The Starlight Press
 

Inside The Starlight Press, the world slows down.

As soon as you step through the door, you’re wrapped in the comforting scent of old pages and freshly brewed espresso. The floors creak beneath your feet—wood, worn smooth by time and conversation. Towering shelves line every wall, built from honey-stained oak and filled to bursting with novels, poetry, and stories that seem to hum with memory. Some shelves lean just slightly, as if the books are leaning back. Tucked in between them are small handwritten signs, quotes, doodles, and the occasional post-it note from Rowan reminding customers that yes, you really should read that one.

Delicate string lights drape from the ceiling beams, casting a soft amber glow that settles gently on everything it touches. Near the back, a rolling library ladder rests against a particularly high set of shelves—used often, squeaky but reliable.

There’s a coffee bar nestled into the far corner, curated like someone’s dream kitchen. A chalkboard menu hangs above it in messy cursive, listing herbal teas, pour-over coffee, lavender scones, and whatever Kelly baked that morning. The espresso machine whirs quietly as someone adds cinnamon to a chai latte, and a jar labeled “Take a Poem, Leave a Poem” sits beside the sugar.

The seating area is a patchwork of personality: a pair of overstuffed armchairs that feel like they’ve held generations of readers, a velvet loveseat in faded maroon, and mismatched chairs pulled up to hand-painted tables. Scattered mugs. Forgotten bookmarks. The low murmur of voices, always soft, never hurried.

In the back, near a half-curtained window, there’s a little table Rowan carved her initials into as a kid. No one minds. Some even run their fingers across the letters like a quiet blessing.

Everything here has history. Everything here has love.

The bookstore smelled like cinnamon and secondhand stories.

It was Sunday night, which meant the usual—the tables pushed into a wide, welcoming circle, tea steeping behind the counter, and her mom in her favorite cardigan, prepping notes for that week’s book club discussion-slash-coffee-fueled therapy session. Rowan had offered to help, like she always did, even if her version of “helping” mostly meant making sure the ancient CD player didn’t skip and the cookies didn’t burn.

Outside, the rain tapped softly against the windows, a steady spring rhythm that made the whole place feel smaller, warmer. The streetlamp glow blurred at the edges, casting gold across the puddles on the sidewalk. The April air smelled like wet leaves and the tail end of winter’s grip finally letting go.

The lights inside were low, warm, a little too yellow in some corners but cozy in the way that made people linger longer than they meant to. The floorboards creaked just right, the window fogged at the edges, and somewhere in the background, Radiohead played soft from the back speaker her dad still hadn’t gotten around to replacing.

Mason had been here before.

More than once, actually. To meet her after shifts, to browse the fantasy section, to pretend not to notice when her dad made weirdly specific book recommendations like he knew something. Mason knew the shop. He knew the rhythm of it. The smell. The way her mom’s laughter carried from the back room. None of this was new.

So she didn’t know why her heart was doing this.

Why her fingers were fidgety, tugging the sleeves of her sweater down past her knuckles. Why she kept smoothing out cookie trays and reorganizing bookmarks that didn’t need reorganizing. It wasn’t like she had to impress him.

Not here. Not now.

But still—something about him coming in tonight, with her helping with book club and her mom already teasing about how “the boyfriend better be ready to talk about unreliable narrators”—it made everything feel a little more… official.

He wasn’t just coming to hang out.

He was stepping into this version of her life. The quiet one. The warm, well-lit, fantasy-novel-and-chipped-mug version. The one that didn’t wear combat boots or scowl on command. The one that wiped down counters and remembered how people took their tea and kept a pack of gum in the drawer just for her dad.

The bell above the door jingled.

She turned, just as Mason stepped inside—hoodie damp at the shoulders, curls tousled by the drizzle, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes soft in that way they always were when something felt like home.

He smiled like he belonged there.

And maybe he did.

Rowan didn’t smile back right away. She just handed him a cookie from the tray behind the counter and said, with a smirk that tried very hard not to feel like a heartbeat, “Welcome to the land of over-steeped tea and unsolicited literary opinions.”

Then, quieter—like it had snuck out before she could stop it—
“Glad you made it.”

And maybe she was.
Maybe more than she’d realized.

Mason had changed his hoodie three times.

First was the navy one with the tiny bleach stain he thought was unnoticeable. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Then the dark green one that always made him feel a little like a forest-dwelling cryptid—which, okay, had its time and place, but probably not tonight. Finally, he landed on the sand-colored hoodie layered under his denim jacket. It said, “I’m casual but not trying too hard,” which was a lie, but hey. A man could dream.

He stared at himself in the mirror, tousled his curls, then immediately tried to un-tousle them when they got too chaotic. Deep breath. It’s just Rowan. It’s just her parents. It’s just… the bookstore she’s grown up in, where everything smells like cinnamon and her mom already knows your GPA.

He muttered to himself, “No big deal. Just impress the woman who raised the girl you’re in love with. Easy.”

And then immediately regretted saying love out loud, because it echoed in his head way too loud and way too real. His stomach did a full Olympic dive. “Okay. Chill. Chill, man. You’ve got this. You’ve got…” He glanced down at his Converse, double-knotted like a nerd. “...shoes that say you’ve got mild anxiety, but still.”

The bell over the bookstore door jingled as he stepped inside, and the smell hit him all at once—tea, books, a little lemon zest, and maybe the faintest whiff of cookies that had been in the oven five minutes too long. It was warm. Lived-in. Cozy in that perfectly imperfect way.

The kind of place that didn’t ask you to perform.

He spotted her behind the counter, wearing an oversized green sweater and jeans, her hair up in a messy bun that made his brain forget how to blink for a second. She looked like autumn wrapped in poetry and sarcasm.

Mason’s heart did that thing it always did around her now—half panic, half prayer.

Rowan turned, and for one wild second he thought she might not smile. But then she handed him a cookie, still warm, and said, “Welcome to the land of over-steeped tea and unsolicited literary opinions.”

He grinned, because how could he not? “Sounds like my kind of cult.”

And then, softer—softer than he expected, so soft it almost undid him—

“Glad you made it.”

Mason blinked once, slow, like his brain needed time to catch up to the softness in her voice. And then he answered, quiet but certain: “Yeah. Me too.”

A beat passed. Then—

“Though if I get quizzed on Emily Dickinson again, I’m not above faking an injury.”

Rowan smirked. “Good to know. I’ll have Mom hide the quiz bowl.”

Mason looked at her, at the way the light made her eyes catch like stars, at the way her voice curled around that sentence like it had been waiting for him.

And suddenly, the hoodie didn’t matter.

Because he had made it.

And maybe—just maybe—he belonged here too.

Rowan watched him with the kind of quiet fondness she didn’t let many people see. The bookstore always had this soft hum to it—pages turning, the creak of old wood, her mom’s voice somewhere in the back discussing plot holes like they were family gossip. But tonight, it felt different. Warmer. Like Mason had carried some invisible spark in with him and now everything glowed just a little more.

He looked so unsure, standing there in his layered hoodie and denim jacket like he wasn’t totally convinced the place wouldn’t spit him out. Like he didn’t already know he belonged here. Like he hadn’t already memorized the way her mom arranged the scone display and the way the bell above the door stuttered twice when it was humid.

Rowan could’ve made a joke. Could’ve deflected with sarcasm the way she usually did when things started feeling too much. But she didn’t. Not with him.

Instead, she reached for another cookie and handed it over like it was a peace offering, or maybe a promise.

He took it, fingers brushing hers for just a second too long. Neither of them pulled away.

“I’m serious about the quiz bowl,” she said, but her voice was light, teasing. She was teasing him, not testing him. There was a difference, and Mason—of all people—knew it.

As he looked around, she caught the way his eyes lingered on the corners she never pointed out to anyone else. The shelf her dad had built crooked on purpose because “books lean too, kiddo.” The chalkboard with the doodle she’d drawn in eighth grade that no one had the heart to erase. The tiny ceramic ghost someone left last October and her mom now treated like a store mascot.

He saw all of it. Not just the things she showed him—but the quiet, lived-in details that made this place hers.

And when he looked back at her, like he’d caught her mid-sentence even though she hadn’t spoken?

Yeah.

That was the part that got her.

So she smiled—really smiled—tugging the sleeve of her oversized sweater down over her hand and brushing it against his like she wasn’t sure how else to say it.

You’re here.

You’re safe.

You’re mine.

Then, softer than a whisper, she murmured, “Come on. I saved you a seat.”

Mason wasn’t even sure when the nerves had left. Maybe somewhere between the smell of cookies and the way her hand had lingered against his. Maybe in the way she didn’t make a joke to fill the silence but just let it sit there—easy, unbothered. Like the quiet was allowed to be soft around him.

