Mason's heart did a very un-chill thing in his chest.

He blinked once, then twice—his brain short-circuiting in that slow, sparkly way it always did when Rowan said something just real enough to knock the breath out of him. He took a sip of cider to buy himself time. Immediate mistake. Too hot. Tongue scalded. Excellent.

He recovered with grace.

Or, well—grace-adjacent.

“You know,” he said, voice low, leaning in like he had a secret, “I always suspected I’d be recruited into a literary cult. I just thought it’d happen after I published a deeply misunderstood novella and moved to a coastal lighthouse to brood in chunky knit sweaters.”

He paused dramatically, casting a mock-suspicious glance toward the nearest table of regulars.

“But if Janet’s offering fast-track membership and lemon bars, I guess I’ll cancel the brooding and stay.”

He reached for the treat she’d slid his way and took a bite, nodding solemnly like it was a sacred rite. “Mm. Yep. Definitely worth the emotional sponge discourse.”

And then—because it was her, because she was looking at him like that, and because he’d waited what felt like a thousand quiet afternoons for moments exactly like this—he leaned closer.

Not too close. Just enough that their knees touched, his shoulder brushing hers like punctuation at the end of her sentence.

“Also,” he added under his breath, “I’m glad you’re keeping me. I hear the boyfriend market’s oversaturated, and I’ve grown quite fond of this arrangement. Plus, you’re dangerously pretty when you’re giving me unsolicited praise, so. That’s kind of my whole thing now.”

He nudged her gently with his elbow. “I’m serious, though. You’ve got the cool indie bookstore manager’s daughter who might kill me if I use the wrong tea leaves vibe, and I am helpless in the face of that power.”

A few feet away, someone snorted-laughed into their cider. Mason grinned.

But then he looked at her. Really looked. She wasn’t doing anything remarkable—just cradling her mug like it was second nature, gaze half-lost in the swirl of steam. But there was something about the way she existed in that moment—unguarded, tucked into the space like she belonged to it—that made his chest ache in the best way. Like watching poetry forget it was being written.

And his expression softened, all showmanship fading.

“Thanks for letting me in,” he said, barely above a whisper. “To this part. The real part.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Didn’t need her to.

Instead, he took another sip of cider—careful this time—and leaned back just enough to let her breathe, but not so far that they weren’t still touching.

Because the truth was, Mason Hayes took being on her team very seriously.

And if being part of her world meant braving book club cults, baking critiques, and Wuthering Heights discourse from the perspective of a dog?

Well.

He’d bring his own glitter pen.

That was so Rowan-coded it made her ribcage ache.

She didn’t say anything at first—just gave him a slow, crooked smile that settled somewhere deep and quiet beneath her sternum. A smile that said: you idiot, you soft, ridiculous, perfect boy. A smile that could’ve been a sigh if she hadn’t been so busy memorizing the way he looked when he said things like that.

God, he made it hard to pretend she wasn’t smitten.

Her fingers toyed with the edge of her mug for a second, buying time she didn’t really need. She’d already decided. Long ago, actually. Probably around the time he lent her his hoodie and didn’t ask for it back. Or when he held her hand like it was a secret he wanted to protect.

“You say things like that,” she said softly, gaze tilted toward her lap, “and it’s honestly very rude that I don’t get to retaliate with a glitter pen of my own.”

She glanced up. Her voice was quiet, but sure. “You don’t need a lighthouse and a brooding novella. You need lemon bars and someone who’ll argue about metaphor density with you while making fun of your taste in socks.”

Then, after a beat: “Which, by the way, are objectively criminal.”

She leaned just enough to nudge their shoulders together, their knees still touching, anchoring her in place.

“And for the record, Hayes,” she added with a warmth that made her sarcasm curl at the edges, “I didn’t let you in. You just kept showing up. Kept making space where I didn’t think there was any. Until suddenly, there was. And you were in it. Like it was always yours.”

The words felt big. Bigger than she’d meant them to be. But she didn’t take them back.

Because they were true.

And if this was her world—books and sarcasm and steam curling off mugs—then Mason had already rewritten half the margins.

