Mason didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or combust.

Possibly all three.

Because there she was—curled up against him like she belonged there, whispering things like I love you and I want to build a life with you like it was just… casual. Like she didn’t just rearrange the entire structure of his emotional universe with a single sentence.

His fiancée.

His actual fiancée. Who somehow said yes to a tent full of books and a quote from The Little Prince and a boy who had to Google which finger the engagement ring went on like a panicked Victorian ghost.

And now she was talking about cribs and cereal and burning dinner and Mason’s brain was glitching in real-time.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, more to himself than her, one hand slipping over hers where it rested against his chest. “You just said crib. Like an actual crib. Like… a tiny person bed. And I just realized I don’t know how to hold a baby. Is there a training montage for that? Can I Rocky this? Is there a Rocky but for dads?”

His heart was beating way too fast, but not in the I-can’t-handle-this way. In the I’m-so-in-love-I-might-vibranium-punch-through-a-wall way.

“You said ‘mom,’” he added, voice cracking halfway through because apparently he was the kind of person who got misty-eyed over nouns now. “You said you want to be a mom. And you weren’t running when you said it. You weren’t bolting. You were just—here. With me.”

He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to her hair, voice softer now. “You want cereal on the floor and burnt dinners and weird baby socks with dinosaurs and all of it. With me. God. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone more aggressively in my life.”

He pulled her even closer, like the words themselves made her more real, more his.

“And, like—I’m terrified too, okay?” he whispered. “This whole thing? It’s huge. Monumental. Like, I don’t even know how to do taxes without Googling it, and now I’m supposed to teach a tiny human how to exist? I almost put the engagement ring on the wrong hand, Starling, do you hear me? I panicked and almost left the tag on.”

A laugh tumbled out of him—soft, breathless, so Mason.

“But if I get to do it with you—if I get to screw up and figure it out and burn frozen lasagna and cry in the car and still end up curled up in a tent full of books holding your hand?”

He tilted his head, kissed the top of hers like a quiet exhale.

“Then I already won.”

And for the first time since everything changed—for the first time since maybe ever—Mason Hayes didn’t feel like the world was too big or too scary or too full of things he didn’t understand.

Because the girl in his arms wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Rowan felt him exhale when she said it—like just the idea of someone teaching him how to hold a baby had cracked open something in his chest. She smiled, slow and steady, fingers drawing tiny circles on the fabric of his hoodie.

“Mase,” she said softly, tilting her head to look up at him, “you’re not supposed to know how to do this yet. That’s kind of the point.”

She shifted so she could sit up just a little, her back against one of the pillows in the corner of the tent. The fairy lights caught the gold in her hair, and her ring glinted as she reached out, lacing their fingers again.

“There are baby classes at the hospital,” she said, gently. “They’ll teach us the basics—holding, bathing, what to do when the baby won’t stop crying at 3 a.m. You’ll probably take it way too seriously and try to ace the quizzes, and I’ll be the one laughing in the back when the plastic baby starts making sounds.”

He looked at her like she’d just handed him oxygen.

Rowan leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. “We’ll check out every parenting book from the library. We’ll highlight pages. Leave notes in the margins. Argue about which stroller folds easiest and which one’s going to make you look like a suburban dad with a podcast.”

She felt him laugh beneath her, his body finally starting to loosen again.

“And when the books start contradicting each other,” she continued, “we’ll put on those dumb old movies. The ones where everything goes wrong—like, fire-in-the-kitchen wrong—and they still turn out okay.”

She paused, then added, “You’ll probably cry. I’ll pretend I didn’t notice. It’ll be perfect.”

Rowan sat back slightly to look at him again, her expression softer now. No teasing. Just truth.

“You don’t have to be perfect at this, Mason,” she said. “You just have to be you. The guy who built a book fort. Who didn’t run when I said the words out loud.”

Her fingers traced the curve of his jaw.

“I trust you. Not because you’ve got it all figured out—but because you’ll try. Because you care enough to learn. Because you show up.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek—right where his smile always started.

“And you’re not doing it alone,” she added quietly. “I’m here. We’re in this together. Every messy, beautiful, terrifying second of it.”

Rowan pulled his hand to her chest and pressed it flat over where her heart thudded beneath the fabric of her hoodie.

“Right here,” she whispered. “Always.”

