Village Market

[Midnights]

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The Village Market is a cozy neighborhood staple that feels both timeless and welcoming. Its red-brick exterior is accented by a deep green awning and bold cream-colored signage that reads VILLAGE MARKET in classic block letters. Beneath the awning, wooden crates and bushel baskets brim with vibrant produce—ruby-red apples, golden grapefruits, bundles of kale, and sunflowers in a galvanized vase—all thoughtfully arranged to invite passersby with color and abundance.

The wide front windows offer a peek inside at the neatly stocked shelves and soft lighting that give the market its signature warmth. A simple “OPEN” sign hangs in the glass door, which bears the address 5627 in delicate white numbers. Just to the side, a bench and stacked crates create a makeshift resting spot, perfect for someone sipping cider or chatting with a neighbor.

Whether you’re picking up fresh herbs, chatting with the owner about the ripest peaches, or simply wandering in for the smell of just-baked bread, the Village Market is more than a grocery—it’s a gathering place, woven into the rhythm of the town itself.

[Rowan Starling]

The automatic doors slid open with a whoosh of too-cold air and that faint grocery store smell—part citrus cleaner, part damp cardboard, part something unplaceably nostalgic that reminded Rowan (https://i.ibb.co/8LV3V9PT/225-E8302-6635-465-B-B220-6-E9-DC391-F034.png) of her mom humming through the aisles with coupons clipped to the front of the cart.

She stepped inside with purpose anyway, sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands, and belly stretching beneath the fabric like a quiet, steady drumbeat that never let her forget who she was shopping for.

Get oat milk. Red onions. The specific herbal tea her mom swore fixed everything from cramps to emotional damage. And no, they weren’t here to “browse.” This was a tactical mission.

“We’re sticking to the list,” she said under her breath, almost like a prayer—or a warning—as they passed the wall of stacked shopping baskets and lurched toward the carts. “In. Out. No bakery detours. No holiday displays. And absolutely no talking to the man handing out free samples of turkey bacon. I mean it.”

She didn’t have to look at Mason to know he was already grinning. She could feel it radiating off him like static.

“I know that smirk,” she added, leveling him with a side-eye as she jerked the cart free from the jammed line. “Whatever chaos you’re thinking? Don’t.”

He raised both hands in faux surrender, but his eyes were already scanning the overhead aisle signs like they might lead him to buried treasure. Or peanut butter pretzels.

Rowan exhaled hard through her nose and pushed forward—past the floral display, past the pastry case, past the temptations that had derailed their last three trips and ended in $60 worth of cheese and a single bag of shredded lettuce.

Not today.

Today, she was the list.

The list was her.

And if Mason behaved, maybe—maybe—he could pick out a cereal. But only if it wasn’t the kind that came with a prize.

Probably.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t even pretend to look innocent.

Because how could he?

Rowan was marching through the automatic doors like a girl on a mission—battle-ready and beautiful, her tote bag declaring Soft doesn’t mean weak like it was gospel, and Mason? Yeah, he was completely gone for her. Fully, irreversibly ruined in the middle of a produce section.

The cool air hit him first, crisp and citrusy, and he shoved his hands into the front pocket of his worn-in hoodie—light grey, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, still faintly smelling like her dryer sheets. His black t-shirt underneath clung just enough to make her glance linger that one extra second earlier when he pulled it on. His jeans were cuffed at the ankle, spring dust on the hem, and his sneakers were exactly as scuffed and chaotic as she expected.

But none of it mattered—not the shopping list, not the budget, not even the icy warning shot she fired over her shoulder—because Rowan was here.

And she was glowing.

Not in a flashy way. Not in the way strangers would stop to comment on. But in that quiet, fierce way that made Mason feel like the luckiest idiot alive just for pushing the cart behind her.

His grin tugged wider as she yanked one free with a muttered threat about bakery displays and bacon samples. He raised his hands in surrender, leaned into the wheel like it was a getaway vehicle.

"Okay, okay, I hear you," he said, voice warm, teasing. "No bacon guy. No detours. No risky produce aisle negotiations. This is serious business. You’re terrifying and radiant and possibly the grocery general I never knew I needed."

Rowan gave him a look.

He winked.

Then leaned closer and added, low enough for just her to hear, "But if we happen to pass the cereal aisle and a certain someone happens to accidentally toss a box of honey oat clusters into the cart without eye contact or commentary, I feel like that’s a diplomatic gray area."

He nudged the cart forward, navigating past the flower buckets and towers of strawberries, then shot her a look over his shoulder.

"Besides, babe," he said, voice softening now, “you’re carrying our daughter and still looking like you could body-check a linebacker with a cart of kale. You can have every aisle you want. I’m just here to reach the high shelves and keep you laughing.”

He wasn’t kidding either.