She tilted her head, soft curls brushing her cheek.

“So yeah. You’re in.”

And she bumped her mug gently against his like a toast.

“Now shut up and eat your lemon bar, boyfriend. You’ve got a cult to impress.”

Mason didn’t breathe for a second.

Not out of nerves—but reverence. That deep, warm, soul-stupid kind that made his ribs feel like they were expanding around a secret. The kind of reverence you got when the person you loved looked at you like you belonged—not just to them, but to the moment. To the world they’d built around themselves like armor.

And she was letting him in.

Actually, no—she’d just told him he was already there.

Mason blinked once. Twice. Then looked down at the lemon bar like it was the most sacred offering he'd ever been handed.

"Noted," he murmured, because his throat was suddenly full. "I’ve been aggressively welcomed into the fold. Fear my metaphor opinions and sock crimes."

He broke off a corner of the lemon bar, popped it in his mouth, and let the powdered sugar glue itself to his smile.

Across the circle, someone cleared their throat. Book club had begun.

It wasn’t formal—nothing here ever really was—but there was an ease to it, the way voices passed from one person to the next. Chairs creaked. Pages rustled. Mugs were lifted in rhythm. It felt like the literary equivalent of passing around a campfire, everyone tossing their thoughts into the flames.

Mason leaned back in his chair just slightly, shoulder still against Rowan’s. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

Mrs. Starling took the lead, as always—elegant, a little chaotic, deeply passionate about everything from character arcs to tea temperature. Tonight’s discussion was themed around unreliable narrators, and somewhere between the first and second sip of cider, Mason found himself deeply invested in whether or not the protagonist’s goldfish was a metaphor for internalized guilt or just… a goldfish.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

But he listened. Really listened.

And when Rowan chimed in—sharp, thoughtful, just the right amount of snark—he felt her words settle right beneath his ribs. Like music. Like gravity.

He glanced at her mid-discussion, just as she was gesturing with one hand, mug cradled in the other. Her cheeks were still a little flushed, eyes bright, curls tucked messily behind one ear. And all he could think was this. This was what it meant to witness someone in their element. To be lucky enough to be near it.

The candlelight flickered low across the table. A laugh rippled through the circle. Someone passed around a second tray of lemon bars. Mason caught Rowan’s eye, just briefly.

He didn’t say a word.

But he bumped her knee beneath the table.

And when she bumped him back?

He smiled so wide it cracked straight through the quiet.

Because he didn’t need to be the loudest voice in the room.

Not when the quiet meant this.

Rowan didn’t look at him right away.

She was still speaking—making a point about whether or not a character’s obsession with mirrors meant self-loathing or just bad editing—when she felt the gentle nudge under the table. His knee, against hers. Small. Steady. Intentional.

And God, it was stupid how much warmth bloomed from something that simple.

She kept talking for a few more seconds, wrapping up her thought with a shrug and a sip of cider like she wasn’t hyper-aware of the fact that he was watching her. Really watching her.

Then she turned her head. Just a little.

And saw it.

That smile—the soft one. The one he didn’t know he wore. Like she was some secret he was lucky enough to keep but didn’t dare show off. Like being near her was enough.

Rowan’s throat went a little tight.

She could’ve made a joke. Teased him for getting sugar on his hoodie again. Mocked his deep emotional investment in metaphorical fish. But instead, she reached under the table and tapped her knuckle once against his leg. Quiet. Grounding. The kind of touch you didn’t need words for.

Then, barely above a whisper, without looking at him:
“You’re good at this, you know.”

Another beat. Another bump of her knee against his.

“At being here. At being—” Her voice softened even more. “—mine.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Just let the words hang between them like a bookmark tucked between chapters. Deliberate. Holding their place.

And when someone across the circle asked her if she had anything to add, Rowan smiled like she wasn’t holding a whole sun in her chest.

She glanced at Mason once—just enough to see his eyes go wide.

Then she turned back to the group and said, “Oh, I’ve got plenty to add.”

Rowan didn’t hesitate.

Not once.

