Rowan Starling had walked through this parking lot a thousand times.
Today felt different.

Not because the cars were in new spots, not because the wind was a bit sharper than usual, but because of the hand in hers.

Mason Hayes.

She could feel every ounce of tension radiating off him—his shoulders tight, his breath held, his fingers tightened in hers like he thought she might change her mind. She didn’t.

She wasn’t going to.

They were crossing the social front lines of Evergreen High, and Mason was bracing for impact. For whispers. For judgment. He didn’t say it—but she knew. Of course, she knew.

He looked toward Asher’s car, and she followed his gaze.

Asher’s face was predictable—furrowed brows, jaw set, the kind of reaction she’d learned to stop fearing long ago. That look used to mean something. Now, it barely registered.

But next to him was Seraphina.

Still scrolling. Still composed. But Rowan caught it—the small pause—the flicker of recognition. No surprise.

Just confirmation.

Because Sera already knew. She had known since the night at Mountain Outlook.

Rowan could still hear her voice, quiet and uncharacteristically gentle:
“I won’t judge you for who makes you feel safe.”

That conversation had changed everything.

So when Mason cleared his throat and whispered something about sprinting to the doors before the gossip factory kicked into gear, Rowan didn’t flinch. She didn’t slow down.

She just tightened her grip on his hand.

“Let them talk,” she said.

Then, after a beat, she added, low enough for only him to hear, “Sera already knows.”

She glanced over toward the car again.

“And she’s okay with it. With us.”

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mason was still Mason—soft-hearted, too kind, too easy to bruise—and she knew what those stares could do to someone like him. So she gave him the last piece—the one she hadn’t said out loud yet.

“And I told her to be nice to you, too,” Rowan added, a little firmer and prouder. “Just in case she forgot.”

He looked over at her then, eyes wide and wondering like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She met his gaze without blinking.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” she said.

And then—just because she could—she smiled.

Because this wasn’t a secret.

This wasn’t a phase.

This was Mason Hayes.

And she’d already chosen him.
Now the rest of the world could catch up.

Mason Hayes had spent years being stared at.

He was used to it.

Used to the quiet judgment, the side-eye glances, the unspoken hierarchy of who mattered and who didn’t. He knew his place at Evergreen. Knew exactly what people saw when they looked at him—just enough weird, just enough quiet, just enough different to be forgettable at best, mockable at worst.

So no—he wasn’t scared for himself.

He was scared for her.

Because she was Rowan Starling. Because people cared about who she touched, who she smiled at, who she chose. And now she'd chosen him—publicly, undeniably—and he hated that the first thing he thought was: Will they punish her for it?

But then she squeezed his hand.
And she said “Let them talk.”

Then that next part: “Sera already knows.”

And “She’s okay with us.”

And just like that, something inside him settled. The static died down. The noise faded. He took a breath, this time not sharp and nervous, but full. Real.

She wasn’t flinching.

She wasn’t second-guessing.

She was looking at him like she had nothing to hide and no regrets to carry—and Mason, for the first time since they stepped out of the car, felt something electric buzz beneath his skin. Not fear. Not panic.

Pride.

He was dating Rowan Starling.

And not in a daydream. Not behind closed doors. Right here, in the blinding light of Monday morning, under the weight of every stare in the senior parking lot.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, voice lighter now. “Cool. Yeah. This is happening.”

He let go of her hand—not because he wanted to stop touching her, but because the surge of confidence was too strong to ignore. He slid his arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her closer with a grin that was equal parts dorky and victorious.

“Let them really talk,” he said, nudging her just slightly with his hip. “Might as well give them something dramatic for their Monday morning headlines.”

He glanced back toward the lacrosse boys. Asher was still staring. Mason gave him a cheerful little wave.

“Hi, Asher,” he said under his breath. “Yes, it’s me. The disappointment you didn’t see coming.”

Rowan snorted.

And Mason, impossibly, grinned even wider.

Because suddenly the judgment didn’t matter.

Not the looks. Not the whispers. Not the quiet calculations of social capital.

She was beside him. On purpose. Proudly.

And he was going to wear that like armor.

Like a badge.

Right after he figured out how to breathe again.

Rowan Starling was no stranger to being stared at.

