He didn’t deserve her.

Not even a little bit.

Mason lay there with his arms full of the girl who used to make his heart stutter just by looking in his direction—who still did, who always would—and tried not to let the tidal wave of emotion crawl up his throat and ruin the moment.

Because God, how did a guy like him—chaotic, weird, too-much-in-all-the-wrong-places Mason Hayes—end up here?

With her.

With Rowan Starling, who once wore her armor like it was stitched into her skin. Who rolled her eyes like breathing and loved people in secret because that felt safer than saying it out loud. Who used to run from everything soft because it never lasted.

Now curled against his chest like maybe this time, it could.

He watched her eyes flutter closed again, lashes fanning across her cheek, her hand rising and falling with his breath where it rested over his heart. And yeah—okay—his throat was doing a thing. But he let himself feel it.

Didn’t hide.

Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t make a joke.

Instead, he leaned in, kissed her forehead like he meant it (because he did, more than anything), and whispered back:

“Yeah, well… believe it.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips tugged into a smile, and that was enough to make his chest hurt in the best possible way.

“I know I’m a lot,” he said softly, thumb brushing over the curve of her jaw. “I talk too much, I think too loud, I’m, like… aggressively emotionally available now. But Ro?”

His voice dropped lower.

“I never knew how to be brave until you.”

She blinked then—slow, sleepy, but watching him. Really watching him.

“And if you’re still wondering why it’s me?” he added, mouth tilted in that lopsided, stupidly earnest smile of his. “It’s ‘cause loving you doesn’t scare me. Not even a little.”

He ducked his head slightly, pressing their foreheads together again like they could sync thoughts if they just stayed close enough.

“You’re not breakable, Ro. You’re just real. And I’d rather build something messy and true with you than perfect with anyone else.”

A pause. A breath.

Then—

“You kissed me like it was gravity. Like it wasn’t even a choice. And I swear to God, that’s gonna haunt me forever—in the hot way, obviously.”

She huffed a laugh, which made him grin wider.

“But if you ever doubt this again—if the fear comes back or the world gets loud—I want you to remember this part,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Me. Here. Holding you like a lifeline. Choosing you with my whole damn chest.”

He kissed her again then—soft, deep, full of every word he didn’t have language for.

And when he pulled back, brushing her hair off her forehead, his grin softened into something quieter.

“Also,” he added, “if you ever wanna make out in the nursery like teenage rebels with a mortgage, I fully support it. Could really up the resale value.”

She groaned into his chest like why are you like this, but she was laughing too, shoulders shaking against him.

And Mason?

Mason held her like it was the only thing he’d ever been good at.

Because in this room, in this house, in this life they hadn’t even finished building yet—

She was his favorite blueprint.

And he was already home.

He was warm beneath her palms.

Real in a way she still hadn’t quite wrapped her head around—even now, even after all this time. And maybe she never would. Maybe that was the point.

Because some things?

Some things were too good to make sense of.

She felt his hands settle at her hips—steady, reverent, like he didn’t want to push, didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to risk waking her from whatever this was. And she got that. God, did she get that. Because she used to feel the same way. Used to live in that constant flinch—like happiness was a trap door waiting to snap.

But with Mason…

It wasn’t.

With Mason, it was this.

Soft cotton and open hands and laughter in her lungs. A whole future wrapped in the sound of his heartbeat. A life she never planned for, never dared to ask for, and now couldn’t breathe without.

Her forehead dropped against his, breath catching in her throat as she closed her eyes. Let it all in. The weight of him. The steadiness. The way he made her feel like she could finally stop running from herself.

“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth.

Simple. Certain. Undeniable.

“I love you in the grocery store. I love you when you’re wearing that dumb apron. I love you when you cry at commercials and when you hum off-key and when you get paint on your nose.”

A soft laugh broke in her throat, and she smiled.

“I love you when I’m scared. I love you when I’m brave. I love you when I don’t know which one I am.”

She opened her eyes then—met his fully. No flinch. No mask. Just her.

“And if the world burns down tomorrow,” she whispered, “I’m still glad I get this. You. Me. All of it.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid she might float away otherwise.

But she wouldn’t.

Not now.

Not with him to hold her down.

Mason’s throat was already tight by the time she said I love you the second time.

By the third, he was wrecked.

Not in the dramatic, sob-on-the-floor kind of way—but in the quiet, bone-deep way that happened when the world shifted beneath you and you realized, oh. This is the moment everything changed.

Because Rowan Starling didn’t just say I love you like it was sweet. She said it like it was sacred. Like it cost her something once, and now she was choosing it anyway. Choosing him.

And maybe that was the part that undid him most.

She could’ve run. She didn’t.

She could’ve closed up. She didn’t.

She could’ve made a joke or deflected or brushed past the heat rising between them like she used to, like he used to expect her to.

But instead?

She just… stayed.

In his arms, in the moment, in the truth of everything she’d said. Her voice full of cracks and courage. Her fingers twisted in his shirt like she was anchoring herself there—like she wanted to.

And Mason Hayes—complete disaster of a man, wildly in love and two steps from getting on one knee in sweatpants—could barely hold it together.

“Okay,” he breathed, voice rasping around the weight in his chest. “Well. That’s it. You’ve officially broken me.”

His hands slid from her hips to her back, pulling her closer, gently, slowly—like if he didn’t hold her tight enough, she might vanish in a puff of lavender-scented heartbreak.

“You can’t say things like that and expect me to survive, Starling,” he muttered against her hair. “I’m already planning, like, seven grand gestures and a playlist that’s mostly Taylor Swift now.”

He felt her laugh, soft against his chest, and something loosened inside him.

God, he loved that sound.

“I love you too,” he said quietly, seriously now, because she deserved more than just jokes. “In every version. In every universe. Even the one where I’m a barista with a man bun and you’re still pretending not to like me.”

A beat. A breath. Then:

“I love you when you steal the covers. I love you when you leave your books all over the house like breadcrumbs to your brain. I love you when you doubt yourself, and I love you when you let me remind you who you are.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing her cheek like it was instinct.

“And if the world burns down tomorrow?” His mouth tilted, gentle but sure. “I’ll meet you in the ash. Wouldn’t want to haunt anyone else.”

She laughed again—wet and beautiful—and he caught her mouth with his like a secret.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just theirs.

The kind of kiss that said stay. The kind that said home.

And when they finally broke apart, breathing the same quiet air between them, he rested his forehead against hers and added, with a grin just barely softened at the edges—

“But, uh… can I still wear the apron? Asking for a domestic icon.”

Rowan didn’t laugh right away.

She smiled, sure—wide and crooked and a little dangerous—but the sound that came out of her was more breath than laugh. Something soft and overwhelmed and wrecked in a way she wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

Because Mason Hayes had always been too much. Too loud. Too sweet. Too infuriatingly sincere.

And God, she loved him for it.

For all of it.

She stayed in his lap, forehead still pressed to his, fingers still curled in the front of his shirt like she was trying to keep the moment from drifting too far away. And then—still breathless, still glowing—she kissed him again.

Just a whisper of a kiss this time. Warm and slow and steady.

Like yes.

Like of course.

Like always.

“You can wear the apron,” she murmured against his mouth, voice low and completely unbothered. “But only if you’re ready to be objectified while making pancakes.”

She felt more than heard his grin.

“And you’re not allowed to complain when I write ‘Property of Rowan Starling’ across the ass in Sharpie.”

Her voice was teasing, sure. But her hands were still soft where they held him. Her body still loose and safe and home where it rested against his. Because everything she said—the jokes, the claims, the I love yous tucked inside the banter—meant something now.

And she wasn’t scared to let them.

Not with him.

Not here.

Not anymore.

Mason let out a strangled sort of laugh—the kind that was half flirty bark, half are you trying to kill me?—and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my God,” he groaned into her skin, voice muffled but brimming with helpless amusement. “You’re gonna be the death of me. Sharpie on the ass? Really? That’s the legacy we’re leaving our child?”

