Mason blinked.

Which, okay, was kind of a weak response to what she’d just said—but his brain was still back on “you're not behind.” Like it had to roll that phrase around a few times before it fully registered in the part of his soul that usually panicked in bold, italicized overthought.

You’re not broken.

God. What was she doing to him?

Somewhere in the mess of neurons firing behind his eyes, his inner voice was spiraling:

Don’t cry. Don’t make a weird joke. Definitely don’t propose marriage. Just—breathe. Smile. Look charming. You practiced this! No wait, that was for the monologue in Act Two—

Then she kissed him.

Just softly. No crescendo. Just warmth. Just her.

And in that moment, it was like every nerve in his body quieted.

She meant it. All of it.

And somehow, impossibly, that flipped something in him.

He didn’t move at first—just stayed there, forehead to hers, his chest rising slow and even now under her hand. The shaky breath was gone. The hesitation, gone.

“Okay,” he said, low and a little breathless. “That’s… kind of unfair. You say things like that, and then kiss me like that, and expect me to just survive it?”

His hand slid along her waist, fingers curling just enough to feel her warmth, her shape, his thumb brushing over the skin beneath the hem of her shirt—like he needed proof she was really there. That this wasn’t some stress dream he’d cooked up backstage.

“I was trying so hard not to rush this,” he murmured, his voice darker now, a little rougher at the edges. “But you look at me like that, say my name like that…”

He leaned in, letting his lips graze her jaw, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth—not kissing, not quite, just tasting the proximity of her. Building tension like it was instinct.

“And suddenly I’m not so worried about the lines anymore.”

When he kissed her this time, it wasn’t tentative. It was hungry—not wild, not unhinged—just sure. The way someone kissed when they knew what they wanted. When they weren’t performing anymore, just feeling.

His hand slid up, fingers threading into her hair, while the other settled low on her hip, pulling her closer like gravity had finally gotten tired of pretending.

He didn’t need a script.

Not when she gave him this. Not when she was this.

Unscripted. Unedited.

And now?

Now he was ready to lose himself in the scene.

Rowan sensed the undeniable shift in the air long before she saw it.

Mason stood before her in one fleeting instant, his eyes wide and unblinking, as though she had upended the laws of emotional gravity—his mouth slightly agape, every tense line of his body a portrait of disbelief and awe. Then suddenly, he was there, grounded and present, drawing her into a kiss that felt like a culmination of unspoken truths finally aligning.

A soft gasp escaped her lips, and he drank in the sound as if it were something divine, held sacred between them.

His hand on her hip tightened just enough to tether her to him, pulling her flush against the mattress as if all the pretence of distance had evaporated and gravity had finally accepted their undeniable connection. When his fingers wove into her hair, her body responded instinctively, arching and curling beneath him, melting into the moment as if surrendering to their shared energy.

The soft fabric of his hoodie shifted with her movement, its hem inching higher over her thighs, unveiling more skin, more of her truth. She hadn’t donned it to entice him, not really. It had been a choice born of comfort and warmth—an embrace that smelled distinctly of him. Of safety. Of belonging. Yet now, it felt like a second skin, riding up just enough to make a silent declaration—a reminder that there was nothing else beneath it.

Mason's breath hitched as his palm brushed over the bare skin of her thigh, a revelation that did not go unnoticed.

Yet, he didn’t hurry.

God, how he didn’t rush.

His kisses were steeped in a reverence she hadn’t realised she yearned for—deep and slow, each infused with a sense of wonder. He approached her like a long-lost treasure as if he couldn't quite fathom that this moment was real. Each kiss felt like a gentle question, and she answered without hesitation.

Yes, I want this.
Yes, I trust you.
Yes, I’m still here.

Rowan’s hands slipped underneath the hem of his hoodie, the soft fabric now his, and pressed against the warm expanse of his lower back, pulling him closer, deeper—an unspoken plea for more. She didn’t articulate it. No words were necessary. Her body was now fluent in need and warmth, voicing everything she had once feared to reveal.

