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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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.