This wasn’t just a grocery run to him. This was the moment. One of the thousands of little ones that would build their life—the kind they’d joke about later, the kind that would blur into ordinary but still mean everything. Because she was here. Because they were doing this.

Together.

And if he had to make a full grocery store his personal love story backdrop to prove it? So be it.

He bumped his hip gently against hers as they passed the endcap of tempting baked goods. “You’re doing great, by the way. Even if we only leave with oat milk and a sense of accomplishment.”

Then, just to keep her grounded in the moment—but also to let her know he saw her, really saw her—he added with a crooked smile:

“You’re the list, Starling. And the reason I keep showing up for it.”

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t even look at him at first.

Couldn’t.

Because if she did—if she let herself meet that grin, the one that curled like it knew all her soft spots—she’d lose her edge. And today, she needed the edge. They were on a mission. A grocery list mission. One her mother had written in three different colors and underlined twice at the bottom like do not come home without eggs and cilantro was a threat.

So she tightened her grip on the cart, steered it past the display of lemon cakes with laser precision, and murmured, “We’re not here for sweet talk, Mason. We’re here for onions. Focus.”

But God, it was hard to stay sharp when he kept looking at her like that.

Like her messy bun and tote bag and tired ankles were his whole religion.

She huffed out a breath—half laugh, half surrender—and paused by the bell peppers, scanning for the right ones like it was a test she didn’t want to fail. “Three red. One green. No bruises,” she muttered under her breath. “If we bring home bruised produce again, my mom’s gonna revoke our kitchen privileges.”

She reached for a pepper, gave it a quick once-over, then glanced sideways.

He was still watching her. Still smiling.

Still there.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away. Just dropped the peppers into the bag and handed them to him with the kind of look that meant you’re lucky you’re cute. Then, quieter now—quieter than the aisle deserved—she said, “You know… I used to hate this part.”

He tilted his head.

“The errands. The groceries. The picking out cilantro and arguing about peanut butter brands like it meant something. It always felt like a placeholder. Like real life was somewhere else.”

She reached past him for a bunch of parsley. “But now?”

A pause. Her voice softened.

“Now I get it.”

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Because he smiled again—less crooked this time, more reverent—and took the bag from her hand like it meant more than it should.

And maybe it did.

Maybe this wasn’t about the groceries at all.

Maybe it was about the fact that they were here, together, in a fluorescent-lit love story with bruised produce and aisle debates and a baby girl on the way.

And maybe—just maybe—Rowan didn’t want to be anywhere else.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there holding a produce bag full of hand-inspected bell peppers like it was a crown she’d just entrusted him with.

Because damn.

She was in full list mode—hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes sharp, jaw set like she was ready to throw down over cilantro quality—and he was pretty sure he’d never seen anything hotter.

Not dramatic-hot. Not movie-scene-hot. Just her.

Her in spring sunlight. Her with a grocery mission. Her with a baby under her hoodie and too much on her mind and still taking time to sort the parsley from the flat-leaf imposters like her life depended on it.

Mason’s heart did that thing again—twisted low and tight in his chest like it couldn’t hold how much he loved this girl. How much he loved her fire and her focus and the way she dropped quiet truths in the middle of the produce aisle like they weren’t about to change his entire week.

Now I get it.

That’s what she’d said.

No fireworks. No speech.

Just a quiet realization folded into the rhythm of bell peppers and breath and the soft sound of her voice when she wasn’t trying to armor up.

He stepped closer.

Didn’t say anything at first—just tucked the bag of vegetables under one arm and reached for her free hand, brushing his fingers gently over the curve of her palm before he laced their hands together.

Then, soft and low:

“You know I used to picture forever like some big moment, right? Rings. Speeches. Fireworks. That whole ‘this is it’ scene.”

He watched her, and she didn’t look away.

“But it’s not like that. Not really.”

He smiled—crooked and stunned and sincere.

“It’s this. It’s you, arguing with your mom over cilantro and letting me carry peppers like I’m doing something noble. It’s grocery lists and tired ankles and you looking at me like I belong here.”

He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to her temple—nothing showy, nothing loud—then squeezed her hand again.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes twinkling now, “you’re totally right about peanut butter. But I’m still going to argue with you about it every single time, because I like the way you look when you win.”

She rolled her eyes.

He beamed.

Then pushed the cart forward with his free hand like it was something they were steering together—down the aisle, into the next chapter, through the ordinary magic of a Sunday that wasn’t ordinary at all.

Because yeah.

This was it.

Fluorescent lights. Grocery lists. Quiet truths.

Forever.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not with his hand still wrapped around hers like he meant it. Not with his words still echoing somewhere between her ribs and her throat, warm and steady and devastating in that way he always was when he got serious out of nowhere.

It hit her harder than she expected.

Because he wasn’t joking. Not this time.

He wasn’t teasing her about peanut butter or being overly dramatic about the bell peppers—though God knew he’d probably do both before they even made it to checkout.