He took the second cookie from her fingers without thinking twice, a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth. Two cookies. Both from her. One slightly more golden than the other, like she'd picked them on purpose.

He followed her between the shelves, the low murmur of book club members settling into mismatched chairs forming a background buzz. The tables had been rearranged into a wide circle—coffee cups balanced beside folded paperbacks, notebooks splayed open with messy margin notes. Someone laughed near the back, and it echoed gently through the space like the room had just remembered how to breathe.

Rowan glanced over her shoulder, and Mason caught the flash of her grin before she turned back around. She wasn’t walking fast. She wanted him to keep up.

And he did—easily now.

The seat she’d saved for him was tucked between hers and one of the shop’s crooked old end tables. There was a blanket draped over the chairback like someone had meant it for him. Like she had. He sank into it without hesitation, the wood creaking familiarly beneath him. Comfortable. Like it had been waiting for him, too.

He set his cookies down carefully—one on a napkin, one still in his hand. Then her mom rounded the corner, hands still damp from washing something in the back. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, hair pinned up in a way that reminded Mason a lot of Rowan when she wasn’t trying so hard.

“Hey, Mason,” she said warmly, offering him that same welcoming nod she always did, like they were picking up from a conversation they'd never quite finished. “Glad you could make it. We’ve got tea, hot cider, and enough literary opinions to last a lifetime.”

Mason chuckled, finally sinking back in his chair, posture easing as he nodded. “Sounds perfect. I came ready to agree with whatever theory makes the least sense.”

She laughed. “Then you’ll get along great with Janet.”

Rowan’s hand brushed against his knee as she sat beside him. Deliberate. Barely there. But enough to anchor him.

He looked around again—at the circle of chairs, the mismatched mugs, the way the lights were a little too warm and the air smelled like memory.

And suddenly, he wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t trying.

He was just here.

Exactly where he was supposed to be.

Rowan wasn’t even sure when the nerves had left. Maybe somewhere between the smell of cookies and the way Mason’s hand had lingered just a second longer than necessary. Maybe it was the way he didn’t try to fill the quiet with jokes—just let it hang there, soft and unbothered, like he knew he was allowed to belong here now.

He took the second cookie from her fingers with that crooked little smile that always made her chest do something stupid. One cookie slightly more golden than the other. She’d picked it on purpose. She didn’t say so—didn’t have to.

They moved together between the shelves, that warm bookstore hush wrapping around them like a second layer. The tables had been pulled into a wide circle, books and mugs scattered across every surface like the aftermath of a quiet storm. Someone laughed in the back. Rowan smiled without meaning to.

She glanced over her shoulder, made sure he was still behind her, still keeping pace. He was.

The seat she’d saved for him was right beside hers, tucked in by one of the older end tables her dad had never gotten around to sanding down. A blanket was already draped over the chairback. Familiar. Intentional. Like she’d meant it for him.

He sat like he belonged. No hesitation. No stiffness. Like he already understood the rhythm of this space, like he was part of the story here.

Her mom passed through with a tray of mugs, offering her a quiet smile and a knowing glance, but Rowan’s eyes were already on him. Watching the way he settled in. The way he didn’t fidget, didn’t shrink, didn’t make himself small like people sometimes did when they didn’t know if they were welcome.

He knew.

And that… God, that did something to her.

She sat down beside him, brushing her hand against his knee—barely there. Just enough to say I’m here. Just enough to remind herself he was too.

A few new book club members started drifting in, bell overhead chiming in soft bursts, shoes squeaking damply against the wooden floor. Coats were shrugged off. Pages fluttered open. Someone at the edge of the circle called out for cider.

Rowan stood slowly, then leaned toward him with a smile that was all comfort and mischief.

“Come on,” she said quietly, nudging his shoulder. “Help me grab drinks before the literary chaos starts. You’re part of the team now.”

She crossed toward the back counter, grabbing two mugs and glancing back over her shoulder, voice lighter but still warm. “You’re on cider duty. I’ve got the pastries. Try not to mess it up. The regulars will revolt.”

She winked. And whether or not he followed?

She already knew he would.

Mason stood, steady and without hesitation, like the invitation had flipped some quiet switch inside him. He didn’t make a joke, didn’t deflect with sarcasm the way some guys might’ve when put on the spot. He just smiled—half-tilted, a little soft around the eyes—and followed her.

He liked being part of the team. Liked knowing there was a role for him here, even if it was just cider duty. Especially if it was cider duty. It meant he had a place. A task. A reason to move through this space like he belonged.

And he did.

He stepped behind the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d always been meant to slip between mugs and cluttered napkin holders and the sleepy hum of people who talked about books like they were lifelines. Rowan passed him a dish towel without a word, and he used it to steady the mug as he filled it from the warm pot her mom kept steeping behind the bar.

The smell of cinnamon and clove rose up around him, and he breathed it in like it mattered. Like it anchored him. He could hear her a few feet away, laughing low at something one of the regulars said, that sound threading through the room like music only he was tuned into.

He caught her looking at him again—just a glance this time, but it landed.

He didn’t mess it up.

He handed over the first mug with both hands, like it deserved care, and passed another to a woman in a scarf who thanked him like he’d been doing this for years. And when her mom brushed past with a second tray and gave him that brief, approving nod—the kind that said you’re doing good, kid—Mason felt something loosen in his chest.

Not pride, exactly. More like… alignment.

Like he’d stepped into a role he hadn’t known he’d been cast in, and it just fit.

So when he made his way back to his seat, cider in hand and fingers a little sticky from the mug’s handle, he didn’t overthink it. He just leaned toward Rowan and murmured, “I take my job very seriously, you know.”

She turned, eyebrow arched, already grinning.

“I can tell,” she whispered back.

He tapped his mug lightly against hers like a toast, eyes steady on hers. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the cider line fall into chaos.”

And she laughed—quiet, real.

That sound?

That was all the reward he needed.

Absolutely. Here’s the revised version from Rowan’s perspective—third person, without any dialogue from Mason. It focuses on her actions, observations, and thoughts as she prepares and offers pastries during book club:

Rowan stood behind the counter, hands moving with quiet focus as she set lemon bars onto napkins—one by one, like they deserved the care. Powdered sugar dusted her fingers. The bars were a little uneven, slightly too golden around the edges, but warm and soft in the center. They’d be fine.

She arranged them on the tray in neat rows, careful not to smudge the corners. Book club always brought a small crowd—mostly regulars, a few new faces tonight—but Rowan knew how to read the room better than most. It was the kind of night that called for sweetness. Something simple. Steady.

Behind her, Mason moved between shelves and guests with a calm she hadn’t expected but was grateful for. He didn’t hover. He didn’t shrink. He just… fit, in that quiet, steady way of his. She caught a glimpse of him pouring cider with both hands like it was a sacred task. His brow furrowed in concentration. His smile easy, not showy.

She watched him longer than she meant to.

Then someone entered with the soft chime of the front bell, and Rowan was moving again, tray balanced on her hands as she weaved through the space. Mismatched chairs creaked as people settled in, books flipped open to folded pages, and the hum of anticipation settled over the circle like a warm blanket.

“Lemon bar?” she asked as she offered the tray to a regular, nodding politely when they smiled and thanked her.

She made her way around the room—gentle, present, aware of every little detail. The flicker of candlelight in the corner. The quiet laugh from Janet as someone mentioned Austen. The way the air always seemed to thrum with something low and comforting in this part of the night.

She reached Mason without looking at him directly, just let the tray hover between them for a beat longer than necessary before moving on.

By the time she returned to her seat, most of the tray was empty. She placed it carefully on the table beside her, brushed her hands on her jeans, and tucked one leg beneath her in the chair. The blanket was still there, draped casually over the chairback like it had been waiting for her to remember it.

She glanced toward Mason’s chair once more.

Still calm. Still steady. Still here.

And for reasons she couldn’t name—not fully—her chest felt a little lighter. Like the room had exhaled and taken her with it.

Mason didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.

There was something meditative in the rhythm of it—passing out mugs, refilling the cider pot when it got low, remembering who liked the extra cinnamon and who preferred it plain. He offered smiles and soft “you’re welcome”s, listening more than he spoke, catching snippets of conversations about character arcs and broken spines and how everyone seemed to agree that the new guy in chapter six was definitely a narcissist.

He liked the way the room moved around him. Like a current he didn’t have to fight.

One woman with silver-streaked hair winked at him as she took her drink and said, “We’ll keep you around, sweetheart, but only if you learn our names by next week.”

