Rowan Starling had walked through this parking lot a thousand times.
Today felt different.

Not because the cars were in new spots, not because the wind was a bit sharper than usual, but because of the hand in hers.

Mason Hayes.

She could feel every ounce of tension radiating off him—his shoulders tight, his breath held, his fingers tightened in hers like he thought she might change her mind. She didn’t.

She wasn’t going to.

They were crossing the social front lines of Evergreen High, and Mason was bracing for impact. For whispers. For judgment. He didn’t say it—but she knew. Of course, she knew.

He looked toward Asher’s car, and she followed his gaze.

Asher’s face was predictable—furrowed brows, jaw set, the kind of reaction she’d learned to stop fearing long ago. That look used to mean something. Now, it barely registered.

But next to him was Seraphina.

Still scrolling. Still composed. But Rowan caught it—the small pause—the flicker of recognition. No surprise.

Just confirmation.

Because Sera already knew. She had known since the night at Mountain Outlook.

Rowan could still hear her voice, quiet and uncharacteristically gentle:
“I won’t judge you for who makes you feel safe.”

That conversation had changed everything.

So when Mason cleared his throat and whispered something about sprinting to the doors before the gossip factory kicked into gear, Rowan didn’t flinch. She didn’t slow down.

She just tightened her grip on his hand.

“Let them talk,” she said.

Then, after a beat, she added, low enough for only him to hear, “Sera already knows.”

She glanced over toward the car again.

“And she’s okay with it. With us.”

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mason was still Mason—soft-hearted, too kind, too easy to bruise—and she knew what those stares could do to someone like him. So she gave him the last piece—the one she hadn’t said out loud yet.

“And I told her to be nice to you, too,” Rowan added, a little firmer and prouder. “Just in case she forgot.”

He looked over at her then, eyes wide and wondering like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She met his gaze without blinking.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” she said.

And then—just because she could—she smiled.

Because this wasn’t a secret.

This wasn’t a phase.

This was Mason Hayes.

And she’d already chosen him.
Now the rest of the world could catch up.

Mason Hayes had spent years being stared at.

He was used to it.

Used to the quiet judgment, the side-eye glances, the unspoken hierarchy of who mattered and who didn’t. He knew his place at Evergreen. Knew exactly what people saw when they looked at him—just enough weird, just enough quiet, just enough different to be forgettable at best, mockable at worst.

So no—he wasn’t scared for himself.

He was scared for her.

Because she was Rowan Starling. Because people cared about who she touched, who she smiled at, who she chose. And now she'd chosen him—publicly, undeniably—and he hated that the first thing he thought was: Will they punish her for it?

But then she squeezed his hand.
And she said “Let them talk.”

Then that next part: “Sera already knows.”

And “She’s okay with us.”

And just like that, something inside him settled. The static died down. The noise faded. He took a breath, this time not sharp and nervous, but full. Real.

She wasn’t flinching.

She wasn’t second-guessing.

She was looking at him like she had nothing to hide and no regrets to carry—and Mason, for the first time since they stepped out of the car, felt something electric buzz beneath his skin. Not fear. Not panic.

Pride.

He was dating Rowan Starling.

And not in a daydream. Not behind closed doors. Right here, in the blinding light of Monday morning, under the weight of every stare in the senior parking lot.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, voice lighter now. “Cool. Yeah. This is happening.”

He let go of her hand—not because he wanted to stop touching her, but because the surge of confidence was too strong to ignore. He slid his arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her closer with a grin that was equal parts dorky and victorious.

“Let them really talk,” he said, nudging her just slightly with his hip. “Might as well give them something dramatic for their Monday morning headlines.”

He glanced back toward the lacrosse boys. Asher was still staring. Mason gave him a cheerful little wave.

“Hi, Asher,” he said under his breath. “Yes, it’s me. The disappointment you didn’t see coming.”

Rowan snorted.

And Mason, impossibly, grinned even wider.

Because suddenly the judgment didn’t matter.

Not the looks. Not the whispers. Not the quiet calculations of social capital.

She was beside him. On purpose. Proudly.

And he was going to wear that like armor.

Like a badge.

Right after he figured out how to breathe again.

Rowan Starling was no stranger to being stared at.

She’d built a reputation on the way she carried herself. Knew how to walk through the world like it didn’t touch her. Like everything rolled off her back with poise and purpose. But this—Mason’s arm around her shoulders, heads turning in slow motion, Asher looking like someone had just unplugged the simulation—this wasn’t performance.

This was personal.

She felt Mason’s whole body shift when he slid his arm around her. Less nervous now. Looser. Taller, somehow—which was absurd because at 6’3”, he already made her feel like she was standing next to a skyscraper. Still, there was something in the way he pulled her in that made her feel like gravity had finally picked a side.

His.

They walked together, his arm solid across her shoulders, her heeled boots striking pavement like punctuation. She could feel the eyes on them—on him, mostly—and she didn’t care. Not even a little.

Then Mason waved.

At Asher.

Waved.

Like this was a sitcom and Asher was just the nosy neighbor. When he muttered, “The disappointment you didn’t see coming,” Rowan didn’t try to hide her laugh this time.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head up so she could catch his expression, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so smug.”

He gave her that little lopsided grin, half charm, half chaos.

Mason blinked.

Then turned about five shades of red.

Rowan smiled, wicked and proud, and leaned into his side like it was her throne.

Because the truth was—he was hot like this. Not in the usual way. Not in the curated, polished, performative way their world handed out compliments like currency. But in the way that meant something. In the way that made her blood hum and her breath catch.

Because he wasn’t pretending anymore either.

He was hers.

And he wasn’t afraid to act like it.

She squeezed his side gently, just enough to ground them both, and said it again—quieter this time, just for him:

“Good. You should be.”

Because she’d never wanted someone to be proud of being hers the way she wanted it from him.

And now he was.

And God, he looked good doing it.

Mason’s grin lingered—just a little crooked, like he wasn’t used to feeling this untouchable. But he was catching on fast.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack with one hand, the other still curled around Rowan like he meant it, like he wasn’t just escorting her into the school but staking some kind of gentle, undeniable claim.

“Alright,” he said under his breath, voice rich with amusement. “Showtime.”

With a flick of his hand, he reached for the main doors—holding one open with an exaggerated bow, like he was welcoming royalty. “After you, m’lady,” he said, mock-formal, but there was pride behind the joke. The real kind. The kind that made his chest square out a little and his eyes linger on her like she was the best decision he’d ever made.

Rowan rolled her eyes like she was annoyed, but the way her mouth tugged up at the corners gave her away. She swept past him with the grace of someone who owned the moment, brushing her fingers across his as she went.

And Mason? He didn’t follow immediately.

No, he turned back—just for a second. Looked out at the still-watching crowd, half of them frozen in disbelief, the rest whispering like gossip was oxygen.

He lifted two fingers to his temple in a casual, almost military-style salute, smirking at no one in particular. “Stay stunned,” he murmured, just loud enough for the words to carry.

Then he stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind him like punctuation.

Inside the hallway, the noise and chatter of the morning rush barely touched them. Mason fell into step beside Rowan, brushing her hand with his until she gave in and laced her fingers through his.

He could still feel the stares. The unspoken questions. But for once, they didn’t make him shrink.

They made him stand taller.

He looked down at her, voice low and steady. “Locker?” he asked, like it was a privilege to walk her there.

And somehow, with all the world still watching, it was.

They reached her locker in silence.

Rowan let go of his hand only long enough to spin the dial, the metal cool beneath her fingertips. The hallway buzzed with the usual Monday morning noise—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking on old tile, snippets of gossip tumbling through the air—but none touched her.

Because he was beside her.

Tall and warm, he leaned against the locker like he was settling into the space that had always been his. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. Steady. Watching. Waiting. Like he was still figuring out how to breathe in a world where this was allowed.

Rowan didn’t look over right away.

She felt him watching. That quiet reverence in his gaze still made something in her chest spark. She didn’t need to look to know he was there.

She swapped her books out, shut her locker with a soft click, and then turned toward him. Mason hadn’t moved. That lopsided hoodie, the ink-stained fingers, the soft eyes that tracked her every step like she was the centre of some invisible orbit.

She stepped in close.

Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to see him properly.

Close enough to feel how still he went when she was near.

Rowan curled her fingers in the hem of his hoodie and gave a gentle tug, just enough to anchor them in place.

“You should probably know I’m not walking into the first period with you hovering like a lost puppy,” she said smoothly.

A beat passed.

Then her lips curved just slightly.

“But I’ll allow an escort. For aesthetic purposes.”

Before he could react, she rose on the balls of her boots—no wobble, all control—and kissed him. Quick. Deliberate. Enough to make her point without feeding the crowd.

She pulled back with a smirk and turned away, walking a few steps forward. Then—casually, without breaking stride—she reached her arm behind her.

An unspoken gesture.

An invitation.

She didn’t look to see if he’d take it. She already knew he would.

And when she felt the familiar weight of his arm sliding into hers, shoulder brushing shoulder, the corners of her mouth curved just a little more.

Let them watch.

Let them whisper.

She wasn’t hiding.

Not anymore.

Mason watched her go like he'd just been handed a miracle wrapped in lipstick and attitude.

For a half-second, he stood frozen in place—fingers still tingling from where she'd tugged his hoodie, lips parted just slightly from that swift, surgical kiss. Then she extended her arm behind her, all confidence and fire, and it was like flipping a switch.

He caught up in three long strides.

“Bossy,” he muttered under his breath, his voice all fondness and awe as he slid his arm into hers. “Noted.”

She didn’t reply, but he caught the flicker of amusement in her profile, the way her smirk deepened like she liked being called out.

Instead of turning toward first period, he steered them gently down the opposite hallway. “Hang on,” he said, fingers brushing her forearm as he leaned in, voice low. “Gotta grab something.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow but let him lead.

His locker was tucked into a quieter corner of the school, the kind of place that didn’t usually attract attention—until now. A few heads turned as they passed, whispers already starting to ripple in their wake.

