Mason grinned against the kiss, one hand finding her waist like it had every right to be there. When she pulled back, he didn’t chase her lips—didn’t have to. He felt grounded. Easy. Like the moment didn’t need anything else to prove it was real.

He slipped his fingers through hers as they moved toward the door, thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “You say that like I wasn’t already halfway through a casting call in my head,” he murmured. “Spoiler: you’re playing every role. Even the wolfish stable boy with unresolved trauma.”

Outside, the air was crisp and quietly humming with that late-night stillness only Evergreen could pull off. The stars were out, the sidewalk drowsy with leftover warmth from the day. Mason paused under the glow of the street light, still holding her hand, then tugged her gently back.

“Wait—one more thing.”

And with a small, theatrical flair, he spun her. Not dramatic, not staged. Just enough to catch her off guard and make her laugh—exactly what he wanted. When she landed back in front of him, slightly dizzy and glowing, he kissed her properly. No rush. Just a steady, smiling press of lips that said yeah, this is mine.

When they broke apart, he tapped her nose. “No fangs. Got it. But I make no promises about interpretive dance if inspiration strikes.”

They started walking, her in jeans and that oversized green sweater he liked too much to be chill about. He kept their hands linked the whole way—sometimes swinging them between them, sometimes brushing his thumb along her knuckles like a song he didn’t want to forget. Every so often, he'd throw in a dramatic gasp or whisper a terrible line like, "She thirsted not for blood—but for vengeance!" just to make her snort.

Tuesday had come and gone, but the weight of it hadn’t.

The pregnancy test had come back positive.

That night, Rowan and Mason sat across from her parents—hands clasped tightly between them, the silence heavy but not unkind—and told them the truth. She was pregnant. They were keeping the baby.

There hadn’t been shouting. No slammed doors. Just quiet shock, deep breaths, and the sort of pause that feels like the world holding still. Her mom’s eyes had shimmered, her dad’s voice had gone careful, and Mason’s mother had spoken with a steadiness Rowan would never forget: “We’ll figure it out.”

And they had.

A plan had formed in the stillness. Mason would move in with Rowan and her parents. They’d both work, both contribute, both shoulder the weight of what was coming with as much grace and grit as they could manage. Help would be given, yes—but so would responsibility.

What Rowan didn’t know—what Mason had kept tucked behind his calm and his careful hands—was that later that night, after she’d gone to bed and the world had softened into quiet again, he’d sat down with her parents. And asked.

“If I asked to marry her… would you say yes?”

They had.

Not because it was perfect. Not because it was easy. But because they had lived it, too—high school sweethearts, a young marriage, a child born before the ink on their diplomas had dried. They saw themselves in the storm Rowan and Mason were stepping into.

They only asked for one thing: don’t rush the vow—build the foundation first.

Mason agreed.

But he still couldn’t wait to show her what she meant.

The bell above the door chimed as the last customer slipped out into the dusk, leaving behind the scent of espresso and spring. Rowan turned the lock, flipped the sign, and leaned her weight into the counter for just a breath.

Her body was tired. Her heart more so. She moved on instinct, wiping down surfaces, counting drawers, stacking tomorrow’s books in tidy piles for her mom’s morning shift. She didn’t question where Mason had gone—figured he was in the storeroom, maybe. Or changing out the playlist.

Until she turned.
And he was there.

With a blindfold in his hands.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just stepped forward, kissed her cheek, and slipped the soft fabric over her eyes. Her breath caught—but she didn’t resist. Her hand found his like it always did, and she let him guide her.

The café felt different in the dark. Echoes of their steps followed them. She smiled once, startled, when she nearly tripped on a rug, and felt his arm wrap around her to steady her, warm and certain.

They moved past the stacks. Past the quiet.

Into the heart of the YA section.

And stopped.

She felt him reach behind her head, loosening the blindfold’s knot with careful fingers. It slipped away.

And the breath rushed out of her.

The bookshelves around them had been transformed—swept in gauzy white fabric and dotted with string lights like fallen stars. Ivy trailed from the corners, soft and green. A picnic blanket was spread out beneath them, ringed with pillows from the reading nook and a folded quilt she recognized from his bedroom floor. In the middle sat a cluster of little things: their favorite book. A photo strip. A small ring box.

It hit her like a wave.