He was just… here.

In it.

In this aisle, in this moment, in this life with her.

And it did something to her chest.

Rowan blinked down at the cart, then back up at him, and managed a small shake of her head—half smile, half disbelief. “You really don’t make any sense,” she muttered, grabbing the list again with the hand that wasn’t being held hostage by his warmth. “You romanticize vegetables.”

He gave her a look like, yeah, and what about it?

She sighed, cheeks warming, and tapped the paper with her nail. “Okay, come on. Milk, rice, frozen blueberries, bagels, and if you even glance at the bakery display, I swear I will leave you in this store.”

But her voice was softer than usual. Not biting. Not pushing him away.

And when he didn’t let go of her hand as they turned the corner—just adjusted his grip and followed her stride like it was the most natural thing in the world—Rowan didn’t stop him.

Didn’t pull away.

She just… let it happen.

Let the moment settle like sunlight through a window. Warm. Uncomplicated.

And when they reached the dairy section, and he lifted the exact oat milk her mom liked without asking, Rowan looked at him again—really looked—and whispered, just loud enough to hear:

“This is the part I didn’t know I needed.”

Then she took the oat milk from his hands, dropped it into the cart like it was just another task done, and moved toward the next item on the list with her shoulders a little looser than before.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t react right away.

Didn’t throw a smirk or a line or even one of his usual, over-the-top flourishes about being the world’s most thoughtful grocery date. He just… stood there for a second, carton still warm in his hand, watching her walk ahead like she hadn’t just rearranged his entire universe with ten quiet words.

This is the part I didn’t know I needed.

God.

He knew she wasn’t trying to wreck him—but damn if she didn’t nail it anyway. Because Mason had imagined a million versions of love. Big ones. Loud ones. Fireworks and falling and all the cinematic moments you’re supposed to chase when you’re young and dumb and dreaming hard.

But this?

This was different.

Rowan—with her list and her focus and her stubborn loyalty—was different.

And somehow, she’d made a simple aisle between oat milk and freezer doors feel like the center of everything that mattered.

He didn’t say anything as he caught up. Just fell into step beside her, their hands brushing again like they’d been made to find each other over and over in the smallest ways.

And yeah—he was still gonna reach for the stupid mini donuts if she gave him even half a chance. He was still gonna mess up the blueberries and probably get the wrong bagels. But she wasn’t walking ahead of him anymore.

She was walking with him.

Mason looked sideways—at her flushed cheeks, her slightly-wrinkled list, the way her tote bag bounced against her hip—and smiled, soft and helpless.

Then, low and easy, just for her:

“You make a mean grocery general, Starling. But you? With a shopping list and a soft look like that? You might actually be my favorite version of forever.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond.

Just bumped her shoulder lightly and grabbed the rice like it was a grand romantic gesture. And when she rolled her eyes but didn’t fight the grin tugging at her mouth?

Yeah.

That was the win.

Not the list. Not the oat milk. Not even surviving the bakery aisle untouched.

Just this.

A girl who’d stopped running.

And a boy who’d never let go.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

Couldn’t, really—not with her throat doing that ridiculous tight thing and her heart all tangled up in the way he said forever like it wasn’t a risk, just a truth.

So instead, she grabbed the pen from her back pocket and crossed off the rice.

Methodically. Steadily. Like the act of completing the list might keep her from melting entirely in front of the jasmine shelf.

But her hand was shaking. Just a little.

She tucked the pen away again, exhaled through her nose, and glanced over at him—at the boy who still couldn’t resist the impulse to make her laugh in public and mean it in private. The boy who said things like you’re my favorite version of forever with that dumb-soft grin that never asked for anything back.

He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in mock innocence like what? I’m just being helpful, and she could’ve screamed at how deeply she loved him.

“Mini donuts and forehead declarations,” she muttered, bumping her shoulder into his in retaliation. “You really are a menace.”

He grinned. Victory.

Rowan rolled her eyes, but her fingers slipped into his again like it was instinct. Like it had always been instinct. “Next aisle’s cereal,” she warned. “Don’t even think about those honey cluster things.”

But she was already smiling. Already letting herself fall back into step beside him, cart wheels squeaking, list half-finished.

Because yeah—he messed up the bagels and never remembered which brand of oat milk her mom liked.

But he remembered her.

The real her.

The one who’d stopped believing in soft endings until he made every ordinary thing feel like the start of one.

And as they turned the corner—hands still linked, aisle still ahead—Rowan thought maybe this was it.

Not perfection.

But presence.

And the quiet, stubborn, endlessly ridiculous boy who always showed up for both.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason felt the bump of her shoulder like a spark.