But when they rounded the final corner, a familiar cluster of theater kids caught sight of them—Sam with his rainbow pins, Jules from stage crew, Aiden with a Sharpie tucked behind one ear. They all paused mid-conversation, eyes bouncing from Mason to Rowan to their linked arms, expressions ranging from stunned to straight-up gleeful.

Mason didn’t say anything.

He just looked at them—chin up, mouth tilted, calm as ever—and arched one brow like, Yeah. You’re seeing this right.

Sam broke first, slapping a hand over his mouth with an exaggerated gasp. Aiden gave him a slow thumbs-up. Jules just mouthed, “Finally.”

Mason laughed—quiet, but real—and shook his head like they were all ridiculous. Then he popped open his locker, grabbed a small notebook from the top shelf, and shoved it into his bag with one smooth motion.

He closed the door with a casual clang.

Then he turned back to Rowan, like the rest of the world could wait.

“All set,” he said simply, slipping back into step beside her.

His fingers brushed hers again.

And this time, when he laced their hands together, it felt easy.

Like he’d been doing it his whole life.

Rowan felt the shift in energy before she saw them.

Mason’s corner of the school was quieter, tucked away in the shadow of lockers that hadn’t been updated since the ’90s, but it might as well have been its planet. The vibe changed from hallway chaos to wide-eyed disbelief the second they turned the corner.

Theater kids.

She could practically hear the internal monologues as Sam spotted them, rainbow pins catching the light like punctuation. Aiden’s slow thumbs-up was so exaggerated it was practically in slow motion. And Jules, ever the dramatic one, mouthed finally with all the weight of a series finale plot twist.

Mason said nothing.

Of course, he didn’t. Just walked like this was normal. Like she hadn’t just kissed him in front of half the school and rearranged the social food chain.

Rowan didn’t miss a step.

She glanced at them all, expression unreadable but polite, and lifted her hand in a small, deliberate wave. Just enough to say yeah, this is happening, without giving them the satisfaction of an explanation.

“Try to stay conscious,” she said dryly as they passed, not looking back. “He gets weird when people faint.”

Sam choked on the air behind them. Jules cackled full-on.

Mason didn’t say a word. He opened his locker like he’d done it a thousand times, grabbed a notebook, and shut it again with a casual clang.

When he turned back to her, Rowan raised a brow and looked up at him like she hadn’t just made a subtle power move in a hallway filled with whispering.

“You didn’t tell me I was walking into a live audience,” she said. “Do I get a curtain call or just applause?”

He looked at her—like always—with that ridiculous mixture of awe and soft disbelief, and when he didn’t answer, she just smirked.

“Don’t worry,” she added under her breath, linking her arm through his again as they started walking. “You can be the pretty one. I’ll handle the press.”

They passed another pair of students doing a double take, and Rowan didn’t even blink.

“God, this school’s going to combust by lunch,” she muttered, half to herself, half for his amusement. “I should’ve charged admission.”

Then, quieter—barely above a whisper, but all real:

“I like this. I like us.”

And just like that, she laced her fingers with his.

Because sarcasm was her language.

But this?
This was fluency in something honest.

Mason’s hand tightened gently around hers.

Not possessive—just sure.

A little dazed, a little giddy, and trying very hard not to grin like an idiot, he angled a look down at her. “Okay, well—fair warning—I’m not media trained,” he said, deadpan, voice low and lazy with that effortless Milo Manheim charm. “I panic under pressure, cry when cornered, and have a terrible habit of oversharing. It’s probably better if I just stand there and look pretty while you handle the talking.”

A pause.

Then a lopsided smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth like it didn’t know how not to be soft when she was around.

“I do that really well, by the way,” he added, mock-serious. “Looking pretty. Years of experience. Ask my mirror.”

Their shoes echoed lightly against the old tile, that familiar Evergreen hallway smell—pencils, paper, whatever the janitor used to clean the floors—curling around them like set dressing.

Another glance came their way. A pair of underclassmen, wide-eyed and whispering.

Mason didn’t flinch.

He just leaned in a little, shoulder brushing hers. “Think we broke the freshman gossip matrix. Sorry in advance if someone starts a conspiracy theory about us being a PR stunt.”

When they reached the classroom door, he paused.

Not rushed. Not nervous.

Just there, calm and solid like he’d always belonged in this moment with her. With one smooth gesture, he swept a hand toward the door—half chivalry, half theater flourish, like he was offering her the lead in a scene only they understood.

“After you, Starling,” he said with quiet gravity. “Might as well let the main character enter first.”

And even though his voice was light, there was something in his eyes—a glint of pride, affection, wonder—that told her everything else he wasn’t saying.

They were a spectacle.

But to him?

She was the whole damn show.

The class had been chaos.

Not because of anything their teacher did—Mr. Hawkins was halfway through a unit on symbolism and looked ten seconds from retirement—but because of Mason.

Specifically, in 2025, Mason attempted to pass Rowan a note, pretending they weren’t sitting one seat apart and surrounded by functioning phones.

She’d caught the folded-up paper halfway through an underwhelming metaphor discussion, only to open it and find a truly awful sketch of what appeared to be them—her dramatically sipping tea. At the same time, he dangled from the edge of a stage, screaming something about iambic pentameter.

She stifled a laugh, scribbled you’re the worst in the margin, and slid it back toward him with all the subtlety of a trained pickpocket. He read it, smirked, and proceeded to add shading.

By the end of class, she had a full two-panel comic and exactly three words of actual notes.

They stepped into the hallway together, and it felt like nothing had changed at first. Mason’s fingers brushed hers, warm and familiar.

But the moment they turned the corner, Rowan felt it.

The shift.

The whispers.

The weight of the looks.

“…probably just a phase…”

“…bet he writes her poetry or some cringey musical theater crap…”

“…what even is that couple…”

Her jaw ticked just slightly. Mason didn’t seem to hear it—or maybe he was pretending not to. He walked beside her like nothing was wrong like the stares weren’t knives and the whispers weren’t designed to cut.

She admired that about him.

But Rowan Starling had never been the ignore it and move on type.

She stopped walking.

Not abruptly—just enough for Mason to glance over in quiet question.

She turned, eyes already locking onto the small group halfway down the hall. Juniors. The usual suspects. Wannabes have too much lip gloss and not enough spine. Whispering behind their notebooks like they weren’t in plain sight.

Rowan’s smile was instant.

Polished. Poisoned.

The kind that said: Oh, I heard you. And now you’re going to wish I hadn’t.

She took a few steps toward them, slow and deliberate. Her voice carried low and pleasant.

“If any of you have something to say about my choices,” she said smoothly, “I’m always open to feedback.”

The group froze.

“But here’s the thing—” she took another step, boots clicking like punctuation, “if you’re too spineless to say it to my face, maybe don’t say it at all.”

Someone swallowed audibly. Another fumbled with their phone.

Rowan smiled wider.

“Lunch. After school. Whenever works for you,” she said. “But if you’re not going to say something useful or interesting, then please—”

She slammed the nearest locker shut with a sharp, echoing clang. It wasn’t violent. It was loud—a punctuation mark.

“Mind your damn business.”

Not a scream. Not a tantrum.

Just a fact.

A line in the script no one else was bold enough to deliver.

Then, like she hadn’t just sent half a hallway into stunned silence, she turned around and reached for Mason’s hand.

Her fingers slipped into his easily.

And she smirked, tossing him a sideways glance as they started walking again.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Had to get that out of my system.”

Then, because she wasn’t done, she gave his hand a little tug, changing course toward the far side of the hallway.

“Come on. I do have to stop by my locker,” she added, rolling her eyes like she was annoyed at herself for needing to. “I left my drama binder in there this morning. Ms. Ellery’s already three seconds from setting me on fire for talking during warm-ups—if I show up unprepared again, she’ll probably sacrifice me to the ghost of Shakespeare.”

She said it casually as if this wasn’t the most dramatic hallway exit Evergreen had seen all semester.

Like the silence behind them wasn’t still ringing.

Like she didn’t care who heard her walking away.

And maybe she didn’t.

Because Mason was right there beside her.

Still holding her hand.

And Rowan Starling didn’t care who was watching—so long as he was still walking next to her when they reached the end of the hall.

He heard them.

Of course he did.

The hallway was acoustics and cruelty and too many people who thought whispers were softer than they actually were. Mason had grown up in those echoes—learned early that being quiet made him a target, and refusing to break made him something worse:

Untouchable.

It used to sting. Once. Long ago.

Now?

Now he’d mastered the art of indifference. Or, at least, the performance of it. Same principle as theater, really—if they don’t get a reaction, they lose interest. It drove bullies insane when their insults landed with a shrug. Like a punch thrown in zero gravity. No weight. No damage.

So when the familiar venom hissed down the corridor—“bet he writes her poetry,” “cringey musical theater crap,” “what even is that couple?”—he did what he always did.

He kept walking.

Shoulders loose, head high. Unbothered. Unmoved.

Except this time… he wasn’t alone.

Rowan didn’t keep walking.

She stopped like a storm building behind calm skies, and before he could say anything—before he could even ask—she was turning toward the source like she’d been waiting for an excuse.

Mason blinked. Watched. Jaw slack in quiet awe.

Because he’d never seen someone do that before. Not for him.

He watched her smile that wicked little smile, all polished charm and razor edges, and step toward the girls like she was accepting an award. Like she wasn’t outnumbered or outgunned or even remotely afraid.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

It was controlled. Commanding. That effortless kind of boldness that made people lean in without realizing.

And when she slammed the locker shut—clang—Mason flinched, not because he was scared, but because it echoed in his ribs like a battle cry.

She reached for his hand like nothing happened.

And he took it like a lifeline.

“Sorry,” she said, all casual breeze and bad-girl grin. “Had to get that out of my system.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He wasn’t sure he could.

His brain was still rebooting. Still trying to reconcile the quiet, self-contained boy he’d trained himself to be with the force-of-nature girl currently dragging him toward her locker like she hadn’t just redefined the social order of Evergreen High in under thirty seconds.

