Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

He just watched her—watched the way her body softened beside him, the way her fingers barely reached for the edge of his sleeve like it meant something. Like she didn’t want to ask too much, even now. As if she hadn’t already handed him her heart wrapped in steady breaths and whispered futures.

He shifted closer, wordless.

Moved the blanket back over her shoulders with one hand, then slid the other into her hair—slow and sure. His fingers curled into the strands gently, working through them like he was sifting through something sacred. He took his time. Not because he wanted to stretch the moment, but because he knew this mattered. Knew she needed the quiet. Knew it was his job, now, to be the place where she could rest.

“I’ve got you,” he said finally, voice low. Calm. Certain.

Not a promise. Not a performance.

Just fact.

His thumb traced the shell of her ear, and he felt her exhale. A little deeper. A little easier. Her lashes fluttered once before settling again.

Mason let his gaze linger on her face. He memorized the way the light curved around the slope of her cheek, the way her mouth tugged just slightly like she was still smiling even half-asleep. He didn’t feel loud anymore. The whirlwind in his chest had eased the second she whispered “you’re it for me” like it wasn’t just a phrase but a decision. A grounding.

God, he wanted to be everything for her.

But right now?

He just wanted to be this.

The warmth in her hair. The quiet at her back. The steady hand that stayed when everything else in life had once left.

His thumb moved again. A rhythm. A lullaby without a tune.

And Mason let the silence stretch.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just full.

Full of the future he could already see unfolding—slow mornings like this one, glitter disasters, macaroni necklaces taped next to wedding photos. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really. But if every night ended like this—Rowan wrapped around his sleeve, their baby tucked between promises they hadn’t figured out how to say yet—he didn’t need all the answers.

He just needed this.

Still brushing through her curls, Mason leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple so lightly he wasn’t sure she’d feel it.

Then he whispered, barely louder than a breath, “Sleep, Starling.”

And in the quiet that followed, he stayed.

Because that’s what love looked like tonight.

No declarations. No fireworks.

Just a hand in her hair. A blanket shared. And the knowledge that she had never, not once, asked for too much.

The smoke hit first.

Not dramatic, not billowing—just enough to curl into Rowan’s nose and make her stomach drop. She twisted toward the oven, eyes narrowing, the timer still blinking back at her like it had done its job and this was her fault entirely.

The meatloaf looked like it had fought in a war.

Charred edges, sunken middle, a vaguely horrifying sizzle coming from the pan like it was hissing at her for trying in the first place. She pulled it out anyway, oven mitts clumsy against the sides, and set it on the stovetop with a defeated thunk.

So much for domestic goddess energy.

The overhead fan clattered to life as she jabbed at the button. Smoke began to drift upward in lazy spirals, and Rowan waved it away, muttering to herself under her breath. Her dress clung to the back of her legs from the heat of the kitchen, and she could already tell her mascara was probably not where she left it this morning.

Footsteps behind her. Soft ones. Familiar.

Rowan didn’t turn.

“I know,” she said flatly, still staring down at the crime scene in the pan.

A beat passed, and she finally looked over her shoulder, brows raised, hair sticking to her cheek.

“It was going fine until it wasn’t.”

She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked mildly unhinged—cheeks pink from the oven heat, eyes probably wild from secondhand shame. Still, he stepped closer. She could feel it—the quiet weight of him, the steadiness.

Her arms crossed tight over her chest, potholder still in hand.

“It was supposed to be cute,” she confessed, voice dipping with something closer to embarrassment than frustration. “I was going to feed you like one of those Pinterest wives who arranges parsley on top of everything.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgment. It was amusement. She could feel the warmth of it radiating off him, the way his shoulders probably shook just a little as he held back a laugh.

She turned back toward the stove with a sigh. Smoke still lingered. The meatloaf looked worse by the second.

“I tried,” she said softer now, glancing at him through her lashes. “Don’t tell my mom. She’ll never let me live this down.”

His response wasn’t verbal—it was the kind of grin she’d grown to trust more than words. The kind that said you’re okay, even if dinner isn’t.

She leaned her hip against the counter and blew a strand of hair out of her face. Outside, the quiet hum of spring hung in the air. Her parents wouldn’t be home for hours—they were deep in book club debates and espresso shots by now. The house was theirs for the evening.

“I swear,” she muttered, deadpan. “If you suggest takeout, I’m going to cry.”

But her eyes didn’t mean it. Not really. They were still soft around the edges, still holding that flicker of hope she hadn’t been able to burn—no matter how many things she ruined trying to get it all right.

He didn’t have to say anything.

The warmth of his presence was enough.

Even with the smell of charred meat and cinnamon candles clashing in the air, Rowan felt something good settle into her bones.

Dinner might’ve gone up in smoke.

But the night?

Still salvageable.

Mason knew something was wrong the second he opened the door and smelled… chaos.

Not smoke exactly—though, yeah, definitely some of that—but ambition. Effort. Like someone had tried really hard to make the night special and ended up in a lowkey war with the oven.

And God, he loved her for it.

He rounded the corner just in time to catch her muttering to herself, standing over a tray of what he assumed used to be meatloaf. Now it looked more like an abstract art piece titled Domestic Regret (Medium: Fire and Tears).

She didn’t turn. Just said “I know” in that voice—flat, fierce, just barely hanging onto the edge of frazzled.

And Mason?

He nearly lost it.

Because she looked ridiculous—hair stuck to her cheek, cheeks flushed, potholder clenched like she was about to throw down with the stove itself—and still, somehow, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

It was like catching the sun mid-sneeze. Glorious. Human. Utterly hers.

He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, biting down the grin threatening to split his face. When she finally looked over her shoulder, he caught the flash of her eyes—wild, exasperated, a little pink with embarrassment—and loved her more for it.

When she said it was supposed to be cute, Mason nodded solemnly.

“Honestly?” he said, finally walking over. “It still kind of is.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the way her shoulders stayed tense, like the weight of a thousand Pinterest fails was collapsing on her at once. So he stepped closer—close enough that their arms brushed, close enough that she could feel him smile before she saw it.

He peeked into the pan and winced—just enough to be dramatic.

“So… we’re thinking medium-rare? Or more of a ‘served in silence while we process our regrets’ vibe?”

She gave him a look. He beamed.

“I mean, sure, it’s a little... post-apocalyptic,” he added, nudging her gently with his shoulder. “But I love the effort. You really captured the emotion of a kitchen betrayal. That’s art.”

When she said not to tell her mom, Mason leaned in conspiratorially.

“Swear it,” he whispered. “Cross my heart. This dies with me and the meatloaf.”

Her glare softened into something closer to a pout. He reached up and gently brushed the hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger for a second longer than necessary.

“You tried,” he echoed, voice gentler now. “That’s kind of my favorite thing about you.”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because despite the smoke, despite the defeated slump of her shoulders, despite everything that didn’t go right—she was still standing here, trying. For him. For this.

He could’ve kissed her right then.

Instead, he turned and opened the cabinet behind her, grabbed two bowls, and plopped them on the counter.

“You said no takeout,” he said lightly, pulling out a box of cereal and flashing her a grin. “But you didn’t say anything about an emergency Froot Loop dinner.”

He held the box up like a white flag—or a marriage proposal, depending on how low the bar was.

Then, quieter, as he met her eyes again:

“Seriously. You made a mess. Big deal. We’ll burn a hundred more things before we get this whole ‘domestic bliss’ thing down. Still wanna do it all with you.”

He watched her expression shift—soften—and felt something warm settle deep in his chest.

Because dinner was ruined.

But the night?

The night was theirs.

And so was everything after.

Rowan stared at the cereal box like it had personally insulted her ancestors.

Then—slowly, carefully, as if the moment might shatter if she moved too fast—she lifted her gaze and looked at him.

And that was it.

That stupid boy with the crooked grin and the singed meatloaf jokes and the audacity to be that gentle with her on a night she felt like a walking disaster—he was everything. Everything good. Everything safe. Everything hers.

Her eyes stung again, but she didn’t cry.

She sniffed, wiped the back of her wrist across her cheek with a grumble that could’ve meant anything from “thanks” to “shut up before I marry you,” and then stepped forward to swipe the cereal box out of his hands.

“I cannot believe I burned meatloaf,” she muttered, voice still a little thick but sharper now. Alive. “Like—not even something complicated. Not soufflé. Not croissants. Meatloaf. The most middle-class meal to ever exist.”

She turned toward the cupboard, grabbing two mismatched bowls—hers a chipped old favorite, his a stolen mug—and plunked them down with the grace of someone surrendering to reality.

“I was trying to be sweet,” she said, almost to herself now, pouring cereal with a vengeance. “Sunday dinner. Parents gone. Real grown-up energy.”

She paused.

Glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

“You really think it was cute?”

Because part of her still wasn’t sure. Part of her still felt like the ash and chaos were the only parts that showed. Like she’d failed some unspoken test.

And Mason—being Mason—just looked at her like she’d invented the moon.

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched at the corners anyway. A near-smile. Dangerous.

“You’re so annoying,” she said under her breath, handing him the mug full of cereal. “I screw up dinner and you go full golden retriever on me.”

Then she sat on the counter beside the sink, feet dangling, the overhead light making her hair shine like static and stubbornness.

“Fine,” she said, raising her spoon like a toast. “Here’s to us. Meatloaf murderers. Kitchen-challenged adults. Domestic disasters with excellent cereal taste.”

She took a bite, crunched loudly, and looked at him over the rim of her bowl.

“We’re still gonna pretend this night was romantic, by the way. I want you to remember this as the time I lovingly burned dinner for you while pretending not to panic.”

A beat.

Then, softer, a little less performative:

“Thanks for showing up for the messiest parts of me, Hayes.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

Didn’t have to.

Because she felt it—his hand brushing against hers, warm and steady, like it had always known where to find her.

And even with the ruined meatloaf and the smoky kitchen and the cereal dinner balanced in mismatched bowls—

She felt full.

Mason didn’t know how cereal became a love language.

But apparently, it was.

Because Rowan Starling—queen of eyeliner and sharp comebacks, girl who could dismantle someone with a glance—just looked at him like he might actually be magic. Like he was the safe thing in the room for once.

And then she took the cereal box.

Like a challenge.

Like a declaration.

He didn’t even care that she insulted meatloaf like it was a family heirloom. Didn’t flinch when she launched into her impromptu TED Talk on how middle-class her dinner aspirations had been. He just watched her—bowl in one hand, vengeance in the other—and smiled so wide it was probably criminal.

Because this?

This was romance.

Not the version they sold in movies. Not candles and violins and soufflés with words he couldn’t pronounce. No—this was Rowan barefoot in her kitchen, cheeks still pink from smoke and stress, pouring cereal like she was reclaiming her dignity one colorful loop at a time.

And he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

When she asked if he really thought it was cute, he didn’t say yes.

He said, “Cutest thing I’ve ever seen, actually.”

Deadpan. Serious. Maybe even a little breathless.

Because he meant it.

Every scorched edge. Every snarky deflection. Every sharp-to-soft moment she let him witness.

She rolled her eyes and handed him the cereal mug like it was a peace treaty she’d grudgingly signed, and he took it like it was made of gold.

He followed her lead, hopping up to sit beside her, their legs swinging just slightly out of sync, and raised his spoon with a stupid little flourish.

“To domestic disasters,” he echoed, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long may we overcook.”

They crunched in companionable silence for a moment, the sound oddly comforting beneath the hum of the fan and the distant echo of a playlist still going somewhere in the background.

And then—

She hit him with it.

Not a joke. Not a jab.

Just: “Thanks for showing up for the messiest parts of me.”

And yeah, he felt it.

Right in the chest. The kind of feeling that didn’t have a name. The kind that settled in deep and stayed there, tucked behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.

He didn’t say anything back.

Didn’t have to.

He just reached out, let his fingers brush against hers, slow and warm and certain.

Because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was stay.

Through burnt meatloaf. Through the soft edges and the sharp ones. Through every unspoken panic and every bite of cereal shared at a chipped kitchen counter.

This wasn’t just dinner.

It was a beginning.

Messy. Unfiltered. Real.

And for Mason Hayes?

It was perfect.

Rowan didn’t look at him right away.

Couldn’t.

Not when his fingers were brushing hers like they belonged there. Not when her chest was still a little tight from the weight of trying too hard and not getting it right—and him being here anyway.

But she felt it.

That thing he always did. That showing up without demanding anything in return. That quiet kind of steady that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

She took another spoonful of cereal, chewing slowly, pretending she wasn’t absolutely unraveling over a man who treated a meatloaf disaster like it was a love letter.

And then—when she trusted her voice not to crack—she said, “You know I’m not used to this, right?”

She kept her eyes on her bowl, voice quiet. Not sad. Just honest.

“This whole… being allowed to screw up and not have it mean I’m the screw-up.”

She nudged her foot lightly against his. No kick. No sass. Just contact. Proof of presence.