Not the kind that set anything on fire—no. The kind that lit up the quiet parts of him. The parts he didn’t even realize were still dim until Rowan touched him like that—on purpose, steady, a little exasperated, a lot in love.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She was focused again—sort of. Cheeks pink, lashes low, fingers tucked back into his like she didn’t even think about it. Like her hand just belonged there.

And maybe it did.

Maybe it always had.

God, she was trying so hard to keep the edge today. To stay sharp and grounded and in control. But Mason had known her long enough to recognize the tremble behind the steady. The way her voice dipped when she meant something. The way she wielded that list like armor because sometimes the softness still scared her more than anything else.

And she’d held his hand anyway.

She’d stayed.

He grinned to himself, let her lead the cart into the cereal aisle, and leaned in close enough to murmur, “For the record? If loving you means sacrificing honey clusters for the rest of my life, I’ll do it without flinching.”

She shot him a look.

He smirked. “I’ll still flinch a little. But I’ll do it.”

Her mouth twitched—just barely—but he caught it. Because he always caught it. The little cracks in her sarcasm, the way her smile tried not to bloom and always failed when he got too sincere.

He leaned in again, bumping her shoulder back this time, gentler. "You can call me a menace all you want, Starling. Still gonna show up in every aisle.”

He shrugged, exaggerated. “Even the boring ones. Like paper towels. Or prune juice. Or…” He looked around dramatically, then whispered, “the gluten-free section.”

That earned him a full eye-roll and a shove at his arm.

And yet?

She didn’t let go of his hand.

Mason looked down at their fingers—intertwined, steady, something stupidly sacred in how casual it had become. And he realized, not for the first time, not even close, that this was it.

This was it.

Not the wedding someday or the crib they’d build or the baby that would one day scream her head off in the checkout line.

It was this.

Her hand in his.

Her laugh, even through a sigh.

A grocery list scribbled in her mom’s handwriting and a girl who used to run now walking beside him without needing to.

He looked over, eyes warm, voice soft. “You know… I like this version of us.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The grocery store version. The snack aisle version. The you rolling your eyes while I fall in love with you again in front of the oatmeal version.”

He paused.

Then added, low and certain:

“I’m always gonna show up for this.”

No grand gesture.

No punchline.

Just that.

Because sometimes forever looked like a squeaky cart, a list half-crossed, and a girl who finally let herself believe he meant it.

And Mason?

Mason meant it. Every aisle, every time.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

Couldn’t.

Because somehow, this boy—this relentless, ridiculous, impossibly steady boy—had just managed to ruin her in the granola section. Again.

She blinked once. Then again. Like maybe the overhead lights were to blame for the heat in her face or the way her chest felt too full for her body.

God, he was so sincere.

And stupid.

And hers.

He was hers.

That was the part that hit hardest. The part she kept trying to get used to and never quite could—like her heart still hadn’t caught up to the fact that it wasn’t waiting anymore. That he’d chosen her. Not the polished version. Not the untouchable one.

Her.

List-wielding, emotionally-backpedaling, soft-once-she-trusts-you Rowan.

And when he said he’d show up for this? For cereal and elbows and aisle seven?

Her fingers squeezed his before she realized she’d done it.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, reaching for a box of plain Cheerios like her insides weren’t completely spiraling, “if you start quoting poetry by the frozen peas, I will leave you.”

But her voice wavered.

And her thumb brushed slow over his.

And when she looked up at him, eyes darker now, quieter, she didn’t try to tease the moment away.

Not fully.

Instead, she softened. Just a little. Just enough.

“You make it hard to keep pretending this isn’t everything,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Then, with a look that cracked wide open for just him:
“This is everything.”

She didn’t mean the groceries.

She meant him. Them. This absurd, perfect, ordinary rhythm they’d found between frozen pizza and peanut butter brands.

And as they turned toward the register—his hand still in hers, the list crumpled but complete—Rowan let herself smile.

For real this time.

Because she wasn’t running anymore.

And for once?

She didn’t want to.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason felt her fingers squeeze his like it was instinct. Like something in her had finally stopped bracing and just held on. And he might’ve been smirking a minute ago, being his usual extra self about honey clusters and poetic declarations near the paper towels—but the second she looked at him like that?

He was done for.

Absolutely, irrevocably ruined in the middle of the cereal aisle.

Because Rowan Starling—emotionally guarded, wildly brilliant, give-an-inch-take-nothing Rowan—had just cracked wide open and handed him everything.

And holy hell, she meant it.

Her voice barely made it out, but he heard her. Every syllable. Every unspoken thing behind this is everything.

And somehow, in the dumbest, most perfect way, the moment was… sacred. Not grand or dramatic. Just sacred. Like the world had tipped on its axis somewhere between the organic granola and the shelf of store-brand oatmeal.

So Mason—supportive, loveable, and entirely Mason—did the only thing he could do.

He kissed the back of her hand.

Right there.

Right in front of the Raisin Bran.

