Mason couldn’t breathe.

Or, more accurately, he could—but only because Rowan was the one anchoring him to the ground.

Her words, her smile, the way she said I picked you like it was obvious—like it was simple. Like she hadn’t just melted his entire brain and rearranged his internal organs with that one line.

His arms stayed locked around her, the way they always did when the world tilted just slightly. But now it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t panic.

It was awe.

Complete, unapologetic awe.

She loved him. She picked him. For the baby. For the chaos. For the laser-eyed preschool drawings and the backwards diapers and the love that was going to stretch them in every possible direction.

He dipped his head, letting his nose brush her temple.

“Okay, but,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse, a little wrecked, “you’re the one out here monologuing like a literal goddess and I’m just… trying to remember how breathing works.”

Rowan let out a quiet laugh, and he felt it right against his chest—warm and soft and home.

“I’m serious,” he continued, still low, still smiling like a man in freefall who didn’t want to be caught. “You talk about me crying during preschool graduation like you’re not gonna be sobbing at the kid’s first crayon doodle and framing it like it belongs in the Louvre.”

She nudged him, and he grinned, nosing into her hair, arms tightening like he could fold them closer than skin.

“And I am gonna call you Mrs. Hayes,” he added. “Constantly. In public. Just to see you combust.”

Rowan groaned into his hoodie and muttered something about dramatic husbands, which only made him grin wider.

“But Starling…” His voice softened again, turning over the word like a secret. “That one’s permanent. That’s how I found you. That’s how I’ll always know you.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, then another to her temple, like punctuation.

“I don’t care if we’re covered in cereal dust and exhaustion,” he said. “I don’t care if the baby’s name ends up being something completely ridiculous and they inherit your eye-roll gene and my inability to shut up.”

A pause. A smile.

“As long as it’s you. As long as it’s us.”

He exhaled into her hair, let himself feel the moment, let the weight of it settle soft instead of heavy.

Because she wasn’t just holding him anymore.

She was choosing him.

And Mason Hayes?

He’d spend the rest of his life proving that he never took that for granted.

Even if he cried over every macaroni necklace and glitter-covered craft project for the next twenty years.

Especially if.

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

She just stayed exactly where she was—curled against him, arms looped loosely around his waist, her forehead tucked beneath his jaw like she was claiming the space for keeps.

Because she was.

Because moments like this didn’t happen by accident. They were built. Chosen. Protected.

And he’d earned every damn second of it.

Her fingers toyed with the drawstring of his hoodie for a moment, twisting it, untwisting it. Thinking. Then, finally, she looked up at him—face still soft, a little tired around the edges, but glowing in that way that only happened when she wasn’t trying to hide.

“You know you’re not allowed to say things like that and expect me not to cry, right?” she whispered.

She didn’t, though. Not yet. Her voice wobbled, sure. But the tears stayed where they were—warm, quiet, behind her eyes, not falling. Not this time. Not when she wanted to see all of him clearly.

Her hand came up to rest against his jaw, thumb brushing lightly over the stubble there. She tilted her head just slightly, forehead pressing to his, breath caught between them.

“I’m still gonna frame the crayon doodle,” she murmured, “but not because I’m a sap. Because it’s proof we’re doing something right.”

She kissed him. Just once. Just slow.

And then, without pulling back, she whispered, “And I swear to God, if you call me Mrs. Hayes in front of the baby group, I will dropkick your lunch.”

Her lips curved against his, though, and she kissed him again before he could fire back.

“But ‘Starling’ can stay,” she added a beat later, quieter now. “Because you’re right. That’s how you found me. That’s how I found me.”

She exhaled slowly, her fingers slipping down to his collarbone. Her touch was light, but her voice steady.

“I don’t care what we name them. I don’t care how many snacks they drop in the backseat. I don’t care if the house is a mess or if we get every other thing wrong.”

She leaned in then, nose brushing his.