“I used to think I had to be good at everything just to be worth keeping around. That if I burned the dinner or forgot the thing or—God forbid—had feelings about anything, it’d be too much.”

Finally, she glanced up at him, just enough to catch the edge of his expression.

Soft. Wrecked. Still here.

“But then you show up,” she said, a little stronger now, “and you’re standing there with your dumb mug full of Froot Loops like that’s always been the plan.”

Her mouth tugged upward—halfway between a smirk and something far more dangerous.

“And it just… unstitches something.”

She tapped her spoon against the rim of the bowl, a little too casual now, because vulnerability had an expiration date and she was getting close to hers.

“You keep doing this thing,” she added, bumping his shoulder gently, “where you make me believe I’m allowed to exist in the in-between. The burnt meatloaf and half-washed dishes and not knowing what the hell I’m doing.”

A beat.

And then, quieter:

“I like existing there. With you.”

She didn’t let the silence hang. Not long.

Instead, she clinked her spoon against his with mock ceremony and took another bite.

“You still owe me dinner,” she said, voice lighter now. “But I’ll accept this chaos as an installment plan.”

Her fingers brushed his again. This time, she didn’t pull away.

And yeah—maybe it wasn’t the romantic night she’d planned.

But it was theirs.

And somehow, that was better.

Mason didn’t speak right away.

He couldn’t.

Because Rowan was saying things that felt like keys. Unlocking doors in her that had probably been bolted shut since middle school. Since she learned that love was conditional and soft wasn’t safe.

And here she was, in the aftermath of a meatloaf massacre, telling him the truth.

Not the polished kind. Not the cute kind.

The real kind.

I used to think I had to be good at everything just to be worth keeping around.

That line?

It cracked something wide open in him.

Not because he hadn’t suspected it—but because she said it. Out loud. With her eyes on a cereal bowl and her foot gently nudging his like she couldn’t bear the silence that followed truth.

He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t fill the air with platitudes or promises or some Hallmark line about how perfect she was to him no matter what.

Instead, he set his mug down carefully, turned just enough to face her more fully, and said:

“You know the first thing I noticed about you?”

He waited, watched her raise one brow like she half-expected him to say something idiotic.

He didn’t.

“The way you walked into a room like you owed it nothing,” he said. “Like you weren’t asking permission to take up space. Even when I know now that you were probably holding your breath the whole time.”

She blinked. Stilled.

“And I just kept thinking…” He gave a soft laugh. “God, if she ever lets someone love her for real? They’re never gonna stop.”

He nudged her foot back with his. Gentle. Steady.

“So yeah. Burn the dinner. Drop the ball. Cry in the cereal aisle if you need to. I don’t care.”

His voice lowered, not dramatic—grounded.

“You’re not the screw-up, Ro. You’re the girl I want to eat flaming meatloaf with at midnight and then marry anyway.”

Her spoon paused midair.

He smiled, crooked and hopeless.

“I like the in-between too.”

Then—just to keep her from bolting emotionally—he picked up his spoon again and clinked it against hers like they were toasting to surviving their own chaos.

“You know,” he said, as casually as he could while still feeling everything, “this might be my favorite dinner ever. I mean, I’m not not offended you tried to cook without supervision, but…”

He grinned. “You’re worth every smoke alarm.”

When she didn’t pull her hand away, when her fingers brushed his and stayed, Mason felt something shift.

Not big.

Not loud.

But lasting.

This was it.

A girl in a sundress on a kitchen counter with cereal and ash in the air—and him, standing still in the wreckage like it was the view he’d been waiting his whole life to find.

They weren’t perfect.

But they were here.

And Mason was never going to stop showing up.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Her throat felt tight again—not the crying kind this time, not quite. It was the kind that came when someone said something that felt… true. Deep-in-the-marrow true. The kind that hit a place you didn’t even know was still bruised until someone looked at it gently.

And God, did he look at her gently.

Like he saw all the corners she’d tried to sharpen. All the years she’d spent building armor out of wit and stubbornness. All the hours spent wondering if being loved meant being smaller. Easier. Perfect.

She stared at her cereal for a beat, then looked up—really looked—and found him already watching her like she’d just rewritten the sky.

“You wanna marry me over meatloaf?” she asked, trying for light, teasing, familiar.

But her voice didn’t land quite where she meant it to. It was a little too quiet. A little too shaky at the edges. Because yeah, it was a joke—but not really.

And he knew it.

Of course he did.

Because he was still sitting there, calm and open and so heartbreakingly steady. Because when he said she wasn’t the screw-up, he didn’t flinch. He just… meant it.

Rowan set her spoon down. Pressed her palm flat to the counter. Then reached across the small space between them and curled her fingers around his wrist—not tightly. Just enough.

Just to make sure he didn’t vanish with the feeling.

“I didn’t think anyone would stay through this version of me,” she said. “The one who burns dinner and overthinks grocery lists and spirals when the laundry piles up. This is the part I usually hide.”

Her thumb brushed his wrist, slow and certain now.

“But you didn’t blink. You didn’t run. You just… sat down and made cereal feel like a love language.”

She smiled then. Soft. Barely there.

And then, quieter:

“You know how dangerous that is, Hayes?”

A beat.

Then, without waiting for his reply, she shifted closer—legs still swinging, back still a little tense, heart wide freaking open—and leaned into his shoulder.

Just barely.

Just enough to say I’m here without having to say I’m scared.

“Maybe,” she murmured, half into his hoodie, “I like the in-between too.”

And that?

That was as close to a vow as she’d ever made.

She stayed like that for a while—long enough for the cereal to go soggy, long enough for the silence to settle like something sacred—and thought about what it meant to be seen like this. Not in spite of the mess. But because of it.

And when she finally moved, it was only to grab the bag of marshmallows from the pantry and drop them between them with a shrug.

“For dessert,” she said, like it was obvious. “Because meatloaf deserves a sweet ending.”

And maybe she did too.

Mason didn’t breathe for a second.

Not when she asked if he wanted to marry her over meatloaf—not because she was really asking, but because part of her was.

Not when her fingers found his wrist like she was testing gravity, making sure he was still solid beneath her touch.

And definitely not when she said this is the part I usually hide.

Because fuck.

This wasn’t a confession.

It was a trust fall.

And she was choosing to fall into him.

He looked at her—really looked—and all he could think was, God, how did I get here?

Not in a lost way.

In a how lucky can one person be kind of way.

Because here was Rowan Starling: girl made of fire and fury and fight, sitting next to him with cereal cooling in a chipped bowl and honesty spilling out of her like it had nowhere else to go.

And she was scared.

He could feel it in the way her legs still swung, like she needed motion to keep from unraveling completely. In the way her head just barely touched his shoulder, like she wanted to disappear into the moment but didn’t quite know how to stay there yet.

But she was trying.

And that was everything.

“You think I don’t love this version of you?” he said, his voice low, steady. “Ro, this is the version.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just sat there, letting the quiet wrap around them like a blanket, letting her lean in without pressure, without performance, without needing to prove anything.

Then—after a long moment—he shifted too.

Turned just enough to rest his temple lightly against the top of her head, his free hand brushing her knee like a quiet I’m still here.

“You don’t have to impress me,” he added, softer now. “I’m already in. With the overthinking. With the laundry piles. With the burnt meatloaf of course."

She laughed then—tiny and muffled—and he swore he could feel it vibrate in his bones.

“You have no idea how dangerous you are,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

Because she was unraveling in front of him and letting him stay.

Because she was letting the mess breathe, and still reaching for his hand.

Because she was building something with him in between all the trying-too-hards and could’ve-gotten-it-rights.

He glanced at her as she reached for the pantry and dropped a bag of marshmallows between them like it was a mic drop. He grinned.

“For dessert,” she said.

And Mason, completely gone for this ridiculous, radiant girl, just nodded.

“Only if we toast a few,” he said, already reaching for a fork. “Over the stovetop. Like the most romantic arsonists imaginable.”

Rowan rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move away.

And as the smoke from earlier faded and the kitchen settled back into quiet hums and sugar, Mason thought:

This is it.

This is what love looked like.

Not perfect. Not polished.

But real.

Cereal, marshmallows, soft confessions, and all.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Mostly because she couldn’t.

Because her throat had done that thing again—the tightening, the swelling, the half-laugh, half-cry ache that came from being completely seen and loved anyway.

She hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Hadn’t meant to crack herself open like an egg on a weeknight over cereal and marshmallows and burnt pride. But he made it so goddamn easy.

Too easy.

And now here he was—sitting beside her, warm and solid and calm as ever—saying things like I’m already in like it was obvious.

Like she hadn’t spent years thinking she had to be brilliant or funny or perfect just to keep people around.

She stared at the marshmallows. Focused on their soft edges and unnatural bounce because if she looked at him too long, she’d dissolve. Right here. On the linoleum.

But when he leaned in, temple pressed to hers, hand steady on her knee—God, she folded into it like instinct. Like muscle memory.

“I don’t know how you do that,” she murmured, voice rough with emotion. “Make everything feel like it’s not about the mess.”

She tilted her head a little, cheek brushing his jaw.

“I’ve had people love the idea of me. You’re the only one who’s ever stayed through the version that forgets the timer and buys the wrong milk and panics over whether the baby’s room should have blackout curtains or fairy lights.”

She exhaled, slow and full.

“You make staying look easy. Even when I don’t.”

Then, because the moment was starting to feel too big—too soft—she nudged the marshmallow bag with her elbow and reached for one.

“Toasted marshmallows over the stove,” she said, forcing her voice light again. “You know my mom would be horrified, right?”

But her smile stayed this time. Real. Settled. A little crooked at the edges.

She handed him a fork. “You’re the arsonist, Hayes. Lead the way.”

And as he lit the burner and pulled her a little closer, Rowan leaned in too—still wrecked, still messy, still just figuring it out.

But here.

And when she looked over at him—lit by the blue flame of a burner, laughter already on his tongue and her love story tucked in the curl of his grin—she thought:

This is it.

This is what home feels like.

Rowan leaned her elbow on the counter, chin resting in her palm, eyes locked on Mason as he moved around their smoke-scented kitchen like a man on a marshmallow mission. The burner flame flickered blue against the curve of his jaw, casting soft shadows while he roasted the sugar like it was some kind of sacred ritual.

She couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the camera-ready kind. The dumb, soft kind—the kind that tugged at her cheeks and made her chest feel warm even though the window above the sink was cracked and letting in the early evening breeze.

This wasn’t the night she planned. Not even close.

But it was the kind of night she’d remember.

The kind where she wore her favorite sweater and sat on the counter with sticky fingers. The kind where the meatloaf flopped but the laughter didn’t. The kind where she let herself want this without apology.

She popped a marshmallow in her mouth and immediately winced as it stuck to her lip. With a soft, amused groan, she scraped it off with her pinky and muttered under her breath, “This is such a disaster.”

And it was.

A gloriously dumb, slightly unhinged, totally domestic disaster.

Marshmallows were on a paper towel. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat next to an open bag of pretzels. Her phone was playing a soft acoustic playlist from the corner of the room, something with humming and a guitar riff she liked. The smoke from earlier had settled into the air like seasoning.

And she was happy.

Stupidly happy.

Her stomach still hurt from laughing. Her fingers smelled like sugar and soap. Her cheeks were warm. And maybe—maybe for the first time in a while—she didn’t feel like she had to earn the moment.

She tilted her head, eyes following the curve of the scene. The counter. The scorched pan in the sink. The flicker of the stove. The boy who didn’t run when things burned.

She reached out, tugged lightly on his sleeve, and kissed him once. Soft. Simple.

Sticky with sugar and something far more permanent.

Then she whispered against his shoulder, more to herself than anything:

“I love this life.”

And she meant it.

Exactly as it was. No edits. No filters. No do-overs.

Just… this.

Imperfect. Messy. Real.

Hers.

Mason didn’t even try to hide the grin that was pulling at his face.

Not when she kissed him with marshmallow on her lips. Not when she whispered I love this life like it wasn’t the single most important sentence he’d ever heard fall out of someone’s mouth. Not when she looked around at a kitchen full of wreckage and still somehow called it home.

Because it was.

Not just the place.

Her.

The life they were building—sticky-fingered, smoke-scented, soft around the edges—it was her. And he’d burn every meatloaf from now until forever if it meant coming back to this version of her every night.

The one who let herself want things.

The one who believed she didn’t have to be perfect to be kept.

He glanced over at her, perched on the counter like she belonged there, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, floral dress wrinkled, eyes full of something soft and wild and real.

And God.

He was gone.

“You love this life,” he repeated quietly, voice low like he didn’t want to break the moment. “Ro… I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to hear you say that.”

He reached over and brushed his thumb gently across the corner of her mouth, wiping away a smudge of sugar like it was holy.

“You don’t know what it does to me—seeing you let yourself be happy. Not perfect. Not curated. Just… you. Here. In this kitchen. In your favorite sweater and socks that don’t match.”

He rested his forehead against hers.

“I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.”