And then he pressed it to his heart like they were standing at the altar and aisle seven was the priest.

“Babe,” he whispered, voice wobbly in the most boyishly earnest way, “I would absolutely quote poetry by the frozen peas for you. Don’t tempt me.”

Her groan was half laugh, half I cannot believe you’re real, and he grinned wide, completely shameless.

“But,” he added, pulling her closer like the world had narrowed down to her hoodie and her heartbeat, “since I know how much you love it when I get all mushy in public…”

He cleared his throat, dramatically, earning an instant eye-roll.

“Ahem. Shall I compare thee to a limited-time spring produce sale—”

“Mason.”

“—for thou art more consistent than avocado ripeness—”

She actually laughed this time, and the sound shot straight through him like the warmest kind of lightning.

And God, she was beautiful when she laughed. Even more so when she tried to stifle it, cheeks pink, eyes glinting, head shaking like she wasn’t going to let him win—but still hadn’t let go of his hand.

He held onto it tighter, smile softening as they moved toward the checkout.

No rush. No pressure. Just them.

“I know this isn’t fancy,” he said as they paused behind an elderly couple with a very intense coupon system. “It’s not Paris or prom or some big, sweeping thing.”

He glanced over at her, bumping her shoulder lightly.

“But for the record? If all we ever have is this—grocery lists and cereal debates and you reaching for my hand while pretending not to cry over how much you love me?”

He shrugged. “I’d call that a pretty epic love story.”

And when she looked at him—eyes full of everything she didn’t have to say anymore—he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Right there in the checkout line.

Right in front of the Tic Tacs and the tabloids and the packs of wintergreen gum.

Because this was everything.

And Mason? Mason had never been more sure of anything in his life.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

She just stood there—pinned between impulse gum and aisle seven and this boy who was holding her hand like it was scripture—while her whole goddamn chest rearranged itself.

Because Mason Fletcher, in his hoodie and his smirk and his all-heart swagger, had just made her feel like forever was the easy part.

Not the fantasy.
Not the someday.
The part that stayed.

Her throat went tight.

She should’ve cracked a joke. Said something sarcastic. Something to deflect the swell in her chest and the way her eyes started to sting again even though she swore she was done crying this week.

But instead?

She looked up at him—this ridiculous, brilliant boy who would absolutely quote Shakespeare next to frozen peas—and let herself feel it.

The softness. The safety. The part of her that believed.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, voice thick.

But her fingers curled tighter into his.

And then, quieter—barely audible beneath the beeps and murmurs of a Sunday crowd:

“I love you too.”

Not dramatic. Not teased. Just true.

And maybe that was the point.

Because loving Mason wasn’t some explosion. It wasn’t fireworks or fear or the feeling of falling.

It was a cart full of produce and a hand on her back and a boy who held her laughter like it was holy.

And when he smiled—really smiled, like the words had reached something in him that nothing else ever had?

Rowan exhaled.

Slow.

Certain.

Then leaned up—steady, sure—and kissed him.

Right there. In front of the gum rack and the gossip magazines. With people around them and the cashier already scanning their oat milk.

Because for the first time in her whole life?

She wasn’t afraid of being seen.
Not with him.
Not like this.

Her lips barely left his before she rested her forehead against his chest—right against that dumb, threadbare hoodie she always pretended not to steal—and let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

The kind that only comes when you stop waiting for the world to fall apart again.

Because it wasn’t.

Not this time.

Not with him.

Mason’s arms came around her without hesitation, steady and sure and warm in that way he always was. She felt it—his smile against the top of her hair, the way his hand settled instinctively on the small of her back, anchoring her there like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

And she was.

She didn’t care that the couple behind them was pretending not to stare. Didn’t care that their cart was full of stuff that wasn’t even on the list, or that she’d probably cry again before they made it out of the parking lot.

None of it mattered.

Because this—this moment, this love, this boy who made her laugh and kept showing up even when she didn’t know how to ask—this was hers.

Rowan pulled back just enough to look at him.

Really look at him.

“You know,” she said softly, fingers still curled in the fabric of his hoodie, “for someone who talks so much, you’re dangerously good at shutting me up.”

His grin flashed. She rolled her eyes.

But then—gentler now, the truth sliding in under her ribs—she added, “You make it feel easy. Even when it’s not.”

Her voice caught at the edges, but she didn’t look away. Not this time.

“You make me feel like I don’t have to fight so hard to deserve this.”

Her fingers moved—absentmindedly smoothing the wrinkle in his shirt, anchoring herself to something real.

“And I’m not used to that. I don’t think I ever will be. But I’m trying.”

She paused, eyes flicking down to their hands still linked like a lifeline.

“I want this, Mase. The boring. The messy. The aisle-seven kind of forever. I want you.”

And there it was.

Not armored. Not hidden. Just said.

