Mason could’ve dropped the whole pile right then.

Just let the overalls, the swaddle, the mittens, the booties—all of it—spill to the floor and clatter around his feet like confetti. Because what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

Rowan Starling had just looked him in the eye and told him he made love feel safe.

Safe.

Him. The boy who used to fake being cool just to keep from drowning. The one who joked too loud and moved too fast and never—not once—thought he'd be somebody's anchor.

And now she was standing in the middle of a baby boutique with a blanket against her chest, telling him he made it okay to dream.

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

Tried not to look like the guy who was currently re-evaluating every decision he’d ever made just to make sure it led him to this exact second.

Her hand on his chest burned—in the good way. The real way. The kind of warmth that cracked open the cold places he didn’t even know were still there.

And then she kissed him—quick, casual, like her mouth had known his forever—and spun away again like she hadn’t just turned his whole soul into a love song written in onesies and moonlight.

Mason watched her go, still holding the universe in his arms, and let out a breath that was mostly laughter.

“You’re killing me, Starling,” he muttered, following like he never had a choice.

She was already knee-deep in glow-in-the-dark pacifiers and plush planets, talking to a plush sun like it might help her make a decision.

And Mason?

Mason didn’t even hesitate.

He stepped up beside her, grabbed the sun without comment, and added it to the stack.

Because yeah. He was in. All the way in.

For the glitter phase and the galaxy sheets and the nights where she cried for no reason and the mornings when the baby wouldn’t stop screaming. For the love that didn’t flinch and the kind of peace that looked like mitten-sized stardust.

He leaned in close, lips brushing her temple.

“I don’t care if I have to learn how to braid fairy hair or host a tea party for twenty invisible woodland creatures,” he said, voice low and warm. “If it’s got you in it? I’m there. Glitter and all.”

And as she looked up at him—eyes shining, love loud and steady behind them—Mason finally understood something he hadn’t been able to name before.

This wasn’t a detour.

This was the destination.

And he’d walk it barefoot, starry onesie in hand, as long as she was beside him.

Rowan didn’t cry.

Not exactly.

But something in her went very, very still. That kind of stillness that feels like standing under snowfall. Or inside a cathedral. Or in the exact middle of a moment you know you’ll remember forever.

She reached out without thinking, her fingers finding the edge of the onesie Mason had just added to the stack. A soft, cloud-gray thing with tiny wooden buttons and stars stitched across the sleeves. Her touch was light—almost reverent.

“I don’t think I ever pictured this part,” she said quietly. Her voice wasn’t shaky. It was… gentle. Honest. “I mean, sure—I made lists. Names, colors, maybe a vague idea of where I’d want a crib. But I never really pictured the moment where it feels real.”

Her thumb traced a slow line across the edge of the collar. She didn’t look at him right away—just stood there, her other hand absently pressed over her belly like she’d forgotten it was a habit now.

“I spent so long telling myself I didn’t need softness,” she murmured. “That I wasn’t built for it. That it was something other people got to want, and I was better off pretending it never mattered.”

She glanced up then. Met his eyes.

“But it does.”

She stepped closer, not because she needed comfort, but because it grounded her. Because she wanted to be near the person who made it safe to say that out loud.

“I want her to feel like we made space for her,” Rowan said, her voice thick with something quiet and certain. “Like we were already waiting. Like we wanted her before we even knew her.”

She picked up a baby hat next—cream-colored with a tiny embroidered sun on the front—and added it to the stack in his arms with a firm little nod, like the decision had weight.

“She’s going to be so loved, Mason.”

The words came out a little rough.

“Not just in big, dramatic ways, either. In the boring ones. The consistent ones. Warm baths and silly socks and the same lullaby seventeen times because she asks for it again. I want to be that kind of love. The kind that’s always there.”

She took a breath. Let it out slowly.

“And I want her to fall asleep under stars,” she added, softer now. “Not because it’s poetic or aesthetic or whatever—but because the first time I believed I could have anything beautiful, it was with you. And I want that to be normal for her. I want her to expect it. To grow up knowing that light belongs to her.”

