Mason could’ve actually melted into the bed.

Right there. No ceremony. No goodbyes. Just instant puddle-of-feelings mode the second she said it—real—and looked at him like he wasn’t just her slightly disaster-prone, overly dramatic boyfriend but something bigger. Something he hadn’t even known he could be until her.

She framed his face in her hands like he was something precious, like he was something chosen, and Mason?

Mason was gone.

Hopelessly, gloriously, stupidly gone.

He grinned—messy, soft, wrecked—and tipped his forehead against hers, eyes fluttering closed for a second like he had to physically reset before he could even attempt to answer.

"You," he breathed, voice so low and full it barely made it past his lips, "could read the dictionary to me, and I’d still think it was the best night of my life."

He felt her laugh against him—quiet, bright, the kind of sound that made his chest ache in the best way.

"And," he added, because he couldn’t not, because he was Mason Hayes and emotional overkill was part of the brand, "if you wanted to start from the beginning? If you wanted to read the whole series out loud with dramatic voices and plot predictions and me crying at inappropriate moments?"

He opened his eyes, letting her see it—every ridiculous, too-much, heart-on-his-sleeve inch of it.

"I’d be the happiest, dumbest, most absolutely feral book boyfriend you ever accidentally signed up for."

He grinned wider, tilting his head to nuzzle against her palm shamelessly like a cat who’d just found his favorite sunspot. “Seriously. Want me to build you a blanket fort? Carve us matching Hunger Games-themed bookends? Start an unnecessarily aggressive book club with just the two of us where the only membership rule is ‘must worship Rowan Starling as literary goddess’?”

He felt her forehead thunk lightly against his again, her body shaking with barely-contained laughter.

Good.

That was the goal.

He brushed his thumbs along her hips, grounding himself in her even as his mouth ran away with him.

"Whatever you want, Starling," he whispered. "Finish the chapter. Reread the whole thing. Shove me off the bed because you realize you can do way better."

He smiled, soft and stupid and unbearably him.

"I’m happy doing anything... as long as it’s with you."

A beat.

Then he kissed the tip of her nose—quick, devastating, so full of affection it almost tipped him over again—and added, deadpan:

"But if we do start over, I demand dramatic President Snow impressions at least once every fifty pages. I have standards, Starling. Don't let me down."

And God, the way she smiled at him like he hung the freaking constellations?

Mason didn't stand a chance.

And he never, ever wanted one.

She hated him.

She hated him so much it made her chest ache. It made her fingers twitch with the urge to hold onto him tighter, to crush the stupid soft grin right off his face with a kiss he’d probably write a sonnet about afterward.

Rowan tucked her face against his hoodie for a second just to hide the stupid smile clawing up her cheeks. It didn’t work. Nothing worked with him. He short-circuited her defenses like it was easy, like she’d left the doors wide open and handed him the keys.

“You’re such a menace,” she muttered into his chest, voice wrecked and muffled and not even pretending to be annoyed.

She pulled back just enough to look at him again—at the wrecked, glowing mess of a boy who was somehow hers—and she shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe him even though she could, even though she absolutely could.

“You’re gonna regret asking for the Snow impression,” she said, dead serious. “I do an absolutely horrifying version. Like. Genuinely cursed.”

She watched his eyes light up, saw the little quirk at the corner of his mouth, and felt something in her ribs collapse in on itself. In a good way. In a terrifying, permanent way.

Because he meant it.

He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t trying to be the loudest voice in the room or the cleverest or the safest.

He just wanted her.

All of her.

Rowan exhaled a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and kissed him—quick, fierce, like she was anchoring herself before she got swept under completely.

“You’re the dumbest, sappiest, most annoying thing that’s ever happened to me,” she whispered against his mouth, heart slamming full-force into every word.

“And I love you so much it’s embarrassing.”

Her voice cracked a little on the last part, and she didn’t care. Not even a little.

She kissed him again—longer this time, slower—feeling his hands tighten on her hips like he needed her to stay right there, like letting go wasn’t even a consideration.