“I’m highly trainable,” he replied, deadpan. It earned a laugh. A real one.

Rowan was behind the counter when he glanced over next—still, quiet, intent on those lemon bars like they were more than dessert. Like they mattered. Her fingers were dusted in powdered sugar and focus, and Mason had to stop himself from staring too long. Again.

By the time he handed out the last mug and someone declared the cider perfectly balanced, he felt something settle in his chest. A small, quiet pride. He liked this version of himself—the one who didn’t have to perform to be welcome.

Mug in hand, he made his way back to the seat beside hers. His fingers brushed the soft wool of the blanket as he eased into the chair. Rowan had already tucked one leg beneath herself, like the rest of the night could begin now that everyone had what they needed.

Mason nudged her elbow gently, careful not to spill. “I regret to inform you that several of the regulars now believe I’m the cider whisperer,” he said in a mock-grave tone. “I may need to transfer schools and change identities if it gets out.”

He sipped, raised an eyebrow. “Also, not to brag—but I think I just got recruited into a book club faction I don’t fully understand. Janet said I have ‘potential.’”

His mouth twitched, threatening a grin. “Should I be worried?”

Rowan didn’t look up right away.

She was still wiping powdered sugar from her fingers, eyes half-focused on the lemon bars like she might arrange them better if she just stared hard enough. But at the sound of his voice—soft, dry, familiar in that way only he was—she felt the corner of her mouth tug upward.

She turned, finally, and tilted her head just slightly. “Janet says that to everyone she likes. It’s a trap. Next week she’s gonna ask you to lead a discussion on why every dystopian hero has the emotional range of a wet sponge.”

A beat.

“Followed by a deep dive into the romantic subtext of Wuthering Heights, but like… only from the dog’s perspective.”

She grabbed one of the lemon bars off the tray and placed it on a napkin, slid it across the space between their chairs like an offering. Then, softer, almost to herself: “You did good, cider whisperer.”

The compliment didn’t need decoration. She meant it plainly.

But her eyes lingered on him a second longer—on the way his fingers curled around the mug, on the way the lamplight turned his curls gold at the edges. There was something about this version of him. Not performing, not nervous, just… here. Present. Warm.

And hers.

Her voice dropped lower. “They already like you, by the way. That’s not fake. That’s not me pulling strings. That’s just… you.”

She didn’t usually say things like that. Not aloud. Not in front of this many people. But the book club had fallen into a lull—pages turning, chairs creaking, someone making a joke about how every male author wrote women like they were ethereal ghosts who cried in lowercase—and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to this chair and the one beside it.

She nudged her foot against his under the table.

“Besides,” she added, tone lighter now, a flicker of mischief playing behind her words, “you’re kind of hot when you’re being inducted into cults. I might even keep you.”

Then she leaned in just enough for him to feel the heat of her shoulder. Her fingers found the edge of his sleeve. Just a small touch.

But it said everything.

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

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

He recovered with grace.

Or, well—grace-adjacent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his expression softened, all showmanship fading.

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

He’d bring his own glitter pen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because they were true.

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

She tilted her head, soft curls brushing her cheek.

“So yeah. You’re in.”

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

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

Mason didn’t breathe for a second.

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

And she was letting him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he listened. Really listened.

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

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

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

He didn’t say a word.

But he bumped her knee beneath the table.

And when she bumped him back?

He smiled so wide it cracked straight through the quiet.

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

Not when the quiet meant this.

Rowan didn’t look at him right away.

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

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

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

Then she turned her head. Just a little.

And saw it.

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

Rowan’s throat went a little tight.

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

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

Another beat. Another bump of her knee against his.

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

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

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

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

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

Rowan didn’t hesitate.

Not once.

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

Mason went still.

Not tense. Not startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made the table go quiet for a beat.

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

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

Rowan glanced sideways, just once.

He was already looking at her.

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

Let them talk about the story.

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

Mason blinked.

Once. Twice.

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

God, he was toast.

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

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

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

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

“I—uh.” He swallowed. “Right. Input.”

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

Like she already knew he’d do fine.

So he did.

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

That got a few more laughs.

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

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

Mason sat back, feeling his heart slow a little.

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

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

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

He already was.

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

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

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

And with him, it always meant something.

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

And then he spoke.

And holy hell, did he speak.

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

He was good. He was so good.

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

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

She didn’t need to say anything.

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

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

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

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

But her smile?

Her smile said everything.

Mason tried to focus.

Really, he did.

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

Philosophical-bad-boy hot?

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

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

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

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

And honestly? That would’ve been enough.

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He caught it. Barely.

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

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

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

But his eyes went straight to Rowan.

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

He smiled. God, he smiled.

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

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

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

She just looked at him.

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

“You picked the best one,” she murmured.

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

“Of course you did.”

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

Especially not with him.

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

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

With her.

He did.

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

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

Because honestly? It didn’t.

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

Rowan turned her head, eyes flicking to him again.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat. His grin widened.

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

Another beat. Then, playful and a little smug:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the question, the grin, the options.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mason grinned against the kiss, one hand finding her waist like it had every right to be there. When she pulled back, he didn’t chase her lips—didn’t have to. He felt grounded. Easy. Like the moment didn’t need anything else to prove it was real.

He slipped his fingers through hers as they moved toward the door, thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “You say that like I wasn’t already halfway through a casting call in my head,” he murmured. “Spoiler: you’re playing every role. Even the wolfish stable boy with unresolved trauma.”

Outside, the air was crisp and quietly humming with that late-night stillness only Evergreen could pull off. The stars were out, the sidewalk drowsy with leftover warmth from the day. Mason paused under the glow of the street light, still holding her hand, then tugged her gently back.

“Wait—one more thing.”

And with a small, theatrical flair, he spun her. Not dramatic, not staged. Just enough to catch her off guard and make her laugh—exactly what he wanted. When she landed back in front of him, slightly dizzy and glowing, he kissed her properly. No rush. Just a steady, smiling press of lips that said yeah, this is mine.

When they broke apart, he tapped her nose. “No fangs. Got it. But I make no promises about interpretive dance if inspiration strikes.”

They started walking, her in jeans and that oversized green sweater he liked too much to be chill about. He kept their hands linked the whole way—sometimes swinging them between them, sometimes brushing his thumb along her knuckles like a song he didn’t want to forget. Every so often, he'd throw in a dramatic gasp or whisper a terrible line like, "She thirsted not for blood—but for vengeance!" just to make her snort.

Tuesday had come and gone, but the weight of it hadn’t.

The pregnancy test had come back positive.

That night, Rowan and Mason sat across from her parents—hands clasped tightly between them, the silence heavy but not unkind—and told them the truth. She was pregnant. They were keeping the baby.

There hadn’t been shouting. No slammed doors. Just quiet shock, deep breaths, and the sort of pause that feels like the world holding still. Her mom’s eyes had shimmered, her dad’s voice had gone careful, and Mason’s mother had spoken with a steadiness Rowan would never forget: “We’ll figure it out.”

And they had.

A plan had formed in the stillness. Mason would move in with Rowan and her parents. They’d both work, both contribute, both shoulder the weight of what was coming with as much grace and grit as they could manage. Help would be given, yes—but so would responsibility.

What Rowan didn’t know—what Mason had kept tucked behind his calm and his careful hands—was that later that night, after she’d gone to bed and the world had softened into quiet again, he’d sat down with her parents. And asked.

“If I asked to marry her… would you say yes?”

They had.

Not because it was perfect. Not because it was easy. But because they had lived it, too—high school sweethearts, a young marriage, a child born before the ink on their diplomas had dried. They saw themselves in the storm Rowan and Mason were stepping into.

They only asked for one thing: don’t rush the vow—build the foundation first.

Mason agreed.

But he still couldn’t wait to show her what she meant.

The bell above the door chimed as the last customer slipped out into the dusk, leaving behind the scent of espresso and spring. Rowan turned the lock, flipped the sign, and leaned her weight into the counter for just a breath.

Her body was tired. Her heart more so. She moved on instinct, wiping down surfaces, counting drawers, stacking tomorrow’s books in tidy piles for her mom’s morning shift. She didn’t question where Mason had gone—figured he was in the storeroom, maybe. Or changing out the playlist.

Until she turned.
And he was there.

With a blindfold in his hands.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just stepped forward, kissed her cheek, and slipped the soft fabric over her eyes. Her breath caught—but she didn’t resist. Her hand found his like it always did, and she let him guide her.

The café felt different in the dark. Echoes of their steps followed them. She smiled once, startled, when she nearly tripped on a rug, and felt his arm wrap around her to steady her, warm and certain.