He didn’t say it like a proposal. He said it like a promise.

Because he meant it.

Not just the wedding. Not just the big moments with vows and champagne and a playlist full of their songs. But the rest of it.

The Tuesday nights when everything burns and they eat cereal in mugs. The Sunday mornings when she’s quiet and curled into his side. The bad days. The boring ones. The beautiful, ridiculous, unfiltered life they were already living.

That’s what he wanted forever to look like.

Mason leaned back just enough to look at her again—really look—and felt his heart ache with how lucky he was.

Not because she let him in.

But because she stayed.

And she wasn’t just staying in his life anymore.

She was building it with him.

He picked up another marshmallow, stabbed it with the fork, and held it up like it was something sacred.

“To the mess,” he said, smiling.

“To meatloaf disasters. To cereal for dinner. To you and me and every burned corner and soft middle and half-laughed, half-cried night we’ve got coming.”

He held the marshmallow over the flame until it turned golden and cracked, then blew it out and offered it to her.

“I’m all in, Ro. For every version of this.”

She took it—of course she did.

And when she bit into it and smiled like it meant something?

Mason knew.

He wasn’t waiting for life to start anymore.

It already had.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t, honestly.

Because everything about the moment—the warmth of the stove still lingering in the air, the sugary smoke curling around them like a second kind of gravity, the way his words settled into her like they belonged there—made her feel like her whole chest was one deep breath away from splitting open.

He said he was all in.

Like it was simple. Like it wasn’t the scariest and most beautiful thing she’d ever been handed without strings.

She stared at the marshmallow in her hand for a second longer than necessary, then popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly like it might help ground her.

It didn’t.

She was already floating.

And not in the way she used to when things felt too good to be true—tense, ready to fall.

This was different.

This felt… safe.

Real.

She leaned forward, chin propped on her palm again, eyes locked on his. That crooked smile. That firelight in his gaze. That voice still echoing in her head like a vow.

I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.

God, she could feel the truth of it settling beneath her ribs.

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” she murmured, lips quirking into something wicked-soft, “when I turn into a complete menace over table centerpieces and try to order our wedding cake from a place that exclusively sells things shaped like ghosts.”

Her voice was teasing. But her eyes—her eyes were full of something else entirely.

Wonder. Gratitude. That slowly growing belief she didn’t have to earn this.

She pushed her cereal bowl aside and swung her legs gently against the counter, reaching for the hem of his hoodie and curling her fingers in it.

“I’m not used to being chosen like this,” she said softly, almost absently. “Like the mess isn’t something people try to fix or survive. Like it’s part of the reason you want to stay.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And she let herself believe it.

Let herself want the Tuesday nights and the cereal spoons and the slightly-too-charred marshmallows and the boy who never asked her to be anything but exactly herself.

Then she reached up, tugged his hoodie just enough to bring him back to her mouth, and kissed him slow.

It wasn’t loud or showy.

It was promise. It was thanks. It was I want this too.

And when she pulled back, eyes bright, voice steady, she added—

“You’re gonna be stuck with me for a long time, Hayes.”

Like it wasn’t a threat.

Like it was a gift.

Because it was.

Mason didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare do anything that might break the gravity of her fingers curled in his hoodie, or the way her mouth had just fit against his like a vow instead of a kiss.

Because Rowan Starling—this version of her, messy and magic and trusting him with pieces of herself she used to hide—had just told him he was stuck with her.

And Mason?

He couldn’t imagine anything better.

He felt it in his chest, sharp and quiet, the way her voice softened when she said she wasn’t used to being chosen like this. Not loudly. Not out of obligation. But because someone saw every crack and loved her not in spite of them—but because of them.

He looked at her—legs swinging against the counter, cardigan sleeves pushed back, marshmallow sugar on her fingers and a firelight gleam in her eyes—and thought:

This is it.

This is the girl he gets to wake up next to for the rest of his life. The girl he gets to make dinner with, mess up recipes for, dance barefoot in the kitchen with at 11 p.m. when the smoke alarm’s finally stopped beeping.

He reached up, gently ran his thumb over her jaw, and let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh—more of a soft holy shit.

“Stuck with you?” he said, voice low and a little ragged. “Ro, you’re the best part of the plan.”

He leaned in, their foreheads brushing now.

“I want the ghost cake. The centerpiece arguments. The stress breakdown in aisle six over mismatched napkins. I want every second of it, even the parts that drive us both nuts.”

A smile tugged at his lips.

“I especially want the part where you’re still sitting on this counter in ten years, talking trash while we burn frozen pizza and raise kids who think marshmallows count as dinner.”

He bumped her knee with his, a soft nudge that felt like forever.

“You don’t have to get used to being chosen,” he said. “Just get used to me never stopping.”

And it wasn’t just something sweet to say.

It was the whole truth of him.

Because she could test him, push him, tease him, challenge every part of the life they were building—and he’d still be here. Arms wide. Hoodie soft. Spoon ready.

Because choosing her wasn’t a hard thing.

It was breathing.

He kissed her then, slow and sure, like he was sealing something in place.

Not a moment.

A life.

And when he pulled back, eyes bright and chest full in that achey, delicious way love tends to hit at 2 a.m., he just whispered:

“You’re my home, Rowan. Always.”

Then he grabbed the marshmallow bag again and grinned.

“Now come on. Let’s burn dessert like it's a ritual. You’ve got years of chaos to plan, and I wanna be fully sugared up when you pick ghost-shaped invitations.”

Rowan didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—just let herself feel it. Let herself sit in the warmth of his words like they were a blanket thrown over all the cold places she used to keep hidden.

Because he meant it.

Not just the kiss. Not just the forehead press or the ghost cake jokes or the soft holy-shit way he looked at her like she was everything. He meant all of it.

He meant her.

And God, she was still learning how to hold that.

Still figuring out how to let someone see every frayed edge and choose her anyway. Not because she was shiny or impressive or got the meatloaf right—but because she was Rowan. Chaos and care and dry sarcasm and second-guessing and all.

Her voice wavered, just slightly.

“You know you’re gonna regret giving me full control over the wedding theme, right?” she said, soft but teasing, her fingers toying with the edge of his hoodie again. “I’ve got a saved folder called ‘spooky but sentimental.’ You have no idea what’s coming for you.”

But her eyes were still glassy. Still open in that way she never used to let herself be.

Because the truth was?

She didn’t care about the cake. Or the centerpiece meltdown. Or even the vows, not really.

She just cared that he was still here. That he was going to be.

Always.

“You say I’m your home,” she murmured, letting her palm flatten lightly against his chest, “but you feel like mine too.”

It was quieter than her usual comebacks. Less armor. More ache.

She looked up at him, all steady eyes and slight smirk.

“And if we’re doing this marshmallow-burning, forever-mess kind of thing…” Her thumb brushed the cotton over his heartbeat. “You better be ready to dance with me in the kitchen at seventy, because I plan on playing our stupid playlists at full volume until the neighbors hate us.”

She grinned now, real and wide, and pulled the marshmallow bag out of his hand like she was claiming something holy.

“Now hand me a fork, Hayes.”

A beat.

“Let’s burn some sugar and call it a win.”

Because this was what they were.

Disaster dinners. Soft confessions. Love that didn’t need permission.

And for the first time in her life, Rowan didn’t want to run from it.

She wanted to stay.

Rowan stabbed a marshmallow with the kind of precision that only came from years of pent-up emotion and a lifelong avoidance of fully letting her guard down. But now? Tonight? She wasn’t hiding.

She held the marshmallow out toward the flame, watching it puff and blacken slightly at the edges.

Her voice came out casual, like she hadn’t rehearsed it in her head five times already.

“So, uh. My dad offered up his office,” she said, rotating the marshmallow slowly, her eyes on the tiny blaze. “Said it made more sense than cramming a crib into my closet. Figured Indy could use more than a sliver of wall space and a dream.”

She glanced at Mason, cheeks already warming from both the fire and the weight of the words. “He even boxed up all his stuff last night. Said he was ready for her. That we all were.”

The marshmallow caught fire for half a second—Rowan blew it out before it turned to charcoal and handed it to Mason like it was no big deal. But her fingers lingered near his for a beat too long.

She didn’t need him to say anything. Didn’t need a speech.

She just needed him to know that this—this family, this life—they were all in. That it wasn’t just her anymore, slowly unfolding around the edges. Her parents were too. Offering rooms. Making space. Believing.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, marshmallow smoke still curling in the air around them.

“I didn’t ask him,” she murmured. “He just… did it.”

A pause.

“I think part of me didn’t believe they’d really want this. Not like this. Not now. But I was wrong.”

She didn’t cry this time.

Didn’t fall apart.

She just breathed in, let it fill the quiet.

“They want her. They already love her.”

She tilted her chin toward him, half-smile playing on her lips now. “That office was sacred ground, you know. Printer from the Jurassic era. Framed crossword puzzle from 1998. The man once threatened to haunt me if I moved his stapler.”

She bumped her knee against his gently, soft and warm and full of something weightless.

“But he gave it up for her. Just like that.”

And in her voice—underneath the sarcasm and the steady—was that glimmer again. The one that said maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe this whole thing could actually be beautiful.

Mason took the marshmallow from her fingers like it was breakable.

Not because it was molten sugar. But because it came with something else—something bigger. A weight she hadn’t named, but offered all the same.

Her dad gave up his office.

Without being asked.

Without conditions.

Just did it.

Mason didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t. Not with the way his chest had gone all tight and aching and full in the space of a heartbeat. Not with the way Rowan leaned her head against his shoulder like she finally believed she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

He just sat there, quietly stunned, the charred marshmallow resting in his hand like some kind of sacred offering.

And maybe it was.

Because this wasn’t just about a room. It wasn’t just about drawers or wall space or turning sacred stapler territory into a nursery.

This was belonging.

This was Rowan’s past—sharp-edged and private—opening.

And letting him, letting Indy, step fully into it.

He turned slightly, enough to press a kiss into her hair.

“You didn’t have to ask,” he echoed softly. “Because they already see her as theirs.”

He didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t joke. Didn’t pull it into something lighter.

Because this was not light.

This was weight in the best way.

This was her dad boxing up pieces of his identity and saying, This matters more.

Mason let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing lightly against her knee where it had bumped his.

“You realize,” he murmured, “you just casually told me that your dad—Captain Stapler Defense—voluntarily gave up his sacred zone without even being bribed?”

He tilted his head just enough to see her face, the smile she was fighting off, the way her eyes still held that soft shine even beneath the sarcasm.

“That man once made me sign a guestbook to borrow a pen,” he added. “And now he’s clearing out decades of office clutter so his granddaughter has room to nap and scream and throw teething rings at the walls.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, something amazed and tender.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved your family more.”

He meant it. Every word.

Because this wasn’t just Rowan believing. It was her whole world leaning forward and making room for a future they hadn’t planned—but wanted. Fully. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

Mason turned back to the flame, finally roasting his own marshmallow, rotating the fork slowly between his fingers.

“I hope she grows up knowing she was never an accident,” he said after a beat. “That from the second she existed, she had people making space. Moving things. Rearranging whole lives just so she’d know she belonged.”

He looked back at Rowan—her cardigan sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair falling over her eyes, hands sticky with sugar and heart wide open.

“And I hope she sees how brave her mom is.”

He didn’t say it to make her cry.

He said it because it was true.

Because this—this life they were building in charred desserts and quiet evenings—was full of more courage than anything he’d ever seen on a field or stage.

He handed her his marshmallow.

Burned just enough. Gooey at the center.

“Here,” he said. “Trade you for another truth.”

A beat.

“I love this life too.”

And he did.

So much it scared him sometimes.

But he wasn’t running.

Not from her. Not from this.

Because she was the kind of story he wanted to live inside of. Forever.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She just looked at him—really looked—like maybe this was the first time she was letting herself feel how big it all was. How safe. How loved. Like it wasn’t just Mason who wanted this life with her—but her whole family, folding her new beginning into theirs like it had always belonged there.

Her fingers curled softly into the cuff of his sleeve. She didn’t pull. Didn’t squeeze. Just held on, like she needed that tiny point of contact to keep from floating away entirely.

“He boxed it all up,” she murmured, eyes still on the half-melted marshmallow in his hand. “The framed comic strips. The old computer. Even the mug with the ‘World’s Okayest Lawyer’ label he swore was ironic.”

A pause. A shaky little breath.

“He said it was time to make space for something better.”

Her voice cracked a little on the word better. But she didn’t try to hide it. Not this time.

Because maybe this was the part she didn’t talk about. The part that never felt quite hers—the idea that softness could exist without being torn apart. That her mistakes didn’t cancel out her worth. That something she helped make could be wanted so fiercely, so easily.

“I didn’t even ask him,” she added. “Didn’t say a word.”

And maybe that was the part that undid her the most.

Because for so long, love had felt like something she had to chase. Something conditional. Something earned. But now—now it showed up in a room being emptied. In Mason’s hand brushing hers. In the marshmallow he gave her just because.