“I’m serious,” she said, pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against his again, breathing him in. “If you start crying when Rue shows up, I’m not responsible. I warned you. It’s brutal.”

She felt him laugh—felt it rumble up through his chest, into her palms, into her.

And Rowan smiled.

Not the guarded kind. Not the sharp, sarcastic kind.

The real one.

The one she only ever gave him.

“Now shut up,” she said, grabbing the book from where it had fallen beside them. “You asked for dramatic voices. You’re getting dramatic voices.”

She settled back against him, flipping to the page like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t just given him every piece of herself without even meaning to.

Maybe she had.

Maybe he already had them all anyway.

And maybe, for once, she was okay with it.

Because Mason Hayes wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was she.

Mason didn’t say a word.

Which, honestly?
Miracle.
Historic event. Someone should’ve called Guinness.

Because every part of him—every loud, lovesick, over-caffeinated molecule—wanted to do something.
Crack a joke.
Make some ridiculous over-the-top declaration about dying happily in her arms if necessary.
Drag her back down and kiss her until she forgot what reading even was.

But he didn’t.

Because Rowan Starling, sitting there wrecked and real and brilliant, holding a battered book in one hand and half his heart in the other, had just told him she loved him.

Loved him.

Enough to say it raw. Enough to let her voice crack without scrambling to cover it up. Enough to curl up against him like there was nowhere else she wanted to be in the whole damn universe.

So Mason Hayes—resident golden retriever, emotional tornado, king of not shutting up—just… stayed quiet.

Stayed right there.

Let her climb back into his lap, hoodie strings dragging across his hands where he still held her hips like she might disappear if he loosened his grip even a little. Let her flip open that book and clear her throat with the most ridiculous faux-seriousness like she wasn’t actively ripping his heart into tiny, grateful pieces.

And when she started reading again—voice dipping low for Katniss, getting rough and sharp for Haymitch, and then—

Oh God.

Then.

That cursed, horrifying, deeply concerning President Snow voice.

It was awful.
It was glorious.
It was so magnificently, stupidly her that Mason had to bury his face in the curve of her neck for a second just to muffle the noise that wanted to escape him.

Rowan laughed once under her breath—victorious—and kept going.

Mason stayed there.

Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t ruin it.

He just listened.

Listened to her reading like it was stitched into her bones.
Listened to the way her voice softened around Rue’s name.
Listened to the way she made every word matter without even trying.

He breathed her in—cinnamon and home and the electricity of something he was so dizzyingly lucky to have found—and pressed the tiniest, softest kiss to the spot just under her jaw.

Not to distract her.
Not to start anything.

Just because he could.

Because sitting here, wrapped up in her voice, letting her wreck him one chapter at a time, was the best thing Mason Hayes had ever done.

His hands slid up under the back of her hoodie again—resting against bare skin, warm and steady, anchoring himself to her even as the story pulled them both deeper.

And he thought, half-dazed, half-certain:

I could do this forever.

She shifted slightly against him, still reading, and he curled his arms tighter around her waist like he was memorizing the shape of this moment.

No jokes.

No dramatics.

Just her.

Just real.

Just exactly where he wanted to be.

Rowan didn’t pause when she felt Mason’s arms tighten around her. Didn’t stop when he pressed that barely-there kiss under her jaw, either.

She just smiled—small and secret, like it was a pocketknife tucked under her ribs—and kept reading.

Because she knew what he was doing.

Knew it without him saying a word.

He wasn’t trying to distract her. Wasn’t trying to turn this into some dramatic, movie-scene kiss fest (although, let’s be real, Mason Hayes could absolutely star in a tragic teen romance if he ever wanted to).

No.

He was just… here.

Loving her in the quiet. In the steady. In the real.

And somehow, that ruined her more than any grand, sweeping gesture ever could.

Her fingers shifted against the page, voice steady even as her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She leaned a little more into him without breaking the rhythm of the story—like gravity had given up pretending they were two separate people.

She felt the way he was breathing.

Felt the stupid hoodie strings tangled between them.

Felt the way his thumb brushed slow, absentminded circles against the small of her back like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

She loved him so much it made her stupid.