But his arms tightened around her anyway.

Because of course she’d say that. Of course she’d make something as simple as pancakes feel like foreplay and forever at the same time. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He leaned back just enough to look at her—really look at her. Eyes dancing, cheeks flushed, that little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth like she’d already won whatever game he didn’t realize they were playing.

“You realize,” he said slowly, tipping his head like he was thinking very seriously about this, “that you’ve just given me full license to get a custom apron that says Starling’s Snack. In script. With hearts.”

Rowan tried to roll her eyes.

Failed spectacularly.

Because he looked so proud of the idea.

And because, underneath the chaos and the teasing and the entirely too-serious apron talk, there was that same steady truth again—that tether between them. Real. Constant. Unshakable.

He kissed her then, soft and quick and laced with more affection than he knew what to do with.

Then:

“You’re it for me, Ro. In the kitchen, in a thunderstorm, in a grocery store parking lot with expired coupons and bad ideas—you’re it.”

His hand brushed her jaw, thumb grazing just beneath her cheekbone.

“I’m yours in every universe. With or without ass Sharpie.”

He paused, then added with a raised brow and a crooked grin:

“But preferably with.”

Rowan let out the kind of laugh that shook straight through her—shoulders trembling, head tipping forward against his as her fingers curled tighter in the front of his shirt.

“God, you’re so dumb,” she said, almost fondly, her voice barely above a whisper.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she slid one hand up to his jaw, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth, and met his eyes with something that looked a lot like wonder.

Because this was the part she never believed she’d get. The comfort. The clarity. The kind of love that could make her laugh through tears and still feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

“Starling’s Snack?” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the words, her mouth twitching at the edges. “That’s what we’re going with? Not like… Chef of Chaos? Domestic Disaster Husband? Cinnamon Roll Daddy?”

She tilted her head, biting her lip like she wasn’t entirely kidding.

And then, quieter—less of a joke now, more of a confession—she whispered, “You know you’re it for me too, right?”

Rowan leaned in again, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Then his jaw. Then the soft skin just below his ear, where she could feel him inhale like it knocked the air out of him.

“I don’t care what you wear,” she murmured, lips brushing his skin with every word. “An apron, a hoodie, nothing at all…”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—serious now, full of that soft defiance only he ever got to see.

“You’re mine either way, Mason Hayes.”

A beat.

“And if you think I won’t also write that on your ass, you don’t know me at all.”

She didn’t give him time to recover.

Didn’t wait for another apron joke or one of his dangerously sweet declarations.

Because the way Mason looked at her—like she was everything good in the world, like he couldn’t believe his luck even now—it made her ache in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with want.

So Rowan leaned in—slow and sure—until her lips brushed his, soft and deliberate. A tease. A warning. A promise.

And then she kissed him.

Properly.

Fully.

Like she meant it.
Because she did.

One hand slid into the back of his hair, tugging just a little, while the other rested over his heart, grounding them both. Her body pressed into his as she deepened it, slow and certain, like she was memorizing the feel of him all over again.

When she finally pulled back—barely, just enough to breathe—her voice was lower, lips still brushing his.

“My parents are at the bookstore a little longer,” she murmured, one brow arching as her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up. “Book club’s running late.”

A pause. A shift.

Then she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Which means we’ve got time. You know… if you wanna do something wildly irresponsible.”

Her grin was all wicked mischief and flushed confidence, and Mason looked like she’d just short-circuited the last rational thought in his head.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a groan—just Mason Hayes in complete and utter agony, the good kind, the kind that came with too much adrenaline and too much heart and zero common sense.

“Okay,” he said, very seriously, “first of all—‘Cinnamon Roll Daddy’? That’s illegal. That should not be allowed. I need at least a five-minute warning before you deploy something that unholy in my lap.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, practically.

Because she was still right there—smirking and gorgeous and lit up from the inside like a fever dream in one of his old hoodies—and she’d just said you’re mine.

And if she thought he was coming back from that anytime soon?

Yeah, no. Not happening.

He tilted his head, just enough for his nose to brush hers, his hand sliding slow along her hip like it had every right to be there.

“Second of all,” he murmured, voice pitched low and wrecked and just barely holding it together, “I have never wanted to make a dumb decision more in my entire life.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth. Then back up.

“And I’m including the time I ate a full rotisserie chicken on stage during a dress rehearsal because I thought it would be ‘method.’”

He was teasing.

Sort of.

But the heat beneath it was very, very real.

Because Rowan Starling was looking at him like that—like he was hers to claim, to wreck, to keep—and he wasn’t sure how the hell he was supposed to stay upright under that kind of pressure.

So he didn’t.

Didn’t fight it. Didn’t overthink it.

Just surged forward and kissed her like the world had narrowed to this single moment of yes.

Like it was okay to want her like this.

Like she wanted him right back.

His fingers curled into the hem of her borrowed t-shirt, thumbs brushing bare skin, reverent and greedy at the same time. And when she sighed into his mouth—God help him—he made a sound that could only be described as utterly feral but still in love.

They were chaos.

They were ridiculous.

They were gonna get caught.

But when he pulled back for half a second, forehead resting to hers, breathless and beaming, all he could say was—

“You had me at Sharpie on my ass.”

Rowan was gone.

Not in the oh-no-I’ve-lost-my-head kind of way—though, let’s be honest, it was close—but in the full-body, full-heart kind of surrender she never used to let herself feel. Not like this. Not with anyone but him.

Because Mason Hayes was a damn fire hazard when he smiled like that.

And when he kissed her like that?

She didn’t stand a chance.

Her breath caught on the tail end of his grin, her forehead still pressed to his, her body flush against his in a way that felt more like a promise than a choice. And God, the way he’d said you had me at Sharpie on my ass like it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever uttered?

She couldn’t even be mad.

She laughed—low and a little breathless, cheeks hot from too much adrenaline and affection—and threaded her fingers through his hair again just to feel him melt.

“I’m not saying I plan to write ‘Property of Starling’ in cursive,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his in a kiss that didn’t quite land, “but I am saying I’ve got nice handwriting.”

She kissed him again, this time for real—deeper now, with more heat and more weight and just enough teeth to make it count.

And when she pulled back, just barely, she was smiling.

Not coy. Not smug.

Just… sure.

“I want you,” she said, voice hushed but steady. “Like, now-now.”

A beat.

Then, with a tilt of her head and an eyebrow that really should have been illegal:
“And my parents are definitely still at the bookstore. Which means we’ve got at least twenty minutes to make a very irresponsible decision.”

She leaned in again, lips brushing his jaw this time.

“So… what do you say, Cinnamon Roll Daddy?”

Rowan didn’t break eye contact.

Not even when her hands slipped down to the hem of the oversized shirt—his shirt, technically—and paused there, her expression unreadable for half a second. Like she was giving him a moment to stop her. Like she was daring him to.

He didn’t.

So she pulled it off.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The cotton slid over her skin and hit the floor with a soft sound, like punctuation. And suddenly, the room wasn’t just warm—it was charged. Like every molecule had aligned around this moment.

Around them.

She didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The way she looked at him said it all.

I trust you.
I want this.
I want you.

Then she leaned in again, her mouth brushing his in something just short of a kiss, voice a whisper against his lips:

“Don’t waste the fifteen.”

And that was it.

That was the match.

That was the fire.

He didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she looked like that—flushed and radiant and his, standing there in nothing but bare skin and bravado, her belly curved like the softest kind of miracle between them, and that mouth of hers daring him to move.

Mason Hayes might’ve been a lot of things—overdramatic, constantly starving, emotionally deranged in the most poetic way—but at this exact moment?

He was gone.

Ruined.

Absolutely, irrevocably hers.