Out loud.
On purpose.
In the checkout line.

Because if Mason could keep showing up for her in all the quiet ways—then she could start showing up too.

Even when it scared her.

Especially when it did.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason couldn’t speak at first.

Didn’t even try.

Because if he opened his mouth, he might’ve said something dumb. Or started laughing just to stop himself from crying. And yeah, he was the funny one. The one who cracked jokes in tension-filled rooms and called aisle seven a sacred shrine of Honey Nut Cheerios. But right now?

He couldn’t do anything but look at her.

This girl—his girl—who just said I want you like it wasn’t terrifying or dramatic or some grand fireworks moment, but something better. Something real. Something rooted.

It leveled him.

Like a sucker-punch wrapped in sunshine.

His heart was going at full throttle, slamming into his ribs like it was trying to make sure he heard it.

And he did.

Loud and clear.

Because that? That was Rowan. Raw and scared and choosing him anyway. She could’ve hidden. Could’ve turned it into a joke or ducked behind sarcasm. But she didn’t.

She said it.

And now all he could do was feel it.

He let out a shaky breath and leaned in—just a little, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His arms stayed wrapped around her like instinct, like gravity. Like there was nowhere else in the universe they were supposed to be but right here, in this checkout line with melting frozen peas and two-for-one gum.

“You don’t have to get used to it,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “I’ll remind you. Every time. Every aisle. Every meltdown over oat milk or off-brand Pop-Tarts.”

His lips brushed the corner of her jaw, and he smiled—soft this time. Like it was only for her.

“I’ll be the one holding your hand when it’s easy. And especially when it’s not.”

She didn’t move, just closed her eyes like it meant something. Like he meant something.

So he kept going.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just honest.

“You don’t have to fight with me to keep this. You already have it. You are it.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face. Just enough to make sure she saw him too—his eyes, his heart, all of it laid out without armor.

“I want the messy. The boring. The ‘oops-we-bought-five-bags-of-chips-again’ kind of forever.”

A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“And I want you. Every version. Every grocery run. Every ‘you’re an idiot, but I love you anyway’.”

He kissed her again. Not rushed. Not for show.

Just real.

And when he pulled away, voice barely above a whisper:

“We’re doing this, Ro. You and me. List or no list.”

Then, as the cashier cleared her throat and started scanning their oat milk like maybe now was the time, Mason’s eyes flicked toward the impulse shelf by the register.

Without breaking stride—or contact—he reached out, grabbed a pack of double-stuffed Oreos from the rack, and slid them onto the belt.

Rowan narrowed her eyes.

He shrugged, biting back a grin. “For emergencies.”

And when she shook her head, laughing under her breath, Mason leaned closer again—eyes crinkled, heart steady, hand still in hers.

“You called aisle-seven love boring,” he whispered, like it was a secret just between them. “But I think it might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

[Rowan Starling]

Her chest clenched.

God, it clenched so hard she thought for a second she might actually fold right there in front of the gum rack and the coupon bin and some poor kid begging his mom for fruit snacks.

Because Mason had looked at her like that again.

Like she was the only thing he’d ever believed in.

And then he said those things—like he hadn’t even thought to filter them, hadn’t felt the need to protect himself from the truth of it. Like loving her out loud wasn’t some risk he needed to weigh—but something inevitable. Something done.

And that? That wrecked her in the gentlest way.

She didn’t even try to cover it. Not this time. Her eyes burned. Her throat tightened. But she held his gaze anyway—wet lashes and all—and gave him this wobbly, lopsided little smile like maybe she was still figuring out how to receive all that love without shrinking from it.

“You’re not supposed to say things like that in front of the Oreos,” she murmured, blinking fast, voice rough around the edges. “It’s rude. They can’t compete.”

He grinned. Of course he did.

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Didn’t tease him like she normally might. Didn’t brush it off or downplay the heat rising in her chest.

Because she’d heard him.

Every word.

And she believed him.

Not just in the way you believe someone when it’s easy—when your heart is soft and the music’s playing and the night is forgiving. But in the hard way. The quiet way. The way that means something when the world isn’t watching.

She leaned in again, their foreheads brushing just enough to make her inhale like it was the first breath in days.

Then, softly—only for him:

“You always know what to say. Even when I don’t know how to hear it.”

Her voice cracked a little on the next line, but she said it anyway:

“I’m scared. I’m still scared. But I’m not walking away from this.”

A beat. A breath. Her hand tightening in his.

“I’m not walking away from you.”

And maybe it wasn’t loud.

Maybe it wasn’t dramatic or perfect or the kind of moment people write songs about.

But it was hers.

And it was his.

And it was theirs.

Rowan exhaled shakily, her thumb brushing over his knuckles like a promise. Then glanced at the Oreos on the belt and shook her head.

