Mason let out a quiet breath, the kind that felt too big for his chest.

Because Jesus Christ.

There she was — full of sunlit smiles and sly jokes and that soft, break-your-heart kind of honesty that hit him harder than anything ever had. And somehow, somehow, she was looking at him like he was worth all of it.

He didn’t deserve that. Not really. Not this kind of magic. Not a girl like Rowan Starling — all storms and steel and baby blue hoodies he still swore she stole from him.

But she was here.

And she was his.

And that crooked-ass crib behind them was somehow proof that they’d built something real.

“Ignored them beautifully,” he echoed under his breath, leaning his head against hers with a soft chuckle. “That might be my new favorite Rowan quote. Top five, easily. Right above: ‘This chair doesn’t need legs if the vibe is strong enough.’”

His thumb skimmed along her knuckles where their hands were joined over her stomach. The paint on her skin. The bolt grease on his. They were a mess. But they were their mess.

“I’m gonna tell her everything,” he added after a moment, voice lower now. “How you built her crib with a screwdriver in one hand and a death glare in the other. How you threatened to stab me lovingly. How you smiled like the whole world was right here, in this room.”

His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I’ll tell her how brave you were. How much you loved her before she ever showed up. And how the minute I saw you like this — paint-smudged and bossy and so fucking alive — I knew I was done for.”

He turned his head slightly, kissed her temple, slow and reverent.

“You’re gonna be her whole universe,” he whispered. “And I’m gonna be the guy making snack runs and fixing lopsided furniture and reminding you both that chaos can still be beautiful.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his smile crooked, like the crib. “And hey… if we screw it all up along the way, at least we’ll have glitter and pudding cups.”

Then he held up their linked hands and kissed her fingers one by one, soft and certain. “No instructions. No blueprints. Just you. Me. Her. And whatever the hell comes next.”

A beat passed.

Then, smirking, he added, “But I am buying extra bolts next time. Just in case we ignored the part that said ‘tighten until fully secure.’”

Because God help him, he was all in.

Rowan laughed under her breath, quiet and warm, the sound spilling out before she could stop it. “You keep a running list of my quotes now? God, you’re worse than Jovie’s fan club.” She nudged his shoulder lightly. “And for the record, that chair was stable. It just needed… spiritual support.”

She looked down when his thumb brushed across her hand, tracing the same paint smudge she’d already forgotten about. Her fingers twitched against his — like instinct — and then stilled, lacing tighter around his. “You’re really gonna tell her that?” she said softly, smiling to herself. “All of it? Even the part where I spent ten minutes trying to use the wrong screw and then swore it was the manufacturer’s fault?”

Her grin deepened, bright and a little self-aware. “She’s gonna think her mom’s a genius and a menace at the same time.”

But then his voice changed — that quiet, steady one that always found its way under her ribs. And she couldn’t joke through that. Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that.

Her smile faltered into something smaller. Realer. “You make it sound like I built Rome,” she whispered, tilting her forehead to his. “I just wanted her to have something made by us. Something messy and real and…” She trailed off, eyes flicking up to his. “Something that feels like this.”

She let out a soft laugh when he kissed her temple. “You realize you’re signing up for a lifetime of snack runs, right? Like, that’s not just a pregnancy clause. That’s forever. I’m not above sending you out at 2 a.m. for pudding cups when she’s twelve and emotional about homework.”

He called her brave, and for a second, she had to breathe through it. “You’re the one who makes this easy,” she said quietly. “All the brave does is show up — you’re the reason it feels safe too.”

When he kissed her fingers, she smiled again — lazy, unguarded, the kind of smile that meant she was completely gone for him. “No instructions, no blueprints,” she echoed, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “That’s us, huh? Just building our weird little empire one crooked crib and snack run at a time.”

Then her eyes glinted, mischievous again. “And hey, about those extra bolts? I’m not saying you’re paranoid, but if Indigo’s anything like me, she’s absolutely going to climb out of this crib by eight months old. So yeah — stock up.”

She leaned in, her voice low, teasing. “Also… just so you know? If I wasn’t five months pregnant, you wouldn’t be talking right now.” Her grin curved slow and wicked. “You’d be thanking your lucky stars I don’t still have the energy for that kind of cardio.”

She laughed softly, the sound catching somewhere between affection and trouble. “Now hand me that wrench, Hayes. Let’s finish building her future before I decide to make you part of the décor.”