And for a long, long moment, the tent stayed quiet—just the soft buzz of the lights, the sound of their breathing, and the shape of forever finally taking root between them.

Mason stared at her like she’d just casually told him he’d been chosen to lead a space mission—with her, a baby, and a suitcase full of library books.

And honestly?

He was weirdly okay with that.

Which made it all the more baffling when his brain decided to go completely blank the second she said parenting class.

“Like… with a doll?” he blurted, dazed. “That cries? And judges you?”

Rowan didn’t answer—not with words—but the smile she gave him, soft and steady, might as well have wrapped around his heart and made it sit down for a talk.

He pressed a palm to his chest, dramatic. “Oh no. I’m gonna be that dad. The one who overstudies and still can’t figure out how to fold the stroller and ends up walking around with half of it stuck to his ankle.”

She just curled closer. Like that was exactly what she signed up for.

He exhaled a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his lungs since the day they stood in the pharmacy aisle, trying to decide if it was worth buying the test that would change everything.

And now? Here they were.

Still them.

Still heartbeats and sarcasm and tangled limbs under too many blankets—but also maybe someday bath toys and midnight feedings and whispered shhh’s in the dark.

His fingers found hers again, lacing them tight.

“You really mean it,” he whispered—not as a question, just a quiet realization. “We’re gonna figure it out. Together.”

And then—because his emotions were starting to crowd each other and he wasn’t ready to cry again in front of God and a stack of fantasy novels—he leaned over and kissed the top of her head, muttering, “Just promise me you’ll remind me not to buy the dad shoes. You know I’ll fold under pressure.”

She laughed into his shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

Yeah.

That sound?

That was it.

That was home now.

And Mason didn’t know how to do any of this yet—not really—but if loving her was the prerequisite?

Then he was already exactly where he was supposed to be.

owan didn’t speak right away.

She just watched him—with that dazed, spiraling kind of awe only Mason Hayes could pull off five seconds after saying something like “dad shoes” with actual panic in his eyes.

And then she laughed again.

Not the kind you hold back, but the kind that slips out when something warm and safe settles deep in your chest. She tucked her forehead into the crook of his shoulder, fingers tightening around his.

“You’re not gonna be that dad,” she murmured, voice a little muffled. “You’re gonna be the one who overpacks the diaper bag and panics over which sippy cup is BPA-free, but still somehow manages to make the pediatrician laugh.”

He groaned like that was somehow worse. She smiled against his shirt.

“And yeah,” she added, “if you so much as look at a pair of orthopedic sneakers, I will physically remove them from your cart. We’re not there yet.”

She pulled back slightly so she could see his face, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth in a way that felt instinctual now. Like she already knew how to quiet the noise in his head before it built too loud.

“I do mean it,” she said, a little more serious now. “The classes. The books. The weird doll with the judgmental cry.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch.

“We’re doing this together.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and sure.

“Which means when you freak out about swaddling, I’ll be right there failing with you. And when I forget which baby food brand we like, you’ll be the one making a spreadsheet.”

Her head tipped back to rest against his again, gaze drifting up to the fairy lights that still glowed softly through the tent above them.

“Still us,” she whispered.

And it was.

Even with everything ahead of them, with every unknown still waiting on the other side of graduation and due dates and growing up faster than they meant to—they were still Rowan and Mason.

Still the girl who loved old books and the boy who folded love notes into library receipts.

Still figuring it out.

Together.

Rowan shifted just enough to see his face clearly—the way his lashes brushed his cheek, the quiet way he blinked like he was still trying to process all of it. All of them. Her. This.

The proposal. The test. The future.

She leaned in and kissed him softly—just once at first, then again, slower this time. Like punctuation. Like she was writing it down in him: I love you. I love you. I love you.

Mason melted into it immediately.

No hesitation. No nerves.

Just him—right where she needed him.

Rowan smiled against his mouth, then pulled back just far enough to rest her hand over his, guiding it carefully, purposefully, to the spot just beneath her ribs.

It wasn’t much yet. Just a subtle difference—something only she really noticed in the mirror, in the way her jeans sat a little tighter, in the way her body felt a little softer, a little more careful.

But still.

There was a baby in there.

Their baby.

She held his hand there, over that small, ordinary curve that was about to become something extraordinary, and whispered, “You made this with me.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to.