As the group shifted topics—someone launching into a spirited argument about whether the narrator’s actions were selfish or just desperately human—she eased her hand into Mason’s beneath the table. No flourish. No big moment. Just a quiet, certain gesture that said I’m here, and you’re here, and that’s exactly how I want it.

Mason went still.

Not tense. Not startled.

Just still, like his whole body had paused to memorize the feeling of her fingers laced through his.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.

Her voice carried easily across the circle, threaded with her usual dry wit and thoughtful insight. “Okay,” she said, casually cutting in after Janet finished her latest literary rant. “But if we’re going to pretend this guy was making rational choices, we also have to pretend he didn’t spend two whole chapters lying to himself in first person.”

A few chuckles rippled around the room. Someone murmured, “She’s not wrong.”

Rowan’s thumb brushed over Mason’s, once. Absent-minded. Familiar. And then again—more deliberate. Like punctuation.

“He’s not unreliable because he’s malicious,” she added, tilting her head as she spoke. “He’s unreliable because he thinks he’s the hero of the story, and he never stops to consider that maybe he’s not.”

That made the table go quiet for a beat.

Rowan’s voice softened, but not with uncertainty—just clarity. “Sometimes people lie to themselves because it’s easier than looking at the wreckage. That doesn’t make them villains. Just… human.”

She felt Mason’s fingers curl just slightly around hers. Tighter. Like he heard her. Like he knew she wasn’t just talking about the narrator anymore.

Rowan glanced sideways, just once.

He was already looking at her.

So she squeezed his hand. Gave him the smallest, most real smile she had. Then turned back to the circle like she hadn’t just given away her whole heart in a sentence disguised as book club analysis.

Let them talk about the story.

She had hers. And he was sitting right beside her.

Mason blinked.

Once. Twice.

Not because he didn’t understand what she said—but because he did. Because her words weren’t just smart, they were sharp. Thoughtful. Woven with that quiet power she had when she forgot to guard her edges. And watching her like this—clear-eyed, confident, unapologetically real—felt like watching a star tilt just a little closer to earth.

God, he was toast.

He sat there for a second, cider warming between his palms, listening to her like he’d never heard her speak before—even though he’d been hanging on her words since freshman year. There was something about her voice when she got going. When she cared. Like the air around her stood still so it could take notes.

He would’ve happily spent the rest of book club just watching her burn that brightly.

But then someone—he thought maybe Janet, though it could’ve been the retired English teacher with the cat earrings—leaned forward and said, “Alright, new guy. What about you? What’s your take?”

Mason blinked again. Straightened. Nearly choked on his lemon bar.

“I—uh.” He swallowed. “Right. Input.”

Rowan didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t tease or challenge. Instead, beneath the table, her hand squeezed his again—gentle, quiet, encouraging.

Like she already knew he’d do fine.

So he did.

“Well,” he said, leaning forward slightly, voice pitched with just enough drama to earn a laugh from the corner of the circle, “as the newly inducted cult member with fresh lemon bar crumbs on his soul, I think the narrator’s the literary equivalent of a guy who ghosted his therapist.”

That got a few more laughs.

“But seriously,” he continued, brow furrowing just enough to ground the moment, “Rowan’s right. He’s not unreliable because he’s evil. He’s unreliable because he’s in survival mode. And survival doesn’t always leave room for self-awareness.”

He leaned forward a little, more thoughtful now. “It’s like—if the only story you’ve ever known is the one where you’re the hero, then every mistake starts looking like a plot twist instead of, you know, actual consequences. He’s not lying to the reader. He’s lying to himself first. And that’s what makes it dangerous.”

He paused. Shrugged a little. “Doesn’t mean he’s blameless. Just means he’s messy. Like, human-level messy. And if that’s not relatable, I don’t know what is.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone murmured, “Huh,” and another person jotted something down in the margins of their book.

Mason sat back, feeling his heart slow a little.

Not because he’d nailed it (though he had, thank you very much), but because Rowan had squeezed his hand again. Just once. Just enough.

And in the low glow of string lights and soft laughter, with powdered sugar on his sleeve and her shoulder brushing his, Mason Hayes realized something:

He didn’t just want to be part of her world.