As he trailed kisses down her neck, deliberate and slow, she tilted her head back against the pillow, surrendering with a breath that felt like liberation.

Not weakness.
Not defeat.

Just a gentle letting go.

Of the masks she wore. Of the unrelenting pressure. Of every version of herself that had believed love existed only for the perfect.

With Mason, she realised she had nothing to prove.

She was already enough.

As his hands roamed with careful curiosity, exploring the places where her emotional armour had once taken refuge, Rowan permitted herself to remain in this moment. She was surrounded by the warmth of the boy who truly saw her, the weight of his body pressing down just enough to ground her, and the soft resonance of his breath grazing her skin like a whisper.

No lights. No stage. There is no rehearsed script.

Just them. Just this.

And in that electric pause—finally—nothing else mattered.

Okay. Okay.

Mason Hayes had officially flatlined.

There were probably still vital signs somewhere, but his brain? Absolute static. Like someone had unplugged the soundboard and left him with nothing but Rowan—Rowan, in his hoodie, Rowan under him, Rowan looking up at him like he was gravity and starlight and something worth pausing the entire universe for.

And then—then—his hand grazed the smooth, bare skin of her thigh.

Bare.

As in nothing underneath the hoodie.

As in—holy hell, she was wearing only his hoodie.

His inner voice was doing backflips. Actual Olympic-level choreography.

Play it cool, Mason. Don’t look like your soul just left your body. Don’t say something stupid. For the love of all things holy, DO NOT ASK IF THIS IS REAL LIFE OUT LOUD—

But his face had already betrayed him. Eyes wide, lips parted, pupils dilated like he was staring straight into the heart of a solar flare. He looked down at her—this girl who could shatter him with a look—and managed to find his voice, low and rough at the edges:

“Rowan…”

It was barely a word. More like a prayer wrapped in disbelief.

He hovered there for a second, caught between instinct and reverence, watching the way she breathed beneath him. The hoodie had shifted again—slipping higher—and he could see the warm flush blooming along her neck, her collarbone, her chest.

She was breathtaking.

Not just hot. Not just beautiful.

Breathtaking. Like art. Like truth.

His hand slid up slowly, reverently, gliding from her thigh to the curve of her waist, and then—God help him—up to the zipper of the hoodie. His knuckles brushed her ribs. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him.

But he still paused.

He looked at her—really looked—and asked the question without words.

Are you sure?

She didn’t nod.

She didn’t have to.

Her hand found his, steady and soft, and guided it to the zipper with a confidence that knocked the breath right out of him. Her touch said yes, her eyes said yes, her whole body said yes.

So he moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

The metal teeth of the zipper whispered open, one inch at a time, exposing warm skin and soft curves and the wild, perfect truth of her. She was radiant. And trusting him.

And Mason—God, Mason—had never wanted to get something so right in his entire life.

He kissed her again, slower now, deeper, his hand sliding beneath the parted hoodie to feel her skin, her heartbeat, the warmth of her against his palm. His forehead rested against hers, breath mingling, and for a split second he grinned.

“I’m not gonna survive this,” he whispered, voice rough with wonder and a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. “You realize that, right?”

Then his mouth was back on her neck, and everything else fell away.

No nerves. No doubts.

Just this girl. This moment.

And the kind of love that didn’t need rehearsal.

Rowan felt a palpable shift the moment his fingertips brushed against her bare skin—a surge of electricity coursed through her, igniting her senses. Her entire body stilled in that heartbeat, as though she had stumbled into an unexpected scene that defied any rehearsal she had prepared.

And God, how she adored him for it.

His breath hitched in his throat, and she could see the surprise widening his eyes as if he had found himself in a place he never thought he was allowed to be. The depth of his gaze revealed his disbelief at his proximity to her—at the very act of seeing and touching her. It wasn’t reluctance that held him back; no, she could feel his want simmering just beneath the surface, every inch of him alive and aware. Mason Hayes was not just good; he embodied a rare goodness that felt almost extraordinary in a world dulled by indifference.

