Mason felt her fingers squeeze his like it was instinct. Like something in her had finally stopped bracing and just held on. And he might’ve been smirking a minute ago, being his usual extra self about honey clusters and poetic declarations near the paper towels—but the second she looked at him like that?

He was done for.

Absolutely, irrevocably ruined in the middle of the cereal aisle.

Because Rowan Starling—emotionally guarded, wildly brilliant, give-an-inch-take-nothing Rowan—had just cracked wide open and handed him everything.

And holy hell, she meant it.

Her voice barely made it out, but he heard her. Every syllable. Every unspoken thing behind this is everything.

And somehow, in the dumbest, most perfect way, the moment was… sacred. Not grand or dramatic. Just sacred. Like the world had tipped on its axis somewhere between the organic granola and the shelf of store-brand oatmeal.

So Mason—supportive, loveable, and entirely Mason—did the only thing he could do.

He kissed the back of her hand.

Right there.

Right in front of the Raisin Bran.

And then he pressed it to his heart like they were standing at the altar and aisle seven was the priest.

“Babe,” he whispered, voice wobbly in the most boyishly earnest way, “I would absolutely quote poetry by the frozen peas for you. Don’t tempt me.”

Her groan was half laugh, half I cannot believe you’re real, and he grinned wide, completely shameless.

“But,” he added, pulling her closer like the world had narrowed down to her hoodie and her heartbeat, “since I know how much you love it when I get all mushy in public…”

He cleared his throat, dramatically, earning an instant eye-roll.

“Ahem. Shall I compare thee to a limited-time spring produce sale—”

“Mason.”

“—for thou art more consistent than avocado ripeness—”

She actually laughed this time, and the sound shot straight through him like the warmest kind of lightning.

And God, she was beautiful when she laughed. Even more so when she tried to stifle it, cheeks pink, eyes glinting, head shaking like she wasn’t going to let him win—but still hadn’t let go of his hand.

He held onto it tighter, smile softening as they moved toward the checkout.

No rush. No pressure. Just them.

“I know this isn’t fancy,” he said as they paused behind an elderly couple with a very intense coupon system. “It’s not Paris or prom or some big, sweeping thing.”

He glanced over at her, bumping her shoulder lightly.

“But for the record? If all we ever have is this—grocery lists and cereal debates and you reaching for my hand while pretending not to cry over how much you love me?”

He shrugged. “I’d call that a pretty epic love story.”

And when she looked at him—eyes full of everything she didn’t have to say anymore—he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Right there in the checkout line.

Right in front of the Tic Tacs and the tabloids and the packs of wintergreen gum.

Because this was everything.

And Mason? Mason had never been more sure of anything in his life.

Rowan didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

She just stood there—pinned between impulse gum and aisle seven and this boy who was holding her hand like it was scripture—while her whole goddamn chest rearranged itself.

Because Mason Fletcher, in his hoodie and his smirk and his all-heart swagger, had just made her feel like forever was the easy part.

Not the fantasy.
Not the someday.
The part that stayed.

Her throat went tight.

She should’ve cracked a joke. Said something sarcastic. Something to deflect the swell in her chest and the way her eyes started to sting again even though she swore she was done crying this week.

But instead?

She looked up at him—this ridiculous, brilliant boy who would absolutely quote Shakespeare next to frozen peas—and let herself feel it.

The softness. The safety. The part of her that believed.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, voice thick.

But her fingers curled tighter into his.

And then, quieter—barely audible beneath the beeps and murmurs of a Sunday crowd:

“I love you too.”

Not dramatic. Not teased. Just true.

And maybe that was the point.

Because loving Mason wasn’t some explosion. It wasn’t fireworks or fear or the feeling of falling.

It was a cart full of produce and a hand on her back and a boy who held her laughter like it was holy.

And when he smiled—really smiled, like the words had reached something in him that nothing else ever had?

Rowan exhaled.

Slow.

Certain.

Then leaned up—steady, sure—and kissed him.

Right there. In front of the gum rack and the gossip magazines. With people around them and the cashier already scanning their oat milk.