It was gentle. Steady.

A kind of wonder only she could hold and still somehow hand over completely.

“I mean—technically we made a lot of bad decisions,” she added with a crooked smile. “But this wasn’t one of them.”

She glanced up at him again, watching the way he stared down at where their hands rested. His fingers flexed slightly, like he didn’t want to miss a single heartbeat of the moment.

She squeezed his hand.

“It’s not just you and me anymore,” she said softly. “There’s a tiny person in there, Mase. A whole little life that wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you showing up that rainy Sunday and that dumb look you gave me the first time you told me my handwriting was cute.”

He let out a quiet breath.

And Rowan just kept watching him.

All of him.

The boy who got overwhelmed by stroller ads and still reached for her hand anyway. The boy who carried a ring before she even knew how much she wanted one.

Her boy.

Her partner.

The future father of the very real human growing inside her.

She kissed his jaw, then his temple, then rested her head back against his chest, hand still pressing his palm to her skin.

“We’re gonna be so bad at this,” she said, voice full of affection. “And so good.”

And Mason didn’t say anything right away.

He didn’t have to.

Because she could feel it in the way he held her tighter.

In the way his thumb traced over her belly like he’d already memorized the feeling of where home had shifted to.

Mason blinked.

Once. Then again.

Like maybe if he did it enough times, the moment would slow down just long enough for him to catch up. But it didn’t. It was still happening. Her hand over his. Her heartbeat under his fingertips. Her voice in his ear saying things like technically we made a lot of bad decisions with that stupid, perfect smile that always got to him.

And underneath it?

Life.

His brain—normally full of trivia and song lyrics and quotes no one asked for—went completely still.

There was a baby. Inside her. And it was his.

He let his palm rest fully against her stomach, like maybe that would help him understand it better. That something they made was growing in there. That love—not a grand gesture or a song lyric or even a stupid book fort—but real, ordinary, terrifying love had turned into this.

And for a second, his mouth couldn’t find the words.

Which… was rare.

But then he looked at her—really looked at her—and it all came back in a rush. The awe. The panic. The tidal wave of oh my God, she’s having my child.

His heart did something completely unsupervised in his chest.

“I…” he started, then immediately stopped, because his voice did that wobbly thing it never did unless she was being dangerous and soft and full of forever.

He cleared his throat, swallowed, then tried again—quieter this time, thumb still sweeping over the curve of her belly like it was holy.

“I thought I knew what falling in love with you felt like,” he said, barely louder than a breath. “But then you did this. You went and… created a person. And now I think I’m starting all over again.”

His laugh was soft, unsteady. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I didn’t know it was possible to love something that hasn’t even opened its eyes yet,” he admitted. “But apparently I’m already fully prepared to fight someone at a playground over this hypothetical kid’s honor, so—yeah. That’s happening.”

She laughed. God, that sound.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her hair, then another to her temple, and stayed there for a long moment. Breathing her in. Letting the fear and the awe and the wonder swirl together into something he could hold.

“I’m terrified,” he murmured, so only she could hear it. “But I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He kissed her again, slower now—like a promise. Like a yes to every part of it. The sleepless nights. The crying. The cereal-for-dinner kind of chaos. The baby that was already taking up space in the center of everything.

He leaned his forehead against hers and exhaled.

“Let’s mess it up together,” he said quietly. “Let’s be really, really bad at this—until we’re not.”

And then he smiled, full and real and a little unhinged, like he was already picturing their baby wearing a tiny onesie that said Raised by chaos and cinnamon rolls.

Because if he was going to do something this terrifying?

It was always going to be with her.

She didn’t let go of him.

Not even when the quiet stretched long and the lights above flickered softly like stars holding their breath.

Her palm stayed pressed over his chest, counting the beat of something steady beneath the chaos. She felt it—every stuttered inhale, every tiny tremble he probably thought he was hiding. And still, he held her. Still, he stayed close. Warm. Constant.

Rowan shifted just enough to see his face.

The boy who used to blush when she caught him staring. The boy who once wrote her name in the margins of his notebook like it meant something. The boy who was now going to be the father of her child.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and slow, her fingers brushing back the curl that always fell over his forehead. Her thumb traced the edge of his cheekbone—memorizing him again like she hadn’t just spent the last year doing exactly that.