“Okay,” he said, breath catching like a punch to the gut. “You do not get to look like the most gorgeous creature on earth, take off my shirt, and then hit me with ‘don’t waste the fifteen.’ That’s—there should be a law against that. That’s emotional terrorism.”

But he was already moving.

Already closing the space between them like a man possessed—hands reverent but starved as they slid along her waist, her sides, her back, mapping her like a language he’d been fluent in for years but was still finding new ways to worship.

“Jesus, Ro,” he breathed, forehead falling to hers, his voice low and wrecked and shaking with restraint. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

His lips brushed her jaw, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth like he couldn’t decide where to land, couldn’t decide what to do with all this want without falling to his knees.

“You’re literally glowing. Like, unfairly. Like some sort of ethereal forest goddess who just wandered into your childhood bedroom and decided me, of all people, was worthy of being ravished before your parents come home from book club.”

His hands slid down again—soft over the swell of her hips, her thighs—until his thumbs hooked gently beneath her underwear, slow and asking.

“But sure,” he whispered against her skin. “Let’s be irresponsible.”

Then he kissed her.

Really kissed her.

Deep and hungry and laced with every bit of awe he’d been holding back—every heartbeat of how are you real and how did I get this lucky and I would die for you and your dumb Sharpie jokes.

He pulled her with him as they backed toward the bed—the one with the familiar creak and the worn quilt and the posters still tacked up from high school. The room that didn’t belong to just her anymore. Not since him. Not since them.

And when the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sat, tugging her gently into his lap like she belonged there.

Like she always had.

His voice broke the silence again, this time rougher, closer to reverent:

“You are everything, Rowan Starling. You know that?”

And just before he kissed her again—hands warm on her hips, eyes dark with want but soft with love—he added, lower now, almost like a secret:

“You’re the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’m counting the time I caught a lighting gel on fire during tech week while shirtless.”

Then he kissed down her throat, over the slope of her shoulder, lips dragging reverent and slow, like prayer and promise and heat wrapped in reverence.

Because this wasn’t just want.

This was worship.

Rowan didn’t rush.

She didn’t need to.

The moment was already heavy with heat and hush, thick with everything unspoken and everything understood. It clung to her skin like summer air, like breath shared in a space too sacred to name. And she was aware—so achingly aware—of every inch of him beneath her. The rise and fall of his chest. The tension thrumming through his muscles. The way his eyes searched hers like he was memorizing her all over again.

Her hands moved with purpose—gentle, sure—as she reached for his wrists. His skin was warm under her fingertips, pulsing with something that felt a lot like reverence. Like awe.

She guided his palms upward, skimming past the curve of her waist, across her ribs, until they settled—tentative and trembling—beneath her chest.

She stayed there.

Let him feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his palms, wild and certain and real. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Because this wasn’t about fear anymore.

This was about trust.

“Feel that?” she whispered, her voice thick and quiet, the words catching on the heat between them. “That’s what you do to me.”

Her heart drummed against his touch like it was trying to answer for her—every beat saying stay, stay, stay.

His hands didn’t move. Just held her there—soft, steady, like he understood that this wasn’t about claiming. It was about honoring. About being let in.

Her breath stuttered once, then evened as she leaned in, eyes never leaving his. She kissed him again—slow and deep, lips parting just enough to let the weight of the moment sink into every inch of her. Her fingers curled in his shirt. His mouth moved against hers with that same aching tenderness she always forgot how much she craved until he gave it back to her like a vow.

And when they parted—barely—she let her forehead rest against his, the space between them nothing but shared breath and skin and truth.

Her fingers grazed his collarbone, trailing slowly to the sides of his neck. “I used to think being seen meant being exposed,” she said, voice softer now, eyes on his mouth, his jaw, the space where they fit. “Like someone would take what they found and twist it. Hurt me with it.”

Her eyes flicked back up to his.

“But you don’t do that,” she breathed. “You see me… and I feel safe.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he held her—bare hands to bare skin, eyes wide and reverent, breath caught like she was something holy—said it all.

And Rowan?

Rowan didn’t look away.

She let him keep looking.

Because for the first time, she wanted to be seen.

He was breathless.

Not just from the way she moved—graceful, certain, like the moment belonged to her and she was offering it—but from the way she let him in. The way she trusted him. With her heart. Her body. Her truth.

His hands stayed right where she’d placed them—shaking slightly, reverent, like he knew what a privilege it was just to touch her like this. To feel the thrum of her heartbeat against his palms. To know, without question, that it was for him.

“I feel it,” Mason whispered, voice wrecked and low, almost like he didn’t trust it not to break. “Every beat. Every part of you trying to tell me something I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to deserve.”

His thumbs brushed the curve of her ribcage—barely a movement, but it said everything. That he was here. That he was staying. That he’d never treat her heart like a weapon. Only ever like something sacred.

“You don’t have to hide with me,” he added, breath warm between them. “Not your sharp edges. Not your soft parts. Not the pieces you think are too much or not enough. I want all of you, Ro. Every version.”

His voice cracked just a little, like he couldn’t hold it all in.

“You make me feel like I could build a life that’s actually good. Like I could be more than just the guy who says too much and cries during Finding Nemo and screws up stage directions because I’m staring at you from the wings.”

He smiled then—crooked and dazed, like her. Like love.

“You’re my best part,” he whispered, tilting his head just enough to brush his nose against hers. “And if you want to keep looking at me like that… like I’m not a disaster in pajama pants, I’ll—God, I’ll spend forever trying to earn it.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. Less about hunger and more about devotion. About staying in this moment and letting it change him.

And when they broke apart, he didn’t open his eyes right away. Just rested his forehead against hers, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, thumb sweeping her skin like he couldn’t help it.

“Thank you,” he breathed, almost like a prayer. “For choosing me. For seeing me back.”

Then, quieter—softer still—

“For letting me love you like this.”

And he did.

So completely.

So irrevocably.

Like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at him—really looked—like her heart was trying to memorize the moment. The way his eyes stayed on hers. The way his hands never moved unless she told them to. The way he said every version like he meant it.

And he did.

God, he did.

So she leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Steady. A little shaky. But sure.

When she pulled back, her hands stayed at his jaw, thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth like she couldn’t stand not to touch him.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” she said, voice soft and uneven. “You already did. Just by being this. By showing up. By staying.”

Her smile flickered through the tears she didn’t bother to blink away.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I don’t have to choose between being strong and being soft. Like I can be both. Like I can be me—and that’s enough.”

She laughed then—quiet, breathless, full of something that felt a lot like awe.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I didn’t think I could love someone this much without losing myself. But you… you make me feel like I’m more me when I’m with you.”

She leaned her forehead against his, eyes closing as she exhaled.

“And pajama pants or not, you’re it for me. The best part. The safe place. The whole damn future.”

Another kiss—slower this time. Anchored. Sacred.

When she pulled back again, her voice was barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mason. You’re stuck with me.”

And she meant it.

Every word. Every breath.

Forever.

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Just stayed there, forehead to his, feeling the weight of it—them—settling like something holy in her chest.

Then she kissed him again.

Slower this time. But deeper. More deliberate.

Like she was trying to tell him something in the way her mouth lingered on his. Like she needed him to feel it everywhere—what she couldn’t quite say in words, not all at once.

Her fingers slid down from his jaw, warm against his neck, and then lower—tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

Just asking.

A silent, breathless can I?

And when he didn’t pull away—when his breath hitched just slightly, but his hands stayed right where they were, grounding them both—she kept going.

Kept kissing him like it was a promise.

Like she was unwrapping something sacred.

Her hands slipped beneath the cotton, palms brushing over warm skin, and she smiled against his lips—small, soft, wrecked.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she whispered, lips ghosting over his. “Just be here.”

She tugged his shirt higher, her touch reverent and slow.

“I want you. All of you.”

And the way she said it—barely a breath, but steady—left no room for doubt.