But sometimes, even the best boys needed a little encouragement to enter the light.

And so, with a gentle touch, she offered it to him.

Her hand found his, a warm, deliberate connection that radiated steadiness and assurance. She guided his movement with a soft insistence, allowing them to flow without strain or pressure—just the quiet permission of her presence. As his fingers reached the zipper, she held his gaze, grounding him with unwavering confidence, creating a safe harbour in a moment that could easily unravel.

“You’re okay,” her eyes conveyed messages far deeper than mere words, each subtle curve of her lips reassuring him of her trust. Her body remained open and inviting, the softness of her form embodying a welcome; it was filled with desire and patience. With the caress of her thumb, she offered gentle, deliberate circles on the back of his hand, fueling his courage as he trembled beneath the weight of their shared intimacy.

She felt Mason hesitate, suspended in a delicate balance between awe and uncertainty. Rowan sensed his trepidation and subtly moved to reassure him. She arched slightly into his touch, a nonverbal signal inviting him further—a silent declaration that he was welcome and that every hesitant movement he made was perfectly acceptable.

And when the zipper finally unfastened, inch by reverent inch, he looked at her as though he had just unwrapped the heavens themselves. Rowan met his wide-eyed wonder with an unguarded smile that radiated a warmth full of unspoken love and something infinitely sacred. She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, allowing the gesture to speak volumes.

“It’s okay,” her gaze whispered. “I trust you.”

Then he kissed her—slowly, deeply, and with a hint of trembling uncertainty. She responded kindly, pouring every ounce of tranquillity and assurance into their connection. There was no rush, no agenda; she anchored him with her presence, being exactly what he didn’t know he needed.

As his voice broke and he confessed, his voice laced with wonder that he feared he might not survive this moment, Rowan laughed softly—a sound so tender it nearly shattered her.

“You will,” she thought as he whispered sweet nothings against her neck, his fingers charting her form like a melody he had yet to realise he was familiar with. “You’re doing beautifully.”

This wasn’t about achieving some standard of perfection. It wasn’t about confidence either.

It was about trust.

And for the first time, she had offered it without reservation.

His lips found their way back to her neck, each kiss deliberate and reverent. Rowan surrendered to the sensation, closing her eyes as her breath caught in her throat, entirely consumed by the warmth of his mouth moving against her skin. He kissed as if he couldn’t fathom that she was permitting this closeness—every brush of his lips asking questions that she answered only with an endless “yes.”

Rowan didn’t rush him. She didn’t provide directions or fill the silence with playful banter, as she might have with someone else who didn’t matter quite as much as Mason Hayes. He required no performance—he craved nothing but the freedom to exist within this moment.

So she gave it to him.

Her hand remained on his, gentle and unwavering, providing the grounding he longed for. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers—barely detectable yet entirely real—the way he caressed her as though she might vanish if he pressed too firmly, as though the trust she offered was both light and fragile.

But it wasn’t.

She was solid beneath him, warm and entwined in the present moment, a delightful mixture of openness and yearning.

When he slipped his hand beneath the parted hoodie, his palm making contact with her bare skin, a hitch escaped her breath—not from anxiety but from the exquisite caution he displayed and the depth of feeling he was accessing.

He didn’t fumble. He didn’t rush.

He felt.

And Rowan welcomed him into that space.

Tilting her head, she offered him greater access to the delicate arch of her throat while her fingers threaded through his curls with reassurance, devoid of urgency—only fostering closeness. She felt his shaky exhale against her collarbone, but it was steadier now. The weight of him settled comfortably between her thighs, and still, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away.

She drew him closer.

“Mason,” she whispered—not to startle him, not to prompt a reply, but to breathe his name into the air—a gentle reminder that he was here, with her, and that this moment was theirs to cherish.

He lifted his head slowly, their eyes meeting in a moment of vulnerability.

