He was so screwed.

Not because she was holding a screwdriver like she’d challenge Zeus to a duel with it, or because the instruction manual was probably cursed by the Swedish furniture gods themselves.

No. He was screwed because Rowan Starling was sitting on the nursery floor, flushed from effort and a little paint on her arm, calling him “sir” and talking about apocalypse-proof cribs like it was a normal Tuesday.

And somehow, impossibly, she was his.

“Unfair warfare,” he repeated with mock offense, lips twitching. “Babe, if emotionally stable flirting is now a war crime, you’re gonna have to report me to the UN.”

But then she looked down at their hands. And laughed. And kissed him again.

And for a second, the whole damn world tilted.

Not in the dramatic, end-of-times way. More like… one of those moments where everything realigned without warning. Where the gravity of her, of them, of this baby they were building a world for, hit him all over again.

When she reached for the manual and threw him that wink, his chest actually hurt. Like there was too much in it — love and pride and some low-grade panic about misplacing a washer.

But mostly love.

“Alright, boss,” he said, solemn as a man could be while sitting cross-legged in paint-splattered sweats. “I accept my role as head reader and official rogue screw wrangler. Together, we will tame this beast.”

He picked up the manual with reverence and then immediately grimaced. “Okay, so this is either crib instructions or a scroll from the Dead Sea. If I start speaking in tongues, just slap me.”

He passed her the missing screw, his fingers brushing hers — lingering, deliberate.

Then he leaned in, catching her off guard, and kissed her again. Slower this time. Not to win. Not to distract. Just because he had to.

Because sometimes he couldn’t believe she picked him.

When he pulled back, he rested their foreheads together, smiling in that quiet, wrecked way he got when the weight of her hit him all at once.

“I love you,” he said, soft and sure, voice barely a breath. “And this whole… crib-building, manual-fighting, rogue-screw-finding life with you? I wouldn’t trade it for a damn thing.”

Then, with a dramatic exhale and a grin that didn’t quit, he flipped to step one and read aloud like it was gospel.

“Alright, Captain Starling. Let’s build something indestructible.”

Rowan looked at him over the top of the crib rail, screwdriver still in hand, one knee propped up, a rogue screw balanced in her palm like she might flick it at him if he got too sentimental.

“Six months,” she said, shaking her head with mock disbelief. “We’ve only been doing this for six months, and you’re already out here pledging allegiance to the furniture gods and talking about indestructible futures.”

She leaned forward a little, lips twitching. “You realize that, right? Six months. That’s, like… two hundred breakfasts, twenty-four grocery trips, and exactly one catastrophic IKEA meltdown where you swore the nightstand was gaslighting you.”

Her grin softened, the sarcasm slipping into something quieter. “But it feels like ten years. Like we’ve already lived a whole lifetime in between paint fumes and takeout boxes.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand, smudging a streak of white paint higher across her temple. “And honestly? I don’t even know if that’s terrifying or perfect. Probably both.”

He smiled at her then — that slow, ruinous one that made her ribs feel like they were expanding too fast — and she laughed, shaking her head. “God, don’t look at me like that, Hayes. You’ll make me forget which side of this crib is up.”

Her hand dropped to her small bump, thumb tracing idle circles there. “You love me,” she teased softly, voice dipping into something warm and unguarded. “Even though I can’t tell a washer from a wheel and I’ve already lost one of the Allen wrenches.”

Then, smirking, she tossed him a look over her shoulder. “I should probably be worried that we’ve only been together for half a year and I’m already this domesticated. But then you say stuff like that—” her eyes flicked down to the manual in his hands, “—and I think maybe the universe knew I needed someone who actually reads the directions.”

Rowan reached across, tapped the edge of the manual with the tip of her screwdriver, her grin returning. “Alright, Mr. Stability. Let’s make this indestructible crib. But if it turns out crooked, we’re calling it avant-garde parenting.”

She paused just long enough to steal another kiss — quick and mischievous, paint-smudged and real — before whispering against his mouth, “Six months or sixty years, I’m still not reading the instructions.”

