He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t so much as shift the rhythm of his breath when she said it—not because he wasn’t shattered by it, but because he was. Completely. Wordlessly. Gloriously undone.

Rowan Starling, curled against him like gravity had finally decided to be kind, had just said the words he’d imagined a thousand times in the safety of his own head. And none of those imagined versions came close to this.

To her voice—hoarse and sleepy and laced with truth.

To the way her fingers curled against his ribs like she was claiming him even in her exhaustion.

To the crack in her words when she said “I’m so happy” like it surprised her.

God.

He felt like he was being stitched together by the very thing that wrecked him.

Mason stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide and wet in the dark, his heart thudding so loud he was afraid it might wake her. But she was already drifting—breath slowing, muscles softening, trust settling into every inch of where her skin touched his.

He let his hand drift from her hip to her back, splaying wide across her spine like he could shield her from every cold thing in the world. His thumb swept once, twice, a silent promise written in movement.

I’m not going anywhere.

He kissed the crown of her head, slow and reverent.

“I’m yours, Starling,” he whispered into her hair, so soft it was more prayer than reply. “Always.”

And maybe she didn’t hear him.

Maybe she was already too far gone in that warm, weightless place she finally let herself sink into.

But he said it anyway.

Because love wasn’t just what you said when someone was awake to hear it. It was what you said when they were safe enough to sleep in your arms. What you meant when you traced circles on their back long after the words had been spoken.

He smiled into the dark, his lips brushing her temple, her name on repeat in his chest like a heartbeat.

She’d said she was in love with him.

And Mason Hayes?

He’d never slept better in his life.

Rowan woke to the hush of early light and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Mason was still asleep, warm and tangled around her, his arm slung low across her waist, fingers curled softly against her skin like his body hadn’t gotten the message that the night was over.

She didn’t move right away.

Just lay there.

Let herself feel the weight of it—of him—of how impossibly safe she felt in the quiet cocoon of their closeness. The candle had gone out sometime in the night, leaving only the faint trace of cinnamon and wax, and the golden blur of sunlight slipping in through the curtains.

He was still here.

Still wrapped around her like she was something to protect, not possess. Still anchoring her, like sleep hadn’t undone the part of him that always, always reached for her.

She shifted slowly, careful not to wake him too fast, and turned to face him. His features were soft in sleep—peaceful in a way they never were when he was awake and overthinking and trying too hard to be enough. His curls were a mess. His lips barely parted. His lashes cast small shadows across his cheeks.

Her heart ached in that quiet, full way that always came with looking at him too long.

She reached up gently, brushed her finger along the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t stir.

So she did it again—slow, feather-light, from the space between his eyebrows down to the tip of his nose and back up, her touch more reverent than playful. Like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Mason,” she whispered, her voice still raw from sleep and everything that came before it.

Still, he didn’t wake—not fully. He shifted, faintly, breath catching for just a second before it settled again. But his expression didn’t change.

She smiled.

Leaned in, tucked a strand of hair away from his face, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured. “And I love you so much it’s actually becoming a problem.”

He made a faint sound—almost a sigh, maybe a groan—but still didn’t open his eyes.

She bit her lip, then let it go. Rested her forehead gently against his.

And whispered one more time, softer than the rest:

“Still true, by the way.”

Then she closed her eyes again, let herself fall back into the safety of his arms, her hand finding his chest, her breathing syncing to his. No rush. No fear. Just her, and him, and the echo of I love you still humming softly in the space between them.

Mason stirred slowly.

Not the jarring kind of wakefulness, but something gentler—like the warmth of her voice had slipped into his sleep and brought him back piece by piece. His lashes fluttered. His breathing hitched softly. And then he sighed, content and unhurried, like every part of him already knew he was exactly where he wanted to be.

His arm tightened around her waist, palm splayed protectively over the curve of her back, fingers flexing once like they didn’t quite believe she was real. Still here. Still his.

He cracked one eye open and found her watching him.