They moved past the stacks. Past the quiet.

Into the heart of the YA section.

And stopped.

She felt him reach behind her head, loosening the blindfold’s knot with careful fingers. It slipped away.

And the breath rushed out of her.

The bookshelves around them had been transformed—swept in gauzy white fabric and dotted with string lights like fallen stars. Ivy trailed from the corners, soft and green. A picnic blanket was spread out beneath them, ringed with pillows from the reading nook and a folded quilt she recognized from his bedroom floor. In the middle sat a cluster of little things: their favorite book. A photo strip. A small ring box.

It hit her like a wave.

Rowan’s knees nearly buckled. Her hand flew to her mouth, her chest folding in on itself as tears burned behind her eyes.

He’d done this.
For her.

For them.

And it was beautiful.
Too beautiful.

Because she knew what it meant.

She turned toward him, already shaking, already crumbling under the weight of it.

And through the tears, she whispered, “No.”

Her voice cracked as her head continued to shake, her heart breaking in slow, quiet pieces.

“I’m not marrying you just because I’m pregnant.”

Mason didn’t move for a long moment.

Not out of shock. Not even out of hurt.

But out of understanding—the kind that doesn’t come from words, but from everything underneath them.

Because he heard what she said.

He heard it in the tremble of her voice. The plea tucked inside the no. The weight of every expectation she’d carried on her back since the test turned positive and the world tilted sideways. He saw it in her shoulders—the way they curled in, not from fear of him, but from the fear of being erased by what loving him might now demand.

And Mason Hayes would never be the reason she disappeared.

So when her voice cracked and that single word fell, heavy and honest, he exhaled once.

Then stepped toward her, slowly, as if crossing sacred ground.

He didn’t touch her.

Not right away.

Instead, he crouched slightly—leveled his eyes with hers, where they shimmered and swam and didn’t look away. And when he spoke, it was low. Measured. Anchored in something deeper than disappointment.

“I’m not asking because of the baby,” he said. “I’m asking because I’ve been in love with you since the minute you looked at me like I mattered.”

He let that settle. Let her breathe it in.

“And I’m still in love with you. Every version. Even the one that says no.”

His hand found hers—lightly this time, no pressure. Just presence. A place to land.

“I didn’t bring you here tonight to trap you in something you’re not ready for. I brought you here because I wanted you to see it. Us. Not some ring. Not some forced timeline. Us. Still here. Still trying. Still sacred.”

Rowan’s lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath. Just awe.

He smiled gently, even as his chest ached.

“I didn’t expect an answer tonight. Not really. I just wanted to give you something real in a world that keeps demanding you fake it.”

He swallowed.

“And if real means saying no right now? I’d rather that than a yes you didn’t choose freely.”

Then, quieter:

“I’d rather wait for the day you want to say yes. For you. For us. Not because of a heartbeat we haven’t even heard yet.”

His fingers curled slightly, catching the tips of hers.

“Take your time, Ro. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then he did the bravest thing he could do in that moment.

He reached for the ring box—closed it—and placed it gently back inside the book it had rested on. Not like a failed attempt. Not like something wasted.

But like a bookmark.

For later.

She had said no.

She had meant it—at least, in that split-second blur of panic where all she could hear was her own heartbeat and the echo of every voice in the world telling her what she should do now that she was pregnant.

But Mason didn’t flinch.

He didn’t fall apart.

He just stayed—steady, kind, heartbreakingly sure.

And then he said it.

“I’m not asking because of the baby.”

She felt something in her chest crack at those words—clean and deep and quiet. Like a wall she hadn’t known she built finally letting in light.

Because he hadn’t tried to argue with her. He hadn’t begged or reassured or spun promises he couldn’t keep. He just told her the truth. That he loved her. That this wasn’t about responsibility or consequence. That it wasn’t about doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.

It was about them.

Her knees felt weak again, but this time for a different reason.

“I’m not asking because of the baby.”

It rang through her—settled deep.

Because she believed him.

Because Mason wasn’t the kind of boy who would offer her a ring out of panic. Or pressure. Or because someone’s parents said it was what came next.

He’d asked because he meant it—because he’d been waiting to ask. Because he loved her before the second line on that test ever appeared.

And now? Now she could breathe again.

Now she could see him clearly—this boy who’d built her a canopy of fairy lights and pages and patience. Who closed the ring box without resentment. Who gave her the space to say no and meant it when he said “I’ll wait.”

Her voice wobbled.

“I didn’t say no because I don’t want to marry you,” she whispered, tears slipping quietly down her cheek. “I said no because I was scared you only asked because I’m pregnant. And I needed to protect myself from what that might mean.”

She stepped closer.

“But you didn’t try to convince me. You didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. You just… told the truth.”

Her eyes met his, full and unblinking.

“And that’s why I can say yes now. Because you gave me that choice.”

A long breath. Her hand reached for his.

“I want this. You. Us. The baby, the hard parts, the quiet mornings and the messy ones too.”

Her smile trembled, but it was real.

“I want to marry you, Mason Hayes. And not because of a heartbeat we haven’t heard yet. But because of the one that’s been next to mine since the very beginning.”

A pause.

Then, softly:

“Will you ask me again?”

Mason froze—but only for a second.

Not because he was unsure. Not because he doubted.

But because God, when she said his name like that—like a truth she had finally decided to keep—it felt like something broke open inside him. Something big and quiet and burning at the edges. Something that had nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with home.

He hadn’t let himself dream that she might change her mind. He’d meant what he said—every word. He would’ve waited. Would’ve loved her through the no. Would’ve kissed her hand every day like it still carried the yes inside it, even if it took years to surface.

But now she was standing there, looking at him like she already had.

Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but her voice—her voice was steady. Sure. The kind of sure that made promises mean something.

And she was asking him to ask again.

So he did.

Not with a grand gesture. Not with a speech.

Just a step forward, hands trembling, heart absolutely wrecked in the best way possible.

Mason reached for the ring box, slow and reverent, like it held the entire weight of the future. He didn’t open it right away. He looked at her first—really looked at her.

At the girl who once folded herself into corners to keep from being too much.

At the woman who had now chosen everything.

Even him.

He dropped to one knee—not performative, not dramatic. Just there.

Grounded.

Full of every impossible thing he didn’t know how to say.

And with tears in his own eyes now—sharp and holy and unashamed—he whispered:

“Rowan Starling… will you marry me?”

His hands were shaking.

But his voice?

It didn’t.

Because this time, there was no maybe.

Just yes.

For a second, all she could do was look at him.

There he was—on one knee, ring in hand, eyes full of everything he couldn’t say but somehow always made her feel anyway. There was no performance in it. No pressure. No panic.

Just Mason.

And for the first time since that test turned positive, Rowan didn’t feel like the ground was shifting beneath her.

She felt steady.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and dropped to her knees in front of him—not out of drama, not out of shock. Just instinct. Just closeness. Just needing to be with him.

Her fingers found his. Warm. Familiar. Still shaking.

“I wanted to say yes the second I saw what you made back here,” she said quietly, eyes never leaving his. “But I got scared. That maybe this was all happening too fast. That you were asking because you felt like you had to.”

She shook her head, barely.

“But you weren’t. You weren’t trying to fix anything. You were just… loving me.”

Her voice cracked then—not from uncertainty, but from the ache of knowing she didn’t have to hold the weight alone anymore.

“I want to marry you,” she said, firmer now. “Not because we’re having a baby. Not because we’re trying to prove something. But because I look at you and see my future.”

A breath. A blink. A half-laugh that caught in her throat.

“You could’ve waited. I know that. But you didn’t want to. And now that I’m standing here, I don’t want to wait either.”

She reached out and placed her hand in his—steadier this time, with purpose.

“Yes, Mason Hayes. It’s yes.”

She smiled, wet-eyed and clear. “It’s always been yes.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His breath caught, barely audible, and for a moment he just looked at her—like she was the last piece of something he hadn’t realized he’d been building his whole life.

Then, with hands still trembling but guided by something steadier than nerves, he opened the ring box.

The metal caught the light like it had been waiting for this exact second.

Rowan held her hand out, palm up, fingers soft and ready. No hesitation now. No fear.

He slid the ring onto her finger—slowly, carefully, like it was something delicate and important. And it was. Not the ring itself, but what it meant. What it carried.

Not an answer to a mistake.
Not a rescue plan.
Just them.

Still here. Still choosing.

When it settled into place, Rowan looked down at it for a breath—watched the way it sat on her hand, like it had always belonged there. And then she looked up at him.

No one said anything.

They didn’t have to.