Mason choked on a laugh — the kind that hit too suddenly and cracked straight through the middle of him. “Okay, first of all,” he said, wide-eyed and grinning, “do not threaten me with a good time while I’m emotionally vulnerable and surrounded by hardware.”

He reached for the wrench with one hand, the other still tangled with hers like he couldn’t quite bear to let go. “Second of all, you saying ‘make you part of the décor’ is the exact kind of terrifying poetry that tells me Indigo’s going to rule the world by age five.”

He passed her the tool, but not before tugging her fingers to his lips again — a kiss, a thank you, a prayer, all in one.

“And yeah,” he added, voice dipping slightly, “I am keeping a list of your quotes. I’ve got a whole Google Doc called ‘Things Rowan Says That Should Be in Stone or at Least on a T-Shirt.’ And that chair did not have spiritual support, it had one functioning leg and your blind faith.”

He paused then, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the next truth to land.

“But yeah. I’ll tell her everything. Even the wrong screw part. Especially that part. Because it means her mom doesn’t give up when things don’t fit the first time. She figures it out. She swears at it, sure, but she stays. And that matters.”

He reached up and brushed a smudge of paint from the curve of her jaw. His voice went soft. “You didn’t build Rome, Starling. You built a home. That’s bigger.”

He leaned in until their noses almost touched, until all he could see was her. Her freckles. Her smirk. Her light. “And for the record, if she gets your chaos and my symmetry? We’ll raise a beautiful contradiction.”

His grin turned wicked. “Although, if she gets your cardio skills, I’m terrified. Do we start baby-proofing the ceiling now or later?”

He laughed again, the sound wrecked and full of everything she’d ever made him feel — all the years of almost, of missteps and missed chances, all the days since she’d started showing up and staying.

And then, gentler: “You know, it’s wild. I used to think love had to be some huge declaration, some show-stopping grand gesture. But this?” He motioned to the half-built crib, the scattered tools, the way her hand fit perfectly over his heartbeat. “This is louder than anything.”

He kissed her again — soft and slow, lips pressed to hers like punctuation on a chapter he never wanted to end. And when he pulled back, forehead still against hers, he whispered:

“Let’s finish building her future. And maybe a chair that doesn’t need divine intervention to stand.”

He reached for the next piece, still smiling. “Just don’t let Jovie hear I’m the one who followed directions. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Rowan laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her belly. “You’re the only person I know who can make a threat sound like a compliment,” she said between breaths, shaking her head. “And don’t flatter yourself, Hayes — emotionally vulnerable or not, you’d still deserve whatever chaos you get.”

She reached for the wrench, pretending to snatch it with mock authority, but her hand lingered when his fingers brushed hers. That stupid soft kiss to her knuckles made her heart skip the way it always did — and the way it still shouldn’t, even now, even after all these months. “You’re ridiculous,” she said quietly, the edge gone from her voice. “And that’s not terrifying poetry, by the way. That’s called creative honesty. Indigo’s gonna learn from the best.”

When he mentioned the Google Doc, her jaw dropped in mock horror. “You did not,” she gasped, smirking through it. “You actually have one? Mason, that’s—okay, that’s borderline romantic and deeply concerning. And for the record, the chair was fine. If you’d believed in her, she would’ve made it through the semester.”

Her voice softened when he kept going — when the teasing fell away and he said the kind of things she’d never get used to hearing. “You’re such a sap,” she murmured, smiling down at the half-built crib. “But you’re right. I do swear a lot. And I do stay. Mostly because you never make me feel like I have to earn staying.”

She tilted her head when he brushed her jaw, eyes flicking up to his. “Rome can keep its marble,” she said softly. “I’ll take paint smudges and bad IKEA decisions any day.”

Her lips curved into something smaller, gentler. “And for the record? Chaos and symmetry sound like a pretty solid mix to me. We’ll balance out. You’ll alphabetize her toys, and I’ll teach her how to charm her way out of time-out.”

He joked about baby-proofing the ceiling, and she snorted. “Please. By the time she’s walking, she’ll be scaling cabinets and gaslighting us both about it. We should just accept defeat early.”

Then he said this is louder than anything, and it hit her in the ribs. She blinked once, slow. “Yeah,” she said finally, voice soft but sure. “It really is.”

When he kissed her, she leaned into it like it was the most natural thing in the world — warm, certain, familiar. When he pulled back, she kept her forehead against his, eyes closed for a beat longer. “You talk too much,” she whispered, a grin tugging at her mouth. “But if you keep saying stuff like that, I’m never gonna shut you up.”

