Rowan arched a brow, the corner of her mouth already curving up into a smirk before he even finished the line about the librarian’s desk. “Okay, first of all,” she said, poking his leg lightly with her boot, “you absolutely would fall off the desk like Jack sinking into the ocean. And I’d laugh. Lovingly. But still.”

She leaned in, chin tilted with mock solemnity. “Second, if you think I’m letting you read a poem about my boots in a fake accent without filming it for blackmail purposes, you clearly underestimate me.”

A pause.

Then she grinned. That full, too-sharp, too-honest Rowan grin that meant he’d already won her over.

“The woods are tempting,” she admitted. “But I vote bookstore. Bad YA reenactments, fake accents, public humiliation. I’ll even let you wear the Peeta apron.”

She flicked her fingers toward him in a royal little gesture. “But I’m Katniss. Obviously.”

Another beat.

“And I’m not sharing my cookies next time unless you give me a scene partner worthy of the arena.”

Rowan bumped her shoulder into his with a casual kind of warmth, her voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “You pick the book. I’ll pick the weapon.”

And just like that, it was settled: chaos would commence—somewhere between poetry, sarcasm, and a bookstore battlefield.

Mason tried to play it cool.

He really did.

But Rowan Starling had just offered him Peeta’s apron and full access to her Hunger Games villain era, and frankly, his brain short-circuited somewhere between “blackmail purposes” and “worthy of the arena.”

He cleared his throat like a man preparing to deliver a TED Talk. Or perhaps... a dramatic monologue in the middle of Barnes & Noble.

“Alright, Miss Everdeen,” he said, scooting an inch closer like that somehow gave his words more gravity. “If we’re going full Hunger Games, I’m going to need a book with emotional depth, narrative gravitas, and at least one unhinged character I can base my entire performance on.”

He snapped his fingers dramatically, eyes lighting up.

“Twilight. Final answer.”

He held up a hand before she could interrupt. “Before you judge me, just picture it: I show up in the Peeta apron and a vampire cape. I monologue about eternal suffering while aggressively frosting cupcakes. You throw cookies like throwing stars. I reenact Edward leaving Bella in the woods but with slightly more jazz hands and slightly less emotional repression.”

He wiggled his brows. “Oscar-worthy, honestly.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in with mock-serious intensity.

“Now, your turn. Pick your weapon. I’m personally hoping it’s something deeply impractical, like a haunted typewriter or an aggressively large Shakespeare bust. I feel like that really sets the tone.”

He bumped her shoulder back, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Come on, Starling. If we’re going to go down in a blaze of YA glory, we might as well make it cinematic.”

Rowan blinked once. Twice. Then fixed him with a look so flat it could’ve leveled a small country.

“You absolute menace,” she said, her tone dry enough to make the Sahara jealous. “The Cullens didn’t wear capes, Hayes. They donned chic designer trench coats and bore the weight of deep-seated emotional repression. Honestly, I expected more from you.”

She leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand, her eyes gleaming with a playful challenge. “And Twilight? Really? You had every unhinged YA series at your disposal, and that’s the one you choose? We could’ve explored the morally gray world of Shadowhunters or the dramatic realm of fae with traumatic backstories—but no. You want to monologue about immortality in a Peeta apron while I hurl baked goods at you. That’s your grand vision.”

She didn’t sound mad; instead, she exuded delight.

“And I hate that I kind of want to see it.”

Her fingers reached for his collar, smoothing out a wrinkle with a gesture that held warmth and a hint of threat. “But for the record? If you show up wearing a cape, I will revoke your frosting privileges.”

She leaned back now, a smug expression gracing her features, regal in her composure.

“As for my weapon…” She pretended to ponder, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop. “A vintage hardcover of Wuthering Heights, annotated in blood-red ink and emotional trauma. Or perhaps just a sharpened eyeliner pencil accompanied by a passionate monologue about Katniss dismantling the patriarchy. It really depends on the vibe.”

Then, with a teasing flick of her fingers, she tapped the tip of his nose and said in a mock-sweet tone, “Start stretching, drama boy. You’ve got a performance to rehearse.”

And just like that, she had plunged into the delightful chaos with him—her eyes bright, voice steady, ready to commandeer the entire bookstore stage.

“The Twilight saga,” he said, clutching his chest with both hands like he’d been personally wounded, “is a generational cornerstone. A cultural touchstone, Starling. Show some respect for the holy text that gave us baseball vampires and one of the most unhinged love triangles in cinematic history.”