It wasn’t about lust.

It wasn’t about escape.

It was about love.

The kind that reached down deep and stayed.

He swore he could feel the earth tilt.

Just a little. Just enough.

Because the way she said I want you didn’t sound like a tease. Didn’t sound like a challenge. It sounded like home. Like gravity. Like everything he’d been aching to give her finally had somewhere to land.

Mason didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

His breath caught somewhere between her whisper and the drag of her hands under his shirt, and it stayed there—lodged behind his ribs, burning slow.

So he let her lead.

Let her pull the fabric higher, slow and sure, until he had to shift—arms lifting just enough for her to slip it off, the cotton forgotten somewhere behind them.

Her fingers mapped his skin like he was something worth remembering. Like he was something beautiful.

And God, maybe he was. If only because she looked at him like this.

Still, reverent, lips parted like he was already wrecking her—and didn’t even know it.

He reached for her, finally. One hand slipping to her waist, the other to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the hinge of her jaw like he needed to make sure she was real.

And then he kissed her.

No hesitation. No restraint.

Just heat. Just truth.

His mouth moved over hers like worship. Like every breath he hadn’t known he was holding was meant for this. For her.

He kissed her like she was his whole damn future.

Because she was.

When they broke for air, his forehead stayed pressed to hers, breath shallow, heart thundering.

And even then—stripped bare, undone, utterly hers—he still didn’t speak.

He just looked at her.

Like she was the miracle.

Like forever had already started.

And then—God, he couldn’t help it—he kissed her again.

Deeper this time. Hungrier.

His hands slid to her hips, grounding her there, pulling her flush against him like he needed to feel every breath she took. Like if there was space between them, he might forget how to breathe.

He kissed her like he had something to prove.

Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment and never wanted it to end.

And when he finally pulled back—barely, reluctantly, lips brushing hers like an aftershock—his thumb swept over her cheek, slow and reverent.

No words.

Just that look.

That breathless, stunned, worshipful look that said everything he didn’t have to:

You. Always. Only.

Rowan didn’t break the kiss when she started to move—just let it deepen, let it stretch out slow and aching as her body shifted beneath his. Her hands slipped from his hair to his shoulders, fingers pressing into bare skin, guiding him down with her inch by inch.

Until her spine met the mattress.

Until her head hit the edge of the bed, curls spilling like wildfire over the side, catching light from the hallway like embers from a dying star. The cotton sheets were cool against her back, but he was warm—blazingly warm—where his body hovered just above hers.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow, hungry breaths. But her eyes—God, her eyes—they were steady. Locked on his like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And maybe he was.

She smiled then—slow and sure, something wrecked and wild blooming in her throat—and tugged gently at his wrist, her thumb brushing over the vein there. Grounding. Pulling.

“Come here,” she whispered, breath brushing his lips.

And he did.

He crawled over her with quiet reverence, his movements careful but full of urgency, like touching her meant something more than just touch. Like it meant everything. His knees sank into the mattress on either side of her hips, arms braced beside her head. The way he moved—confident, trembling, like gravity had given up on him—made her stomach twist in the best way.

When he finally settled above her, Rowan took him in—eyes dragging over his flushed cheeks, parted lips, the strong line of his throat. His chest was bare, rising and falling like he’d just run a hundred miles to get to her.

And still, she smiled.

Because he had. In all the ways that counted.

All the pieces she’d hidden—the ones she’d polished sharp or softened to survive—she gave them to him now. Freely.

Her voice came quiet. Barely a breath. But it held the weight of everything.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, honest and undone. “I’ve been yours since the moment you saw me and didn’t look away.”

She reached up again, fingers brushing over his jaw, memorizing every line, every freckle, every stubbled edge like it mattered. Because it did.

Then—tender, wild, and so sure it cracked something open inside her—she smiled. The kind of smile that split sky from stars.

“So take me, Mase. Not because you think you have to earn me. Not because you think you’re lucky.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, nails gently scraping his scalp, drawing him closer.

“But because this is us. And we’re worth everything.”

She kissed him again—deeper now, fuller, like she was pouring every word she’d ever swallowed down into the space between them. Like the shape of her mouth against his was a vow.

And this time, when her body arched up to meet his, when her legs wrapped tightly around his hips and her arms pulled him down until he was pressed flush to her, there was no space left.

No distance.

No fear.

Just love.

Raw. Real. Forever.

Her lips barely left his. Just skimmed. Brushed. Ghosted like silk as her breath spilled between them.

And then she smiled again—this time smaller, more fragile, like a secret she’d been saving just for him.

“You feel that?” she breathed, voice trembling with intensity. “That’s me. Choosing you.”

She didn’t rush. She let him feel it. Her heartbeat against his. The weight of her body wrapped around him like she was meant to be there. Like this was always the end of the road.

Her thumb swept across his cheek, warm and slow. She looked at him like he was already her whole world.

And then she said it—soft, steady, utterly certain.

“I can’t wait to be your wife.”

Her breath caught, a quiet little hitch as her palm slid between their chests, fingers spreading over his heart.

“To take your name. To build a life with you that looks nothing like anyone else’s—but still feels like ours.”

Her other hand drifted down, fingertips gliding over his back, his ribs, curling low at the base of his spine. Her voice dipped with it.

“To be the mother of your daughter.”

That one hit her hardest.

Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry—not yet. She just looked at him, like she already saw their future unfolding. Midnight feedings. Little giggles. Tiny hands wrapped around theirs.

And then she moved.

She pulled him down.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

She kissed him hungrily—mouth parting under his like she’d been starving for this, for him, for the life they’d started with one heartbeat and never let go.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her legs tightened around his hips. Her body arched up, meeting him with a kind of desperation that wasn’t about sex.

It was about belonging.

About choosing him—over and over and over again.

This wasn’t just love.

This was everything.

He was gone the second she said it.

Not in the I-can’t-think sense—though God, thinking was barely a possibility anymore—but in the deeper, darker way. In the way you don’t just want someone.

You need them.

Mason Hayes had always known he was a goner for Rowan Starling.

But now?

Now he was a man on fire—and she was the only thing that had ever made burning feel like home.

Her words weren’t just soft.

They were seismic.

Take me.

Because this is us.

And that was it. That was the match.

The wreckage.

The surrender.

His body pressed down into hers with a reverence so intense it bordered on ruin. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. No space, no air, no distance. Just skin and breath and the unbearable ache of loving someone this much. His hands moved like they knew her already—every curve, every secret, every place that made her tremble and sigh and pull him closer.

And when she said I can’t wait to be your wife—God, he swore he could feel the world tilt again. Like time itself had cracked open at the edges and let him glimpse the forever she was handing him.

The future she wanted with him.

Their daughter.

Their life.

Their everything.

He kissed her then—harder this time, deeper, like he needed her breath to survive. His mouth opened over hers with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with appetite and everything to do with devotion.

It was heat, yes.

But it was also love.

Unapologetic.
All-consuming.
Utterly hers.

His hands skimmed down her body—slow, sure, anchoring. One cupped her thigh, guiding her leg higher around his waist; the other slid along her ribs, fingers flexing like he needed to memorize every inch. His breath was ragged when it met hers, tangled and uneven and real.

And then he dropped his forehead to hers, eyes burning, chest shaking with it.

The need.

The want.

The reverence.

“You,” he breathed, voice rough and wrecked and low. “Only ever you.”

And then he moved.

No more hesitation.

No more space.

Just Mason—home in her arms, worship in his hands, fire in his kiss—and every single part of him saying yes. Yes to the now. Yes to forever. Yes to her.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the beginning of something sacred.

And he was all in.

Rowan was pretty sure they’d lost the plot somewhere between “floral options” and Mason sketching a velociraptor in the margins of their seating chart.

“That’s… definitely not a groomsman,” she muttered, arching a brow as she reached for the highlighter. She circled cake tasting twice—mostly to keep herself from laughing at how proud he looked of his dino.