Finally, she looked back at him. Really looked. The way she always did when she was trying to memorize him.

“And you’re not allowed to make fun of me if I start arranging her books by moon phases or turn her entire wardrobe into a seasonal color palette,” she said, a smile finally breaking through the softness. “You just have to roll with it.”

She leaned in and kissed him—one hand bracing lightly on his chest, the other curling at the back of his neck.

“And if you ever tell anyone I cried over a twenty-dollar star blanket, I swear I will lie.”

Then, quieter, forehead against his:

“I like building it with you. All of it.”

She took the blanket from his arms, held it to her chest for a beat, and then turned toward the back wall of the boutique where a constellation projector was softly glowing under the warm fairy lights.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go make the sky hers.”

Mason didn’t move.

Couldn’t, really.

Not with her standing there like that—moonlight and meaning and every bit of love he’d ever hoped he was capable of, wrapped up in a girl holding a twenty-dollar blanket like it was sacred.

She wasn’t crying.

But something about the way she went still—that still—knocked the wind out of him. Like time had stopped just long enough for him to realize this was it. The moment. The memory. The everything.

And she was letting him witness it.

That alone might’ve broken him if he wasn’t so determined to stay solid for her. Not because she needed it. But because she deserved it. The kind of steady that didn’t waver when things got big.

So he stood there, arms full of fabric and feelings, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to say I see you before his mouth could.

And when she looked at him—really looked at him—he didn’t joke.

Didn’t flirt.

Didn’t deflect.

He just looked right back.

Because that was the only thing that felt big enough to match her honesty.

He wanted to tell her he understood.

That he saw the version of her who’d once flinched at softness, who’d built walls out of sarcasm and survival because that’s what the world taught her. And he saw this version too—the one holding mittens and making magic out of bedtime routines and whispering hopes to a baby they hadn’t even met yet.

He wanted to tell her he’d be there for all of it. The bath times. The lullabies. The Tuesday mornings where nothing went right and the Friday nights when everything felt like enough.

But mostly, he wanted to tell her she was already giving their daughter the most important gift in the world.

A mother who loved with intention.

A mother who chose wonder even after everything.

A mother who said things like light belongs to her and meant every syllable.

So yeah.

He’d roll with the moon-phase books and the color-coordinated wardrobe. He’d read bedtime stories in character voices and build a night sky out of whatever he could find at Target or Etsy or the garage clearance bin.

He’d build the sky with her.

Because this—this feeling right now—was what forever looked like.

He leaned into her kiss like it was oxygen. Let her hands steady him, let her forehead find his like it was carved to fit there. And when she said I like building it with you, he didn’t answer out loud.

He just nodded.

Once. Solid. Certain.

And when she turned, blanket clutched to her chest like a banner of belonging, Mason followed.

Still holding a stack of ridiculous baby clothes.

Still completely, stupidly, hopelessly in love with the girl who made the stars feel like something they could give to someone else.

He caught up, nudged her shoulder with his, and grinned.

“Sky’s not ready for her.”

And he meant it.

Because their girl?

Was going to be made of light.

Rowan didn’t look up right away.

She couldn’t.

Not when her chest was doing that thing again—tight and full and a little sharp at the edges, like her ribs were too small to hold everything she felt. Not when Mason was standing there, arms full of tiny things and still somehow looking at her like she was the miracle.

She stared at the blanket pressed against her chest. Swallowed hard.

Because this was the part that used to scare her. The softness. The wanting. The idea that she could build something gentle and not have it crack in her hands.

But with him?

It was different.

It was real.

Rowan leaned into his side just slightly, enough to feel the warmth of him, the steadiness. Her fingers hooked in the hem of his hoodie for a beat before she finally spoke, voice low and careful and hers.

“She’s not gonna need the whole sky,” she said. “Not when she’s already gonna have you.”

Then, quieter: “And me. If I keep showing up.”