When she muttered something about a binder and Shakespeare’s ghost, Mason finally found his voice—slightly breathless, mostly stunned.

“You terrify me in the best way possible,” he said.

She didn’t look at him, just smirked like she already knew that.

And Mason—still holding her hand, still feeling the buzz of her fury like static in the air—realized something strange and a little terrifying of his own:

He wasn’t scared of the whispers.

He was scared of how good it felt to be seen.

To be defended.

To be chosen—not quietly, not behind the curtain, but center stage with the lights full up and the audience wide-eyed.

It was new.

It was exhilarating.

And, yeah—maybe a little scary.

But when they reached her locker, and she turned to look at him, eyes bright with something unapologetically alive, Mason didn’t back away.

He just leaned in, lips grazing her temple, and said softly:

“I’d write you poetry, by the way. Cringey or not.”

Then he grinned and darted off before she could hit him with her binder.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched—fighting a smile. He took her binder without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and walked her to class with fingers still loosely laced in hers.

Only once she disappeared through the doorway—throwing him one last amused look over her shoulder—did Mason finally turn and bolt down the hall, cutting it dangerously close to the bell.

Totally worth it.

Rowan froze.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that her breath caught in her throat, and her heartbeat tripped over itself like her body hadn’t been prepared for that level of sincerity.

He’d whispered it like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t just cracked something open in her.

“I’d write you poetry, by the way. Cringey or not.”

She blinked at the spot where he’d stood a second ago, binder clutched to her chest, heart thudding like it was trying to beat out a reply.

Cringey or not, huh?

He was impossible.

She caught up to him with three quick steps, nearly smacked him in the back with the binder—nearly—but changed her mind at the last second. Instead, she yanked lightly on the back of his hoodie to slow him down and stepped around to face him, walking backward as he slowed.

“I’d say that was cheesy,” she said, her tone teasing, “but you get points for delivery. And cheekbone proximity.”

Then—softer—she added, “You meant that, didn’t you?”

He didn’t have to say anything.

She could already see it on his face.

Her smirk melted into something gentler. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment, then reached up and brushed her fingers across his cheek again—the same spot as before, like she was marking it as hers.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” she said, voice quieter now. “Honestly? I’d read it. All of it. Cringey metaphors and all.”

She leaned slightly, barely enough for her lips to brush his jaw. Not a kiss. Just… warmth. A promise.

Then she stepped back, tucked the binder under one arm, and flashed him a look over her shoulder that was all fire and mischief.

“You write it, Hayes,” she called as she started down the hallway, “you better believe I’ll grade it.”

And with that, she disappeared around the corner—smiling.

Because somewhere deep down, she hoped he really would.

Second period was supposed to be American Government.

But Mason’s notes stopped halfway through the heading, and his brain had stopped functioning the moment Rowan Starling walked away with that look.

That look that said she wanted the poetry.

Cheesy metaphors and all.

He sat there, hunched a little in his chair, pretending to be attentive while his notebook filled with something else entirely. He turned to a blank page and started scribbling in the margins—first just lines, then thoughts, then full-on verses.

They were terrible.

Embarrassingly earnest.

Exactly the kind of thing that would’ve gotten him laughed out of the locker room once upon a time.

But he didn’t care.


---

Ode to a Girl Who Could Kill Me with a Look
She walks like thunder in combat boots,
laughs like stolen summer,
kisses air like she’s daring it to touch her back.
And me?
I’m a puddle in her storm path,
flattened by cheekbones and courage.

Grade that, Starling.

(Or don’t. Just read it and maybe smile.)


---

He grinned down at the page, then winced, then kept going.

More lines. More metaphors. At one point he compared her to a flame wrapped in sarcasm and denim. Another stanza was just about the way her voice shifted when she got righteous. And somehow—God help him—there was an entire couplet about how even her eye rolls had rhythm.

The bell rang, jolting him back to reality.

He slammed his notebook shut, crammed it into his bag, and took off—dodging slower walkers, apologizing to a freshman he nearly collided with, and scanning the hallway like she might vanish if he didn’t move fast enough.

Third period could wait.

He just needed to see her face again.

Even for a second.

He spotted her just outside the drama wing, leaning one shoulder against the wall, binder hugged to her chest like she hadn’t moved since their last conversation—like maybe the air had stilled there, too.

For a second, Mason forgot what to do with his limbs.

Then her eyes landed on him.

And he remembered everything.

His feet moved before his brain caught up. His heart was thudding too fast, too loud, and his hand was already in his bag, fumbling for the folded page.

“Hey,” he said, breathless, holding it out like it might catch fire if he kept it too long. “You said to write it. So. I did.”

He watched her eyes flick to the paper. She didn’t take it right away—just looked at him, a mix of curiosity and something gentler beneath it.

“I’m not saying it’s good,” Mason added quickly, “but it’s… mine. Yours now, I guess.”

Finally, she reached for it—fingers brushing his just slightly.

She didn’t open it yet. Just held it like it mattered.

“I wrote the whole thing in Government,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which means I now know nothing about checks and balances, but I do have, like, four metaphors about your boots.”

Her lips twitched.

“Four?”

“And a haiku,” he said, deadpan. “It was a low point.”

That made her laugh—low and real, the kind that curled in his chest and stayed there.

The bell rang.

Mason glanced down the hall, then back at her, reluctantly stepping away.

“I gotta go,” he said. “But—uh—text me your grade. Or your insults. I accept either.”

He started backing away, walking a little sideways until the crowd pushed him into motion. But even as he turned the corner, he caught one last glance:

Rowan Starling standing there, the poem in her hands.

Smiling like she already knew what it said.

Second period was trigonometry.

Which meant Rowan spent forty-seven agonizing minutes pretending to care about sine waves while her mind kept drifting somewhere else entirely.

Mason Hayes.

Or more specifically, the way he’d looked at her this morning—like the ground had shifted under his feet and he was still smiling anyway.

She sat in the back corner of the classroom, propped on one elbow, letting the dull rhythm of Mrs. Kerr’s voice fade into background static. Her notebook was open in front of her, but the equations on the board never made it to the page. Instead, her pencil moved absently, almost unconsciously, across the margin.

Doodles.

Nothing intentional. Nothing coherent. Just shapes and spirals and jagged lines that softened the longer she stared. She wasn’t even aware of what she was drawing—just letting her hand move while her brain quietly unraveled everything she felt and wasn’t ready to say out loud.

It wasn’t about Mason, not exactly.

But somehow, it was all him.

She caught herself pressing a little too hard with the pencil and paused, exhaling slowly. Her chest felt too full for how quiet the room was. Like her body was waiting for a cue that hadn’t arrived yet.

When the bell finally rang, she snapped her notebook closed with a sharp flick of her wrist, gathered her things, and headed for the one place in the building where she could actually breathe.

The hallway was crowded, chaotic. But just outside the drama wing, she found a quiet stretch of wall and leaned her shoulder against it, binder hugged tight to her chest.

Waiting.

She didn’t let herself overthink it.

And when Mason appeared—racing down the hall like he’d been holding his breath since she left—her smile bloomed before she could stop it.

“There he is,” she said, warm and teasing. “I was starting to think you got lost in a sonnet.”

And just like that, the chaos quieted.

Because he was here.

And he had something in his hands.
And she had a feeling it was for her.

Rowan stood there long after Mason disappeared around the corner, her fingers curled gently around the poem like it might dissolve if she held it too tightly.

The hallway bustled around her, students sweeping by in waves—laughing, yelling, shoving binders into lockers—but she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared down at the folded paper in her hands like it held something sacred.

She could still feel his presence in the air.

His nervous smile. That breathless look when he’d said “You said to write it. So. I did.”

She unfolded the page slowly, smoothing it with one hand, her eyes skimming over the first few lines.

And then—

Her chest clenched.

She walks like thunder in combat boots…

Rowan inhaled sharply, lips parting just slightly.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest in a way that made her throat tighten.

Her eyes flicked down the page, the corners of her mouth twitching when she got to “flattened by cheekbones and courage.”

God, Mason.

Her fingers lifted to her lips without thinking, like she was trying to trap the feeling before it slipped out. No one had ever written her anything like this. Not even close. She’d been complimented, sure—called hot, called cool, called intimidating in ways that were meant to be flattering. But never like this. Never with this kind of softness. This kind of wonder.

Like she wasn’t just something to be admired.

Like she was something to be felt.

She skimmed the rest of it again, slower this time. And when she reached the end—

Grade that, Starling.

She laughed.

Soft. Disbelieving. Entirely undone.

She didn’t grade it.

She folded it carefully, tucked it into the inner sleeve of her binder, and pressed her palm against the front like she could keep the words close that way. Like she could press them into her skin.

And for the rest of the walk to third period, she didn’t hear a single whisper.

Didn’t care about the looks.

Because someone out there was writing her poetry between notes on the U.S. Constitution—and that someone was hers.

She slid into her seat just as the bell rang, one hand still resting over the binder like it held her favorite secret.

Rowan Starling didn’t need love to look like a fairytale.

But this?

This felt like the start of her favorite scene.

Third period was supposed to be AP Lit.

But Mason spent most of it pretending not to glance at the clock every ninety seconds like it might tick faster if he stared hard enough.

The classroom smelled like over-sharpened pencils and old carpet, with posters of famous authors scowling down from the walls as if daring them to misinterpret their metaphors. Ms. Bradford was launching into some dramatic monologue about the tragic futility of longing in The Great Gatsby—and Mason? Mason was staring at a blank margin in his annotated copy, doodling a constellation that reminded him of the freckle under Rowan’s jaw.

The same one his breath had nearly stumbled into this morning.

He tilted his pen just slightly, sketching an arrow through the stars. It wasn’t subtle. It was a terrible metaphor. He loved it anyway.

"Yo, Hayes."
He blinked. Looked up.