He already was.

He lifted his mug in a mock-toast and added, “Also, for the record? His emotional damage would make a killer Broadway ballad. Just saying.”

Rowan didn’t say anything. But her laugh—that low, private thing—was better than applause.

Rowan’s fingers were still laced through his under the table—steady, warm, and so casual it made her chest ache a little. Because it wasn’t casual. Not really. Not for her. She didn’t hold hands for fun. Didn’t reach out unless it meant something.

And with him, it always meant something.

She hadn’t planned on it. But the second Janet turned toward him, eyebrows up and tone expectant, Rowan had just… reacted. Reached out. Anchored him. Not because she thought he needed it, but because she wanted him to know he wasn’t doing this alone. Not here. Not ever, if she could help it.

And then he spoke.

And holy hell, did he speak.

She didn’t look directly at him—not because she wasn’t listening, but because she was afraid that if she did, she might actually melt. Instead, she looked at his hand in hers. At the way his fingers curled a little tighter when he found his rhythm. She could hear the shift in the room, the way people leaned in, not out of politeness, but curiosity. Respect. Interest.

He was good. He was so good.

Not because he knew all the answers—but because he was thoughtful, and honest, and brave in that soft, sharp way that made people pause. That made her want to memorize every word.

When he finished, she squeezed his hand again, just once, just enough to say I see you.

She didn’t need to say anything.

But later, when the discussion drifted to the next chapter and Janet was off defending an opinion no one had asked for, Rowan leaned in close, her lips brushing the space just behind his ear.

“That was hot,” she murmured, dry but entirely sincere. “Like, weirdly hot. Philosophical-bad-boy hot. Write that down.”

Her thumb brushed against the side of his hand—absent-minded, intimate.

Then she sat back in her chair like nothing happened at all.

But her smile?

Her smile said everything.

Mason tried to focus.

Really, he did.

But Rowan had just whispered that was hot in his ear, and now his brain was melting like a chocolate bar left too close to the radiator.

Philosophical-bad-boy hot?

Was that a thing now? Was he that thing now?

He blinked. Nodded along absently as Janet launched into her unsolicited defense of the narrator’s “fragile masculinity as a metaphor for society.” He even hummed once, like maybe he was considering the implications of it. But inside, his entire inner monologue had become something between she thinks I’m hot and do not pass out in this chair.

Rowan, of course, had gone back to being effortlessly composed. Like she hadn’t just rewired his entire nervous system with six words and a thumb brush.

She sat beside him like she was born for bookstore light and quiet rebellion—sweater sleeves bunched at her wrists, one leg curled under her, eyes half-lidded as she sipped cider and occasionally looked his way like yes, you may continue existing next to me.

And honestly? That would’ve been enough.

But every time her fingers shifted in his—every slight adjustment, every absentminded little touch—his brain did another somersault.

He was supposed to be paying attention. Supposed to be internalizing literary themes and analyzing emotional subtext like a functioning member of book club society.

But no.

Instead, he was sitting there thinking: I peaked. This is it. This is the high point of my life. I said words about unreliable narrators and she looked like she might devour me with a compliment.

A few chairs creaked as someone stood. A yawn echoed from the far side of the circle. Mrs. Starling clapped her hands together and announced a quick five-minute stretch and bathroom break—"and not just because I need to reheat my tea, but yes, also that."

Mason blinked like someone had just turned the lights back on in a theater.

He glanced down at their mugs—half-empty and cooling—and then back at Rowan.

“You stay,” he murmured, standing. “I’ve got this.”

She opened her mouth, probably to argue—probably to say she could do it herself. But Mason was already on his feet, already gathering the mugs with the kind of quiet determination that left no room for negotiation.

“I’m being chivalrous,” he said before she could protest, flashing her a crooked grin. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Mason scooped up their mugs and made his way toward the counter with the poise of someone on a very important mission. He nodded at a few of the regulars as he passed, offered a quiet “excuse me” as he dodged a stretch of wet floorboards, and nearly knocked over a copy of Wuthering Heights that had been abandoned on a stool.

He caught it. Barely.