She took it.

And when she bit into it, when the sugar stuck to the corner of her lip and the warmth hit her tongue, she laughed.

A real one.

Small and soft and alive.

Then, eyes glinting under the kitchen light, she leaned in just enough to whisper against his jaw, “We’re gonna have to repaint, you know.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers, like the weight of all that emotion had tipped into something she could carry now.

“Something weird. Something her. Not pink.”

She popped the rest of the marshmallow into her mouth, chewed, then mumbled through the sweetness, “You already know I’m vetoing beige.”

And just like that—it was happening.

The healing. The hope.

The start of something they hadn’t dared to name before.

She swung her legs off the counter, landed barefoot on the kitchen tile, and turned to face him fully—bare shoulders, sticky hands, and every bit of her heart wide open.

“I want her to walk into that room and know it was made just for her,” Rowan said. “And that she was wanted long before we ever met her.”

She stepped forward, gently took his hand again, and pressed her fingers between his.

“And that she’s got a dad who would build furniture, and fight off every matching napkin in Target if it meant making her feel safe.”

A beat.

Then, quietly: “And a mom who finally believes she can do this. Because you stayed.”

Her eyes shimmered.

But this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was joy. Big, wobbly, life-altering joy.

And when she smiled, Mason didn’t have to say a thing.

Because they were already living the answer.

Mason’s heart was wrecked.

Not in the dramatic, heartache way. In the holy shit, how did I get so lucky kind of way. The kind of wrecked that rearranged you. Made you quiet inside. Made you still.

Because Rowan Starling was standing barefoot in their smoke-scented kitchen, hands sticky with marshmallow and truth, looking at him like she wasn’t just choosing this life—they were building it together, piece by imperfect piece.

And she was still here.

Not clinging. Not bracing. Here.

She said her dad boxed it all up. The office. The comics. The mug. Said he made space for something better, and Mason felt the word better hit him straight in the ribs. Because she didn’t say it lightly. Didn’t toss it out like it meant nothing.

She said it like someone who’d spent her whole life doubting if she was enough—and was finally starting to believe she was.

He didn’t try to fill the silence when her voice cracked.

Didn’t try to fix it.

Just watched her take that marshmallow from his hand like it was something sacred, like letting herself be taken care of didn’t make her weaker—but realer.

And when she laughed?

That quiet, caught-off-guard kind of laugh that lit up her whole face?

Mason swore he’d remember that sound forever.

Then she whispered against his jaw—we’re gonna have to repaint, you know—and he just about lost it again.

God, he loved her.

Loved the way she pivoted from emotional collapse to weird paint decisions like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loved that she didn’t want pink. Loved that she’d already vetoed beige. Loved that she was standing in the aftermath of all her fears, ready to design a future anyway.

When she stepped off the counter and turned to face him fully, something in him clicked into place.

Not like a lock.

Like a landing.

He took in all of her—bare shoulders, messy hair, soft grin, sugar on her fingers—and felt it: that big, quiet joy she was finally letting herself feel.

And then she said it.

That she wanted their daughter to know the room was made for her. That she was wanted long before she arrived. That Rowan believed she could do this—because he stayed.

Mason blinked, hard.

His throat tightened.

Not because it hurt—but because it didn’t.

This was the moment he knew he’d never doubt again.

That she believed in the life they were building. In herself. In them.

He squeezed her hand gently, brushing his thumb between her fingers.

“Okay,” he said, voice quiet but full. “No beige. No pink. We’ll paint it something weird and wild and completely her.”

Then, slower:

“I’ll build the furniture. You pick the playlist. We’ll eat cereal off the floor if we have to. But I promise you—she’ll know.”

He stepped forward, kissed her forehead, then let it linger.

“She’ll know love like it’s air,” he murmured. “Because it’s all over this house.”

He smiled then, big and ruined and real.

“And yeah,” he added with a soft laugh, “I’m definitely fighting those napkin sets at Target. You know I don’t back down from a challenge.”

She laughed again. Brighter this time.

And Mason?

Mason just held her tighter.

Because this wasn’t a someday.

This was now.

And they were ready.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way her chest was pulling tight and warm at the same time. Not with the way Mason was looking at her like she was already someone’s whole world and not just a girl standing barefoot in a kitchen that still smelled like defeat and burnt meatloaf.

She watched him—watched the way he softened around her without losing his shape. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or noise. The way he let her speak, and stumble, and be.

She wasn’t used to that.

Wasn’t used to someone listening without waiting for their turn to talk. Wasn’t used to being met with warmth instead of strategy.

But here he was.

Offering to build furniture and battle Target napkin sets and turn a nursery into a galaxy for a baby who hadn’t even been born yet—but who already had a home.

And a dad who would fight like hell to make sure she always knew it.

Rowan blinked, hard, trying to swallow the lump in her throat before it turned into tears again. She took a breath. Then another. And when she looked at Mason—really looked—her whole heart turned over.

“I don’t want wild,” she said softly, voice almost shy.

He looked at her, eyebrows twitching like he was preparing for a color war.

“I want this,” she said, eyes holding his. “Exactly this.”

And then she moved, slow and sure, walking over to the table where her phone sat charging beside a half-eaten marshmallow and an old mug she’d forgotten about. She tapped the screen, pulled up the photo. Turned it around.

The nursery mockup. Her nursery.

Soft stars. Wooden crib. A navy wall with little gold animals. Warm lights tucked into corners like constellations.

“This is her room,” she said quietly, holding the screen between them. “This is the one. No lavender. No beige. Just this. Cozy. Strange. Quietly magic.”

Her fingers brushed his as he took the phone, staring at the photo like it was sacred.

“She’s gonna wake up under stars,” Rowan said. “And know she’s safe. And wanted. And that even the weird little fox on the wall has her back.”

She smiled then—wider, easier.

“And if she ever asks about it, I’ll tell her how her dad fought valiantly for moon-shaped pillows and nearly lost a finger to an overzealous glider assembly.”

She stepped back into his space, let her head rest against his chest again, and exhaled. Long. Steady.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Rowan would never get tired of saying it.

“Okay,” she said after a beat, lifting her head and catching his eye with something stronger than tears. “You’ll build the crib. I’ll order the stars. And if we both survive assembling that bookshelf without ending up in couples’ therapy, we’re officially ready for parenthood.”

She smiled. Really smiled.

Then kissed his cheek.

“And for the record?” she added. “I’m gonna win the Target napkin war. You just don’t know it yet.”

Because Rowan Starling wasn’t scared anymore.

This was the life.

Not perfect.

But hers.

And that made all the difference.

Mason didn’t move.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Barely breathed.

Because when Rowan said I don’t want wild. I want this—he felt something shift in the center of his chest.

Like his whole heart just sat down.

Like it had been pacing for years, waiting for the right moment, the right person, the right future to belong to—and now it was here.

Right here.

In her voice. In her eyes. In the way she walked barefoot across the kitchen to retrieve her phone, like it wasn’t just a phone anymore but a piece of something holy. A glimpse at the life they were building in real time.

When she turned the screen toward him, he took it like it might burn him if he wasn’t careful.

And maybe it did.

Because that nursery mockup?

It wasn’t just soft stars and cozy blues and golden foxes.

It was her. Her hope. Her heart. Her belief that this could be beautiful—not in the way it looked, but in the way it felt.

Quietly magic, she’d said.

And she was right.

Because that’s what she was.

That’s what this was.

And God, when she said she’d tell their daughter how her dad fought valiantly for moon pillows and nearly lost a finger to a glider?

Mason grinned through the ache in his throat and the sting behind his eyes.

“I barely survived that Allen wrench last time,” he whispered, thumb still hovering over the screen. “But for her? I’ll risk it again.”

She stepped into his space then, head resting against his chest, like all the pieces had finally landed where they were supposed to.

And when she said I love you?

That was it.

The whole world tilted back into place.

He wrapped his arms around her, slow and steady, resting his chin against the top of her head like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

“I love you too,” he murmured, voice rough with everything he couldn’t fit into three words. “So much it makes no sense.”

When she lifted her head, all spark and steady now, talking about bookshelves and couples’ therapy and stars you could order off the internet, Mason laughed—really laughed—because this was exactly how he wanted to be loved.

This was it.

“I’ll build the crib,” he said, voice still a little wrecked. “You order the stars. And we’ll tag team that bookshelf like our relationship depends on it.”

She kissed his cheek, warm and easy, and threw her final line like a victory flag:

I’m gonna win the Target napkin war. You just don’t know it yet.

Mason just grinned, tugging her hand gently into his again.

“Let the record show,” he said, “that if I go down in a blaze of themed paper goods, I’ll die happy.”

And he meant it.

Because this?

This wasn’t chaos.

This was home.

Messy. Magic. Ours.

And Mason would build it with her a thousand times over.

Rowan didn’t smile right away.

Not the usual kind, anyway.

Not the sharp-edged grin she gave people when they complimented her without meaning it. Not the polite one she wore at family gatherings when someone said something passive about her “growing up so fast.” Not the fake one she used to survive rooms she never quite fit in.

This smile was slower. Warmer. Like it had to melt its way through a hundred old fears before reaching her mouth.

Because Mason didn’t laugh when she said she didn’t want wild.

He didn’t tease or roll his eyes or say “really?” like it surprised him.

He just listened.

Held the phone like it mattered. Like her vision—the quiet stars, the dark blue walls, the glow of something soft and real—wasn’t ridiculous or overly sentimental or something they’d scrap the second a parenting blog said it wasn’t practical.

He looked at it like it was sacred.

Like she was sacred.

And that?

That did her in.

She stepped into him without thinking, let her forehead rest where his shoulder met his neck, and exhaled into the space between them like it could hold the weight of everything she didn’t have words for yet.

His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, and God, she melted. Marshmallow-sticky hands and all.

Because he didn’t just stay.

He believed.

In the room. In the story. In her.

She felt his chin against her hair, the way his body held steady even as his voice cracked on those three words—and maybe for the first time in her life, she didn’t flinch from being told she was loved.

She believed him.

She looked up, cheeks flushed, heart wide open, and said softly, “We’re gonna be a really weird little family, aren’t we?”

And she meant it in the best way.

Because she wanted the kind of love that burned meatloaf and read bedtime stories with character voices and debated Target napkins like it was serious legislation.

She wanted the kind that built bookshelves slowly, with too many curse words and not enough screws. The kind that danced around half-unpacked boxes with a baby in one arm and a playlist they forgot to turn off.

She kissed his cheek again, softer this time.

“I love you,” she said again, not because he needed to hear it—but because she needed to feel herself say it. “I love this life. I love what we’re making. Even the burnt parts.”

Then, with a smirk, she added:

“And for the record? I’m gonna frame the Target napkin I beat you with. Put it right over the changing table. Our first war trophy.”

And for once?

She didn’t feel like she was bracing for it all to fall apart.

She just felt held.

And that was everything.

Mason didn’t move when she stepped into him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe too deep.

Because the second Rowan’s forehead touched his collarbone, everything else dropped away.

The burnt meatloaf. The Target jokes. The marshmallows half-scorched on the stove.

All of it faded under the weight of what it meant for her to let herself lean in—not out of exhaustion, not because she needed rescuing, but because she trusted the space between them to hold her.

And God, did he feel it.

Not just the shape of her against him or the quiet warmth of her exhale—but the shift. The way she let go without apology. The way she stopped armoring herself against something that wasn’t coming.

He didn’t rush it.

Didn’t say anything about the sticky fingerprints or the slow, holy collapse of someone finally letting herself be loved.

He just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in.

Like a vow.

Like this was the thing he wanted to protect more than anything.

When she looked up, cheeks flushed and lashes damp but eyes clear, Mason felt the breath catch in his chest.

And then she said it.

We’re gonna be a really weird little family, aren’t we?

He laughed—quiet, warm, a little broken around the edges.

“The weirdest,” he said. “Absolutely feral.”

And he meant it with his whole damn soul.

Because if he got to wake up to marshmallow-fingered chaos and bookshelf battles and a daughter who knew she was wanted before she was even born?

That was the dream.

That was everything.

When she kissed his cheek and said I love you again, Mason didn’t try to say it back right away. Not because he didn’t feel it—God, he felt it like gravity—but because he wanted her to hear her own voice say it. Wanted her to feel the truth of it echo back in her bones.

Then she hit him with the napkin line—and he nearly lost it.

He tilted his head, grinning at her like she was the most dangerous thing on Earth.

“You’re actually gonna frame it,” he said. “A napkin. Over the changing table.”

His smile softened. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

But he wasn’t scared.

Not of the sleepless nights or the baby spit-up or the therapy-worthy bookshelf assembly.

Because Rowan wasn’t bracing anymore.

She was staying.

With him.

In this life they were building out of burnt corners and soft middles and quiet miracles disguised as ordinary nights.