And God, he looked utterly wrecked.

Not from raw lust nor fear but from something deeper—the profound awareness of being utterly absorbed in the experience.

Rowan smiled, soft and sure, a smile that wasn’t laced with seduction or bravado, nor did it demand answers.

It was an acknowledgement of being seen.

“You’re doing perfect,” she breathed her voice a hushed secret, a promise. “You don’t have to think so hard.”

Her hands moved gently to cradle his face, her thumbs tracing the contours of his cheekbones, grounding him in their shared connection. “You don’t have to know. Just feel.”

And he did.

Oh, how he did.

When he kissed her again, it transformed—a careful kiss that still emanated softness, yet beneath it simmered a burgeoning confidence—a confidence rooted not in mastering the skill of the kiss but in the warmth she imparted simply by being there with him. How she enveloped him, physically and emotionally, assured him that this boy—her boy—was undeniably worth every moment of slowing down.

And maybe, just maybe, so was she.

They remained like that, wrapped in their world, cocooned in trust and tenderness.

Mason’s breath trembled, caught somewhere between disbelief and devotion, as if he were trying to memorize the moment while still inside it. His hands hovered inches above her, reverent, like he feared even the weight of his skin might disrupt the sanctity of what they were building between them. The way she looked at him—unguarded and open, her heart glowing right there on the surface—was undoing him more than her bare skin ever could.

Don’t think. Just feel.

That’s what her eyes told him. What the warmth of her touch urged into his bones. What the rhythm of her breath, shallow and steady, was trying to anchor inside of him.

And for once, he listened.

He pulled back—not because he wanted space, but because he needed to look at her. To really look at her. She lay there in the soft sprawl of tangled sheets, wearing nothing but his hoodie and trust like a second skin. And it wrecked him. Not because she was beautiful—though she was, devastatingly so—but because she had chosen him. Not the polished version of himself he wore onstage or in passing smiles, but this quiet, trembling boy full of too many feelings and nowhere to hide them.

He stood slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

His hands moved with a tenderness that bordered on holy. No theatrics, no rush. Just a silent surrender. A soft unraveling. The cotton peeled away from his frame, followed by the rest—belt, denim, every last scrap of armor he’d ever worn to keep the world at arm’s length. He shed it all for her.

And when he stood there—bare, heart exposed in every possible way—it was not confidence that filled the space.

It was something far more fragile. Far more profound.

Trust.

He wasn’t trying to be anything in that moment. He simply was. And Rowan, oh God—Rowan looked at him like he was the last miracle in a world that had long since stopped believing in them. Not because he was perfect, but because he wasn’t. Because he was raw and real and trying.

He moved back toward her with aching slowness, drawn to her not just by gravity, but by the unbearable gentleness of knowing she would catch him.

He climbed into the bed like a confession. Carefully. Quietly. Until the heat of her skin met his and they both gasped—not from shock, but from recognition. From the undeniable knowing of something fated.

His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing the place just beneath her eye as if he could ease the weight she carried there. She leaned into his touch, offering herself not with performance or expectation, but the devastating grace of someone who simply believed in him.

Their foreheads touched, and for a moment, the silence between them was the loudest thing in the world.

“Mason,” she whispered. His name like a prayer, like an incantation, like she could pull him back from the edge of whatever cliff he was standing on.

He kissed her then.

And it changed everything.

No longer trembling. No longer uncertain. Still soft—but now with the kind of softness that comes from being seen and chosen and kept. The kind of kiss that said, I didn’t know I needed you until I couldn’t imagine the world without you.

Their bodies curled into one another slowly, cautiously, like two pages folding into the same story.

Every inch of skin they revealed was an act of bravery. Every touch an offering. Every heartbeat a vow.

And in that sacred hush where nothing else mattered, where time and fear and history fell away—they didn’t just fall.

They landed.

In each other.

Whole. Unraveled. Alive.

