Starling Household
 

Upstairs, at the end of the hallway and just slightly tucked beneath the sloped roof, was Rowan’s bedroom—a space that felt like stepping into her interior world. The walls were a deep, moody blue, almost navy in certain light, which made the glow of her warm string lights feel like stars scattered along the edges. Her bed sat in the corner beneath a window that looked out onto the pine-covered backyard, the glass often fogged from steam or rain, like today.

The bed itself was low to the ground and piled with layered throws and mismatched pillows in neutral tones and dark jewel colors—rich greens, deep burgundy, soft gold. There were always a few books stacked on the nightstand, half-read and dog-eared, alongside a ceramic mug that usually held cold tea or a forgotten pencil. The shelves on her walls held crystals, candles, old Polaroids, and scraps of poetry she’d copied down on bits of paper. Her closet door was always slightly ajar, one boot or heel peeking out, and her vanity was more cluttered than she’d ever admit, filled with earrings, perfume bottles, and the occasional dried flower from a show bouquet.

It was the kind of room that didn’t just belong to someone—it felt like them. Quiet but intense. Carefully curated and subtly chaotic. Full of secrets, softness, and the space to dream.

Just like Rowan.

It was a dreary Sunday, a day painted in shades of grey as the rain hung heavily in the air, creating an atmosphere that felt like the world was holding its breath in anticipation. Evergreen, usually vibrant and alive, was rendered quiet under the steady drizzle, and Rowan Starling found solace in the soft embrace of her surroundings—no plans, no obligations weighing down her mind. The familiar hum of her space enveloped her, punctuated only by the occasional buzz from her phone and the comforting rhythm of raindrops pattering against the window, a melodic backdrop to her languid day.

She and Mason exchanged messages throughout the day, their conversations ebbing and flowing like the rain outside. The exchanges were light-hearted: a flurry of memes, snippets of half-formed thoughts—casual texts that seemed insignificant but wove together to form a deeper connection with each ping of her phone. It was a thread, delicately pulled on both ends, uniting them in a language all their own.

She lost herself in aimless reading, flitting between three books, unable to settle into any narrative for long. At some point, she surrendered to sleep, curling up beneath her soft blanket as the storm settled in for the long haul. The afternoon slipped away gently, punctuated by the soft glow of Netflix illuminating her living room. The volume was set low enough to mingle softly with the rain, creating a warm cocoon of familiarity.

She slipped into Mason's hoodie somewhere in the intersection of her nap, and the third rewatch of an old favourite—an uncommitted loyalty to a series.

Navy blue and a touch oversized, the fabric wrapped around her like a gentle embrace, still holding onto the faint scent of him—woodsy, warm, inherently familiar. She had taken it deliberately after that unguarded moment in the costume closet, where it had caught her eye among the tangle of feather boas. Deep down, she knew she had to keep it, not merely as a keepsake but as a tangible piece of him.

The knock at her door came suddenly—three quick raps, sharp against the backdrop of the rain’s steady percussion. Her body warmed from the couch, legs bare beneath the fabric of the hoodie, as she padded softly down the hallway. The sleeves of the oversized garment brushed against her legs, playfully swinging past her fingertips as she approached the door.

When she opened it, time seemed to suspend momentarily.

There stood Mason on her porch, a vision of rain-soaked charm: his curls dampened by the downpour, jacket casually unzipped, his eyes wide as they searched hers, startled yet holding a light of something unspoken.

Words hung unspoken between them, a silence filled with meaning.

But his gaze dropped instantly to the hoodie enveloping her.

His hoodie.

She witnessed the shift in his expression—starting with surprise and gradually melting into something profound, a blend of wonder and realisation as if he were seeing the universe align in that tiny moment. There was reverence in how he looked at her as if she had become the singular focus amidst the stormy chaos outside.

Rowan held his gaze, leaning casually against the doorframe, a playful eyebrow raised in amusement, her lips curving into a confident, knowing smile that spoke volumes.

She didn’t intend to offer him an explanation.

No, she desired more; she wanted him to absorb everything—the message embedded in her choice, the significance of the fabric that wrapped around her like a shared secret.

And as she met his quietly astonished gaze, the way he looked at her—filled with a reverent clarity—spoke all the words they didn’t need to say, communicating a shared understanding that transcended the storm raging beyond the confines of her doorway.

Mason blinked, once—twice—as if unsure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

And then he exhaled.

Slowly.

Like the sight of her standing there—bare legs, flushed cheeks, the sleeves of his hoodie falling past her fingertips—had stolen every bit of breath from his lungs and forced him to remember how to breathe again.

“…You,” he said, voice low, almost reverent, “thief.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, but there was heat behind it—something molten and heady rising beneath the boyish tease. His eyes dragged over her, slow and lingering, not just admiring, but committing her to memory. The storm curled around them like background noise, but Mason only saw her.

His hoodie on her.

Rowan Starling in his damn hoodie.

“I thought I lost that forever,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, close enough now that the scent of rain and cedar clung to him like a second skin. “I spent an entire Saturday tearing my room apart looking for it. Even accused my brother of stealing it.”

He tilted his head slightly, curls damp and wild, one hand bracing the doorframe just above her shoulder. His voice dropped lower, warmer—velvet over embers.

“But it was you, wasn’t it? All this time. You kept it.”

His fingers reached for the sleeve, brushing the edge of it where it grazed her thigh, slow and deliberate. “Looks better on you anyway,” he said, mouth curving into something far more dangerous than a smile. “Kind of unfair, honestly. You standing there like that. In my hoodie. That look in your eyes.”

A beat passed, charged and electric.

And then, softly—like he was saying something sacred, not just teasing—he added:

“You’re gonna ruin me, Starling.”

His thumb ghosted along the hem again before he leaned in, voice grazing her skin like a whisper against her cheek.

“But if that’s the plan… I’m not fighting it.”

“Oh, come on, Mason,” she declared, her voice fluttering through the air like a playful breeze, its light and airy tone laced with an undercurrent of simmering intensity. She stepped forward, effortlessly closing the distance between them, her piercing gaze locking onto his with an unwavering determination that felt electric. As she spoke, her voice softened to a sultry whisper, smooth as silk yet edged with a teasing mischief.

“I didn’t steal it. I rescued it.”

A brief silence enveloped them, thick with a tension that felt almost tangible, hanging in the air like the quiet before a storm.

“From the supply closet,” she continued, her tone inflected with mock indignation. “You carelessly abandoned it there, crammed beneath two flamboyant feather boas and that utterly ridiculous pirate hat, complete with a droopy feather. Honestly? How tragic.”

With a playful tug at the hem of the oversized hoodie, her fingers danced over the fabric as though reverently acknowledging its unfulfilled potential, the soft material whispering against her skin.

“This hoodie deserved a fate far greater than that lackluster prison. And I breathed new life into it,” she proclaimed, her voice sparkling with delight and an undercurrent of something deeper.

“I wore it. I practically lived in it. And sure, maybe I didn’t plan on keeping it for this long, but…” Her lips curled into a knowing smirk, a hint of mischief glimmering in her eyes. “It began to feel as though it was meant for me.”

Closing the gap even further, she edged almost flush against him, the warmth radiating between them crackling with unspoken emotions.

“And maybe part of me relished the idea of having something of yours,” she whispered, her voice dipping to an intimate murmur that felt like a secret shared between them alone. “Something soft—something that still held your scent, wrapping me in a familiar embrace, like a warm hug on a cold day.”

Rowan tilted her head slightly, her cascading curls framing her face like a halo, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper that sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“So if I’m going to ruin you…” she murmured, the playful glint in her eyes sparkling like stars on a clear night, “just remember—you left the hoodie behind. I gave it a new narrative.”

She paused for a heartbeat, her expression shifting as she flashed him a grin that was both sharp and sweet, a delightful dance of mischief reflecting in her gaze.

“You’re welcome.”

Mason just stood there for a moment, soaked from the rain, stunned into silence—not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because God, she had a way of stealing the breath right out of him.

She rescued his hoodie?

He huffed a low laugh, slow and disbelieving, eyes dragging over her in that impossibly casual, devastating way of his—soaking in every word, every flicker of expression, every inch of bare skin peeking out beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. His chest rose and fell with the effort of holding himself still.

“You know,” he said, voice low and rough with amusement, “most people just ask if they can borrow something. You? You stage a whole dramatic monologue like you’re auditioning for a West End revival.” He leaned in slightly, close enough to catch the ghost of her perfume and that maddening, stolen-smug-smile. “But I’ve got to admit—it worked. I don’t think I’ll ever look at that hoodie the same way again.”

Then his voice dipped, softening like the storm behind him.

“And you relishing the idea of having something of mine?” He shook his head slowly, eyes still locked on hers. “Rowan, you have no idea what that does to me.”

He brushed his knuckles gently against her sleeve, letting the contact linger just long enough.

Then—almost as an afterthought, but not really—his gaze flicked past her shoulder again, toward the quiet, dim glow of the house. The world behind her felt untouched, paused, like it was waiting for whatever came next.

His next words were barely above a murmur, but laced with unmistakable weight.

“Are your parents home?”

Because if they weren’t…
Then maybe that hoodie wouldn’t be the only thing she ended up keeping.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just stared up at him with that maddeningly calm expression—like he was the one on trial, not her.

“Oh, please,” she said, cocking her head as she stepped into his space, casual as anything. “You act like I planned to keep it. Like I schemed.”

Her lips curved into a slow smile, revealing exactly how much she had enjoyed it.

“Sure, I might have buried it under a pile of costume chaos and maybe worn it during emotionally vulnerable moments. But that’s not theft, Mason,” she said, leaning in, her eyes sparkling. “That’s sentiment.”

Then, quieter, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, “And maybe… maybe I liked having something that smelled like you. Maybe it made those late nights feel a little less empty.”

She looked down briefly, her fingers tugging at the hem of the hoodie as if to steady herself.

Then he asked the question.

Her gaze snapped back to his, sharp, sudden, and alive.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. “No,” she said, her voice dropping like dusk. “They’re out. My mom’s at book club, and my dad’s pretending to care about rec league trivia night.”

A heartbeat passed.

“Are you coming in?” she asked, her voice airy, but her eyes were very serious. “Or are you planning to stand there dripping all over my welcome mat while giving me heart palpitations?”

She leaned closer, brushing her shoulder against his chest. The sleeve of her hoodie dragged softly against his skin.

“Because I should warn you…” Her voice dropped to a whisper now, her lips almost grazing his. “If you cross that threshold, you might not get this hoodie back.”

A beat passed.

And then, sweet as sin, she added, “Or your self-control.”

Mason stared at her, utterly spellbound.

The hoodie—his hoodie—had never looked so good in its life. On her, it wasn’t just fabric and thread anymore—it was a statement, a claim, a secret shared between them. It clung to her like a memory, soft and oversized, and he couldn’t stop staring at the way the sleeves swallowed her hands or how she tugged at the hem like she didn’t quite realize she was doing it. It was stupid, probably, how much that small, unconscious gesture did to him.

His grin curved slow, lazy, and dangerous. “You know,” he said, stepping just inside the doorway, “I was going to demand it back. Righteously. With principle.”

He pretended to survey her, head tilted, eyes flickering from her face to the oversized sleeves to the hem she kept fidgeting with. “But now?” he continued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Now I’m thinking I might owe you a thank you for rescuing it from the glitter-and-feather graveyard.”