Mason leaned in, rested his forehead against hers, and whispered:

“I love you too. More than the stars. More than the room. More than the fact that you’re gonna absolutely destroy me in every domestic competition we ever have.”

A beat.

Then: “Frame the napkin. I’ll frame the receipt.”

He kissed her. Light. Sure.

And when he pulled back, hand still curled around hers, he just said:

“Let’s make this life the best kind of weird.”

Because this?

This was it.

Love. Laughter. Victory napkins.

Home.

Rowan didn’t laugh right away.

She wanted to—God, she did—but her throat was tight and her heart was full and Mason had just said things that rearranged her ribcage.

So instead, she stood there a second longer, forehead pressed to his, hand still tangled in his hoodie like she could hold the moment still.

She could feel his breath now. Feel the weight of what they were building—not just in paint swatches and nursery plans and burned dinners, but in this.

The staying.

The letting go.

The choosing each other even when the night didn’t go right, even when the meatloaf caught fire and her voice cracked and she wasn’t soft or poetic or anything but messy and real and hers.

When he said I love you too—more than the stars, more than the room, more than every dumb little domestic fight she was absolutely going to win—she finally let herself smile.

Not the smirk.

Not the practiced one.

The real one.

The kind that lived in her bones and only came out when she felt safe.

“You’re gonna regret saying I can win,” she whispered, voice low and thick with feeling. “Because now I have to make it competitive.”

She bumped his shoulder, just barely, and sniffed once before adding, “And yes, I’m framing the napkin. With gold foil. Maybe sequins. Depends how dramatic the win is.”

But her fingers stayed wrapped in his, thumb brushing slow over the top of his hand.

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then just let her head rest on his shoulder again.

“I used to think this kind of love was… fiction,” she said, quieter now. “Something people like us didn’t get. That if you burned dinner or cried in the middle of a sentence or forgot to buy milk three times in a row, they’d leave.”

She paused. Let it settle.

“But you’re still here. And you’re still holding me like it’s the best part of your day.”

She tilted her face up again, met his eyes.

“I think… I think I’m finally okay with not being perfect. Because you keep showing me how good the mess can be.”

She kissed him then—slow and certain, not a victory kiss, not a desperate one. Just full.

Then she pulled back, grinning through the softness, eyes shining like maybe she was finally letting herself be as full of joy as she was love.

“Let’s make this life so weird and so good our daughter writes essays about it someday,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And if she inherits your taste in snacks, I swear to God, I’m filing an appeal.”

She looked around their kitchen—smoky, cluttered, covered in marshmallow ash and open plans—and exhaled.

Then: “This is her first room, Mason. Not the nursery. This.”

She gestured around them.

“Sticky counters. Dumb jokes. Her parents too in love to care that dinner burned. She won’t remember it—but it’s where she started.”

Rowan looked at him again.

Rowan didn’t wait for permission. She just stepped back, let out a breath that felt too big for her chest, and rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan.

Because the moment had already happened. It lived in the stillness between them, in the way he held her like she was something steady. It didn’t need more words.

What it needed, honestly?

Was someone to clean up the goddamn mess.

She turned toward the sink, grabbed a dish towel off the counter, and muttered under her breath as she picked up the scorched meatloaf tray. “Okay, girl dinner has officially been redefined as ‘near kitchen fire with a side of emotional damage.’”

The tray clattered softly against the stainless steel basin, and she ran the water hotter than necessary—half on purpose. The hiss of the faucet was a kind of reset. A way to keep her hands busy while her heart kept unfolding.

Behind her, she could feel the warmth of him still watching. Still there.

She didn’t look. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she scrubbed in slow circles, pretending the meatloaf betrayal was the worst thing that happened tonight.

“I was gonna do candles,” she said absently, wiping down the counter next. “Put on that one playlist I made for when we have a night in. I even googled how to make an edible flower salad. Like an actual herb witch.”

She snorted. “Clearly the universe said: ‘Girl, calm down. Here’s a fire instead.’”

One dish down. Then two. She moved with that quiet rhythm she only ever found in this house—this kitchen. Something ordinary. Safe. Something that had grown familiar in a way nothing else ever had.

She let her hip rest against the counter, eyes drifting toward the pantry door. “She’s gonna make so many messes in here,” she murmured, quieter now. “Cereal on the floor. Flour footprints. Crayon on the cabinet doors.”

A pause.

“I want her to see that mess isn’t the end of the world.”

She folded the towel slowly, set it next to the now-empty drying rack, then ran her hand across the counter one last time.

“I want her to see someone burn dinner and still sit down to eat cereal and laugh about it.”

She turned around.

And she smiled.

Soft. A little uneven. Real.

Because the meatloaf was ruined. The kitchen still smelled faintly like smoke. Her sweater had flour on the sleeve and her eyes were a little pink—but she didn’t feel broken.

She felt full.

She padded barefoot back toward him, let her fingers find his hoodie, and leaned in like the moment had been waiting for her to return to it.

And against his chest, right where it was warmest, she whispered, “Okay. Crisis averted. Kitchen reclaimed.”

She smiled again. “Next time, you’re on meatloaf duty.”

And this time?

She didn’t apologize for any of it.

Mason stood in the center of the kitchen, hands loose at his sides, and watched the love of his life reclaim the wreckage like it was her damn right.

Because it was.

She didn’t ask for help. Didn’t soften her jokes or try to backtrack what she’d said. She just turned around, grabbed a towel, and started scrubbing a tray like she hadn’t just said a dozen things that permanently rewired the structure of his heart.

This is her first room.

God.

He almost sat down on the floor right then and there.

Because she meant it. The smoky kitchen, the uneven playlist, the marshmallow ash in the sink—this wasn’t just the setting of a bad dinner. This was the beginning of something. The before. The part of the story their daughter would never remember but would always feel.

And Rowan saw that.

Rowan named it.

She burned the dinner, broke a little in his arms, then stood up, cleaned her counter, and told the universe she was staying.

Not just staying, but owning it.

And that? That did something to him.

He watched her talk about flower salads and herb witch ambitions like it was nothing, like she hadn’t just handed him a blueprint for their entire life.

And when she muttered next time, you’re on meatloaf duty and leaned back into him—barefoot, exhausted, glowing with all the softness she never used to show—Mason finally moved.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, slow and sure, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

“I’ll make the meatloaf,” he murmured. “But you’re still in charge of the magic.”

She huffed something like a laugh, shoulder bumping lightly into his chest.

“No, seriously,” he said, lips brushing her hairline. “You made burnt dinner feel like a memory I want to frame. Who does that?”

He felt her smile against him. Small. Satisfied.

And when she didn’t move—when she let herself be held like it was the most natural thing in the world—Mason let the quiet stretch.

Let it settle.

Because this wasn’t a recovery moment. It was a rite of passage.

She was the girl who used to think love only lasted as long as she kept the chaos contained.

And now?

She was barefoot in a smoke-scented kitchen, talking about crayon marks and flour footprints like they were parts of the dream.

And he loved her for it.

He kissed her temple, then rested his chin on her shoulder.

“She’s gonna see all of it, Ro,” he said softly. “The mess, the laughter, the meatloaf disasters. And she’s gonna think that’s what love looks like.”

He paused. Let his fingers brush over hers.

“And she’ll be right.”

They stood like that for a long moment, just breathing, just being, until the only thing left in the air was comfort.

And when she finally turned in his arms, meeting his eyes with that smile—the real one, the one that came from her bones—Mason thought:

This is the story.

Not the big moments. Not the perfect ones.

But the ones where she chose to stay.

And let him stay, too.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

Just let her hands stay where they were—wedged between them and still slightly wet from rinsing ash off the worst of the baking tray. Mason’s arms circled her like gravity, and she leaned back into it, not because she needed the weight—but because she liked it.

There was something about the quiet that made her brave.

Maybe it was the way the kitchen smelled like burnt brown sugar and soap, or the fact that she could still feel marshmallow stickiness on the side of her hand. Maybe it was Mason. Just… Mason. Standing behind her like she was the center of the universe and he was just happy to orbit.

She stared at the counter for a moment longer, then turned slowly in his arms, letting her fingertips catch the edge of his sweatshirt.

“If I let you make meatloaf next time, you’re not allowed to gloat when it turns out good.”

She tipped her head up and squinted at him. “And it will turn out good. You’re annoying like that.”

He grinned. She nudged his stomach with her elbow.

Then, more softly, her gaze flicked to the window behind him—the one that looked out over the backyard, still washed in the pink of a dying sunset. “I used to think moments like this only belonged to people who wore matching socks and didn’t grow up holding their breath.”

Her voice dropped a little, tone rough around the edges like she was still getting used to hearing herself say things like that aloud.

“But this? This is better.”

She looked at him fully then.

“All of this,” she said, one hand gesturing vaguely to the kitchen mess, the bowls on the counter, the playlist still humming in the background, “it’s the dumbest, weirdest, best thing I’ve ever helped build.”

She paused. Then added, “And just so we’re clear? I’m putting glitter stars on the nursery ceiling. Like glow-in-the-dark ones. I don’t care if it’s tacky. Indy’s gonna love it.”

She didn’t wait for approval. Just pressed her forehead to his chest again and closed her eyes, letting the steady sound of his heartbeat settle into the quiet.

“Also,” she said after a beat, muffled against his shirt, “I saw Dad sneaking his mug back into the garage. He couldn’t fully part with it. I think we’ll let him keep that one.”

It was easier to breathe in moments like this. No weight. No armor. Just the two of them, standing in a kitchen full of smoke and sugar and future plans.

She smiled against him.

Mason didn’t even pretend to be okay.

Not with her looking at him like that. Not with her fingers twisted in the hem of his hoodie, eyes soft and unguarded and real. Not when she said this is better like she finally believed it could be.

He stared down at her, jaw clenched lightly just to keep himself from blurting out something completely unhinged like marry me tomorrow in the cereal aisle.

Instead, he leaned down—just a little—and brushed his nose against hers.

“First of all,” he said, voice low and half-laughing, “if I make a perfect meatloaf on the first try, I fully expect a gold medal. Or at least one of those participation trophies that says ‘World’s Okayest Chef.’”

She squinted at him, unimpressed.

He grinned wider. “Second of all? I love that you think I don’t also forget the milk three times and panic over if glitter stars count as a fire hazard. Like, Ro, I’ve read approximately zero baby books and still think ‘onesie’ sounds like a Marvel sidekick.”

His arms tightened around her, just slightly, like he couldn’t help it.

“But third—and most importantly?” His voice softened, and the grin faded into something quieter, deeper. “You say this is the dumbest, weirdest, best thing you’ve ever helped build—and I swear to God, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

He reached up, gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and let his thumb graze her jaw like he was still making sure she was real.

“You. This kitchen. The glitter-star-covered future we’re making? It’s already everything.”

A pause. Then he added, “And I hope Indy loves the ceiling. Because when I sneak in at night to check on her? I’m gonna love it too. Even if they peel off in July and fall directly on my face.”

She laughed into his chest, and Mason felt it down to the center of him.

When she mentioned her dad sneaking his mug back into the garage, he grinned, kissing the top of her head with exaggerated reverence.

“Let him have it,” he murmured. “He earned it. You both did.”

Then, quieter—right near her ear, like a promise tucked in the folds of her cardigan:

“You’ve got this, Ro. You really do. And I’ve got you. Always.”

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide.

So he held her there—messy kitchen, smoky air, half-clean dishes and all—and thought:

This is the moment I’m gonna replay forever.

Not because it was flashy.

But because it was true.

Because the girl in his arms finally believed in their love enough to call it hers, and that?

That was everything.

Mason kissed her temple again. “Now c’mon,” he whispered with a grin. “Let’s go plan a galaxy ceiling before I lose you to dish duty again. And for the record? I’m gluing a meatloaf trophy next to your framed Target napkin.”

Because he was hers.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She couldn’t.

Not with his voice still in her ear, all low and wrecked and stupidly sincere. Not with his arms around her like he didn’t care if she smelled like burnt ketchup and crushed hopes. Not when her heart was doing that thing again—the thing where it climbed into her throat and curled up like it lived there now.

So she stayed where she was.

Let herself be held. Let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t all some fragile dream she’d jinx by leaning too far into it.

Then he said meatloaf trophy, and it was game over.

She huffed a laugh and pulled back just enough to look at him. “If you think I’m letting you superglue something to my mother’s wall, you’re actually more sleep-deprived than I am and we don’t even have the baby yet.”

Mason looked smug. Rowan narrowed her eyes.

“And FYI,” she added, jabbing a flour-dusted finger into his chest, “your onesie ignorance has officially disqualified you from the baby registry login. I’ll be taking it from here. Say goodbye to your dreams of dressing her like a potato.”

He tried to argue. She shut him up with a quick kiss. Then another. Then one more, just because she could.

And when her lips left his and she looked up at him, all soft-eyed and certain, she said, “This is better.”

Not because it was a line.

Not because he needed to hear it.

But because she meant it.