That smile—the one that always undid him in the quietest way—already blooming across her face. Her hair was a little wild, her cheeks flushed from sleep and candlelight memories, and her eyes… God, her eyes. They looked at him like he was something steady. Something safe.

Mason’s voice came rough with sleep, a little slurred, but undeniably full of warmth. “Morning, Starling.”

She didn’t answer with words, just brushed her thumb across his chest and tucked in a little closer. That was enough.

His smile deepened.

“Didn’t dream you, then,” he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut again for a second. “That’s good. Would’ve been a real shame to wake up alone after last night.”

He felt her soft exhale against his collarbone and grinned lazily into her hair. There was nothing performative in the way he held her now. Just ease. Just affection. Just the kind of quiet closeness that felt like it could stretch on forever without ever needing to be named.

His hand found hers beneath the blanket, fingers weaving through instinctively. He held her there—grounding, gentle, like it was second nature now.

“I think I could do this every day,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Wake up like this. With you.”

A pause.

Then, lightly, teasingly: “Though I should warn you, I’m about to get even more insufferably romantic than usual. I might start making you breakfast in the shape of constellations.”

She laughed softly, and he smiled like it was his favorite sound in the world.

“Not joking,” he added, opening his eyes just enough to meet hers. “You’ve created a problem.”

Then—because he couldn’t help himself—he leaned in and kissed her. Soft, warm, morning-slow. No pressure. No rush. Just gratitude. Just affection. Just everything he hadn’t figured out how to say yet pressed gently to her lips.

When he pulled back, his voice was low and sure.

“I love you,” he said simply. “Still. Again. Probably more than I did ten minutes ago, which is honestly impressive.”

And then he tucked her tighter against him, their fingers still linked, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

No panic. No second thoughts.

Just Mason.

Fully here. Fully hers.

She laughed softly against his chest, the sound muffled by skin and blankets and the warmth that still wrapped around both of them. His words curled around her like the sheets—light, teasing, and somehow devastatingly sincere all at once.

Breakfast in the shape of constellations.

Of course he’d say something like that.

Rowan tilted her face up to look at him, her smile still lingering, her eyes soft in that quiet, unguarded way she barely recognized in herself anymore—except with him. Only with him.

“You’re lucky I like the stars,” she murmured, brushing her nose lightly against his jaw. “Otherwise that would’ve been peak insufferable.”

But she didn’t move away. Didn’t tease further. Instead, she just held his gaze for a moment, her expression stilling into something deeper.

“I think I could do this every day too,” she said quietly. “Not just the waking up part, but… the us part.”

Her thumb swept once over the back of his hand, slow and absent, like she was memorizing the shape of where they fit together.

“And if you want to tell me you love me every ten minutes for the rest of our lives,” she added, voice barely above a breath, “I won’t stop you.”

She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Lingering. Sure.

“I’ll probably say it back,” she whispered.

And then she curled into him fully, their fingers still linked, her smile still tucked into the place just beneath his chin.

Because he was here.
Because he was hers.
Because love, in this quiet morning light, finally felt like something that didn’t have to be earned or chased or feared.

It just was.

Rowan stayed curled against him for a while, letting the quiet settle between them like a blanket. Mason’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, steady and slow, and her thumb traced idle shapes along the inside of his wrist, where their fingers were still loosely laced together.

She could feel the sun climbing higher outside her window, painting the walls in soft gold, and for once the ticking of time didn’t feel like a countdown. Just a rhythm. A hum. A reminder that they were still here—still in it.

But eventually, she blinked up at him, her voice low and soft and laced with something a little more playful than before.

“It’s Sunday,” she said, eyes lingering on his lips for a second longer than necessary. “Which means at some point today, my mom’s going to realize I’m not awake and start sending me suspiciously cheerful texts about cinnamon scones and seasonal tea.”

She smiled a little, pressing her fingers gently into his side. “And also, you know… book club.”

She watched him, reading the flicker of thoughts behind his eyes.

“I was kind of hoping you’d stay for a while,” she added, quieter now. “Unless you need to go home. Which is okay—if you do.”