“Nailed it,” he whispered to the book, and placed it safely back on the shelf before continuing.

He refilled their cider mugs with practiced ease—carefully, politely, with exactly the right amount of cinnamon sprinkle—and scanned the pastry tray for the best of the remaining lemon bars. They weren’t Rowan’s, but he’d make it work. He picked two and balanced them neatly on a napkin.

By the time he turned back, the group was still milling about, stretching and chatting in that cozy, bookish kind of way.

But his eyes went straight to Rowan.

Backlit by string lights. Curled up in her chair. Looking at him like maybe he’d done something right with his life.

He smiled. God, he smiled.

And made his way back, cider in one hand, pastries in the other, like some kind of literary boyfriend Santa Claus.

Rowan didn’t say anything when he handed her the cider.

Didn’t tease him. Didn’t make a crack about Wuthering Heights or the cinnamon-to-apple ratio or the fact that he looked absurdly proud of himself for fetching pastries like he’d just slain a dragon with politeness.

She just looked at him.

Took the mug from his hands, fingers brushing gently—purposefully—over his as she did. Her gaze lingered a second too long, eyes flicking down to the lemon bar, then back to his face.

“You picked the best one,” she murmured.

And then, so soft it barely counted as a smile—just a shift in the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head:

“Of course you did.”

Her voice didn’t go loud often. She didn’t need it to. She was all understatement and meaning tucked into corners, into silences, into the way she held eye contact like it didn’t scare her anymore.

Especially not with him.

She set the napkin down gently beside her, took a slow sip of cider, and let the warmth settle between them.

Then, like it wasn’t even a decision, she extended her arm—barely lifting it, just enough for him to know what she wanted—and waited for him to come close. Not to hand her something. Not to serve her. Just to sit back down.

With her.

He did.

And she tucked herself into his side, pulling his hand back into hers like it belonged there. Because it did. It did now. That was a fact.

She leaned her shoulder into his, all casual affection, like they weren’t surrounded by people. Like she wasn’t slightly worried her mom was watching from the corner. Like it didn’t matter.

Because honestly? It didn’t.

Mason had made her laugh. Made her feel seen. Made her look forward to something as simple as cider and Sunday nights. And now he was sitting next to her, proud of his perfectly selected lemon bar, quietly watching her like she was some kind of poetry.

Rowan turned her head, eyes flicking to him again.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

And this time, she didn’t hide her smile.

By the time the clock ticked past eight-thirty, Sunday night book club had begun its familiar wind-down.

The circle of mismatched chairs had thinned, a few regulars bundled in coats, hugging mugs like relics of a holy night. Laughter lingered in the corners of the shop like steam, soft and earned. A few paperbacks lay open and forgotten—spines up, pages curled, annotated with thoughts no one would remember by morning but that felt essential in the moment.

Rowan helped her mom stack a few chairs against the wall, tucking a folded quilt onto the window bench. Mason carried a tray behind the counter like he’d done it for years—like he belonged in that rhythm of gentle work and soft clatter. Every so often, their shoulders would brush in passing, glances exchanged like inside jokes.

Rowan caught him eyeing the lemon bars. “Hey,” she teased, dropping her voice low and dramatic, “the last one’s up for grabs, but you have to pass Janet’s quiz on unreliable narrators first.”

He smiled, shaking his head. Rowan grinned wider, then nudged him with her hip. “I’m serious. One wrong answer and you have to read a sonnet to the group next week. Them’s the rules.”

She scooped up a stack of mugs, balancing them with practiced ease, and looked over at him—soft, private. “You did good tonight, you know,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear over the music. “Book club can be… a lot. But you handled the lemon bar politics with real grace.”

He made a face and she laughed, quiet and real. “I mean it,” she added, voice dropping as her mom disappeared into the back room, humming along to the radio. “It’s easier when you’re here.”

She wiped down a section of counter with the edge of her sleeve, pretending not to notice him watching her. “You don’t have to stay and help, you know,” she said, but there was no weight behind it. “But I’m glad you are. Everything feels less weird with you next to me.”

