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.