“I just want them to grow up seeing this. Us. Trying. Choosing each other. Every day.”

Another pause, then softer:

“I want them to know that they came from love, even though they weren't planned and came a lot sooner than we expected.”

She smiled then, a little crooked, a little undone. The kind of smile that always meant she was terrified and in love and doing it anyway.

“And babe,” she said, brushing a kiss over his cheekbone, “you’re 1000% gonna cry at every macaroni necklace. So just know I’m saving every one of them. And I’m gonna tape them next to the wedding photos. And when you try to argue, I’ll remind you how you once cried at a viral video of a baby goat in pajamas.”

She grinned.

“You’re screwed.”

But she said it like a vow.

And then she tucked her head back beneath his chin, arms around him again, and whispered—

“We’re really doing this, huh?”

Rowan shifted before he could respond—slow and smooth and entirely deliberate.

She slid into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times before, knees bracketing his hips, arms resting loosely on his shoulders. And when she reached back to tug the covers up and over both their heads, she grinned.

Not shy. Not rushed.

Just Rowan.

Creating a cocoon.

A world where only they existed.

“Now it’s official,” she whispered, adjusting the blanket until the dim light from the hallway disappeared completely. “We’re in our little chaos fort.”

Her fingers found the curls at the back of his neck, tangling there like she had no plans of letting go. And when she leaned in, forehead to his again, she didn’t say anything clever. She didn’t have to.

Because her body was warm against his, steady and sure. Because she looked at him like they weren’t just playing at forever—they were already living it. Piece by imperfect piece.

“You can cry in here if you need to,” she said softly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It’s a judgment-free blanket zone.”

Mason made a sound like a laugh and a groan combined, but she caught it with a kiss—quick, soft, somewhere near his jaw.

“You talk a big game, Hayes,” she added, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “but you’re wrapped in a blanket fort, holding your pregnant fiancée, and talking about glitter. So really, we both know who the emotional menace is.”

She felt him laugh under her palms, and something in her chest loosened.

They were really doing this.

Together.

And if Rowan had anything to say about it, it would be messy and ridiculous and full of love in all the ways that mattered.

She kissed him again—slow this time. Sure.

Then rested her cheek against his, still wrapped in the quiet dark of their homemade sanctuary.

And whispered, “We’ve got this.”

Because they did.

Because she chose him.

And tomorrow could wait.

Mason’s brain short-circuited.

In the best way, sure—but still. Gone. Done for. Lights out.

Because this?

This was too much.

Rowan in his lap, blanket over their heads like they were hiding from the world and maybe themselves a little too. Her voice low, her hands in his hair, her heart pressed right up against his—this was the exact moment he knew he was never going to survive her.

Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not in any way that mattered.

He let out a laugh—half breath, half disbelief—and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Okay,” he said into her skin, “first of all, I stand by the baby goat video. It was wearing pajamas. It had tiny hooves. I’m not made of stone.”

Rowan made a muffled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a snort, and Mason grinned against her neck.

“Second of all…” He tilted his head to look up at her, curls pushed back by her fingers, eyes soft in the glow of their blanket cocoon. “You can’t just say stuff like ‘you’re how I found me’ and then roast me for glitter onesies. That’s emotional whiplash, Starling.”

But his smile didn’t falter. Not even a little.

Because her knees were bracketing his hips. Because she’d kissed his jaw like he was something sacred. Because she’d said we’re really doing this like it was a promise.

And he’d believe her every single time.

Mason reached up and cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing across her cheek like he was still trying to memorize her face from two inches away.

“I hope they get your chaos,” he murmured, quieter now. “Your fire. The way you burn through fear just by showing up anyway. That thing you do where you love people so hard it makes them better.”

His voice caught a little—but he didn’t flinch.

“I hope they’re as weird and smart and stubborn as you, and I really hope they know how lucky they are to come from that.”

He kissed her then. Lightly. Right on the corner of her mouth.