There was a kind of wonder blooming in her chest. Not loud. Not bright. Just warm.

She moved his hand gently back to her stomach and left it there, watching the way his fingers instinctively spread, protective and reverent. It wasn’t much yet—not a bump, not anything visible. But it was real. It was happening.

There was a baby. Their baby. Growing, becoming, beginning.

She laid her head against his shoulder again and closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat wrap around her like a lullaby. Her other hand found his and laced their fingers together, holding on. Because that was what they were going to do now—hold on. Even when they were scared. Even when they didn’t have it all figured out.

She smiled against his collarbone, quietly, to herself.

Because they didn’t need to know everything yet.

They just had to be here.

And God, they were.

She stayed there a while, tucked into the quiet curve of his body, breathing in the familiar scent of him—coffee and bookstore dust and something that always reminded her of home, even when the world felt unsteady.

Her hand drifted down from where it rested over his heart, back to where his fingers curled protectively against her stomach. That spot—still flat, still ordinary—already felt like the center of everything.

Rowan tilted her head just enough to look up at him again. His eyes were closed now, lashes brushing his cheek, mouth soft like he was finally letting the weight of the last few days settle into something he could carry.

She kissed his jaw—lightly, almost thoughtlessly—then smiled against his skin.

“I want a fall wedding,” she murmured, voice barely louder than the rustle of fabric around them. “Not just because of the aesthetic, but because I want to say yes to you when the air’s a little crisp and the leaves are changing. Like the whole world’s turning golden just for us.”

Her fingers absently played with the sleeve of his shirt, twisting the fabric once, then again.

“And, um…” she hesitated, lips curving up in a slow, playful grin. “Would you be mad if I wore black?”

She could already picture it—something sleek, maybe lacy, something that felt a little witchy and a lot like her. Dramatic, moody, unapologetically not white.

Rowan glanced up at him, still smiling. “Not like… Victorian funeral black. More like… slightly mysterious autumn goddess who accidentally fell in love with the boy next door.”

She didn’t wait for his answer. Not really.

She just curled closer again, threading their legs together under the soft, tangled blankets.

Because she knew him. And she knew he wouldn’t care what color she wore—as long as she walked toward him in it.

And that? That was the kind of forever she could promise.

Mason couldn’t speak.

Not at first—not when his mouth was suddenly dry and his brain was doing that spark-pop-fizzle thing it did whenever Rowan said something that completely short-circuited every coherent thought he’d ever had.

A fall wedding.

Her in black.

Autumn goddess accidentally in love with the boy next door?

Oh. Oh, he was done for.

His heart—already operating on a slightly-too-fast setting thanks to Rowan Starling is carrying my child—somehow kicked into another gear entirely. And yet, he didn’t panic. Not exactly. His whole body just sort of… settled around her. Melted into the moment like it was sacred.

Which, honestly? It was.

Because there she was—curled against his chest, one hand resting where their baby was growing like it had every right to already belong there, the other laced into his like she wasn’t planning on letting go. And now she was talking about weddings. About fall. About saying yes.

To him.

Mason Hayes.

Who once tripped over his own shoelace trying to impress her with a “flawless” parking job.

He swallowed hard. Tilted his head down just enough to press his lips into the crown of her hair. She smelled like cinnamon and possibility, and he wasn’t sure how to survive that.

His free hand tightened gently around her waist, thumb brushing the hem of her hoodie. Right over the place where everything had started shifting. Not just her body—but their future. Their entire axis, tilting toward something terrifying and beautiful and more permanent than anything he’d ever known.

She wanted to marry him.

Not because of the baby.

Not because they were being brave or reckless or practical.

But because she loved him. Enough to plan out the leaves and the color of her dress and the exact vibe of their forever.

Mason let out a quiet breath—half-laugh, half-sigh—and finally opened his eyes.

The fairy lights were still glowing above them. Their limbs still tangled in the chaos of pillows and worn blankets. The entire world had narrowed down to this one moment, and somehow, he didn’t feel small inside it.

He felt seen.

Held.

He shifted slightly, just enough to press another kiss to her forehead, then down to her temple, then the curve of her cheek. His voice, when it finally came, was low and warm and still a little dazed.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But only if I get to wear velvet.”

She stilled, then laughed softly against him.