He leaned in just enough to make it clear he was playing with fire. His hand brushed the edge of the fabric where it hung off her hip, fingers ghosting over the soft cotton like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“It looks insanely good on you, by the way,” he added, voice lower now—half flirty, half reverent. “Like, unfairly good. Like I’m developing a hoodie-related kink in real time and I’m not even sorry.”

He let the silence linger for a beat, the tension crackling like static.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers with unmistakable intent. “But if you’re going to keep wearing my clothes and saying things like that…”

His fingers gently hooked the edge of the hoodie’s pocket, drawing her a fraction closer.

“…you should probably be prepared to deal with the consequences.”

His smile was slow and wicked and sweet all at once. “And spoiler alert: I’m very bad at pretending I don’t want to kiss you when you’re dressed like that.”

“I’m not exactly in the mood to be dissuaded.”

Her delicate fingers traced the strong line of his jaw, gently tilting his face toward her as though she were aligning constellations in the night sky. For a heartbeat, she held him in her gaze—her eyes dancing between his lips and the depths of his gaze, caught in indecision, weighing the allure of a kiss against the sweet anticipation that cradled it.

Then, with careful intention, she stepped back a fraction—just enough to create a tantalising distance.

Her hands slipped from the warmth of his skin, the fabric of her oversized hoodie sliding past her fingertips like a whispered goodbye. She held her arms before her, straight and inviting, fingers flexing gently that begged for something more—a silent plea that echoed between them.

The smirk that had danced on her lips softened into an expression imbued with vulnerability, raw and unguarded, like a fragile secret laid bare.

“I want it,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, hanging in the air, almost too quiet to hear. “Not just the hoodie. You. All of it.”

For the briefest moment, her voice trembled, hesitation flickering across her features, but she steadied herself, the words gaining strength, soft yet unwavering.

“I want to be wrapped up in you, Mason. Picked up, swallowed whole, cocooned in that ridiculous hoodie of yours and your oversized everything—where it’s warm and comforting, like a soft blanket on a cold night, and I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it all figured out.”

She locked her gaze onto his then, really looking—the kind of gaze that cut through the chaos and reached deep into the heart. “And I know I don’t need you to make me feel okay. But, God, right now? I want you to.”

“Come here, Hayes,” she whispered her voice a blend of playfulness and raw emotion, intertwining in an inviting and haunting way. “Ruin me, rescue me… just hold me.”

Mason let out a slow whistle, eyebrows lifting as a crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Well damn, Starling,” he said, tone teasing, “if I’d known pouring my soul out would earn that kind of monologue, I would’ve started confessing my feelings a lot sooner.”

He took a dramatic step forward, arms spread like he was about to deliver a Shakespearean soliloquy. “You want to be wrapped up? Picked up? Swallowed whole?” He paused, eyes glittering with mischief. “Babe, I’m like six feet of emotional baggage and hoodie fluff. Your wish is literally my entire personality.”

Then, his voice dipped, playful turning to something warmer, softer—but still laced with that signature spark. “But seriously—be careful what you ask for. Because once I’m holding you, I’m not exactly known for letting go. I cuddle like a koala on espresso. Except without the chlamydia."

He stepped close again, this time for real, his hands settling on her hips as he gave her a little tug forward. “You want to be ruined?” he murmured, his grin gentler now. “Too late, Starling. You already ruined me the moment you started looking at me like I was worth the wreckage.”

He leaned in, nuzzling her temple with exaggerated affection. “Also, fair warning—I’m absolutely stealing dramatic lines like ‘cocooned in your oversized everything’ for my next audition. I’m gonna win a Tony just quoting you.”

Then, quieter—sincere beneath all the teasing—he added, “Come here. Let me be your hoodie and your safe place and your hot emotional support boyfriend, all in one ridiculous, slightly damp package.”

He pulled her in like gravity had finally won. “Now shut up and let me love you dramatically, Rowan Sage Starling.”

Her mind surged and crackled, short-circuiting between the phrases “six feet of emotional baggage entwined with hoodie fluff” and “a koala on espresso,” unpredictable yet absurdly charming.

By the time he reached the part about “your wish is my entire personality,” she felt completely unmoored, blinking at him as if he had just deftly rewritten her understanding of affection, reshaping what it meant to feel chosen into something revolutionary.

God, he was infuriating. And oh-so-unfair. And yet, impossibly him—an enigma wrapped in warmth.

Her lips parted to fire back a response, something clever and cutting brimming at the edges of her tongue. But then he pulled her closer, his hands warm against her hips, his eyes gleaming as if she were made of starlight and whispered secrets. In that instant, her mind fogged over, leaving her grappling for even a single word in English.

Her heart fluttered erratically, squeezing tight against her ribcage as if trying to convince her that maybe, just maybe, this kind of love could exist without a backdrop of conditions or chaos.

“You’re ridiculous,” she managed to whisper, though the breathiness of her voice betrayed her. “Like… cosmically ridiculous. I hope you realise that.”

Yet, even as those words tumbled from her lips, she found herself leaning into him, her fingers slipping beneath the cosy hem of his hoodie, feeling an undeniable sense of belonging—as if she had been meant to find this warmth all along.

“And for the record?” she continued, her voice dropping low as her lips brushed the soft shell of his ear, making her breath hitch. “If you quote me in an audition, I expect a heartfelt thank-you in your Tony acceptance speech. I want a dramatic shoutout. Maybe even a single tear.”

She angled her gaze up to meet his, eyes narrowing playfully yet filled with a seriousness he couldn’t ignore. “And if I let you keep loving me so unabashedly, Mason Hayes… you better brace yourself. I don’t fall easily. But when I do, I go all in—no holding back.”

A heartbeat passed in silence, the world narrowing around them before she added softly, “So don’t let go. Ever.”

With that, she captured his lips in a kiss—slow and deliberate, like a promise carefully woven in the velvety darkness. It was as if gravity conspired to pull them together, binding their fates in an unbreakable tether.

Mason barely had time to catch his breath—his mind still looping over cosmically ridiculous like it was the highest praise he'd ever received—before her kiss landed like a soft meteor strike straight to his chest.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to look at him, he let out a stunned little laugh, wide-eyed and dazed. “Okay, not to be dramatic,” he murmured, still half-charmed and half-winded, “but if I die right now, I need you to tell the EMTs I went out doing what I loved: being absolutely roasted by the girl of my dreams.”

His fingers curled tighter around her hips, anchoring himself in the present, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t some fever-dream conjured by hoodie theft and emotional vulnerability. “Also, fair warning,” he added, voice dropping with that familiar mischievous edge, “I will ugly cry in that Tony speech. Like—Tobey Maguire in Spider-Man 3 levels of sobbing. It’ll be cinematic. Undignified. You’ll regret ever inspiring it.”

He nudged her nose with his, all affection and electricity. “And just so we’re clear? I wasn’t planning on letting go. Like, ever. I’ve already mentally drafted our joint Halloween costume for three years from now, and spoiler alert—it’s unhinged. There's glitter. Possibly capes.”

Then, as her lips brushed his again, he pulled back just a sliver, glancing toward the door with mock suspicion. “Okay, but listen—I swear to God, if your mom, a delivery guy, or like, a rogue raccoon interrupts this kiss too, I’m putting us both in witness protection and starting over in a different zip code. We’re due one uninterrupted makeout session. Statistically. Cosmically.”

She didn’t even allow him the chance to finish his thought.

A delicate yet firm hand covered his mouth—warm against his skin, decisive in its action, carrying a hint of mischievous satisfaction.

Rowan lifted a single brow, her expression an intriguing blend of amusement and impatience. The corners of her mouth quirked up, a silent battle between a smirk and the effort to maintain her stern demeanour.

“You told me to shut up,” she remarked coolly, her eyes flickering with that signature Scorpio intensity, “and yet here you are, unable to keep quiet.”

Her hand lingered for a moment before sliding away with deliberate slowness, fingertips grazing his jawline, sending a warm shiver down his spine. She moved closer, their breaths intertwining in the chilly air, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper that lingered with unspoken intentions.

“My room is upstairs, Hayes.”

With a playful tilt of her head, a shiver of excitement fluttering through her despite the cold, she arched a challenging brow and added, “Are we going to stand in this doorway all night? My legs are freezing. And you seem to talk far too much for someone who just kissed me like that.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, glancing over her shoulder with a wicked glint in her eye, her curls dancing enticingly with each step.

“Well?” she called back, already ascending the staircase, the anticipation in her voice palpable. “Are you coming, or are you still busy crafting the emotional narrative for our Halloween costume?”

Mason stood there for a heartbeat, lips parted in stunned silence, as if someone had just handed him the lead in a play he thought he’d bombed the audition for.

My room is upstairs, Hayes.

Her curls bounced as she ascended, each step like a challenge tossed over her shoulder, and he—well, he was riveted.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like it might clear the static. “Okay. Right. Yep. Upstairs. That’s… that’s where rooms usually are. Brilliant deduction, Hayes.”

And then he was moving—trailing after her like some enchanted, hoodie-clad theater kid stumbling into Act II with no clue what the plot twist was but loving every second. “I’m not saying you just invited me into the sacred lair of Starling, but if this were a fantasy novel, this would absolutely be the chapter with a dramatic shift in tone and a warning in italics.”

Halfway up the stairs, he paused with mock concern. “Just—quick statistical observation—every time we get within kissing distance, the universe tosses in an interruption like it’s a running gag. If your dad materializes out of thin air holding a trivia trophy, I’m rolling down these stairs like a tragic understudy who missed his cue.”

But his grin said otherwise. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He looked up at her, eyes bright with disbelief and something deeper. “Lead on, Starling. I’ll follow you through doorways, plot twists, emotional vulnerability—whatever you’ve got. I’m yours.”

And with that, he took the next step—toward her, toward whatever came next, his heart practically pirouetting in his chest.

Rowan had made it to the landing when his voice floated up behind her—equal parts adoration and unfiltered Mason chaos—and it stopped her in her tracks.

She turned slowly, one brow arched in that signature you’re impossible, but I might love it way, arms folded loosely as she leaned back against the wall. From up there, she could see the whole boy—wide-eyed, hoodie-clad, rambling like his mouth couldn’t quite keep up with his heart. And God, her heart squeezed at the sight.

“If this is Act II,” she said, voice low and amused, “you better pray it’s not a tragedy.”

And then, softer—just enough for the moment to shift: “Because I don’t think I could handle losing you in the final scene.”

It hung between them for a beat—something real, something raw—and then she smirked, letting the levity return like a curtain lifting.

She reached out a hand, fingers curling in silent invitation. “Come on, Hayes,” she murmured, “before you talk yourself into another metaphor.”

And when his hand found hers—warm, certain, all-in—she tugged him the rest of the way up, eyes never leaving his.

This wasn’t just a scene change.

It was the start of something entirely unscripted.

Rowan’s bedroom door clicked shut behind them with a softness that belied the storm swirling in her chest.

She didn’t hesitate.

No masks. No performance. Just fire and instinct and the boy who had somehow made her feel seen in a way no one ever had—not beneath a spotlight, not behind a filter, not even in the mirror.

Before she was on him, Mason barely had time to take in the string lights, the stacks of dog-eared books, and the faint scent of vanilla and cedar that clung to the walls.

Her mouth crashed into his with a hunger that felt like it had been waiting for years. Her hands slipped beneath his hoodie like they had a right to be there, palms greedy, tracing heat along the planes of his back, his chest, the subtle lines she’d never let herself imagine too closely until now.

She kissed him like a secret she was tired of keeping.

And he kissed her back like he’d been holding his breath since the ninth grade.