She’d built a reputation on the way she carried herself. Knew how to walk through the world like it didn’t touch her. Like everything rolled off her back with poise and purpose. But this—Mason’s arm around her shoulders, heads turning in slow motion, Asher looking like someone had just unplugged the simulation—this wasn’t performance.

This was personal.

She felt Mason’s whole body shift when he slid his arm around her. Less nervous now. Looser. Taller, somehow—which was absurd because at 6’3”, he already made her feel like she was standing next to a skyscraper. Still, there was something in the way he pulled her in that made her feel like gravity had finally picked a side.

His.

They walked together, his arm solid across her shoulders, her heeled boots striking pavement like punctuation. She could feel the eyes on them—on him, mostly—and she didn’t care. Not even a little.

Then Mason waved.

At Asher.

Waved.

Like this was a sitcom and Asher was just the nosy neighbor. When he muttered, “The disappointment you didn’t see coming,” Rowan didn’t try to hide her laugh this time.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head up so she could catch his expression, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so smug.”

He gave her that little lopsided grin, half charm, half chaos.

Mason blinked.

Then turned about five shades of red.

Rowan smiled, wicked and proud, and leaned into his side like it was her throne.

Because the truth was—he was hot like this. Not in the usual way. Not in the curated, polished, performative way their world handed out compliments like currency. But in the way that meant something. In the way that made her blood hum and her breath catch.

Because he wasn’t pretending anymore either.

He was hers.

And he wasn’t afraid to act like it.

She squeezed his side gently, just enough to ground them both, and said it again—quieter this time, just for him:

“Good. You should be.”

Because she’d never wanted someone to be proud of being hers the way she wanted it from him.

And now he was.

And God, he looked good doing it.

Mason’s grin lingered—just a little crooked, like he wasn’t used to feeling this untouchable. But he was catching on fast.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack with one hand, the other still curled around Rowan like he meant it, like he wasn’t just escorting her into the school but staking some kind of gentle, undeniable claim.

“Alright,” he said under his breath, voice rich with amusement. “Showtime.”

With a flick of his hand, he reached for the main doors—holding one open with an exaggerated bow, like he was welcoming royalty. “After you, m’lady,” he said, mock-formal, but there was pride behind the joke. The real kind. The kind that made his chest square out a little and his eyes linger on her like she was the best decision he’d ever made.

Rowan rolled her eyes like she was annoyed, but the way her mouth tugged up at the corners gave her away. She swept past him with the grace of someone who owned the moment, brushing her fingers across his as she went.

And Mason? He didn’t follow immediately.

No, he turned back—just for a second. Looked out at the still-watching crowd, half of them frozen in disbelief, the rest whispering like gossip was oxygen.

He lifted two fingers to his temple in a casual, almost military-style salute, smirking at no one in particular. “Stay stunned,” he murmured, just loud enough for the words to carry.

Then he stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind him like punctuation.

Inside the hallway, the noise and chatter of the morning rush barely touched them. Mason fell into step beside Rowan, brushing her hand with his until she gave in and laced her fingers through his.

He could still feel the stares. The unspoken questions. But for once, they didn’t make him shrink.

They made him stand taller.

He looked down at her, voice low and steady. “Locker?” he asked, like it was a privilege to walk her there.

And somehow, with all the world still watching, it was.

They reached her locker in silence.

Rowan let go of his hand only long enough to spin the dial, the metal cool beneath her fingertips. The hallway buzzed with the usual Monday morning noise—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking on old tile, snippets of gossip tumbling through the air—but none touched her.

Because he was beside her.

Tall and warm, he leaned against the locker like he was settling into the space that had always been his. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. Steady. Watching. Waiting. Like he was still figuring out how to breathe in a world where this was allowed.

Rowan didn’t look over right away.

She felt him watching. That quiet reverence in his gaze still made something in her chest spark. She didn’t need to look to know he was there.

She swapped her books out, shut her locker with a soft click, and then turned toward him. Mason hadn’t moved. That lopsided hoodie, the ink-stained fingers, the soft eyes that tracked her every step like she was the centre of some invisible orbit.

She stepped in close.

Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to see him properly.

Close enough to feel how still he went when she was near.

Rowan curled her fingers in the hem of his hoodie and gave a gentle tug, just enough to anchor them in place.

“You should probably know I’m not walking into the first period with you hovering like a lost puppy,” she said smoothly.

A beat passed.