Mason leaned forward, their foreheads meeting in the middle of that soft-lit space, his eyes fluttering closed like he was exhaling for the first time in days.

Rowan stayed there with him—hand on his cheek, the other still in his, the ring between them. A quiet yes stretched out into something infinite.

And finally, she whispered, not because it needed to be said, but because she wanted him to hear it again:

“I’m sure.”

Just like that.

No maybe.
No panic.
Just yes.

Their foreheads were still pressed together when Rowan felt herself smile—small at first, then full, blooming right there against the quiet hum of everything they’d just promised.

She leaned back just enough to really look at him, her thumb still brushing the edge of his jaw.

And then, softly—like it had just clicked into place—she asked, “Wait… is this what you bought the other day at the mall?”

Mason blinked, caught somewhere between dazed and sheepish.

She laughed—quiet, breathless, but real—and let her hand fall to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“I thought you were acting weird,” she murmured, half teasing, half in awe. “God. You’ve been carrying this around since then?”

He nodded, barely.

Her smile softened, the weight of that settling in.

“You were really gonna wait until I was ready,” she said, more to herself than to him.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t need to.

She leaned in again, kissed him once—soft, certain.

“Thank you for not making me rush to catch up,” she whispered. “Even if you were three steps ahead.”

Mason’s brain had officially stopped working.

Like—shut down, blue screen, please-restart-your-heart kind of stopped working.

Because Rowan Starling—his Rowan—just said yes.

Not a maybe. Not a whisper of someday. A full, steady, eyes-wide-open yes. And she dropped to her knees to meet him there like it wasn’t a proposal, but a promise. Like she couldn’t stand being anything but level with him in that moment.

Which was insane.

Because he was already flat-out wrecked. In the good way. In the holy shit this is real way.

She said yes.

She said yes.

He couldn’t even blame the way his fingers trembled as he slipped the ring onto hers, slow and reverent, like it might vanish if he moved too fast. And when she looked down at it—when her eyes softened and then lifted back to his like he’d just handed her the sun—he nearly forgot how to speak again.

So he didn’t.

He just pressed their foreheads together and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding since she first said I think I’m pregnant.

God, he loved her.

He didn’t know how to hold that and stay upright, so he didn’t try. He let her thumb brush his cheek, let her words settle in—the quiet kind that bloomed like roots, anchoring deep.

And then she asked about the mall.

Mason blinked, thrown so hard back into his own skin that he almost laughed out loud. He’d been two seconds away from crying like a Disney prince, and now she was calling him out for the world’s worst poker face.

Of course she figured it out.

Of course she caught the mall trip.

And God help him, he melted.

Because she was smiling now. That soft, only-for-him kind of smile. And she was teasing him while wearing his ring. And even with the baby-sized thundercloud still hanging quietly in the air, she was here. Laughing. Holding onto him.

He let out a breathless, almost-laugh and pressed his hand over hers where it curled into his shirt.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice quiet and full of something so full it barely fit inside his chest. “I was gonna wait.”

Wait forever, if he had to.

But he didn’t.

Because she’d said yes.

Because now, everything they were afraid of still existed—sure. But it had something stronger holding it up.

A them.

He leaned in again, lips brushing her forehead. Then her nose. Then the corner of her mouth, lingering there before pressing the softest, slowest kiss against her smile.

No fanfare. No theatrics.

Just Mason.

Silly, in-love, always-three-steps-ahead Mason.

The boy who carried a ring for days and would’ve carried it for years if that’s what it took.

The boy who now—finally—got to call her his fiancée.

And God help the world, he was never going to shut up about it.

Rowan didn’t speak. Not right away.

Not after the kiss, not after the ring, not even after the way Mason had looked at her like she’d just given him gravity.

Instead, she turned—slowly—toward the back corner.

Toward the soft glow that had been waiting all along.

The tent wasn’t big. Wasn’t perfect. But it was hers in a way nothing else ever had been. Draped fabric made a little dome between bookshelves, sheer enough that the string lights woven above glowed through like fireflies in a jar. The floor was layered with mismatched pillows and the same throw blanket from the couch upstairs. Their favorite paperbacks—ones with margin notes and dog-eared corners and inside jokes buried in chapter titles—were stacked around the edge like a border. A couple of the books had tea stains on them. One had her handwriting. One still had a receipt from their first trip to the café together.

She took a step closer.

Then another.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the curtain and parted it gently, like she was stepping into something sacred.

And in a way… she was.

Rowan dropped to her knees inside and let her hands skim the closest book. She recognized it instantly—Fablehaven, the one they used to quote just to annoy each other. He’d put that in here on purpose.

She turned slightly, running her hand along the spines, like touching them would help her believe it was real. All of it. That someone had thought about her this much. Had known her this well. Had built something so completely her without ever needing to ask.

Behind her, she felt Mason linger in the entrance. Waiting. Not pressing.

She reached back blindly, found his hand, and tugged him in beside her.

“This is insane,” she said softly, looking around again. “Like, are you serious with this?”

Her voice cracked a little—but not in fear. Not in nerves.

Just disbelief. The good kind.

She leaned back against a pillow, tugging him down with her, their shoulders brushing. Her gaze drifted back to the ceiling, where the lights flickered through the fabric like stars.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she said, barely above a whisper. “For me.”

And then—because she had to say it, because no part of her could hold it in anymore—Rowan turned her head, pressed her lips to his shoulder, and murmured:

“Marrying you might actually be the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Not when she said it like that—like a secret passed beneath a blanket fort, like a truth meant only for the boy she’d let all the way in.

His heart had already been a mess from the yes, but now?

Now it felt like it had folded in on itself entirely—quiet, breathless, overflowing.

He didn’t need anything else from her in that moment. Not vows. Not confetti. Not even the ring still warming the skin of her finger like it knew where it belonged.

She was here.

They were here.

And she’d called it easy. Not simple, not convenient—easy. As if loving him, trusting him, building a life with him wasn’t just possible—but already happening.

Mason swallowed hard and tilted his head so it rested lightly against hers, their temples barely touching. He stared up at the lights, watched them flicker behind the fabric like their own private constellation, and let the silence hold them.

Not because there was nothing left to say.

But because there was everything left to live.

Eventually, he laced their fingers together, thumb brushing the top of her knuckles, and smiled—soft, a little stunned.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I rehearsed a whole speech. Had a quote. From a book you made fun of me for liking.”

Rowan made a contented sound beside him, a smile in her breath.

“I was gonna say it anyway. But then you looked at me and… yeah. Forgot it all. Gone.”

He turned to look at her—really look—eyes full of wonder and the kind of awe that never fades, even after decades.

“But I’ll tell you the part I remember,” he added.

His voice dropped, reverent and certain:

“I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with you.”

The words hung between them like truth carved into pages.

And when she turned into him, ring catching the soft light, laughter tucked behind her smile and tears still drying on her cheeks, Mason realized something:

This wasn’t just the end of the question.

It was the beginning of everything else.

She didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t need to.

She just watched him, that boy with stars still caught in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe the universe had actually said yes back. And for a second, Rowan couldn’t believe it either.

Not that he asked.

But that someone would do all this for her.

That someone would see every sharp edge, every crack, every time she almost bolted—and stay. Build something soft instead of backing away. Choose her in spite of the chaos. Or maybe because of it.

The tent. The books. The ring.

Him.

Rowan shifted closer and tucked herself into his chest without saying a word. Her fingers stayed tangled in his, but her other hand slid across his stomach, gentle and familiar, like her body had memorized him on instinct. His hoodie still smelled like cinnamon and old pages. His heartbeat thudded under her cheek—fast and a little uneven, like maybe he was just as overwhelmed as she was.

She smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.

“You’re such a nerd,” she mumbled, soft and teasing, lips brushing his shirt. “A book quote? Really?”

He didn’t say anything. But she felt the way his chest shook with laughter, and it made her smile harder.

She turned her face just enough to speak again, this time steadier, quieter. Honest.

“God, I love you.”

She felt the words leave her and wrap around him. Not performative. Not dramatic. Just true. It sat there in the quiet with them, settled between fairy lights and paperback towers, and for once, it didn’t need to be anything else.

Her fingers moved lightly over his ribs, mapping the shape of him like she was memorizing the moment.

“I want to do it all with you, Mason Hayes,” she said again, a little firmer this time. “The messy parts. The quiet ones. The parts we have to figure out as we go.”

Her voice dipped lower.

“I want to figure out how to be a mom. I want to stay up too late putting together a crib we’ll probably break. I want to burn dinner and cry about it and still end up eating cereal on the kitchen floor.”