They stumbled together, half-laughing, half-gasping through the tension winding between their bodies, until the back of her knees hit the bed, and she tumbled backwards into the mess of pillows and sheets with a breathless gasp.

Mason followed a stunned chuckle caught in his throat, his hands catching himself on either side of her, curls falling into his eyes, that dazed grin still flickering at the edges of his mouth like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

Rowan didn’t give him time to second-guess.

She pulled him down to her, enveloping him in legs and arms and fevered kisses, her body arching toward his like she could burn away the fear and the fragility and the waiting. She wanted all of him—his heartbeat, his breath, his softness and chaos and the way he looked at her like she was more than just a pretty picture in a curated life.

She kissed him until the only thing left in the world was them.

Mason’s breath hitched as her body folded into his like she’d been designed for the exact curve of his frame. His hands trembled slightly where they braced on either side of her, not from hesitation—but from awe. From the wild, electric miracle that this was actually happening.

He hovered for a second, their noses brushing, lips just shy of crashing again. His heart was doing a full Broadway tap number in his chest, and his voice came out low, a little shaky, a little overwhelmed in the best way.

“Okay, before I completely combust,” he murmured with a lopsided grin, “are you positive about this, Starling?”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss just beside her mouth—gentle, grounding, reverent. “Because, like, I’m one thousand percent in. Completely. Wholeheartedly. Hopelessly. But also very committed to the idea that you get to set the pace, and I’m just lucky to be cast in your orbit.”

He met her gaze then—earnest, steady beneath the tangle of curls and flushed cheeks. “I mean it. You say stop, I stop. You say slow down, I’ll build us a whole metaphorical intermission.”

Then, with a crooked smile that couldn’t decide if it was giddy or utterly gone, he whispered, “But if you say go… I’m yours. Fully. No edits. No stage directions. Just me.”

Then, just for a second, something in him cracked wide open. The grin softened into something breathless—need threaded with wonder. His fingers curled into the sheets beside her, like he needed something to anchor him from flying straight out of his own skin.

“Because if you say go,” he said, voice rough with everything he didn’t quite have the words for, “I won’t hold back. I’ll love you like I’ve been waiting my whole damn life for this moment. For you. All of you. And I won’t be gentle about how much I want you, Rowan—not just tonight, but in every version of forever you’ll let me have.”

For a heartbeat, Rowan forgot how to breathe.

Mason’s words shattered something deep within her—not just the usual flutter of vulnerability, but the terrifying, soul-baring kind that left her raw and exposed. It was as if she were on the precipice of a revelation, feeling for the first time that perhaps, just perhaps, she deserved this kind of tenderness—this kind of reverence that sparked a light inside her previously hidden behind layers of armour.

Her fingers, previously curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt near his shoulder, tightened even further—just enough to feel anchored as if the ground might give way beneath her if she let go.

“Mason…” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread woven with emotion, barely audible and decidedly wrecked. Her gaze locked firmly with his, a tempest of feelings swirling in her stormy eyes, searching his for assurance, for connection. She wanted to memorize every flicker of emotion that crossed his face, every syllable that spilled from his lips—an echo of the revelation setting her heart alight.

With trembling resolve, she let her hand drift upward, brushing his jaw with a featherlight touch that felt both electrifying and painfully deliberate. “You say you’re mine, but… you don’t even know what that means, do you?” The last word cracked on her lips—not from doubt, but from the wonder of it all—the overwhelming, impossible truth that someone like him could look at her without flinching. Without running.

Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes, not the chaotic, messy kind, but a quiet shimmer that spoke of hope and tenderness, born from the ache of finally being chosen in a way she had never dared to dream.

“You’re… ridiculous,” she murmured, a smile breaking through her careful facade despite herself. “And reckless. Maybe a little insane.”

Leaning in, she brushed her nose against his, mimicking the sweet intimacy he had shown her just moments before—soft, magnetic, and charged with a palpable energy. “But if you mean all of that… if you’re truly all in…” Her lips hovered tantalizingly close to his, heart racing and walls trembling in the wake of her vulnerability.

“Then go, Hayes.”

And with that, she kissed him like she had finally shed the constraints of her past. Like the masks she had worn and the carefully crafted scripts had disintegrated into dust. Like she was done hiding—done pretending she didn’t crave him just as fiercely as he desired her.

For a breathless moment, all Mason could do was blink at her like she’d just rewritten the laws of gravity.

“You just Hayes’d me,” he murmured, dazed, lips still brushing hers. “I think I’ve been emotionally outmaneuvered.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm and a little disbelieving, his heart thundering like he’d sprinted through the final scene of a play and realized he’d improvised the entire act. His hands—still braced beside her—trembled just enough to give him away, but his eyes were clear. Fierce. Hers.

“Okay, confession time,” he said, dropping his forehead lightly to hers, breath mingling. “I’ve… technically been in this scene before. The lighting was dim, the music was playing, clothes were definitely involved… but I always bailed before the final cue.”

He shrugged one shoulder with mock gravity. “Turns out, when you’re not in love and your heart isn’t trying to stage dive out of your chest, the moment doesn’t really land.”

He looked at her then, really looked, the humor settling into something softer beneath the surface. “But this? You?” His voice dropped. “I’ve never felt more sure about anything. Even if I’m kind of terrified I’ll mess up my blocking.”

One hand slid along her waist, his thumb brushing just under the hem of her shirt with a featherlight touch. “I’m nervous, yeah. But it’s not because I don’t want this—it’s because I do. So much it’s making my brain glitch.”

Then, eyes sparkling with that signature blend of wonder and mischief, he added, “So… if you’re still saying go, just know I’m yours. Fully. Whole cast, no understudies. Slightly anxious, maybe a little over-rehearsed, but so in.”

And with a smile so crooked it could’ve earned its own standing ovation, he kissed her again—deep and dizzy and grinning into her mouth like the luckiest fool in the world.

Rowan lay in quiet stillness, a different sort of calm enveloping her. This wasn’t the hard-edged stillness she often donned like a shield—lips pressed tight and spine straight, daring the world to challenge her. No, this was a gentle serenity, a softness that rarely slipped through the armour she had built around herself. This was a glimpse of her true self, unguarded and unpolished.

Across from her stood Mason, his eyes wide and luminous, brimming with an open-hearted vulnerability. He had just offered her the most delicate part of himself, his hands trembling and his voice a tremor of authenticity. There was no bravado masking his uncertainty; he merely existed at that moment—raw, real, and profoundly sincere.

Rowan didn’t flinch at his honesty. She didn’t tease him with playful banter or mask her emotions with a witty deflection that would shift the focus away from the moment. Instead, she stepped closer to him, the heat of connection palpable. One of her hands rose, moving steadily as if to ground him with her touch, her fingers tracing the sharp angle of his jaw.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath above the silence between them. There was no judgment in her tone, no hesitation—only unvarnished truth—just her.

“That doesn’t change anything for me.”

Her thumb grazed the corner of his mouth, lingering there like a promise of understanding and acceptance. Rowan could feel the flutter of his nerves beneath her fingertips—tangible, electric. Yet, she didn’t withdraw her hand.

“You think that makes you less ready? Or less wanted?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, her eyes locked onto his, searching for the rustle of doubt within him. “Because I’ve done this before?” She paused, letting her words' weight settle like a gentle caress. “Mason, I’ve never done this. Not with someone who holds my gaze like I’m more than just a fleeting moment. Not with someone who makes me feel like I can finally lay down the performance and breathe.”

Her voice remained steady, low, and almost sacred in its intimacy. The quiet wrapped around them like a cocoon—a thunderous silence that spoke volumes.

“I’ve had sex,” she stated boldly, strong in her admission, refusing to downplay her experiences. “But I’ve never felt this kind of trust. I’ve never allowed anyone to see me the way you do. I’ve never experienced being known as a relief rather than a risk.”

She closed the gap between them, her hands sliding around his waist, drawing him in deeper, entwining them within the moment's gravity. Their foreheads met gently, intimacy radiating between them as she whispered.

“There’s no map for this,” she confessed, each word laced with vulnerability. “No perfect cue, no script to follow.” A fragile yet courageous smile danced on her lips. “Just us. Saying yes. One breath at a time.”

And then, quieter still—almost reverential—“I want you, Mason Hayes. It's not a version of you scrambling to catch up. Not someone pretending to have it all figured out. Just… you.”

Leaning back slightly, she searched his gaze, which now sparkled with something delicate and fierce. A slow, wry smile played at the edges of her mouth, a mixture of playfulness and an ache of sincerity.

“Besides…” Her eyes sparkled, igniting with warmth. “Nervous theatre boys with big hearts and messy hair?” She shrugged lightly, her voice imbued with affection. “Kind of my type.”

Mason hovered in silence, overwhelmed. His eyes spoke volumes—widened and shimmering, a hint of disbelief lacing the edges as if he couldn’t quite process the words she had shared. It was as if some of him had braced for rejection, still catching up to the reality that it wasn’t coming.

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” she reassured gently, her hand sweeping up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I didn’t share all that to elicit a response. I just… needed you to know. So, it's okay if your mind is still buffering or reciting monologues in iambic pentameter or whatever it does when overwhelmed.”

His soft, breathless laugh made her smile—more an exhale of surprise than amusement, but it radiated warmth.

God, he was breathtaking when he gazed at her like that—as if she were a wonderful plot twist in a story he had never anticipated.

Rowan leaned in again, this time slower, more assured. Her lips brushed against his—an unhurried connection, without demand or urgency. It was simply an offering of warmth and presence, a kiss that didn’t seek anything beyond the moment's beauty. It glowed rather than burned.

As she withdrew, she didn’t break away completely. Instead, she pressed her forehead against his, inhaling his essence like a soothing balm that anchored her in this shared reality.

“I don’t want perfect,” she breathed, her voice a tender whisper. “I crave real. The messy, the beautiful. The nervous and new—ours.”

Her fingers gently curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding herself in their connection. “So whenever you’re ready… I’m here.”

The space around them felt quieter yet rich with possibility. It was dense with unspoken promises, a tapestry woven of silent affirmations and the shared breath of two souls perched at the precipice of something uncertain but, for the first time, willing to embrace the fall.

And Rowan Starling, who had spent so much of her life slipping into roles until the lines between them blurred, finally felt as if she were exactly where she belonged.

There is no act, no spotlight. It's just the vibrant beginning of something new.

Mason didn’t answer right away.

In fact, for a few seconds, his brain fully short-circuited.

Oh.
Oh no.
She’s perfect. She’s soft and fearless and terrifyingly beautiful and she just said all that like it was no big deal? Like it didn’t just melt every vertebra in my spine?

His heart was having an out-of-body experience. His knees were having a mild existential crisis. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a sarcastic voice chimed in with:

Great. Now would be a fantastic time to forget how words work.

He swallowed hard, trying to pull himself back into the moment, but his inner monologue had other ideas.

Coolcoolcool. She just said she’s had sex, she’s confident and luminous and knows what she wants, and you… have an elaborate mental ranking of your top five favorite Shakespeare insults.

Do not say something weird right now.
Do not say something weird right—

“I’ve never had someone talk to me like that,” he said, finally, the words escaping before his panic spiral could crash-land in awkward territory.

His voice was soft, reverent. Honest.

“Like I’m… enough. Like being nervous doesn’t make me broken. Or behind.”

He still looked stunned, like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke he hadn’t realized was serious. But his eyes never left hers—wide and shining and deeply, unmistakably Mason.