Because for the first time in her whole life?

She wasn’t afraid of being seen.
Not with him.
Not like this.

Her lips barely left his before she rested her forehead against his chest—right against that dumb, threadbare hoodie she always pretended not to steal—and let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

The kind that only comes when you stop waiting for the world to fall apart again.

Because it wasn’t.

Not this time.

Not with him.

Mason’s arms came around her without hesitation, steady and sure and warm in that way he always was. She felt it—his smile against the top of her hair, the way his hand settled instinctively on the small of her back, anchoring her there like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

And she was.

She didn’t care that the couple behind them was pretending not to stare. Didn’t care that their cart was full of stuff that wasn’t even on the list, or that she’d probably cry again before they made it out of the parking lot.

None of it mattered.

Because this—this moment, this love, this boy who made her laugh and kept showing up even when she didn’t know how to ask—this was hers.

Rowan pulled back just enough to look at him.

Really look at him.

“You know,” she said softly, fingers still curled in the fabric of his hoodie, “for someone who talks so much, you’re dangerously good at shutting me up.”

His grin flashed. She rolled her eyes.

But then—gentler now, the truth sliding in under her ribs—she added, “You make it feel easy. Even when it’s not.”

Her voice caught at the edges, but she didn’t look away. Not this time.

“You make me feel like I don’t have to fight so hard to deserve this.”

Her fingers moved—absentmindedly smoothing the wrinkle in his shirt, anchoring herself to something real.

“And I’m not used to that. I don’t think I ever will be. But I’m trying.”

She paused, eyes flicking down to their hands still linked like a lifeline.

“I want this, Mase. The boring. The messy. The aisle-seven kind of forever. I want you.”

And there it was.

Not armored. Not hidden. Just said.

Out loud.
On purpose.
In the checkout line.

Because if Mason could keep showing up for her in all the quiet ways—then she could start showing up too.

Even when it scared her.

Especially when it did.

Mason couldn’t speak at first.

Didn’t even try.

Because if he opened his mouth, he might’ve said something dumb. Or started laughing just to stop himself from crying. And yeah, he was the funny one. The one who cracked jokes in tension-filled rooms and called aisle seven a sacred shrine of Honey Nut Cheerios. But right now?

He couldn’t do anything but look at her.

This girl—his girl—who just said I want you like it wasn’t terrifying or dramatic or some grand fireworks moment, but something better. Something real. Something rooted.

It leveled him.

Like a sucker-punch wrapped in sunshine.

His heart was going at full throttle, slamming into his ribs like it was trying to make sure he heard it.

And he did.

Loud and clear.

Because that? That was Rowan. Raw and scared and choosing him anyway. She could’ve hidden. Could’ve turned it into a joke or ducked behind sarcasm. But she didn’t.

She said it.

And now all he could do was feel it.

He let out a shaky breath and leaned in—just a little, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His arms stayed wrapped around her like instinct, like gravity. Like there was nowhere else in the universe they were supposed to be but right here, in this checkout line with melting frozen peas and two-for-one gum.

“You don’t have to get used to it,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “I’ll remind you. Every time. Every aisle. Every meltdown over oat milk or off-brand Pop-Tarts.”

His lips brushed the corner of her jaw, and he smiled—soft this time. Like it was only for her.

“I’ll be the one holding your hand when it’s easy. And especially when it’s not.”

She didn’t move, just closed her eyes like it meant something. Like he meant something.

So he kept going.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just honest.

“You don’t have to fight with me to keep this. You already have it. You are it.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face. Just enough to make sure she saw him too—his eyes, his heart, all of it laid out without armor.

“I want the messy. The boring. The ‘oops-we-bought-five-bags-of-chips-again’ kind of forever.”

A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“And I want you. Every version. Every grocery run. Every ‘you’re an idiot, but I love you anyway’.”

He kissed her again. Not rushed. Not for show.

Just real.

And when he pulled away, voice barely above a whisper:

“We’re doing this, Ro. You and me. List or no list.”