Then her lips curved just slightly.

“But I’ll allow an escort. For aesthetic purposes.”

Before he could react, she rose on the balls of her boots—no wobble, all control—and kissed him. Quick. Deliberate. Enough to make her point without feeding the crowd.

She pulled back with a smirk and turned away, walking a few steps forward. Then—casually, without breaking stride—she reached her arm behind her.

An unspoken gesture.

An invitation.

She didn’t look to see if he’d take it. She already knew he would.

And when she felt the familiar weight of his arm sliding into hers, shoulder brushing shoulder, the corners of her mouth curved just a little more.

Let them watch.

Let them whisper.

She wasn’t hiding.

Not anymore.

Mason watched her go like he'd just been handed a miracle wrapped in lipstick and attitude.

For a half-second, he stood frozen in place—fingers still tingling from where she'd tugged his hoodie, lips parted just slightly from that swift, surgical kiss. Then she extended her arm behind her, all confidence and fire, and it was like flipping a switch.

He caught up in three long strides.

“Bossy,” he muttered under his breath, his voice all fondness and awe as he slid his arm into hers. “Noted.”

She didn’t reply, but he caught the flicker of amusement in her profile, the way her smirk deepened like she liked being called out.

Instead of turning toward first period, he steered them gently down the opposite hallway. “Hang on,” he said, fingers brushing her forearm as he leaned in, voice low. “Gotta grab something.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow but let him lead.

His locker was tucked into a quieter corner of the school, the kind of place that didn’t usually attract attention—until now. A few heads turned as they passed, whispers already starting to ripple in their wake.

But when they rounded the final corner, a familiar cluster of theater kids caught sight of them—Sam with his rainbow pins, Jules from stage crew, Aiden with a Sharpie tucked behind one ear. They all paused mid-conversation, eyes bouncing from Mason to Rowan to their linked arms, expressions ranging from stunned to straight-up gleeful.

Mason didn’t say anything.

He just looked at them—chin up, mouth tilted, calm as ever—and arched one brow like, Yeah. You’re seeing this right.

Sam broke first, slapping a hand over his mouth with an exaggerated gasp. Aiden gave him a slow thumbs-up. Jules just mouthed, “Finally.”

Mason laughed—quiet, but real—and shook his head like they were all ridiculous. Then he popped open his locker, grabbed a small notebook from the top shelf, and shoved it into his bag with one smooth motion.

He closed the door with a casual clang.

Then he turned back to Rowan, like the rest of the world could wait.

“All set,” he said simply, slipping back into step beside her.

His fingers brushed hers again.

And this time, when he laced their hands together, it felt easy.

Like he’d been doing it his whole life.

Rowan felt the shift in energy before she saw them.

Mason’s corner of the school was quieter, tucked away in the shadow of lockers that hadn’t been updated since the ’90s, but it might as well have been its planet. The vibe changed from hallway chaos to wide-eyed disbelief the second they turned the corner.

Theater kids.

She could practically hear the internal monologues as Sam spotted them, rainbow pins catching the light like punctuation. Aiden’s slow thumbs-up was so exaggerated it was practically in slow motion. And Jules, ever the dramatic one, mouthed finally with all the weight of a series finale plot twist.

Mason said nothing.

Of course, he didn’t. Just walked like this was normal. Like she hadn’t just kissed him in front of half the school and rearranged the social food chain.

Rowan didn’t miss a step.

She glanced at them all, expression unreadable but polite, and lifted her hand in a small, deliberate wave. Just enough to say yeah, this is happening, without giving them the satisfaction of an explanation.

“Try to stay conscious,” she said dryly as they passed, not looking back. “He gets weird when people faint.”

Sam choked on the air behind them. Jules cackled full-on.

Mason didn’t say a word. He opened his locker like he’d done it a thousand times, grabbed a notebook, and shut it again with a casual clang.

When he turned back to her, Rowan raised a brow and looked up at him like she hadn’t just made a subtle power move in a hallway filled with whispering.

“You didn’t tell me I was walking into a live audience,” she said. “Do I get a curtain call or just applause?”

He looked at her—like always—with that ridiculous mixture of awe and soft disbelief, and when he didn’t answer, she just smirked.

“Don’t worry,” she added under her breath, linking her arm through his again as they started walking. “You can be the pretty one. I’ll handle the press.”

