Mason Hayes had never been rendered speechless.

Not really. Not in the way that counted.

Sure, he’d missed a line once or twice on stage—had gone blank during a quiz, gotten flustered during a pop presentation. But this? This was a different kind of blank. Not empty. Not panicked.

Overwhelmed.

Like his brain short-circuited at the exact second his heart decided to go off-script.

I love you, Mason.

Once, and it cracked something open.

Twice, and he swore his ribs would never close the same way again.

Three times—and he was gone.

Somewhere between the brush of her thumb on his jaw and the kiss that wasn’t asking for anything—he realized she’d just given him everything. And he was supposed to say something. Anything.

But how the hell did you respond when the girl you’d been quietly orbiting for years looked at you like a galaxy she’d chosen to stop chasing?

Say something, his mind begged.

Say something, you idiot. She just handed you the stars.

His throat worked, but no sound came.

She was still so close. Her fingers behind his neck, the warmth of her breath brushing his cheek, the steady weight of her love settling into every part of him he hadn’t known was starving for it.

And God, she meant it.

Not because she had to.

Not because he earned it with rooftop cider and mixtapes and jokes he barely believed she laughed at.

But because she saw him. And still chose him.

His voice finally broke free—shaky, rough around the edges, but real. So real.

“I love you too.”

He exhaled, a little breathless. A little stunned. Like he couldn’t believe he got to say it back and mean it this much.

“I love you, Rowan.”

He swallowed hard, then let out a crooked laugh against her temple.

“And how—how—am I supposed to not combust after you say that out loud three times like some gorgeous emotional summoning spell?”

He tilted his head, forehead against hers, and grinned through the chaos blooming in his chest.

“You basically just looked me dead in the soul and said ‘boom,’ Starling.”

His arms tightened around her instinctively, as if afraid she might vanish now that the words were out in the world.

“But, uh…”

He cleared his throat, eyes darting to her lips, then away again like even looking at her might set him off.

“You should know that every time you say I love you, my brain stops working and my body starts considering very non-wholesome activities that would absolutely get us kicked off this roof.”

His smile turned shameless. Flushed and giddy and completely wrecked by her.

“I mean—I’m trying to be the sweet, respectful boyfriend here, but you keep saying things like that and suddenly I’m picturing a very dramatic slow burn version of us making out until sunrise.”

A beat.

“Which I won’t initiate,” he added quickly, holding up one hand in mock surrender, “unless you do. In which case, I’ll go down in history as the most enthusiastically combusted boyfriend of all time.”

He looked at her again—really looked.

And all the joking melted into something quieter. More reverent.

“I love you,” he said once more, softer this time. A secret just for her. “You’re not getting that one back.”

Then, with her tucked against him again, he pulled the blanket higher around them, heart still pounding like it hadn’t caught up to the moment yet.

Because she loved him.

Because he’d said it back.

Because somehow, against every odd, every reputation, every shadow they’d both lived in—

They’d found their way to this rooftop.

And to each other.

Rowan didn’t laugh.

She should’ve. He’d teed it up perfectly—dramatic flailing, heartfelt sarcasm, the kind of ramble only Mason could deliver with flushed cheeks and absolute sincerity. But she didn’t.

Because something about the way he said I love you—like it unraveled him just a little—made her want to gather him up and never let go.

So instead of laughing, she kissed him.

Slow. Intentional. Not to make him breathless, but to answer him in a language she’d always trusted more than words. Her hand slid under his hoodie, fingers brushing the warmth of his side, and she leaned in like the space between them had always been a myth.

“I don’t want it back,” she murmured, lips grazing his as she spoke. “You said it. It’s mine now.”

She pressed her forehead to his, breathing him in—cinnamon and cold air and everything steady.

“And you,” she added, quieter now, like it was the secret she hadn’t known how to say until this second, “you’re it for me too.”

Her thumb traced along his jaw, then dropped to the edge of his hoodie again, just to feel the rhythm of him beneath her palm. Not frantic. Not overwhelmed.

Just here. With her.

“You talk a big game,” she whispered, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back again. “But you should know… I fully intend to kiss you until the stars forget how to shine.”

And then she did.

Not hurried. Not careful.

Just real.

Like love when it stops being a story and starts being the truth.