Then, as the cashier cleared her throat and started scanning their oat milk like maybe now was the time, Mason’s eyes flicked toward the impulse shelf by the register.

Without breaking stride—or contact—he reached out, grabbed a pack of double-stuffed Oreos from the rack, and slid them onto the belt.

Rowan narrowed her eyes.

He shrugged, biting back a grin. “For emergencies.”

And when she shook her head, laughing under her breath, Mason leaned closer again—eyes crinkled, heart steady, hand still in hers.

“You called aisle-seven love boring,” he whispered, like it was a secret just between them. “But I think it might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Her chest clenched.

God, it clenched so hard she thought for a second she might actually fold right there in front of the gum rack and the coupon bin and some poor kid begging his mom for fruit snacks.

Because Mason had looked at her like that again.

Like she was the only thing he’d ever believed in.

And then he said those things—like he hadn’t even thought to filter them, hadn’t felt the need to protect himself from the truth of it. Like loving her out loud wasn’t some risk he needed to weigh—but something inevitable. Something done.

And that? That wrecked her in the gentlest way.

She didn’t even try to cover it. Not this time. Her eyes burned. Her throat tightened. But she held his gaze anyway—wet lashes and all—and gave him this wobbly, lopsided little smile like maybe she was still figuring out how to receive all that love without shrinking from it.

“You’re not supposed to say things like that in front of the Oreos,” she murmured, blinking fast, voice rough around the edges. “It’s rude. They can’t compete.”

He grinned. Of course he did.

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Didn’t tease him like she normally might. Didn’t brush it off or downplay the heat rising in her chest.

Because she’d heard him.

Every word.

And she believed him.

Not just in the way you believe someone when it’s easy—when your heart is soft and the music’s playing and the night is forgiving. But in the hard way. The quiet way. The way that means something when the world isn’t watching.

She leaned in again, their foreheads brushing just enough to make her inhale like it was the first breath in days.

Then, softly—only for him:

“You always know what to say. Even when I don’t know how to hear it.”

Her voice cracked a little on the next line, but she said it anyway:

“I’m scared. I’m still scared. But I’m not walking away from this.”

A beat. A breath. Her hand tightening in his.

“I’m not walking away from you.”

And maybe it wasn’t loud.

Maybe it wasn’t dramatic or perfect or the kind of moment people write songs about.

But it was hers.

And it was his.

And it was theirs.

Rowan exhaled shakily, her thumb brushing over his knuckles like a promise. Then glanced at the Oreos on the belt and shook her head.

“You know I’m gonna eat those in the car, right?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. Still standing right there, right beside him, as the cashier gave them a mildly amused look and scanned the next item on the belt.

And when Mason reached for the bags a little too quickly—like maybe he wanted to carry every weight before she could even think to lift it—Rowan didn’t stop him.

She just followed.

Right out of that store.

Right into the kind of life that felt like it had been waiting for her to say yes.

Mason followed her out into the sunlit parking lot like it was sacred ground.

Like she’d just handed him the whole world in the middle of aisle seven and trusted him not to drop it.

And yeah—maybe he was grinning like a fool as he adjusted the bags in his arms, the Oreos tucked on top like a prize. Maybe his sneakers made that dumb squeak against the concrete, and maybe a gust of wind blew his hair all wrong. But none of it mattered.

Because she hadn’t walked away.

She chose him.

Not some perfect version of love. Not the kind that showed up with sweeping music and poetic speeches. The kind that meant staying—even when your hands shook. Even when your heart still flinched from old ghosts.

And God, did he love her for it.

Mason glanced sideways, catching the way she reached for the car door with that same stubborn grace she did everything with. One hand braced against her back, eyes narrowed against the glare, hoodie sleeves still swallowed past her knuckles.

He couldn't help it—he laughed, soft and breathless.

“You know,” he said, popping the trunk open with a little flair and an unnecessarily dramatic bow, “I always thought forever would look more like a beach or a mountaintop or, I don’t know, a flash mob with acoustic guitars…”

He nudged her gently with his shoulder. “But you, nearly crying over Oreos? Kinda wrecked every other version for me.”