“I kept thinking you’d expect me to be cooler about this,” he admitted, a sheepish laugh curling around the edges of his words. “Like, because I do theatre and I wear boots that make me look vaguely brooding, maybe you’d think I was… I don’t know, Casanova with a monologue habit?”

He winced dramatically. “Spoiler alert: I am not Casanova. I once nearly passed out from nerves when someone tried to kiss me behind the auditorium in sophomore year.”

A pause, a breath, and then quieter—earnest.

“But the fact that you’re more experienced doesn’t make me feel weird. It doesn’t make me feel less. If anything, I just feel…” His fingers brushed gently along her waist. “Lucky. That you chose me. That I get to be the person you say all that to.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where their hands almost touched, then returned to hers, steadier now.

“I want this. Not because I think I’m ready in some checkbox kind of way. Not because I know what I’m doing. But because it’s you. And I’d rather be nervous and real with you than polished with anyone else.”

He smiled then, a little crooked, a little overwhelmed—but unmistakably genuine.

“So yeah, I might say something weird. I might absolutely forget what to do with my limbs. There is a very real possibility I will quote something deeply unfortunate from a musical at the worst possible time.”

He leaned in closer, eyes searching hers.

“But I want you. Not the idea of you. Not a version of this with less vulnerability. Just… you.”

He lingered there, their foreheads pressed together, breath shared like a secret. Then, with a crooked smile tugging at his lips and a spark of mischief in his eyes, he murmured:

“For the record? Brave girls with sharp minds and terrifyingly good cheekbones?”

His thumb brushed hers.

“Yeah. Definitely my type.”

She laughed, soft and breathless, and he felt it ripple through him like a ripple across still water. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the quiet, into her—the realness of it all wrapping around him like a favorite song he didn’t know he’d been missing.

No role. No act.
Just Mason—unfolding, raw, a little awkward, entirely present.

And for once, it felt like exactly enough.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just looked at him—looked at him—while the heat of his words still curled in the space between them like smoke. Mason’s forehead rested against hers, breath shaky, his body braced above hers as if the weight of what he’d just said had left him both untethered and grounded.

And God, her heart hurt in the best way.

Because he wasn’t posturing, he wasn’t performing. He was just there—unfolding, raw, unpolished, completely, achingly real.

She reached up slowly, her fingers finding the curve of his jaw and her thumb brushing across the corner of his mouth, where a nervous smile started to flicker.

“You don’t have to be anyone but this,” she whispered, her voice quiet, steady, meant only for him. “You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just… honest. And that’s more than enough.”

Her other hand slid to his chest, resting above the frantic rhythm of his heart.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Mason. Not with words. Not with confidence. Not with whatever you think this moment should look like.”

She let out a breath, her gaze locked on his. “This isn’t about how much you know or how many times you’ve done something or whether you forget where your elbow is supposed to go.”

A soft laugh escaped her—unforced, unguarded.

“It’s about this. Right now. Us. Figuring it out together.”

She leaned slightly, brushing her lips against his—not urgent, not even meant to lead anywhere. Just a kiss for the sake of closeness. Of anchoring.

And when she pulled back, her hand lingered at the base of his neck, holding him there. Close. Safe.

“You don’t need perfect lines,” she murmured. “You already said everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

She watched his face soften, and the tension in his shoulders started to ease. Then she guided him down just enough so that their foreheads touched again, her hands threading into his hair.

“I want this. I want you. Exactly like this.”

And in the quiet that followed, she didn’t fill the space with more words. She didn’t have to.

She stayed beneath him, holding him, letting the moment's gravity fold around them like warmth, like truth.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to lead.

She just had to feel.

Mason blinked.

Which, okay, was kind of a weak response to what she’d just said—but his brain was still back on “you're not behind.” Like it had to roll that phrase around a few times before it fully registered in the part of his soul that usually panicked in bold, italicized overthought.

You’re not broken.

God. What was she doing to him?

Somewhere in the mess of neurons firing behind his eyes, his inner voice was spiraling:

Don’t cry. Don’t make a weird joke. Definitely don’t propose marriage. Just—breathe. Smile. Look charming. You practiced this! No wait, that was for the monologue in Act Two—

Then she kissed him.

Just softly. No crescendo. Just warmth. Just her.

And in that moment, it was like every nerve in his body quieted.

She meant it. All of it.

And somehow, impossibly, that flipped something in him.

He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, forehead to hers, his chest rising slow and even now under her hand. The shaky breath was gone. The hesitation, gone.

“Okay,” he said, low and a little breathless. “That’s… kind of unfair. You say things like that, and then kiss me like that, and expect me to just survive it?”

His hand slid along her waist, fingers curling just enough to feel her warmth, her shape, his thumb brushing over the skin beneath the hem of her shirt—like he needed proof she was really there. That this wasn’t some stress dream he’d cooked up backstage.

“I was trying so hard not to rush this,” he murmured, his voice darker now, a little rougher at the edges. “But you look at me like that, say my name like that…”

He leaned in, letting his lips graze her jaw, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth—not kissing, not quite, just tasting the proximity of her. Building tension like it was instinct.

“And suddenly I’m not so worried about the lines anymore.”

When he kissed her this time, it wasn’t tentative. It was hungry—not wild, not unhinged—just sure. The way someone kissed when they knew what they wanted. When they weren’t performing anymore, just feeling.

His hand slid up, fingers threading into her hair, while the other settled low on her hip, pulling her closer like gravity had finally gotten tired of pretending.

He didn’t need a script.

Not when she gave him this. Not when she was this.

Unscripted. Unedited.

And now?

Now he was ready to lose himself in the scene.

Rowan sensed the undeniable shift in the air long before she saw it.

Mason stood before her in one fleeting instant, his eyes wide and unblinking, as though she had upended the laws of emotional gravity—his mouth slightly agape, every tense line of his body a portrait of disbelief and awe. Then suddenly, he was there, grounded and present, drawing her into a kiss that felt like a culmination of unspoken truths finally aligning.

A soft gasp escaped her lips, and he drank in the sound as if it were something divine, held sacred between them.

His hand on her hip tightened just enough to tether her to him, pulling her flush against the mattress as if all the pretence of distance had evaporated and gravity had finally accepted their undeniable connection. When his fingers wove into her hair, her body responded instinctively, arching and curling beneath him, melting into the moment as if surrendering to their shared energy.

The soft fabric of his hoodie shifted with her movement, its hem inching higher over her thighs, unveiling more skin, more of her truth. She hadn’t donned it to entice him, not really. It had been a choice born of comfort and warmth—an embrace that smelled distinctly of him. Of safety. Of belonging. Yet now, it felt like a second skin, riding up just enough to make a silent declaration—a reminder that there was nothing else beneath it.

Mason's breath hitched as his palm brushed over the bare skin of her thigh, a revelation that did not go unnoticed.

Yet, he didn’t hurry.

God, how he didn’t rush.

His kisses were steeped in a reverence she hadn’t realised she yearned for—deep and slow, each infused with a sense of wonder. He approached her like a long-lost treasure as if he couldn't quite fathom that this moment was real. Each kiss felt like a gentle question, and she answered without hesitation.

Yes, I want this.
Yes, I trust you.
Yes, I’m still here.

Rowan’s hands slipped underneath the hem of his hoodie, the soft fabric now his, and pressed against the warm expanse of his lower back, pulling him closer, deeper—an unspoken plea for more. She didn’t articulate it. No words were necessary. Her body was now fluent in need and warmth, voicing everything she had once feared to reveal.

As he trailed kisses down her neck, deliberate and slow, she tilted her head back against the pillow, surrendering with a breath that felt like liberation.

Not weakness.
Not defeat.

Just a gentle letting go.

Of the masks she wore. Of the unrelenting pressure. Of every version of herself that had believed love existed only for the perfect.

With Mason, she realised she had nothing to prove.

She was already enough.

As his hands roamed with careful curiosity, exploring the places where her emotional armour had once taken refuge, Rowan permitted herself to remain in this moment. She was surrounded by the warmth of the boy who truly saw her, the weight of his body pressing down just enough to ground her, and the soft resonance of his breath grazing her skin like a whisper.

No lights. No stage. There is no rehearsed script.

Just them. Just this.

And in that electric pause—finally—nothing else mattered.

Okay. Okay.

Mason Hayes had officially flatlined.

There were probably still vital signs somewhere, but his brain? Absolute static. Like someone had unplugged the soundboard and left him with nothing but Rowan—Rowan, in his hoodie, Rowan under him, Rowan looking up at him like he was gravity and starlight and something worth pausing the entire universe for.

And then—then—his hand grazed the smooth, bare skin of her thigh.

Bare.

As in nothing underneath the hoodie.

As in—holy hell, she was wearing only his hoodie.

His inner voice was doing backflips. Actual Olympic-level choreography.

Play it cool, Mason. Don’t look like your soul just left your body. Don’t say something stupid. For the love of all things holy, DO NOT ASK IF THIS IS REAL LIFE OUT LOUD—

But his face had already betrayed him. Eyes wide, lips parted, pupils dilated like he was staring straight into the heart of a solar flare. He looked down at her—this girl who could shatter him with a look—and managed to find his voice, low and rough at the edges:

“Rowan…”

It was barely a word. More like a prayer wrapped in disbelief.

He hovered there for a second, caught between instinct and reverence, watching the way she breathed beneath him. The hoodie had shifted again—slipping higher—and he could see the warm flush blooming along her neck, her collarbone, her chest.

She was breathtaking.

Not just hot. Not just beautiful.

Breathtaking. Like art. Like truth.

His hand slid up slowly, reverently, gliding from her thigh to the curve of her waist, and then—God help him—up to the zipper of the hoodie. His knuckles brushed her ribs. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him.

But he still paused.

He looked at her—really looked—and asked the question without words.

Are you sure?

She didn’t nod.

She didn’t have to.

Her hand found his, steady and soft, and guided it to the zipper with a confidence that knocked the breath right out of him. Her touch said yes, her eyes said yes, her whole body said yes.

So he moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

The metal teeth of the zipper whispered open, one inch at a time, exposing warm skin and soft curves and the wild, perfect truth of her. She was radiant. And trusting him.

And Mason—God, Mason—had never wanted to get something so right in his entire life.

He kissed her again, slower now, deeper, his hand sliding beneath the parted hoodie to feel her skin, her heartbeat, the warmth of her against his palm. His forehead rested against hers, breath mingling, and for a split second he grinned.

“I’m not gonna survive this,” he whispered, voice rough with wonder and a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. “You realize that, right?”

Then his mouth was back on her neck, and everything else fell away.

No nerves. No doubts.

Just this girl. This moment.

And the kind of love that didn’t need rehearsal.

Rowan felt a palpable shift the moment his fingertips brushed against her bare skin—a surge of electricity coursed through her, igniting her senses. Her entire body stilled in that heartbeat, as though she had stumbled into an unexpected scene that defied any rehearsal she had prepared.

And God, how she adored him for it.

His breath hitched in his throat, and she could see the surprise widening his eyes as if he had found himself in a place he never thought he was allowed to be. The depth of his gaze revealed his disbelief at his proximity to her—at the very act of seeing and touching her. It wasn’t reluctance that held him back; no, she could feel his want simmering just beneath the surface, every inch of him alive and aware. Mason Hayes was not just good; he embodied a rare goodness that felt almost extraordinary in a world dulled by indifference.

But sometimes, even the best boys needed a little encouragement to enter the light.

And so, with a gentle touch, she offered it to him.

