Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t trust himself to.

Rowan had curled into him so effortlessly—her hand on his chest, her voice brushing past his collarbone like a secret only meant for him—and it knocked the wind out of him in the best way. Again.

He carried her up the stairs like it was instinct. Like her weight against him was a language he knew fluently now. And maybe it was. The soft of her laugh. The curve of her fingers curled into the drawstring of his hoodie. The way she didn’t ask him to carry her but let him anyway.

God, he loved her.

He couldn’t even say how long he’d loved her—not really. It wasn’t a date he could circle on a calendar. It was more like a thousand tiny moments that snuck up on him and rearranged his insides while he wasn’t looking.

By the time they reached the bedroom, his arms were starting to ache—but he didn’t put her down. Not yet.

He just stood there in the doorway with her wrapped around him, the room lit soft by the hallway glow, and thought: This is real. She said yes. We made a person.

Rowan stirred against his chest, nudging his jaw with her nose like she knew exactly what was going on in his head and didn’t mind that he was spiraling again.

He smiled—soft, crooked, a little ruined—and kissed the top of her head.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, not because she needed reminding, but because he did.

He stepped inside and lowered her gently to the edge of the bed, his hands still on her waist longer than they needed to be. Like letting go would make all of this blur into something imaginary. A dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

But she was still looking at him like that.

Like he was real. Like he was hers. Like this was the beginning of something good.

He dropped to his knees in front of her without thinking. Rested his hands on her thighs, his thumbs drawing slow circles over the fabric of her leggings.

His eyes flicked to where her hand had returned—instinctively, protectively—to her stomach.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he whispered. “Indigo. Or him—Ezra. Or whoever they are.”

He looked up at her again. The girl who’d said yes in a library fort made of books and fairy lights. The girl who roasted him for naming their hypothetical child after a constellation but also kissed him like he was the only boy she’d ever trust with her whole heart.

“We haven’t even met them yet,” Mason said softly, “but I already love them so much it’s doing something weird to my chest.”

Rowan brushed his hair out of his eyes with that same gentle reverence she always used when he got too overwhelmed to be clever.

And Mason—who had never once shut up in his entire life—went quiet.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then her stomach. Then her ring finger.

Because this was it.

The life he didn’t know he was allowed to dream about.

And somehow—against all odds—it was already his.

Rowan didn’t speak. Didn’t move much either.

She just stared at the boy on the floor in front of her like he was something worth memorizing.

Because he was.

Because Mason Hayes—dramatic, loyal, chaotic, soft Mason Hayes—had just knelt in front of her like a vow without a ceremony. Hands warm on her thighs. Eyes full of something that shook her more than all the big, loud milestones ever could.

And when he kissed her—knee, stomach, ring finger—like each one held a different kind of meaning, she felt it.

All of it.

The gravity.

The grace.

The way loving him had never felt like falling. Just… landing. Over and over again.

When his forehead finally rested against her leg, she let her fingers move without hesitation. Right into his hair. Right where they belonged.

She threaded them through gently, slowly. Not to soothe him. Not really.

But to anchor him.

Her thumb brushed along his temple as her other hand moved to rest lightly over his where it still held her thigh like he needed the contact to stay standing, even while sitting.

“You’re allowed to be soft,” she said quietly, her voice steady even if her heart wasn’t. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

Another sweep of her fingers through his curls. Gentle. Reverent. Real.

“We’re figuring it out together, remember?” she whispered. “No maps. No perfect lines. Just us. And them. And whatever messy, beautiful thing we build in between.”

His breathing slowed against her. Not by much. But enough.

So she leaned down—only slightly—and pressed a kiss into the crown of his hair.

“I love you,” she murmured, barely audible, like it was meant just for the space between them. “Even when your heart’s doing weird stuff in your chest.”

She smiled, soft and lopsided, and traced small, calming shapes across his scalp, over and over. Until his grip on her steadied. Until the moment didn’t feel quite so loud.

She didn’t need a sword. She didn’t need a ceremony.

Just this.

Him on his knees, and her holding his heart gently in her hands, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because maybe it was.

Mason didn’t lift his head at first.

He couldn’t.

Not when her hands were in his hair like that. Not when her voice had gone all quiet and sure, like she was trying to convince his bones to believe something his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

You’re allowed to be soft.

God.

That did something to him.