She said six months like it was a warning.

Like it was supposed to slow him down — this impossible feeling blooming under his ribs, steady and loud like a heartbeat he didn’t know he’d been missing until she crawled into his life, took the screwdriver, and made a home out of him.

But all he could think — as she smirked and tapped the manual with that damn screwdriver like she was knighting him into domestic battle — was that six months had never felt like this with anyone else.

Like gravity.

Like belonging.

Like waking up next to her every morning and wondering how he ever lived in silence before she laughed at his cereal choices or stole his hoodies or cried over that stupid commercial with the penguin.

He looked at her — really looked — over the edge of that half-built crib. Paint on her temple. Fingertips smudged. One hand curled instinctively over the swell of her stomach like she was already shielding the universe.

And he was gone for her.

Again.

Still.

Always.

“Okay,” he said, voice softer now, the usual grin lingering but laced with something wrecked. “First of all, I was 100% right. That nightstand was gaslighting me. I still stand by that.”

He shifted closer until their knees bumped, careful not to disrupt the balance of tools and half-assembled side panels. “Second…” He touched her paint-streaked cheek gently with the back of his hand. “You call it domesticated. I call it revolutionized. You built this chaos with me. You built us.”

A pause. Then, lower:

“And third — if you ever actually start reading the instructions, I’m calling an exorcist.”

He smiled when she huffed a laugh, and leaned in, brushing her forehead with a kiss before finding her mouth again — slow, certain, no teasing this time. Just truth.

“I love you,” he whispered into the space between them. “Even if you lose every Allen wrench we ever meet.”

His palm flattened over her hand where it rested on her bump, grounding them both. “You and me and this little chaos gremlin you’re brewing? We’ve already got the most indestructible thing in the world.”

Then he exhaled, nudged the manual with dramatic flair, and added, “Now pass me that washer. I have a deeply avant-garde piece of furniture to interpret.”

And as her laughter echoed through the room, warm and real, Mason Hayes didn’t need to count the months anymore.

He already knew this was it.

Rowan let the screwdriver fall into her lap with a soft clatter.

She didn’t answer him right away — couldn’t. Because he’d said it so easily, like loving her was the most natural thing in the world. Like he didn’t even realize how impossible that still felt some days.

She stared down at their joined hands — his palm over hers, both resting on the curve of her stomach — and swallowed. “You know,” she started quietly, voice small but steady, “I never… pictured this.”

She laughed once under her breath, a little shaky. “Not the crib or the paint fumes or even this thing inside me doing cartwheels every time you talk. Just—this. You. Me. All of it.”

Her gaze flicked up to him, soft and open. “I used to tell myself I wasn’t built for this kind of life. Not the easy kind. Not the forever kind. I thought maybe I’d just keep running until I got too tired, and then I’d… I don’t know. Learn to live around the empty parts.”

She huffed out a breath that was half-a-laugh, half-a-confession. “Marriage? Family? A guy who actually reads the directions and means it when he says ‘I love you’? That wasn’t on the list. I didn’t think I got to have that.”

Rowan shifted closer, her knee brushing his. “And then you showed up. With your dumb jokes and your decent hair and that stupid, relentless kindness that makes people believe they’re worth something. You just—walked right in like you’d been here the whole time.”

She smiled then, small and crooked, her voice catching in the middle. “It’s mind-boggling, honestly. That someone like you—someone so steady and good and annoyingly pure—looked at me, of all people, and thought: yeah, her.”

Her hand left her stomach and found his jaw instead, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “You make me want to be softer,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You make it feel safe to want things I stopped letting myself want.”

She drew in a breath, trying to steady the wave of feeling crowding her chest. “So yeah,” she added, teasing creeping back into her tone, “I might lose every Allen wrench we ever meet. But I’m pretty sure I found the one thing I didn’t even know I was missing.”

Her eyes met his, shimmering but sure. “You.”

Then, softer still, she leaned in and kissed him — paint, laughter, love, and all.

For a moment, all he could do was look at her.