The old stereo hummed out something slow and nostalgic, and the shop felt half-asleep, full of sugar and safety.

Rowan hesitated, then met his gaze, all warmth and sincerity. “You’re a good teammate, Hayes. Remind me to keep you around.”

And just like that, with the world gone quiet and the shop winding down, Rowan let herself lean just a little closer—close enough to bump his shoulder, close enough to let him know: she wanted him in every ending, too.

Mason didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t second-guess or wonder if she meant it.

Of course she meant it.

She didn’t say things she didn’t mean—not Rowan Starling, not with him. And tonight? Tonight had felt easy. Like breathing. Like being in sync with someone without having to rehearse the lines.

So when she said he was a good teammate, when she leaned into him like he was already part of the furniture in her favorite place, he just smiled. Easy. Warm. Entirely himself.

“Well,” he said, sliding the last mug onto the drying rack and wiping his hands on the front of his hoodie, “if I’m the assistant to the regional MVP, I’ll take it. Just don’t make me wear a name tag.”

He turned toward her, arms crossing lazily, back against the counter. “You make this look way cooler than it should be, by the way. I’ve never felt so powerful handing someone cider.”

His tone was light, teasing—but his eyes never left her face.

She looked beautiful like this. Tired in a content kind of way. Loose around the edges. Like she’d finally let the day fall off her shoulders and hadn’t even noticed it happening.

He reached for her hand again, linking their fingers like it was second nature now. Because it was.

“Happy one-month,” he said, softer now, with the kind of smile that had become hers entirely. “We made it. One month since I panicked about elbow placement and you kissed me anyway.”

He stepped closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before resting his chin there, letting the moment settle like a favorite song trailing off at the end.

“I like being in your world,” he murmured. “And I like that you let me take care of things. Even if it’s just mugs and lemon bars and defending the honor of unreliable narrators.”

He straightened just enough to look her in the eye again, hand still in hers.

“So. You wanna head out? I can walk you home, then dramatically lean against a lamppost like I’m in a black-and-white film and you’re my forbidden love.”

A beat. His grin widened.

“Or—we stay, push the tables back, and rehearse the debut number of Wuthering Bites: The Musical. I’ve got a few ideas, but I’ll need my costar.”

Another beat. Then, playful and a little smug:

“Dealer’s choice, Starling. But I’m already warmed up.”

Rowan tilted her head, eyes narrowing in that half-fond, half-mocking way she saved just for him.

“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” she said, squeezing his hand.

The name tag comment earned him a quiet scoff. “Too late. Label maker’s already charged. I’m thinking italics, maybe glitter ink if you’re nice.”

When he called her cool—for handing out cider, no less—she didn’t say anything right away. Just bumped his arm lightly with hers, gaze dropping to their hands.

“You make it easier,” she said finally, voice quieter now. “Being here. Doing this. I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

His next words—Happy one-month—hit her a little harder than she expected. Not in a bad way. Just in a real way. She remembered that night so clearly: how nervous he was, how steady he made her feel anyway. How she kissed him like it might break her open. How it did.

Rowan looked up at him then, the edges of her expression softening. “One month,” she repeated. “Since I ignored every internal warning system and kissed the tall, flustered boy in my favorite place. No regrets.”

When he kissed the top of her head, she leaned into it like a reflex. Like gravity.

And when he said I like being in your world, something in her chest tightened, then loosened.

“I like that you’re in it,” she murmured, eyes not leaving his. “Not just… orbiting. Actually here.”

Then came the question, the grin, the options.

She pretended to weigh them, even tapped her finger against her chin for dramatic effect.

“Well,” she said, feigning deep thought, “on one hand, lamppost brooding has its appeal. But on the other, a vampire musical starring Heathcliff and Catherine is dangerously close to something I’d greenlight.”

A beat. She stepped forward, closing the gap between them completely, voice dropping.

“But my dad’s on his way to help my mom, and if I stick around, he will rope you into reorganizing the nonfiction wall by theme instead of author.”

She rose onto her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“So walk me home, Hayes. And maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you workshop Wuthering Bites on the way. Quietly. No fangs in public.”