Rowan leaned in again—closer, slower—one hand slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie like it belonged there, fingers splayed across the warm curve of his back. Her other hand moved to his jaw, steady and sure, guiding him to her like gravity had always meant for them to meet right here.

And then she kissed him.

Not soft. Not testing.

Deep.

Like the kind of kiss that rewrites timelines. That says I love you with no air left for doubt.

He made a sound—half breath, half surrender—and her fingers curled tighter against his side, anchoring them to the moment, to the rooftop, to each other.

The stars blurred behind her closed eyes. The night hushed.

All she could feel was him.

Mason, kissing her back like he’d waited a thousand lifetimes. Mason, warm and solid beneath her hands. Mason, hers.

When she finally pulled back—barely, just enough to breathe—she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested against his again, noses brushing, breath shared.

“I meant it,” she whispered, voice thick. “Every word.”

And then she kissed him again.

Because once wasn’t enough. Because when it was this real, this right, this wreck-you-slow kind of love—how could it ever be?

She kissed him until the cold didn’t matter. Until her hands stopped shaking. Until she knew he felt it too.

That this wasn’t a scene.

This was them.

Mason kissed her back like his life had been leading up to this exact moment—like he’d spent the last few years collecting every piece of himself just so he could give it to her now, all at once, with no take-backs and no fear.

And God, she was kissing him.

Not just the quick, flirty kind she threw at him in the parking lot when she thought no one was looking. This was something else. Something that made his pulse stutter and his brain go no thoughts, just Rowan. Her fingers beneath his hoodie were warm and reverent, like she wasn’t just touching skin—she was touching him, the parts of him that had waited, quietly, for someone to see.

His body reacted instantly, drawn to her in a way that wasn’t new, but never stopped feeling electric. He wanted her—of course he did. He always had. But this time, it wasn’t about tension or temptation. It was about knowing. About love. About the way she was laying herself bare for him, and how every inch of his soul ached to hold her right there and never let her forget how wanted she was.

And still…

He was a gentleman first.

Even if she kissed like she was rewriting the constellations just to make room for them.

Her breath was still ghosting his lips when he smiled—messy, overwhelmed, so in love. His voice was low when he finally spoke, laced with longing and reverence.

“You can’t say things like that to me,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “I already told you, I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

He kissed her again—slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that asked permission even as it answered yes. His hands slid to her waist, holding her gently, firmly, grounding them both. Then one hand slipped up her back, fingers brushing under the hem of her sweater, just barely.

Not demanding. Not pushing.

Just asking.

Because as much as he wanted her—God, did he want her—he wanted her to know she never had to give more than she wanted. That he’d still be here. Still hers. Whether they kissed until the sky fell or stopped right here and just held on.

His lips lingered against hers, and he whispered it like a vow:

“I love you.”

Again.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Because he couldn’t.

And when he pulled back—forehead pressed to hers, eyes fluttering open just enough to drink her in—he said, softly:

“Tell me what you want, Starling. Because whatever it is… I’m already in.”

He didn’t say it to impress her.

He said it like it was fact. Like her name had always been written into the fine print of his heartbeat, and now he was just handing her the pen.

But when she didn’t answer right away—when she just stayed there, curled into him, lips parted, breath warm—he smiled. Slow. Crooked. A little breathless.

“No pressure,” he added, thumb brushing just beneath her lip. “But if you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna start believing the stars came out tonight just to watch us.”

His grin softened into something quieter. More reverent.

“You wreck me, you know that?”

He looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

And then he pulled her closer—just enough to hold her the way she deserved to be held. Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like every version of her was safe with him.

And he didn’t need the night to go further. Didn’t need the kiss to deepen.

Not unless she wanted it.

Because this—her heartbeat against his, the weight of her love spoken aloud, her hands tangled in him like he was something worth holding onto—this was already everything.

And Mason Hayes?

Yeah.

He was hers.

Fully.

Finally.

And without a single doubt.

She didn’t rush.

Rowan just breathed for a second—really breathed, like she’d forgotten how until this exact moment. Until the weight of Mason’s words settled into her ribs, quiet and anchoring and real. He loved her. He loved her. And somehow, that didn’t feel like a shock.

It felt like gravity finally telling the truth.

So she leaned in. Pressed her mouth to his again—slow, purposeful. No teasing this time. No sarcasm to deflect how much she meant it. Just her, kissing him like a thank you. Like a promise. Like every “I love you” she hadn’t said yet was stitched into the shape of her mouth against his.