He sat back in mock horror, looking at her like she’d committed a literary crime. “They sparkled, Rowan. They played thunderstorm baseball in slow motion. The Cullens didn’t need capes—they had attitude, cheekbones, and inexplicably perfect skin despite literally never sleeping. Legends.”

Then, like a switch flipped, he straightened, narrowed his eyes, and dropped his voice an octave. “Also, let’s be honest—I mostly picked Twilight because I wanted an excuse to wear a cape. A dramatic, floor-length, swishy one. Maybe velvet. Maybe with embroidery.”

He struck a pose like a tragic antihero whose backstory involved moonlight and betrayal.

And with absolutely no warning, Mason launched into action, placing one dramatic hand over his heart.

“Say it out loud,” he intoned gravely, already attracting the bewildered stares of three freshmen popping their heads in from the hallway like groundhogs summoned by chaos. “Vampire.”

He pointed at Rowan with the exaggerated flourish of a soap opera actor. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you… and your judgment. And your eyeliner pencil of destruction. But I will endure, because my love is eternal and chic as hell.”

He paced a small circle like it was a Broadway stage and he was playing all three leads in a one-man dystopian romantic thriller.

Then he dropped to one knee with his best tragic Edward Cullen expression. “If it weren’t for the baby pink frosting on your molasses cookie, I would’ve had nothing to live for in that bookstore battlefield.”

Then he leapt up, grabbed a plastic fork from his bag like it was a sacred dagger, and held it aloft.

“Behold! Wuthering Bites: The Musical—featuring tortured feelings, eyeliner-based violence, and at least one very passionate soliloquy about sparkling masculinity!”

He paused just long enough to grin at her, flushed with laughter and totally unbothered by the half-dozen people now pretending not to watch from the edge of the hallway. Which, to be fair, was impossible.

“Your move, Katniss,” he said, breathless, dramatic, utterly in love. “But just so we’re clear—I’m absolutely showing up in a cape. With glitter. And probably eyeliner.”

Rowan blinked at him, deadpan. “You absolute disaster of a human.”

But her voice was full of amusement, and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth betrayed her long before she could fight it off. She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back in her chair like a queen watching her jester spiral into theatrical oblivion, and raised a single eyebrow.

“I take it back,” she said sweetly. “You should wear the cape. You’ve earned it. Maybe we’ll get you a matching bedazzled diary too, so you can chronicle your immortal suffering in glitter gel pen.”

She reached out and calmly plucked the plastic fork from his hand like she was disarming a rogue toddler.

“And this,” she said, holding it up like an exhibit in a court case, “is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

Her eyes glittered with mischief now, voice turning mock-serious. “Also, I’m going to need a full script of Wuthering Bites: The Musical by Friday. With choreography. And original score. If I don’t get at least one dramatic ballad called ‘Sparkle and Suffer,’ I’m walking.”

Then she leaned forward, hands braced on the table, eyes locking with his in the quietest, most devastating way.

“But for the record,” she murmured, too soft for anyone else to hear, “you’re lucky I love disasters.”

She stole the last bite of his cookie.

And smiled like she was already planning the next act.

Mason beamed like he’d just been knighted with a glitter-coated sword.

Finally. She was seeing the light. The sparkling, overly dramatic, YA adaptation light.

He executed a dramatic, sweeping bow for their hallway audience—one hand pressed to his chest, the other flung wide like a curtain-call flourish. “Thank you, thank you. I dedicate this performance to Catherine Hardwicke, Stephanie Meyer, and the dramatic potential of plastic cutlery.”

The three freshmen reluctantly peeled themselves away, one of them muttering something that definitely sounded like “what just happened,” before disappearing down the hall in a blur of whispers and snack wrappers. As soon as they vanished, Mason turned back to Rowan with the pleased expression of a man who had caused precisely the amount of chaos he intended.

He perched on the edge of the bench like a lounge singer-meets-community theater lead, eyes twinkling. “You know,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table like a drumroll, “I wasn’t going to reveal this until opening night, but you’ve earned a sneak peek of the Wuthering Bites choreography.”

Without waiting for permission—because really, when had that ever stopped him—he popped up to standing and took two exaggerated steps back like he needed space for greatness.

“Okay, imagine this: dim lighting, fog machine on low, tragic piano intro. Then—bam.” He struck a pose, one hand on his chest, the other reaching for the heavens. “Sparkle and Suffer: Requiem for a Vampire’s Soul.”