Because meatloaf disasters and Target napkins and glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars were suddenly more than enough. Because she could picture the room now—hers and Indy’s and his. Because the before didn’t feel so loud anymore. Not with him here.

She leaned in again, forehead to his, and whispered, “Let’s go make the ceiling weird.”

Then she reached for his hand, laced their fingers, and led him down the hall.

And maybe the kitchen was still a disaster.

And maybe they’d burn the next dinner, too.

But for the first time in her life, Rowan didn’t feel like she was walking into the unknown alone.

Not everything had gone right tonight.

But the important stuff? The real stuff?

That had landed exactly where it was supposed to.

She turned toward Mason, who was still leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching her like she was the best kind of problem he’d never get tired of solving.

Rowan rolled her eyes at the look on his face—but couldn’t quite stop the smile pulling at her mouth.

She stepped closer, bare feet brushing against tile, and slipped her fingers into his. Gave them a gentle squeeze.

“Come on,” she said, voice low but warm. “We’ve got a ceiling to argue about.”

And then she tugged him gently toward the hall—no big gesture, no dramatic speech. Just her hand in his, firm and certain and full of momentum.

Because the kitchen was clean.

The day had been loud and weird and full of small failures.

But upstairs?

Upstairs was the beginning.

The room that used to be her dad’s office. The one with the empty walls and the echo she could finally imagine filling. The one she wasn’t afraid of anymore.

So she pulled him with her—slow and steady, already plotting where the dresser would go, what kind of rug would make the floor feel less cold, which corner might be perfect for reading.

And Mason didn’t resist. Didn’t ask where they were going. Just let himself be led.

Because she was moving.

Forward.

With him.

And this time, she wasn’t looking back.

Mason didn’t follow her right away.

Not because he was hesitating—but because his heart was still catching up.

Because Rowan Starling—Rowan his—had just whispered let’s go make the ceiling weird and then grabbed his hand like it was something inevitable. Like forever had a pulse and it lived between their palms.

And for a second, he just stood there. Leaned against the counter like he was trying to keep his knees from giving out. Watching her walk barefoot toward the hallway like she knew where they were going, even if the map was still being drawn.

He was so stupidly in love with her, it hurt a little.

Not in a bad way.

In the too-much-softness-for-one-body kind of way.

When she looked back—eyes daring him, fingers already halfway to his—he couldn’t help it. He grinned. One of those crooked, dumb, completely smitten grins that only ever showed up for her.

Then she said it again.

We’ve got a ceiling to argue about.

And yeah, he was gone.

Utterly, irreversibly gone.

He took her hand and let her pull him forward—because honestly? There was nowhere else he wanted to be. Not in a perfect night. Not in a better version of their life. Just here. In the house that still smelled faintly like burnt sugar. With the girl who wanted glow-in-the-dark stars and had just revoked his onesie privileges.

As they moved down the hall, her fingers tightening in his like she meant it, Mason leaned in just enough to murmur near her ear:

“You know, if this is how you lead me into battle, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

She shot him a look.

He smirked. “Even if we end up with a moon phase mural and a rug that looks like a forest floor. I’m ready. Emotionally and spiritually.”

Rowan shook her head like he was exhausting, but her thumb was still brushing slow over his knuckles. Still choosing him.

When they reached the nursery door—the old office, the new beginning—Mason paused.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to kiss the back of her hand and whisper, Let’s make it feel like her.

Because this wasn’t about the paint or the pillows or the Target debate of the week.

It was about the fact that Rowan was walking forward now. Not because the road was easy, but because he was beside her. Because she wanted him there.

And that?

That was everything.

Mason followed her into the room like it was the start of a new season—one filled with messes and late nights and ceiling stars that glowed just bright enough to remind them where they began.

Together.

Rowan didn’t say anything when they stepped into the room.

She just crossed the threshold barefoot, the hardwood cool against her skin, the air quieter here—like the space knew it was holding its breath, waiting to become something more.

The lights were still off. The moonlight from the window cut silver across the floor, catching the bare walls and empty corners and the place where her dad’s desk used to sit. But it didn’t feel hollow.

Not anymore.

She let go of Mason’s hand, stepped further inside, and without a word, lowered herself to the floor. Not carefully. Not dramatically. Just… all at once. Like her knees gave out or her heart told her to.

She lay back, one hand beneath her head, the other resting lightly over the small curve of her belly.

Mason stood in the doorway, still, silent, watching.

Rowan didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, she wasn’t thinking about colors or themes or furniture. She was thinking about the sound of lullabies barely whispered. About warm milk bottles at 2 a.m. and the weight of a sleepy body curled against her chest. About the first time she’d whisper “you’re safe” and mean it with every cell in her body.

She blinked up at the ceiling. Blank and pale and waiting.

And then she started to cry.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just soft tears down the sides of her face, into her hair and the floor and the silence.

She imagined what it’d feel like to stand in this room with the lights dimmed and her daughter warm against her chest. To rock her, humming something half-memorized, and feel those tiny fingers curl into the collar of her shirt. To tuck her in for the first time and not know what the hell she was doing, but try anyway. To kiss her forehead and walk out backwards, afraid to leave but knowing she had to.

The ceiling blurred above her.

Rowan let it.

She didn’t wipe her cheeks.

Didn’t try to be okay.

Because this wasn’t falling apart.

It was letting herself hope.

Letting herself believe.

And when she felt Mason’s knees hit the floor beside her, his hand slide into hers again without a word, she curled her fingers into his and squeezed.

Still staring up. Still crying.

But not alone.

Not even a little.

Mason didn’t move at first.

Just stood there in the doorway like the world had tilted and he didn’t want to risk stepping wrong.

Because Rowan?

Rowan had just walked into a ghost of a room and laid herself down in it.

Like her whole body had finally stopped bracing.

Like she was giving the moment permission to become something else—something more.

He watched her from the threshold, chest aching, heart doing that slow, reverent thing it only ever did with her. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say a word. Just stared up at the blank ceiling like she could already see what it would become.

And when she started crying?

God.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. But it shattered something in him all the same.

Because he knew the difference.

Knew what it looked like when she cried from fear—tight-lipped, fists curled, trying not to need anyone.

And he knew what this was.

This was grief melting into belief. This was the soft ache of possibility. This was her letting herself feel the future without apologizing for how much she wanted it.

So he moved.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just walked across the moonlit floor and knelt beside her—knees to hardwood, hands to hers, heart already on the floor between them.

When her fingers curled into his, Mason exhaled like he hadn’t been breathing until she let him touch her again.

And he stayed like that.

Not trying to fix it. Not filling the silence.

Just there.

Kneeling next to the strongest, softest person he’d ever known, in a room that wasn’t just a room anymore.

It was theirs.

The first place their daughter would feel safe.

The first place Rowan let herself believe she could do this—and that she didn’t have to do it alone.

Mason didn’t look at the ceiling.

He looked at her.

Tears running into her hair, eyes shining in the moonlight, one hand resting on her belly like she was already holding the whole world.

He squeezed her fingers gently.

Then leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered, like a vow meant for her skin and the silence alone—

“She’s gonna love this room. But not half as much as she’s gonna love you.”

And then he lay back beside her.

Right there on the floor.

Not to pull her up.

But to meet her where she was.

To look at the ceiling with her.

To build the future one breath at a time.

Rowan didn’t answer him at first.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way her throat tightened at his voice. Not with how gently his lips had touched her skin—like the vow didn’t need an altar, just her temple, just this moment.

She squeezed his hand harder than she meant to, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

And when he lay down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, fingers still threaded through hers like he wasn’t going to let go for anything—Rowan let herself believe it.

All of it.

She kept her eyes on the ceiling, letting the tears slide toward her hairline, her temple, the floor. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Mason didn’t ask her to.

“I used to think I’d never want this,” she said quietly, voice thick but steady. “Not because I didn’t care. Just… I didn’t think I could ever feel ready. Or soft enough. Or real enough.”

Her thumb ran in slow circles over the back of his hand.

“And now I can’t picture anything else.”

She turned her head slightly, cheek brushing the floor as she looked at him sideways. His eyes were already on her, that steady, quiet kind of love burning in them like he didn’t know how to be anything but here.

“I think I want stars,” she murmured. “But not perfect ones. Not the kind that look like they came from a Pinterest board. I want the messy kind. The kind she helps us make with glow paint and a flashlight and way too many tutorials.”

Her voice broke on a laugh.

“And I want a corner chair I’ll never sit in. And books we’ll read a thousand times until she starts reciting them back to us.”

She paused.

Then: “And I want her to know I tried. From the beginning.”

Rowan looked back up at the ceiling. It was nothing. Blank. Bare. But it held everything.

“I want her to know this room was never perfect. But it was always hers.”

She felt Mason shift, his shoulder pressing closer to hers, and somehow it made her braver.

“And when she cries?” Rowan whispered. “I’ll let her. And I won’t make her feel small for it. And when she says she’s scared, I’ll tell her that’s okay. That I was too. That I still am.”

She swallowed hard.

“And when she asks me how I knew I could do it—I’ll say because of you.”

She didn’t look at him this time.

Didn’t need to.

Just squeezed his hand again.

Then closed her eyes.

Let the ceiling blur.

And breathed.

The ceiling didn’t shift.

Didn’t change or glow or shimmer.

But something in Rowan did.

It was quiet. Small. The kind of shift you only notice when everything else has gone still.

She didn’t open her eyes when she spoke again—just let the words drift out, soft and certain, like they’d been sitting under her ribs for years, waiting for the right moment.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t you.”

Her voice was so low it almost disappeared into the room with them, but Mason didn’t miss it. She felt it in the way his thumb stopped moving against hers. Felt it in the silence that followed—stretched and still, like he knew not to rush her.

“I need you to know that,” she whispered. “I wasn’t just scared of becoming a mom. I was scared of becoming someone I couldn’t come back from. Like… if I got this wrong, there’d be no fixing it. No rewinding.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

“But then it was you.”

Her throat caught, but she kept going.

“You—burning toast, forgetting the milk, glue-sticking furniture together like it’s war. You, looking at me like I’m allowed to mess up. Like staying doesn’t depend on whether I get it right the first time.”

A breath. Then another.

“You made me want this. All of it. Not just the baby. The days after. The mornings where we forget to wash the bottles and the nights where everything feels too loud and too much and still—we’re here.”

She finally opened her eyes again.

Turned her head to look at him, even though it made the tears spill sideways down her cheek.

“You’re the reason I’m not running. You’re the reason this feels like something I can do instead of something I have to survive.”

Her smile was small, but steady.

“And I think she’s gonna feel that. From both of us.”

She reached out and pressed his hand to the lowest curve of her belly—right over the quiet, steady truth of what they were growing.

“Because she was never the scary part,” Rowan said softly. “Being alone in it was.”

She looked at him, fully now, eyes shining.

“But I’m not.”

And neither was he.

Mason didn’t say a word.

Not because he didn’t have anything to say—God, he had everything to say—but because Rowan had just handed him a piece of her soul, still warm, still beating. And the only thing sacred enough to do in return was listen.

She said she wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t him.

She said he was the reason she wasn’t running.

And Mason swore he felt the floor shift beneath him. Or maybe it was just his heart—realigning, locking into place around hers like it had been waiting for this moment since the first time she let him stay past goodbye.

He didn’t move when she started crying again.

Didn’t rush in with a joke or a fix or some clumsy reassurance about how they’d figure it out. He just stared at her in the moonlight—bare face, bare voice, bare heart—and felt his ribs go soft around the truth of her.

And when she reached for his hand and placed it over the softest curve of her belly?

That was it.

Mason's breath caught.

Not in fear. Not in shock.

In awe.

Because Rowan Starling—the girl who’d learned to armor every inch of herself—had just let him in.

Not just into the room.

Not just into the plan.

But into the part of her that was building a life.

Their life.

Their daughter.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink.

Just turned fully onto his side, never letting go of her hand, and pressed his forehead gently to hers.

His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. Meant for her.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A pause. A breath. The kind that came from deep in his chest, where the promise lived.

“You could get it wrong a hundred times, Ro,” he whispered, “and I’d still stay. Because you’re not something I’m surviving either. You’re something I chose. And I’ll keep choosing you.”

He felt her breath hitch.

Felt her thumb twitch where it still brushed his hand.

“You’re not gonna be perfect,” he said. “Neither am I. But we’re gonna be good. Messy, loud, exhausted—but good. Because she’s already got the best parts of you growing inside her. And the rest?”

He smiled, kissed her jaw so gently it made his throat ache.

“The rest, we build together.”

Another pause. Then—

“And for the record? If we forget to wash bottles and the kitchen smells like mystery snacks for three days and the bookshelf collapses because I used glue instead of screws... I’m still gonna look at you like you’re magic.”

His thumb brushed against her belly where his hand still rested.

“She’s gonna feel how much we love her. But more than that—she’s gonna feel how much you were loved. Every version. Especially the ones that didn’t think they were ready.”

He leaned back just enough to see her face again, even with the tears still shining there.