Ezra Bennett was leaning halfway across the aisle with a grin that meant trouble. He was wearing his usual vintage band tee, backwards cap, and a look like he knew something Mason didn’t.

“I heard you and Rowan Starling are, like, a thing now. True or false?”

Mason blinked once. Then again. “Uh.”

Ezra gave him a knowing look. “Dude. You walked her to class. She smiled. You were holding a folded piece of paper. That’s basically a proposal in high school.”

Mason flushed. Not quite enough to deny it. Not quite enough to admit it either.

“…It was a poem,” he mumbled.

Ezra sat back in his chair like he’d just been personally blessed. “Oh my god. It is true.”

Mason didn’t answer.

He just let the grin tug at the corner of his mouth and tried not to smile too hard when Ms. Bradford shot them both a withering glare.

The rest of the period blurred around the edges—words about symbolism and unreachable dreams floating somewhere just out of reach. But Mason didn’t need Gatsby to tell him about longing. He was living it. Every minute he wasn’t with her, his brain was scripting nonsense—lines of verse, unfinished metaphors, half-formed ways to say I see you, Starling. I see all of you.

When the bell rang, he was up fast enough to be suspicious.

Ezra called after him—“Tell her I want credit in the acknowledgments if this ends in a novel!”—but Mason was already gone, slipping through the crowd like a current.

The third period felt like molasses.

Her psych notes were a disaster—half scribbles, half sentence fragments, one dramatic all-caps “DO NOT MURDER ANYONE” that was supposed to be a joke about Freud but looked like a threat if taken out of context.

She couldn’t concentrate. Not really.

Everything was too loud.

The fluorescent lights. The tap of someone’s pen. The secondhand embarrassment pulsing off a classmate who mispronounced “id.” It was all noise: everything but his memory.

Mason.

She's still replaying that moment outside the drama wing. He’d looked at her like she was gravity and never learned to land properly, like he wasn’t even trying to impress her. Just… handing her something real.

The folded paper still sat in the inside pocket of her binder, and the poem was inked onto notebook paper with one corner dog-eared. She’d reread it three times while pretending to look for a pencil. Every time she did, that stupid freckle on her jaw suddenly mattered because Mason Hayes had noticed it.

And it felt like she was wearing a secret.

Something sacred. Hilarious. Terrifying.

And entirely hers.

The bell finally rang.

She didn’t wait for the hall to clear. She was already on her feet, threading through the crowd with her binder pressed to her chest, boot heels clipping confidently against the tile.

She was already smiling.

The energy in the drama room was always a little too much—but today, it buzzed with something extra. That messy mix of adrenaline and nerves came from teenage egos and stage fright.

Rowan thrived in it.

She stepped into the room like always—shoulders squared, face composed, eyes cool. But her gaze was scanning, looking for one person in particular.

There he was.

He slouched against the stage steps, script in one hand, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he hadn’t decided whether to commit to being warm. His hair was slightly messy in the way it got when he ran his fingers through it during class, and his foot was tapping out a beat against the scuffed wood like he was thinking about something—probably too much.

God, she could feel herself soften just watching him.

“Hey, Hayes,” she said coolly, dropping her bag beside his foot.

He looked up—eyes lighting in that slow, stunned way they always did when she talked to him like no one else was in the room.

Rowan bent down slightly, the edge of her lip curling into a smirk as she murmured, “Read it again during the third. You’re lucky I’m not grading you, but…” She leaned closer, letting her fingers ghost across his paper. “A+ for the freckle detail.”

Then she sank into the seat beside him like it was always hers.

And maybe… maybe it was now.

That look.

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was something deep. Something real.

Mason didn’t look up right away.

He felt her before he saw her—the way her presence always carved out space around her, like gravity remembering how to be specific. Like the room bent a little to let her through.

But then—

“Hey, Hayes.”

His name in her voice had no right to sound that good.

He blinked once, then looked up—and there she was. Cool. Effortless. Stupidly radiant in a way that made his breath hiccup in his chest. And then she leaned in, smirking like a challenge wrapped in satin, and said something about his poem that made the tips of his ears go pink.

A+ for the freckle detail.

Mason exhaled a laugh, slow and quiet, like he’d been holding his breath all day just to hear that.

“Well,” he murmured, shifting his script to the side and tugging his backpack open with theatrical flair, “I was gonna offer you half my sandwich, but now I’m thinking I should frame it instead. For the archives. ‘Lunch shared with the girl who complimented my freckle metaphor.’ Pulitzer-worthy stuff.”

He pulled out a wrinkled brown paper bag and peeked inside with exaggerated caution.

“Today’s tragic protagonist: peanut butter and jelly. Still clinging to life after a second act in my locker.”

Then, with a glance at her—warmer now, less stunned, more in it—he added softly, “You read it again, huh?”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just full.

Then he nudged the bag her way without looking at her, eyes still on the stage.

“You can have the cookie. But only because your boots are terrifying.”

Rowan rolled her eyes, but the smile playing at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. God, he was ridiculous.

And she liked him so much it was starting to annoy her.

She didn’t take the cookie—not yet. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, chin tilted just enough to be both amused and dangerous.

“You should probably know,” she said lightly, loud enough to carry over the soft pre-rehearsal chatter, “you don’t get points for flattery anymore. You already cashed in your beginner’s luck with the poem. So now you’re operating on sheer charm and snack-based bribery.”

Her fingers drummed lazily on the edge of the chair. She was looking at the stage, but her attention was still clearly fixed on him.

“Which, to be fair, is working,” she added with a smirk. “But let’s not pretend that wasn’t a bribe. That’s girlfriend tax, Hayes. Standard rate. Cookie for compliments. Compliments for letting you skate into class with your hair doing… whatever that’s doing.”

She finally reached into the bag and retrieved the cookie, holding it up like a trophy before casually taking a bite and leaning slightly toward him.

“I do appreciate the drama of a tragic sandwich protagonist, though,” she murmured. “You’re giving full Shakespearean lunch energy today. All angst. No structure.”

Then, after a beat—softly, almost an afterthought:

“I liked the poem.”

Her fingers brushed his knee on the way back to her lap. It's not a big gesture. Not a bold one. It is just a passing touch, grounded and sure. She didn’t need to look at him again.

She knew he had heard her.

Rowan took another bite of the cookie, slow and deliberately like she was taste-testing it for poetic merit. Then her gaze flicked to him—his profile, soft and focused and just a little flushed—and something tugged behind her ribs.

She reached out before she even fully decided to.

Gently and quickly, fingers brushed through the fringe of his hair, tucking a wild piece behind his ear before it could flop into his eyes again.

“There,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Now you look slightly less like a wind tunnel attacked you and slightly more like someone I’d willingly be seen on stage with.”

A pause.

Her hand hovered a second longer than necessary, just above his shoulder, then dropped back to her lap like nothing had happened.

But her lips curled at the edges, quiet and satisfied.

Because it had.

Mason could’ve sworn the world narrowed to her and a cookie.

She was sitting there like she ruled the whole auditorium with nothing but crossed ankles, dry wit, and the absolute audacity to make fun of his hair while eating his dessert. And he—well, he was a goner.

He watched her bite into the cookie like it was a character study. Slow, deliberate, full of judgmental flair like she was in some black box performance titled “Girlfriend Evaluates Cookie: A Tragedy in Three Bites.” And he loved it.

God, he loved her.

He didn’t even try to hide his smile. It bloomed slow and crooked, tugging at the side of his mouth like a secret trying to escape. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and warm.

“You know, if this is the girlfriend tax, I’m gonna need to start packing more cookies. Maybe some dramatic grapes. A charcuterie board with mood lighting.”

She didn’t look at him, not fully—but he could see it in her smirk, the way her fingers tapped rhythmically against her leg, how she let her words linger like stage directions.

“I liked the poem.”

He felt that line settle right under his ribs—no spotlight, no applause, just the kind of praise that mattered.

His knee bounced once, a flicker of nervous energy, before her hand brushed it—calm, unbothered, hers—and suddenly, the day felt survivable again.

And when she fixed his hair?

Oh.

Oh no.

That was it. That was the moment Mason Hayes short-circuited. Not because she touched him—but because she did it like she could. Like it wasn’t strange or scary to reach for him in the quiet. Like maybe she’d been waiting to do it just as long as he had.

“Well,” he said, voice slightly hoarse as he blinked hard to get his heart out of his throat, “now I have no choice.”

And then he moved.

Not fast. Not bold. Just sure.

He leaned in, slow as molasses and twice as sticky-sweet, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Then her jaw.

Then her temple.

Then her shoulder, her hairline, the curve of her smile—

All these tiny, ridiculous kisses, scattered like stars across the places he’d spent whole weeks imagining.

“That's for third period,” he murmured between them. “That’s for AP Lit hell. That’s for the part where I had to pretend not to think about this exact moment while writing a four-paragraph analysis of The Great Gatsby.”

He kissed her again—right on the edge of her smile this time—and finally sat back, flushed and grinning like an idiot.

No one was staring. No one cared.

They had the whole room to themselves, for just a second.

They’d made it halfway through the day, and the sky hadn’t fallen.

They could breathe here. They could laugh. They could have lunch.

Rowan couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the kind she wore for cameras, crowds, or even Seraphina’s parents. No—this was something quieter. Wilder. The kind of smile you only let out when you’re safe. When you’re known.

He kissed her cheek, and she didn’t flinch.

He kissed her jaw, and she didn’t pretend to care.

He kissed her temple, and she almost laughed, not because it tickled but because it felt like a secret being whispered across her skin.

By the time he reached her shoulder, Rowan was practically glowing. Not in the dainty, glowing-girl way the movies loved to show. But in that electric, too-much-heart-in-too-small-a-body way that made her feel like maybe—for once—she didn’t have to guard it all.

She let him finish.

Let him scatter those soft, ridiculous kisses like punctuation marks across the chaos of her day.

And when he finally sat back, flushed and grinning like someone who’d just lived through a musical number, Rowan reached out and gently tugged him by the sleeve.