Her gloves were still on. She felt the fabric between them. A barrier. Too much.

She pulled away gently, slid both gloves off without a word, and dropped them to the edge of the blanket. Her fingers were cold, but she didn’t care. She touched his jaw, his cheek, the side of his neck—soft, steady, reverent. And when she felt him lean into it, when his breath caught just slightly in his throat, she moved closer.

Rowan let her hand slip beneath the hem of his hoodie—just enough to feel the warmth of him. The rise and fall of his breathing. Her palm pressed flat against his stomach, and her heart stuttered when she felt how hard it was beating.

Not from nerves.

From this. From her.

She didn’t go further.

Didn’t need to.

Because right now, it wasn’t about what came next. It wasn’t about where it led.

It was about here.

About the stars above them. The blanket beneath them. The way his hand covered hers like he was afraid to let her go.

Rowan rested her forehead against his and whispered, “You’re it for me, too.”

Then she kissed him again, deeper this time, slower—like she was trying to memorize the shape of his breath. And maybe she was. Maybe that was the point.

Because she loved him.

And tonight?

She wanted him to feel it in every single way she knew.

Rowan shifted closer, letting the thick wool of her sweater stretch as she leaned in, her hand pressed flat beneath the hem of his hoodie, against the warm rhythm of his chest. It was steady. Solid. Real. And it grounded her more than the brick at her back or the blanket beneath her knees ever could.

The rooftop was cold, but she wasn’t. Not like that. Not with this—his arm at her back, the weight of him beside her, the way his breath hitched when her fingers brushed his skin like a secret. Like she’d unlocked something she hadn’t meant to, but wouldn’t give back now that it was hers.

She kissed him again, slower this time.

Not out of hesitation. Out of purpose.

There was no audience here. No lights. Just city noise humming beneath them, distant and unbothered. And her, learning the shape of his mouth like it might tell her something about the kind of boy who brings cider to rooftops and remembers the drawings you forgot you ever gave.

Her sweater caught slightly against his as she shifted—knees tucked under her, one hand still resting against the heat of his side. Her other hand found his hair, fingertips threading lightly through the curls at his neck. He tilted toward her, instinctive, open, and she felt it all at once: the want, the care, the quiet reverence of being chosen and choosing in return.

When she finally broke the kiss, she stayed close.

Let her forehead rest against his. Let her breath settle. Let the world go blurry at the edges, like maybe the stars had tilted a little just to make space for this.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She just let her fingers trace lazy, silent shapes across his stomach—small, grounding motions that said I’m still here. That said this matters. That said everything.

Because it did.

Because he did.

Because for once, she wasn’t chasing calm in books or margins or constellations.

She’d found it.

Right here.

Mason was still trying to breathe like a functional human being.

Which, frankly, was a challenge when Rowan Starling was looking at him like that and touching him like this and kissing him like every inch of air between them was negotiable.

Her hand on his stomach wasn’t even doing anything wild—just resting there, warm and grounding—but his entire nervous system had basically filed for early retirement.

And her fingers? Drawing those slow, lazy shapes? Yeah. That was it. He was toast.

“This is dangerous,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Rowan pulled back just enough to blink at him, brows drawn in a soft frown. Not worried. Just curious.

He took a breath, eyes wide with mock-gravity. “You touching me like that while I’m trying to have an emotionally grounded rooftop moment? That’s, like, a violation of genre rules.”

She stared at him. He powered through.

“I mean, where’s the slow dissolve? The fade to black? The—hell, I don’t know—a musical number to transition us gently into the next act?”

That finally earned him a laugh. Not a loud one—just a breath, just a smile—but God, it lit her face like a second moon.

Mason’s grin softened, and he reached up to brush a curl behind her ear.

“Not saying stop,” he added, voice dropping low, the warmth curling around every syllable. His palm skimmed along her back, under the sweater now, fingertips reverent as they settled at her waist. “Just saying if you don’t stop, I’m about thirty seconds from spontaneous combustion—and it’s gonna be on theme.”

She smirked at that—slow, knowing—and he couldn’t help it. He kissed her again, quick this time, then slower, then all in.

Because yeah, he was flirting. Yeah, he was teasing.

But underneath it?

He was wrecked.

By her. For her. Because of her.

And if she really wanted to kiss him until the stars forgot how to shine?