And he said, not like a question, not like a line—just a truth he’d never stop meaning:

“You’ve got me.”

Then he lay still beside her.

Hand on her belly.

Heart in her hands.

And let the silence hold them both.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when the air between them had already caught fire with something softer than certainty. Something truer.

She just looked at him.

Eyes wide and wet and steadier than she’d felt in days. Because Mason wasn’t trying to patch her up or polish the cracks—he was just… there. Saying the right things without trying to make them pretty. Holding her without asking her to stop crying. Choosing her like it was the only thing that ever made sense.

She exhaled. Shaky, then stronger.

And when she finally spoke, it wasn’t planned. Wasn’t polished. It was just hers.

“You scare the shit out of me, you know that?”

Her voice cracked a little, but her mouth twitched like a smile.

“Not in the bad way. Just in the… I didn’t think people like you were real kind of way. The kind of way that makes it hard to believe I get to keep you.”

She turned her face just slightly, forehead still pressed to his.

Her fingers tightened in his.

“And now there’s this room. This baby. This future that I didn’t even know how to want until you made it feel safe to want it.”

She shifted, just enough to press her hand over his where it rested on her belly.

“You’re right. I’m not gonna be perfect. You’re gonna mess up a bookshelf. I’m probably gonna cry about stupid things like socks and hormones and how long it takes to fold a onesie. But I’m not scared like I used to be.”

Her voice softened to a whisper.

“Because you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like a safe place to fall.”

She closed her eyes, let the quiet hold for a moment longer.

And then, half-laughing, half-sighing:

“If I ever forget to tell you how much this means—remind me. Especially when I’m hormonal and yelling about glitter glue or how much I hate our stroller.”

She opened her eyes again, met his.

“And if I ever try to say you’re not enough? Tell me I’m lying. Then kiss me until I remember I’m full of shit.”

Her thumb brushed slow against his wrist.

“I love you so much, Mason. I love you in all the ways I never thought I’d get to. And if she grows up knowing half of what I get to feel with you every day… she’s gonna be just fine.”

Rowan shifted then—pressed a kiss to his shoulder, to his jaw, to the curve of his mouth—and finally let her body rest fully beside him.

“You’ve got me too,” she whispered. “Completely.”

And she didn’t need to say anything else.

Not when the whole room already knew.

Mason didn’t breathe at first.

Not really.

Because there she was—curled beside him on a floor that used to mean nothing and now felt like the foundation of their whole damn future—saying things no one had ever said to him. Not like that. Not with a voice that cracked and softened all in the same breath. Not with fingers laced through his like she didn’t know how to let go.

He’d heard a lot of big declarations in his life. Some fake. Some fleeting. Some too loud to feel real.

But this?

This was Rowan Starling, calling him a safe place to fall.

Telling him she loved him with every inch of her fight and every inch of her surrender. And Mason—who’d spent so long learning how to show up without needing the spotlight—felt it land in his chest like a second heartbeat.

He didn’t smile right away.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t deflect with something cocky or sweet, even though his throat ached with everything he wanted to give her.

Instead, he shifted closer, their noses almost touching now, and brushed her hair behind her ear with a reverence that bordered on awe.

“You scare the shit out of me too,” he said quietly. “Because every time you look at me like that, I start believing I might actually be enough for all of this. For you. For her.”

His hand moved again—rested softly back over her belly, this time with more intention. More certainty.

“And I’ve never wanted to be good at something more.”

He leaned in, kissed her slowly—like a promise he didn’t need to speak out loud.

Then pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers again.

“I’m gonna remind you,” he murmured. “Every damn time you forget. Every glitter glue meltdown, every onesie disaster, every second you try to tell yourself you’re anything less than what she needs.”

He paused, voice dropping even lower.

“And if you ever try to say I’m not enough?” A small, crooked grin curved his mouth. “I’ll tell you you’re full of shit. Then I’ll kiss you until you remember who the hell you are.”

His thumb brushed slow against her knuckles.

“Because I know exactly what I’ve got, Ro. And I’m not letting any of it go.”

He kissed her temple next—then just held her, arms curving around her like the safest place in the world wasn’t a room or a house or even a town.

It was her.

And this?

This wasn’t a maybe.

This was home.

Rowan didn’t answer at first.

She couldn’t.

Not with her throat tight and her heart doing that dumb, traitorous thing where it tried to climb into her mouth.

Because God—he really was unbelievable.

Here she was, cracked wide open in the passenger seat with grocery-store tears and emotional whiplash, and he was somehow still making her laugh, still looking at her like she hadn’t just admitted to being a mess of jagged nerves and unspoken fears.

Still choosing her.

She glanced over, watched the way the light hit his profile—nose slightly red from the sun, eyes soft with something she didn’t have to name anymore. Not really. She knew what it was.

Because it lived in her too.

In the way her hand curled tighter around his. In the way she didn’t flinch when he said every version.

He meant it.

All of it.

Even the Shakespeare apron threat.

“Okay,” she finally said, voice dry but shaky-soft beneath it, “but if you go full Sonnet 116 at the baby shower, I will tell your mom you cried over that Folgers commercial last week.”

She saw his jaw drop—exactly the kind of indignation she was hoping for—and her laugh slipped free before she could catch it.

“Equal blackmail, Mason. That’s what this relationship runs on.”

A beat.

Then her voice gentled again, eyes still on the road but her heart right there with him.

“And I love that apron.”

That part wasn’t a joke.

She did love it. The dorky, frayed, ketchup-stained apron he always wore while making grilled cheese and declaring himself the King of Domestic Excellence.

She loved everything it meant.

Safety. Steadiness. Stubborn devotion wrapped in sarcasm and snack food.

She loved him.

Rowan reached across the console and brushed a piece of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering just a little too long.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she murmured, but her thumb grazed his temple like a vow. “And you make everything harder in the best, most ridiculous way.”

Then, quieter, like it cost her a little to say it out loud:

“But I don’t want easy. I want us.”

And she meant that.

Every aisle.

Every flaw.

Every word.

Mason didn’t say anything to that.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t grin. Didn’t try to undercut the weight of her words with something playful—even though that was usually his move.

He just looked at her.

Really looked.

Like she’d just handed him the last piece of something he didn’t even realize he’d been trying to build this whole time.

And for once, Rowan didn’t look away.

Didn’t shrink under the intensity of it. Didn’t dodge with a smirk or a sigh or a self-deprecating joke about how she was definitely going to cry over this later.

She just let him see her.

All of her.

And then—

The tires crunched gently over gravel as they pulled into the driveway, the soft creak of the turn cutting through the quiet like a breath held too long finally being released. Their house came into view—the one tucked just far enough off the road to feel like its own world. Porch light still off, wind chimes barely moving, curtains drawn like the place knew they’d be coming home a little changed.

Mason eased the car into park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The hum filled the silence between them, low and steady.

Rowan stared out at the porch for a moment, heart thudding like it needed time to catch up to her mouth.

Then, slowly, she unbuckled her seatbelt and looked at him again—really looked.

“I know I don’t always make this easy,” she said softly. “Loving me. Being patient. Sticking around while I figure out how not to bolt when it gets real.”

A breath.

“But I’m trying. I’m… really trying.”

Her fingers found his again over the console—familiar, warm, a little shaky.

“And I want you to know… I wouldn’t be this far if it wasn’t you sitting in that seat.”

She let the words settle. Let the truth of them wrap around her ribcage like armor she didn’t have to fight in.

“I wouldn’t be me—not like this—if it wasn’t you.”

And then, just before she reached for the door handle, her smile curved—gentle and small, but real as hell.

“So come on, apron king,” she whispered, voice a little hoarse but glowing with something unshakable. “Let’s take the groceries in before I start sobbing in the car like a Hallmark cliché.”

She paused. Shot him a sideways look.

“And for the record? You are adorable. But don’t let it go to your head.”

Mason didn’t move for a second.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because God—Rowan had just obliterated him. Completely. With nothing but her voice, her eyes, her whole damn heart laid bare like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He felt it everywhere.

In his throat, tight and aching.

In his chest, pulsing too loud, too fast.

In the way his fingers closed around hers like he could hold the moment still if he just tried hard enough.

And yeah—maybe she’d joked about crying in the car like a Hallmark cliché, but he was dangerously close to doing it for real. Like, ugly-cry levels. Snot and everything. All because she’d said I wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t you.

Who says things like that? Who means them?

She did.

Rowan.

His Rowan.

The girl who once threatened to leave him in a Trader Joe’s parking lot for humming the Friends theme song off-key. The girl who flinched at softness, weaponized sarcasm like armor, and now—now—was looking at him like she didn’t just trust him with her grocery list, but her entire f**king life.

Mason cleared his throat.

Twice.

Then finally managed, voice way too thick to be casual, “Okay, first of all—rude. I am adorable, and that’s canon now. Second—did you just admit I make you a better person? Because I am recording this conversation in my brain and playing it back every time you roll your eyes at me.”

Rowan groaned, but her hand didn’t let go.

“And third,” he added, a little softer now, “there is no universe where I don’t help you carry the groceries. Even if you’re a Hallmark cliché. Especially if you’re a Hallmark cliché.”

He reached for the keys, killed the engine, and turned to her fully—his hoodie sleeve brushing hers, his gaze steady and serious beneath all the teasing.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ro.”

The words were quiet. Unadorned. But laced with something unshakable.

“I don’t care how hard it gets or how messy or how many times you try to convince yourself you’re too much. You’re not.”

He touched the back of her hand, thumb skimming light and deliberate over the seam of her knuckle.

“You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

And then, because he knew the moment was close to tipping too far into Serious Emotional Territory—and because he was Mason Hayes, patron saint of bad timing and worse jokes—

He bumped his shoulder into hers and whispered, “Also, I was going to recite Sonnet 116 again while unpacking the oat milk, but I guess I’ll save that for our wedding vows. Hope you like iambic pentameter.”

Rowan shoved him.

He laughed.

But neither of them let go.

And when they got out of the car—grocery bags in hand, the last of the sunlight catching in her hair and his stupid grin leading the way—Rowan didn’t look back.

Because everything she needed?

Was walking beside her.

Into a house full of snacks, safety, and whatever kind of forever they decided to build from scratch.

She didn’t speak at first.

Couldn’t.

Because somewhere between you’re it and I hope you like iambic pentameter, Rowan Starling lost the ability to function like a normal human being. Her chest was doing that thing—tight and wild and full—and she had to blink a few times just to make sure she didn’t burst into tears over the sound of his voice and the way he said our wedding vows like it wasn’t hypothetical.

Like he meant it.

Like it was already decided.

She shoved him, yeah. Rolled her eyes. Huffed like he was the most insufferable man to ever quote Shakespeare in a grocery store parking lot.

But she didn’t let go.

Her fingers stayed curled around his like they’d been there a thousand years, like maybe this—this—was always the destination. Even when she was too afraid to name it.

And now?

Now they were walking toward the porch, arms full of off-brand bagels and dignity barely intact, and she didn’t feel scared.

Not really.

She felt… sure.

Which was maybe even more terrifying.

But she glanced over anyway—at his messy hair and his smug little grin and the crinkle by his eyes that always gave him away—and she smiled.

Small.

Certain.

Completely wrecked.

“You realize,” she murmured as they reached the door, “that if you ever actually read me Sonnet 116 in that apron, I will marry you on the spot.”

She wasn’t kidding.

He knew it too, based on the way he froze with the keys halfway to the lock, like he was calculating how fast he could memorize the thing by sundown.

Rowan laughed—low and real and more herself than she ever used to believe she was allowed to be.

Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek just below the laugh line, and whispered, “But you don’t have to prove anything, Mason. You already did.”

They stepped inside together, warm light catching on hardwood, the scent of fresh paint barely lingering beneath the bag of basil she’d insisted on grabbing last minute. She dropped the reusable totes onto the kitchen counter and reached for the oat milk, catching Mason already putting away the snacks like he was auditioning for Domestic Partner of the Year.

It should’ve been ordinary.

But it wasn’t.

Not the way he moved behind her, opening cupboards and humming a little under his breath. Not the way she caught him glancing at her every few seconds, like maybe he was afraid she’d vanish if he blinked too long.

She put the last box of cereal into the pantry and turned to find him already holding out a spoon for the peanut butter with a stupid grin on his face.

“Snack tax,” he said.

She rolled her eyes—but gave in.

They finished unloading the groceries in a quiet rhythm. Easy. Familiar. Like this version of love had been waiting for them the whole time.

And when it was done—when the fridge hummed contentedly and the paper bags were stacked beneath the sink—he reached for her hand again.

Didn’t say anything.

Just tugged.

Up the stairs.

Carefully. Slowly. Like he wanted the moment to stretch.

And when they reached the top—when they stood outside the nursery, the door still shut, the air carrying just the faintest trace of something new and clean and warm—he stopped.

She looked at the handle.

He didn’t open it.

Didn’t offer.

And she didn’t push.