Not the kind of thing that made him cry on the spot—though, let’s be honest, he was dangerously close—but the kind that cracked open the places he didn’t even realize he was guarding.

Because she got it.

Of course she did.

She always had.

And it shouldn’t have surprised him—not really—that she would know how to hold him steady even when he was the one trying to be the anchor. That she’d sit there, her fingers tangled in his curls like safety netting, and remind him without flinching that it was okay to not be unshakable all the time.

That he didn’t have to be the strong one.

He just had to be hers.

So he breathed. Deep this time. Like he meant it.

And then he finally looked up.

Rowan’s face was still soft around the edges, her expression unguarded in that way it only got when she was so full of feeling she forgot how to hide. Her thumb brushed along his cheek again, the way she always did when she needed him to really hear her.

And he did.

God, did he.

He reached up—slowly—and took her hand from his face, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm like it was a thank you in another language.

Then he stood, not fast, not dramatic—just steady. And he didn’t move far.

Just leaned in close and pressed his forehead to hers, their noses brushing, breath shared.

“This is my favorite place,” he whispered, voice low and a little raw. “Right here. With you.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because when she smiled—tired, certain, still a little stunned by how big this life was getting—he felt it in every inch of him.

And when she tugged him down onto the bed beside her, curling their bodies into a familiar shape beneath the quiet hum of their growing forever, he went easily.

Willingly.

Because this wasn’t about running toward something perfect.

It was about choosing each other over and over again.

Even when they were scared.

Even when they didn’t have a map.

Especially then.

Rowan didn’t move until he looked up at her.

Until his eyes—those wide, open, too-honest eyes—met hers and held. Like the world wasn’t moving anymore. Like it didn’t have to.

She didn’t speak. Just let him take her hand. Let him press his lips to her palm like it was something holy.

Maybe it was.

Because Mason Hayes had never needed grand gestures. Just this. Just presence. Just a little permission to be soft.

And Rowan?

She would give it to him every day, in every way she knew how.

So when he stood, forehead finding hers like instinct, her breath caught—but not from nerves. Not from fear.

Just from how much she loved him.

It ached sometimes. The sheer size of it.

The way it filled up all the empty space between who she’d been and who she was now.

She reached for him without hesitation.

Fingers curled in the fabric of his hoodie, tugging gently until he followed—until he was next to her, then beneath her, then all around her. Rowan folded herself into him like muscle memory. Her leg hitched over his hip. Her arms circled his waist. Her cheek found the hollow just under his jaw where his heartbeat lived loud and steady and hers.

She stayed there for a beat. Then another.

And without a word, she reached back and dragged the covers over them, tucking them in like a punctuation mark.

She could’ve said something.

A joke, probably.

Maybe a threat about what would happen if he started snoring.

But she didn’t.

She just kissed the spot under his ear. Let her hand drift down his back. Let the quiet settle around them like it was enough.

Because it was.

Because this—this mess, this miracle, this heart-thudding, name-choosing, maybe-parenthood storm they were in—was theirs.

And so was this bed.

And so was this moment.

And so was he.

Rowan didn’t rush it.

Didn’t try to fill the silence with anything other than her breath steadying against his neck, or the soft shift of fabric as the blankets settled over them like dusk. Mason’s arm tightened around her waist automatically—sleepy reflex or something deeper, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. It felt like belonging either way.

She tucked her foot between his, nudging her cold toes against his calf just to hear him groan like she’d committed an unforgivable act of betrayal.

And then he laughed. Quiet and half-asleep already.

God, she loved that sound.

She tilted her head just enough to press a kiss to his jaw—lazy, lingering—and whispered, “You know you don’t have to try so hard, right?”

No teasing in her voice. Just a truth spoken into the dark.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath it to trace slow circles over the bare skin of his back. Not with any real motive—just because she could. Because she knew his body by now: the slope of his spine, the warmth of his skin, the way he always twitched a little when she ran her nails lightly over the base of his neck.

And he let her. He always let her.

Like he knew she wasn’t just touching him—she was grounding herself. Reminding them both that no matter how wild and unpredictable tomorrow might be, this was real.

Him.

Them.

This bed, these blankets, this impossibly beautiful, slightly terrifying future they were folding themselves into one breath at a time.

She shifted again, just enough to look at him—half-shadowed in the soft glow spilling through the cracked door.