They passed another pair of students doing a double take, and Rowan didn’t even blink.

“God, this school’s going to combust by lunch,” she muttered, half to herself, half for his amusement. “I should’ve charged admission.”

Then, quieter—barely above a whisper, but all real:

“I like this. I like us.”

And just like that, she laced her fingers with his.

Because sarcasm was her language.

But this?
This was fluency in something honest.

Mason’s hand tightened gently around hers.

Not possessive—just sure.

A little dazed, a little giddy, and trying very hard not to grin like an idiot, he angled a look down at her. “Okay, well—fair warning—I’m not media trained,” he said, deadpan, voice low and lazy with that effortless Milo Manheim charm. “I panic under pressure, cry when cornered, and have a terrible habit of oversharing. It’s probably better if I just stand there and look pretty while you handle the talking.”

A pause.

Then a lopsided smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth like it didn’t know how not to be soft when she was around.

“I do that really well, by the way,” he added, mock-serious. “Looking pretty. Years of experience. Ask my mirror.”

Their shoes echoed lightly against the old tile, that familiar Evergreen hallway smell—pencils, paper, whatever the janitor used to clean the floors—curling around them like set dressing.

Another glance came their way. A pair of underclassmen, wide-eyed and whispering.

Mason didn’t flinch.

He just leaned in a little, shoulder brushing hers. “Think we broke the freshman gossip matrix. Sorry in advance if someone starts a conspiracy theory about us being a PR stunt.”

When they reached the classroom door, he paused.

Not rushed. Not nervous.

Just there, calm and solid like he’d always belonged in this moment with her. With one smooth gesture, he swept a hand toward the door—half chivalry, half theater flourish, like he was offering her the lead in a scene only they understood.

“After you, Starling,” he said with quiet gravity. “Might as well let the main character enter first.”

And even though his voice was light, there was something in his eyes—a glint of pride, affection, wonder—that told her everything else he wasn’t saying.

They were a spectacle.

But to him?

She was the whole damn show.

The class had been chaos.

Not because of anything their teacher did—Mr. Hawkins was halfway through a unit on symbolism and looked ten seconds from retirement—but because of Mason.

Specifically, in 2025, Mason attempted to pass Rowan a note, pretending they weren’t sitting one seat apart and surrounded by functioning phones.

She’d caught the folded-up paper halfway through an underwhelming metaphor discussion, only to open it and find a truly awful sketch of what appeared to be them—her dramatically sipping tea. At the same time, he dangled from the edge of a stage, screaming something about iambic pentameter.

She stifled a laugh, scribbled you’re the worst in the margin, and slid it back toward him with all the subtlety of a trained pickpocket. He read it, smirked, and proceeded to add shading.

By the end of class, she had a full two-panel comic and exactly three words of actual notes.

They stepped into the hallway together, and it felt like nothing had changed at first. Mason’s fingers brushed hers, warm and familiar.

But the moment they turned the corner, Rowan felt it.

The shift.

The whispers.

The weight of the looks.

“…probably just a phase…”

“…bet he writes her poetry or some cringey musical theater crap…”

“…what even is that couple…”

Her jaw ticked just slightly. Mason didn’t seem to hear it—or maybe he was pretending not to. He walked beside her like nothing was wrong like the stares weren’t knives and the whispers weren’t designed to cut.

She admired that about him.

But Rowan Starling had never been the ignore it and move on type.

She stopped walking.

Not abruptly—just enough for Mason to glance over in quiet question.

She turned, eyes already locking onto the small group halfway down the hall. Juniors. The usual suspects. Wannabes have too much lip gloss and not enough spine. Whispering behind their notebooks like they weren’t in plain sight.

Rowan’s smile was instant.

Polished. Poisoned.

The kind that said: Oh, I heard you. And now you’re going to wish I hadn’t.

She took a few steps toward them, slow and deliberate. Her voice carried low and pleasant.

“If any of you have something to say about my choices,” she said smoothly, “I’m always open to feedback.”

The group froze.

“But here’s the thing—” she took another step, boots clicking like punctuation, “if you’re too spineless to say it to my face, maybe don’t say it at all.”

Someone swallowed audibly. Another fumbled with their phone.

Rowan smiled wider.