He twirled once with the energy of a caffeinated figure skater, dropped to his knees with flourish, and mimed biting into a dramatically oversized neck.

“Verse one,” he said between movements, “is interpretive dance meets slow-motion agony. Then the chorus hits—key change, obviously—and that’s when the jazz hands come in. Not subtle jazz hands,” he clarified. “Haunted jazz hands.”

He stood again and wiggled his fingers with eerie flair, then threw in a few awkwardly heartfelt arm flourishes, like someone trying to summon ghosts via ballet.

“Final number? Ballroom-style waltz with a fog machine encore and maybe a disco ball. Tragic, sparkly, transcendent.”

Then he stopped, panting lightly, curls flopping into his eyes, the proudest grin on his face like he’d just delivered a Tony-worthy sneak preview.

He looked at her with all the shameless affection in the world. “You can’t stop me. You already said I could wear the cape.”

And when she just shook her head and rolled her eyes, Mason leaned forward, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and added, “Also, I’m naming the diary Twiblooded. It’s gonna have ribbon bookmarks and emotionally devastating stickers.”

And just like that, the next act was already in motion.

Rowan just stared at him. Like one might stare at a majestic, unhinged bird doing jazz hands in the middle of a library fire drill.

“Okay,” she said, voice perfectly flat, “first of all, I hope you know there’s no coming back from ‘haunted jazz hands.’ That phrase lives in my brain now. Rent-free. With a skylight.”

She held up a finger, dead serious. “Second, if you ever actually waltz through fog with a disco ball while singing about immortal longing, I’m calling the Tony committee myself. They won’t know whether to cry or run.”

But she was smiling. Fighting it, sure—but it was there. That soft, impossible-to-hide smile that said she’d watched every second of his chaos and secretly kind of loved it. Maybe a little too much.

“Also,” she added, crossing her arms and tilting her head, “you’re dangerously close to being banned from using the words ‘Twiblooded’ and ‘emotionally devastating stickers’ in the same sentence. There are laws, Hayes. Federal ones.”

Still, when he flopped back into the seat beside her with that breathless, starry-eyed grin, Rowan didn’t scoot away. She nudged his knee with hers instead.

“And just so you know,” she said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp, “if this musical actually happens, I want executive producer credit, final say on all costumes, and the right to dramatically close the curtain with a single, soul-crushing eye roll.”

She looked at him sideways, expression caught somewhere between affection and disbelief. “God help me, I’m in.”

She reached over and plucked a crumb off his shirt like it was payment for her suffering. “But if you show up to tech rehearsal in glitter eyeliner and say something like ‘the drama lives within me,’ I’m walking.”

Pause.

A smirk.

“Okay, I’ll walk in slow motion. With fog. And a cape.”

Because if Mason was going down in YA-inspired musical flames, Rowan Starling was absolutely going down with him—sparkling, smirking, and unapologetically dramatic.

Mason looked at her like she’d just handed him a signed contract and a glitter-dipped sword.

“Rowan Starling,” he said reverently, placing a hand over his heart as if she’d just pledged eternal loyalty to the High Court of Theatrical Nonsense, “you have no idea how much joy it brings me to hear you say those words. Executive producer credit? Done. Final say on costumes? Obviously. Curtain control via soul-crushing eye roll? Honestly, how could we not?”

He leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “And for the record, I cannot wait to see you in a cape.” His voice dropped an octave, mock-serious. “You’ll be devastating. Iconic. Probably banned from multiple school assemblies for causing spontaneous swooning.”

Before she could roll her eyes again—or weaponize another cookie crumb—Mason grinned and pressed a quick, giddy kiss to her cheek. Just a brush of warmth, light and easy, but it lingered longer in the space between them than either of them admitted.

“I’ll try to tone down the haunted jazz hands at the next rehearsal,” he said against her temple, though the mischievous curl of his mouth suggested he would do no such thing.

He flopped back with a dramatic sigh, legs stretched too far under the table like a boy who’d just survived the emotional rollercoaster of staging Wuthering Bites: The Musical. “God, I love pretend scenarios we’re definitely never going to do and yet I’m already emotionally invested in.”

Rowan nudged his side with her elbow. “It’s the glitter gel pen diaries. That’s where the real commitment begins.”

He was about to respond—something stupid, probably, about embroidered velvet bookmarks—when the bell rang.

They both froze.