“You already are everything she needs,” Rowan murmured. “You don’t have to prove it. Not to me. Not to her.”

He opened his eyes, barely.

But he smiled.

Rowan brushed her thumb along his cheek, then leaned in close enough that her words were a kiss too.

“And if you ever forget that, I’ll remind you.”

He didn’t answer—just buried his face in the crook of her neck, exhaling like he was letting go of something heavy.

She held him tighter.

She didn’t know if they’d get everything right.

But curled up like this—in a tangle of limbs and promises and cotton sheets—she knew one thing for certain:

They’d get through it.

Together.

Mason didn’t answer right away.

He just curled closer, his arms tightening around her like instinct—like maybe if he held her a little tighter, his heart might finally calm down.

But it didn’t. Not really. Not with her saying things like you don’t have to try so hard in the dark. Not with her fingers tracing slow, soothing circles under his shirt like they were the only thing tethering him to Earth.

So he breathed. Let it settle. Let the silence wrap around them for a moment. Then, voice low and rough with something unspoken, he whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to get anything right this badly.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t interrupt.

So he kept going.

“I used to think I’d be the fun uncle, y’know? The one who brings weird gifts and teaches their niece or nephew how to sneak cookies without getting caught.” His thumb swept gently across the stretch of her side beneath the blanket. “I never imagined this. Not really. Not me being the one who stays up with a baby at 2 a.m. or… folds tiny socks into drawers.”

A beat.

“But then you looked at me with that look,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers, “the one that makes me feel like maybe I could hold the world without dropping it—and suddenly I’m Googling what swaddling is and pretending I’m not crying over a onesie that says Little Comet on the front.”

He felt her smile against his skin, and God, he’d never been more grateful for a laugh in his life.

“But I’m scared,” he admitted, softer now. “Not because I don’t want it. But because I do. So much it hurts sometimes. I want to be good at this. I want to give them the kind of parent they brag about. The kind who makes them feel safe when the world gets too loud. The kind who learns how to braid hair even if I suck at it and shows up to every school play and… holds your hand through every meltdown, even if you pretend you don’t need it.”

Her breath caught slightly.

Mason kissed her temple.

“And if I get it wrong sometimes—when I get it wrong—I hope you’ll remind me to breathe. Like you did tonight. Like you always do.”

He shifted just enough to look at her then—really look at her, even in the dark. His hand found hers over the swell of her stomach, not yet visible but already real.

“I love you, Rowan Starling,” he said quietly. “More than I know how to hold sometimes. But I’m gonna try. Every day. For you. For them. For us.”

He kissed her once. Soft. Sure.

Then smiled that crooked Mason smile—the one that said I’m terrified, but I’m staying anyway.

“And hey… if they end up loving dinosaurs and poetry, I’m taking full credit.”

Rowan laughed again, and that was it.

That was the moment he let himself believe it:

They weren’t just going to survive this.

They were going to live it.

Together.

Rowan didn’t answer right away either.

She couldn’t.

Not with her throat tightening the way it was. Not with his voice breaking open like that—soft and honest and so full of love she could feel it bloom behind her ribs like spring.

So she just held on.

Arms around his waist. Legs tangled beneath the blanket. Her hand resting over his, where it curved instinctively around the place their future was slowly beginning to grow.

She exhaled, slow and steady, and tilted her head just enough to brush her nose against his.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispered, the words threading through the quiet like a secret she’d been saving just for him. “I am too.”

Her thumb traced a line across his jaw. Familiar now. Safe.

“But scared doesn’t mean wrong. It just means this matters.”

She leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d be doing this either,” she admitted. “The baby. The person I can fall asleep next to without building a wall first. But then you came along with your dumb grin and your library facts and your entire heart, and you made it feel possible.”

Her voice dipped a little lower. Not fragile—firm. Like a tether.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Mason. You just have to be here. And you are. God, you are.”

She moved her hand to his cheek, thumb brushing just below his eye, like she could catch whatever fear he hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’ll teach you the braid thing,” she added after a beat, smiling gently. “And we’ll mess up the bedtime routine, and you’ll probably cry the first time she calls you dad, and I’ll pretend I’m not also crying in the hallway.”

Her forehead pressed against his. Her hand slid back down to their joined ones, resting over her stomach again—barely a bump, but already the center of everything.