She kissed him once. Slow. Short. Right at the corner of his mouth—half possession, half punctuation.

Then she raised her brow.

“That’s for the cookie,” she said dryly.

A beat passed before her fingers reached up again, smoothing the soft curls at his temple with practiced ease, as she’d already done it a thousand times in her head. Her thumb lingered for half a second—too soft, too intentional.

“And that’s for writing me a poem about my boots,” she added, voice lower now, almost amused. “Even if you did rhyme ‘sarcasm’ with ‘phantasm.’”

Another pause. Her gaze softened.

“But you’re lucky you’re cute.”

She settled back beside him, knees brushing his as she folded the last bite of cookie into her mouth like she hadn’t just rearranged his entire internal architecture with three words and a smirk.

The auditorium buzzed faintly around them—muffled footsteps in the halls, the distant hum of someone rehearsing lines. But it all blurred.

Because Mason was beside her.

And Rowan Starling—ever the queen, ever the cynic—was stupidly, irrevocably, head-over-heart smitten.

This wasn’t just lunch.

It was everything.

Rowan leaned her shoulder into his, still chewing the last bite of cookie, gaze flicking sideways without fully turning her head.

The smirk lingered—lazy, playful—but her voice was gentler when she spoke, like she was offering something weightier than the question sounded.

“So,” she said, her foot nudging his under the table, “what do you want to do after school?”

Then, after a beat—eyebrow raised, tone dry but fond—

“And no, writing me more poems about my boots doesn’t count. You’re already dangerously close to earning a dramatic reading in front of the drama club.”

But something in her eyes—half challenge, half curiosity—said: Whatever it is, I want to be there.

Mason nearly choked on air.

Which would’ve been wildly on-brand, honestly—him, rendered speechless by a girl who weaponized wit and wore affection like armor. And now she was smiling at him like that and asking him what he wanted to do after school like it wasn’t the most important question he’d ever been asked.

He blinked. Then grinned. Then blinked again, because his brain was still halfway stuck on she kissed me for the cookie and she kissed me for the poem and she kissed me. Full stop.

“Well,” he said, slow and dramatic, lifting their joined knees like he was preparing to unveil something deeply theatrical, “that depends. Are you in the mood for a tragic indie film that’ll ruin us emotionally? A walk in the woods where we inevitably get lost because I refuse to use Google Maps on principle? Or—and hear me out—we go to your parents’ bookstore and dramatically re-enact scenes from bad YA novels using accents that would offend entire countries?”

He raised an eyebrow, then dropped his voice to a scandalous whisper. “Option four is me reading the boot poem in a British accent while lying on top of the librarian’s desk like it’s the sinking door from Titanic—but I feel like that one’s best saved for when you’ve had more sugar.”

Mason leaned toward her, shoulder brushing hers, like the pull was magnetic. He gave her his full attention, chin propped on his hand now, the picture of exaggerated sincerity.

“Choose your chaos, Starling,” he said. “But choose wisely. You’re dating a theatre kid. We don't do chill.”

And when she looked at him like she was already planning some sarcastic rebuttal, Mason smiled even bigger—because whatever she picked, wherever they ended up, as long as it was her?

He was in.

Rowan arched a brow, the corner of her mouth already curving up into a smirk before he even finished the line about the librarian’s desk. “Okay, first of all,” she said, poking his leg lightly with her boot, “you absolutely would fall off the desk like Jack sinking into the ocean. And I’d laugh. Lovingly. But still.”

She leaned in, chin tilted with mock solemnity. “Second, if you think I’m letting you read a poem about my boots in a fake accent without filming it for blackmail purposes, you clearly underestimate me.”

A pause.

Then she grinned. That full, too-sharp, too-honest Rowan grin that meant he’d already won her over.

“The woods are tempting,” she admitted. “But I vote bookstore. Bad YA reenactments, fake accents, public humiliation. I’ll even let you wear the Peeta apron.”

She flicked her fingers toward him in a royal little gesture. “But I’m Katniss. Obviously.”

Another beat.

“And I’m not sharing my cookies next time unless you give me a scene partner worthy of the arena.”

Rowan bumped her shoulder into his with a casual kind of warmth, her voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “You pick the book. I’ll pick the weapon.”

And just like that, it was settled: chaos would commence—somewhere between poetry, sarcasm, and a bookstore battlefield.

Mason tried to play it cool.

He really did.

But Rowan Starling had just offered him Peeta’s apron and full access to her Hunger Games villain era, and frankly, his brain short-circuited somewhere between “blackmail purposes” and “worthy of the arena.”

He cleared his throat like a man preparing to deliver a TED Talk. Or perhaps... a dramatic monologue in the middle of Barnes & Noble.

“Alright, Miss Everdeen,” he said, scooting an inch closer like that somehow gave his words more gravity. “If we’re going full Hunger Games, I’m going to need a book with emotional depth, narrative gravitas, and at least one unhinged character I can base my entire performance on.”

He snapped his fingers dramatically, eyes lighting up.

“Twilight. Final answer.”

He held up a hand before she could interrupt. “Before you judge me, just picture it: I show up in the Peeta apron and a vampire cape. I monologue about eternal suffering while aggressively frosting cupcakes. You throw cookies like throwing stars. I reenact Edward leaving Bella in the woods but with slightly more jazz hands and slightly less emotional repression.”

He wiggled his brows. “Oscar-worthy, honestly.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in with mock-serious intensity.

“Now, your turn. Pick your weapon. I’m personally hoping it’s something deeply impractical, like a haunted typewriter or an aggressively large Shakespeare bust. I feel like that really sets the tone.”

He bumped her shoulder back, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Come on, Starling. If we’re going to go down in a blaze of YA glory, we might as well make it cinematic.”

Rowan blinked once. Twice. Then fixed him with a look so flat it could’ve leveled a small country.

“You absolute menace,” she said, her tone dry enough to make the Sahara jealous. “The Cullens didn’t wear capes, Hayes. They donned chic designer trench coats and bore the weight of deep-seated emotional repression. Honestly, I expected more from you.”

She leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand, her eyes gleaming with a playful challenge. “And Twilight? Really? You had every unhinged YA series at your disposal, and that’s the one you choose? We could’ve explored the morally gray world of Shadowhunters or the dramatic realm of fae with traumatic backstories—but no. You want to monologue about immortality in a Peeta apron while I hurl baked goods at you. That’s your grand vision.”

She didn’t sound mad; instead, she exuded delight.

“And I hate that I kind of want to see it.”

Her fingers reached for his collar, smoothing out a wrinkle with a gesture that held warmth and a hint of threat. “But for the record? If you show up wearing a cape, I will revoke your frosting privileges.”

She leaned back now, a smug expression gracing her features, regal in her composure.

“As for my weapon…” She pretended to ponder, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop. “A vintage hardcover of Wuthering Heights, annotated in blood-red ink and emotional trauma. Or perhaps just a sharpened eyeliner pencil accompanied by a passionate monologue about Katniss dismantling the patriarchy. It really depends on the vibe.”

Then, with a teasing flick of her fingers, she tapped the tip of his nose and said in a mock-sweet tone, “Start stretching, drama boy. You’ve got a performance to rehearse.”

And just like that, she had plunged into the delightful chaos with him—her eyes bright, voice steady, ready to commandeer the entire bookstore stage.

“The Twilight saga,” he said, clutching his chest with both hands like he’d been personally wounded, “is a generational cornerstone. A cultural touchstone, Starling. Show some respect for the holy text that gave us baseball vampires and one of the most unhinged love triangles in cinematic history.”

He sat back in mock horror, looking at her like she’d committed a literary crime. “They sparkled, Rowan. They played thunderstorm baseball in slow motion. The Cullens didn’t need capes—they had attitude, cheekbones, and inexplicably perfect skin despite literally never sleeping. Legends.”

Then, like a switch flipped, he straightened, narrowed his eyes, and dropped his voice an octave. “Also, let’s be honest—I mostly picked Twilight because I wanted an excuse to wear a cape. A dramatic, floor-length, swishy one. Maybe velvet. Maybe with embroidery.”

He struck a pose like a tragic antihero whose backstory involved moonlight and betrayal.

And with absolutely no warning, Mason launched into action, placing one dramatic hand over his heart.

“Say it out loud,” he intoned gravely, already attracting the bewildered stares of three freshmen popping their heads in from the hallway like groundhogs summoned by chaos. “Vampire.”

He pointed at Rowan with the exaggerated flourish of a soap opera actor. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you… and your judgment. And your eyeliner pencil of destruction. But I will endure, because my love is eternal and chic as hell.”

He paced a small circle like it was a Broadway stage and he was playing all three leads in a one-man dystopian romantic thriller.

Then he dropped to one knee with his best tragic Edward Cullen expression. “If it weren’t for the baby pink frosting on your molasses cookie, I would’ve had nothing to live for in that bookstore battlefield.”

Then he leapt up, grabbed a plastic fork from his bag like it was a sacred dagger, and held it aloft.

“Behold! Wuthering Bites: The Musical—featuring tortured feelings, eyeliner-based violence, and at least one very passionate soliloquy about sparkling masculinity!”

He paused just long enough to grin at her, flushed with laughter and totally unbothered by the half-dozen people now pretending not to watch from the edge of the hallway. Which, to be fair, was impossible.

“Your move, Katniss,” he said, breathless, dramatic, utterly in love. “But just so we’re clear—I’m absolutely showing up in a cape. With glitter. And probably eyeliner.”

Rowan blinked at him, deadpan. “You absolute disaster of a human.”

But her voice was full of amusement, and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth betrayed her long before she could fight it off. She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back in her chair like a queen watching her jester spiral into theatrical oblivion, and raised a single eyebrow.

“I take it back,” she said sweetly. “You should wear the cape. You’ve earned it. Maybe we’ll get you a matching bedazzled diary too, so you can chronicle your immortal suffering in glitter gel pen.”

She reached out and calmly plucked the plastic fork from his hand like she was disarming a rogue toddler.