Her hand found his, a warm, deliberate connection that radiated steadiness and assurance. She guided his movement with a soft insistence, allowing them to flow without strain or pressure—just the quiet permission of her presence. As his fingers reached the zipper, she held his gaze, grounding him with unwavering confidence, creating a safe harbour in a moment that could easily unravel.

“You’re okay,” her eyes conveyed messages far deeper than mere words, each subtle curve of her lips reassuring him of her trust. Her body remained open and inviting, the softness of her form embodying a welcome; it was filled with desire and patience. With the caress of her thumb, she offered gentle, deliberate circles on the back of his hand, fueling his courage as he trembled beneath the weight of their shared intimacy.

She felt Mason hesitate, suspended in a delicate balance between awe and uncertainty. Rowan sensed his trepidation and subtly moved to reassure him. She arched slightly into his touch, a nonverbal signal inviting him further—a silent declaration that he was welcome and that every hesitant movement he made was perfectly acceptable.

And when the zipper finally unfastened, inch by reverent inch, he looked at her as though he had just unwrapped the heavens themselves. Rowan met his wide-eyed wonder with an unguarded smile that radiated a warmth full of unspoken love and something infinitely sacred. She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, allowing the gesture to speak volumes.

“It’s okay,” her gaze whispered. “I trust you.”

Then he kissed her—slowly, deeply, and with a hint of trembling uncertainty. She responded kindly, pouring every ounce of tranquillity and assurance into their connection. There was no rush, no agenda; she anchored him with her presence, being exactly what he didn’t know he needed.

As his voice broke and he confessed, his voice laced with wonder that he feared he might not survive this moment, Rowan laughed softly—a sound so tender it nearly shattered her.

“You will,” she thought as he whispered sweet nothings against her neck, his fingers charting her form like a melody he had yet to realise he was familiar with. “You’re doing beautifully.”

This wasn’t about achieving some standard of perfection. It wasn’t about confidence either.

It was about trust.

And for the first time, she had offered it without reservation.

His lips found their way back to her neck, each kiss deliberate and reverent. Rowan surrendered to the sensation, closing her eyes as her breath caught in her throat, entirely consumed by the warmth of his mouth moving against her skin. He kissed as if he couldn’t fathom that she was permitting this closeness—every brush of his lips asking questions that she answered only with an endless “yes.”

Rowan didn’t rush him. She didn’t provide directions or fill the silence with playful banter, as she might have with someone else who didn’t matter quite as much as Mason Hayes. He required no performance—he craved nothing but the freedom to exist within this moment.

So she gave it to him.

Her hand remained on his, gentle and unwavering, providing the grounding he longed for. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers—barely detectable yet entirely real—the way he caressed her as though she might vanish if he pressed too firmly, as though the trust she offered was both light and fragile.

But it wasn’t.

She was solid beneath him, warm and entwined in the present moment, a delightful mixture of openness and yearning.

When he slipped his hand beneath the parted hoodie, his palm making contact with her bare skin, a hitch escaped her breath—not from anxiety but from the exquisite caution he displayed and the depth of feeling he was accessing.

He didn’t fumble. He didn’t rush.

He felt.

And Rowan welcomed him into that space.

Tilting her head, she offered him greater access to the delicate arch of her throat while her fingers threaded through his curls with reassurance, devoid of urgency—only fostering closeness. She felt his shaky exhale against her collarbone, but it was steadier now. The weight of him settled comfortably between her thighs, and still, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away.

She drew him closer.

“Mason,” she whispered—not to startle him, not to prompt a reply, but to breathe his name into the air—a gentle reminder that he was here, with her, and that this moment was theirs to cherish.

He lifted his head slowly, their eyes meeting in a moment of vulnerability.

And God, he looked utterly wrecked.

Not from raw lust nor fear but from something deeper—the profound awareness of being utterly absorbed in the experience.

Rowan smiled, soft and sure, a smile that wasn’t laced with seduction or bravado, nor did it demand answers.

It was an acknowledgement of being seen.

“You’re doing perfect,” she breathed her voice a hushed secret, a promise. “You don’t have to think so hard.”

Her hands moved gently to cradle his face, her thumbs tracing the contours of his cheekbones, grounding him in their shared connection. “You don’t have to know. Just feel.”

And he did.

Oh, how he did.

When he kissed her again, it transformed—a careful kiss that still emanated softness, yet beneath it simmered a burgeoning confidence—a confidence rooted not in mastering the skill of the kiss but in the warmth she imparted simply by being there with him. How she enveloped him, physically and emotionally, assured him that this boy—her boy—was undeniably worth every moment of slowing down.

And maybe, just maybe, so was she.

They remained like that, wrapped in their world, cocooned in trust and tenderness.

Mason’s breath trembled, caught somewhere between disbelief and devotion, as if he were trying to memorize the moment while still inside it. His hands hovered inches above her, reverent, like he feared even the weight of his skin might disrupt the sanctity of what they were building between them. The way she looked at him—unguarded and open, her heart glowing right there on the surface—was undoing him more than her bare skin ever could.

Don’t think. Just feel.

That’s what her eyes told him. What the warmth of her touch urged into his bones. What the rhythm of her breath, shallow and steady, was trying to anchor inside of him.

And for once, he listened.

He pulled back—not because he wanted space, but because he needed to look at her. To really look at her. She lay there in the soft sprawl of tangled sheets, wearing nothing but his hoodie and trust like a second skin. And it wrecked him. Not because she was beautiful—though she was, devastatingly so—but because she had chosen him. Not the polished version of himself he wore onstage or in passing smiles, but this quiet, trembling boy full of too many feelings and nowhere to hide them.

He stood slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

His hands moved with a tenderness that bordered on holy. No theatrics, no rush. Just a silent surrender. A soft unraveling. The cotton peeled away from his frame, followed by the rest—belt, denim, every last scrap of armor he’d ever worn to keep the world at arm’s length. He shed it all for her.

And when he stood there—bare, heart exposed in every possible way—it was not confidence that filled the space.

It was something far more fragile. Far more profound.

Trust.

He wasn’t trying to be anything in that moment. He simply was. And Rowan, oh God—Rowan looked at him like he was the last miracle in a world that had long since stopped believing in them. Not because he was perfect, but because he wasn’t. Because he was raw and real and trying.

He moved back toward her with aching slowness, drawn to her not just by gravity, but by the unbearable gentleness of knowing she would catch him.

He climbed into the bed like a confession. Carefully. Quietly. Until the heat of her skin met his and they both gasped—not from shock, but from recognition. From the undeniable knowing of something fated.

His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing the place just beneath her eye as if he could ease the weight she carried there. She leaned into his touch, offering herself not with performance or expectation, but the devastating grace of someone who simply believed in him.

Their foreheads touched, and for a moment, the silence between them was the loudest thing in the world.

“Mason,” she whispered. His name like a prayer, like an incantation, like she could pull him back from the edge of whatever cliff he was standing on.

He kissed her then.

And it changed everything.

No longer trembling. No longer uncertain. Still soft—but now with the kind of softness that comes from being seen and chosen and kept. The kind of kiss that said, I didn’t know I needed you until I couldn’t imagine the world without you.

Their bodies curled into one another slowly, cautiously, like two pages folding into the same story.

Every inch of skin they revealed was an act of bravery. Every touch an offering. Every heartbeat a vow.

And in that sacred hush where nothing else mattered, where time and fear and history fell away—they didn’t just fall.

They landed.

In each other.

Whole. Unraveled. Alive.

And when the world finally faded to black, it did so gently—wrapped in the quiet sigh of sheets, in the whisper of skin against skin, in the exquisite ache of a love that had waited so long to be fully felt.

Not perfect.

But real.

And somehow, that made it everything.

God, this was unfair.

Not in the tragic, star-crossed way her favorite characters always whined about. No. This was personal. This was the universe setting her up just to see how long she could go without combusting.

Because there he was—Mason Hayes—lounging like he owned the whole world, hoodie rumpled, back propped against her headboard like he hadn’t just casually wandered into her safe place and decided to make himself at home.

And she was stretched out across him, head in his lap, hair being threaded through his fingers like it was something worth lingering over.

Which, fine.

Maybe she wasn’t exactly fighting it.

The candles flickered low on her dresser. The fairy lights threw soft constellations across the ceiling. The scent of the cinnamon candle—stupid, traitorous, romantic—curled into the air like some secret spell she definitely hadn’t planned.

Her voice dipped lower, almost automatically, as she read.

“‘You love me. Real or not real?’”

She deepened it a little, smirking when Mason’s fingers twitched against her scalp.

“‘Real,’” she added, soft, low, pitching it perfectly like the narrator was carrying the whole damn weight of the world on that one word.

She flipped the page with a flourish, grinning to herself when she caught him stifling a laugh out of the corner of her eye.

God, he was so gone.

And worse? She was too.

“You’re making it impossible to concentrate, you know that?” she muttered without looking up, voice dry, teasing, letting the corner of the page snap lightly against his knee. “If I forget who dies next, that’s on you.”

His hand just dragged lazily through her hair again, and she almost dropped the book completely.

Focus. Focus, Starling.

Another paragraph. Another scene. Her voice slipped easily into a rougher rasp for Haymitch, something snappier for Katniss, and a completely over-the-top velvet tone for President Snow that earned a low, half-stifled chuckle from above her.

“Don’t judge me,” she warned, pointing at him blindly with her free hand, not daring to break rhythm. “This is peak theater kid behavior. I’m contractually obligated.”

She smiled to herself when his fingers paused just long enough to tug a soft curl loose and let it fall back again, featherlight against her temple.

Her heart thudded in her chest, too loud, too real.

Because reading a book—her favorite book—with her head in his lap and his fingers carding through her hair like she was something delicate?

Yeah.

If twelve-year-old Rowan could see her now, she’d be disgusted. And stupidly proud.

She tucked her knees up a little tighter under the blanket, book resting heavier against her stomach now, voice softening as she slipped into another scene.

Quiet. Real. Uncomplicated.

She didn’t have to armor up around him.

Didn’t have to pretend to be cooler or tougher or sharper than she was.

Here—cinnamon air, fairy lights, familiar pages between her hands and his touch threading through her hair—she could just be.

“‘You love me. Real or not real?’” she repeated again, quieter this time, not because the book said so, but because it felt right.

Her fingers tightened around the book’s spine.

And somewhere inside her, deep and dangerous and thrilling, she thought:

Real.

Real.

Real.

Mason didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she said it like that—soft and steady, not as Katniss, not as a character at all, but as herself. As Rowan.

As the girl who had slipped under his skin so completely he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began anymore.

His hand stilled against her hair for a second, heart hammering so hard he was pretty sure she could feel it through the denim brushing her temple.

Real or not real?

God.

She didn’t even know.

She didn’t even know what she was doing to him.

He let out a slow, uneven breath, the kind you let go of when you realize you’re sitting in the middle of the thing you’ve been wishing for without even knowing it.

Rowan Starling.

Curled up in his lap.

Reading to him.

Trusting him with her voice, her favorite book, her heartbeat tucked so close he could almost taste the cinnamon on her skin.

It was so unfair.

It was the most unfair, perfect thing in the world.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured before he even realized he was speaking, voice low and a little wrecked.

He saw her smirk from the corner of his eye—victorious, dangerous—but it didn’t scare him.

It made him want to kiss her so badly he ached with it.

So he did.

He leaned down, slow and certain, brushing his nose lightly against her hairline first—giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted to (she didn’t)—then pressing his lips to her temple.

Soft.

Full.

Unrushed.