Her fingers brushed a strand of his hair back, her touch easy but careful. “I just didn’t want to assume. But if you’re not in a rush, I thought maybe we could be lazy for a bit. Steal a few hours.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“Unless you’ve already had enough of me.”

The teasing in her voice was light, but the glint in her eyes held something real—hopeful, steady, willing.

Because it was Sunday.
And she didn’t want to spend the rest of it pretending she wasn’t still thinking about last night.

She wanted more of this.
Of him.
Of whatever quiet magic they’d made between candlelight and the steady, patient kind of love that didn’t disappear when the sun came up.

Mason stretched under the covers, limbs lazy and warm, her body tucked so perfectly against his it felt like the most natural thing in the world. His hand slid slowly along her back, not with any urgency—just a quiet appreciation, like he was still marveling at the fact that he got to hold her like this.

“Have I had enough of you?” he repeated, voice still rough with sleep and affection. “Rowan, if I could tattoo last night onto my soul, I would.”

He kissed the top of her head, lips brushing her hairline, and let the moment hang there for a second—soft and full of everything he didn’t quite know how to put into words.

Then, lightly, “Only thing I need before book club is a shower, and I say that for your sake, not mine.” He grinned down at her, one eyebrow raised like he was waiting to be roasted for the admission. “But other than that?”

He shifted just enough to nudge her onto her back, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her properly, curls a mess, hoodie strings still tangled between them.

“I want to be exactly here,” he said, softer now. “With you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

He glanced toward the window, the light filtering in pale and golden across the floor, then back at her, and for a split second his mind very clearly wandered. He coughed.

“…And for the record,” he added, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly, “I definitely thought about showering with you just now. Like. Immediately. No hesitation.”

He gave her his most charming, I’m-in-too-deep-and-I-like-it smile, and traced a slow line with his knuckles along her jaw. “But I figured that might be pushing my luck. And I like being alive.”

He leaned in, kissed her gently, then pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips, “So I’ll behave. For now.”

But his gaze flicked over her—bare skin still tucked under the blanket, that lazy morning softness on her face, the one she never wore for anyone but him—and yeah. He was toast. Completely. Happily.

“If you want lazy,” he said, settling back into the pillows and pulling her with him, “I’m a professional. I’ve got an advanced degree in doing absolutely nothing when it involves staying in bed with a gorgeous girl and the faint scent of cinnamon.”

He tightened his arm around her waist, brushed his thumb lightly over the curve of her hip.

“And hey, if your mom asks why you’re not downstairs,” he whispered, mock-serious, “you can tell her I’m currently keeping you hostage with kisses and warmth and some very intense cuddling. All very threatening stuff.”

He smiled again, kissed her shoulder, and then rested his cheek against her temple.

No rush. No nerves.

Just Mason—completely, contentedly hers.

Rowan looked up at him, her eyes still heavy with sleep but undeniably clear. That boyish grin, the tangled curls, the hoodie bunched at his ribs—it was all so him, and it undid her in the quietest way.

She could’ve made a joke. Should’ve, maybe. Something about his soul tattoo being too dramatic or how he definitely did need that shower. But instead, she reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, her fingertips lingering a second longer than necessary.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly, but there was no edge to it. No teasing. Just warmth. Adoration, easy and unguarded. “And so annoyingly sincere.”

Her fingers traced lightly along his jaw, and her smile faltered into something more vulnerable. “But you should know… I don’t really let people stay.” She hesitated. Not to scare him. Just to be honest. “I don’t usually want them to.”

She let the silence hold for a breath. Let him feel the weight of that truth, even as her thumb swept along the corner of his mouth.

“But I want you to,” she added, quieter now. “I want you to stay.”

Her hand dropped back to his chest, fingers splaying across the fabric of his hoodie like she needed to anchor herself there.

“So if this is you asking?” she murmured. “Then yeah. Stay.”

A pause.

“You can always shower here. Solo, of course. I'm sure I can find you something to wear while we wash your clothes before book club.”