“And this,” she said, holding it up like an exhibit in a court case, “is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

Her eyes glittered with mischief now, voice turning mock-serious. “Also, I’m going to need a full script of Wuthering Bites: The Musical by Friday. With choreography. And original score. If I don’t get at least one dramatic ballad called ‘Sparkle and Suffer,’ I’m walking.”

Then she leaned forward, hands braced on the table, eyes locking with his in the quietest, most devastating way.

“But for the record,” she murmured, too soft for anyone else to hear, “you’re lucky I love disasters.”

She stole the last bite of his cookie.

And smiled like she was already planning the next act.

Mason beamed like he’d just been knighted with a glitter-coated sword.

Finally. She was seeing the light. The sparkling, overly dramatic, YA adaptation light.

He executed a dramatic, sweeping bow for their hallway audience—one hand pressed to his chest, the other flung wide like a curtain-call flourish. “Thank you, thank you. I dedicate this performance to Catherine Hardwicke, Stephanie Meyer, and the dramatic potential of plastic cutlery.”

The three freshmen reluctantly peeled themselves away, one of them muttering something that definitely sounded like “what just happened,” before disappearing down the hall in a blur of whispers and snack wrappers. As soon as they vanished, Mason turned back to Rowan with the pleased expression of a man who had caused precisely the amount of chaos he intended.

He perched on the edge of the bench like a lounge singer-meets-community theater lead, eyes twinkling. “You know,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table like a drumroll, “I wasn’t going to reveal this until opening night, but you’ve earned a sneak peek of the Wuthering Bites choreography.”

Without waiting for permission—because really, when had that ever stopped him—he popped up to standing and took two exaggerated steps back like he needed space for greatness.

“Okay, imagine this: dim lighting, fog machine on low, tragic piano intro. Then—bam.” He struck a pose, one hand on his chest, the other reaching for the heavens. “Sparkle and Suffer: Requiem for a Vampire’s Soul.”

He twirled once with the energy of a caffeinated figure skater, dropped to his knees with flourish, and mimed biting into a dramatically oversized neck.

“Verse one,” he said between movements, “is interpretive dance meets slow-motion agony. Then the chorus hits—key change, obviously—and that’s when the jazz hands come in. Not subtle jazz hands,” he clarified. “Haunted jazz hands.”

He stood again and wiggled his fingers with eerie flair, then threw in a few awkwardly heartfelt arm flourishes, like someone trying to summon ghosts via ballet.

“Final number? Ballroom-style waltz with a fog machine encore and maybe a disco ball. Tragic, sparkly, transcendent.”

Then he stopped, panting lightly, curls flopping into his eyes, the proudest grin on his face like he’d just delivered a Tony-worthy sneak preview.

He looked at her with all the shameless affection in the world. “You can’t stop me. You already said I could wear the cape.”

And when she just shook her head and rolled her eyes, Mason leaned forward, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and added, “Also, I’m naming the diary Twiblooded. It’s gonna have ribbon bookmarks and emotionally devastating stickers.”

And just like that, the next act was already in motion.

Rowan just stared at him. Like one might stare at a majestic, unhinged bird doing jazz hands in the middle of a library fire drill.

“Okay,” she said, voice perfectly flat, “first of all, I hope you know there’s no coming back from ‘haunted jazz hands.’ That phrase lives in my brain now. Rent-free. With a skylight.”

She held up a finger, dead serious. “Second, if you ever actually waltz through fog with a disco ball while singing about immortal longing, I’m calling the Tony committee myself. They won’t know whether to cry or run.”

But she was smiling. Fighting it, sure—but it was there. That soft, impossible-to-hide smile that said she’d watched every second of his chaos and secretly kind of loved it. Maybe a little too much.

“Also,” she added, crossing her arms and tilting her head, “you’re dangerously close to being banned from using the words ‘Twiblooded’ and ‘emotionally devastating stickers’ in the same sentence. There are laws, Hayes. Federal ones.”

Still, when he flopped back into the seat beside her with that breathless, starry-eyed grin, Rowan didn’t scoot away. She nudged his knee with hers instead.

“And just so you know,” she said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp, “if this musical actually happens, I want executive producer credit, final say on all costumes, and the right to dramatically close the curtain with a single, soul-crushing eye roll.”

She looked at him sideways, expression caught somewhere between affection and disbelief. “God help me, I’m in.”

She reached over and plucked a crumb off his shirt like it was payment for her suffering. “But if you show up to tech rehearsal in glitter eyeliner and say something like ‘the drama lives within me,’ I’m walking.”

Pause.

A smirk.

“Okay, I’ll walk in slow motion. With fog. And a cape.”

Because if Mason was going down in YA-inspired musical flames, Rowan Starling was absolutely going down with him—sparkling, smirking, and unapologetically dramatic.

Mason looked at her like she’d just handed him a signed contract and a glitter-dipped sword.

“Rowan Starling,” he said reverently, placing a hand over his heart as if she’d just pledged eternal loyalty to the High Court of Theatrical Nonsense, “you have no idea how much joy it brings me to hear you say those words. Executive producer credit? Done. Final say on costumes? Obviously. Curtain control via soul-crushing eye roll? Honestly, how could we not?”

He leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “And for the record, I cannot wait to see you in a cape.” His voice dropped an octave, mock-serious. “You’ll be devastating. Iconic. Probably banned from multiple school assemblies for causing spontaneous swooning.”

Before she could roll her eyes again—or weaponize another cookie crumb—Mason grinned and pressed a quick, giddy kiss to her cheek. Just a brush of warmth, light and easy, but it lingered longer in the space between them than either of them admitted.

“I’ll try to tone down the haunted jazz hands at the next rehearsal,” he said against her temple, though the mischievous curl of his mouth suggested he would do no such thing.

He flopped back with a dramatic sigh, legs stretched too far under the table like a boy who’d just survived the emotional rollercoaster of staging Wuthering Bites: The Musical. “God, I love pretend scenarios we’re definitely never going to do and yet I’m already emotionally invested in.”

Rowan nudged his side with her elbow. “It’s the glitter gel pen diaries. That’s where the real commitment begins.”

He was about to respond—something stupid, probably, about embroidered velvet bookmarks—when the bell rang.

They both froze.

“Oh—crap,” Mason blurted, scrambling for his bag with the same frantic energy of a man late to his own fictional tech rehearsal. “We lost track of time! I blame your face.”

“You always blame my face,” Rowan said, already halfway out of her seat, grabbing her things with well-practiced chaos.

“Because it’s distracting,” he shot back, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as they rushed for the hallway. “You’ve got... main character eyes. It’s a problem.”

“Tell it to the Tony committee, Hayes.”

He laughed—unapologetically, brightly, the sound of a boy who would absolutely stage a YA vampire musical just to make her smile again.

And as they disappeared into the crowd, the last of the pretend glitter still sparkled in the air between them.

Mason’s fingers tightened gently around hers as he led her up the final flight of stairs, the metal steps creaking beneath their feet with every careful step. The hallway behind them was already swallowed in shadows—school long since closed, lights turned off except for the occasional glowing EXIT sign casting eerie red halos on the walls.

He paused at the door to the roof, pulling a bobby pin from his pocket. “Don’t ask,” he murmured with a grin she couldn’t see, but that lived in the softness of his voice.

The lock clicked.

He opened it slowly, revealing a narrow slice of the night sky—and then held it open for her like it was some kind of secret.

The air hit them immediately. Cool and crisp, like it had been waiting all day behind that heavy door just to breathe again. A breeze stirred his jacket, and he let go of her hand only long enough to step out, make sure the coast was clear, then turn back with a gesture that said come on—this is for you.

They crossed to the center of the roof, where he’d already laid out the blanket, tucked into the corner near the low brick wall. A thermos sat beside it, still warm, still waiting. He’d gotten here early—skipping dinner, skipping everything—because he’d wanted it to be perfect.

Because she used to draw constellations in the margins of her notebooks, back before the world decided who she was supposed to be.

Because he remembered.

Mason dropped to sit first, legs stretched out, palms bracing behind him as he tilted his head back to the stars. They weren’t brilliant tonight—not the kind of stars you saw in mountain towns with no light pollution—but they were enough. Scattered like freckles across the sky. Real.

The kind of stars you only noticed if you were still long enough.

He patted the space beside him, then looked over—not with a smirk or challenge, just that quiet, open awe he always seemed to wear around her. Like every moment with her was something he didn’t quite know how to hold without trembling a little.

“You know,” he said softly, more to the sky than to her, “I used to wonder if you knew how rare it was. The way you saw things. The way you used to draw maps like the universe was something you could keep in your pocket.”

He exhaled slowly, watching the clouds of his breath disappear into the dark.

“I thought if I could get you up here, maybe it would feel like that again. Like something untouched.”

He reached for the thermos and poured two cups, the steam rising in silver ribbons.

“I’ll shut up now,” he said, placing one near her side. “Just wanted you to see it. The real sky. Not the kind people stare at through filters.”

And then he leaned back again, head tipped toward the heavens, heart full of all the things he didn’t say.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

She stood still, just inside the open door, the wind teasing at the edges of her sweater, curls lifting like they recognized the altitude. The rooftop stretched quiet in front of her—just concrete and sky and Mason, looking at the stars like they might give him permission to dream a little louder.

She could’ve made a joke. Could’ve deflected with a sarcastic comment or teased him about the thermos like it wasn’t the softest thing anyone had ever done for her.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a moment for armor.

She crossed the space slowly, boots echoing in the hush between them, and sat down beside him without a word. Close enough that their knees touched. Close enough to feel the heat of the cup before she even reached for it.

The stars weren’t impressive. Not really. They were faint and scattered, dulled by the glow of town lights. But sitting there, her fingers wrapped around something warm, the smell of cinnamon and clove curling in the air between them—it was enough.

More than enough.

Rowan glanced over, watching the way Mason’s profile softened in the dark. How he looked up like he was trying to memorize the map of the sky and not just sit under it. And something in her chest pulled tight. Not in the painful way. In the way that felt like coming home.