He lingered there for a second, breathing her in, the candlelight pooling around them like they were sitting inside a heartbeat.

Then he whispered, against her skin, against the part of her that seemed to breathe for him now:

“Real.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, right above her eyebrow, letting his fingers slip back through her hair like he could stitch the moment into the fabric of forever if he was careful enough.

“You’re impossible, Starling,” he said, grinning against her skin, voice all warm and wrecked and Mason. “You set me up. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Another kiss, softer, closer to her temple this time.

“And for the record?”

He shifted slightly, enough to tilt her chin gently up with the barest pressure of his fingers, enough to meet her wide, too-bright eyes under the fairy lights.

“I’d say ‘real’ a thousand times if you asked.”

He kissed her properly then.

Mouth to mouth. Sweet and steady and absolutely unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of spending it anywhere else but here—wrapped up in her, in cinnamon and candlelight and soft paperback pages and every version of love that didn’t need anything flashy to mean everything.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against hers, smiling so wide he didn’t even try to stop it.

“Hope you know,” he whispered, thumb brushing slow and reverent along her jaw, “I’m never walking away from this.”

From her.

From real.

From everything they were building between kisses and broken sentences and smiles that hurt in the best possible way.

And as the fairy lights flickered like stars over their heads, Mason Hayes decided:

Yeah.

This was home.

Rowan didn’t even lift her head from where it was tucked so perfectly in Mason’s lap.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.

She just smiled into the fabric of his jeans—quiet, private, a little too real for her own good.

Because of course he was saying things like that. Of course he was brushing her hair back with the kind of care that made her chest feel too tight. Of course he was sitting here like he actually meant every ridiculous, wrecked word.

God, he was so doomed.
And so was she.

“You’re such a sap,” she mumbled, the words vibrating against his thigh, lazy and affectionate and laced with way more fondness than she’d ever admit if he called her out on it.

Her fingers idly tugged at the hem of his hoodie where it draped near her hand, twisting it around her knuckles like she could tie herself to him in tiny ways he wouldn’t even notice.

Or maybe he would.
Maybe he already did.

She let her thumb brush slow, distracted circles against the side of his knee, heart beating steady and wild at the same time.

“And for the record,” she added, voice low and dry and stupidly soft, “reading Katniss was a tactical move. Full offense. No regrets.”

She smiled wider when she felt him shift a little under her, like he was trying not to combust again.

Good.

Let him be wrecked for once.

She tipped her face slightly, catching the edge of his hoodie with her nose, breathing him in—soap and cold air and something that had already started to smell like home.

“Real,” she whispered, just because she could. Just because it was.

A beat passed. Then another.

The candles flickered in the corners of the room, the fairy lights buzzing faintly overhead, the whole world narrowing to the soft scratch of turning pages, the steady, grounding weight of him.

Rowan grinned against his lap, smug and dizzy and stupidly, ferociously hers.

“Told you you’d lose,” she said under her breath, voice feather-light but smug enough to make her chest spark.

She didn’t even try to go back to the book.

She just laid there—fingers knotted in the hem of his hoodie, his hand stroking absent, reverent patterns through her hair—and decided that maybe losing to Mason Hayes wasn’t losing at all.

Maybe it was the smartest, sharpest win she’d ever let herself have.

Mason felt like he was physically melting into the mattress.

Not in a bad way—not in a "help, I’m a puddle" way (though if she kept smiling into his jeans like that, he was definitely approaching puddle territory).

No, this was a different kind of melting. The slow, steady, soul-has-left-the-body-because-it’s-too-happy kind. The kind that wrapped itself around his ribs and made breathing feel almost unnecessary when she was here, folded against him, whispering real like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Her calling him a sap? Her twining his hoodie around her fingers like she was claiming him in tiny, invisible ways?

Yeah. Wrecked didn’t even begin to cover it.

Mason grinned down at her—hopeless, wrecked, and absolutely zero percent sorry—and kept stroking his fingers through her hair because honestly? He was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to stop.

“Oh, you absolutely cheated,” he said, voice low and stupidly fond. “Weaponizing Mockingjay quotes? That’s emotional terrorism, Starling. There are probably laws about it.”

He felt her laugh—low and victorious—and it thudded through him like someone had struck the strings of a guitar wired straight to his heart.

He tightened his hand just a little in her hair—gentle, grounding—like he could anchor both of them to this exact moment. To the way she felt tucked against him, smug and soft and so stupidly, recklessly his.

“Gotta admit though,” he added, tipping his head back against the wall, letting the fairy lights blur and sway across the ceiling, “if losing means you smiling into my lap like I just handed you the moon?”

He exhaled a rough, quiet laugh, warm against the crown of her head.

“I’ll lose every time.”

His thumb traced a slow, absentminded arc along the shell of her ear, the kind of touch you don’t think about when you’re trying to be suave—the kind you fall into when you’re just gone.

And Mason Hayes was gone.

Gone on the way she made him feel steady without having to fix him. Gone on the way she could call him a sap and still lace his hoodie around her hand like she didn’t ever want to let go.

Gone on the way she’d whispered real back to him like it was a vow.

“Full offense,” he muttered against her hair, grinning, “you’re stuck with me now.”

Another long beat passed—just breathing, just fingertips, just the slow gravity of them curling closer without even trying.

Then, quieter, like he was telling her the secret that had been humming under his skin all night:

“And for the record?” he whispered. “You didn’t make me lose. You made me win.”

He bent his head, kissed the crown of hers—soft, sure, infinitely hers—and smiled into the candlelit dark.

Because somehow, unbelievably, impossibly—

Mason Hayes had found the thing he didn’t even know he’d been searching for.

And it was her.

Rowan shifted before she could talk herself out of it.

Slow. Careful. Like moving too fast might shatter the fragile, burning weight of what she needed to say.

She pushed herself up, her palms bracing lightly against the mattress on either side of his hips, her head rising from his lap. The second she moved, Mason’s hand slipped from her hair—but he didn’t pull away. He stayed right there, looking at her like she was something holy.

God, he was stupid beautiful.

Fairy lights caught in the curls falling over his forehead. The soft, wrecked grin still playing at the edges of his mouth like he couldn’t help it. His heart practically visible behind his ribs.

Rowan sat up fully, facing him now, knees folded between them.

For half a second, she just… looked.

Let herself have it.

The reckless, terrifying, unbelievable fact that this was real.

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she leaned in.

She kissed him.

Soft. Steady. Like the easiest thing she’d ever done. Like punctuation on a sentence she hadn’t said yet.

Her hands found the sides of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring herself there as she tilted her head slightly and brushed her nose against his—slow, careful, a little bit clumsy in the way that meant it mattered.

And when she pulled back just enough to whisper it, her voice shook. Just a little.

But not enough to stop her.

“I didn’t think,” she said, breath catching on the words, “I could ever love someone like this.”

Her thumbs brushed over the edges of his hoodie sleeves, grounding herself in the feel of him.

“And I definitely didn’t think…” she swallowed, smiling—small, a little broken around the edges but still blindingly full of hope, “…that anyone would love me the way I am.”

Her forehead dropped lightly against his again. Their noses bumped. Neither of them moved away.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Raw. Real. Hers. “For seeing me. For staying.”

Her hands smoothed the front of his hoodie absently, like she could memorize every wrinkle, every bit of him that had stayed soft even when she had been nothing but armor.

“And for not running when I gave you every reason to.”

She kissed him again—quick, sure, a little desperate—like she could push the words deeper, make him believe them the way she did.

Because she did.

She loved him.

More than she had thought she was even capable of loving anyone.

And Mason Hayes?

He made it feel terrifying and easy all at once.

Mason Hayes could’ve actually levitated.

Like, physically floated off the bed and up through the damn ceiling, just from the way she said it—loved him—like it was messy and real and stitched right into her bones.

He sat there, completely wrecked in the most embarrassing, Mason way possible: stupid wide grin, heart hammering at hummingbird speeds, hoodie strings tangled around her fingers like she was tying him to her on purpose.

(Which, if she was, good luck ever getting him back. He was hers. Astronomically, cosmically, obnoxiously hers.)

His hands hovered for a second—like he didn’t even know where to start—and then he was everywhere at once: palms cradling her face, thumbs brushing under her jaw, forehead resting lightly against hers because standing the full blast of her saying those words without physical contact would actually kill him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, voice wobbling between a laugh and a breathless prayer. “Like, scientifically unfair. Weaponized adorableness.”

He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her cheeks. Soft little rapid-fire kisses like he was trying to cover every inch of her with proof that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d stay exactly where she wanted him, for as long as she wanted him.

“You think you’re the one who’s lucky?” he said, voice breaking into a bright, wrecked laugh. “Starling, I wake up every morning and can’t believe you even tolerate me, let alone—”

His throat caught.

He kissed her again, slower this time, hands sliding down to hold her face like she was something precious and ridiculous and absolutely necessary for his continued existence.

“I would stay through every version of you,” he murmured against her lips, so sincere it hurt. “The messy ones. The loud ones. The scared ones. The ones that don’t think they’re lovable.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her—eyes shining, grin soft and boyish and so full of stupid, endless love that he couldn’t have hidden it if he tried.

“I’m staying because there’s no place in the universe I’d rather be than right here, getting crushed by how much I love you and trying really hard not to cry about it like a tragic Victorian ghost.”

A beat.

He sniffed dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear away with the back of his hand. “Woe is me. Struck down by feelings. Felled by the hot, feral girl who thinks she’s hard to love. Somebody call the authorities.”

He felt her laugh—really laugh, against his chest—and the sound went straight to his ribs, softening every wrecked part of him.

“And for the record?” he added, tugging her closer by the hoodie strings she’d tangled herself into. “You’re never getting rid of me. You’re stuck. You read ‘Mockingjay’ quotes at me while cuddled into my lap. That’s legally binding.”

Another kiss, pressed long and slow into her hairline.

“Real,” he whispered again, the word humming right against her skin.

And God, if this was what being wrecked felt like?

He hoped he never recovered.

Rowan couldn’t even pretend she was unaffected.

Not when he was looking at her like that—like she wasn’t just real, but the only thing that had ever been real. Like he was a dying man and she was the thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

It was… it was a lot.

A terrifying, bone-deep, curling-under-your-skin kind of lot.

And still, somehow, it didn’t scare her.

Because it was him.

Mason, with his ridiculous hoodie strings now practically wrapped around her fists because she didn’t know how to let go. Mason, kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks like she was made of something rare and precious and not just the sum total of her own messy edges.

Mason, who talked about being crushed by feelings like it was a badge of honor instead of something to be ashamed of.

God, she loved him.

She loved him so much it made her fingers clench tighter in the fabric at his chest, made her lean up and catch his mouth in a kiss that wasn’t careful this time—wasn’t sweet or slow.

It was hers.

Claiming him the way he already seemed to claim her, no questions asked, no terms or conditions.

When she pulled back, her forehead dropped against his again, breathless, burning.

“You are so—” she tried, voice cracking on the first word. She let out a huff, half-laugh, half-wrecked. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?”

It wasn’t mean. It was affection in the way she only ever gave it when she couldn’t find safer words.

Because what she wanted to say—what she was barely holding back—was I love you so much it feels like I’m coming apart.

Instead, she smiled. Twisted and lopsided and all teeth.

“And you’re stuck too, genius,” she whispered. “Legally binding. No refunds. No exchanges. You’re my tragic Victorian ghost now. Hope you’re ready for a lifetime of dramatic sighs and unnecessary angst.”