And then she smiled—soft and a little shy—and looked up at him like she already knew he would.

She looked up at him like he’d hung the stars the night before and forgotten to take credit.

There was no armor in her expression. No clever retort poised behind her lips. Just adoration, open and unfiltered, softening every line of her face. She blinked once, slow, then reached up and cupped the side of his face like she was still trying to decide if he was real.

And then she kissed him.

Not carefully. Not shy. Just fully and without hesitation, morning breath and all—because it didn’t matter. He’d already seen her messy, flushed, undone. He’d kissed her with candlelight sweat on her skin and the ache of her voice still trembling in her throat. This was nothing. This was hers.

She sighed into the kiss, her fingers sliding back into his curls, the other hand slipping down to rest lightly on his chest.

“I really love your hands,” she murmured when they parted, her voice low and still heavy with sleep. Her eyes flicked down, then back to his. “Not even in the way you’re probably thinking.”

Her fingers trailed down his arm, slow and deliberate, until they found his wrist, then the back of his hand. She brought it up and pressed it to her bare side—just under the swell of her ribs, where his palm fit too perfectly to be fair.

“Here,” she whispered. “You touch me like I’m… I don’t know. Like I’m something you want to learn. Not just hold.”

She felt his breath stutter against her cheek, and she smiled—sleepy and sure and completely wrecked by how safe it felt to let him feel her like this.

Not rushed. Not expectant. Just real.

Her body shifted against his beneath the covers, pressing a little closer, letting his hand roam where it wanted—where she wanted it. Not for heat. Not for more.

Just for the quiet holiness of being known.

She kissed him again—slower this time. Then pulled back, resting her forehead against his, her breath catching on a laugh.

“I wasn’t lying about stealing hours,” she murmured. “Might want to steal a few more.”

And then she closed her eyes again, one leg tangling with his, her hand finding his and guiding it right back to her skin.

Because she loved his hands.
Because she loved him.
And because being touched like this—like she was already enough—wasn’t something she’d ever stop wanting.

Mason didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t try to be clever, even though his brain—traitorous and adoring—offered at least six different responses involving constellations and how many hours he could realistically steal before book club.

Because she said stay.
Because she meant it.

And now she was looking at him like that—bare skin pressed to his, sleepy and soft and completely unguarded. Her words echoing in his chest louder than any kiss ever could.

So he just nodded. Barely.

And let himself feel it.

His hand stayed right where she’d guided it—just under her ribs—fingers curved gently into the dip of her waist. He let his thumb stroke small, absent circles there, like he was reading her in braille. And maybe he was. Every inch of her said something new. Said stay. Said yes. Said here.

And Mason?

He wanted to memorize all of it.

He let his palm drift up, slow and reverent, not with any goal—just a quiet kind of worship. Over the slope of her ribs. The warmth beneath her skin. The shape of her, familiar now but still holy. Like rereading a favorite book and finding new meaning every time.

She sighed under his touch, and it undid him in that quiet, deep way that didn’t ask for permission or explanation.

His other hand rose to cradle her jaw, tilting her toward him. Their noses brushed. Their foreheads met. Her eyes fluttered closed, and his heart did something reckless behind his ribs.

He kissed her. Softly. Thoroughly.

Not because he wanted to take it further. But because he didn’t want her to forget—not for a second—that he was here. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I want to touch you like this forever,” he whispered, lips barely brushing hers. “Like you’re a story I never want to stop reading.”

She breathed out something like a laugh, but her arms pulled him closer, and that was the only answer he needed.

His hand slipped lower again, tracing the curve of her side, resting against the dip of her back. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft, and every part of him hummed with restraint.

Because God, did he want her.

But not just like that.

He wanted the slow parts. The stretch of morning. The thrum in his fingertips when she sighed. The ache behind his ribs when she smiled against his neck and tangled her legs through his like she already belonged there.

He kissed her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then the corner of her mouth again, slow and reverent.

“Shower’s gonna be a nightmare,” he murmured against her skin, half-wistful, half-teasing.