Rowan’s knees nearly buckled. Her hand flew to her mouth, her chest folding in on itself as tears burned behind her eyes.

He’d done this.
For her.

For them.

And it was beautiful.
Too beautiful.

Because she knew what it meant.

She turned toward him, already shaking, already crumbling under the weight of it.

And through the tears, she whispered, “No.”

Her voice cracked as her head continued to shake, her heart breaking in slow, quiet pieces.

“I’m not marrying you just because I’m pregnant.”

Mason didn’t move for a long moment.

Not out of shock. Not even out of hurt.

But out of understanding—the kind that doesn’t come from words, but from everything underneath them.

Because he heard what she said.

He heard it in the tremble of her voice. The plea tucked inside the no. The weight of every expectation she’d carried on her back since the test turned positive and the world tilted sideways. He saw it in her shoulders—the way they curled in, not from fear of him, but from the fear of being erased by what loving him might now demand.

And Mason Hayes would never be the reason she disappeared.

So when her voice cracked and that single word fell, heavy and honest, he exhaled once.

Then stepped toward her, slowly, as if crossing sacred ground.

He didn’t touch her.

Not right away.

Instead, he crouched slightly—leveled his eyes with hers, where they shimmered and swam and didn’t look away. And when he spoke, it was low. Measured. Anchored in something deeper than disappointment.

“I’m not asking because of the baby,” he said. “I’m asking because I’ve been in love with you since the minute you looked at me like I mattered.”

He let that settle. Let her breathe it in.

“And I’m still in love with you. Every version. Even the one that says no.”

His hand found hers—lightly this time, no pressure. Just presence. A place to land.

“I didn’t bring you here tonight to trap you in something you’re not ready for. I brought you here because I wanted you to see it. Us. Not some ring. Not some forced timeline. Us. Still here. Still trying. Still sacred.”

Rowan’s lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath. Just awe.

He smiled gently, even as his chest ached.

“I didn’t expect an answer tonight. Not really. I just wanted to give you something real in a world that keeps demanding you fake it.”

He swallowed.

“And if real means saying no right now? I’d rather that than a yes you didn’t choose freely.”

Then, quieter:

“I’d rather wait for the day you want to say yes. For you. For us. Not because of a heartbeat we haven’t even heard yet.”

His fingers curled slightly, catching the tips of hers.

“Take your time, Ro. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then he did the bravest thing he could do in that moment.

He reached for the ring box—closed it—and placed it gently back inside the book it had rested on. Not like a failed attempt. Not like something wasted.

But like a bookmark.

For later.

She had said no.

She had meant it—at least, in that split-second blur of panic where all she could hear was her own heartbeat and the echo of every voice in the world telling her what she should do now that she was pregnant.

But Mason didn’t flinch.

He didn’t fall apart.

He just stayed—steady, kind, heartbreakingly sure.

And then he said it.

“I’m not asking because of the baby.”

She felt something in her chest crack at those words—clean and deep and quiet. Like a wall she hadn’t known she built finally letting in light.

Because he hadn’t tried to argue with her. He hadn’t begged or reassured or spun promises he couldn’t keep. He just told her the truth. That he loved her. That this wasn’t about responsibility or consequence. That it wasn’t about doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.

It was about them.

Her knees felt weak again, but this time for a different reason.

“I’m not asking because of the baby.”

It rang through her—settled deep.

Because she believed him.

Because Mason wasn’t the kind of boy who would offer her a ring out of panic. Or pressure. Or because someone’s parents said it was what came next.

He’d asked because he meant it—because he’d been waiting to ask. Because he loved her before the second line on that test ever appeared.

And now? Now she could breathe again.

Now she could see him clearly—this boy who’d built her a canopy of fairy lights and pages and patience. Who closed the ring box without resentment. Who gave her the space to say no and meant it when he said “I’ll wait.”

Her voice wobbled.

“I didn’t say no because I don’t want to marry you,” she whispered, tears slipping quietly down her cheek. “I said no because I was scared you only asked because I’m pregnant. And I needed to protect myself from what that might mean.”

She stepped closer.

“But you didn’t try to convince me. You didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. You just… told the truth.”

Her eyes met his, full and unblinking.

“And that’s why I can say yes now. Because you gave me that choice.”

A long breath. Her hand reached for his.