“You know I’m gonna eat those in the car, right?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. Still standing right there, right beside him, as the cashier gave them a mildly amused look and scanned the next item on the belt.

And when Mason reached for the bags a little too quickly—like maybe he wanted to carry every weight before she could even think to lift it—Rowan didn’t stop him.

She just followed.

Right out of that store.

Right into the kind of life that felt like it had been waiting for her to say yes.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason followed her out into the sunlit parking lot like it was sacred ground.

Like she’d just handed him the whole world in the middle of aisle seven and trusted him not to drop it.

And yeah—maybe he was grinning like a fool as he adjusted the bags in his arms, the Oreos tucked on top like a prize. Maybe his sneakers made that dumb squeak against the concrete, and maybe a gust of wind blew his hair all wrong. But none of it mattered.

Because she hadn’t walked away.

She chose him.

Not some perfect version of love. Not the kind that showed up with sweeping music and poetic speeches. The kind that meant staying—even when your hands shook. Even when your heart still flinched from old ghosts.

And God, did he love her for it.

Mason glanced sideways, catching the way she reached for the car door with that same stubborn grace she did everything with. One hand braced against her back, eyes narrowed against the glare, hoodie sleeves still swallowed past her knuckles.

He couldn't help it—he laughed, soft and breathless.

“You know,” he said, popping the trunk open with a little flair and an unnecessarily dramatic bow, “I always thought forever would look more like a beach or a mountaintop or, I don’t know, a flash mob with acoustic guitars…”

He nudged her gently with his shoulder. “But you, nearly crying over Oreos? Kinda wrecked every other version for me.”

He saw it—that twitch at the corner of her mouth. That almost-smile she tried not to give him.

So he pressed on. Gently.

“Ro, I’m serious. You don’t have to pretend to be fearless. I love you scared. I love you messy. I love you in the middle of grocery store panic spirals and those weird 2 a.m. rants about bees and late-stage capitalism.”

He opened the passenger door for her, like a dork, and leaned down with a crooked grin.

“You’re it for me. Even when you're tired. Especially then.”

And when she looked up at him—really looked, tear-slick eyes and all—he softened all over again.

“You’re my someday, Rowan. My everyday. And I’m in. All the way in. Cart squeaks, checkout lines, and emotional Oreos included.”

Then—because he could feel how close she was to breaking again, and not in a bad way—he leaned in and kissed her forehead. Reverent. Steady. Like punctuation on a promise.

“Now get in the car before I start crying and scare the suburban dads with their protein shakes.”

He caught her laugh—low and surprised and barely restrained—and shut the door with a grin so wide it hurt.

Mason jogged around to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and handed her the Oreos the second they pulled out of the lot.

“No judgment,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “But I did buy those with the express intention of bribing your love in the event of a minor emotional crisis. Pretty sure that’s what they mean by planning ahead.”

And when she reached for them—eyes still wet, smile still blooming—he didn’t say a word.

Just took her hand in his again.

And drove.

Toward home.

Toward everything.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

She couldn’t.

Because there was something lodged in her throat—half a laugh, half a sob, all love—and if she opened her mouth, it might come out wrong. Might break the spell. Might make it feel too big to hold.

So instead, she just stared at him. At his dumb, smug, perfect face and the way his fingers found hers again like it was second nature. Like he was built to anchor her even in the middle of her mess.

Especially then.

The silence in the car was soft. Safe. Punctuated only by the crinkle of the Oreo wrapper as she finally gave in and popped one into her mouth.

She chewed slowly, eyes on the road ahead, and shook her head with a smile that was all him. All of this.

“You know,” she murmured eventually, voice quiet but steady, “I still don’t think you understand how dangerous it is to love me like this.”

She glanced over.

Saw the way his grip tightened on the wheel. The way his jaw ticked just slightly. The way he didn’t flinch.

“I break things,” she said simply. “Even when I don’t mean to.”

But before he could argue, she reached across the console and laced their fingers together again—firm, certain.

“But I think… maybe I’m done pretending I don’t want to be held together too.”

She looked down at their hands. Then at him.

And for once, didn’t second-guess the truth when it spilled from her lips.

“You’re not a detour, Mason. You’re the reason I’m finally on the road.”

She leaned back in her seat, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the warmth of the sun painted soft stripes across her lap.

Then, almost teasing, almost reverent—

“And if you ever quote Shakespeare at me in public again, I’m going to marry you out of spite.”

Her lips twitched.

And this time, when she laughed, it wasn’t low or restrained.

It was whole.

It was hers.

And it was free.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because she was laughing—really laughing—and he would’ve driven to the edge of the earth and back just to hear that sound again. The kind that cracked open the quiet and stitched something sacred into the silence she used to wear like armor.

God, she was everything.

He kept one hand on the wheel, the other laced tight with hers, thumb brushing slow against the back of her palm like it was muscle memory. And maybe it was. Maybe loving her like this had always been written in his bones—he’d just finally caught up to it.

