a little too much and tried to carry it like it might spill.

“It doesn’t disappear when you look at it too closely,” she added, softer. “Or when you say it out loud.”

Her fingers shifted slightly, tucking more firmly along his jaw, keeping him right there with her.

Her eyes held his.

Steady.

Certain.

“I love that you still get like this,” she admitted after a beat, her voice lowering—not shy, just honest in a way she didn’t waste. “That you don’t treat it like it’s already figured out. Like it’s done.”

The corner of her mouth moved faintly.

Almost a smile.

“Most people would’ve gotten comfortable by now,” she said. “You didn’t.”

Her thumb pressed lightly against his cheekbone.

“You still feel it.”

A pause.

Not heavy.

Just enough to let that land.

“And I like that,” she finished, quieter.

Her hand didn’t move away.

If anything, it settled more.

Anchoring.

Her forehead leaned into his again, close enough that her voice didn’t have to travel far at all when she spoke next.

Simple.

Direct.

Final in a way that didn’t need emphasis.

“When you wake up tomorrow,” she continued, her tone calm, grounded in something that had already been decided long before this moment, “we’re still going to be married.”

Her thumb moved once along his skin.

“She’s still going to be right there,” she added, a brief flick of her eyes toward the bassinet before returning to him.

“And in forty-eight hours,” she said, quieter now, but no less certain, “we’re all going to be in New York.”

A beat.

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Watching you audition.”

She let that sit there.

Didn’t soften it. Didn’t hedge it.

Just gave it to him the way he needed it—clear, solid, without fear wrapped around it.

Her fingers slipped slightly into his hair at the edge of his temple, not to undo him this time, but to steady him.

“To be clear,” she added, a trace of her dry tone threading back in, soft but unmistakable, “this isn’t the part where you spiral and decide you’re going to ruin everything.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek again.

“This is the part where you let it happen.”

Her eyes searched his—not for doubt, not for confirmation, just to make sure he heard her the way she meant it.

Then her hand slid down, slower now, from his face to the side of his neck, resting there, warm and steady.

“I’m here,” she said, softer.

Not as reassurance.

As fact.

Her fingers tightened just slightly against him.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”