“And yeah,” he added, more of a breath than a sentence, “I’m gonna cry. At everything. I’m gonna cry when they open their eyes. I’m gonna cry when they hold your finger. I’m gonna cry when they fall asleep on my chest and when they draw a T-Rex that looks like a potato.”

He exhaled, nose brushing hers.

“But mostly I’m gonna cry because somehow this life—the one I didn’t think I was allowed to want—is mine. And it’s with you. And I’m never gonna stop being grateful.”

He didn’t even care if his voice cracked anymore. She’d already seen the worst of him. And somehow, she stayed.

So when she curled into him again, cheek against his, their breaths mingling in the blanket-dark, Mason let it settle in:

This wasn’t some dream he had to wake up from.

This was home.

A blanket fort, a future neither of them saw coming, and the girl who still kissed him like she hadn’t already wrecked him completely.

He tucked a curl behind her ear, let his hands rest low on her back, and smiled against her temple.

“Starling?” he whispered.

Her hum was sleepy. Trusting.

He closed his eyes.

“You’re it for me.”

And somehow, he knew—without needing her to say it back—he was it for her too.

Rowan didn’t answer at first.

Mostly because her entire chest had caved in around her heart and decided that breathing was optional now.

Because Mason—her Mason—was saying things like “you’re it for me” and “I’m gonna cry when they draw a T-Rex that looks like a potato” in the same breath, and it was the most devastatingly beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

So yeah, she needed a second.

She blinked, just once, slowly. Let her hand drift up from his jaw to his cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth like she could quiet the storm he’d just stirred in her. He always did that—said something ridiculous and then followed it up with something that turned her soul inside out.

And he had the audacity to do it with dimples.

Her voice was low when she finally spoke. Barely there.

“You keep saying you’re the lucky one,” she murmured, shifting just enough to rest her forehead against his. “But Mason… I didn’t know I was allowed to want someone like you.”

He tried to answer, but she kissed him—soft, slow, like punctuation. Like breath.

Then again, slower.

“You made me want more,” she said, her hands sliding down to curl around the back of his neck. “More than surviving. More than playing it safe. You’re the reason I stopped holding my own heart at arm’s length.”

She kissed him again, this time a little deeper, a little longer—like maybe if she kissed him enough, she could make him feel everything she didn’t know how to say all at once.

And then, just because it was him, she whispered right into his mouth, “And also, I’m definitely framing that potato dinosaur.”

He laughed. She felt it everywhere.

Their knees bumped. The blanket slipped just a little.

But neither of them moved to fix it.

Rowan tugged him closer instead, arms wrapped around him, their bodies tangled in the most ordinary, holy way.

“I don’t need perfect,” she said softly. “I just need this. You, me, and our gloriously messy, glitter-covered, cereal-stained life.”

She kissed his temple once more, then let her head rest against his shoulder, her fingers still playing with the edge of his hoodie.

And in the dark, with his heartbeat steady under her palm and the future curling gently inside her belly, she whispered the only thing she hadn’t said yet tonight.

“But yeah, I love you too. In every version. Even the one where you sob over a crayon masterpiece shaped like an alien goat.”

Rowan didn’t pull away.

Not after the way he said it—You’re it for me. Not after the way his voice cracked like the truth had been sitting too long behind his ribs, waiting for permission to come out.

She stayed right there, her breath mingling with his, her fingers resting against the slope of his cheek.

And then she kissed him.

Slow. Sure. Deep—not in desperation, but in the way that said I know. I feel it too. Her hands moved up, brushing gently through his hair, curling around the back of his neck, anchoring him there with her. With them.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Her lips moved across his like a promise: steady, quiet, real. One kiss faded into another. Then another. Like she was committing every piece of him to memory. His mouth. His breath. The way his shoulders relaxed beneath her palms like the whole world had stopped spinning for a second, and this was the only thing still standing.

Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones—tender. Focused. She held his face like something precious, something chosen, something already home.

And then, with a softness that held more weight than anything she could’ve said aloud, her fingers slipped down to the hem of his hoodie.

She tugged gently.

Not urgent.

Just close.

Just here.

The fabric bunched under her palms as she pulled him closer—not that he was far. Not that he ever would be again. But something about the weight of that cotton in her fists, the familiarity of it, made everything else in the world feel smaller. Simpler. Safer.

He breathed out her name, but she didn’t answer.

She just kissed him again.

Longer, this time.

Deeper.

Her hands still gripping his hoodie like it was the only thing anchoring them to the present. Like if she let go, she might float straight off this planet and into whatever came next.

And maybe she would’ve.

If not for him.

If not for this.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to rest her forehead against his, she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t need to.

Because her silence said everything:

She believed him.

She chose him.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Mason’s throat felt like it was made of glass.

Because she didn’t say it—not right away—and still somehow it landed harder than anything else ever had.

The way she kissed him.

The way her hands curled into his hoodie like she couldn’t stand the space between them for even a breath longer.

The way she held his face with that unbearable softness, like he was something worth keeping still. Something worth loving without caution.

And God, he was trying to keep it together. Really. But the way she kissed him—the way she meant it—made it impossible.

Because Mason had never been anyone’s always before.

Not like this.

Not like her.

His arms slid around her tighter, pulling her in like he needed her to feel it—his answer, his promise, everything he couldn’t get out fast enough without it cracking down the middle. His lips caught hers again, again, again, each one slower than the last, until their breathing tangled and their hands stopped searching for a way to say more.

Because they were the more.

He pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathless now, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with all of that,” he whispered, voice rough from everything she just gave him. “You kiss me like I’m worth everything and expect me to still function?”

He felt her smile, just barely, right where their mouths almost touched.

He grinned, too—wrecked and overwhelmed and glowing under the weight of her.

“I swear to God, Starling, if you keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna need to build a second blanket fort for the emotional fallout.”

He didn’t move, though. Not an inch.

Just let one hand find her back—palm flat, steady, grounding—and the other stayed over her stomach, fingers splayed wide like he was already trying to hold the universe in place with his bare hands.

And maybe he was.

Because that’s what this was. That’s what she was.

His whole damn universe.

Right here. Right now.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “More than music. More than moonlight. More than every name I ever wrote down before yours.”

Then, a grin curling into the corner of his mouth—

“And I’m absolutely gonna cry at that potato T-Rex. It’ll be the most important art I’ve ever seen.”

She snorted softly.

But she didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

They stayed like that for a long moment—blanket slipping off one shoulder, hoodie slightly bunched, knees bumping together like they were seventeen and figuring this out for the first time.

Only now, they weren’t scared of the future anymore.

Not really.

Because it had names now.

Indigo.

Ezra.

Love.

And her.

Always her.

His Starling.

Rowan didn’t speak.

She couldn’t. Not when her whole chest felt like it was swelling and settling all at once. Not when Mason—her Mason—was saying things like every name I ever wrote down before yours, and touching her like he already knew exactly what kind of world they were going to build together.

So she kissed him again.

Not like before. Not desperate or rushed or searching.

But slow. Anchored. Familiar.

Like she’d done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more just to keep him grounded in what was real.

Her hands moved back to his face—thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, fingers sliding behind his ears, cradling him like he was something rare. Like she could keep him from falling apart by just holding him right.

And then, gently, they drifted lower.

Not hurried. Not with intent. Just curious. Comforting.

She slipped her hands beneath the hem of his hoodie, fingertips brushing warm skin. Her palms flattened over his chest, slow and steady, like she was learning him all over again—every inch, every breath, every heartbeat he’d just promised to give her for the rest of forever.

Mason inhaled sharply—not startled, just undone.

She could feel it in the way his body stilled under her touch. In the way his hands moved automatically to her hips again, grounding them both.