She tilted her head, just enough to look at him—really look.

“I want that life with you.”

No one else.

Just him.

She tucked herself back in close, let her hand rest over the heart still beating hard beneath her palm.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, finally. “But I’m not going anywhere either.”

And for the first time since that test turned positive—since the world started tilting sideways—Rowan felt like the ground beneath her had finally steadied.

Because this?

This was theirs.

Mason didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or combust.

Possibly all three.

Because there she was—curled up against him like she belonged there, whispering things like I love you and I want to build a life with you like it was just… casual. Like she didn’t just rearrange the entire structure of his emotional universe with a single sentence.

His fiancée.

His actual fiancée. Who somehow said yes to a tent full of books and a quote from The Little Prince and a boy who had to Google which finger the engagement ring went on like a panicked Victorian ghost.

And now she was talking about cribs and cereal and burning dinner and Mason’s brain was glitching in real-time.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, more to himself than her, one hand slipping over hers where it rested against his chest. “You just said crib. Like an actual crib. Like… a tiny person bed. And I just realized I don’t know how to hold a baby. Is there a training montage for that? Can I Rocky this? Is there a Rocky but for dads?”

His heart was beating way too fast, but not in the I-can’t-handle-this way. In the I’m-so-in-love-I-might-vibranium-punch-through-a-wall way.

“You said ‘mom,’” he added, voice cracking halfway through because apparently he was the kind of person who got misty-eyed over nouns now. “You said you want to be a mom. And you weren’t running when you said it. You weren’t bolting. You were just—here. With me.”

He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to her hair, voice softer now. “You want cereal on the floor and burnt dinners and weird baby socks with dinosaurs and all of it. With me. God. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone more aggressively in my life.”

He pulled her even closer, like the words themselves made her more real, more his.

“And, like—I’m terrified too, okay?” he whispered. “This whole thing? It’s huge. Monumental. Like, I don’t even know how to do taxes without Googling it, and now I’m supposed to teach a tiny human how to exist? I almost put the engagement ring on the wrong hand, Starling, do you hear me? I panicked and almost left the tag on.”

A laugh tumbled out of him—soft, breathless, so Mason.

“But if I get to do it with you—if I get to screw up and figure it out and burn frozen lasagna and cry in the car and still end up curled up in a tent full of books holding your hand?”

He tilted his head, kissed the top of hers like a quiet exhale.

“Then I already won.”

And for the first time since everything changed—for the first time since maybe ever—Mason Hayes didn’t feel like the world was too big or too scary or too full of things he didn’t understand.

Because the girl in his arms wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Rowan felt him exhale when she said it—like just the idea of someone teaching him how to hold a baby had cracked open something in his chest. She smiled, slow and steady, fingers drawing tiny circles on the fabric of his hoodie.

“Mase,” she said softly, tilting her head to look up at him, “you’re not supposed to know how to do this yet. That’s kind of the point.”

She shifted so she could sit up just a little, her back against one of the pillows in the corner of the tent. The fairy lights caught the gold in her hair, and her ring glinted as she reached out, lacing their fingers again.

“There are baby classes at the hospital,” she said, gently. “They’ll teach us the basics—holding, bathing, what to do when the baby won’t stop crying at 3 a.m. You’ll probably take it way too seriously and try to ace the quizzes, and I’ll be the one laughing in the back when the plastic baby starts making sounds.”

He looked at her like she’d just handed him oxygen.

Rowan leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. “We’ll check out every parenting book from the library. We’ll highlight pages. Leave notes in the margins. Argue about which stroller folds easiest and which one’s going to make you look like a suburban dad with a podcast.”

She felt him laugh beneath her, his body finally starting to loosen again.

“And when the books start contradicting each other,” she continued, “we’ll put on those dumb old movies. The ones where everything goes wrong—like, fire-in-the-kitchen wrong—and they still turn out okay.”

She paused, then added, “You’ll probably cry. I’ll pretend I didn’t notice. It’ll be perfect.”

Rowan sat back slightly to look at him again, her expression softer now. No teasing. Just truth.

“You don’t have to be perfect at this, Mason,” she said. “You just have to be you. The guy who built a book fort. Who didn’t run when I said the words out loud.”

Her fingers traced the curve of his jaw.

“I trust you. Not because you’ve got it all figured out—but because you’ll try. Because you care enough to learn. Because you show up.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek—right where his smile always started.

“And you’re not doing it alone,” she added quietly. “I’m here. We’re in this together. Every messy, beautiful, terrifying second of it.”

Rowan pulled his hand to her chest and pressed it flat over where her heart thudded beneath the fabric of her hoodie.

“Right here,” she whispered. “Always.”

And for a long, long moment, the tent stayed quiet—just the soft buzz of the lights, the sound of their breathing, and the shape of forever finally taking root between them.

Mason stared at her like she’d just casually told him he’d been chosen to lead a space mission—with her, a baby, and a suitcase full of library books.

And honestly?

He was weirdly okay with that.

Which made it all the more baffling when his brain decided to go completely blank the second she said parenting class.

“Like… with a doll?” he blurted, dazed. “That cries? And judges you?”

Rowan didn’t answer—not with words—but the smile she gave him, soft and steady, might as well have wrapped around his heart and made it sit down for a talk.

He pressed a palm to his chest, dramatic. “Oh no. I’m gonna be that dad. The one who overstudies and still can’t figure out how to fold the stroller and ends up walking around with half of it stuck to his ankle.”

She just curled closer. Like that was exactly what she signed up for.

He exhaled a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his lungs since the day they stood in the pharmacy aisle, trying to decide if it was worth buying the test that would change everything.

And now? Here they were.

Still them.

Still heartbeats and sarcasm and tangled limbs under too many blankets—but also maybe someday bath toys and midnight feedings and whispered shhh’s in the dark.

His fingers found hers again, lacing them tight.

“You really mean it,” he whispered—not as a question, just a quiet realization. “We’re gonna figure it out. Together.”

And then—because his emotions were starting to crowd each other and he wasn’t ready to cry again in front of God and a stack of fantasy novels—he leaned over and kissed the top of her head, muttering, “Just promise me you’ll remind me not to buy the dad shoes. You know I’ll fold under pressure.”

She laughed into his shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

Yeah.

That sound?

That was it.

That was home now.

And Mason didn’t know how to do any of this yet—not really—but if loving her was the prerequisite?

Then he was already exactly where he was supposed to be.

owan didn’t speak right away.

She just watched him—with that dazed, spiraling kind of awe only Mason Hayes could pull off five seconds after saying something like “dad shoes” with actual panic in his eyes.

And then she laughed again.

Not the kind you hold back, but the kind that slips out when something warm and safe settles deep in your chest. She tucked her forehead into the crook of his shoulder, fingers tightening around his.

“You’re not gonna be that dad,” she murmured, voice a little muffled. “You’re gonna be the one who overpacks the diaper bag and panics over which sippy cup is BPA-free, but still somehow manages to make the pediatrician laugh.”

He groaned like that was somehow worse. She smiled against his shirt.

“And yeah,” she added, “if you so much as look at a pair of orthopedic sneakers, I will physically remove them from your cart. We’re not there yet.”

She pulled back slightly so she could see his face, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth in a way that felt instinctual now. Like she already knew how to quiet the noise in his head before it built too loud.

“I do mean it,” she said, a little more serious now. “The classes. The books. The weird doll with the judgmental cry.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch.

“We’re doing this together.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and sure.

“Which means when you freak out about swaddling, I’ll be right there failing with you. And when I forget which baby food brand we like, you’ll be the one making a spreadsheet.”

Her head tipped back to rest against his again, gaze drifting up to the fairy lights that still glowed softly through the tent above them.

“Still us,” she whispered.

And it was.

Even with everything ahead of them, with every unknown still waiting on the other side of graduation and due dates and growing up faster than they meant to—they were still Rowan and Mason.

Still the girl who loved old books and the boy who folded love notes into library receipts.

Still figuring it out.

Together.

Rowan shifted just enough to see his face clearly—the way his lashes brushed his cheek, the quiet way he blinked like he was still trying to process all of it. All of them. Her. This.

The proposal. The test. The future.

She leaned in and kissed him softly—just once at first, then again, slower this time. Like punctuation. Like she was writing it down in him: I love you. I love you. I love you.

Mason melted into it immediately.

No hesitation. No nerves.

Just him—right where she needed him.

Rowan smiled against his mouth, then pulled back just far enough to rest her hand over his, guiding it carefully, purposefully, to the spot just beneath her ribs.

It wasn’t much yet. Just a subtle difference—something only she really noticed in the mirror, in the way her jeans sat a little tighter, in the way her body felt a little softer, a little more careful.