Without breaking stride—without losing the cadence of Katniss standing broken in the ashes—Rowan let her free hand drift up.

Found the side of his neck.

Curled her fingers there, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing the line of his jaw as she kept reading.

Because this was her version of a love letter.

Not the big, shiny declarations.

Not the fireworks.

Just this.

Holding him steady. Reading her favorite words into the air between them. Letting him know—without having to stop or apologize—that he was home.

She kept going.

Because if she stopped, if she looked at him right now, she was pretty sure she’d combust completely. And she wasn’t ready to be a pile of emotional shrapnel on her own bedroom floor just yet.

Later.

Maybe later she’d let herself really feel it—the way he made her soft and reckless all at once.

But for now?

She just smiled into the worn, familiar crackle of the page.

And kept reading.

Mason didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink when she slid her fingers up the side of his neck like it was nothing—like he was nothing, just some living, breathing part of her she’d decided to keep.

And suddenly?

He wasn’t just listening to her voice anymore.

He was in it.

In the warmth of her weight curled against him. In the lazy cadence of her words filling the space between them. In the soft, steady orbit of two people who weren’t pretending anymore.

He thought: I could do this forever.

Then immediately thought: Wait. Seriously? Forever?

And then—because he was Mason Hayes and his brain was an anxious, over-dramatic theme park—he spiraled.

Because what if forever meant arguing over sock piles and forgetting anniversaries and not always being this okay? What if they lost this softness? What if he ruined it? What if she realized someday that she didn’t want a boy who quoted musicals and panicked over grilled cheese and couldn’t go five minutes without cracking a joke?

What if she outgrew him?

Rowan turned a page.

Shifted just slightly, breath warm against his collarbone, still reading like none of his internal chaos mattered.

And he smiled.

Big. Quiet. Wrecked.

Because that was the thing about Rowan Starling.

She didn’t ask him to always be okay.

She just let him exist.

Let him be.

So Mason Hayes—boy of many words and even more worries—decided, just for this minute, to stop spinning.

To let the quiet wrap around him like a promise.

To love her, not in the panicked, all-consuming way his brain was used to—but in the soft, steady rhythm of her voice and the way her hand fit so perfectly at the side of his throat.

He exhaled. Let his eyes close. Let her keep going.

And thought:
Okay. Yeah.
Forever doesn’t sound so bad.

But then—

Then she sighed.

Right in the middle of a sentence, soft and distracted, like her body was relaxing into him without thinking about it. Like whatever line she was reading couldn’t compete with the shape of him underneath her.

And Mason cracked.

He opened his eyes. Looked at her—really looked. At the way her lashes caught the fairy light. At the curve of her mouth as she kept reading, completely unaware that he was falling in love with her again, harder, right there on the spot.

“Rowan,” he whispered.

She looked up, blinking like he’d pulled her out of a dream.

And then he kissed her.

Not careful. Not playful.

Just full.

Of everything he couldn’t say without ruining the moment. Of every real and forever and please don’t go he wasn’t ready to voice.

Her breath caught, and her hands slid into his hair, and the book slipped somewhere off to the side without ceremony.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers, voice low and wrecked and smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I tried to behave. I really did. But you sighed. And I’m weak.”

And God, the way she smiled at him right then?

Yeah.

He’d interrupt a hundred pages for that.

She laughed against his mouth—quiet, breathless, a little ruined.

Then she pulled back. Just a little. Just enough to look at him properly, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her heart doing that stupid-soft stutter it only ever did for him.

“You’re such a dork,” she said again, like a prayer this time. “But you’re my dork.”

And then—
She fell.

Not hard. Not dramatic.
Just… back.

Let herself collapse into the tangle of pillows behind her like gravity had given up pretending she was supposed to sit upright anymore.

The book was somewhere on the floor now. Her sweater was half-ridden up from shifting against him, and the fairy lights above her head blinked soft gold against the ceiling, like they were trying to remember how to be stars.

She stretched one arm up, languid and boneless, then crooked her finger lazily toward him.