She took the next piece from his hands and set it carefully in place. “Now come on, Captain Reputation,” she said, nudging his knee with hers. “Let’s finish before she starts kicking again. I think she’s already judging us.”

A pause. Her grin softened into something quieter. “And Mason? For the record… this? You’re right. It’s everything.”

Mason tried — really tried — not to look completely gone for her in that moment. But it was hard when she laughed like that — full-body, tip-your-head-back kind of laughing, the kind that felt like applause in the middle of a quiet scene. His chest tightened, all ridiculous and warm.

“Okay, rude,” he said, eyes wide in mock offense. “I’ll have you know my chaos is award-winning. I once got a standing ovation for tripping over a stage sword and confessing my love in the same scene. It was very moving.”

He handed her another bolt, biting back a smile when her fingers lingered. “And yeah, I kiss your hand like we’re in a period drama,” he added, deadpan. “It’s called range, Starling.”

Her gasp at the Google Doc made him double down, grinning like the menace he was. “Oh, it’s real. Titled Rowanisms: A Chronicle of Chaos, Brilliance, and Mild Threats. Color-coded by mood. There’s even a ‘Don’t let her read this or she’ll set it on fire’ section. Very exclusive.”

He laughed at her defense of the chair — honest-to-God cackled — but as she spoke softer, his grin steadied into something deeper.

Because God, she had no idea what she did to him.

“You staying isn’t something you have to earn,” he said, his voice softer now, brushing a thumb against her wrist. “It’s the whole damn point. You stay, and suddenly the world feels like something I can stand in.”

She called him a sap. He grinned. “I’m a romantic disaster,” he confessed. “Fully self-aware. And honestly, if Indigo’s first word is ‘alphabetize,’ I’ll cry happy tears. Just sayin’.”

He shifted slightly, helping secure the next piece. The crib was coming together, a little wobbly maybe, but real. Tangible. The kind of thing that would hold a future they weren’t totally ready for — but were still choosing anyway.

He looked at her — really looked — as she described their daughter gaslighting them before she could even speak, and yeah, that was probably true.

“I give it three years before she’s directing school plays and bossing me around backstage,” he said fondly. “Five bucks says she steals my copy of Hamlet and rewrites it with a glitter ending.”

And then — her voice softened.

It’s everything.

His chest ached, sweet and full, and he tried to blink it back like she hadn’t just completely ruined him again.

“Starling,” he said, leaning in with a crooked smile, “you say stuff like that and I become the off-brand pudding. Just—completely soft. No spine. Just vibes.”

He kissed her temple, then her jaw, then pulled back only enough to help guide the next crib rail into place. “Also,” he added, with faux seriousness, “just so we’re clear — when Indigo grows up and asks why one side of her crib is slightly lower than the other, we’re blaming it on a rogue musical number. Full tap-dancing ghost scenario. I’ll commit.”

He glanced up at her, that crooked grin softening at the edges. “You and me? We’re chaos and curtain calls. Snacks and symphonies. Messy, brilliant, stubborn as hell — and totally in sync where it counts.”

He reached for the final screw, fingers brushing hers again. “Let’s finish it,” he said gently. “Our girl deserves a throne. Even if it’s slightly uneven.”

And with that, he settled in beside her — heart steady, hands sure — ready to build whatever came next.

Rowan grinned, eyes bright, trying — and failing — not to completely melt. “You seriously just compared yourself to pudding?” she said, biting back a laugh. “You realize that’s never coming off your record, right? Indigo’s first solid food is going to be pudding just so I can tell her this story.”

She leaned against him, pretending to examine the crooked crib rail like she was a professional contractor instead of someone who’d put one screw in backward twenty minutes ago. “Also, you tripping over a stage sword and confessing your love sounds exactly like the origin story of my favorite idiot. I can’t even be mad about it. It’s on-brand.”

He passed her another bolt, and she rolled her eyes, but her voice softened when their fingers brushed. “And don’t act like you’re some tragic romantic hero with range. You’re just trying to distract me so I don’t notice you’ve been tightening the wrong side.” She leaned in closer, her bump brushing his arm, and whispered, “Nice try, Shakespeare.”

When he mentioned Rowanisms: A Chronicle of Chaos, Brilliance, and Mild Threats, she stared at him like she might combust. “You color-coded me? Oh my God, you’re lucky I can’t bend down fast enough to chase you right now,” she said, mock furious but laughing. “Delete that ‘don’t let her read this’ section or I’ll add you to my list — and it’s not color-coded, it’s cursed.”