But still.

There was a baby in there.

Their baby.

She held his hand there, over that small, ordinary curve that was about to become something extraordinary, and whispered, “You made this with me.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to.

It was gentle. Steady.

A kind of wonder only she could hold and still somehow hand over completely.

“I mean—technically we made a lot of bad decisions,” she added with a crooked smile. “But this wasn’t one of them.”

She glanced up at him again, watching the way he stared down at where their hands rested. His fingers flexed slightly, like he didn’t want to miss a single heartbeat of the moment.

She squeezed his hand.

“It’s not just you and me anymore,” she said softly. “There’s a tiny person in there, Mase. A whole little life that wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you showing up that rainy Sunday and that dumb look you gave me the first time you told me my handwriting was cute.”

He let out a quiet breath.

And Rowan just kept watching him.

All of him.

The boy who got overwhelmed by stroller ads and still reached for her hand anyway. The boy who carried a ring before she even knew how much she wanted one.

Her boy.

Her partner.

The future father of the very real human growing inside her.

She kissed his jaw, then his temple, then rested her head back against his chest, hand still pressing his palm to her skin.

“We’re gonna be so bad at this,” she said, voice full of affection. “And so good.”

And Mason didn’t say anything right away.

He didn’t have to.

Because she could feel it in the way he held her tighter.

In the way his thumb traced over her belly like he’d already memorized the feeling of where home had shifted to.

Mason blinked.

Once. Then again.

Like maybe if he did it enough times, the moment would slow down just long enough for him to catch up. But it didn’t. It was still happening. Her hand over his. Her heartbeat under his fingertips. Her voice in his ear saying things like technically we made a lot of bad decisions with that stupid, perfect smile that always got to him.

And underneath it?

Life.

His brain—normally full of trivia and song lyrics and quotes no one asked for—went completely still.

There was a baby. Inside her. And it was his.

He let his palm rest fully against her stomach, like maybe that would help him understand it better. That something they made was growing in there. That love—not a grand gesture or a song lyric or even a stupid book fort—but real, ordinary, terrifying love had turned into this.

And for a second, his mouth couldn’t find the words.

Which… was rare.

But then he looked at her—really looked at her—and it all came back in a rush. The awe. The panic. The tidal wave of oh my God, she’s having my child.

His heart did something completely unsupervised in his chest.

“I…” he started, then immediately stopped, because his voice did that wobbly thing it never did unless she was being dangerous and soft and full of forever.

He cleared his throat, swallowed, then tried again—quieter this time, thumb still sweeping over the curve of her belly like it was holy.

“I thought I knew what falling in love with you felt like,” he said, barely louder than a breath. “But then you did this. You went and… created a person. And now I think I’m starting all over again.”

His laugh was soft, unsteady. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I didn’t know it was possible to love something that hasn’t even opened its eyes yet,” he admitted. “But apparently I’m already fully prepared to fight someone at a playground over this hypothetical kid’s honor, so—yeah. That’s happening.”

She laughed. God, that sound.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her hair, then another to her temple, and stayed there for a long moment. Breathing her in. Letting the fear and the awe and the wonder swirl together into something he could hold.

“I’m terrified,” he murmured, so only she could hear it. “But I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He kissed her again, slower now—like a promise. Like a yes to every part of it. The sleepless nights. The crying. The cereal-for-dinner kind of chaos. The baby that was already taking up space in the center of everything.

He leaned his forehead against hers and exhaled.

“Let’s mess it up together,” he said quietly. “Let’s be really, really bad at this—until we’re not.”

And then he smiled, full and real and a little unhinged, like he was already picturing their baby wearing a tiny onesie that said Raised by chaos and cinnamon rolls.

Because if he was going to do something this terrifying?

It was always going to be with her.

She didn’t let go of him.

Not even when the quiet stretched long and the lights above flickered softly like stars holding their breath.

Her palm stayed pressed over his chest, counting the beat of something steady beneath the chaos. She felt it—every stuttered inhale, every tiny tremble he probably thought he was hiding. And still, he held her. Still, he stayed close. Warm. Constant.

Rowan shifted just enough to see his face.

The boy who used to blush when she caught him staring. The boy who once wrote her name in the margins of his notebook like it meant something. The boy who was now going to be the father of her child.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and slow, her fingers brushing back the curl that always fell over his forehead. Her thumb traced the edge of his cheekbone—memorizing him again like she hadn’t just spent the last year doing exactly that.

There was a kind of wonder blooming in her chest. Not loud. Not bright. Just warm.

She moved his hand gently back to her stomach and left it there, watching the way his fingers instinctively spread, protective and reverent. It wasn’t much yet—not a bump, not anything visible. But it was real. It was happening.

There was a baby. Their baby. Growing, becoming, beginning.

She laid her head against his shoulder again and closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat wrap around her like a lullaby. Her other hand found his and laced their fingers together, holding on. Because that was what they were going to do now—hold on. Even when they were scared. Even when they didn’t have it all figured out.

She smiled against his collarbone, quietly, to herself.

Because they didn’t need to know everything yet.

They just had to be here.

And God, they were.

She stayed there a while, tucked into the quiet curve of his body, breathing in the familiar scent of him—coffee and bookstore dust and something that always reminded her of home, even when the world felt unsteady.

Her hand drifted down from where it rested over his heart, back to where his fingers curled protectively against her stomach. That spot—still flat, still ordinary—already felt like the center of everything.

Rowan tilted her head just enough to look up at him again. His eyes were closed now, lashes brushing his cheek, mouth soft like he was finally letting the weight of the last few days settle into something he could carry.

She kissed his jaw—lightly, almost thoughtlessly—then smiled against his skin.

“I want a fall wedding,” she murmured, voice barely louder than the rustle of fabric around them. “Not just because of the aesthetic, but because I want to say yes to you when the air’s a little crisp and the leaves are changing. Like the whole world’s turning golden just for us.”

Her fingers absently played with the sleeve of his shirt, twisting the fabric once, then again.

“And, um…” she hesitated, lips curving up in a slow, playful grin. “Would you be mad if I wore black?”

She could already picture it—something sleek, maybe lacy, something that felt a little witchy and a lot like her. Dramatic, moody, unapologetically not white.

Rowan glanced up at him, still smiling. “Not like… Victorian funeral black. More like… slightly mysterious autumn goddess who accidentally fell in love with the boy next door.”

She didn’t wait for his answer. Not really.

She just curled closer again, threading their legs together under the soft, tangled blankets.

Because she knew him. And she knew he wouldn’t care what color she wore—as long as she walked toward him in it.

And that? That was the kind of forever she could promise.

Mason couldn’t speak.

Not at first—not when his mouth was suddenly dry and his brain was doing that spark-pop-fizzle thing it did whenever Rowan said something that completely short-circuited every coherent thought he’d ever had.

A fall wedding.

Her in black.

Autumn goddess accidentally in love with the boy next door?

Oh. Oh, he was done for.

His heart—already operating on a slightly-too-fast setting thanks to Rowan Starling is carrying my child—somehow kicked into another gear entirely. And yet, he didn’t panic. Not exactly. His whole body just sort of… settled around her. Melted into the moment like it was sacred.

Which, honestly? It was.

Because there she was—curled against his chest, one hand resting where their baby was growing like it had every right to already belong there, the other laced into his like she wasn’t planning on letting go. And now she was talking about weddings. About fall. About saying yes.

To him.

Mason Hayes.

Who once tripped over his own shoelace trying to impress her with a “flawless” parking job.

He swallowed hard. Tilted his head down just enough to press his lips into the crown of her hair. She smelled like cinnamon and possibility, and he wasn’t sure how to survive that.

His free hand tightened gently around her waist, thumb brushing the hem of her hoodie. Right over the place where everything had started shifting. Not just her body—but their future. Their entire axis, tilting toward something terrifying and beautiful and more permanent than anything he’d ever known.

She wanted to marry him.

Not because of the baby.

Not because they were being brave or reckless or practical.

But because she loved him. Enough to plan out the leaves and the color of her dress and the exact vibe of their forever.

Mason let out a quiet breath—half-laugh, half-sigh—and finally opened his eyes.

The fairy lights were still glowing above them. Their limbs still tangled in the chaos of pillows and worn blankets. The entire world had narrowed down to this one moment, and somehow, he didn’t feel small inside it.

He felt seen.

Held.

He shifted slightly, just enough to press another kiss to her forehead, then down to her temple, then the curve of her cheek. His voice, when it finally came, was low and warm and still a little dazed.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But only if I get to wear velvet.”