They’d been at the kitchen table for almost two hours now, surrounded by crumpled post-its, a nearly empty bag of sour gummy worms, and Mason’s handwriting getting increasingly dramatic in all caps across their wedding checklist.

Somewhere between the candle samples and deciding if burgundy table runners were too on the nose, he’d kicked his feet up on the chair across from her and started calling their potential playlist the Setlist of Eternal Love and Slight Chaos™.

And honestly? It fit.

She sat cross-legged in her chair, Mason’s hoodie drowning her frame, hair still damp from the shower and falling in soft waves over her shoulder. One of his hands was resting against her ankle under the table—absentminded, warm, grounding. She didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.

She looked at him then—really looked.

Burgundy pen cap between his teeth, focus narrowed on whether to go with the fall orchard venue or the moody conservatory. Barefoot. Soft-eyed. Wearing that damn faded theatre camp t-shirt she always threatened to steal permanently.

And it hit her again.

This was her person.

Messy handwriting, dinosaur groomsmen, and all.

Her future husband.

She smiled, biting her lip as she nudged his foot under the table.

“You know we’re still gonna end up crying like idiots no matter where we do it, right?”

Then, softer—without looking up from the list, just letting it fall between them like truth—

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

Mason didn’t look up right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t fire back with a joke or pretend to take notes like a man on a mission.

He just… paused.

Burgundy pen cap still in his mouth. Fingers frozen mid-doodle. His gaze softening so fast it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

Because that voice—that quiet, steady, effortless truth of hers?

Yeah.

It got him every damn time.

Slowly, he lowered the pen and looked at her.

Really looked.

At the way his hoodie fell off one shoulder, how her legs were tangled beneath her like she lived here—which she did, thank God—and how her eyes never flinched when she said things like I can’t wait to marry you like it was just fact.

Like it wasn’t a miracle.

Like she hadn’t cracked him open and made a home out of the mess inside.

His fingers tightened slightly around her ankle beneath the table, thumb brushing the soft skin there, grounding himself in the fact that she was real. Here. His.

“You say that,” he said eventually, voice a little rougher than he meant it to be, “and then expect me to just keep breathing?”

He tossed the pen onto the pile of abandoned color swatches, pushed his chair back with a screech that echoed through the kitchen, and rounded the table in three slow, deliberate steps.

And then he was there.

Dropping to one knee.

Not like a proposal. Not this time.

But like he needed to look up at her when he said what came next.

His hands slid up her thighs, slow and reverent, until they framed her hips. He pressed his forehead to the space just above her knee and exhaled, like being near her was the only oxygen that ever made sense.

Then he looked up.

Eyes full of every vow he hadn’t put on paper yet.

“You’re it, Ro,” he murmured. “You’re my always.”

And then he leaned in—hands firm, grip steady, gaze never leaving hers—and kissed her leg like it was holy. Like the wedding didn’t start in a conservatory or an orchard, but here. At this kitchen table. In bare feet and highlighters and hoodie sleeves too long for her wrists.

He rested his cheek against her thigh, voice low and serious and cracked right down the middle.

“I’d marry you tomorrow in a parking lot if it meant I got to keep you forever.”

Then, quieter—more breath than words—

“You sure you’re ready for a lifetime of Setlists of Eternal Love and Slight Chaos™?”

He grinned up at her.

Soft. Wrecked. So full of her it was stupid.

Then he kissed her again.

This time right above her knee, and again, a little higher, and again—lazy, reverent, heated now in a way that had nothing to do with wedding logistics and everything to do with the girl in front of him.

The girl he got to love forever.

The only thing on the list that ever really mattered.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just blinked down at him, hands still curled around the highlighter like they were mid-checklist, not mid-heartbreak.

Because that’s what he did to her sometimes.

Broke her open in the gentlest way possible.

No drama. No grand gestures. Just Mason—on one knee in their kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, mouth on her leg like he was praying.

And all she could do was stare at him, at his stupid theatre camp curls and the fact that he meant it. Every word. Every vow. Every ridiculous, perfect, maddening inch of him.

“You’re such a menace,” she said eventually, voice quiet but steady. “You realize that, right?”

One hand left the table and slid into his hair—because she needed the contact now, needed to anchor herself to him like he was the only real thing in the room.

“You get all soft and sincere and ‘I’d marry you in a parking lot’—and expect me to just sit here?”

She tugged gently at his hair. Just enough to make him look up again.

“You think I won’t drag you to the courthouse tomorrow and call it a day?”

But her voice cracked a little on tomorrow, and that’s how she knew it was real. That’s how he’d know too.

She leaned in, forehead resting against his, breath shared in that tiny space between all their noise.

Then, softer:

“You wreck me, Mase. And I still want it. All of it. Every chaos-soaked, glitter-stained second.”

She kissed his temple, his hairline, the tip of his nose.

Then leaned back, picked up the highlighter again, and muttered—

“One more velociraptor on this seating chart and I’m putting you at the kids’ table.”

Which earned her a grin. That soft, wrecked, all-in grin that always made her feel like the bravest person in the room.

And she wasn’t done.

Not really.

She looked back down at the checklist—half-scribbled, half-destroyed by pen doodles—and let herself picture it again. The ceremony. The candlelight. The chaos. Him.

She exhaled. Steady. Certain.

“I’d say yes a thousand times, Mason Hayes. Even if all we had was sour gummy worms and bad handwriting.”

Then she looked back at him.

“Lucky for you, I like the way you love me.”

And her smile—tired and tender and full of something wild—said the rest.

Mason didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Not when she looked at him like that. Not when her voice got all soft and cracked and full of forever.

Not when she said tomorrow like it might actually happen.

Like she’d really drag his chaos-drenched, Velociraptor-loving ass to a courthouse in a hoodie and mascara-stained cheeks and call it the best day of her life.

And the thing was?

He’d go.

No hesitation. No questions. Just where and what time, babe? and a quiet little vow to kiss her hand every morning for the rest of their lives.

His throat was tight—like something too big to name had lodged itself there—but he still grinned. Couldn’t not. That crooked, crooked thing he always did when he was trying to play it cool but had just been emotionally wrecked beyond recognition.

She had no idea what she did to him.

“I’m not at the kids’ table,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he let his hands slide a little higher on her thighs. “I’m the groom. I outrank the raptors.”

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers were still in his hair—still curling, still holding, still grounding.

He leaned into it. Let his lips trail up the inside of her knee with a reverence that had nothing to do with performance. This wasn’t a bit. Wasn’t even flirting anymore.

It was worship.

“You say I wreck you,” he said, letting the words slip out between kisses—light, slow, spaced out like he needed to taste every inch of her just to stay tethered. “But Ro, you...”

His breath hitched as he looked up again.

“You ruin me.”

And he meant it. In the best way. In the God, please keep doing it way.

In the you are the love of my entire stupid life way.

He rose slowly, hands still on her thighs, kissing his way up until his mouth found her collarbone, then the curve of her jaw, then her cheek.

And when he finally reached her mouth again, he kissed her like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Like every I love you and every I do and every hell yes lived right there between their lips.

He pulled her closer, one hand slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie she was swimming in, palm flat against her waist. The other cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye, just in case a tear decided to make a run for it.

“I’ll marry you in the courthouse,” he whispered against her lips, breath warm, body trembling, “in the kitchen, in the goddamn snack aisle at Target. Just tell me when.”

And then—

Because he couldn’t help it.

Because he was Mason freaking Hayes, chaos gremlin and heart-eyed menace—

He grinned.

“You’re mine, Rowan Starling. The rest is just confetti.”

And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t soft.

It was deep. Heated. Lit with all the things he didn’t have words for yet.

Because this?

This was his forever.

And he wanted to start it now.

Rowan could feel her heart in her throat.