“And when it feels like too much?” she whispered, “We’ll figure it out. Together. One meltdown, one midnight snack, one dinosaur onesie at a time.”

She kissed him again—slower now. Not a promise, not a fix. Just a presence. Just a yes.

“I love you too,” she breathed into his skin. “More than I thought I could. More than I’m ready for. But I’m in it. All the way.”

A pause. Then, teasing: “And you better believe she’s getting the glitteriest Little Comet onesie money can buy. With matching socks.”

Mason groaned into her neck.

She laughed. Quiet and warm and entirely at peace.

Because this wasn’t just a maybe anymore.

It was a yes. A heartbeat. A future with his hand in hers and their whole, terrifying, beautiful story just beginning.

And Rowan? She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak, either.

Just stayed there for a moment—eyes on him, breath syncing with his—while her thumb traced the edge of his jaw. Mason looked at her like she’d handed him something delicate and rare, something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t stop holding anyway.

And Rowan? She felt it too.

That impossible stretch between fear and certainty. The quiet gravity of being this close to someone who saw all of you and didn’t flinch.

So she leaned in.

Her hand curled into his curls, fingers threading through the mess of them like she’d done it a thousand times and never gotten tired of it. Her lips brushed his once—soft, slow, like she was still learning the shape of him. And when he didn’t pull back (God, he never pulled back), she deepened the kiss.

Not urgent.

Not dramatic.

Just full.

Full of every unspoken thing they’d spent the last few days circling.

The yes.

The fear.

The fact that she loved him more every time he stopped trying to be anything but his whole, messy self.

Mason’s hands gripped her waist tighter, not to hold her still, but to keep from falling apart entirely.

She felt it. All of it.

And she kissed him like she meant it.

Because she did.

Because this was the good part.

And she wanted him to feel it in his chest—how wanted he was. How chosen. How safe it could be, even here, even now.

When she finally pulled back, breath a little unsteady, lips still brushing his—

She smiled.

One hand still cradling his jaw. One heartbeat away from forever.

“Let’s figure it out,” she whispered. “One kiss at a time.”

Mason didn’t speak at first.

He couldn’t. Not when her words had rearranged something in his chest. Not when the weight of her hand over his, the light brush of her thumb along his jaw, had made the world feel quiet in that rare, reverent kind of way.

He’d thought he’d known what love was. Thought it lived in jokes and playlists and the way she rolled her eyes at him like it meant something sacred.

But this?

This was different.

This was her saying I’m scared too, and you’re not alone, and you don’t have to be perfect to be mine.

This was her saying us.

His throat tightened.

Her kiss hadn’t been grand or planned or anything he’d expected—but it cracked something open in him anyway. Not a wound. Just a truth. Something vulnerable and blinding and stupidly beautiful.

Because she meant it. The fear. The forever. The dinosaur onesies.

And God, he loved her.

He pressed his forehead to hers again, breath catching just slightly at the closeness. Then he let his eyes drift open, blinking slowly as her face filled his entire world.

“You know,” he said, voice a little hoarse, a little wrecked in the best way, “I was trying really hard not to ugly cry through that entire monologue. So… thanks for blowing that plan to hell.”

Her lips curved, but she didn’t laugh—not fully. Because she saw it. The shift in him. The way he was holding her like she’d handed him the answer to a question he didn’t know he’d been asking.

“But also,” he added, brushing his nose against hers, “you just said midnight snacks and matching socks, so unless this baby shows up fully formed with a snack tray and fashion sense, I think we’re all just winging it from here.”

She made a soft sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—and Mason leaned in to kiss her again. Not careful. Not controlled.

Just there.

Just his.

When he pulled back, he rested one hand on the side of her neck, thumb brushing the skin beneath her ear like he could memorize her pulse if he tried hard enough.

“I want all of it,” he said softly. “The baby that cries for no reason. The dinosaur phase. The glitter. The weirdly emotional daycare drop-offs. I want the disasters and the quiet wins and the nights where we fall asleep with Cheerio dust in our hair.”

He kissed her again—just once, just barely.

“I want it with you.”

His hand dropped to her stomach, palm wide, warm, steady.

“With them.”

He paused, watching her eyes like they were the only map that mattered.

“And yeah, I’ll probably cry the first time I hear ‘dad.’ I’ll definitely cry at graduation. And if they ever say something like ‘My favorite place is next to you,’ I’m gonna have to lie down for a while and you know it.”