She stilled, then laughed softly against him.

“Like full, unnecessarily dramatic, somebody cue the forest mist levels of velvet,” he added. “Maybe a deep green. Or burgundy. Like I’m auditioning for a high-budget villain origin story but I fell in love instead.”

His hand brushed over her belly again—gentle, reverent.

“And obviously we’ll write our own vows,” he murmured, “because you’re not getting out of hearing me cry in front of everyone. I want to ugly-sob halfway through promising you the moon, and you’re going to have to pretend it’s charming.”

He felt her grin against his chest.

God, he loved her.

Loved her like it was his first and final language. Loved her like the only thing that had ever made sense was this—her hand in his, her heartbeat under his palm, her voice whispering forever in the language of fairy lights and bare skin and softly spoken dreams.

Mason kissed her again—this time without ceremony. Just because he could. Just because she was his.

“You in black?” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. “Game over, Starling. I’m done for.”

And he meant it.

Fall wedding. Velvet suits. Strollers and late-night cereal and maybe messing it all up before they got it right.

He wanted it all.

With her.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She just curled deeper into him, cheek pressed to his chest, fingers drifting in slow, absent circles across the fabric of his shirt like she was trying to memorize the shape of the moment. The sound of his heart beneath her ear was steady, familiar, and a little fast.

Good.

She liked that she still did that to him.

After a beat, she tipped her head back to catch his gaze. Her voice was quiet, rough around the edges in that way it always got when she meant something more than she could say out loud.

“Burgundy velvet,” she murmured, brushing her nose lightly against his jaw. “But only if I get to pick the boutonniere. Something obnoxiously dramatic. With thorns.”

She didn’t wait for his protest—just smiled and leaned up to kiss him. Soft. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about heat or urgency or even the weight of the day—just presence. Just thanks.

“I’m serious, by the way,” she added, her lips brushing his. “About the black dress. About the writing our vows. About not doing a cake if we don’t want to.”

She shifted, tucking her legs around his and pressing her palm once more to the gentle curve of her belly. “I don’t want the Pinterest version of a wedding. I want the us version. Messy and moody and too many books on the tables.”

Her smile tilted a little sideways, familiar and fond. “And probably a glitter explosion, thanks to Seraphina.”

She let that sit for a second, then tipped her head against his again. “You’re not the only one who’s terrified, you know,” she whispered. “But I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with you.”

Then, quieter: “And I want our kid to see that. To grow up knowing that choosing each other—even when it’s hard—makes everything else worth it.”

She paused.

Then: “If you cry during the vows, I’m one hundred percent roasting you in mine.”

Her fingers laced through his, steady as her smile.

“Fair warning.”

Rowan let the silence wrap around them again, but this time it didn’t feel heavy. It felt full.

Full of what came next.

She glanced at the ring on her finger—still shiny, still surreal—and then looked back at him. “You really picked this,” she said, almost like she couldn’t believe it. “You went out, stood under fluorescent mall lighting, and chose something for me. That’s…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just breathed out, a little stunned all over again.

Then she looked up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Did you panic and ask the lady at the jewelry counter for help?”

He didn’t answer—just made that guilty not-guilty face she’d seen a thousand times.

She laughed. “God, I love you.”

She didn’t mean to say it like that—not like it was casual, not like it was a reflex. But it came out soft and certain anyway. Like a truth she didn’t need to brace herself for.

And then she was crawling up slightly, bracing her hand on his chest and kissing him again—firm this time, a little longer. Not rushed. Just… sure.

“You know,” she murmured once their foreheads met again, “we’re gonna be so annoying.”

His brow furrowed slightly, amused.

She smirked. “Like, obnoxiously in sync. Matching pajama sets and seasonal playlists and an embarrassing number of inside jokes. The kind of couple people roll their eyes at.”

She paused, then whispered: “I can’t wait.”

Her hand drifted back to her stomach again. Not protectively—just instinctively. Like her body already knew where it all centered now.

“There’s a whole life in there,” she said softly, almost to herself. “A whole beginning.”

And then, looking at him again, her expression steadier:

“I want to tell them someday. That we weren’t perfect. That we didn’t have it all figured out. But that we said yes anyway. Over and over. Even when it was hard. Even when we were scared.”

She kissed his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth.

“I want them to know they were made from something real.”

Then, curling into his chest again, words barely above a whisper:

“And that we chose them on purpose.”

Her hand found his again. Held it tight.

“Just like I chose you.”

Mason couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak, not really—because every time he tried to come up with something clever or romantic or very him, it was like his brain got sideswiped by the weight of what she’d just said.

He’d been planning on making her laugh. That was the original plan. Maybe something about her threatening him with a spiky boutonniere. Maybe a sarcastic jab at glitter bombs and Seraphina’s unchecked chaos energy. Maybe even a joke about how if she wore black, he was legally required to wear a cape and show up like her dramatic vampire groom.

But then she said “I want our kid to know they were made from something real.”

And that? That rewired something in his chest.

His hand was already pressed to the soft space beneath her hoodie, fingers resting instinctively where her palm had been—where their life was quietly becoming someone. But now it felt like something else. Something bigger.

He stared at their joined hands. At the ring glinting on her finger.

He felt breathless in the best, most inconvenient way.

His voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Low. A little dazed.

“Okay,” he said. “So, two things.”

Rowan tilted her head, waiting.

“One,” he murmured, “I’m very into this spooky velvet fall wedding. Like, aggressively into it. If we don’t emerge from mist in the woods to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack, what are we even doing?”

Her laugh was small but real against his collarbone.

“And two…” His voice dipped. Softened. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want to be the person you just described.”

He paused, forehead resting against hers.

“I want them to know they were chosen. Not accidentally. Not because we panicked. But because we looked at this life—this scary, messy, beautiful life—and said yes. Together.”

His thumb brushed over her stomach again. Still flat. Still unreal. And yet somehow… already everything.

“I want to tell them the whole story,” he added. “The good parts. The hard parts. The part where you made me promise to never wear cargo shorts and then cried in the tent because I gave you a ring.”

Rowan swatted at him, half-laughing.

He caught her wrist, kissed her palm. Smiled against it.

“I want them to know their mom is magic,” he said simply. “Not like unicorns and glitter magic—though, yeah, you pull that off too—but the kind that builds worlds out of chaos. The kind that stays soft even when everything’s sharp. The kind that says yes, even when she’s terrified.”

He shifted slightly, easing her into his lap, his arms winding around her like instinct.

“I want them to see how much I love you,” he said. “Every single day. Because if they’re gonna grow up in a world that feels like a storm sometimes… I want them to know what shelter looks like.”

His voice went quieter. Just for her.

“And I want them to know that I loved you first.”

Then he kissed her—deep and reverent and real. Like he meant every word.

Because he did.

All of it.

Even the glitter.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She couldn’t—not when her throat felt tight and her heart felt like it had taken up way more room than her chest was built to hold. Mason’s voice was quiet, his words a steady hum against the whirlwind still spinning somewhere beneath her ribs, but every sentence landed with impossible weight.

She watched him. Really watched him.

How his thumb moved over the same spot on her stomach, gentle and careful. How he held her like she was something already worth protecting. How he spoke about their future—not as a faraway maybe, but as something already taking shape in the soft light and the spaces between their breaths.

And for a second, the fear that had been pressing down on her since the test flickered. Didn’t vanish. Didn’t disappear.

But eased.

He meant it. All of it. Even the part where he was terrified.

Especially that part.

She leaned forward without a word, curling into him as his arms wrapped around her like he’d been waiting for the permission. Her head found the spot just under his jaw, the one where she could hear his heartbeat if she stayed still long enough.

And then, softly—just loud enough for him to catch—she said, “We’ll figure it out.”

She tipped her chin up, eyes searching his. “You and me and our weird, wonderful, maybe-slightly-chaotic life. I want all of it. Not just because we’re having a baby—” her hand covered his again, resting over her stomach, “—but because I want it with you.”

A pause. Then a smile tugged at her mouth.

“And yeah, I want a fall wedding. I want leaves and cider and music in the trees. I want to wear black. Trimmed in something dramatic and moody and completely impractical.”

She tilted her head, eyes playful now. “You okay with that?”

She didn’t need an answer.

Not when his eyes already said yes.

She nestled closer, voice low. “Good. Because I also want you in burgundy velvet. Maybe with a pocket watch. Just so people think you wandered out of a gothic novel and stumbled into forever with me.”

A quiet laugh escaped her. “It’s going to be messy. And loud. And probably a little bit backwards.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth.

“But it’s ours,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

And she meant it. Every word.