And when the world finally faded to black, it did so gently—wrapped in the quiet sigh of sheets, in the whisper of skin against skin, in the exquisite ache of a love that had waited so long to be fully felt.

Not perfect.

But real.

And somehow, that made it everything.

God, this was unfair.

Not in the tragic, star-crossed way her favorite characters always whined about. No. This was personal. This was the universe setting her up just to see how long she could go without combusting.

Because there he was—Mason Hayes—lounging like he owned the whole world, hoodie rumpled, back propped against her headboard like he hadn’t just casually wandered into her safe place and decided to make himself at home.

And she was stretched out across him, head in his lap, hair being threaded through his fingers like it was something worth lingering over.

Which, fine.

Maybe she wasn’t exactly fighting it.

The candles flickered low on her dresser. The fairy lights threw soft constellations across the ceiling. The scent of the cinnamon candle—stupid, traitorous, romantic—curled into the air like some secret spell she definitely hadn’t planned.

Her voice dipped lower, almost automatically, as she read.

“‘You love me. Real or not real?’”

She deepened it a little, smirking when Mason’s fingers twitched against her scalp.

“‘Real,’” she added, soft, low, pitching it perfectly like the narrator was carrying the whole damn weight of the world on that one word.

She flipped the page with a flourish, grinning to herself when she caught him stifling a laugh out of the corner of her eye.

God, he was so gone.

And worse? She was too.

“You’re making it impossible to concentrate, you know that?” she muttered without looking up, voice dry, teasing, letting the corner of the page snap lightly against his knee. “If I forget who dies next, that’s on you.”

His hand just dragged lazily through her hair again, and she almost dropped the book completely.

Focus. Focus, Starling.

Another paragraph. Another scene. Her voice slipped easily into a rougher rasp for Haymitch, something snappier for Katniss, and a completely over-the-top velvet tone for President Snow that earned a low, half-stifled chuckle from above her.

“Don’t judge me,” she warned, pointing at him blindly with her free hand, not daring to break rhythm. “This is peak theater kid behavior. I’m contractually obligated.”

She smiled to herself when his fingers paused just long enough to tug a soft curl loose and let it fall back again, featherlight against her temple.

Her heart thudded in her chest, too loud, too real.

Because reading a book—her favorite book—with her head in his lap and his fingers carding through her hair like she was something delicate?

Yeah.

If twelve-year-old Rowan could see her now, she’d be disgusted. And stupidly proud.

She tucked her knees up a little tighter under the blanket, book resting heavier against her stomach now, voice softening as she slipped into another scene.

Quiet. Real. Uncomplicated.

She didn’t have to armor up around him.

Didn’t have to pretend to be cooler or tougher or sharper than she was.

Here—cinnamon air, fairy lights, familiar pages between her hands and his touch threading through her hair—she could just be.

“‘You love me. Real or not real?’” she repeated again, quieter this time, not because the book said so, but because it felt right.

Her fingers tightened around the book’s spine.

And somewhere inside her, deep and dangerous and thrilling, she thought:

Real.

Real.

Real.

Mason didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she said it like that—soft and steady, not as Katniss, not as a character at all, but as herself. As Rowan.

As the girl who had slipped under his skin so completely he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began anymore.

His hand stilled against her hair for a second, heart hammering so hard he was pretty sure she could feel it through the denim brushing her temple.

Real or not real?

God.

She didn’t even know.

She didn’t even know what she was doing to him.

He let out a slow, uneven breath, the kind you let go of when you realize you’re sitting in the middle of the thing you’ve been wishing for without even knowing it.

Rowan Starling.

Curled up in his lap.

Reading to him.

Trusting him with her voice, her favorite book, her heartbeat tucked so close he could almost taste the cinnamon on her skin.

It was so unfair.

It was the most unfair, perfect thing in the world.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured before he even realized he was speaking, voice low and a little wrecked.

He saw her smirk from the corner of his eye—victorious, dangerous—but it didn’t scare him.

It made him want to kiss her so badly he ached with it.

So he did.