“Like full, unnecessarily dramatic, somebody cue the forest mist levels of velvet,” he added. “Maybe a deep green. Or burgundy. Like I’m auditioning for a high-budget villain origin story but I fell in love instead.”

His hand brushed over her belly again—gentle, reverent.

“And obviously we’ll write our own vows,” he murmured, “because you’re not getting out of hearing me cry in front of everyone. I want to ugly-sob halfway through promising you the moon, and you’re going to have to pretend it’s charming.”

He felt her grin against his chest.

God, he loved her.

Loved her like it was his first and final language. Loved her like the only thing that had ever made sense was this—her hand in his, her heartbeat under his palm, her voice whispering forever in the language of fairy lights and bare skin and softly spoken dreams.

Mason kissed her again—this time without ceremony. Just because he could. Just because she was his.

“You in black?” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. “Game over, Starling. I’m done for.”

And he meant it.

Fall wedding. Velvet suits. Strollers and late-night cereal and maybe messing it all up before they got it right.

He wanted it all.

With her.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She just curled deeper into him, cheek pressed to his chest, fingers drifting in slow, absent circles across the fabric of his shirt like she was trying to memorize the shape of the moment. The sound of his heart beneath her ear was steady, familiar, and a little fast.

Good.

She liked that she still did that to him.

After a beat, she tipped her head back to catch his gaze. Her voice was quiet, rough around the edges in that way it always got when she meant something more than she could say out loud.

“Burgundy velvet,” she murmured, brushing her nose lightly against his jaw. “But only if I get to pick the boutonniere. Something obnoxiously dramatic. With thorns.”

She didn’t wait for his protest—just smiled and leaned up to kiss him. Soft. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about heat or urgency or even the weight of the day—just presence. Just thanks.

“I’m serious, by the way,” she added, her lips brushing his. “About the black dress. About the writing our vows. About not doing a cake if we don’t want to.”

She shifted, tucking her legs around his and pressing her palm once more to the gentle curve of her belly. “I don’t want the Pinterest version of a wedding. I want the us version. Messy and moody and too many books on the tables.”

Her smile tilted a little sideways, familiar and fond. “And probably a glitter explosion, thanks to Seraphina.”

She let that sit for a second, then tipped her head against his again. “You’re not the only one who’s terrified, you know,” she whispered. “But I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with you.”

Then, quieter: “And I want our kid to see that. To grow up knowing that choosing each other—even when it’s hard—makes everything else worth it.”

She paused.

Then: “If you cry during the vows, I’m one hundred percent roasting you in mine.”

Her fingers laced through his, steady as her smile.

“Fair warning.”

Rowan let the silence wrap around them again, but this time it didn’t feel heavy. It felt full.

Full of what came next.

She glanced at the ring on her finger—still shiny, still surreal—and then looked back at him. “You really picked this,” she said, almost like she couldn’t believe it. “You went out, stood under fluorescent mall lighting, and chose something for me. That’s…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just breathed out, a little stunned all over again.

Then she looked up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Did you panic and ask the lady at the jewelry counter for help?”

He didn’t answer—just made that guilty not-guilty face she’d seen a thousand times.

She laughed. “God, I love you.”

She didn’t mean to say it like that—not like it was casual, not like it was a reflex. But it came out soft and certain anyway. Like a truth she didn’t need to brace herself for.

And then she was crawling up slightly, bracing her hand on his chest and kissing him again—firm this time, a little longer. Not rushed. Just… sure.

“You know,” she murmured once their foreheads met again, “we’re gonna be so annoying.”

His brow furrowed slightly, amused.

She smirked. “Like, obnoxiously in sync. Matching pajama sets and seasonal playlists and an embarrassing number of inside jokes. The kind of couple people roll their eyes at.”

She paused, then whispered: “I can’t wait.”

Her hand drifted back to her stomach again. Not protectively—just instinctively. Like her body already knew where it all centered now.

“There’s a whole life in there,” she said softly, almost to herself. “A whole beginning.”

And then, looking at him again, her expression steadier:

“I want to tell them someday. That we weren’t perfect. That we didn’t have it all figured out. But that we said yes anyway. Over and over. Even when it was hard. Even when we were scared.”

She kissed his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth.

“I want them to know they were made from something real.”

Then, curling into his chest again, words barely above a whisper:

“And that we chose them on purpose.”

Her hand found his again. Held it tight.