He glanced sideways, eyes catching on the curve of her smile, the way the sun kissed her through the window, painting her in gold and grace and stubborn softness.

And all he could think was don’t blink.

Because this? This was the moment. The one he’d remember when they were old and gray and arguing about where to put the basil. The one that would ruin every other moment that dared to pretend it mattered more.

He cleared his throat, voice a little hoarse—like her words had taken up residence somewhere deep.

“You say that like marrying me would be a punishment,” he said, mock-wounded. “Which, frankly, is offensive. I’m adorable.”

She snorted. He grinned.

“But just for the record?” he added, a little quieter now. A little more honest. “I know exactly how dangerous it is to love you.”

He squeezed her hand.

“And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

The words landed between them—gentle, grounded, sure. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just real.

Like the beat of a heart finally finding its rhythm.

He turned back to the road, let the hum of the tires and the soft air between songs carry them the rest of the way.

Then, with a glance sideways and a grin that could’ve lit up every aisle in that damn grocery store:

“Also, I’m definitely quoting Shakespeare again. Gotta lock that spite-marriage in before someone else figures out how stupid lucky I am.”

And when she rolled her eyes—affectionate, exasperated, forever—he knew.

He knew he’d never stop choosing this.

Not even for a second.

[Rowan Starling]

Rowan turned her face toward the window, but not fast enough to hide the way her eyes shimmered.

God, he wrecked her.

In the gentlest, most infuriating, most Mason way imaginable.

Because he didn’t just say things to fill the air—he meant them. Every single syllable. Every joke layered with devotion. Every soft confession snuck in like it was nothing when it was everything. He cracked her open without ever asking her to bleed for it.

She squeezed his hand back.

Hard.

Like she needed him to feel it. To know.

Then she exhaled—one of those long, shaking breaths that felt like letting go of something she’d been holding way too tight.

“You’re not stupid lucky,” she said quietly. “You’re… brave.”

Her voice caught a little. But she didn’t let it fall apart.

“Because I am dangerous, Mason. Not in the fire-and-ice way people like to imagine. Not in the pretty, palatable kind of messy.”

She finally looked at him, profile steady now. Honest.

“I’m dangerous because I feel everything. Because I overthink and shut down and lash out and make things harder than they need to be. And you still look at me like I’m worth all of it.”

A beat. Then, softer:

“You hold space for me in a way I didn’t know how to ask for.”

Her thumb brushed over his, small and reverent.

“And I don’t care if you quote Shakespeare or scream your love for me from the rooftop of aisle seven—this thing we’re building? I want it.”

She swallowed, the words barely a whisper but firm with truth.

“I want you. Every damn version.”

Another beat.

Then, wryly: “…But if you do quote Shakespeare in front of my mom, I swear I’m making you wear the ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron at the baby shower.”

Her lips twitched.

And when he burst out laughing, her chest finally eased.

This was it.

No armor. No pretending.

Just them.

Hand in hand.

Sunlight on their skin.

And love—loud, ridiculous, holy love—poured into every ordinary second like it was the most sacred thing she’d ever known.

[Mason Hayes]

Mason didn’t just laugh.

He lost it.

That full-bodied, stupidly loud kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and had him nearly pulling the car over so he could recover. The kind that only ever happened around her. The kind she used to pretend annoyed her—except now, she reached for it like breath.

“Okay, first of all,” he managed, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, “that apron is a privilege. I earned that apron. I wear it with pride.”

She rolled her eyes. He grinned harder.

“And second,” he added, voice still warm with laughter but quieter now, more grounded, “you are messy. And sharp. And kind of terrifying when you’re on a deadline.”

He looked over at her—really looked—like he was seeing every part of her and loving them all in real time.

“But you’re also brilliant. And brave. And funny when you forget to overthink it. And you’ve got this really annoying habit of making me feel like maybe all the broken stuff in me isn’t permanent.”

He squeezed her hand again. Not hard. Just right.

“And yeah, I’ll probably always be the idiot who says too much at the wrong time. But if holding space for you means I get to watch you take up space, then I’m exactly where I want to be.”

A pause.

Then—

“I want every version of you too, Ro. The quiet ones, the mad ones, the overthinking-at-2AM ones. The ones that cry during oat milk commercials and threaten to leave me in the parking lot for forgetting the bagels.”

That last bit made her laugh, even as her lashes stayed wet.

Mason smiled at that, soft and smug all at once. Then turned back toward the road with one final nudge:

“But fair warning? If your mom so much as mentions Shakespeare, I’m going full Sonnet 116. Apron and all.”

Rowan groaned into her hand. He swore he saw her blush.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide.

She just let her fingers stay tangled in his, palm to palm, a heartbeat shared—and Mason knew without question:

He’d never let go.