She shifted, holding the blanket out in front of her like it was more than fabric—like it was a blueprint for something she didn’t know she’d been brave enough to want.

“I don’t think I knew how to picture it,” she murmured. “A life like this. I used to walk past windows like this and think it belonged to other people. The ones who didn’t flinch when they felt too much.”

She turned, eyes on him now. Clear. Certain.

“But I do now.”

A pause. A breath.

“You make it easy to believe in things I used to pretend I didn’t want.”

Her hand found his again. Tangled.

“And yeah,” she added, smirking a little as she glanced back at the display. “I’m still buying the starry onesie. Even if she ends up hating constellations and wants to be a race car instead.”

Rowan bumped his shoulder with hers, soft and deliberate.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said.

Not as a question.

Not as a maybe.

Just fact. Truth.

Then she walked ahead, not far, but just enough to start again. Blanket in her arms. Future in her hands. A little braver this time.

And she knew—without looking—that Mason would be right behind her.

Mason didn’t rush her.

Didn’t fill the space with words or jokes or anything loud. He just stood there, arms full of starry onesies and unspoken things, letting her have the moment.

Because he could feel it.

The quiet kind of brave.

The kind that wasn’t fireworks or declarations—it was the kind that trembled. The kind that reached out and hooked a finger into the hem of his hoodie like it was lifeline and love all at once.

And when she finally spoke?

Yeah. That wrecked him.

She could’ve said anything—anything—and it still wouldn’t have hit as hard as that.

Not when her voice was soft like that.

Not when she said if I keep showing up like she didn’t realize she already was.

Like she hadn’t been showing up since day one—guarded, messy, raw—but still there. Still trying. Still choosing love even when it scared her.

He didn’t know how to explain what it did to him, watching her let go of the idea that softness made her weak. Watching her hold a baby blanket like it was a blueprint for a life she thought she’d never get.

So he didn’t explain it.

He just breathed.

Deep. Solid. Here.

And when she looked at him—really looked—Mason felt everything slow.

Her words cracked something open. Not the way pain did, but the way light did. Soft. Steady. Flooding all the dark corners.

“You make it easy to believe in things I used to pretend I didn’t want.”

Jesus.

That was going in his bones.

She took his hand, and it felt like gravity shifting.

And then—of course—she hit him with the smirk. The starry onesie line. The little shoulder bump that said I’m still me, don’t get weird about it.

He grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“I mean, race car’s fine,” he said, casually wiping at his eye like it wasn’t totally misty, “but I’m still putting her in the moon jammies at least once for the photos. She doesn’t get a say in the first six months. That’s the law.”

He let her move ahead, didn’t try to rush or crowd or steer her.

Just watched.

Watched her walk with her arms full of future and her heart a little more open than it had been ten minutes ago.

And yeah.

He followed.

Of course he did.

Because Rowan Starling had already given him more than he’d ever known to want.

And he was going to spend the rest of his life showing up for all of it.

Every version of her.

Every dream she was still learning how to believe in.

And every moment like this—quiet, brave, and full of sky.

Rowan didn’t turn around immediately.

She stood there, the blanket still clutched to her chest, fingers gripping the soft fabric like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment. The weight of Mason’s gaze pressed gently against her back—steady, patient, and unyielding in its warmth.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath that tasted faintly of lavender and the subtle scent of new cotton. The boutique around her buzzed softly with life—muted conversations, the rustle of tiny clothes being sifted through, and the distant chime of a lullaby playing from a display.

But within her, a different kind of noise stirred.

Memories of school hallways where vulnerability was a currency she couldn’t afford. Where softness was met with sneers, and dreams were things to be hidden, not shared. Where she learned to armor herself in sarcasm and sharp edges, believing that was the only way to survive.

Yet here she was.

Holding a blanket that symbolized a future she never dared to envision. A future filled with bedtime stories, scraped knees, and the kind of love that didn’t flinch.