“You remembered,” she said quietly.

Not just the notebook. Not just the stars. But her. The version she thought no one had been paying attention to. The girl who used to believe in constellations and signs and secret wishes. The one who still did, sometimes, when it was late and no one was watching.

She took a sip. The cider was perfect.

“You’re such a dork,” she added after a beat, voice soft with affection. “Breaking into the roof and bribing me with nostalgia and warm drinks. What are you trying to do, Hayes?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She just leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing into the space between them like she’d been holding her breath for days.

And the stars?

They didn’t get any brighter.

But somehow, they felt closer.

Mason didn’t move at first.

He just let her lean into him, every muscle in his body going soft around the weight of her trust. That tiny exhale against his hoodie? It knocked the wind out of him in the best kind of way. Like she didn’t even know how much that sound meant. Like maybe she didn’t realize she’d just handed him the stars and said: Here. They’re yours now.

He turned his head slightly, enough to rest his cheek against the top of her beanie, letting his eyes close for a beat.

“You really think I’d go to all this trouble just for nostalgia and warm drinks?” he murmured, grinning. “Please. I’m aiming much higher than that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her. The dark, the wind, the stars barely holding their own behind her, and still she outshone them without even trying. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her lashes catching the starlight, and that stupid little pendant she always wore glinted like a secret.

“Okay, listen,” he said, nudging her playfully with his shoulder, “if I was trying to romance you into submission with rooftop cider and softboy theatrics... would it be working?”

He already knew the answer. It was in the way she hadn’t joked. Hadn’t deflected. Had just sat down and let herself be with him—no performance, no mask.

Still, he grinned wider, voice dropping into that mock-serious tone he used when he was both teasing and deadly sincere.

“Because I’ve got a backup plan involving fairy lights, a mixtape, and dramatic monologues under the moonlight if this doesn’t seal the deal.”

He reached over, twining their fingers together—her gloves brushing the edge of his sleeve, familiar now in the way that made his chest ache just a little. Not with doubt. With wonder.

Because it was her.

And he had her.

And this time, he wasn’t the background noise in someone else’s story.

He was the guy on the roof with the girl who used to draw constellations—and right now, that felt like everything.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to.

Not when they were already shoulder to shoulder on the worn blanket Mason had laid out like an offering. The brick wall behind them blocked just enough wind to keep the moment warm, the thermos between them still steaming quietly like it was in on the secret.

Her fingers were tucked beneath his. Gloved. Cold. But steady.

And when he said it—Would it be working?—she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes. She just turned her head against his shoulder, cheek brushing the fabric of his hoodie, and looked at him like the stars weren’t the brightest thing up here after all.

“Okay,” she said, low and dry. “But if you recite a monologue under the moon, I’m heckling. Respectfully. But loudly.”

She squeezed his hand once, then pulled away from his side—but not to leave.

To face him.

She knelt on the blanket, knees sinking into the soft fabric, one hand still in his, the other bracing at his chest. Her eyes searched his face, slow and unguarded, like she was studying something she didn’t want to forget.

And then she kissed him.

Once.

And again.

Then deeper—her free hand sliding up, curling behind his neck to draw him closer, her mouth pressing to his like she meant it. Like she wasn’t just kissing him, but telling him a truth she couldn’t say out loud. Her breath hitched softly, not nervous, just overwhelmed. Present. Wanting.

He met her there, motionless except for the way his fingers tightened around hers. Letting her lead. Letting her choose.

And she did.

She deepened it until he couldn’t breathe straight—until the stars above them blurred and all that existed was this moment, this warmth, this ridiculous boy who saw her, who remembered the constellations she used to sketch in margins and decided she deserved the real sky.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his. Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw.

She was breathless. So was he.

But her smile—God, her smile—was the softest thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re lucky I’m a sucker for emotionally vulnerable theater boys with questionable playlists,” she whispered, her voice still caught in the kiss.

Then she dropped back beside him, cheeks flushed, heart steady.

“Now shut up and stargaze with me,” she said, nudging his boot with hers, “before I fall even harder and pretend it’s the altitude.”

Mason was gone.

Not in a dizzy, clueless kind of way—but in the absolutely wrecked, thank-God-she-can’t-hear-my-heartbeat-right-now kind of way. Because when she kissed him like that—hands on his chest, fingers in his hair, stealing the breath right out of his lungs—he stopped being a person who used words to say things.

He just became hers.

And when she pulled back, all flushed and smug and stunning with her forehead still against his and that little whisper of a smile playing on her lips?

Yeah.

He was never recovering.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just let the moment burn slow and golden, matching the shape of her laugh to the imprint of her mouth on his and thinking, this is the kind of kiss you build a universe around.

Then, finally—finally—he found his voice.

“I mean,” he said, breathless and grinning like an idiot, “questionable playlists? Rude. You loved my dramatic 'rain on prom night' playlist and you know it.”

He flopped back onto the blanket beside her, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still stretched between them just so he could keep their fingers twined. His heart was pounding like it hadn’t caught up with the fact that she’d kissed him first. Again.

God, he loved when she did that.

He tilted his head to glance over at her, hair tousled from her hands, eyes reflecting starlight. “Also, for the record, you just kissed a theater boy so good he forgot his next line. Hope that’s the kind of power you were going for.”

He bumped her shoulder gently with his.

Then, quieter: “I’ll shut up now. But only because you told me to. And because I’d rather fall quietly next to you than miss a second of this.”

And he meant it. Every word.

Because lying on a rooftop in the middle of nowhere, hands locked with Rowan Starling under a sky that didn’t need to sparkle to feel infinite?

That was the best role he’d ever landed.

And for once—it wasn’t a performance.

It was just him.

And her.

And all the space in the world to be exactly who they were.

Rowan’s pulse hadn’t slowed.

Not really.

Not since that kiss—heat flaring beneath her skin, her fingers still tingling from where they’d fisted in the front of his hoodie like he was the only thing keeping her grounded. Which… maybe he was.

She could still taste the cinnamon on his lips. Still feel the way he went perfectly still in that soft, awestruck way he always did when she let her guard down first. No performance. No teasing. Just her. And him. And this stupid perfect rooftop with its chipped mugs and thrift store blanket and the city exhaling beneath them like it knew something they didn’t.

She let her head tip to the side, chin resting lightly against the curve of his shoulder, just so she could watch him.

God, he looked wrecked.

Not in a bad way. In the “she kissed me and now I don’t remember my name” kind of way. Flushed cheeks, dumb grin, hair slightly messy from her hands. Still holding her like it meant something. Like she meant something.

And he didn’t even try to cover it up.

That was the part that got her.

He never tried to make himself smaller, or cooler, or harder to reach. He just let her see it—the full spectrum of softness and sarcasm and stupid little theater boy chaos. And the fact that he looked at her like she was the star in all this?

Yeah.

That ruined her in the best possible way.

She slid her hand over his chest again, this time just to feel the steady beat of his heart under her palm. Let it anchor her. Let it say all the things she wasn’t quite ready to whisper yet.

And then, without looking away, she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear:

“Okay, Hayes. I’ll give you this one. That playlist? Top-tier emotional damage.”

She smirked when she felt his laugh under her hand, but didn’t let up.

“And for the record,” she added, voice softer now, “I kissed you like that because I wanted to. Not because of the cider or the stars or the dramatic monologue you were absolutely building in your head just now.”

A beat.

She tilted her face up toward his, close enough to steal another kiss—but didn’t.

Not yet.

“You’re not a role I’m playing, Mason. You’re… you. And I’m still here.”

She let that truth settle between them, simple and impossible all at once.

Then she curled against him again—one hand on his chest, the other tucked into his.

And for the first time in a long time, Rowan Starling let the quiet feel like a home.

Mason didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Because there it was—that. That rare, unguarded softness she only ever let slip when the world went still enough to hold it. And it was all his. Not in a possessive way. In the kind of way that said, you’re trusted. You’re seen. You’re wanted.

Her words hit him like a sucker punch and a symphony all at once.

You’re not a role I’m playing.

He let out a slow breath, one hand tracing gentle, aimless lines along her spine as she curled into him. She fit there like she’d always belonged—like his chest had been built for the weight of her head, her heartbeat, her truth.

And God, he didn’t want to move.

But he did want to give her the sky.

“Okay,” he whispered after a long moment, voice low, cheek resting lightly against the crown of her hair, “I’ve got one more idea.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead—just a soft brush of lips and reverence—then nudged her gently, guiding her hand from his chest so he could shift.

Still slow. Still careful.

He tugged her down with him until they were both stretched out on their backs, side by side on the blanket, shoulders brushing, fingers still twined. The city lights painted a faint halo along the edges of the roof, but up above—above, it was all ink and flickers. Messy constellations and stardust smudges. A sky so full of maybe that it felt like a promise.

“There,” he said, his voice warmer now, brighter, like he was smiling with it. “Now we’re properly stargazing.”

He turned his head slightly to look at her—dark curls spilling over the blanket, lashes casting soft shadows across her cheeks. She looked peaceful. Beautiful. Real.

Like the girl from the margins of his memory had stepped out of her doodled constellations and kissed him breathless.

“You know,” he added, quieter now, “every time I used to see you sketching those stars, I wondered what you were looking for.”

He paused, watching the way her fingers shifted in his.

“I think I get it now. You weren’t just mapping the sky. You were trying to find yourself in it.”

His voice dropped to something just above a whisper.

“And maybe… maybe you were drawing your way to me.”

He let the words hang there. Not in a desperate way. Not in a please say it back way.

Just in that soft Mason Hayes way—the kind that offered truth like a gift, not a demand.

Then he looked back up at the sky and squeezed her hand once, like a vow he didn’t have to speak.

Because she was still here.

And so was he.

And that? That was everything.

Rowan didn’t speak at first.