But then he said you staying isn’t something you have to earn, and her smirk faltered. Just for a second. “You always know how to do that,” she murmured. “Say something that makes me laugh, then immediately ruin my eyeliner.”

She exhaled, brushing her thumb over his wrist in return. “You’re a romantic disaster,” she agreed softly, “but you’re my disaster. And if Indigo’s first word is ‘alphabetize,’ I’m staging an intervention. Or at least a counterattack. Her second word’s gonna be ‘chaos.’”

When he joked about Indigo rewriting Hamlet with glitter, Rowan snorted so hard she almost dropped a screw. “That’s our girl,” she said proudly. “Tragic, dramatic, and fabulous.”

He said it’s everything, and she looked up, all the teasing melting away. “It is,” she whispered. “Even the wobbly parts.”

Then, after a long pause and the faint sound of the crib creaking under their combined effort, she added, “And if you ever call yourself off-brand pudding again, I’m upgrading to deluxe gelatin dessert on your contact name.”

When he kissed her temple, she smiled against it, then caught his jaw lightly with her paint-stained hand. “You’re lucky I can’t get up,” she said, grinning. “Because if I could, I’d climb you like this half-built crib.”

Her tone turned teasing again as she looked at the crooked railing. “And for the record, when Indigo asks why her crib’s uneven, I’m saying it was a creative choice. You can take the tap-dancing ghost credit if you want, but I’m calling it architectural whimsy.”

She reached for the final screw, bumping his hand in the process. “Teamwork,” she said with a smirk. “Or at least controlled chaos.”

And then, softer — so soft he almost missed it: “You’re my favorite kind of uneven, Hayes.”

She squeezed his hand once, smiled, and nodded toward the last bolt. “Now let’s finish our daughter’s throne before she starts practicing her rebellion in there.”

Mason was grinning like an idiot. Just completely gone.

“You’re out here threatening to rename me deluxe gelatin dessert and somehow that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he muttered, shaking his head like he stood no chance — because honestly? He didn’t.

Not with her laughing like that. Not when she looked at him like that.

He nudged her knee with his, eyes still on her instead of the crib. “And listen, I stand by the pudding metaphor. You kiss me like that again and I go full gelatinous. It's tragic. I lose all structure. OSHA would be concerned.”

She said you’re my favorite kind of uneven, and his breath caught so hard he almost forgot how to use the screwdriver.

Because damn.
That wasn’t just a line.
That was her wrecking him, in the quietest, most perfect way.

“I—” he started, but stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “Starling, if I didn’t already believe in soulmates, that line alone would’ve converted me.”

He didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes went soft — all glint and glass and boyish devotion.

Then, like a reflex, he leaned in and kissed her again.

Not rushed. Not showy. Just full. Deep. The kind of kiss that didn’t need an audience. The kind that said this is it, this is home, this is us.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath still a little uneven. “You’re lucky I’m too emotionally compromised to flirt properly right now,” he murmured. “Because I’d absolutely start reciting Shakespeare and do a whole monologue about how you’ve bewitched me, body and soul.”

A beat.

“Wait, crap — that’s Austen, not Shakespeare. Don’t tell Indigo I got that wrong. She’ll think I’m a fake theater kid.”

He turned his attention back to the crib for exactly two seconds before stealing one last look at her — paint-smudged, grinning, glowing with the kind of light that only came from building something real.

He squeezed her hand back. “Let’s finish this thing,” he said quietly. “And then I’m drawing up blueprints for a snack throne. You deserve both.”

Because if Indigo was getting a throne,
then so was the queen who made it.

Rowan blinked at him, trying to look unimpressed, but her mouth was already curving. “You’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “I threaten you with dessert-based humiliation, and you take it as foreplay. We’re doomed.”

He bumped her knee, and she smirked, brushing her hair off her cheek. “Also, OSHA would one hundred percent shut us down,” she shot back. “You? Gelatinous. Me? Five months pregnant and unsupervised with a screwdriver. This whole operation’s a walking safety violation.”

But then he said if I didn’t already believe in soulmates, and she felt it — the shift, that little ache that always followed when he got serious out of nowhere. Her teasing stilled for just a second. She met his eyes, all soft warmth and disbelief wrapped into one. “You really have to stop saying stuff like that mid–construction project,” she murmured. “You’re gonna make me cry on the hardware.”