He saw it—that twitch at the corner of her mouth. That almost-smile she tried not to give him.

So he pressed on. Gently.

“Ro, I’m serious. You don’t have to pretend to be fearless. I love you scared. I love you messy. I love you in the middle of grocery store panic spirals and those weird 2 a.m. rants about bees and late-stage capitalism.”

He opened the passenger door for her, like a dork, and leaned down with a crooked grin.

“You’re it for me. Even when you're tired. Especially then.”

And when she looked up at him—really looked, tear-slick eyes and all—he softened all over again.

“You’re my someday, Rowan. My everyday. And I’m in. All the way in. Cart squeaks, checkout lines, and emotional Oreos included.”

Then—because he could feel how close she was to breaking again, and not in a bad way—he leaned in and kissed her forehead. Reverent. Steady. Like punctuation on a promise.

“Now get in the car before I start crying and scare the suburban dads with their protein shakes.”

He caught her laugh—low and surprised and barely restrained—and shut the door with a grin so wide it hurt.

Mason jogged around to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and handed her the Oreos the second they pulled out of the lot.

“No judgment,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “But I did buy those with the express intention of bribing your love in the event of a minor emotional crisis. Pretty sure that’s what they mean by planning ahead.”

And when she reached for them—eyes still wet, smile still blooming—he didn’t say a word.

Just took her hand in his again.

And drove.

Toward home.

Toward everything.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

She couldn’t.

Because there was something lodged in her throat—half a laugh, half a sob, all love—and if she opened her mouth, it might come out wrong. Might break the spell. Might make it feel too big to hold.

So instead, she just stared at him. At his dumb, smug, perfect face and the way his fingers found hers again like it was second nature. Like he was built to anchor her even in the middle of her mess.

Especially then.

The silence in the car was soft. Safe. Punctuated only by the crinkle of the Oreo wrapper as she finally gave in and popped one into her mouth.

She chewed slowly, eyes on the road ahead, and shook her head with a smile that was all him. All of this.

“You know,” she murmured eventually, voice quiet but steady, “I still don’t think you understand how dangerous it is to love me like this.”

She glanced over.

Saw the way his grip tightened on the wheel. The way his jaw ticked just slightly. The way he didn’t flinch.

“I break things,” she said simply. “Even when I don’t mean to.”

But before he could argue, she reached across the console and laced their fingers together again—firm, certain.

“But I think… maybe I’m done pretending I don’t want to be held together too.”

She looked down at their hands. Then at him.

And for once, didn’t second-guess the truth when it spilled from her lips.

“You’re not a detour, Mason. You’re the reason I’m finally on the road.”

She leaned back in her seat, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the warmth of the sun painted soft stripes across her lap.

Then, almost teasing, almost reverent—

“And if you ever quote Shakespeare at me in public again, I’m going to marry you out of spite.”

Her lips twitched.

And this time, when she laughed, it wasn’t low or restrained.

It was whole.

It was hers.

And it was free.

Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because she was laughing—really laughing—and he would’ve driven to the edge of the earth and back just to hear that sound again. The kind that cracked open the quiet and stitched something sacred into the silence she used to wear like armor.

God, she was everything.

He kept one hand on the wheel, the other laced tight with hers, thumb brushing slow against the back of her palm like it was muscle memory. And maybe it was. Maybe loving her like this had always been written in his bones—he’d just finally caught up to it.

He glanced sideways, eyes catching on the curve of her smile, the way the sun kissed her through the window, painting her in gold and grace and stubborn softness.

And all he could think was don’t blink.

Because this? This was the moment. The one he’d remember when they were old and gray and arguing about where to put the basil. The one that would ruin every other moment that dared to pretend it mattered more.

He cleared his throat, voice a little hoarse—like her words had taken up residence somewhere deep.

“You say that like marrying me would be a punishment,” he said, mock-wounded. “Which, frankly, is offensive. I’m adorable.”

She snorted. He grinned.

“But just for the record?” he added, a little quieter now. A little more honest. “I know exactly how dangerous it is to love you.”

