Mason couldn’t speak—not right away.

Because of course she’d said all of that and looked at him like that and made his heart go completely sideways in the space of one breath. She had that kind of power. Always had.

He held still for a beat longer than usual, just to catch up. Just to hold the moment. Her hand over his, the weight of her body curled so perfectly into his, the way her voice still lingered in the space between them like some kind of promise.

He stared down at their hands—at hers—pressed over her stomach like it was already something sacred. It was barely a curve. Nothing visible. But it was theirs. A whole maybe. A whole future. A whole tiny version of the love they kept tripping into and choosing anyway.

His throat went tight. Not in the scary way.

In the I can’t believe she chose me kind of way.

So instead of answering right away, he leaned in and kissed her hair. Let his lips linger there. Let himself breathe her in—lavender and cinnamon and every time she’d ever said “yes” to him, even the ones that came in sideways glances and sarcastic banter.

Then he laughed—low and warm—when she said burgundy velvet.

“Okay,” he finally said, voice rough with awe he hadn’t figured out how to hide. “But if I wear burgundy velvet, you’re letting me carry a sword. Like, a decorative one. Just for the aesthetic.”

He felt her laugh against him and grinned wider. God, she made everything lighter. Even the terrifying parts.

He pressed another kiss to her temple and added, “And don’t blame me if the baby inherits our worst traits. I’m talking dramatic hand gestures from you and emotional overreacting from me. We’re in trouble.”

She shifted, smiling into his chest, and he tightened his arms around her.

“You know what though?” he said, quieter now. “Even if we mess it all up sometimes—like, burn-the-dinner-and-accidentally-give-the-baby-a-dinosaur-name level chaos—I still think we’re gonna be okay.”

He tilted his head just enough to look at her, gaze soft and certain. “Because I get to do it with you.”

And that?

That made everything feel possible.

Even velvet. Even vows. Even parenthood.

Especially parenthood.

Because this wasn’t just a chapter.

It was the whole story.

Rowan smiled before she even looked up.

That soft, tucked-in kind of smile—the one she only ever wore when the world quieted down enough for her to actually feel it all. The way Mason held her. The way he made everything terrifying sound kind of… beautiful. Manageable. Even fun.

Her fingers traced lazy, absent-minded circles over the back of his hand where it rested against her stomach.

“I’m not naming the baby after a dinosaur,” she said softly. “Even if it’s a cool one. Especially if it’s a cool one.”

She tilted her head up, catching the look in his eyes—equal parts wonder and wreckage, like he couldn’t believe this was real, but he also couldn’t stop staring at it.

“And no sword,” she added with a gentle raise of her brow. “Not even for the aesthetic. You’re wearing velvet, Hayes, that’s already enough power for one man.”

Her voice was light, but the hand over his didn’t move. Didn’t loosen. If anything, it pressed a little firmer into his, as if to say I mean it. I’m here.

She shifted so her leg tangled a little more with his under the blankets, curling deeper into the tiny, glowing world they’d made together under a canopy of fantasy novels and string lights.

“I hope they get your heart,” she murmured. “Your laugh. The way you talk to people like they matter. Like you’re already rooting for them.”

She paused, then added with a smirk, “Also your eyelashes, because—no offense, Hayes—but it’s unfair that you get those and I don’t.”

She didn’t say I love you again, but it was there—in the way she traced the edge of his thumb, in the way she kissed the side of his neck like she was saying thanks for making this scary thing feel like home.

Then she whispered, barely above the hush of the fairy lights around them:

“We’re gonna be okay.”

And she believed it.

Because he was still here.

And so was she.

Mason made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp of dramatic betrayal.

“No dinosaurs?” he whispered, eyes wide, absolutely wounded. “Not even a middle name? Come on, just imagine it—Rowan Starling and Mason Hayes, proud parents of Juniper Velociraptor Hayes. That kid would never lose a playground fight.”

She gave him that look. The one that could melt stone—or his brain, which was basically the same thing.

He grinned.

“Okay, fine. But I’m not apologizing when our child ends up naming all their stuffed animals after prehistoric apex predators. That’s on you.”

He let his fingers drift slowly across her stomach, warmth pooling somewhere behind his ribs at the way she didn’t stop him. At the way she curled closer like she was trying to fold them together permanently.

“No sword and no dinosaurs,” he muttered, mock-offended, kissing her hair like it was his form of protest. “What’s even the point of fatherhood if I can’t look mildly unhinged at our wedding?”

But then she said that—about his heart. His laugh. His eyelashes, which, yes, were criminally long—and he short-circuited for a second.

He blinked down at her, all the air stolen from his lungs in one soft, incredible hit.

“Okay, rude,” he murmured, trying not to smile too hard. “Are you trying to make me cry under this blanket fort? Is that what’s happening right now? Because it’s working, Starling, and we are not equipped for a flood in here.”