Her thumbs moved in slow circles just beneath his collarbone. A map, a memory, a silent vow. And she kissed him again, just once, as her forehead came to rest lightly against his.

Her voice was barely a breath.

You’re mine, too.

And softer still: Always.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move from where she sat curled in his lap, surrounded by sheets and soft air and everything that had brought them here.

Her fingers didn’t leave his skin.

Because this was the moment. Not loud. Not cinematic.

But real.

Rooted.

Him.

Her.

The baby they hadn’t expected. The life they were building. The soft unraveling of two people who kept choosing each other, even in the quiet.

Mason didn’t speak either.

Couldn’t.

Because the second her hands slipped under his hoodie, all of his breath stalled somewhere in his chest like it forgot how to move without her permission. Her palms were warm—steady—pressed over his ribs like they already belonged there. Like his body knew her touch before his brain had the chance to catch up.

His heart thudded beneath her fingers.

And she felt it. God, he knew she felt it.

But she didn’t tease.

She didn’t push.

She just held him. Like a prayer. Like she was anchoring him to something better than the fear in his throat or the ache behind his eyes.

And when she whispered you’re mine, too—always, Mason swore he could feel the words slip right through his skin and build a home in his bones.

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like he didn’t care if the world caught fire around them. His arms stayed wrapped around her, fingers spread wide at her hips, holding her close without gripping too tight—like he never wanted her to forget that he knew the difference between protection and control.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to kiss the inside of her wrist. Once. Then again, slower. Like he was thanking every choice they’d ever made that led them here. Like he was thanking her.

“You know what you do to me,” he finally murmured, voice low, wrecked in that quiet kind of way. “I mean—you’ve gotta know. Right?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Just kissed him again, hands still beneath his hoodie, still steady over his heart like she was keeping time.

“I’d give you anything,” Mason whispered, pulling her just that much closer. “But the thing that gets me… is you never even asked for it.”

He tilted his head back just enough to look at her—eyes bright, glassy at the edges. Not broken. Not overwhelmed.

Just full.

And maybe a little in awe.

“You just loved me,” he said. “And suddenly I wanted to be the kind of man who could carry forever without flinching.”

His hand came up to her back, fingertips tracing the spine of her like a bookmark. Like she was his favorite story and he wanted to keep rereading every chapter.

“Whatever version of us is coming next,” he said, “I’m all in.”

And he meant it.

Every heartbeat.

Every sleepless night.

Every crayon drawing, every name whispered into a blanket fort, every time she kissed him like that and reminded him what home felt like.

His fingers found the edge of her shirt, just where it met the rise of her back, and he rested them there—not with intent, but reverence. Just to feel the warmth of her. Just to remind himself this was real.

Because it was.

They were.

And maybe they didn’t have everything figured out.

But they had this.

They had now.

And now, Mason Hayes would take over everything else in the world. One kiss, one whisper, one soft, steady hand over his heart at a time.

Rowan didn’t pull back. Not fully.

Her fingers stayed right where they were—curved under the edge of his hoodie, palms flat over his chest, tracking the rhythm of a heart that had somehow become hers.

But after a beat, she lifted her head, just enough to meet his eyes in the soft hush between them.

“You always talk like I saved you,” she murmured, voice low, warm, threading gently through the quiet. “But you’re the one who made me stay.”

She didn’t mean the house.

Or the couch.

Or even this night.

She meant her. Her skin. Her story. Her body that had learned to flinch at softness, that had been taught too early that forever meant losing something.

“You never tried to fix me,” she added, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “You just… saw me. And didn’t flinch.”

Mason didn’t say anything. But the look on his face—the way he leaned into her touch like it was gravity itself—was answer enough.

Rowan smiled, a little crooked.

“Also, for the record?” she said softly, lips brushing his cheek now. “You’re already the kind of man who carries forever without flinching. You’ve been doing it since the second you offered to alphabetize my panic attack playlist.”