He squeezed her hand.

“And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

The words landed between them—gentle, grounded, sure. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just real.

Like the beat of a heart finally finding its rhythm.

He turned back to the road, let the hum of the tires and the soft air between songs carry them the rest of the way.

Then, with a glance sideways and a grin that could’ve lit up every aisle in that damn grocery store:

“Also, I’m definitely quoting Shakespeare again. Gotta lock that spite-marriage in before someone else figures out how stupid lucky I am.”

And when she rolled her eyes—affectionate, exasperated, forever—he knew.

He knew he’d never stop choosing this.

Not even for a second.

Rowan turned her face toward the window, but not fast enough to hide the way her eyes shimmered.

God, he wrecked her.

In the gentlest, most infuriating, most Mason way imaginable.

Because he didn’t just say things to fill the air—he meant them. Every single syllable. Every joke layered with devotion. Every soft confession snuck in like it was nothing when it was everything. He cracked her open without ever asking her to bleed for it.

She squeezed his hand back.

Hard.

Like she needed him to feel it. To know.

Then she exhaled—one of those long, shaking breaths that felt like letting go of something she’d been holding way too tight.

“You’re not stupid lucky,” she said quietly. “You’re… brave.”

Her voice caught a little. But she didn’t let it fall apart.

“Because I am dangerous, Mason. Not in the fire-and-ice way people like to imagine. Not in the pretty, palatable kind of messy.”

She finally looked at him, profile steady now. Honest.

“I’m dangerous because I feel everything. Because I overthink and shut down and lash out and make things harder than they need to be. And you still look at me like I’m worth all of it.”

A beat. Then, softer:

“You hold space for me in a way I didn’t know how to ask for.”

Her thumb brushed over his, small and reverent.

“And I don’t care if you quote Shakespeare or scream your love for me from the rooftop of aisle seven—this thing we’re building? I want it.”

She swallowed, the words barely a whisper but firm with truth.

“I want you. Every damn version.”

Another beat.

Then, wryly: “…But if you do quote Shakespeare in front of my mom, I swear I’m making you wear the ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron at the baby shower.”

Her lips twitched.

And when he burst out laughing, her chest finally eased.

This was it.

No armor. No pretending.

Just them.

Hand in hand.

Sunlight on their skin.

And love—loud, ridiculous, holy love—poured into every ordinary second like it was the most sacred thing she’d ever known.

Mason didn’t just laugh.

He lost it.

That full-bodied, stupidly loud kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and had him nearly pulling the car over so he could recover. The kind that only ever happened around her. The kind she used to pretend annoyed her—except now, she reached for it like breath.

“Okay, first of all,” he managed, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, “that apron is a privilege. I earned that apron. I wear it with pride.”

She rolled her eyes. He grinned harder.

“And second,” he added, voice still warm with laughter but quieter now, more grounded, “you are messy. And sharp. And kind of terrifying when you’re on a deadline.”

He looked over at her—really looked—like he was seeing every part of her and loving them all in real time.

“But you’re also brilliant. And brave. And funny when you forget to overthink it. And you’ve got this really annoying habit of making me feel like maybe all the broken stuff in me isn’t permanent.”

He squeezed her hand again. Not hard. Just right.

“And yeah, I’ll probably always be the idiot who says too much at the wrong time. But if holding space for you means I get to watch you take up space, then I’m exactly where I want to be.”

A pause.

Then—

“I want every version of you too, Ro. The quiet ones, the mad ones, the overthinking-at-2AM ones. The ones that cry during oat milk commercials and threaten to leave me in the parking lot for forgetting the bagels.”

That last bit made her laugh, even as her lashes stayed wet.

Mason smiled at that, soft and smug all at once. Then turned back toward the road with one final nudge:

“But fair warning? If your mom so much as mentions Shakespeare, I’m going full Sonnet 116. Apron and all.”

Rowan groaned into her hand. He swore he saw her blush.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide.

She just let her fingers stay tangled in his, palm to palm, a heartbeat shared—and Mason knew without question:

He’d never let go.