Not in the soft, fluttery way people described in poems—but in the oh-hell-it’s-happening, knees-weak, brain-empty kind of way. Like everything inside her had cracked open just wide enough to make room for this.

For him.

For Mason Hayes, who made dinosaur jokes in the margins of wedding plans and still somehow made her feel like the most sacred thing in the universe.

And now he was kneeling.

Hands warm on her thighs, lips reverent on her skin, voice wrecked like she’d just given him the sun.

She was already gone.

But this? This ruined her.

“Mason,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-gasping, barely able to get his name out without dissolving. “You absolute menace. You kiss like a prayer and propose like a man having an emotional crisis in a rom-com.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, curling there like she couldn’t stand the idea of letting him go. Like if she wasn’t touching him, none of this would feel real.

“My life is now an ongoing montage of post-it notes, snack aisle vows, and you making velociraptors weirdly romantic,” she said, blinking through the blur. “And I wouldn’t trade a single second.”

She tilted his face up gently with both hands, her thumbs brushing along the curve of his jaw. That grin—God, that grin—was still hanging there like it belonged to someone who didn’t even realize he’d just broken her open in the most beautiful way.

Her voice dropped, went soft, went full of every ounce of truth she’d been carrying since the first night he looked at her like she wasn’t too much.

“You look at me like I’m your whole damn world, Mase… and I still don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

A beat.

A breath.

And then: “You ruin me too.”

She leaned in, forehead to his, chest to chest, hoodie riding up around her thighs but she didn’t care. Not when his hands were on her waist. Not when his thumb was still brushing beneath her eye like he knew her tears before she did.

“You ruin me in the best, worst, most completely beautiful ways. And I swear—” she laughed, voice shaking, “—if you ever stop saying unhinged, lovesick things in the middle of my parents’ kitchen, I might combust.”

She kissed him then—hard. Deep. Like every I love you she’d ever swallowed was rushing to the surface.

And when she finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes glassy, she whispered the only thing that mattered anymore.

“Yes.”

She kissed him again, smiling into it now.

“Yes to the courthouse. To the kitchen. To Target.”

Another kiss, messier this time. Desperate.

“Yes to the raptors. To the Sharpie vows. To whatever version of forever you want—because if it’s with you, I’m all in.”

And this time when she looked at him, it was through tears and laughter and the kind of love that rewrote bones.

“You’re mine too, Mason Hayes,” she said, breathless, glowing. “And you’re so damn lucky confetti makes me cry.”

Mason was gone.

Fully, stupidly, cosmically gone.

His heart had already been pounding like a middle school drumline, but when she said yes—when she kissed him like she wanted to carve her name into every beat of his pulse—he just… melted.

Right there on the kitchen floor, surrounded by post-its and glitter pens and leftover gummy worms, Mason Hayes became a puddle of heart-eyes and high-grade devotion.

She was everything.
His fiancée.
The soon-to-be mother of their kid.
The girl who ruined him with a smile and saved him with a Sharpie.

And now? She was saying yes to forever like it was the only word she’d ever needed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, grinning so wide it was borderline painful. “I’m gonna marry you.”

He said it like he couldn’t believe it. Like it hadn’t just happened five seconds ago. Like the words tasted like cotton candy and sparkler smoke and every warm summer night they’d ever spent dreaming too loud.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he said again, more reverent this time, like he was trying it on for the first time and finding out it fit better than anything he’d ever worn. “And you’re gonna have my baby. And you’re still letting me draw raptors on our seating chart.”

He let out a choked laugh—half cry, half wheeze, all Mason—and pressed his forehead to hers again, breath catching like he couldn’t hold it all in.

“You’re the dream, Ro. You always were.”

And then he kissed her.

Not soft this time. Not worshipful.

Hungry.

Like he’d waited his whole damn life for her mouth. Like saying yes had snapped something in him, something wild and sure and aching.

His hands gripped her waist, thumbs dragging under the hem of his hoodie where it bunched around her hips, pulling her closer like he needed to feel every inch of her saying yes, yes, yes.

Her legs curled tighter around him. Her fingers tangled in his hair. The world narrowed to lips and breath and heat and that stupid kitchen tile biting into his knees.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured against her mouth, voice wrecked and warm and full of awe. “Not now. Not ever.”

He kissed down her jaw, over the line of her throat, slow and hot and reverent. Like he was tracing the places he’d say his vows if he didn’t already know she’d feel them in every touch.

And when he looked back up at her—cheeks flushed, hair wild, eyes shining with laughter and tears and forever—he swore she was made of starlight.

“I can’t wait to watch you become a mom,” he said, thumb brushing over her stomach. “Can’t wait to build a life that’s chaos and pancakes and tiny socks everywhere.”

His smile turned soft again. Real.

“And I really can’t wait to see what our kid draws in the margins.”

Then he kissed her again—long and deep and certain.

Because yeah. He was ruined.

And it had never felt more like home.

Rowan didn’t realize she was crying until she laughed.

One of those hiccupy, borderline-hysterical, absolutely-overwhelmed laughs that cracked right through the center of her chest and left everything warm and open in its wake.

Because he’d said it.

Again.

I’m gonna marry you.

Like it had just occurred to him. Like it was some cosmic punchline and the whole universe was in on the joke. And then he’d kissed her like his soul had been waiting lifetimes for it.

She was ruined.

No, worse. She was happy.

Stupidly, fully, unreasonably happy.

“Mason freaking Hayes,” she gasped, still catching her breath, still wrapped around him like she had no plans of ever letting go. “You are such a disaster and somehow I still want to raise a whole-ass human with you.”

Her hand slid into his hair again, tugging gently—just enough to make him look at her. To feel it.

“You realize our kid is gonna come out drawing velociraptors in permanent marker on the walls, right? And it’s gonna be your fault.”

She grinned through the tears, nose scrunching, lips swollen from too many yeses.

“And you know what?” she whispered, cupping his face in both hands. “I can’t wait.”

Her thumb swiped the corner of his mouth like she could collect the remnants of his joy and keep it for later.

“I can’t wait for the chaos. For the glitter in the carpet. For the pancakes at midnight and the baby socks on the dog and you crying over kindergarten art projects.”

Her voice cracked.

But she kept going.

“I can’t wait to raise a tiny person who knows what love looks like because they see it. Every day. Right here.”

She kissed him again, slower now. Like sealing a vow.

And when she pulled back, forehead pressed to his, her breath was shaky but her smile was steady.

“You’re it for me, Mase. In every timeline. In every kitchen. On every floor.”

Then, a beat. Her voice dropped to a whisper—raw, reverent, real.

“So yeah. Let’s get married. Let’s raise a raptor baby. Let’s ruin each other forever.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it wasn’t a question.

It was a promise.

Mason barely remembered how to breathe.

Somewhere between her laugh and the word raptor baby, his heart had gone off-script entirely—just pounding out a rhythm so loud it felt like his whole body was trying to memorize her.

Because this? This was his actual dream sequence. Not the polished kind. Not the one with matching outfits and curated playlists.

No.

This was the Rowan Starling brand of forever.

Messy. Hiccupy. Glitter-smeared and loud and so full of love it nearly brought him to his knees again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, glowing. “Like actually kill me with how perfect you are. And I’ll die smiling, just so we’re clear.”

He kissed her again—quick, breathless, reverent—before resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed like he was trying to tattoo this moment into memory.

“And for the record,” he mumbled, lips brushing hers between words, “that kid is definitely drawing raptors on the walls. But they’ll be accurate, because I’ll teach them proper tail proportions.”

Her laugh made his whole chest ache—in the good way. The best way.

He brushed his thumbs under her eyes, catching tears before they could fall too far, then leaned back just enough to look at her properly. To see her. All flushed and fierce and tender, tangled in his hoodie with that storm of emotion still flickering behind her lashes.

And something in him clicked into place. Like, cosmically.