He kissed her, and she leaned in without thinking, the taste of him mixing with paint and sugar and home. When he pulled back, she laughed quietly, eyes still closed. “You do realize if Indigo ever hears you say things like that, she’s never gonna let you live it down. Like, first word out of her mouth might actually be cringe.”

Then he fumbled the quote, and she gasped, mock scandalized. “Oh, you better believe I’m telling her that one,” she said, hand pressed to her chest in exaggerated horror. “The great Mason Hayes — the leading man of the Evergreen High spring play — mixing up Austen and Shakespeare? Oh, she’s gonna dine on that story for years.”

She poked his chest with the screwdriver for emphasis. “Don’t think being emotionally compromised gets you a free pass, Mr. Fake Theater Kid. I’ve got receipts.”

Her voice softened, though, as she caught the way he looked at her again — like she was still mid-monologue and he hadn’t remembered to breathe. She gave his hand a squeeze. “You know,” she said, quieter now, “you say stuff like that, and suddenly I remember why I agreed to let you near power tools.”

She tilted her head, watching him line up the last piece of the crib, still smirking. “But fine. Let’s finish this ‘throne.’ And when you build my snack chair, make sure it reclines. Queen deserves lumbar support.”

She leaned over just enough to bump her shoulder against his, grinning. “And Mason?” she added, voice dropping playful but tender. “For the record — if Indigo ever asks, I’m totally telling her the crib was a masterpiece. But I’m definitely telling her you got Austen wrong.”

She kissed his cheek, low and warm. “A queen’s gotta keep her king humble.”

Mason practically melted.

Right there on the nursery floor — paint-streaked, covered in Allen wrench regret, knee-deep in misaligned crib pieces — he was done for.

“Okay,” he whispered dramatically, eyes wide and hand over his heart like she’d just delivered a Tony Award-worthy monologue. “You’re threatening me with receipts and literary slander and somehow I’m even more in love with you. What does that say about me?”

He wiggled his eyebrows, but his voice turned a little breathless when she kissed his cheek like that. Warm. Casual. Devastating.

“You’re dangerous, Starling,” he murmured, eyes catching hers. “Like, weapon-grade tenderness over here. You call me pudding, roast my stage credentials, and then kiss me like that? That’s psychological warfare.”

Then he sighed deeply — fake dramatic but somehow still sincere — and gestured to the nearly finished crib. “Alright, let’s finish building our daughter’s crooked palace of doom. And then I’ll get started on your snack throne. Reclining. With cupholders. Maybe even Bluetooth.”

He leaned close, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Because if I’m gonna be emotionally wrecked and out-quoted by my own child, I at least wanna be doing it next to you. Preferably with snacks.”

And just before turning back to the last bolt, he tapped her finger with the screwdriver like a pinky swear. “Also? Don’t ever stop keeping me humble. It’s weirdly hot.”

He shot her a grin that was entirely Mason — all goof and glow and theater boy wrecked — then got back to work, humming softly under his breath as they finished the last pieces together.

Rowan’s laugh came out low and warm, the kind that curled around a person and stayed. “You have got to stop calling me dangerous like it’s a compliment,” she said, tilting her head toward him. “You make it sound like I should have a warning label.”

Her grin widened. “Although… weapon-grade tenderness? That one’s going on a T-shirt. Don’t tempt me, Hayes.”

He gestured toward the crib, and she looked at it the way someone might look at a miracle that didn’t quite follow the blueprints—tilted, imperfect, still standing. “Crooked palace of doom,” she repeated, amused. “You say that like it isn’t exactly the vibe we’re going for. She’s going to be born into pure chaos; might as well make it aesthetic.”

When he whispered about snacks, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “Deal,” she said softly. “You bring the snacks, I’ll bring the attitude. That’s our system.”

He tapped her finger with the screwdriver, and she caught it before he could pull away, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’ll keep you humble,” she promised. “Somebody has to make sure your pudding-theater-boy ego doesn’t inflate and float out the window.”

Her tone softened as he turned back to the last bolt, humming under his breath. She watched him for a moment—this ridiculous, earnest, perfect disaster of a man—and reached over to steady the panel he was tightening.

“There,” she murmured when it finally clicked into place. “We did it.”

The crib wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdy enough, beautiful in its lopsided way. She leaned against him, her bump fitting comfortably against his side, and smiled. “Our first masterpiece,” she said quietly. “Crooked, chaotic, completely ours.”

Then, teasing again: “Now get to work on my throne, Hayes. The queen demands snacks.”