He’d let the whole damn sky go dark.

Rowan could still feel the shape of his laugh against her mouth.

He’d said something ridiculous—of course he had—and part of her wanted to roll her eyes, call him a menace, maybe shove him lightly just for being too good at this. But the other part, the louder one, the one that didn’t flinch anymore when things got real?

That part wanted to memorize everything.

The way his breath hitched when her fingers brushed skin. The way his eyes flicked to her lips like they were magnetic. The way he let her in—completely, fearlessly—even when he was joking about spontaneous combustion.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Instead, she shifted closer, straddling the line between control and surrender like it was a balance beam made of velvet and stars. Her sweater bunched slightly at the wrists as she leaned in again, palms flat against his chest now, slow and certain.

She kissed him quiet.

Not to hush him, not really.

Just to prove she could.

And maybe a little to see if that grin of his would curl against her lips the way it always did—like she was his favorite surprise.

Her fingers moved on instinct, not rushed, not planned—just curious. The way his heart jumped under her touch made hers do the same. She slid one hand beneath the hem of his hoodie again, not for heat, not even for closeness, but because it felt right. Because he felt like hers.

And when she pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, breathless, eyes so full of light it hurt—she smiled.

“I like you like this,” she whispered, voice barely there. “Completely undone. All mine.”

Then she pressed a kiss to his cheek, then another near the edge of his jaw, and finally rested her head against his shoulder, her arms wrapping loosely around his middle.

She didn’t need more than this.

The quiet. The closeness. The promise humming between them like a favorite line in a book she already knew by heart.

He made her feel like a story worth telling.

And tonight?

She wasn’t scared of the ending.

Mason had no idea how his heart was still functioning.

Because this—her—was the kind of magic that rewired a person. She’d kissed him into stillness, touched him into reverence, and now she was curled against his chest like that was where she’d always belonged.

And maybe she had.

He looked down at her, at the crown of her head tucked beneath his chin, and wondered—really wondered—if he’d ever stop feeling like this. Like every molecule in his body had been rewired to respond to her voice, her smile, her heartbeat pressed against his ribs like it belonged there.

Probably not.

Honestly, hopefully not.

Because Rowan Starling had just told him—shown him—that he was hers. That she loved him. That he didn’t have to earn it or chase it or prove it.

And Mason? He’d been in love with her for so long that sometimes he forgot it wasn’t obvious. Forgot that it wasn’t tattooed across his forehead or stitched into the cuffs of his sleeves. But now it didn’t have to be hidden. Now she knew.

Now she was here.

“I don’t think I’m ever coming back down,” he whispered, more to himself than her, voice thick with awe and something breathless. “Like, this is it. I’m a rooftop boy now. My address is your shoulder.”

He felt her laugh against him—soft and warm and silent—and he smiled so wide it ached.

His hand slid beneath the edge of her sweater, palm resting flat against the small of her back, fingers splayed like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t hold on with both heart and body. But he didn’t push. Didn’t take.

He just held.

Because this wasn’t about hunger—it was about home.

“You wreck me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “You actually wreck me.”

A beat passed. Two.

Then, playfully, softly, “But also? That whole ‘completely undone, all mine’ thing? Yeah. Um. Gonna need you to be really careful saying stuff like that, because I will turn into a puddle. An actual, romantic soup. Right here. On this roof.”

He felt her arms squeeze tighter around him.

And in that moment—wrapped in a blanket that smelled like thrift store laundry and cider steam, her heartbeat tucked into his, their breath mingling with the sky—Mason Hayes knew one thing for sure:

He had won the girl of his dreams.

And there wasn’t a single version of the future where he didn’t wake up every day stunned and stupidly, gloriously grateful that she was real.

And his.

Rowan didn’t speak.

She couldn’t—not with the way her throat ached, full of everything she wanted to say and none of the words to shape it. So instead, she shifted, just slightly, curling tighter into him. Her fingers slid beneath the hem of his hoodie again, tracing that familiar curve of his back, the one she’d memorized without even realizing it.

He was rambling, in that Mason way—soft and sincere and completely overwhelmed—and every word made something inside her splinter and knit itself back together stronger.

Romantic soup. Rooftop boy. Her shoulder as an address.

God.

She could feel his heartbeat against her palm. Steady, uneven, real. Like her name lived there now.

