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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.