He leaned down, slow and certain, brushing his nose lightly against her hairline first—giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted to (she didn’t)—then pressing his lips to her temple.

Soft.

Full.

Unrushed.

He lingered there for a second, breathing her in, the candlelight pooling around them like they were sitting inside a heartbeat.

Then he whispered, against her skin, against the part of her that seemed to breathe for him now:

“Real.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, right above her eyebrow, letting his fingers slip back through her hair like he could stitch the moment into the fabric of forever if he was careful enough.

“You’re impossible, Starling,” he said, grinning against her skin, voice all warm and wrecked and Mason. “You set me up. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Another kiss, softer, closer to her temple this time.

“And for the record?”

He shifted slightly, enough to tilt her chin gently up with the barest pressure of his fingers, enough to meet her wide, too-bright eyes under the fairy lights.

“I’d say ‘real’ a thousand times if you asked.”

He kissed her properly then.

Mouth to mouth. Sweet and steady and absolutely unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of spending it anywhere else but here—wrapped up in her, in cinnamon and candlelight and soft paperback pages and every version of love that didn’t need anything flashy to mean everything.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against hers, smiling so wide he didn’t even try to stop it.

“Hope you know,” he whispered, thumb brushing slow and reverent along her jaw, “I’m never walking away from this.”

From her.

From real.

From everything they were building between kisses and broken sentences and smiles that hurt in the best possible way.

And as the fairy lights flickered like stars over their heads, Mason Hayes decided:

Yeah.

This was home.

Rowan didn’t even lift her head from where it was tucked so perfectly in Mason’s lap.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.

She just smiled into the fabric of his jeans—quiet, private, a little too real for her own good.

Because of course he was saying things like that. Of course he was brushing her hair back with the kind of care that made her chest feel too tight. Of course he was sitting here like he actually meant every ridiculous, wrecked word.

God, he was so doomed.
And so was she.

“You’re such a sap,” she mumbled, the words vibrating against his thigh, lazy and affectionate and laced with way more fondness than she’d ever admit if he called her out on it.

Her fingers idly tugged at the hem of his hoodie where it draped near her hand, twisting it around her knuckles like she could tie herself to him in tiny ways he wouldn’t even notice.

Or maybe he would.
Maybe he already did.

She let her thumb brush slow, distracted circles against the side of his knee, heart beating steady and wild at the same time.

“And for the record,” she added, voice low and dry and stupidly soft, “reading Katniss was a tactical move. Full offense. No regrets.”

She smiled wider when she felt him shift a little under her, like he was trying not to combust again.

Good.

Let him be wrecked for once.

She tipped her face slightly, catching the edge of his hoodie with her nose, breathing him in—soap and cold air and something that had already started to smell like home.

“Real,” she whispered, just because she could. Just because it was.

A beat passed. Then another.

The candles flickered in the corners of the room, the fairy lights buzzing faintly overhead, the whole world narrowing to the soft scratch of turning pages, the steady, grounding weight of him.

Rowan grinned against his lap, smug and dizzy and stupidly, ferociously hers.

“Told you you’d lose,” she said under her breath, voice feather-light but smug enough to make her chest spark.

She didn’t even try to go back to the book.

She just laid there—fingers knotted in the hem of his hoodie, his hand stroking absent, reverent patterns through her hair—and decided that maybe losing to Mason Hayes wasn’t losing at all.

Maybe it was the smartest, sharpest win she’d ever let herself have.

Mason felt like he was physically melting into the mattress.

Not in a bad way—not in a "help, I’m a puddle" way (though if she kept smiling into his jeans like that, he was definitely approaching puddle territory).

No, this was a different kind of melting. The slow, steady, soul-has-left-the-body-because-it’s-too-happy kind. The kind that wrapped itself around his ribs and made breathing feel almost unnecessary when she was here, folded against him, whispering real like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Her calling him a sap? Her twining his hoodie around her fingers like she was claiming him in tiny, invisible ways?