But he made no move to get up.

Not yet.

His hand stayed on her back. His forehead stayed pressed to hers.

And when she shifted just enough to pull him closer again, he let himself melt into her all over again.

Because her skin under his hands felt like home.
And Mason Hayes had never felt more sure of anything in his life.

Rowan felt it before he even moved.

That stillness—that soft, deliberate pause in him—where he always went quiet just before something mattered. Before something landed. It made her heart beat slower and harder all at once. Made her want to memorize the way he looked at her in the hush between her saying stay and him choosing to.

And then he did.

Not with words. Not with declarations.

Just a nod. Just his hand. Just the way his thumb traced her ribs like they were worth knowing—over and over—until her body stopped bracing and simply… let him.

She hadn’t known she could be held like this.

Not just touched.
Held.

Like her skin was something sacred. Like her breathing was a rhythm he wanted to learn by heart. Every pass of his hand across her waist felt like a question she didn’t have to answer, because he already understood.

When his other hand found her jaw, her breath caught. Not because she was startled, but because she’d hoped he would. Hoped he’d pull her closer like that—tilt her face just enough so she could fall into the space between them without hesitation.

And when their foreheads touched, when he kissed her like that—slow and sure and certain—Rowan felt something loosen deep inside her chest. Something knotted. Something ancient.

She hadn’t even known it was still there until he made it safe to let go of.

His whisper ghosted against her lips, and her smile bloomed with it—not bright, not giddy, just full. Real. Her arms slid around him, slow and steady, pulling him closer like her body had already decided what her words couldn’t say yet.

She didn’t want him to stop.
Not the touching.
Not the reading.
Not the staying.

She shifted again beneath him, the sheets warm around her legs, the sunlight barely starting to creep across the floor, and guided his hand down to her lower back with quiet insistence. Just to feel him there. Just to keep him where he already belonged.

Her mouth brushed his shoulder. Her nose nudged the space beneath his jaw. She breathed him in, every soft cedar-skin-warmth note of him, and let the calm of the moment settle into her bones.

She didn’t need more.

Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

Because this—his hand on her spine, his forehead resting against hers, their bodies curved around each other like punctuation marks in the same sentence—was enough.

It was more than enough.

And as she lay there, wrapped in Mason Hayes and the steady beat of something real, Rowan knew with terrifying clarity:

She wasn’t waiting to be let down.

She was being loved.
Exactly right.
Exactly here.
Exactly now.

She pulled back just enough to see his face, her hand still resting over his heart. And then, voice low and steady, she whispered, “You make it really hard to believe I ever thought I was better off alone.”

A breath. A small, almost-laugh that caught in her throat.

“I didn’t know I could be this soft and still feel like myself.”

Her fingers traced a line along his jaw, not because she needed to—just because she wanted to. Because she could.

“I want to give you everything,” she said. “But right now, I think I just want to be held a little longer.”

She looked at him, eyes wide and tired and full of something bigger than either of them had planned for.

“Stay with me. Like this. Just a little more.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t fear.

It was trust.

And when she tucked herself back into his arms, her cheek against his chest, her leg wrapped loosely around his, Rowan didn’t feel like she was asking for too much anymore.

She felt like she was home.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t rush to respond with one of his usual deflections or jokes or borrowed lyrics that sometimes said more than his own words could. Because this—this—wasn’t a moment for clever. It wasn’t a moment to be filled.

It was a moment to stay in.

So that’s what Mason did.

His arm curled more securely around her, pulling her just a little closer, like his body already knew what to say even if his mouth hadn’t caught up yet. His hand, the one she’d placed at the small of her back, stayed there—steady and warm—his thumb brushing a slow rhythm into her skin like he was writing her a love letter without ink.

And maybe he was.

Maybe this was the only language he’d ever really need.

Her words echoed in his chest, not loud, not even sharp—but like something quiet that rewrote the way he’d been stitched together.

She didn’t know she could be soft and still be herself.

And God, if that didn’t undo him.