That pulled a soft laugh from him, breath catching against her shoulder.

She grinned into the sound, then leaned in, her voice dropping closer to his ear.

“I love you, Mason Hayes. For the mess. For the quiet. For the glitter. For all of it.”

She shifted just enough to nudge her nose against his.

“And if you ever try to pretend you’re not going to be the most annoyingly devoted dad to ever buy a mini backpack and cry over finger paint, I will remind you of this moment.”

He groaned—quiet, flustered—and she kissed him again, slow and lingering.

Then, lighter now, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth:

“But don’t worry. I’ll be the one ugly crying at preschool graduation. You’ll just be the backup.”

Her arms looped tighter around his shoulders, pulling the blanket more firmly over both their heads as she settled against him with a sigh.

“God help this kid,” she whispered, half-laughing. “They’ve got no idea what they’re walking into.”

But she didn’t sound afraid.

She sounded ready.

She sounded home.

Mason wasn’t breathing right.

He was trying—he really was—but every word she gave him made his chest feel like it was stretching too wide, like his ribs couldn’t keep up with the size of what was happening between them. Or maybe inside him. Because Rowan—curled in his lap, whispering forever like it wasn’t a threat but a promise—was undoing him in ways he didn’t even know he could be undone.

She was warm and sharp and impossible and his. And she was looking at him like he’d done something worth being remembered for.

His hands stayed exactly where they were—one at her hip, the other still cradling the space between them, the barely-there swell of their maybe-miracle. His thumb rubbed absent circles over her skin like he was trying to imprint it into his bones.

“You always talk like I saved you,” she’d said.

God.

Mason had to shut his eyes for a second. Just one.

Because that sentence alone cracked something open in him. Because she meant it. Because she didn’t throw it out like a compliment—she handed it to him like a truth. And he didn’t know how to hold something that heavy, except to hold her.

So he did.

He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into the side of her head, then her temple, then lower—his lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her neck like it was a map he’d been memorizing in his sleep.

“You stayed,” he whispered, finally, voice ragged and low. “You stayed because you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

He didn’t pull back.

Didn’t give her room to disagree.

“You stayed when it would've been easier to run. When I didn't have answers. When I couldn’t promise anything except showing up.”

His fingers curled into the back of her shirt, gentle but grounded.

“And if you think I don’t wake up every morning thanking whatever cosmic disaster made you look at me like I was worth sticking around for, you’re insane, Starling.”

The nickname slipped out soft, but full—like it had weight again. Like it was hers, and he wanted her to know that. Always.

He felt her smile against his collarbone.

He smiled too—helpless, dizzy, wrecked.

Then, voice muffled into her hair, he added, “But yeah. I am gonna be an embarrassingly devoted dad. I’m gonna buy that mini backpack and forget to take the price tag off. I’m gonna ugly cry over finger paintings. I’m gonna carry juice boxes like contraband and forget how sunscreen works.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“I’m gonna mess it up.”

His voice cracked a little, but he didn’t look away.

“But I’m not gonna leave. Not once. Not ever.”

His thumb brushed under her eye—just in case the tears she’d fought off earlier decided to show up now.

“And when our kid realizes they’ve got a mom who can build forts out of blankets and trust and grit, who names playlists like spells and keeps people safe just by being—they’re gonna be just as wrecked by you as I am.”

His forehead pressed to hers again.

“I hope they are.”

Then, with the smallest, softest grin—

“And for the record, I was already planning to cry at graduation. You just beat me to admitting it.”

She laughed. God, she laughed, and the sound practically rewired him.

And when she tucked herself against his chest again, arms looped and blanket draped, Mason Hayes didn’t feel like a boy with too many fears and not enough answers.

He felt like home.

Because she chose him.

Because he chose her.

And tomorrow—whatever it looked like, glitter and all—they’d figure it out. One ridiculous, tender, forehead-kissing, crayon-framing step at a time.