Yeah. Wrecked didn’t even begin to cover it.

Mason grinned down at her—hopeless, wrecked, and absolutely zero percent sorry—and kept stroking his fingers through her hair because honestly? He was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to stop.

“Oh, you absolutely cheated,” he said, voice low and stupidly fond. “Weaponizing Mockingjay quotes? That’s emotional terrorism, Starling. There are probably laws about it.”

He felt her laugh—low and victorious—and it thudded through him like someone had struck the strings of a guitar wired straight to his heart.

He tightened his hand just a little in her hair—gentle, grounding—like he could anchor both of them to this exact moment. To the way she felt tucked against him, smug and soft and so stupidly, recklessly his.

“Gotta admit though,” he added, tipping his head back against the wall, letting the fairy lights blur and sway across the ceiling, “if losing means you smiling into my lap like I just handed you the moon?”

He exhaled a rough, quiet laugh, warm against the crown of her head.

“I’ll lose every time.”

His thumb traced a slow, absentminded arc along the shell of her ear, the kind of touch you don’t think about when you’re trying to be suave—the kind you fall into when you’re just gone.

And Mason Hayes was gone.

Gone on the way she made him feel steady without having to fix him. Gone on the way she could call him a sap and still lace his hoodie around her hand like she didn’t ever want to let go.

Gone on the way she’d whispered real back to him like it was a vow.

“Full offense,” he muttered against her hair, grinning, “you’re stuck with me now.”

Another long beat passed—just breathing, just fingertips, just the slow gravity of them curling closer without even trying.

Then, quieter, like he was telling her the secret that had been humming under his skin all night:

“And for the record?” he whispered. “You didn’t make me lose. You made me win.”

He bent his head, kissed the crown of hers—soft, sure, infinitely hers—and smiled into the candlelit dark.

Because somehow, unbelievably, impossibly—

Mason Hayes had found the thing he didn’t even know he’d been searching for.

And it was her.

Rowan shifted before she could talk herself out of it.

Slow. Careful. Like moving too fast might shatter the fragile, burning weight of what she needed to say.

She pushed herself up, her palms bracing lightly against the mattress on either side of his hips, her head rising from his lap. The second she moved, Mason’s hand slipped from her hair—but he didn’t pull away. He stayed right there, looking at her like she was something holy.

God, he was stupid beautiful.

Fairy lights caught in the curls falling over his forehead. The soft, wrecked grin still playing at the edges of his mouth like he couldn’t help it. His heart practically visible behind his ribs.

Rowan sat up fully, facing him now, knees folded between them.

For half a second, she just… looked.

Let herself have it.

The reckless, terrifying, unbelievable fact that this was real.

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she leaned in.

She kissed him.

Soft. Steady. Like the easiest thing she’d ever done. Like punctuation on a sentence she hadn’t said yet.

Her hands found the sides of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring herself there as she tilted her head slightly and brushed her nose against his—slow, careful, a little bit clumsy in the way that meant it mattered.

And when she pulled back just enough to whisper it, her voice shook. Just a little.

But not enough to stop her.

“I didn’t think,” she said, breath catching on the words, “I could ever love someone like this.”

Her thumbs brushed over the edges of his hoodie sleeves, grounding herself in the feel of him.

“And I definitely didn’t think…” she swallowed, smiling—small, a little broken around the edges but still blindingly full of hope, “…that anyone would love me the way I am.”

Her forehead dropped lightly against his again. Their noses bumped. Neither of them moved away.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Raw. Real. Hers. “For seeing me. For staying.”

Her hands smoothed the front of his hoodie absently, like she could memorize every wrinkle, every bit of him that had stayed soft even when she had been nothing but armor.

“And for not running when I gave you every reason to.”

She kissed him again—quick, sure, a little desperate—like she could push the words deeper, make him believe them the way she did.

Because she did.

She loved him.

More than she had thought she was even capable of loving anyone.

And Mason Hayes?

He made it feel terrifying and easy all at once.