He pressed a kiss into her hair—just above her temple, just firm enough that she’d feel it. His nose nudged her hairline like he couldn’t help it, like he needed that anchor as much as she did. And when he finally whispered, his voice barely more than breath, it wasn’t to add something poetic or profound.

It was simple.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Because he wasn’t.
Because she’d asked him to stay.
And because she didn’t know it yet, but Mason had never wanted anything more than to be chosen exactly like this.

He let his hand roam again—nothing demanding, nothing that chased heat. Just exploration. Reverence. Like she was a poem he’d only read halfway and already knew he’d memorize by heart. Her spine. The curve of her waist. The dip just above her hip where his fingers liked to rest.

Her skin was warm. Bare. Soft. And even though desire still hummed quietly under the surface—faint but insistent—he wasn’t in any hurry.

There would be more. He knew that now.

More mornings. More skin. More yes.

But this—her breath syncing with his, her trust folded between them like another layer of the blanket—this was the part he wanted to stretch forever.

He smiled against her hair and tilted his head enough to press a kiss to the shell of her ear. Then, barely audible:

“Ten more minutes.”

A beat.

“Then maybe another ten.”

Another kiss to her shoulder. His hand brushed along her back, light and careful.

“Actually… you might be stuck with me here all day.”

He felt her body shift just slightly—maybe a breath of a laugh, maybe nothing at all. But her arms stayed where they were, wrapped around him like they belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And for the first time in his life, Mason didn’t feel like he had to earn it.

He just… stayed.

Because she’d asked.
Because he loved her.
Because this was everything he’d never let himself believe he could have.

And he wasn’t letting go.

Rowan didn’t speak.
She couldn’t.

Not with the way his arms tightened around her like she was something worth holding onto. Not with the way his hand kept tracing over her back, slow and steady, writing things into her skin that her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Things like I’m here. Things like you’re safe. Things like this is real.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let herself sink.

Not just into his chest, or the warmth of the sheets, or the soft weight of his mouth pressing gently into her hair. She sank into the truth of it. Of him. Of what it meant to be held like this and not feel the instinct to flinch.

He wasn’t in a hurry.
Wasn’t pulling away.
Wasn’t asking her to be anything other than exactly what she was—bare, half-asleep, heart still bruised around the edges from how deeply he kept letting her feel things.

Her fingers flexed lightly against his ribs. She could feel the way his breath shifted, deeper now, calmer. Like her silence didn’t scare him. Like he already knew she was still here—just quiet, just full, just feeling.

And when he whispered, I’m not going anywhere, something broke open inside her. Quietly. Without fanfare. Like a door she didn’t realize she’d been holding shut finally easing open.

Because she believed him.
Fully.

And that alone nearly undid her.

She tilted her face up, just enough to brush her lips beneath his chin—soft, almost absent. Not a kiss. Just presence. Just gratitude. Just I hear you without having to say it.

His hand kept moving, slow and reverent, and she let it. Let him memorize her. Let him trace over the places she used to tuck away, like they were worthy of being seen in daylight and loved anyway.

She smiled faintly when he murmured ten more minutes, then maybe another ten. The kind of smile that wasn’t wide or showy—just honest. The kind that lived in her chest, not her mouth.

Then came actually… you might be stuck with me here all day, and that—that—made her laugh. Quietly. Into his neck.

“You say that like it’s a threat,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep, but soft around the edges. “Like I wouldn’t keep you here myself if I thought I had a shot at pulling it off.”

She kissed his collarbone. Barely there. Just breath and affection and her mouth against skin that had already become the safest place she knew.

“I don’t need forever today,” she murmured. “But this? Right now? I want every second of it.”

She pulled the blanket higher over both of them, fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, and tucked herself in again—closer now, impossibly so. As close as her body could get without dissolving into his completely.

And then—quietly, almost to herself, but she knew he’d hear it—she whispered:

“Stay as long as you want, Mase.”

Because she meant it.

Because for once, her walls weren’t the thing keeping someone out.

They were the thing he’d already stepped through.