She didn’t argue. Because they both knew it was true.

Mason exhaled. Then pulled her closer. Arms wrapped tight, breath brushing her temple.

“Let’s mess this up beautifully, Starling,” he whispered. “Let’s be the kind of people who don’t get it right the first time, but keep trying anyway. Let’s be the ones who build something real.”

His mouth found hers again, this time slow and deep and certain.

Because maybe this wasn’t about getting it right.

Maybe it was about choosing each other, again and again, one kiss at a time.

And he could do that.

Forever.

Rowan didn’t answer at first.

Not with words.

She just held him tighter—one hand sliding into the back of his hair, the other splaying across his chest like she could calm the frantic rhythm of his heart by simply being there. Her thumb brushed his collarbone slowly, thoughtfully, like she was tracing the shape of the moment. Of him.

She felt it too.

The shift.

The soft, quiet weight of a future starting to settle over them—not heavy, not crushing, but steady. Like something she could build a life inside of.

So when Mason kissed her—slow and certain—she let it anchor her. Let it say all the things she didn’t have to. Then, when they pulled back, foreheads pressed together, breath shared, she finally spoke.

“I’ve never wanted to mess something up so beautifully in my life.”

She whispered it against his mouth, her voice warm with affection, light with disbelief. Because it was real. All of it. The baby. The Cheerio dust. The storm and the stillness.

Her fingers found the side of his face again, cupping his cheek as her lips pressed soft kisses along the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, his temple. Little blessings. Little thank yous.

“You’re gonna cry when they say ‘dad,’” she murmured, smiling against his skin, “and I’m gonna pretend not to take pictures while doing exactly that.”

She felt his laugh in his chest.

“And when you get emotional over a preschool finger painting? I’ll frame it next to our wedding photo just to really ruin you.”

She leaned back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“But you’re already doing it right, Mase.”

Her voice was steady now, her thumb brushing over his jaw like punctuation.

“Not because you have it all figured out. But because you care this much. Because you show up. Because you say things like ‘let’s build something real’ and mean it.”

She kissed him again—slower now, lingering.

Then let her hand drift down between them, fingers curling over his where he still rested them gently on her stomach.

“We already are.”

She smiled. Tired. Sure. More in love than she knew what to do with.

And as the quiet wrapped back around them like a blanket, she didn’t move to break it.

She just stayed there. Tangled with him. Breathing.

“Y’know,” she whispered, a teasing softness curling behind her words, “you’re not gonna be able to call me Starling much longer.”

He blinked, still dazed, still breathless from everything she’d just poured into him.

Rowan smiled.

“That’s gonna be my old name. I mean, I guess you could still say it, if you’re really that attached to your dramatic flair…” Her voice dropped to a faux-serious hush. “But I will be a Hayes, thank you very much. A Mrs. Hayes. Indigo’s mom. The woman who puts up with your bedtime playlist obsession and your irrational need to own a thousand tiny dinosaur onesies.”

She kissed his jaw again, then leaned her forehead into his neck and stayed there, breathing in the moment like it was enough to carry her through anything.

Because it was.

And when she finally spoke again, her voice was laced with something warm and permanent.

“I love you, Mason Hayes. You and your dumb playlists and your thousand Pinterest boards and your very serious fear of swaddling.”

Then, sleepily:

“But you better still call me Starling sometimes. I think I’d miss it.”

And she would.

Not because she needed it—but because he made it mean something. Because when Mason said her name, it wasn’t just a name. It was a promise.

And Rowan?

She was keeping it.

Mason didn’t know how to breathe for a second.

Not with her wrapped around him like that. Not with her thumb moving slow and steady over his collarbone like she could unwrite every bad day he’d ever had. Not when her voice—God, her voice—said things like you’re already doing it right and I love you, Mason Hayes like she wasn’t actively setting fire to his heart in the softest, most permanent way possible.

She was ruining him.

In the best, brightest, most irrevocable way.

He closed his eyes, forehead still resting against hers, and let it all hit him—the baby. The ring on her finger. The way she kissed him like it meant something every single time. It did. It meant everything.

When she called him Mason Hayes with that sleep-laced smile and then smirked about being Mrs. Hayes?

Yeah. He almost ascended.