She turned slowly, meeting Mason’s eyes. They were a storm of emotions—pride, love, awe—all swirling together in a gaze that saw every part of her.

Her voice, when it came, was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken fears and newfound hopes.

“I used to think I had to earn this,” she said, her eyes not leaving his. “That love like this was for people who fit into neat boxes. People who didn’t have to hide parts of themselves to be accepted.”

She stepped closer, the blanket now hanging loosely at her side.

“But you… you never asked me to be anything other than me. Even when I didn’t know who that was.”

She reached up, her fingers brushing a stray curl from his forehead, a tender smile playing on her lips.

“I want her to grow up knowing that it’s okay to be soft. That strength isn’t just about holding it together, but also about knowing when to let go.”

She glanced down at the blanket, then back up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“And I want her to have this,” she said, lifting the blanket slightly. “Not just as a comfort, but as a reminder that she was always wanted. Always loved.”

Mason’s hand found hers, their fingers intertwining with a familiarity that spoke of countless shared moments and promises.

Rowan leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, the blanket now enveloping them both.

Mason didn’t say a word when she didn’t turn around.

Didn’t push. Didn’t shift. Didn’t fill the space with anything but presence.

Because something in her stillness told him she needed this moment. Needed to hold it, feel it, trust it before letting it out into the open.

And God, if anyone had earned that—it was her.

So he waited.

Waited while she gripped the blanket like it might slip through her fingers if she let herself want it too much. Waited while the shop hummed quietly around them—soft lullabies, hushed voices, the kind of peace he never thought he’d associate with baby mittens and board books.

And when she turned?

When her eyes met his?

Something inside him tilted.

Because he’d seen Rowan at her fiercest, her sharpest, her most feral. But this—this quiet bravery, this softness breaking through like sunlight after years of rain—this was the most devastating thing she’d ever given him.

“I used to think I had to earn this,” she said, and it nearly knocked him over.

Not just the words, but the way she said them. No armor. No edge. Just truth.

He let her finish—because she deserved the silence to land every word exactly where she needed it to.

And then, when her fingers brushed his forehead, when she looked at him like he was her safe place?

That was it.

He reached up and caught her hand—just gently, just enough to anchor them both.

“You didn’t have to earn it,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You just had to let me give it.”

He stepped closer, their foreheads nearly touching now. “I didn’t fall for you because you had it all figured out. I fell for you because you were real. Because even when you were scared, you stayed. Even when it was messy, you kept showing up.”

His thumb brushed along the edge of her hand where their fingers met.

“And now?” He smiled softly. “Now you’re standing here holding a baby blanket like it’s a map to a world you finally believe you belong in.”

He nodded toward the blanket in her arms. “And she’s gonna know. Your softness, your strength, your heart that loves so hard it leaves a dent in the universe.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead.

“She’s gonna grow up wrapped in this—you.”

And when she rested her head on his shoulder and let the blanket settle around them like a secret only they knew?

Mason closed his eyes for a second.

Let the warmth settle in his chest. Let the noise in his head go quiet.

This wasn’t a fantasy.

It was theirs.

Not perfect. Not polished.

But real.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I hope she gets your stubbornness,” he murmured against her hair, smiling.

“Your fire. Your terrible taste in cereal.”

He felt her laugh against his chest, soft and surprised.

“But mostly?” he whispered. “I hope she gets your courage. Because the world could use more of it.”

He pulled her just a little closer, blanket and all.

“And if she gets my eyebrows, I apologize in advance.”

Rowan nudged him with her elbow, laughing again—but this time, it was steadier. Brighter.

And Mason swore he could feel it—the shape of their future, stitched between their palms and folded into the cotton between them.

Right here.

Wrapped in her.

Wrapped in love.

Rowan didn’t mean to cry.

Not really.

Not here, not now—not in the middle of a boutique with a baby blanket in her arms and lullabies playing so sweet it felt like the air itself might bruise if she breathed too hard.