He kissed the top of her head again. Then her temple. Then, slower, the corner of her mouth.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he said against her skin. “Like, unfairly good. Like PTA moms are gonna hate you and then secretly try to be you good.”

His hand curled tighter around hers, anchoring it against her belly. Still no bump. Still just a maybe.

But God, he already loved this maybe more than anything.

“And me?” he said. “I’ll be right there, trying to keep our kid from licking the floor of the grocery store and giving them very serious lectures about why the T-Rex would be a terrible babysitter.”

He paused. Softened.

“But I’ll be there.”

Then, under his breath—like a prayer wrapped in sarcasm because that’s how he survived the big feelings—he added:

“No dinosaurs. No sword. But I’ve got you. And that’s the only thing I need.”

He didn’t say I love you again.

He didn’t have to.

It was in the way he smiled against her shoulder.

It was in the way he held her like the whole world could wait.

It was in the quiet, certain way he thought:

We’re gonna be okay.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because she was trying not to laugh so hard she started crying.

Juniper Velociraptor Hayes.

God help her.

She buried her face in his hoodie for a second, shaking her head against the absolute chaos of her fiancé, who was now dramatically lamenting the loss of his imaginary sword and dinosaur-themed legacy like someone had canceled his superhero origin story.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—wide and mock-wounded—and gave him a look. That one. The one that meant you’re lucky I love you, because I should absolutely be running from this conversation.

“You’re not naming our kid after a dinosaur,” she whispered, lips twitching. “And I’m not apologizing when they end up more obsessed with jellyfish or Greek mythology or… whatever weird niche obsession they inherit from you instead.”

He grinned like she’d just promised him a lifetime supply of coffee and bad ideas.

Still, when he kissed her hair like it was a protest and mumbled about unhinged wedding vibes, she couldn’t help it—she laughed for real this time. That soft, sleepy kind of laugh that curled up between them and made everything feel warmer.

She kissed his collarbone.

Didn’t explain why.

Just did it.

And when he started talking about her being a good mom, something shifted quietly in her chest. Something delicate but solid. Because maybe she hadn’t let herself think about that part too much—about how she’d be someone’s mother. Not in the abstract. Not someday.

But soon.

And Mason? God. Mason was still talking about grocery stores and dinosaur babysitters and making her laugh when she was afraid of everything else.

He made it feel okay to dream about it.

She reached for his hand again—still resting gently over her stomach—and laced their fingers together, holding him there. Grounding them both.

“I don’t need a sword,” she said, voice barely more than a breath, “when I’ve got you.”

He stilled.

And yeah, she saw it—the way his mouth twitched like he wanted to turn it into a joke, but his eyes gave him away.

So she pressed her forehead to his, closed the space between them until she could feel every breath they shared, and whispered, “You already love them. And you haven’t even met them yet. Of course we’re gonna be okay.”

A pause.

Then, a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth:

“Even if I have to spend the rest of my life hiding the dinosaur-themed baby clothes you sneak into our shopping cart.”

She felt him laugh, soft and a little shaky, and she closed her eyes.

This—this was the part she hadn’t known how to want until she had it. Mason’s hand over hers. His voice in her ear. The world outside still a mess, but this?

This was home.

And it was enough.

Mason didn’t speak at first.

Couldn’t.

Because Rowan Starling—the girl who once threatened to leave him on read for using the wrong comma placement, who insisted she didn’t do mushy feelings unless sarcasm was involved—had just whispered I don’t need a sword when I’ve got you and meant it.

And now he was pretty sure his soul had left his body and was currently floating somewhere above the book fort, clutching its heart like a Victorian lady in a fainting chair.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then made a noise that might’ve been a laugh or a sob or a very overwhelmed squeak, but it didn’t matter because Rowan was smirking now. Teasing him. Threading their fingers together like she hadn’t just turned him into an emotional puddle with ten words.

“Okay, well—” he tried, voice cracking halfway through. “First of all, rude. Second, I am one hundred percent still sneaking in a triceratops onesie and you can’t stop me.”

She bumped her forehead against his like she was daring him to keep going, so of course he did.

“And when they inevitably want to be a paleontologist or a cryptid hunter or a goth beekeeper, I will be there. Googling weird facts. Making flashcards. Panicking about how many bees is too many bees.”

Rowan was laughing again, which only made his heart do another violent cartwheel. Her laugh—his favorite sound in the entire known universe—melted into the air like candlelight and soft paper.

He watched her for a beat. Just… watched.

The way her lashes dipped low. The way her hand stayed pressed over his, steady and warm. The way she kept looking at him like he wasn’t just enough—like he was everything.

And he felt it then.

All of it.

The fear. The awe. The wild, impossible, terrifying love.

For her. For this. For the tiny maybe who already had his whole heart and hadn’t even existed six weeks ago.