“Just like I chose you.”

Mason couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak, not really—because every time he tried to come up with something clever or romantic or very him, it was like his brain got sideswiped by the weight of what she’d just said.

He’d been planning on making her laugh. That was the original plan. Maybe something about her threatening him with a spiky boutonniere. Maybe a sarcastic jab at glitter bombs and Seraphina’s unchecked chaos energy. Maybe even a joke about how if she wore black, he was legally required to wear a cape and show up like her dramatic vampire groom.

But then she said “I want our kid to know they were made from something real.”

And that? That rewired something in his chest.

His hand was already pressed to the soft space beneath her hoodie, fingers resting instinctively where her palm had been—where their life was quietly becoming someone. But now it felt like something else. Something bigger.

He stared at their joined hands. At the ring glinting on her finger.

He felt breathless in the best, most inconvenient way.

His voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Low. A little dazed.

“Okay,” he said. “So, two things.”

Rowan tilted her head, waiting.

“One,” he murmured, “I’m very into this spooky velvet fall wedding. Like, aggressively into it. If we don’t emerge from mist in the woods to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack, what are we even doing?”

Her laugh was small but real against his collarbone.

“And two…” His voice dipped. Softened. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want to be the person you just described.”

He paused, forehead resting against hers.

“I want them to know they were chosen. Not accidentally. Not because we panicked. But because we looked at this life—this scary, messy, beautiful life—and said yes. Together.”

His thumb brushed over her stomach again. Still flat. Still unreal. And yet somehow… already everything.

“I want to tell them the whole story,” he added. “The good parts. The hard parts. The part where you made me promise to never wear cargo shorts and then cried in the tent because I gave you a ring.”

Rowan swatted at him, half-laughing.

He caught her wrist, kissed her palm. Smiled against it.

“I want them to know their mom is magic,” he said simply. “Not like unicorns and glitter magic—though, yeah, you pull that off too—but the kind that builds worlds out of chaos. The kind that stays soft even when everything’s sharp. The kind that says yes, even when she’s terrified.”

He shifted slightly, easing her into his lap, his arms winding around her like instinct.

“I want them to see how much I love you,” he said. “Every single day. Because if they’re gonna grow up in a world that feels like a storm sometimes… I want them to know what shelter looks like.”

His voice went quieter. Just for her.

“And I want them to know that I loved you first.”

Then he kissed her—deep and reverent and real. Like he meant every word.

Because he did.

All of it.

Even the glitter.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She couldn’t—not when her throat felt tight and her heart felt like it had taken up way more room than her chest was built to hold. Mason’s voice was quiet, his words a steady hum against the whirlwind still spinning somewhere beneath her ribs, but every sentence landed with impossible weight.

She watched him. Really watched him.

How his thumb moved over the same spot on her stomach, gentle and careful. How he held her like she was something already worth protecting. How he spoke about their future—not as a faraway maybe, but as something already taking shape in the soft light and the spaces between their breaths.

And for a second, the fear that had been pressing down on her since the test flickered. Didn’t vanish. Didn’t disappear.

But eased.

He meant it. All of it. Even the part where he was terrified.

Especially that part.

She leaned forward without a word, curling into him as his arms wrapped around her like he’d been waiting for the permission. Her head found the spot just under his jaw, the one where she could hear his heartbeat if she stayed still long enough.

And then, softly—just loud enough for him to catch—she said, “We’ll figure it out.”

She tipped her chin up, eyes searching his. “You and me and our weird, wonderful, maybe-slightly-chaotic life. I want all of it. Not just because we’re having a baby—” her hand covered his again, resting over her stomach, “—but because I want it with you.”

A pause. Then a smile tugged at her mouth.

“And yeah, I want a fall wedding. I want leaves and cider and music in the trees. I want to wear black. Trimmed in something dramatic and moody and completely impractical.”

She tilted her head, eyes playful now. “You okay with that?”

She didn’t need an answer.

Not when his eyes already said yes.

She nestled closer, voice low. “Good. Because I also want you in burgundy velvet. Maybe with a pocket watch. Just so people think you wandered out of a gothic novel and stumbled into forever with me.”

A quiet laugh escaped her. “It’s going to be messy. And loud. And probably a little bit backwards.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth.

“But it’s ours,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

And she meant it. Every word.