She tilted her chin up, brushing her nose lightly against his again, like she could nudge them both into a reality where this feeling didn’t have to be so scary.

It was just theirs.

“And if you ever try to walk away,” she added, voice dropping to something dangerously soft, “I’m showing up at your house with a baseball bat.”

A beat.

Then she kissed him again—quick, biting, more teeth than technique, like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.

The fairy lights hummed overhead, flickering gold against the tangle of their bodies, the barely-finished paperback still sprawled half-forgotten on the bed beside them.

And somewhere in the house, faintly, she could hear her mom calling:

“Food’s ready!”

Rowan didn’t move right away.

Didn’t even flinch.

Because Mason’s arms stayed tight around her, because his nose was still brushing hers, because the candles kept burning low and steady, and because whatever this was between them—

It wasn’t going anywhere.

Neither was she.

Not now.

Not ever.

Mason was stuck.

Absolutely, categorically, dramatically stuck.

Because here he was, in a fairy-light-lit bedroom that smelled like cinnamon and felt like safety, tangled up in Rowan Starling—the girl who loved him with teeth and baseball bat threats and ridiculous, soft, terrifying sincerity—and yet downstairs was her mom. Calling for dinner. Being the sweetest human alive and totally oblivious to the fact that he was approximately five seconds from declaring her daughter his entire universe in the most embarrassing way imaginable.

He groaned—low and dramatic, burying his face into Rowan's shoulder with all the subtlety of a boy who had already lost every ounce of chill he ever had. “I’m having a crisis,” he mumbled into her hoodie, voice muffled and completely wrecked. “Do I stay here and dissolve into a puddle of emotions with you, or do I do the responsible, good-boyfriend thing and drag us both downstairs before your mom thinks I’ve kidnapped you into some kind of literary-themed afterlife?”

He lifted his head slightly, giving her the most exaggerated, pleading, puppy-eyed look humanly possible. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, I'd love nothing more than to just stay right here forever—tragic Victorian ghost style, haunting your room with devastating affection and over-the-top declarations of love—but your mom made food, and I'm like, morally bound to respect your mother’s cooking.”

He sighed again, dramatically, pressing another quick kiss to her forehead before leaning back with an expression of profound, soulful suffering.

“You see my problem? My heart says ‘stay here and kiss your perfect face approximately two million more times,’ but my very strong need for your mom’s approval and those legendary garlic mashed potatoes says, ‘drag your girl downstairs and eat dinner like a functional human being.’”

He paused, tugging her gently toward him again, eyes shining with that hopeless, lovesick warmth. “Honestly, Starling, loving you this much is wildly inconvenient. It’s affecting my judgment, my time management skills, and my ability to form coherent thoughts. It's tragic, really. You should feel bad.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he swung his legs off the bed, keeping his fingers intertwined with hers as he stood, pulling her gently up after him—soft and steady and annoyingly sweet about it. He kissed her temple again, quick and sure, smiling into her hair.

“Come on, your mom's probably wondering if we disappeared into Narnia or something.”

And then he smirked, bumping her shoulder playfully with his.

“But later? You're mine again. No exchanges. No refunds. Lifetime subscription to Mason Hayes' patented dramatic sighs and Shakespearean-level declarations. You signed the contract, Starling. Now you're stuck too.”

Rowan tightened her grip on his hand as he tugged her upright, her face half-buried in his hoodie now because God, he was ridiculous.

And worse? She loved it.

Loved the dramatic speeches. Loved the forehead kisses. Loved that he looked genuinely torn between making out with her for eternity and chasing down garlic mashed potatoes like his life depended on it.

She bumped his hip with hers as they crossed her bedroom, her fairy lights tossing soft gold across his messy curls.


“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough that it still felt like a secret. “Otherwise I’d leave you to your tragic ghost fate and eat all the potatoes myself.”

She heard his scandalized gasp—full musical theater levels of betrayal—and smirked into his arm as she pulled open the door.

“And for the record?” she added, glancing up at him, her voice low and a little smug as their fingers tangled tighter. “You’re absolutely mine too. Lifetime subscription. No refunds.”

She leaned in, kissed his jaw—quick, wrecking, impossible to recover from—and grinned as he stumbled a step like she’d actually short-circuited his brain.

Then she dragged him toward the stairs with a wicked little tug, laughing under her breath.

“Now move it, Hayes. You can make tragic ghost eyes at me after mashed potatoes.”

Rowan tugged him down the stairs without mercy, their hands still laced like it was second nature now. She could feel him practically vibrating with nervous energy behind her—trying to act cool, probably overthinking every step.

She smirked to herself.

Good.
He deserved a little emotional chaos after how thoroughly he wrecked her upstairs.

The house smelled amazing—garlic, butter, something a little sweet underneath it all—and the low, familiar clatter of dishes made everything feel a little too normal after the way her heart had been trying to escape her chest ten minutes ago.

Her mom appeared around the corner first, grinning that soft, knowing mom-smile like she already knew every secret Rowan thought she was hiding. “Hey, you two. Dinner’s ready.”

Rowan flashed her a casual, easy smile, pretending her whole body wasn’t still buzzing from Mason’s hands in her hair.

“We’re coming,” she said, giving Mason’s hand one last squeeze before letting it go.

The second her fingers slipped free, she felt the cold creep in—not bad, not lonely, just… a reminder of how much she already missed him when he wasn’t touching her.

She shoved the feeling down and led the way to the table, where her dad was flipping through an old paperback like he hadn’t just heard them practically fall down the stairs.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, plopping into her usual chair without ceremony. She nudged the chair next to hers with her foot—the silent invitation obvious.

She didn’t need to look to know Mason would sit there.

She could feel him.

Could feel the way he hovered just a second too long before lowering himself down, still buzzing, still probably giving himself a silent pep talk.

Rowan smirked again and reached for the serving spoon, loading her plate with mashed potatoes like her stomach wasn’t doing slow flips under the table.

“So how was the market today?” she asked her mom, falling into the easy rhythm of dinner conversation like it wasn’t a big deal that her boyfriend was sitting inches away, trying to remember how forks worked.

Every so often, she felt his knee bump hers under the table.

Accidentally at first.

Then… maybe not so accidentally.

She didn’t call him out. She just shifted closer, letting her boot tap his sneaker, casual, deliberate. Her mom caught it—Rowan could tell by the way her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh—but said nothing, bless her.

Halfway through dinner, Rowan dared a glance sideways.

Mason was doing his best to look attentive, nodding at something her dad was saying, but his hand had drifted halfway across the space between them under the table, fingers brushing her jeans like a secret apology for every stupid, chaotic feeling he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Rowan bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too hard. She shifted again—just enough to press her shin against his—and kept eating like it was nothing.

Because this?
This was everything.

The fairy lights upstairs.
The garlic mashed potatoes.
The way his knee kept finding hers like he couldn’t help it.

Later, she’d drag him back up to her room.

Later, she’d kiss him until neither of them remembered why breathing mattered.

But for now?

She just let herself sink into it—the flicker of candlelight, the low murmur of her parents’ voices, the secret gravity pulling her closer and closer to the boy who’d already made himself home.

Mason was a goner.

Utterly, catastrophically, happily a goner.

He sat there, one knee bumping hers under the table like he physically couldn't help himself, trying to pretend he was listening intently to her dad talk about the local farmer’s market (there was something about honey samples? goats? he had no idea), but really, every brain cell he had was currently dedicated to:

A.) not making tragic Victorian ghost eyes at Rowan
B.) not reaching over and pulling her into his lap like some deranged golden retriever with a crush
C.) not proposing marriage because she brushed her boot against his sneaker like it meant something.

Which, okay.

It did mean something.

It meant everything.

Mason shifted in his seat, trying to casually nudge his fingers closer to hers under the table, as if maybe, maybe he could survive this night without combusting in front of her entire family and having to live with that particular brand of legendary shame forever.

Spoiler: he was barely surviving.

And when she bumped him back—light, deliberate, smug like she knew exactly how much havoc she was wreaking?

Yeah.

He almost dropped his fork.

He caught it mid-air like a freaking ninja, cleared his throat way too loudly, and forced himself to focus on scooping an absolutely inappropriate mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

(Distraction through carbohydrates: a time-honored Mason Hayes survival tactic.)

Meanwhile, Rowan was just sitting there.

Cool. Effortless. Absolutely gorgeous under the warm kitchen lights, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with this little half-smile that made his ribs hurt.

Real, he thought helplessly. Real, real, real.

She was real and she was here and she was—God help him—bumping her stupid perfect knee against his like it was some secret Morse code for "you're mine."

He swallowed hard.

Almost said it out loud.

Instead, he cleared his throat again (less ninja this time, more dying seal) and flashed her mom his most award-winning, all-American good-boyfriend smile. “Uh, yeah, the, uh... the honey samples sound awesome, Mr. Starling.”

Crushed it.

Rowan’s hand slid against his under the table. Not fully linking fingers, not grabbing him—but just... there. Brushing.

And Mason nearly blacked out.

He pressed his knee back into hers, slow and sure, answering her the only way he could without doing something massively stupid like standing up and announcing to her family that he was irrevocably, annoyingly, stupidly in love with their daughter.

(Yet. He wasn’t ruling it out long-term.)

He dared a glance at her out of the corner of his eye—and she was already looking at him, her mouth twitching at the edges like she was barely, barely holding back a laugh.

He grinned.

Big. Dopey. Gone.

Under the table, his pinky caught hers—just the smallest, tiniest touch.

And he decided right then and there:

He was never letting her go.

Not for all the mashed potatoes in the world.

Rowan barely heard the scrape of chairs or the polite murmur of goodbyes.
Her mind was already upstairs.
Already two steps ahead.
Already tangled in Mason.

She didn’t tug him hard—just enough. Just enough pressure on the sleeve of his hoodie to say now without needing a word.
She caught the way his breath hitched. The way he followed without hesitation.
Good.

The door clicked closed behind them.
Fairy lights hummed low and golden.
The cinnamon candle flickered.
The book still sat abandoned on the bed.

Rowan turned.

And for a second—just a second—she let herself look at him. Really look at him. Hoodie rumpled, curls a mess, cheeks flushed from dinner and smiling and too much softness he couldn’t hide from her anymore.

She moved first.

Of course she did.

Fist curled in the front of his hoodie, dragging him down to her level, crashing their mouths together with zero ceremony.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t neat.

It was necessary.

Mason caught her with a groan—hands already sliding under her sweater, desperate and grounding, anchoring her like he thought she might bolt.

She pushed him back onto the bed with more force than she meant.
He didn’t complain.
Just landed there, stunned and laughing, wide-eyed like she’d knocked all the air out of him and he liked it.

Rowan didn’t wait.

She climbed after him, straddling his hips, pinning him with her knees against the mattress.
Watching his stupid beautiful face tilt up to her like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Her hands slid up his hoodie—slow at first, then greedy.
Warm skin.
Fluttering heartbeat.
Muscle and softness and Mason, all under her palms like he was built to be mapped by her touch.

She kissed him again, slower now, surer.

Felt the way his whole body leaned into it—into her—like he didn’t know how to exist without it anymore.

Good.
Neither did she.

Her hands moved without thinking—up his chest, dragging nails lightly just to feel him shudder underneath her.
He arched up into her.
Lost a sound against her mouth that she swallowed down like it belonged to her.

God, he was easy to wreck.

And even better? He wanted her to.

She barely pulled back—just enough to breathe against his lips.
His hands found her hips, squeezing like he thought she might float away if he didn’t anchor her.