“You’re it for me too,” he said quietly, the words soft but unshakable. “You were it when I was thirteen and you told off Mr. Fenton in science class. You were it when you climbed into my car that night and didn’t look back. You’re it every time you let me see the real you—messy, brave, loud, brilliant.”

He paused, his thumb tracing her cheekbone like he could anchor himself there forever.

“You’re the reason I believe in timing. And magic. And Target runs that accidentally turn into wedding planning.”

He swallowed, smile turning crooked.

“I wanna build every version of home with you. Even the ones with glitter in the grout and pancakes at midnight and plastic dinos stuck in the heating vent.”

And before she could speak, before she could crack another joke or cry another tear, he kissed her like the sky might fall if he didn’t.

It was deep. Steady. Certain.

And when he pulled back, the grin returned—slow, boyish, smitten beyond saving.

“C’mon, Starling. Let’s ruin each other forever,” he said, hand sliding into hers like it was muscle memory. “But first—we gotta finish the seating chart.”

He reached for the highlighter like he wasn’t still vibrating with joy, and whispered conspiratorially:

“Tell me… how many raptors is too many?”

Rowan couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry, laugh, or climb him like a tree.

Because of course he said all of that.

Of course he went from soft-eyed cosmic devotion to highlighter-wielding raptor conspiracy without missing a beat. Like her soul hadn’t just been obliterated by that forehead-pressed, wedding-in-the-aisles, “you’re it for me” monologue.

She was ruined.

Wrecked.

Deliriously, stupidly in love with this disaster of a man who made her feel like every version of herself—loud, sharp, soft, chaotic—was home.

“Mason Hayes,” she whispered, grinning so hard it hurt, “if you say one more perfect thing, I will sob into this seating chart and you’ll have to explain to our child why their mother cried on a diagram of table five.”

He looked smug. So of course she kissed him again—fast and firm—just to shut him up before he could get worse.

Which he definitely would.

“And yes,” she added, still breathless, still glowing, “our kid’s going to draw anatomically correct raptors on every surface. The walls. The fridge. Probably the dog.”

She laced their fingers together beneath the table, squeezed once.

“I can’t wait.”

Then, a beat. Her voice dropped, low and soft, carrying something a little heavier. A little brighter.

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to have everything. The mess. The magic. The stupid little house with glitter in the grout and dinosaurs in the vents. You make forever feel like breathing.”

And then, because she couldn’t help it—

“…But Mason, if you put more than four raptors on this chart, I’m calling the venue.”

She snatched the highlighter from his hand, kissed his cheek, and pressed her forehead back to his with a smile that reached somewhere eternal.

“Let’s ruin each other forever,” she whispered, “but with taste.”

Mason looked like a man on the edge of completely losing it—in the best, most love-struck way possible.

Because taste?

The girl who once flipped off a boy for mocking her annotated poetry journal just told him to ruin her forever with taste.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, mock-offended, eyes wide and adoring, “you mean to tell me my vision of a velociraptor-themed table centerpiece isn’t sophisticated enough for you? Rowan. Babe. This is art. This is legacy.”

He leaned in dramatically, one hand clutching his heart, the other gesturing vaguely like he could summon the ghost of Monet to defend him.

“Our child’s gonna inherit my sense of dinosaur aesthetics and your crippling perfectionism. We are doomed. And by doomed, I mean unstoppable.”

Then, quieter—because she was glowing like starlight and he was already halfway to worship again—he brushed his nose against hers.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he murmured, voice raw with wonder. “I mean, I can, because I know how much you love chaos… but still.”

He kissed her temple.

“I love you.”

He kissed her cheek.

“I’m in love with every version of you.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

“And I promise—three raptors. Maybe four. But only if they’re wearing bow ties.”

And when she finally melted into him again, head tucked under his chin, highlighter discarded, seating chart forgotten—Mason closed his eyes, held her close, and smiled like he already knew.

This was the beginning of the rest of everything.

And it was hers.

Rowan was gone.

Like, fully gone. Emotionally compromised. Mentally melted. Somewhere between crying and laughing and plotting her escape from this absurdly perfect man who just declared velociraptor centerpieces a legacy.

She curled into him anyway.

Because Mason Hayes was somehow the only person on earth who could make her feel like the floor was falling out and like she was finally safe — at the same time.

Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she exhaled a little too hard.

“You know I used to be normal,” she muttered, voice muffled in fabric. “I had boundaries. Spreadsheets. A Google Doc titled Acceptable Life Outcomes.”

She tipped her face up just enough to look at him, brows raised in mock betrayal.

“And now look at me. I’m engaged to a man who draws bow ties on raptors and thinks glitter is a wedding essential.”

He grinned — she could feel it — and it only made her spiral further.

“You’ve ruined me,” she said flatly. “Absolutely ruined me. And I like it. That’s the worst part.”

She tried to stay serious. She did. But the way he smelled like home — soap and tea and stupid hope — made her chest pull tight in a way that felt suspiciously like joy.

“And don’t even get me started on what you’ve done to my anxiety,” she added, poking his side half-heartedly. “I used to panic over dinner reservations. Now I’m planning a wedding with a man who just used the phrase ‘dinosaur aesthetics’ and I haven’t even flinched.”

She sat up slightly, straddling his lap now, and framed his face in both hands.

“I said yes to forever, and you know what that includes, right?” she said, eyes narrowing. “That includes waking up next to your morning hair. That includes sharing the last granola bar even when I pretend I’m not hungry. That includes watching you cry at every Pixar short, and explaining to our child why Daddy once tried to glue googly eyes on the mailbox.”

Her voice cracked — not from emotion, but from laughter she couldn’t contain.

“And it includes this,” she whispered. “This chaos. This magic. This… us.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his nose, then his cheek, then his lips — warm, lingering, adoring.

When she pulled back, her forehead stayed resting against his, and her voice dropped to something soft. Honest.

“I don’t need perfect, Mase. I don’t need polished or planned or Pinterest-worthy. I just need you. Exactly like this.”

A beat passed. Her smile returned, wicked and bright.

“But if you add a fifth raptor,” she warned, poking his chest, “I will call your mother, and I’ll make her pick a side.”

She laughed, then kissed him again — deeper this time.

Then, quieter:

“And if she picks you, I’m calling Aunt Susan.”

Mason made a sound that could only be described as a choked laugh-sob. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s being lovingly threatened with familial warfare over glitter and dinosaur décor while simultaneously having his heart surgically removed via forehead kiss.

He was so gone for her.

“Aunt Susan would absolutely take your side,” he said, mock wounded, eyes wide with theatrical betrayal. “She already offered to knit the baby a ‘Team Rowan’ onesie. In pastel vengeance pink.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, anchoring them both in the ridiculous, radiant joy of the moment.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, voice dropping, “I’d share every last granola bar. Even the good kind. The peanut butter chocolate chip ones I hoard in the back of the pantry like a gremlin.”

His hand slid up her spine, slow and reverent, the kind of touch that said I see you. All of you. And then, like a confession:

“I don’t need perfect either. Just this. Just you. Crying on seating charts and declaring war over raptor quotas and making me want to be ridiculous and brave and better. Every damn day.”

He kissed her again, slow and steady, like he was memorizing her mouth. Like he wanted to file it under every version of home.

And then, against her lips, he whispered:

“You’ve ruined me too, Rowan Starling.”

A beat.

A smile.

“But if we do go with five raptors, I’m making them seasonal. Fall wedding? One’s wearing a tiny scarf.”

She made a sound of pure disbelief.

Mason just kissed her nose, grinning.

“Go ahead and call Aunt Susan,” he dared, voice smug and sunlit. “She helped me order googly eyes in bulk.”

Rowan squinted at the tiny silver screw in her hand like it was mocking her.