“I want this. You. Us. The baby, the hard parts, the quiet mornings and the messy ones too.”

Her smile trembled, but it was real.

“I want to marry you, Mason Hayes. And not because of a heartbeat we haven’t heard yet. But because of the one that’s been next to mine since the very beginning.”

A pause.

Then, softly:

“Will you ask me again?”

Mason froze—but only for a second.

Not because he was unsure. Not because he doubted.

But because God, when she said his name like that—like a truth she had finally decided to keep—it felt like something broke open inside him. Something big and quiet and burning at the edges. Something that had nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with home.

He hadn’t let himself dream that she might change her mind. He’d meant what he said—every word. He would’ve waited. Would’ve loved her through the no. Would’ve kissed her hand every day like it still carried the yes inside it, even if it took years to surface.

But now she was standing there, looking at him like she already had.

Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but her voice—her voice was steady. Sure. The kind of sure that made promises mean something.

And she was asking him to ask again.

So he did.

Not with a grand gesture. Not with a speech.

Just a step forward, hands trembling, heart absolutely wrecked in the best way possible.

Mason reached for the ring box, slow and reverent, like it held the entire weight of the future. He didn’t open it right away. He looked at her first—really looked at her.

At the girl who once folded herself into corners to keep from being too much.

At the woman who had now chosen everything.

Even him.

He dropped to one knee—not performative, not dramatic. Just there.

Grounded.

Full of every impossible thing he didn’t know how to say.

And with tears in his own eyes now—sharp and holy and unashamed—he whispered:

“Rowan Starling… will you marry me?”

His hands were shaking.

But his voice?

It didn’t.

Because this time, there was no maybe.

Just yes.

For a second, all she could do was look at him.

There he was—on one knee, ring in hand, eyes full of everything he couldn’t say but somehow always made her feel anyway. There was no performance in it. No pressure. No panic.

Just Mason.

And for the first time since that test turned positive, Rowan didn’t feel like the ground was shifting beneath her.

She felt steady.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and dropped to her knees in front of him—not out of drama, not out of shock. Just instinct. Just closeness. Just needing to be with him.

Her fingers found his. Warm. Familiar. Still shaking.

“I wanted to say yes the second I saw what you made back here,” she said quietly, eyes never leaving his. “But I got scared. That maybe this was all happening too fast. That you were asking because you felt like you had to.”

She shook her head, barely.

“But you weren’t. You weren’t trying to fix anything. You were just… loving me.”

Her voice cracked then—not from uncertainty, but from the ache of knowing she didn’t have to hold the weight alone anymore.

“I want to marry you,” she said, firmer now. “Not because we’re having a baby. Not because we’re trying to prove something. But because I look at you and see my future.”

A breath. A blink. A half-laugh that caught in her throat.

“You could’ve waited. I know that. But you didn’t want to. And now that I’m standing here, I don’t want to wait either.”

She reached out and placed her hand in his—steadier this time, with purpose.

“Yes, Mason Hayes. It’s yes.”

She smiled, wet-eyed and clear. “It’s always been yes.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His breath caught, barely audible, and for a moment he just looked at her—like she was the last piece of something he hadn’t realized he’d been building his whole life.

Then, with hands still trembling but guided by something steadier than nerves, he opened the ring box.

The metal caught the light like it had been waiting for this exact second.

Rowan held her hand out, palm up, fingers soft and ready. No hesitation now. No fear.

He slid the ring onto her finger—slowly, carefully, like it was something delicate and important. And it was. Not the ring itself, but what it meant. What it carried.

Not an answer to a mistake.
Not a rescue plan.
Just them.

Still here. Still choosing.

When it settled into place, Rowan looked down at it for a breath—watched the way it sat on her hand, like it had always belonged there. And then she looked up at him.

No one said anything.

They didn’t have to.

Mason leaned forward, their foreheads meeting in the middle of that soft-lit space, his eyes fluttering closed like he was exhaling for the first time in days.

Rowan stayed there with him—hand on his cheek, the other still in his, the ring between them. A quiet yes stretched out into something infinite.

And finally, she whispered, not because it needed to be said, but because she wanted him to hear it again:

“I’m sure.”

Just like that.

No maybe.
No panic.
Just yes.

Their foreheads were still pressed together when Rowan felt herself smile—small at first, then full, blooming right there against the quiet hum of everything they’d just promised.