She just let the silence stretch—comfortable, grounding—as their fingers stayed threaded between them and the night unfolded above. Mason’s words sat gently in her chest, like warmth settling into old ache. And she let them.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

She had been looking for something. Sketching constellations, tracing lines between stars like maybe if she could name them all, she’d figure out what part of the sky she belonged to.

And now?

Now he was here. Not asking her to be anything but herself. Just… seeing her.

She turned her head slightly, cheek brushing against the blanket as she looked at him.

“I think I was trying to chart a version of the world that felt safe,” she said quietly. “One that didn’t shift every time I let my guard down.”

She paused, watching the soft rise of his chest beside her, the way his mouth curved even when he wasn’t quite smiling.

“And then you showed up. And you didn’t ask me to explain everything. You just… stayed. Asked questions. Waited. Made the quiet feel like it had space in it.”

Her thumb moved lightly across the back of his hand.

“I wasn’t trying to find you. But I think I was hoping someone like you existed.”

She didn’t look away. Not this time.

“And yeah,” she added, voice even softer, “maybe I was drawing my way to this. To you.”

She shifted closer until their shoulders touched again, steady and sure, then turned her gaze back up to the sky. The stars weren’t perfect. The city lights muddied the view. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

She had everything she needed, right here.

“Still,” she murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, “I think this view’s better now.”

She didn’t kiss him right away.

She just held his hand like a promise.

And for once, the map she used to keep in the margins didn’t matter.

Because she wasn’t looking for a way out anymore.

She was home.

Here’s the continuation, keeping the tone grounded in intimacy and trust—quiet, reverent, and fully in Rowan’s

She wasn’t looking at the sky anymore.

Not really.

Not when he was this close. Not when his hand was warm in hers and his words still echoed like something ancient and true.

Rowan shifted again—just enough to face him fully, to take in the soft slope of his profile, the way his eyes still held the stars even when he wasn’t looking up. Her heart beat steady in her chest. Not frantic. Not afraid. Just… certain.

She leaned in.

Slow. Intentional. No rush, no games. Her fingers let go of his, only so she could brace herself gently against the edge of his hoodie. She kissed him—full, quiet, real—like the moment had been waiting for them to catch up to it.

And when he kissed her back, she deepened it.

Not because she needed more, but because he was safe to want more with.

Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of his hoodie—hesitant at first, then certain. Palm pressed against the warm fabric of his t-shirt, just over his ribs. Not to pull him closer. Just to feel. Just to be there, tethered to the heartbeat that always found rhythm with hers.

He exhaled into her mouth, and she felt it—every unspoken thing passing between them.

When they finally parted, breath shallow, she didn’t pull away.

She stayed close, forehead to his, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re it, Mason,” she whispered.

Like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

Mason’s heart stuttered.

Not from surprise. Not even from the weight of her words—though God, if they didn’t hit like gravity finally making sense. No, it stuttered because of the way she said it. Like a secret she’d been guarding with both hands and finally decided to let him hold.

You’re it, Mason.

He closed his eyes, forehead pressed to hers, and let the world narrow to the space between them. Her breath. Her pulse. The faint scent of cinnamon and cold air caught in her hair.

And then he smiled.

Not the cocky, I-just-got-the-girl kind of grin. No, this one was quieter. Realer. Like he’d just remembered how to breathe through the wonder of being loved exactly as he was.

“I’ve been waiting years to hear you say that,” he murmured, voice barely audible, like it didn’t belong to the night so much as it belonged to her.

A pause.

Then he shifted just slightly, one arm curling under her as he guided her head to his chest—easing them both back down onto the blanket until she was tucked into his side, exactly where she fit. He looked up at the sky again, the stars blurry from proximity and emotion, and huffed a soft breath of laughter.

“Okay… so don’t freak out,” he said, heartbeat a little faster now, not from nerves but from the thrill of telling her this part—of finally sharing it, like a secret he’d kept tucked close to his ribs.

“But I’ve had something of yours in my wallet since sophomore year.”

He waited.

Then, slowly, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, careful not to jostle her too much. His fingers found the worn edges of an old, folded scrap of paper—the corners curled, the ink faint in places. He held it out for her to see, resting it against the space between them.

One of her constellation doodles.

A small, hand-drawn sky, stars connected by faint lines in that slightly messy, fiercely intentional way she always sketched when she didn’t think anyone was watching. There were notes in the margin. Half a quote. A name of a star misspelled. And still—perfect.

“You dropped it after Mr. Halpern’s class. I don’t think you even noticed. But I did.”

His thumb brushed over the paper with the kind of reverence most people reserved for things sacred.

“And I kept it. Not because I was being creepy or anything,” he added with a sheepish laugh, “but because I remember thinking… this? This is someone worth finding.”

He turned his head toward her, voice going softer again.

“And now you’re here. So, yeah. That view up there?”

He tilted his chin toward the sky.

“It’s fine. But this—” his hand slid back into hers “—this is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

And for once, Mason Hayes—soft-spoken, stage-strong, secret-keeper—didn’t need the stars to make a wish.

Because the girl who used to write them into the margins?

She was here.

She was real.

And she’d just called him it.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

She just stared at the constellation in his hands—her constellation. Ink faded, paper bent, familiar stars mapped by a version of her who hadn’t known she was being seen.

And he’d kept it.

Since sophomore year.

Her heart cracked open, slow and quiet. Not from pain. From all the softness that didn’t know where to go until now.

She reached for the paper gently, like it might dissolve if she touched it too hard, and traced her fingertip over the crooked little star in the corner. The one she’d drawn too big. The one she’d meant to be the anchor.

Rowan swallowed, then tucked the paper between their joined hands.

“You kept this,” she said softly. “And I thought I was the sentimental one.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not really.

Because somehow, she’d always believed she loved harder. Quieter, yes, but harder. Like she had to hold on to every version of him she’d ever known, even the ones who didn’t know how to look at her yet.

But this?

This meant he’d been holding on just as long.

She leaned in again, hands on either side of his face, and kissed him like she was sure. Like her whole body understood something her mind had only just caught up to. Her fingers slipped back under his hoodie, flat against his chest, over the heart that had never stopped choosing her.

It was slower this time.

Deeper.

Not rushed or frantic or cinematic.

Just real.

When she finally pulled back, lips barely apart from his, she said it again—but softer this time. A truth, not a declaration.

“You’re it.”

And then she lay her head on his chest, tucked beneath his arm, and let the sky disappear.

Because she didn’t need it anymore.

She’d already found her way home.

“You can’t just say stuff like that,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges. “Not when you’re touching me like that. I’m one compliment away from full emotional combustion.”

His fingers found the hem of her sweater and toyed with the edge—not pushing, not teasing. Just anchoring. Just feeling.

“Seriously,” he added, tone still warm but thick with affection. “You say ‘you’re it’ one more time and I’m going to lose all ability to function as a human being. Like—I’ll just short-circuit. Drooling. Useless. You’ll have to carry me down the stairs and explain to the janitor why your boyfriend’s brain melted from excessive praise.”

A pause.

Then a breathless, quieter confession:

“But I love it. The way you say it. Like it’s always been true.”

He let that settle between them. The weight of his body grounding hers, the heat between them less about lust and more about the way desire and devotion could coexist. How wanting her didn’t cheapen the way he loved her—it amplified it.

Because yeah, he was hot and bothered.

But more than that?

He was hers.

“Might be worth it though,” he added with a grin she could feel against her hair. “Just to hear you say it again.”

Then, softer:

“Say it in the morning. Say it when I’m annoying. Say it when I mess up.”

His thumb brushed along her spine. Steady. Honest.

“Because if I’m it for you?”

He exhaled.

“Then I’m already everything I ever wanted to be.”

And with that, Mason Hayes shut up.

For once.

Because she was tucked into his side like she was made to fit there, and the world could keep spinning without another word.

He already had the only one he needed.

It.

Rowan felt his words like warmth under her skin—radiant, impossible not to sink into. He always did that. Disarmed her with humor, then hit her with something so achingly sincere it left her breathless.

She traced a lazy circle just above his waistband, then rested her palm flat over his heartbeat.

“Don’t combust,” she whispered, tone dry but lips curved. “There’s one more thing I need you alive for.”

A pause.

Then she looked up—no smirk, no sarcasm. Just her. Just real.

“I love you, Mason.”

No crescendo. No drumroll.

Just the truth. Unvarnished. Undeniable.

She said it like she’d been holding it for a while. Like it had lived beneath her ribcage for months, growing quiet roots every time he smiled at her like that, every time he saw her without flinching.

And now?

She was done keeping it to herself.

Her thumb brushed his jaw, soft and steady.

“I love you,” she said again, like she wanted him to memorize it.

Like she already had.

Her words hung in the space between them like starlight—small, soft, impossible to ignore. She didn’t rush to fill the silence. She didn’t need to. Saying I love you wasn’t a panic button, wasn’t a test. It was a release.

A vow.

Rowan didn’t look away from him. She watched the way the air shifted around his expression, how the usual flicker of a comeback didn’t quite make it to his mouth this time. For once, he wasn’t teasing. He was still. Uncharacteristically still.

And she knew—she knew—he felt it too.

Her chest ached in that full, weightless kind of way. Like everything inside her was stretching to make room for how much she meant it. How long she’d meant it. How terrified and sure she was all at once.

She dipped her head slightly, resting her forehead against his. Their noses brushed. Her fingers laced behind his neck.

“Just so we’re clear,” she whispered, breath tickling the air between them, “this isn’t conditional. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to win it.”

She closed her eyes.

“You just have it.”

His pulse was steady beneath her hands, and God, she hoped he knew what that meant. That she didn’t give this lightly. That loving him—this soft, sarcastic, Shakespeare-quoting chaos of a boy—wasn’t a plot twist. It was inevitability.

She tilted her chin, kissed him once—deliberate, slow, not asking for anything in return.

Just giving.

Just offering.

And when she pulled back, her voice was steadier than she expected.

“I love you,” she said one last time, like a truth and a promise and a challenge, all wrapped into one.

Then she smiled against his mouth.

“Now please don’t combust. I really like this hoodie.”