Because yeah, she could guess. The way he’d been fussing with swatches and muttering about VOC-free finishes. The way he kept slipping out early in the morning with that determined look in his eye and paint on his wrists.

He’d done something in there.

Something for her. For Indy. For them.

And God—she wanted to see it.

But more than that?

She wanted the surprise.

So she stayed quiet. Rested her head against his shoulder. Let her fingers drift to the hem of his hoodie like she needed to ground herself in this version of home.

And when he kissed her temple, slow and sure and sweet?

She didn’t need to see the room to know it was already perfect.

Because Mason painted it.

Because Mason loved her.

Because this was their life now.

A little messy. A little sacred.

And completely, irrevocably theirs.

Mason swore he was fine.

Totally fine.

Perfectly composed and chill and definitely not freaking out because Rowan had just said “I will marry you on the spot” in that quiet, matter-of-fact way she got when she was dead serious about something like lemon zest or the Oxford comma.

And yeah, okay—his hand did stall a little on the key.

And maybe he was calculating if he had the apron clean and where the hell he left that battered poetry book she once pretended not to snoop through.

But then she kissed his cheek.

Whispered that he didn’t have to prove anything.

And Mason?

He went under.

Totally, utterly done for.

He followed her into the house with the dumbest grin known to mankind, watching her move like she belonged there. Because she did. Every part of her. Every sharp line and soft edge and snarky comment about his choice of granola.

God, she fit into his life like a last puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing until it clicked.

He made a game of putting away the snacks—one-handed, dramatic, juggling things like she might hand him a trophy—and kept looking over just to see her roll her eyes. She didn’t even fake being annoyed anymore. Just handed him the peanut butter with a look that said you’re exhausting and I’m keeping you forever in the same breath.

And when she actually let him steal the first bite?

Mason nearly proposed with his mouth full of almond crunch.

They packed everything away, moving like they’d been doing it forever. Not flashy, not performative—just them. Banter and breadcrumbs and hands brushing in the pantry. And when it was done—when the kitchen looked like a Pinterest board and smelled like basil and oat milk—he didn’t even think.

He just reached for her hand again.

Because that’s what he did now.

Reached for her.

Every time.

She let him lead her up the stairs, quiet and close, her hand trailing along the railing like she didn’t want to miss a second of the silence between them.

And when they stopped outside the nursery door—his heart full of paint fumes and Pinterest panic and hope so sharp it made his ribs ache—Mason didn’t say anything.

Didn’t open it.

Because he wanted it to be hers. Not just a room. Not just a reveal.

A moment.

A choice.

And when she didn’t press? When she just leaned against him, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder like it was made for her, hands fisting gently in the hem of his hoodie?

Yeah.

That was it.

Mason closed his eyes for half a second and breathed her in.

Lavender. Grocery-store air. And the absolute certainty that if he lived to be a hundred, this would still be the thing he looked back on when people asked what love felt like.

He kissed her temple.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because she knew.

Because she was here.

Because they were building a whole damn life out of cracked walls and cereal aisle confessions and the way she never let go of his hand, even when she was terrified.

And maybe the nursery behind that door wasn’t perfect.

Maybe the paint bled a little and the mobile he ordered came half-assembled and slightly haunted-looking.

But the love?

That part was flawless.

Because it was hers.

Because it was theirs.

And Mason would repaint that whole room a thousand times if it meant getting to stand here like this—wrapped in the quiet knowing that everything he ever wanted was already in his arms.

Rowan didn’t move.

Not right away.

Because standing there—just outside the nursery door, his arms around her, her cheek pressed to the familiar beat of his heart—was enough. More than enough. It was everything.

She felt the weight of it in her bones. In the stillness. In the way he didn’t rush to show her what he’d done, like some overexcited puppy desperate for approval. He didn’t need applause. He wasn’t looking for gold stars or gasps or gratitude.

He just wanted to give her something.

Something real. Something hers.

And that?

That wrecked her in the softest, most reverent way.

She curled her fingers tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding herself. Letting the moment stretch around them like a cocoon. No rush. No noise. Just the quiet hum of belonging.

This man—her man—who wore love like a badge of honor and still acted surprised when it came back to him tenfold. Who painted a nursery he wouldn’t let her see because the gift wasn’t the color or the theme or the stupid haunted mobile.

It was the effort.

The choosing.

The care.

She exhaled slowly, almost silently, like releasing all the years of holding her breath. Of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of convincing herself she couldn’t have this—didn’t want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

And she knew she couldn’t put it into words the way he could. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she could feel it. Every time he touched her. Every time he let her be both soft and sharp, scared and sure.

Every time he built her a future with his bare hands and then waited—patiently—for her to walk through the door.

So she didn’t open it.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, she tilted her head up just enough to find his mouth and kissed him. Slow. Unhurried. Like a promise she wasn’t afraid of anymore.

Then she whispered, barely audible, right against his lips:

“I already love it.”

And she meant the room.

She meant the moment.

She meant him.

Always.

Rowan pulled back from the kiss, her fingers still hooked in the hem of Mason’s hoodie, her breath soft against his jaw. She didn’t say anything else—just let her eyes linger on his for a beat longer, her thumb brushing gently against his side like a quiet thank you for the million things he wouldn’t let her see yet.

Then she took his hand.

Didn’t tug. Didn’t lead fast.

Just guided.

Down the hall, toward their room. Toward warmth. Toward quiet.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some cinematic slow-motion scene. Just her bare feet on the hardwood, the soft shuffle of their bodies in sync. Mason followed without hesitation, like gravity—like wherever she went, he already knew he’d follow.

She nudged the bedroom door open with her hip, releasing his hand only to reach for the hem of her hoodie. She peeled it off with slow, tired fingers, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony. The leggings followed next, kicked off into a soft little heap near the foot of the bed. She didn’t care. Didn’t need to care.

Because this was theirs.

Because she was home.

And then—half out of instinct, half out of longing—she crossed to the dresser, tugged open the drawer that always smelled like him, and grabbed one of his worn graphic tees. It was too big, frayed a little at the collar, and so soft it felt like a hug. She tugged it over her head, the hem falling halfway down her thighs, sleeves bunching at her elbows.

It smelled like laundry and Mason and something she couldn’t name but always felt safer in.

Then she climbed into bed.

No theatrics. No teasing.

Just exhaustion and trust, layered into every movement as she tucked herself under the quilt, knees curling toward the warmth where he’d soon be. Her cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes flicking to where he still stood just inside the door like he didn’t want to break the quiet.

And she didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t have to.

Because everything about her—the shirt, the sigh, the way her hand reached for the empty space beside her—said come here.

Said home.

Mason didn’t move right away either.

He just stood there—barefoot on the hardwood, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, heart doing Olympic-level flips in his chest like cool cool cool, don’t cry, don’t ruin this, act like a person—and watched her.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a look how lucky I am way.

Just…

Stunned.

Totally, unapologetically stunned.

Because God, the way she kissed him? The way she whispered “I already love it” like it wasn’t just about the nursery, like it was about him, like it was about all of it? His brain short-circuited somewhere between she said that and I get to keep her.

And now?

Now she was walking down the hallway in her dumb little socked feet like she didn’t just emotionally obliterate him, like she didn’t just kiss him with a kind of certainty he was pretty sure he'd be chasing for the rest of his life.

He followed, obviously. Would’ve followed her anywhere. Into a storm. Into a courtroom. Into the cereal aisle of hell itself. But this?

This was better.

This was home.

She opened the bedroom door with her hip like a rom-com goddess who didn’t even realize she was one, and he stayed still just long enough to watch her peel off her hoodie—his hoodie, thank you very much—and let it drop like she belonged here.

Because she did.

Because she always had.

And then she reached for his shirt, and listen—

Mason was gone.

Brain? Gone.

Heart? Absolute puddle.

She tugged it on, all oversized cotton and fraying edges and him, and Mason swore if he were a cartoon character, little animated hearts would’ve popped out of his eyes right then and there. Like boing and sproing and someone call an ambulance, I’m in love.

She climbed into bed, and he should’ve said something—something cute, something witty, maybe a well-timed wow, that shirt’s illegal levels of hot on you—but she looked over her shoulder at him like come here, and his whole soul went stupid.

He padded over quietly, climbing in behind her like muscle memory. Like this had always been the plan. His arms slid around her waist like they were following orders, pulling her back against him, anchoring himself to the one thing that ever made gravity feel like a gift instead of a burden.

And for a second?

He didn’t say anything.

Just breathed her in.

Let the quiet wrap around them like a weighted blanket. Let his cheek press to the back of her shoulder where the neckline of the shirt slipped just enough to feel like maybe fate had a sense of style.

Then, softly—just loud enough to brush her skin—

“You know I’m gonna cry the second you open that door, right?”

She huffed a laugh. Didn’t call him out for it.

So he grinned.

“And like, not a cute cinematic tear,” he continued, voice sleep-soft and smile-stupid. “Like full-on, red-faced, soap opera sobbing. The baby’s gonna hear it from inside the womb and be like damn, Dad, get it together.”

Her shoulders shook with another quiet laugh, and he kissed the spot just beneath her ear like a thank-you note folded into a vow.

“And hey,” he added, pulling the covers tighter around them, “for the record? You in my shirt, in our bed, in this life we made?”

His voice dropped to something lower. More real.

“Best thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen Jurassic Park in IMAX.”

Rowan made a noise like you are such an idiot, but she didn’t move.

Didn’t fight it.

She just curled deeper into his arms, her hand finding his at her waist, fingers slipping between his like they belonged there.

Mason closed his eyes.

Held her tighter.

And somewhere in the quiet, between laughter and lavender and the soft hum of their breath syncing up, he whispered one last thing:

“You’re it for me, Ro. Always were. Always will be.”

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Not when her whole body had already answered for her—curling into the shape of his chest like gravity knew the way, like every part of her had been made to land here. Safely. Softly. Finally.

She could still feel the echo of his words in her spine, warm and reverent and stupidly, unfairly good. Still feel the brush of his lips beneath her ear, like a promise made without expectation. And yeah, she’d teased him, called him an idiot under her breath—but God, her heart was traitorous. Because all it wanted to do was stay.

Stay wrapped in him like a blanket that never judged. Stay right here in the quiet, where the world narrowed to heartbeat and breath and the scent of him on his shirt. Stay where love wasn’t loud or cinematic—but steady. Everyday. Endless.

She didn’t cry.

But it was close.

Her thumb stroked his knuckles, slow and instinctual, grounding her. Grounding them both. And when her voice finally came, it was small. Hoarse. Like it had been folded and tucked somewhere safe until now.

“I’m really glad it’s you,” she whispered. “Like… really.”

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to see his face to know how he’d look at her—like she was saying something sacred. Like she was saying everything.

So she let the silence answer too.

Just for a beat.

Then—

“Also,” she added, voice muffled by the pillow, “if you cry when I open that nursery door, I’m never letting you live it down.”

He laughed—quiet, helpless—and she grinned into the mattress.

“But I want that,” she said, more to herself than him. “The stupid crying. The almond crunch proposals. You in your dumb apron, holding up baby clothes like they’re battle armor.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop.

“I want all of it.”

She reached for his hand again. Twined their fingers tighter. Anchored them there, in the almost-evening hush of a room that had seen a thousand versions of them—but never this one.

Not yet.

And when she whispered, “I already love the life we haven’t even met yet,” it wasn’t about the nursery.

It was about tomorrow.

And every day.

She didn’t mean to kiss him again.

Didn’t plan it, didn’t think it through.

She just… looked at him. At the boy with the too-long lashes and the warm arms around her and the voice that never said the right thing at the right time, but always managed to say the one thing that mattered most.

And something in her chest cracked wide open.

Because how was this her life?

How was he hers?

Mason Hayes, who made grocery stores feel like grand gestures and paint fumes feel like love letters. Who laughed with his whole chest and cried over crayon box colors and held her like she was something sacred, even when she felt anything but.

She turned in his arms slowly, the soft cotton of his shirt shifting around her like it belonged there—like she did.

And then?

She kissed him.

Slow. Certain. Just enough pressure to say I know. I feel it too. I’m still not over you, and I never want to be.

He made a sound low in his throat—half surprise, half reverence—and kissed her right back, like he couldn’t believe she’d picked him either. Like this whole thing was still too good to be true.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead stayed pressed to his, breath mingling in the stillness between them.

And quietly—barely more than a whisper—

“I still can’t believe I get to kiss you whenever I want.”

She wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t fishing.

Just telling the truth.

Because some days, it still didn’t feel real. That he looked at her the way he did. That she got to wear his shirts and steal his snacks and fall asleep to the sound of him breathing steady beside her.

That she got to want him—and be wanted right back.

Mason didn’t speak. Just brushed his thumb along her cheek like he was making sure she was really there.

And Rowan?

Rowan closed her eyes, let her palm rest flat against his chest, and listened to the rhythm she now knew by heart.

Because this wasn’t just love.

It was home.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.