And she knew it. The menace. The love of his life. The beautiful, terrifying future mother of his child who was absolutely going to turn their living room into a glitter bomb of preschool art and still somehow make him feel like the luckiest man on the planet.

He swallowed hard. Laughed under his breath. Then finally—finally—found his voice.

“Okay,” he murmured, thumb tracing tiny circles against her stomach. “Okay, first of all… Mrs. Hayes? Yeah. That just took ten years off my life in the best way. I’m probably never recovering.”

She made a soft sound against his neck, half-smirk, half-sigh, and it made his heart do that ridiculous skip again.

“Second,” he continued, “I’m one hundred percent still calling you Starling. Even when we’re seventy and arguing about how many Halloween skeletons is too many. Especially then. It's a term of endearment and a battle cry.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing a curl away from her temple. His voice dropped, a little rougher now.

“But when I say Mrs. Hayes…”

He exhaled. Pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Then her cheek. Then her jaw.

“That’s not just about marriage. That’s me saying you’re it. My person. My always. The reason I believe in doing hard things. The reason I want to.”

His hand found hers again, the one still curled protectively over the gentle curve of her belly. Their baby. Their beginning.

“I wanna mess this up with you,” he whispered. “Spectacularly. Beautifully. With glitter in the carpet and way too many bedtime books and playlists so embarrassing our kid begs us to stop.”

He paused, smile creeping back in.

“And if it helps, I’ve already mentally bookmarked at least three Etsy shops for custom onesies. One of them says Made From Snacks and Poor Decisions. Another has sparkles. I can’t be stopped.”

Rowan groaned into his neck, and he laughed, arms tightening around her like he could keep them both right here, in this moment, forever.

He would’ve, if he could.

Because she was the best decision he’d ever made.

Because her hand in his felt like proof that maybe he hadn’t screwed everything up after all.

Because their future? The one they’d been terrified of?

It already felt like home.

He kissed the top of her head.

“I love you too, Starling,” he whispered into her hair, letting the words settle deep.

Then, quieter, with a grin:

“But you are gonna cry when I frame that preschool finger painting next to our wedding photo. Just warning you.”

And just like that, the world felt lighter again. Not easier. But shared.

And that made all the difference.

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t tease. Just stayed wrapped around him like the whole world had narrowed to this: his heartbeat under her palm, his hand over her stomach, and the way he kept saying things that made her want to cry and laugh and kiss him all at once.

She shifted slightly, just enough to catch his eyes in the low light, and brushed her thumb along his cheekbone. “You really know how to wreck a girl, Hayes.”

He opened his mouth, probably to make a joke.

She didn’t give him the chance.

“I mean it,” she said, softer now. “You say stuff like that and I feel like I’m going to combust.”

He smiled—because of course he did—but she saw the way his eyes stayed steady on hers. Serious. Soft. Still afraid.

So she leaned in and kissed him. Slow, grounding. Not to shut him up this time, but to say: I hear you. I see you. I’m not going anywhere either.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.

“I hope she gets your wonder,” she murmured. “The way you look at the world like it might surprise you if you’re just paying enough attention. That thing you do where you get excited over small stuff like it’s the biggest thing.”

Her fingers slid down to where their hands were joined over her stomach.

“And if it’s a boy,” she added, lips quirking slightly, “he’s getting a name big enough to grow into. Ezra Orion’s going to have stories written about him—because how could he not, with us as his origin story?”

Mason laughed, low and quiet.

She smiled into it.

“And yeah,” she continued, voice dropping again, “you’re gonna cry at everything. First steps, preschool graduation, when they draw you with big hair and laser eyes.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of his mouth.

“And I’ll be there for all of it,” she said. “Even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired and covered in spit-up and you’ve put the diaper on backwards.”

She kissed him again—slow, certain.

“Because I picked you,” she whispered. “Not just for the pretty moments. For all of them.”

She tucked herself closer, her cheek against his shoulder now, her voice half muffled by the fabric of his hoodie.

“And just so you know? If you keep calling me Mrs. Hayes like that, I’m going to combust. Like actually. There will be no wedding because I’ll be dead.”

He made a sound she felt more than heard, his arms wrapping tighter around her.

“But you better keep calling me Starling,” she added, grinning now. “That one’s yours.”

And in the quiet that followed, Rowan let herself believe it too.

They weren’t just going to survive this.

They were going to build something good.

Something messy and imperfect and theirs.