He pressed his mouth to her temple—soft, reverent.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, the words falling out without thinking.

Then, lighter: “And I’ve got at least six mental Pinterest boards labeled ‘Cool Nerdy Kid Stuff That Doesn’t Suck,’ so honestly? I think we’re ahead of the game.”

Rowan’s shoulders shook with another laugh.

God, he loved her.

He loved this.

And when he shifted just slightly to kiss her again—slow and sure, hand still curled over the place where their lives had started to shift—he knew one thing for certain:

They were already writing the best story he’d ever be part of.

Even if it did include a stealth dinosaur onesie.

“You know,” she said, voice still warm with laughter from a moment ago, “if our kid ends up being a goth beekeeper, I’m blaming you entirely.”

He started to reply—she saw it coming in his expression—but she stopped him with a kiss. Quick. Firm. Still smiling.

“Also,” she added, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “if I catch you trying to sneak a dinosaur onesie into the baby shower gifts, I’m making you wear it first.”

She watched him light up again—grin threatening to tip into something unhinged—and felt that quiet, glowing peace settle over her all over again.

He wasn’t perfect. Neither was she. This wasn’t the plan. But God, did she want it.

All of it.

She let her eyes drift across his face, taking in the barely-contained wonder still etched there like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he still didn’t know what to do with the fact that she’d said yes and meant it. She squeezed his hand once, then pulled back gently—just enough to sit up.

The lights inside the tent cast golden shapes across his features. Her ring glittered faintly in the soft glow, catching the threads of woven light above them. It still didn’t feel entirely real—this moment. This future. This boy, watching her like the world had cracked open and handed him everything he ever asked for.

She reached for the edge of the tent and parted it slowly, the sheer fabric rustling with a sound like pages turning. She stood—barefoot, rumpled from the floor pillows, her cardigan slung half off one shoulder—and turned to offer him her hand.

“Let’s go home, fiancée,” she said, trying not to grin too hard at the way his entire face lit up like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes.

He took her hand instantly.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t question.

Just rose to his feet with that wide, soft Mason-smile that could disarm a thunderstorm.

“I’ll come back tomorrow with my mom,” she added, glancing back at the mess of books and twinkle lights and snacks long forgotten in the corner. “We’ll clean up. Maybe pretend we didn’t just emotionally collapse in a tent built out of romance novels and fairy lights.”

She gave his hand a tug, her voice quieting. “I want grilled cheese. And that one playlist you made that’s like… eighty percent love songs disguised as sad indie tracks.”

He laughed—God, he laughed—and she swore she could feel it echo through her.

And as they stepped out of the YA section together, arms around each other, the ring on her hand a quiet, glinting promise in the low café light, Rowan didn’t look back.

Because everything she wanted was already walking beside her.

Mason didn’t say a word at first.

He just stared at her—this girl in half a cardigan and full chaos, barefoot and rumpled and utterly impossible, holding out her hand like they weren’t standing in the middle of a post-proposal paper fort surrounded by novels with titles like Love at First Write and The Kiss Thief’s Guide to Paris.

“Let’s go home, fiancée.”

Fiancée.

He blinked, then blinked again, like the word short-circuited his entire brain. There it was. Out loud. In her voice. Directed at him.

He took her hand like it was oxygen.

And yeah, sure, he meant to play it cool. He really did. But instead? His whole face lit up like someone had handed him a baby goat and a Hogwarts letter at the same time. His heart was doing this dumb, cartwheeling, is-this-real loop inside his chest and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever recover.

Because Rowan Starling wanted to go home with him.

With grilled cheese. And his playlist. And forever.

He followed her out of the tent, fingers still tangled with hers, and looked back once—not at the books or the lights or the forgotten snacks—but just to remember what it looked like. Their beginning. The soft glow of maybe turned into yes.

Then she said “eighty percent love songs disguised as sad indie tracks,” and Mason snorted so hard he almost choked on air.

“That playlist is a cultural masterpiece,” he muttered, dragging her closer by the hand like he hadn’t just gotten called out on every moody acoustic choice he’d ever made. “It’s emotional depth, thank you.”

Rowan arched a brow, clearly unimpressed.

“And,” he added dramatically, “if our child grows up loving bees and Mitski, I want it noted in the baby book that I laid the groundwork.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. He leaned into it like it was gravity.

They walked out of the store slowly, like neither of them wanted to break the spell, and Mason couldn’t stop sneaking glances at her hand. At the ring. At the girl who wore it like she’d been waiting her whole life to make fun of his dinosaur onesie collection.

He held her a little tighter as they stepped into the cooler air, the night quiet around them. And somewhere between the fluorescent glow of the parking lot and the click of the door unlocking, he realized—

This wasn’t just the end of the day.

This was the start.

Their start.

Messy, hilarious, terrifying, and very possibly involving goth beekeeping.

And Mason Hayes had never wanted anything more.