“Well?” she murmured, eyes half-lidded but still lit with that impossible fire she always carried. “You gonna kiss me again, or just sit there looking guilty and pretty?”

She was teasing. Barely.
But her pulse fluttered at her throat, and her voice was lower than it should’ve been.

Because the truth?

She hadn’t meant to fall—
but here she was.

Flat on her back.
Open. Waiting.

His.

Mason froze.

Just for a second.

Not because he didn’t want her—God, he wanted her, so much it made his ribs ache—but because she said it like that.

My dork.

Because she was laid out in front of him like an invitation, sweater crooked, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, and he could have her—all of her—if he just stopped hesitating.

His gaze flicked to the door.

A breath caught.

A full mental slideshow of worst-case scenarios tried to load: her mom walking in, her dad with a shovel, an unfortunate tumble off the bed mid-makeout, his entire existence being reduced to that one guy Rowan dated until he spontaneously combusted from emotional overload.

And then—

Then she crooked her finger.

Called him pretty.

Said kiss me again like it wasn’t already killing him not to.

Mason blinked once.

Then thought:

Fuck it. Worth it.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t make a joke or a dramatic fake swoon or even warn her.

He just moved.

Climbed over her like gravity had given him up too, bracing himself above her with one hand on the mattress, the other already threading into her hair. His mouth found hers like it belonged there—no hesitation, no apology, just heat and want and real.

This kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t patient.

It was now.

It was Mason finally letting go of the brakes, of the what-ifs and the maybes and the half-held back I love yous.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Like he’d waited his whole damn life for someone to see him, choose him, ruin him beautifully—and then let him do the same.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone as their mouths moved in rhythm, hot and breathless and stupidly, stupidly perfect. And when she arched just slightly into him, his heart nearly gave out on the spot.

They broke for air, barely, lips still brushing, his forehead tipping to hers like he needed that contact to stay grounded.

His voice came out hoarse and stunned and smiling.

“You’re gonna destroy me, Starling.”

A pause.

Then, softer—vulnerable and real:

“And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

She felt it the moment he froze.
The flicker of panic, the quick breath, the way his eyes darted to the door like he was bracing for impact—like her mom might materialize with a broom or divine judgment.

Rowan didn’t move.
Didn’t rush him.

She just stayed where she was, one hand still crooked in invitation, chest rising and falling like she wasn’t coming apart under the weight of want.

Because she knew him.
Knew the way his brain worked in spirals. Knew how easily he could trip on his own heart and call it a warning sign. Knew, too, that sometimes all he needed was a reason not to run.

So she gave him one.

Called him pretty.
Dared him to kiss her again.
Said it like it was nothing—when it was everything.

And when he moved?

God.

She could’ve cried from how right it felt.

He kissed her like the earth had stopped spinning and she was the only thing left worth holding. Like every ghost of hesitation had burned up on re-entry, and all that was left was them.

She arched into him without thinking, fingers fisting in his hoodie, mouth parting to meet every ounce of that impossible, consuming heat. It wasn’t neat. Wasn’t slow. It was honest. It was now.

And when he whispered it—

“You’re gonna destroy me, Starling.”

Her breath caught.
Because yeah.
That was the line.
The moment.
The beat where it all broke open.

“And I’ve never wanted anything—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She didn’t have to.

Rowan’s hand slipped between them, fingers brushing the hem of her sweater. Her eyes didn’t waver, not even for a second. Not when she peeled it up, not when her skin hit the air, not when her bare chest met the soft golden light of her bedroom.

No games.
No nerves.
Just truth.

Her voice came low, steady, and a little breathless.

“You don’t have to want it like that,” she said.
“Like it’s gonna break you.”

She reached for him again, slower this time—hand at the side of his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. Her body flushed against his, all skin and heartbeat and choice.

“I want you to have it,” she whispered.
“All of it. Me.”

A beat.
Then, a tilt of her head and a crooked half-smile, voice dipping into something sly and familiar:

“And before you spiral—yes. I locked the door.”