But the second Mason spoke—that voice, that steady warmth, that unbearable gentleness in his touch—it cracked her open in a way she hadn’t been ready for.

Her throat tightened.

It wasn’t a sob, not even a hiccup. Just a sharp, silent inhale that turned her ribs into glass and made her eyes sting faster than she could blink it away.

She laughed, soft and broken around the edges, and reached up to wipe her face with the back of her wrist. “God, I didn’t mean to—”

She cut herself off, pressing the heel of her hand to her mouth like maybe she could catch the rest before it spilled out.

But it was too late.

Because there he was. Saying everything. Seeing everything. Holding her like she wasn’t just worthy of this life—but necessary to it. Essential. Loved.

And Rowan—who had spent years mastering the art of holding herself together—let go.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Just the tears she’d been holding back since the moment they saw the first flicker on the screen. Since the nurse said ten weeks. Since the test turned pink. Since Mason started looking at her like she was more than a storm he’d chosen to weather.

She turned her face into his chest and let the fabric of his hoodie soak up what she couldn’t hold anymore.

“I don’t know what I did to find you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and barely there. “But I’m terrified I won’t be enough.”

Mason didn’t flinch.

Didn’t correct her. Didn’t promise perfection.

He just wrapped her tighter.

And maybe that’s why she kept crying.

Because she didn’t need fixing.

She just needed to be held.

Rowan pressed the baby blanket between them—folded and trembling in her arms like a bridge between what was and what could be—and let herself be loved.

Fully. Quietly. Messily.

“You’re right,” she said after a long moment, her voice steadier now, though still thick. “She’s gonna know this. This exact feeling. Not just safety, but—belonging.”

She pulled back enough to look up at him, cheeks tearstreaked, nose pink, eyes fierce.

“She’s gonna grow up knowing it’s okay to feel things,” she added. “Even the hard things. Especially the hard things.”

Then—sniffling, eyes softening—“Even if she ends up with your eyebrows.”

Mason groaned. She laughed again, watery and real.

And just like that—the ache in her chest began to shift. The fear didn’t vanish, but it loosened. Like maybe it was allowed to take up space beside hope.

She curled her fingers into his hoodie, pressed a kiss to his jaw, and whispered, “Let’s check out.”

Then, softer still—barely above a breath as she looked down at the blanket one last time and felt the shape of their future settle into her bones—

“Then home.”

Mason didn’t breathe.

Not right away.

Because when Rowan’s voice cracked—and her shoulders did that trembling thing she never let anyone see—it gutted him.

Not in the panicked, oh no, what do I do kind of way.

In the holy shit, I’m watching someone trust me with the most delicate part of themselves kind of way.

She tried to laugh it off, like she always did, wiping her face with the back of her wrist and pressing her hand to her mouth like she could stuff the emotion back in.

But he saw it.

Felt it.

All of it.

The fear. The softness. The weight she’d been carrying since the test, since the ultrasound, since the first time she let herself think maybe this is real.

And without thinking—without hesitating—he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her in like gravity had demanded it.

She folded into his chest like she’d been made to fit there. Like this—this—was the version of her that had been waiting to breathe.

Mason pressed his lips to her hair and let his voice drop to a whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t reassurance.

It was fact.

Because he wasn’t trying to fix her. Wasn’t offering band-aids or bravado. Just being here—steady, solid, and so in love it made his chest ache.

And when she said she didn’t know what she did to find him—when she whispered she was terrified she wouldn’t be enough—

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t try to counter it with a speech or some picture-perfect quote about motherhood or strength.

He just held her tighter, rested his chin on her head, and said quietly:

“You’re already everything.”

Not you’ll be enough.

Not you’re going to be great.

Just: You are.

And she cried.

Not loud. Not messy. But enough to turn his hoodie into a keepsake.

And Mason let it happen. Let her fall apart and pull herself back together against him.

Because that was what love was, wasn’t it?

Not shielding someone from the storm—but standing still while they let it pass through them.