She leaned back just enough to really look at him, her thumb still brushing the edge of his jaw.

And then, softly—like it had just clicked into place—she asked, “Wait… is this what you bought the other day at the mall?”

Mason blinked, caught somewhere between dazed and sheepish.

She laughed—quiet, breathless, but real—and let her hand fall to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“I thought you were acting weird,” she murmured, half teasing, half in awe. “God. You’ve been carrying this around since then?”

He nodded, barely.

Her smile softened, the weight of that settling in.

“You were really gonna wait until I was ready,” she said, more to herself than to him.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t need to.

She leaned in again, kissed him once—soft, certain.

“Thank you for not making me rush to catch up,” she whispered. “Even if you were three steps ahead.”

Mason’s brain had officially stopped working.

Like—shut down, blue screen, please-restart-your-heart kind of stopped working.

Because Rowan Starling—his Rowan—just said yes.

Not a maybe. Not a whisper of someday. A full, steady, eyes-wide-open yes. And she dropped to her knees to meet him there like it wasn’t a proposal, but a promise. Like she couldn’t stand being anything but level with him in that moment.

Which was insane.

Because he was already flat-out wrecked. In the good way. In the holy shit this is real way.

She said yes.

She said yes.

He couldn’t even blame the way his fingers trembled as he slipped the ring onto hers, slow and reverent, like it might vanish if he moved too fast. And when she looked down at it—when her eyes softened and then lifted back to his like he’d just handed her the sun—he nearly forgot how to speak again.

So he didn’t.

He just pressed their foreheads together and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding since she first said I think I’m pregnant.

God, he loved her.

He didn’t know how to hold that and stay upright, so he didn’t try. He let her thumb brush his cheek, let her words settle in—the quiet kind that bloomed like roots, anchoring deep.

And then she asked about the mall.

Mason blinked, thrown so hard back into his own skin that he almost laughed out loud. He’d been two seconds away from crying like a Disney prince, and now she was calling him out for the world’s worst poker face.

Of course she figured it out.

Of course she caught the mall trip.

And God help him, he melted.

Because she was smiling now. That soft, only-for-him kind of smile. And she was teasing him while wearing his ring. And even with the baby-sized thundercloud still hanging quietly in the air, she was here. Laughing. Holding onto him.

He let out a breathless, almost-laugh and pressed his hand over hers where it curled into his shirt.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice quiet and full of something so full it barely fit inside his chest. “I was gonna wait.”

Wait forever, if he had to.

But he didn’t.

Because she’d said yes.

Because now, everything they were afraid of still existed—sure. But it had something stronger holding it up.

A them.

He leaned in again, lips brushing her forehead. Then her nose. Then the corner of her mouth, lingering there before pressing the softest, slowest kiss against her smile.

No fanfare. No theatrics.

Just Mason.

Silly, in-love, always-three-steps-ahead Mason.

The boy who carried a ring for days and would’ve carried it for years if that’s what it took.

The boy who now—finally—got to call her his fiancée.

And God help the world, he was never going to shut up about it.

Rowan didn’t speak. Not right away.

Not after the kiss, not after the ring, not even after the way Mason had looked at her like she’d just given him gravity.

Instead, she turned—slowly—toward the back corner.

Toward the soft glow that had been waiting all along.

The tent wasn’t big. Wasn’t perfect. But it was hers in a way nothing else ever had been. Draped fabric made a little dome between bookshelves, sheer enough that the string lights woven above glowed through like fireflies in a jar. The floor was layered with mismatched pillows and the same throw blanket from the couch upstairs. Their favorite paperbacks—ones with margin notes and dog-eared corners and inside jokes buried in chapter titles—were stacked around the edge like a border. A couple of the books had tea stains on them. One had her handwriting. One still had a receipt from their first trip to the café together.

She took a step closer.

Then another.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the curtain and parted it gently, like she was stepping into something sacred.

And in a way… she was.

Rowan dropped to her knees inside and let her hands skim the closest book. She recognized it instantly—Fablehaven, the one they used to quote just to annoy each other. He’d put that in here on purpose.

She turned slightly, running her hand along the spines, like touching them would help her believe it was real. All of it. That someone had thought about her this much. Had known her this well. Had built something so completely her without ever needing to ask.