Like really look.
Paint-smudged and floor-sitting. Barefoot and brilliant. Holding a screwdriver like it was a magic wand and saying things that made his whole damn heart ache in the best possible way.

Because this?
This was the kind of moment that cracked something wide open in him.

And Rowan, God—Rowan had no idea what she looked like from this angle. Not just beautiful, though she was that and then some, but real.
Vulnerable in a way she didn’t offer easily. Letting him see the parts she used to guard with teeth.

He swallowed hard, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand like he could memorize every line, every freckle, every second.

“I didn’t picture this either,” he said quietly. “Not because I didn’t want it, but because I didn’t think I’d ever be enough to have it. To have you.”

His voice cracked just a little, but he didn’t try to fix it. Not now.
Not when she’d just given him that — her fears, her past, her hope.

“I thought maybe I’d always just be the guy who helps other people build things,” he admitted. “You know? The one who cheers from the sidelines and pretends that’s what he wanted all along.”

He laughed under his breath, soft and a little awed.
“And then you walked in. Big eyes, sharp tongue, hurricane energy — and you just stayed. You stayed, Ro. Even when you were scared. Even when I was scared. You stayed, and you let me.”

His gaze dropped to where her hand rested over her stomach again, protective and unshakable.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “And if all I ever get to do is build things beside you — furniture, futures, freaking IKEA meltdowns — I’m the luckiest idiot alive.”

She smiled, watery and wrecked and perfect.

So he leaned in, kissed her gently — once on the temple where paint still clung, once on her mouth, slow and sure — and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll read the instructions,” he whispered. “You build the world.”

Then he reached past her, grabbed the manual with a dramatic flourish, and grinned.
“But just so we’re clear, I am writing ‘avant-garde parenting’ on the birth plan. Right next to ‘emotional support snacks’ and ‘no one tells Rowan to push unless she asks.’”

Her laugh was quiet, breathy, warm against his cheek.

And in that paint-filled room, surrounded by half-built furniture and their not-so-little secret doing somersaults in her belly, Mason didn’t need a single blueprint.

He already knew he was home.

Rowan blinked hard, partly because her vision had gone blurry and partly because she refused to let him see her cry before she could come up with something sarcastic enough to level the emotional playing field.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice catching in the middle like her throat hadn’t gotten the memo about the whole keep it together plan. “First of all, you can’t just say stuff like that when I’ve got a screwdriver in my hand. It’s dangerous. I could cry and accidentally stab you. Tragic, really.”

But the teasing didn’t quite hold. Her smile wobbled. The air in the room felt heavier in a good way — like it was holding something sacred, fragile, and theirs.

She reached for his wrist, slow and certain, brushing her thumb over the paint he’d missed. “You know what’s crazy?” she murmured. “For years, I thought being scared meant I was doing something wrong. Like I was supposed to have it all figured out before anyone could love me. Before I could build anything that lasted.”

Her hand moved to his chest, right over his heart. “But you don’t make me feel like I have to be perfect to be worth staying for.”

She smiled softly, eyes tracing his face like she was memorizing him. “You just make me feel… steady. Like maybe I can still be a hurricane and have a home at the same time.”

Rowan glanced down at her belly then, her voice gentling. “And for the record, she already kicks harder when you talk. Indigo’s gonna be a handful.” She huffed out a small laugh. “Probably gets that from you. Definitely gets the stubbornness from you.”

When he grinned at that, she shook her head, cheeks still wet. “And if you’re putting avant-garde parenting on the birth plan, I’m adding one of those mini fridges full of pudding cups and juice boxes. Emotional support snacks are a nonnegotiable.”

Then she leaned forward until their foreheads touched again, her breath warm against his. “And Mason Hayes,” she whispered, the tremor in her voice giving her away completely, “you are already enough. You always were. I just needed to show up long enough to make you see it.”

Her fingers tightened lightly around his. “Now come on,” she said, pulling back with a small grin. “Let’s finish this crib before Indigo files a complaint about working conditions.”