She brushed her nose against his—soft, claiming—then kissed him again, slower, sinking into it like she could crawl inside his chest and live there if she wanted.

When she finally spoke, it was wrecked and breathless against his skin.

“Real,” she whispered, just to hear the way his fingers clutched at her.
Just to feel him tremble with it.

She didn’t need him to say it back.

She already knew.

It was written in the way he touched her like she was something sacred.

In the way he let her take whatever she needed without flinching.

In the way he kissed her like they had all the time in the world and he wasn’t afraid of any version of her, even the ones she still didn’t know how to name.

Rowan kissed him again, slow and aching, hands sliding over him like she was committing him to memory.
Every inch.
Every sigh.
Every heartbeat.

When they finally broke apart, she stayed there—forehead pressed to his, fingers twisted in his hoodie, breathing him in like she could survive off it.

The room blurred around them.
Fairy lights, candlelight, messy bedsheets, forgotten dinner plates downstairs—none of it mattered.

Just Mason.

Just this.

Just real.

Mason could barely see straight.

Not because of the fairy lights blurring into halos overhead or the soft flicker of the cinnamon candle, or even the way the world outside her bedroom door felt so distant it could’ve been another planet.

No.

It was her.

It was Rowan Starling wrecking him in the most exquisite, unfair, holy-shit-I’m-the-luckiest-dumbass-on-Earth way imaginable—straddling him, hoodie fisted in her hands, kissing him like she’d invented it and he was just some grateful idiot lucky enough to be the first to find out.

And God, he was so grateful.

He let his hands slide up her sides, fingers greedy and reverent at the same time, like he could somehow map every line of her if he just tried hard enough. She kissed him again, slow and deep, and he couldn’t help it—he arched into her, chasing the taste of her, making a noise in the back of his throat that would haunt him if he had even an ounce of dignity left.

(Spoiler: he didn’t.)

Still, there was a tiny, stubborn, wildly inconvenient part of his brain firing weak little warning signals:

Her parents. Downstairs. Still alive. Still possessing ears.

Mason groaned, half into her mouth and half at the injustice of existence.

His hands curved around her hips, squeezing lightly as he dropped his head back against the mattress, breathing hard, brain absolutely short-circuiting.

“Okay,” he rasped, trying very, very hard to sound reasonable and not like he was dying inside, “I wanna let you climb me like a tree, I swear—”

He broke off with a breathless laugh when she nipped at his jaw in response, making him shudder like a total loser.

“—but I’m also having, like, small, responsible thoughts,” he managed to gasp out. “Like, teeny-tiny ones. Whispering that if your mom walks in right now, I’m gonna have to change my name and flee to another country. Possibly one with no extradition treaty.”

Rowan’s breathless laugh puffed against his skin, smug and devastating, and he could feel her grin even without looking.

God help him.

And—because he was Mason, and he had the emotional impulse control of a golden retriever—he brushed his nose against hers, voice low and teasing and stupidly full of love.

“But also, not to, like, ruin the mood—” (he was absolutely going to ruin the mood) “—but I do kinda want to know what happens next in the book. Y’know. In case Peeta gets abducted by glitter aliens or something while we’re too busy making out.”

He tilted his head just enough to catch her expression—wrecked and amused and stupidly beautiful—and smiled, slow and sure.

“Fair warning, though,” he whispered, eyes sparkling up at her, “the second you finish that chapter, I’m dragging you right back down here. No escape. No survivors.”

He kissed her again, quick and grinning and so full of affection it practically hummed out of his skin.

Because real wasn’t just heavy and holy and terrifying.

It was also this.

The laughter against her mouth.
The knee bumping hers under the table.
The way he could still be wrecked by a single kiss and still want to tease her into laughing between breaths.

He tightened his arms around her waist, tucking her even closer, and whispered against her jaw:

“God, I love you.”

Then he grinned, hopeless and shining.

“Now. Read to me before I make even worse choices.”

Rowan couldn’t breathe.

Not in the bad way. Not in the panic way.

In the too much, too good, too real way.

The kind of breathless that only happened when the boy you loved was sprawled out beneath you, hoodie rumpled, cheeks flushed, voice wrecked from kissing you like you were gravity and he was just some idiot willing to fall forever.

She was supposed to be reading. Finishing the chapter. Being responsible.

Instead, she was hovering over him, laughing into his mouth, feeling his hands skim reverent patterns up her sides like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t memorize her right now.

God, he was ridiculous. Sweet and stupid and hers.

And when he rasped out that thing about responsible thoughts and fleeing the country? When he nudged his nose against hers like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss her again or breathe her in?

Rowan’s heart pulled so tight it physically hurt.

She grinned—wild and feral and so stupidly in love she didn’t care if it showed—and bumped their noses together again, teasing.

“You’re the one who started this, Hayes,” she whispered, voice low and warm, letting her fingers slip into his curls and tug just lightly. “Don’t act like you’re some innocent casualty.”

He shivered under her hands, and she felt it—felt the way she wrecked him. Felt the way he let her.

God, she loved him.

And when he joked about glitter aliens and “no survivors” and getting wrecked by a Hunger Games book, she laughed so hard she had to bury her face in the curve of his neck for a second just to catch her breath.

She pulled back just enough to look at him—Mason Hayes, lit up like some messy, beloved miracle under her fairy lights—and tucked his hair back from his forehead with the softest touch.

“Peeta doesn’t get abducted by glitter aliens,” she murmured, mock-serious. “But if you keep looking at me like that, you might.”

She kissed him—slow, deep, anchoring herself to the feel of his mouth, the stupid smile she could feel blooming under it even when he tried to kiss her back properly.

And when he pulled away, whispering “ I love you” like it was the only thing he knew how to say anymore, she felt it crack something open inside her.

Something permanent.

Something real.

She rested her forehead against his, breath catching on the edges of everything she couldn’t quite shape into words yet.

Instead, she kissed him once more—soft, quick, mine—then reached blindly for the book beside them, flipping it open against his chest without moving off him.

“Fine,” she said, voice lighter now, teasing, threading her fingers back into his hair like she wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon. “But you better be prepared to get emotionally devastated by the next five pages.”

She grinned against his jaw, feeling him smile too—lazy and wrecked and so stupidly in love she could taste it between them.

“Your fault,” she added, flipping to the right paragraph and clearing her throat with faux-dramatic flair. “You asked for this.”

And just like that, she started reading again—voice steady even as her heart beat wild under her hoodie, under his hands, under everything they’d built and broken and healed together.

Because this?

This was real.

And Rowan Starling had never been more sure of anything in her life.

Mason couldn't even think anymore.

Not in any organized, human way.

Not when she kissed him like that, forehead-to-forehead, fingers in his hair, flipping open that poor battered book against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world to half-straddle him and start emotionally demolishing him one paragraph at a time.

He was supposed to be listening.

Supposed to be following the plot. (There were rebels. There were districts. Someone probably needed therapy.)

Instead, all he could hear was her.

The sound of her voice—low and steady and threading straight through the middle of him. The way her thumb kept brushing tiny, unconscious circles into the side of his neck like she was trying to ground him but was absolutely making it worse.

He grinned up at her, utterly wrecked and knowing it, and didn't even pretend to be subtle about it.

"I regret nothing," he whispered, loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough to interrupt her reading.

(Okay. Maybe a little loud enough to interrupt her reading.)

Rowan shot him a warning look without even breaking cadence, flipping a page with a practiced flick of her wrist like she wasn’t about to physically end him with a Katniss monologue.

Mason smiled wider, teeth and dimples and every ounce of stupid, lovesick chaos he had left in him.

And then—because he was Mason Hayes and Mason Hayes had zero self-preservation when it came to her—he slid his hands back under her hoodie, fingertips skating lightly along the bare skin at her waist.

Innocently.

Supportively.

Emotionally responsibly.

Rowan’s voice faltered for half a second—barely—but Mason caught it. Caught it and felt it bloom under his palms like he’d just found a secret lever to completely wreck her.

He wiggled his eyebrows shamelessly up at her.

"Emotional devastation," he murmured, way too pleased with himself. "Thought we were a team, Starling."

She glared at him—half-hearted, mostly fond—and kept reading, but he could feel the way her knees tightened around his hips. Could feel the way her breath snagged a little more often between sentences now.

God, she was so easy to love.

So ridiculously, breathtakingly easy.

Mason leaned his head back against the pillows, hands still curved around her waist, and let her words wash over him—the book, the heartbeat in her throat, the fact that he could feel the exact moment she relaxed fully into him again, trusting him to catch her if she fell too deep into the story.

It was almost too much.

Almost.

He grinned lazily, closing his eyes for a second, and said—just loud enough for her to hear:

"Real, Starling."

Like a reminder.

Like a promise.

Like the only thing he wanted her to know—on the page, between kisses, under fairy lights, and every second after.

God, he was infuriating.

In that stupid, beautiful way that made her want to both kiss him senseless and shove him off the bed just for being so unbearably him.

Rowan didn’t even bother hiding her smirk when his hands slipped under the hem of her hoodie, fingers dragging slow, lazy shapes against her skin like he wasn’t actively dismantling her spine one featherlight touch at a time.

She tried—truly tried—to keep reading. To stay locked into the rise and fall of Katniss’s voice, the steady cadence that usually grounded her.

But Mason was not helping.

Her voice hitched. Barely. But his grin sharpened, like he caught it—like he knew exactly what he was doing to her and had zero plans of stopping.

She shot him a look. Behave, she warned silently, flipping the page with more force than necessary.

He just wiggled his eyebrows like a menace.

Rowan pressed her lips together, biting down the laugh that wanted to break free, and kept reading—but she sank closer, let her knee nudge against his hip, let her fingers slip from the book’s spine to rest against the side of his neck.

If he was going to be an emotional terrorist, fine.

Two could play that game.

Her thumb brushed the pulse point under his jaw, slow and deliberate. Felt the way it stuttered under her touch. Wrecked you right back, Hayes.

And then—because he deserved it—she leaned down between paragraphs, mouth ghosting along the edge of his ear.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, low enough that it melted straight into his skin, “and you’re lucky I love you.”

He exhaled like she punched the air out of his lungs.

Good.

She grinned, satisfied, and kissed the spot just below his ear, slow and lingering, before she pulled back and pretended to read again like nothing had happened.

(She didn’t even make it two sentences before she felt his whole body tense like he was barely holding it together.)

Victory.

Rowan turned the page, pretending she wasn’t fully aware of every place their bodies touched—her thighs bracketing his, the way he tightened his hands slightly at her waist every time she shifted, the way his heart beat so loud she could practically feel it.

And when he whispered it—Real, Starling—soft and reverent and so Mason she could’ve cried?

She didn’t tease him.

She didn’t joke or smirk or hide.

She closed the book softly against his chest, let her hands frame his stupid, beautiful face, and whispered right back:

“Real.”

A beat.

“And you’re stuck with me, Hayes. No takebacks. No extradition treaties.”

She kissed him then—full and slow, smiling against his mouth when she felt him melt into it completely—then pulled back just enough to see his face.

“Finish the chapter?” she teased, arching an eyebrow.

Then, softer, thumb tracing his cheekbone.

“Or should we just call it a win and start rereading from the beginning?”

Because honestly?

She could’ve stayed right here forever, tucked against him under a halo of fairy lights and cinnamon-sweet air, rewriting every broken piece of herself one page, one kiss, one real at a time.

And by the way he was looking at her—

Like she’d just handed him the stars without asking for anything in return—

She knew he would’ve stayed too.