She’d already dropped three of them, stepped on one, and somehow managed to get another tangled in her hair — which should’ve been impossible, but apparently pregnancy had granted her the fine motor skills of a raccoon.

The nursery was warm with late afternoon light, the air still faintly smelling of paint and new wood. The crib pieces stretched across the floor in organized chaos — or, well, her version of organized chaos. Mason’s version sat neatly in piles labeled with Post-its and quiet judgment.

He was sitting cross-legged across from her, calm and methodical, flipping through the instruction manual like it was the holy text of baby furniture. Of course he was.

She, on the other hand, had decided patience was for people who didn’t have a mild competitive streak and a growing bump making it hard to sit cross-legged for more than five minutes.

Rowan glared at the paper in his hands. The smug, perfectly folded paper. The one she’d already seen him reread four times.

Nope. Enough of that.

Without warning, she leaned forward, snatched the directions right out of his grip, and lobbed them over her shoulder with dramatic flair. They fluttered to the floor like a paper dove giving up on life.

“There,” she said, wiping her hands like she’d solved world peace. “We don’t need those. It’s self-explanatory.”

Mason didn’t say anything — which, honestly, was worse than if he had. She could feel the look. That quiet, amused, okay-let’s-see-how-this-goes look.

Rowan ignored it. Or tried to.

Instead, she grabbed a long wooden panel that definitely looked like it belonged on the crib and turned it one way, then the other, then upside down, squinting at the edges like they might whisper secrets if she stared long enough.

“This makes sense,” she muttered to herself. “Totally makes sense. Four screws, two dowels, no problem.”

The problem, it turned out, was that the panel had no visible holes. Or maybe she was holding it wrong. Hard to tell.

She glanced back at Mason, who was now quietly sorting hardware like some kind of Zen monk surrounded by chaos. It was both endearing and infuriating.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, pointing a screwdriver at him. “I’ve got this.”

He didn’t reply — just lifted an eyebrow and kept organizing.

Rowan rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Okay,” she said under her breath, half to him, half to herself. “Maybe not self-explanatory, but definitely figure-out-able. There’s a difference.”

She fit one piece into another. It didn’t line up. Tried again. Still didn’t line up.

Then, determined, she shifted to her knees, baby bump nudging the box of leftover parts, and huffed. “You know what?” she said, picking up a random screw like it was the secret to the universe. “I’m going rogue. Who needs directions when you have confidence?”

She twisted the screwdriver once, twice—then stopped.

“…Okay. Maybe just a tiny peek at the diagram wouldn’t hurt.”

Her voice was softer now, mostly to herself, mostly out of pride.

But still—she wasn’t admitting defeat.

Not yet.

Mason watched her like she was the center of gravity in a room full of scattered stars.

God, he loved her.

Even when she was jabbing a screwdriver at him like it was a saber of righteous defiance. Even when she hurled the manual over her shoulder like a warrior queen declaring war on flat-pack furniture and common sense. Even when she refused to admit that her version of “organized chaos” was actually just… chaos.

Especially then.

He didn’t say anything when she snatched the instructions — just let her have the moment. Let her try. Because she was trying, and that mattered. She wanted this to be something she built, something she could say she’d had a hand in. He understood that. He respected it.

But he also wasn’t about to let their future kid sleep in a crib that had one leg longer than the others and screws left over that somehow “didn’t fit anywhere.”

So he kept sorting — quietly, methodically, respectfully — watching her every now and then over the edge of a labeled baggie. Her bump shifted when she moved, just enough to make his heart ache in the best way. He could already picture their daughter someday asking why the slats on the crib were a little crooked, and Rowan lying straight-faced through her teeth: “It’s avant-garde. Ask your father.”

He bit back a grin.

When she muttered something about going rogue, he just hummed low in his throat like he hadn’t heard. But when she finally — finally — said she maybe needed to peek at the diagram, he looked up fully.

“Just a peek, huh?” His voice was soft, teasing, the kind of warmth you wrapped around yourself. “Not a full surrender?”

He reached over without standing, dragging the manual back toward them with two fingers, and set it between them like a peace offering.

“No shame in calling in backup,” he added, eyes flicking from the mess of panels to the quiet shimmer of determination on her face. “Especially when it’s a team effort. We’re building something important here, Ro. Might as well make sure it doesn’t collapse when she learns to stand.”

He scooted closer on the floor, careful not to disrupt her chaos piles, and nudged her knee with his.

“I know you want to do it yourself. I know this matters,” he said gently. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me. Or to her. You’re already the fiercest, most capable person I know. I’m just here to make sure the thing’s baby-proof, and that you don’t put the side rails on backwards. Again.”

He said it with a grin — but the emotion underneath was real.

His hand found hers instinctively, fingers brushing over the screw still clutched in her palm.

“We’re figuring it out together,” he murmured. “Every weird bolt and wobbly leg. Every late-night feed and diaper blowout. Every laugh, every mess, every little piece of her world — it starts here.”

Then, without giving her the chance to get flustered or deflect, he leaned in and kissed her — slow and warm and full of everything he wasn’t always good at saying. A quiet I’m with you. A steady I’m ready.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and he smiled against her mouth.

“Now hand me that rogue screw, future Mrs. Hayes,” he said, voice low and fond. “Let’s make sure this crib survives the apocalypse. Or, you know, a teething toddler with a grudge.”

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Partly because her brain short-circuited the second he called her future Mrs. Hayes, and partly because — damn him — he was right. About all of it.

Her heart did that traitorous flutter thing, the one that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing with the screwdriver still in her hand. The air between them smelled like cedar shavings and lemon polish and the faint sweetness of paint, but all she could really focus on was the warmth in his voice — the kind that could melt all her stubborn edges if she wasn’t careful.

She looked at him — really looked at him — sitting there with his steady hands and that quietly smug half-smile, the kind that said he’d let her throw the manual again if it made her feel better.

“Don’t start with me, Hayes,” she said finally, her tone mock-dangerous but soft around the edges. “You can’t just say adorable, emotionally stable things while I’m in the middle of proving my dominance over Allen wrenches. It’s unfair warfare.”

Still, her hand relaxed in his.

She glanced down at their fingers, his thumb tracing her knuckles, and felt the smallest laugh slip out. “You know, I was this close to making this a one-woman show. You, me, a baby, and a moderately unsafe crib. Would’ve been iconic.”

Her eyes flicked toward the tossed manual behind her, still sprawled dramatically across the floor like a crime scene. “But fine,” she sighed, reaching for it with exaggerated reluctance. “Maybe we’ll use the sacred texts of flat-pack wisdom. For the baby’s safety. And your peace of mind.”

She met his gaze again, that teasing smile curving her lips — the one she knew he’d never recover from. “But for the record? You definitely just kissed me so I’d cave. Manipulation, sir. That’s what that was.”

When he chuckled under his breath, she leaned forward and kissed him again — a quick, playful press of gratitude disguised as rebellion.

Then she pulled back, tapped the manual once with her screwdriver, and nodded solemnly.

“Alright, partner,” she said. “You read. I’ll build. And if this thing ends up lopsided, we’re calling it modern art.”

She tossed him a wink, then nudged one of the crib legs with her foot. “Hand me that rogue screw, then. Let’s build our apocalypse-proof masterpiece.”

Her voice dropped just slightly, quieter. “Together.”

He was so screwed.

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

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

And somehow, impossibly, she was his.

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

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

And for a second, the whole damn world tilted.

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

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

But mostly love.

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

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

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

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

Because sometimes he couldn’t believe she picked him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said six months like it was a warning.

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

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

Like gravity.

Like belonging.

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

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

And he was gone for her.

Again.

Still.

Always.

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

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

A pause. Then, lower:

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

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

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

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

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

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

He already knew this was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, watery and wrecked and perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

He already knew he was home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mason didn’t move at first.
Couldn’t.

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

And damn it, he would.

Every day, if she let him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rowan snorted at that, and he grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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