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, laughing softly when he passed her another screw. “And for the record?” she added, glancing up through her lashes. “You reading the instructions while I build the world is the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Mason didn’t move at first.
Couldn’t.

Not when she looked at him like that — all soft defiance and smudged vulnerability, her cheeks streaked with tears she pretended weren’t there, her fingers still curled around a screwdriver like she could rebuild the entire universe if he gave her a good enough reason.

And damn it, he would.

Every day, if she let him.

He let out a quiet breath, something slow and stunned and stupidly full of love.

“I swear,” he said, voice thick, “if I live to be a hundred, nothing — and I mean nothing — will ever top hearing you say that while threatening me with a screwdriver.”

She laughed again, watery and bright, and something about the sound just wrecked him.

He reached up, brushing the back of his hand gently across her cheek, catching the tear she hadn’t wiped away yet. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he echoed, his voice lower now, more reverent than teasing. “You never did. You just had to let me in.”

He leaned in, kissed her temple, her jaw, the tip of her nose — all light and lingering like he was tracing the blueprint of something sacred.

“I’d live in a hurricane if it meant waking up next to you,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers again. “Storm and all.”

His other hand slid down to rest on her belly, cradling the gentle swell with infinite care. “And hey, if Indigo’s already throwing punches, I say we start her training early. Get her a baby-sized punching bag. Or a tiny drum set. Just really lean in.”

Rowan snorted at that, and he grinned.

“But pudding cups are nonnegotiable,” he agreed. “Obviously. It’s a Hayes household. Emotional support snacks are a birthright.”

They sat there for a beat — noses brushing, fingers linked, the nursery warm with sunlight and second chances.

And then Mason gently squeezed her hand, gaze flicking to the half-assembled crib. “Okay, boss,” he said, a spark returning to his tone. “Let’s build this thing. For Indigo. For you. For our rogue-screw, emotionally-overwhelmed, snack-powered little empire.”

He passed her the next piece of hardware like it was precious. Like she was.

And when she looked up at him through her lashes, still smiling — still wrecked and radiant and his — Mason just shook his head and whispered, “You’re never gonna believe how good we are at this.”

Rowan wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, laughing softly, that half-snickering, half-teary sound that always came out when she couldn’t quite decide whether to be sentimental or sarcastic.

“Oh my God,” she said, voice catching just a little, “you’re seriously going to immortalize my emotional breakdown as the Great Screwdriver Confession of 2025, aren’t you?” She nudged him lightly with her foot, eyes shining. “For the record, I was being very brave and only slightly threatening.”

She took the piece he handed her, turning it between her fingers before glancing up again. “And don’t act like you didn’t love it. You’re the one who fell for the girl with power tools and commitment issues.”

Her grin softened then, eyes flicking down to where his hand still rested on her belly. “And for the record, you’re lucky she takes after you. Because if Indigo gets my temper and your smirk, we’re doomed. She’ll out-argue both of us before preschool.”

Rowan picked up a screw, twisting it into place with surprising steadiness, the motion quiet and certain. “But honestly?” she said after a moment, tone gentler now. “If she’s got a storm for a heart and still finds someone who’ll sit in the eye of it with her like you do with me… I’ll call that a win.”

Her fingers brushed his as she reached for another bolt, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. “And yes, pudding cups are a birthright. Indigo deserves the good kind — the fancy ones with the whipped cream layer. None of that off-brand nonsense.”

She shot him a look, teasing but soft. “You think I’d trust our future snack legacy to discount pudding? Absolutely not.”

The crib creaked a little as she tightened the next piece, and she laughed under her breath. “Look at us,” she said quietly. “Two teenagers who couldn’t even make it through a drama club rehearsal without arguing, and now we’re here. Building cribs and futures and pretending we know what the hell we’re doing.”

Her hand settled over his, her thumb tracing slow circles across his knuckles. “You were right, though,” she added, voice low but certain. “We are good at this. Maybe not the building part.” Her eyes flicked toward the slightly crooked frame and then back at him, smiling. “But this? Us? Indigo? Yeah. We’re good at this.”