When she finally looked up—tearstreaked, eyes fierce and full of something deeper than either of them had names for—Mason met her gaze like it was sacred.

And when she said their daughter would grow up knowing this exact feeling, he smiled.

Not cocky. Not cheeky.

Just soft. Overwhelmed. His.

“I hope she cries like you,” he murmured, brushing a thumb under her eye. “Fierce and full of meaning. Not afraid to let it out.”

He paused. Let his forehead touch hers.

“And yeah, she’s definitely getting my eyebrows. But I promise we’ll have good tweezers on standby.”

That earned him a laugh—wet and real—and it cracked something open in him too.

Because this?

This was the life they were building.

Messy. Honest. Gorgeous.

Not in the polished way.

In the held-together-by-love-and-baby-blankets kind of way.

She kissed his jaw, and when she whispered “let’s check out,” something settled in his chest. Something solid. Permanent.

Home.

She said it so soft, like maybe she was scared to believe in it.

But Mason?

He already did.

So he kissed her temple, took the blanket from her arms, and nodded.

“Let’s go home,” he said. “And maybe cry over some more overpriced muslin later.”

Because the fear was still there. The what-ifs. The maybe-we-mess-it-ups.

But so was this.

Love. Laughter. A future worth holding onto.

And as they made their way to the counter—her hand still tucked in his—Mason didn’t just feel ready.

He felt grateful.

Because this wasn’t the life he thought he’d have.

It was better.

Because it had her.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

She couldn’t. Not with her throat still catching and her chest still working its way back down from where it’d lodged high behind her ribs. Not with Mason looking at her like that—like she hadn’t just melted down next to a wall of muslin burp cloths, like she hadn’t cracked wide open in the middle of a boutique that smelled like lavender and first chances.

He held her like he wasn’t afraid of it. Like her softness didn’t scare him. Like she wasn’t too much, too complicated, too used to fighting her own battles.

And that broke her a little more.

Not in the bad way.

In the kind of way you break when someone finally teaches your heart how to unclench.

She let out a shaky breath, eyes still glassy, and rested her head against his chest again—not because she was falling apart now, but because she was starting to come back together.

And she needed him there for the stitching.

“You know I’m still gonna spiral over whether the pacifier matches the onesie, right?” she murmured eventually, voice still thick and low, like she hadn’t quite found all her strength again but wasn’t afraid to show it.

His laugh vibrated through her spine.

That sound—it grounded her.

“I’m serious,” she added. “I’m gonna cry in the car because we didn’t get the dinosaur bib, and then again when I can’t find a diaper bag that doesn’t make me feel like a soccer mom with an Amazon addiction.”

She felt him nod, felt his hands stay right where they were—one across her back, the other now tangled with hers.

“But I’m gonna figure it out,” she whispered. “Not all at once. Not perfectly. But with you? I think I can.”

She looked up at him then, and even with her face blotchy and her eyeliner definitely not surviving the hour, she smiled.

Soft. Whole.

Like the world had shifted just a little, and somehow—miraculously—she was standing in the right part of it.

“You’re my person,” she said. “Even when I’m a mess. Especially then.”

Then—because she couldn’t help herself—“And for the record? If she gets your eyebrows and my sarcasm, we’re all doomed.”

She leaned up and kissed him again. Jaw. Cheek. Mouth. Not slow or showy, just sure.

Rowan turned toward the front of the store but didn’t let go of his hand. Not even for a second.

And when they stepped up to the counter—baby things stacked awkwardly between them, emotions still sticky and soft around the edges—Rowan looked at the girl behind the register, blinked hard, and said—

“Sorry if we cried on anything. We’re fine now.”

Mason snorted.

Rowan just bumped his hip with hers.

And then, when they stepped outside into the warm dusk and the sky stretched wide and forgiving above them, she laced her fingers tighter with his and looked up at him with that quiet kind of certainty that came after the storm.

“Let’s go home.”

She didn’t mean the house.

She meant them.

And Mason?

He didn’t just hear it.

He felt it. Everywhere.