And when he said she wrecked him—said it like a confession, like a miracle—she felt something in her chest stretch wide open.

Because she knew what it was to be wrecked. She’d spent years learning how to rebuild herself from the rubble. But this? This wasn’t destruction. This was surrender. Quiet. Certain.

She pulled back just enough to look at him—just enough to see the way the moonlight curved along his jaw, how his lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks, how wrecked could also mean wonder.

Then she leaned in.

Pressed her lips to his, slow and deep, like a vow she wasn’t afraid to speak with her body instead of her voice. She kissed him like he was the only real thing in the world. Like every breath she had left was meant for him.

And when she finally pulled away, eyes searching his, she didn’t say I love you again.

She didn’t need to.

It was in her smile.

In the way she cradled the back of his neck.

In the way she whispered, “I think I want to live on this roof with you.”

A pause.

Then, teasing, soft: “You can do the dishes. I’ll handle constellation duty.”

And she rested her head against his chest again, let the sky unfold above them, and held on. Not because she was afraid he’d disappear.

But because she finally believed he wouldn’t.

Mason blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh, a sigh, and a dear God, this is my life now kind of swoon.

“You want to live on the roof with me?” he repeated, mock-scandalized, though his voice had that wrecked-lovingly-soft tone again. “Starling, we’ve only been fake-residents of this blanket fort for, like, an hour. You’re already talking long-term real estate?”

He gave a dramatic exhale, one hand lifting theatrically toward the stars above. “This is moving so fast. I didn’t even get to finish my emotional meltdown arc before you started assigning chores.”

But his other arm? The one not being obnoxious for effect? It curled tighter around her.

Because yeah, she was joking. And yeah, so was he.

But also?

He’d build her a rooftop house out of thrift store blankets and cider mugs and constellation maps if she asked. No questions. No hesitation. Just when do we start.

“And okay, fine,” he murmured, resting his chin lightly against her head, voice softening as it always did when she stopped him mid-spiral with a kiss. “You do constellation duty. I’ll handle dishes. But only if we agree on a star system where you’re the sun and I just rotate around you doing romantic errands and emotionally significant monologues.”

He felt her laugh, quiet and warm against his chest, and smiled like a boy who absolutely knew he was in too deep and liked it that way.

“Maybe we can grow basil up here. Like little rooftop garden vibes. We’ll name the plants after tragic literary characters and pretend we’re emotionally stable.”

A pause.

“Also, not to make this weird—but if you live up here with me, I am gonna need to kiss you like five hundred more times. Minimum. Per day. That’s just, like, rooftop policy. I don’t make the rules.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to kiss her temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

Then he said it again—low, fond, and utterly sincere.

“I love you, star girl.”

And in the stillness that followed, with her heart pressed to his and her body molded perfectly to his side, Mason Hayes decided something he already kinda knew:

There was no version of reality—no multiverse, no alternate timeline—where he’d ever stop being stupidly, head-over-heels in love with her.

Or this night.

Or the way she made him feel like he didn’t just belong somewhere.

He belonged with her.

Rowan didn’t answer with words.

She just looked at him—looked—like he was some constellation she’d found in the dark and decided to memorize. Her fingers traced lazy shapes against his stomach, slow and thoughtful, then slipped a little lower, finding the edge of his hoodie again. She pushed it up this time—barely enough to press her palm to warm skin. To feel the steady thrum of his heart beneath her hand.

Mason’s breath hitched.

Not dramatically. Not for show. It's just a small, honest break in rhythm, like she’d touched something more than skin.

Rowan leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, slow and deliberate. Her other hand slid along his side, fingertips hooking just slightly in the waistband of his jeans—not demanding, not pulling, just resting there—a question written in touch, not pressure.

And she waited.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to. Because this was about being chosen, not chased.

When he didn’t move away—when his body stayed open, his hands still gentle on her back—she kissed him again. Deeper. Quieter. Like a promise stitched into silence.

And then she whispered against his lips, soft and sure: “You said five hundred kisses a day, right?”

Because she wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Rowan‘s hand moved lower. She grinned against his lips as she felt how firm he already was. Rowan was pleased that she didn't have to do any work. He was already ready for her. She pulled away from his lips, “When I do the next part, I need you not to combust, okay?” Her fingers tangled in his hair as she tried to prepare him before moving from his arms and settling herself between Mason’s legs.