She leaned up just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth, then murmured against his skin, wicked and warm:

“Now shut up and let me ruin you gently.”

Mason’s brain short-circuited in the prettiest way.

Not because she was half-naked in front of him. Not because she said me like it wasn’t a weapon aimed straight at his soul.

But because she knew.

Knew.

She read the flicker in his eyes like a line of dialogue. She felt the split-second where his heart leapt to his throat and whispered are we sure? are we safe? what if—

And she answered him without hesitation.

I locked the door.

That did it.

The knot in his chest loosened. The world tilted. And some ancient part of him—the one raised by a terrifyingly intuitive single mom and a lifetime of being the “good kid” who didn’t take risks—finally… let go.

Because if Rowan felt okay? If she wanted this?

Then there was nothing left to doubt.

Still, the words almost slipped out anyway. This is going to break me. He felt them, raw and trembling, right at the edge of his tongue.

But he swallowed them down.

Not out of fear.

Out of reverence.

Because she already knew. She’d seen it—seen him—and was still lying there with her sweater peeled off and her heart wide open.

So Mason Hayes—nerd, romantic, sometimes-anxious, always-too-much Mason Hayes—made a decision.

If I’m getting ruined, he thought, then I’m taking her with me.

He leaned in slow. Purposeful.

Let his hands slide up her sides—bare now, warm under his palms—until his thumbs brushed just under the curve of her ribs. His touch wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t timid either. It was reverent. Like he was trying to memorize the map of her before the stars shifted.

“You really want me to shut up?” he murmured against her jaw, lips brushing skin he was already drunk on. “Because that’s… bold, Starling.”

His mouth found her neck—slow, open, sinful—and he felt her breath stutter against him. That sound. That was going to live in his head forever.

“I have, like, five poetic metaphors and at least two musical references I could throw at you right now,” he whispered, words dragging hot across her collarbone, “but if you're serious about ruining me gently…”

His teeth grazed her skin, barely.

“...then I guess I should start with you.”

And just like that, he went quiet.

Mason kissed his way down her neck, letting his hands explore with more intention—fingers skimming over ribs, tracing the soft dip of her waist, sliding along the edge of her back where he knew she was most ticklish and least likely to admit it.

He took his time.

Because this was his offering.

Not rushing.

Not taking.

Just worshipping.

He kissed the top of her breast, slow and reverent, then looked up at her through the glow of fairy lights and breathless tension

“Still good?” he asked, voice low and wrecked and so full of her it could barely hold its shape.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just looked at him.

Eyes blown wide, lips parted, breath hitching right there in her throat—and then, slowly, she gave him a single, steady nod. No words. Just permission. Just yes.

Mason exhaled like he’d been holding it in for years.

“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. Like the word was a vow.

His hands slid down from her ribs, slow and sure, tracing every dip and curve he could reach as he moved lower—until his thumbs hooked gently into the waistband of her sweatpants.

He paused just long enough for her to catch his gaze again.

And when she didn’t stop him—when her breath caught and her fingers curled against his shoulder like she needed him closer—he tugged.

Not rushed. Not awkward.

Just steady.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly how lucky he was to be doing it with her.

The fabric gave way, inch by inch, exposing more of her, more warmth, more skin, more Rowan—and Mason swore he saw stars for a second. Real ones. Not fairy light reflections, not imagination.

Just the kind that came from being this close to something he didn’t think he’d ever deserve.

But God, did he want to.

He helped her shift, soft hands and whispered praise, his lips brushing whatever part of her he could reach—her hip, her stomach, her thigh—like he couldn’t bear the thought of missing a single inch.

And when her sweatpants were gone, when she was bare beneath him and looking at him like he wasn’t just ready but meant to be here?

Mason Hayes smiled.

Slow. Wrecked. Home.

“Okay,” he whispered again, kissing the inside of her thigh like a prayer.

“Let’s take our time.”

He didn’t look away.

Not once.

Not when she pulled off her sweater, not when her breath caught, not when her body gave itself over to the quiet, trembling trust of being seen.

And God—he saw her.