“Oh—crap,” Mason blurted, scrambling for his bag with the same frantic energy of a man late to his own fictional tech rehearsal. “We lost track of time! I blame your face.”

“You always blame my face,” Rowan said, already halfway out of her seat, grabbing her things with well-practiced chaos.

“Because it’s distracting,” he shot back, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as they rushed for the hallway. “You’ve got... main character eyes. It’s a problem.”

“Tell it to the Tony committee, Hayes.”

He laughed—unapologetically, brightly, the sound of a boy who would absolutely stage a YA vampire musical just to make her smile again.

And as they disappeared into the crowd, the last of the pretend glitter still sparkled in the air between them.

Mason’s fingers tightened gently around hers as he led her up the final flight of stairs, the metal steps creaking beneath their feet with every careful step. The hallway behind them was already swallowed in shadows—school long since closed, lights turned off except for the occasional glowing EXIT sign casting eerie red halos on the walls.

He paused at the door to the roof, pulling a bobby pin from his pocket. “Don’t ask,” he murmured with a grin she couldn’t see, but that lived in the softness of his voice.

The lock clicked.

He opened it slowly, revealing a narrow slice of the night sky—and then held it open for her like it was some kind of secret.

The air hit them immediately. Cool and crisp, like it had been waiting all day behind that heavy door just to breathe again. A breeze stirred his jacket, and he let go of her hand only long enough to step out, make sure the coast was clear, then turn back with a gesture that said come on—this is for you.

They crossed to the center of the roof, where he’d already laid out the blanket, tucked into the corner near the low brick wall. A thermos sat beside it, still warm, still waiting. He’d gotten here early—skipping dinner, skipping everything—because he’d wanted it to be perfect.

Because she used to draw constellations in the margins of her notebooks, back before the world decided who she was supposed to be.

Because he remembered.

Mason dropped to sit first, legs stretched out, palms bracing behind him as he tilted his head back to the stars. They weren’t brilliant tonight—not the kind of stars you saw in mountain towns with no light pollution—but they were enough. Scattered like freckles across the sky. Real.

The kind of stars you only noticed if you were still long enough.

He patted the space beside him, then looked over—not with a smirk or challenge, just that quiet, open awe he always seemed to wear around her. Like every moment with her was something he didn’t quite know how to hold without trembling a little.

“You know,” he said softly, more to the sky than to her, “I used to wonder if you knew how rare it was. The way you saw things. The way you used to draw maps like the universe was something you could keep in your pocket.”

He exhaled slowly, watching the clouds of his breath disappear into the dark.

“I thought if I could get you up here, maybe it would feel like that again. Like something untouched.”

He reached for the thermos and poured two cups, the steam rising in silver ribbons.

“I’ll shut up now,” he said, placing one near her side. “Just wanted you to see it. The real sky. Not the kind people stare at through filters.”

And then he leaned back again, head tipped toward the heavens, heart full of all the things he didn’t say.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

She stood still, just inside the open door, the wind teasing at the edges of her sweater, curls lifting like they recognized the altitude. The rooftop stretched quiet in front of her—just concrete and sky and Mason, looking at the stars like they might give him permission to dream a little louder.

She could’ve made a joke. Could’ve deflected with a sarcastic comment or teased him about the thermos like it wasn’t the softest thing anyone had ever done for her.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a moment for armor.

She crossed the space slowly, boots echoing in the hush between them, and sat down beside him without a word. Close enough that their knees touched. Close enough to feel the heat of the cup before she even reached for it.

The stars weren’t impressive. Not really. They were faint and scattered, dulled by the glow of town lights. But sitting there, her fingers wrapped around something warm, the smell of cinnamon and clove curling in the air between them—it was enough.

More than enough.

Rowan glanced over, watching the way Mason’s profile softened in the dark. How he looked up like he was trying to memorize the map of the sky and not just sit under it. And something in her chest pulled tight. Not in the painful way. In the way that felt like coming home.

“You remembered,” she said quietly.

Not just the notebook. Not just the stars. But her. The version she thought no one had been paying attention to. The girl who used to believe in constellations and signs and secret wishes. The one who still did, sometimes, when it was late and no one was watching.

She took a sip. The cider was perfect.

“You’re such a dork,” she added after a beat, voice soft with affection. “Breaking into the roof and bribing me with nostalgia and warm drinks. What are you trying to do, Hayes?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She just leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing into the space between them like she’d been holding her breath for days.

And the stars?

They didn’t get any brighter.

But somehow, they felt closer.