Behind her, she felt Mason linger in the entrance. Waiting. Not pressing.

She reached back blindly, found his hand, and tugged him in beside her.

“This is insane,” she said softly, looking around again. “Like, are you serious with this?”

Her voice cracked a little—but not in fear. Not in nerves.

Just disbelief. The good kind.

She leaned back against a pillow, tugging him down with her, their shoulders brushing. Her gaze drifted back to the ceiling, where the lights flickered through the fabric like stars.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she said, barely above a whisper. “For me.”

And then—because she had to say it, because no part of her could hold it in anymore—Rowan turned her head, pressed her lips to his shoulder, and murmured:

“Marrying you might actually be the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Not when she said it like that—like a secret passed beneath a blanket fort, like a truth meant only for the boy she’d let all the way in.

His heart had already been a mess from the yes, but now?

Now it felt like it had folded in on itself entirely—quiet, breathless, overflowing.

He didn’t need anything else from her in that moment. Not vows. Not confetti. Not even the ring still warming the skin of her finger like it knew where it belonged.

She was here.

They were here.

And she’d called it easy. Not simple, not convenient—easy. As if loving him, trusting him, building a life with him wasn’t just possible—but already happening.

Mason swallowed hard and tilted his head so it rested lightly against hers, their temples barely touching. He stared up at the lights, watched them flicker behind the fabric like their own private constellation, and let the silence hold them.

Not because there was nothing left to say.

But because there was everything left to live.

Eventually, he laced their fingers together, thumb brushing the top of her knuckles, and smiled—soft, a little stunned.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I rehearsed a whole speech. Had a quote. From a book you made fun of me for liking.”

Rowan made a contented sound beside him, a smile in her breath.

“I was gonna say it anyway. But then you looked at me and… yeah. Forgot it all. Gone.”

He turned to look at her—really look—eyes full of wonder and the kind of awe that never fades, even after decades.

“But I’ll tell you the part I remember,” he added.

His voice dropped, reverent and certain:

“I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with you.”

The words hung between them like truth carved into pages.

And when she turned into him, ring catching the soft light, laughter tucked behind her smile and tears still drying on her cheeks, Mason realized something:

This wasn’t just the end of the question.

It was the beginning of everything else.

She didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t need to.

She just watched him, that boy with stars still caught in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe the universe had actually said yes back. And for a second, Rowan couldn’t believe it either.

Not that he asked.

But that someone would do all this for her.

That someone would see every sharp edge, every crack, every time she almost bolted—and stay. Build something soft instead of backing away. Choose her in spite of the chaos. Or maybe because of it.

The tent. The books. The ring.

Him.

Rowan shifted closer and tucked herself into his chest without saying a word. Her fingers stayed tangled in his, but her other hand slid across his stomach, gentle and familiar, like her body had memorized him on instinct. His hoodie still smelled like cinnamon and old pages. His heartbeat thudded under her cheek—fast and a little uneven, like maybe he was just as overwhelmed as she was.

She smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.

“You’re such a nerd,” she mumbled, soft and teasing, lips brushing his shirt. “A book quote? Really?”

He didn’t say anything. But she felt the way his chest shook with laughter, and it made her smile harder.

She turned her face just enough to speak again, this time steadier, quieter. Honest.

“God, I love you.”

She felt the words leave her and wrap around him. Not performative. Not dramatic. Just true. It sat there in the quiet with them, settled between fairy lights and paperback towers, and for once, it didn’t need to be anything else.

Her fingers moved lightly over his ribs, mapping the shape of him like she was memorizing the moment.

“I want to do it all with you, Mason Hayes,” she said again, a little firmer this time. “The messy parts. The quiet ones. The parts we have to figure out as we go.”

Her voice dipped lower.

“I want to figure out how to be a mom. I want to stay up too late putting together a crib we’ll probably break. I want to burn dinner and cry about it and still end up eating cereal on the kitchen floor.”

She tilted her head, just enough to look at him—really look.

“I want that life with you.”

No one else.

Just him.

She tucked herself back in close, let her hand rest over the heart still beating hard beneath her palm.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, finally. “But I’m not going anywhere either.”

And for the first time since that test turned positive—since the world started tilting sideways—Rowan felt like the ground beneath her had finally steadied.

Because this?

This was theirs.