Not like a fantasy. Not like a girl in a borrowed moment. Like Rowan.

Like the whole, messy, complicated her—and somehow, he still wanted closer.

She felt the shift in him the second she said it—I locked the door.
The tension in his shoulders melted. The hesitation cracked. And something deep in his chest uncoiled like a thread pulled loose.

And then he touched her.
Really touched her.

His hands moved like they were reading, like she was a story he’d studied and highlighted and dog-eared with care. He didn’t rush. Didn’t take. He gave. Gave his full attention. Gave her warmth, steadiness, reverence.

Rowan felt her eyes sting—not from nerves, not from fear, but from how safe it felt. How easy. How real.

When he kissed her neck, slow and deliberate, she didn’t hold back the shiver. Didn’t try to bury the sound that slipped out of her mouth when his lips found that spot just below her jaw.

“Bold, Starling,” he whispered.

And she almost laughed.

Almost.

But then he kept going.
And every joke melted off her skin like steam.

Her body arched into him, natural, instinctive, her fingers curling into his hoodie like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. He worshipped her like she was something holy, and maybe for once, she believed it. Believed she could be soft. Be wanted without conditions. Be loved in that quiet, deliberate way he touched her.

And when he looked up—breathless, reverent, completely wrecked—and asked “Still good?”

She didn’t trust her voice.
Didn’t need to.

She nodded once, slow and certain.

Yes.

Yes, she was good.
Yes, she was sure.
Yes, she wanted this.

When his hands slipped lower, thumbs brushing her hips, she didn’t flinch. She watched him—eyes wide, skin flushed, breath trembling in her chest—and let him undress her like she was art he’d waited a lifetime to uncover.

She lifted her hips for him. Let the sweatpants fall. Let herself be.

And it didn’t feel exposed.
It felt… offered.

She was burning and grounded all at once, every nerve lit, every inch of skin a secret she was finally ready to share. Not because she owed him. Not because the moment asked for it.

Because she wanted to.
Because he earned it.
Because this was theirs.

And when he kissed her hip, then the inside of her thigh—slow, quiet, careful—she bit down on her bottom lip, chest rising like a tide.

He whispered it again. “Let’s take our time.”

And Rowan Starling, who’d spent her life building walls and setting fires just to see who would stay, looked down at the boy between her knees and finally let herself believe—

Maybe he would.

Maybe he already had.

She thought her heart might break from how gently he was holding her.

Not physically—though yeah, his hands were warm and sure and everywhere—but emotionally. The way he looked at her like she was something rare. Like he was afraid to miss a single second of this, of her, in case it vanished.

Rowan had been touched before.
Kissed before.
Wanted, even.

But never like this.
Never like she was being chosen. Over and over, breath by breath, without needing to shrink or soften or disappear.

Mason saw all of her.
And he stayed.

He was still kissing her like it meant something. Not hurried. Not performative. Just there. His mouth ghosting over the inside of her thigh like it was sacred. His hands smoothing up her sides, grounding her when she didn’t even realize she’d started floating.

She blinked hard.
Swallowed.

Her fingers found the back of his neck, tangled softly in the ends of his hair. She needed to touch him—needed that tether, that realness—because otherwise, she might start to think this was some dream conjured by candlelight and want.

But it wasn’t.

It was Mason.
Mason, wrecked and focused and wholly present.
Mason, who kissed her stomach like it had a heartbeat.
Mason, who made her feel like being vulnerable was a power, not a weakness.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice low and hoarse.

He looked up immediately.
Always ready. Always listening.

She cupped his cheek, brushed her thumb along the curve of his jaw like she was memorizing it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, barely above a breath. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Something flickered in his eyes—shock, gratitude, something deeper than either—and she saw it. Felt it. The way her words hit something soft and scared inside him and gentled it.

Then she smiled. Just a little.

“Still think I’m gonna destroy you?” she asked, teasing on the surface but layered underneath with something raw. Vulnerable. Hopeful.

Because maybe—just maybe—he was destroying her, too.

And she wasn’t scared of that anymore.
Not with him.
Not like this.