“Lunch. After school. Whenever works for you,” she said. “But if you’re not going to say something useful or interesting, then please—”

She slammed the nearest locker shut with a sharp, echoing clang. It wasn’t violent. It was loud—a punctuation mark.

“Mind your damn business.”

Not a scream. Not a tantrum.

Just a fact.

A line in the script no one else was bold enough to deliver.

Then, like she hadn’t just sent half a hallway into stunned silence, she turned around and reached for Mason’s hand.

Her fingers slipped into his easily.

And she smirked, tossing him a sideways glance as they started walking again.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Had to get that out of my system.”

Then, because she wasn’t done, she gave his hand a little tug, changing course toward the far side of the hallway.

“Come on. I do have to stop by my locker,” she added, rolling her eyes like she was annoyed at herself for needing to. “I left my drama binder in there this morning. Ms. Ellery’s already three seconds from setting me on fire for talking during warm-ups—if I show up unprepared again, she’ll probably sacrifice me to the ghost of Shakespeare.”

She said it casually as if this wasn’t the most dramatic hallway exit Evergreen had seen all semester.

Like the silence behind them wasn’t still ringing.

Like she didn’t care who heard her walking away.

And maybe she didn’t.

Because Mason was right there beside her.

Still holding her hand.

And Rowan Starling didn’t care who was watching—so long as he was still walking next to her when they reached the end of the hall.

He heard them.

Of course he did.

The hallway was acoustics and cruelty and too many people who thought whispers were softer than they actually were. Mason had grown up in those echoes—learned early that being quiet made him a target, and refusing to break made him something worse:

Untouchable.

It used to sting. Once. Long ago.

Now?

Now he’d mastered the art of indifference. Or, at least, the performance of it. Same principle as theater, really—if they don’t get a reaction, they lose interest. It drove bullies insane when their insults landed with a shrug. Like a punch thrown in zero gravity. No weight. No damage.

So when the familiar venom hissed down the corridor—“bet he writes her poetry,” “cringey musical theater crap,” “what even is that couple?”—he did what he always did.

He kept walking.

Shoulders loose, head high. Unbothered. Unmoved.

Except this time… he wasn’t alone.

Rowan didn’t keep walking.

She stopped like a storm building behind calm skies, and before he could say anything—before he could even ask—she was turning toward the source like she’d been waiting for an excuse.

Mason blinked. Watched. Jaw slack in quiet awe.

Because he’d never seen someone do that before. Not for him.

He watched her smile that wicked little smile, all polished charm and razor edges, and step toward the girls like she was accepting an award. Like she wasn’t outnumbered or outgunned or even remotely afraid.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

It was controlled. Commanding. That effortless kind of boldness that made people lean in without realizing.

And when she slammed the locker shut—clang—Mason flinched, not because he was scared, but because it echoed in his ribs like a battle cry.

She reached for his hand like nothing happened.

And he took it like a lifeline.

“Sorry,” she said, all casual breeze and bad-girl grin. “Had to get that out of my system.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He wasn’t sure he could.

His brain was still rebooting. Still trying to reconcile the quiet, self-contained boy he’d trained himself to be with the force-of-nature girl currently dragging him toward her locker like she hadn’t just redefined the social order of Evergreen High in under thirty seconds.

When she muttered something about a binder and Shakespeare’s ghost, Mason finally found his voice—slightly breathless, mostly stunned.

“You terrify me in the best way possible,” he said.

She didn’t look at him, just smirked like she already knew that.

And Mason—still holding her hand, still feeling the buzz of her fury like static in the air—realized something strange and a little terrifying of his own:

He wasn’t scared of the whispers.

He was scared of how good it felt to be seen.

To be defended.

To be chosen—not quietly, not behind the curtain, but center stage with the lights full up and the audience wide-eyed.

It was new.

It was exhilarating.

And, yeah—maybe a little scary.

But when they reached her locker, and she turned to look at him, eyes bright with something unapologetically alive, Mason didn’t back away.

He just leaned in, lips grazing her temple, and said softly:

“I’d write you poetry, by the way. Cringey or not.”

Then he grinned and darted off before she could hit him with her binder.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched—fighting a smile. He took her binder without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and walked her to class with fingers still loosely laced in hers.

Only once she disappeared through the doorway—throwing him one last amused look over her shoulder—did Mason finally turn and bolt down the hall, cutting it dangerously close to the bell.

Totally worth it.