She leaned in and kissed him, quick and easy, like muscle memory — the kind that fit right into the rhythm of the room, of them, of every quiet, beautiful mess they’d made together.

Then, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, she grinned. “Now grab the next piece, Hayes. Let’s finish this before Indigo starts college.”

Mason didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t.

Not when her kiss still lingered on his mouth like a secret he never wanted to stop being told.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, all grin and glittering eyes and that impossible mix of sharp wit and soft heart that had always made him feel like the luckiest idiot alive. And maybe he was. Maybe being completely, stupidly, all-the-way-in-love with Rowan Starling — stubborn, brilliant, lowkey terrifying Rowan Starling — was the best kind of idiocy.

He picked up the next piece, pretending not to be choked up, and passed it to her. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice roughened by more than just emotion. “Captain Snack Support reporting for duty.”

A beat passed. Then, quieter: “You know, I think about that all the time. Us in the auditorium. Bickering over stage blocking and prop budgets like we were one missed cue away from throwing scripts at each other.”

He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“And somehow… this happened.” He looked around the half-finished nursery — the mismatched screws, the crooked frame, the soft paint on her cheek. “You and me. A whole actual life. You’re still terrifying, by the way. Just — now I want to build everything with you instead of avoid eye contact in the wings.”

His gaze drifted back to her belly, then to her face.

“She’s already got the best parts of us. She’s gonna be loud and smart and dramatic and full of questions we won’t know how to answer — and we’ll probably mess a million things up. But if she gets even half of what I feel looking at you right now?”

He reached out, cupped her jaw with paint-streaked fingers.

“She’s going to be the luckiest kid in the universe.”

And then he kissed her again. Slower this time. Not quick or playful or part of the rhythm — but something deeper. Like thanks. Like promise. Like reverence wrapped in a little bit of fear and a whole lot of awe.

When he finally pulled back, breath hitching slightly, he rested his forehead to hers and whispered:

“Let’s screw this thing in crooked and call it love.”

Then he passed her the final bolt with a grin. “And if Indigo ever asks how we built her crib, we lie. We say we crushed it. Nailed every screw. Instructions? Followed to the letter.”

He paused, eyes dancing. “But we do tell her about the pudding cups.”

Rowan bit the inside of her cheek, trying — and failing — not to smile. The kind that started small and soft, but grew until it felt like sunlight was breaking through her ribs.

“Oh, we are absolutely lying,” she said, laughing quietly as she took the final bolt from him. “Indigo’s gonna grow up thinking we’re basically HGTV legends. I’ll even throw in a few heroic details — like how you saved me from a rogue Allen wrench or something. It’ll be beautiful.”

She twisted the bolt into place, then sat back on her heels to admire their not-so-straight handiwork. “You realize she’s gonna inherit my chaos and your need for symmetry, right? Which means every art project and science fair from here on out will end in tears and glitter.”

When she looked up again, her grin softened. “And I don’t know if that makes her lucky, but it definitely makes her ours.”

She brushed her fingers over the paint on his jaw, like she was both teasing and memorizing him at once. “You’re really out here calling me terrifying while you’re over here building cribs and saying stuff that could end civilizations.” Her voice gentled, quieter now. “You make me feel like maybe I wasn’t supposed to have it all figured out — I was just supposed to find you.”

Her hand slid down to rest beside his on her belly, fingers lacing over his. “And if she ends up loud and stubborn and impossible to reason with,” she murmured, eyes flicking between his and the soft swell of her stomach, “then we’ll know she’s perfect. Because she’ll be ours, and she’ll be loved enough to never question it.”

She leaned in again, brushing her lips across his in a kiss that lingered — warm, sure, filled with quiet laughter against his mouth. Then, when she pulled back, she whispered with a grin, “But for real? You tell her about the pudding cups. I’m not taking the blame for that one.”

Rowan leaned her head against his shoulder, looking at the crooked crib with a small, content sigh. “You know,” she said after a beat, voice low and fond, “if love ever did have instructions… I think we ignored them beautifully.”