Rowan didn’t move.

Not for a long moment.

Not when he kissed her temple like it was a vow. Not when his voice cracked and his arms folded her tighter against the center of him like she was something fragile and holy and already his. She just breathed him in—his warmth, his weight, the quiet reverence threaded through every single touch like he didn’t know how to do anything less than love her completely.

And then, slowly, gently, she exhaled.

One arm still looped around his shoulders, she lifted her other hand and slid it into the curls at the back of his neck—soft, rhythmic, grounding. Her fingers moved in slow strokes, like she was soothing something invisible in him. Like she knew exactly where it hurt, and how to stay with it.

Then, still wordless, she leaned back just enough to study him.

God, he looked wrecked. Eyes too bright. Cheeks pink from the weight of it all. Mouth soft, open, still waiting.

Waiting for her.

So she gave him everything.

She kissed his jaw first—slow, steady, deliberate—like she was making a promise without needing to say a word. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth, and finally, finally, his lips. Not desperate. Not performative. Just full.

Present.

Real.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I knew you were going to cry over the backpack.”

That startled a breath-laugh out of him, and her smile pressed right into his as she leaned back in, nose brushing his.

“I also know you’re gonna be the one they ask to chaperone every field trip,” she murmured, her thumb sweeping just below his eye, “and you’re gonna say yes even when you don’t want to. Because you won’t want to miss anything. You’ll carry the snack bag. You’ll make a playlist. You’ll be the embarrassing dad with the matching lunchbox who forgets sunscreen but remembers their favorite granola bar.”

She paused, smiling against his mouth.

“And I’m gonna love you for all of it.”

Then she shifted again, resting her hands flat over his chest, feeling the solid thud of his heartbeat under her palms.

“We’re gonna mess up. We’re gonna yell when we’re tired. We’re gonna argue over crib assembly instructions and cry in the bathroom sometimes and maybe not know what the hell we’re doing.”

She looked up at him—really looked—and added, softer now:

“But if I get to do it with you, I’m not afraid of any of it.”

Then, smirking just a little, she added, “Okay, maybe the glitter. The glitter terrifies me.”

He made a wounded noise. She kissed it off his mouth.

And then, arms circling his neck again, she rested her forehead against his and whispered, “You’re it for me, too.”

She didn’t have to say the rest.

That she picked him.

That she’d keep picking him.

That no matter how scary this got—how real, how messy—he was the safest place she’d ever known.

So she stayed curled in his lap, blanket cocooned around them, the tiny beginning of something impossibly huge resting quietly between their hands.

And when the silence came again, it wasn’t empty.

It was everything.

Rowan didn’t speak for a moment—not right away.

She just breathed.

Deep, slow, warm against his collarbone. Like the world had gone quiet, and this—the weight of him around her, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the hush that followed a thousand truths spoken between two people who’d already promised more than words—was all that remained.

Then she shifted, gentle and unhurried, rolling off of him with the kind of trust that didn’t need explanation. Her hand drifted across his chest one last time, fingers catching in the hem of his hoodie, before she settled into the mattress beside him.

Close. Barely a breath of space between them.

The blanket slipped slightly as she turned on her side, hair falling loose around her face like a curtain of sleep and quiet promises. One of her hands stayed tucked beneath her cheek, the other reaching, just barely, until her fingers found the hem of his sleeve.

“Will you play with my hair until I fall asleep?” she mumbled, voice low and soft and not quite sleepy yet—just tender. Like the question wasn’t about her hair at all, but about being held a little longer. About being cared for in the quiet ways.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to.

Because she already felt him shift closer, his hand moving to find her hair with that same instinctive gentleness he always saved just for her. His fingers started to move—slow, steady, patient—combing through her curls like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And she just lay there, letting the warmth of it settle into her chest. Letting herself have this.

The safety. The softness. The everything.

Not asleep. Not even close.

Just there.

With him.