Mason didn’t move for a full beat. Just sat there, her words echoing like a bell rung low and close to his ribs.

Indigo Grace.

His brain? Fully melted. Like candlewax and spilled coffee and whatever it is that happens when someone says something so perfect it short-circuits all logical systems in your soul.

He was still trying to recover from “our person” and “it’s okay to be soft,” and now she was kissing his cheek and tossing out fake threats about naming their baby Steve like it wasn’t the most deranged emotional rollercoaster he’d ever been willingly strapped into.

“She’s definitely gonna be cooler than us,” he mumbled eventually, because that’s all he had left. His vocabulary had been reduced to stunned compliments and stunned-er compliments.

Rowan’s smile pressed into his shoulder. He felt it like warmth.

He squeezed her knee with one hand and threaded his fingers tighter with hers with the other—quiet, firm, completely unbothered by the fact that his heart was now living somewhere halfway between her laugh and her belly.

Indigo Grace.

He pictured her. Not fully—just flashes. A curl of dark hair. A tiny hand wrapping around his thumb. A stubborn little frown that mirrored Rowan’s when someone said something dumb in science class. He imagined bedtime stories and jelly on the couch and glitter in places glitter absolutely shouldn’t be.

And weirdly? He didn’t panic.

He leaned into it.

Because if Rowan could say that name out loud and mean it—if she could look at him with that half-smirking, half-miracle look she always gave when he was being ridiculous and she loved him anyway—then yeah.

They were gonna be okay.

Maybe even great.

(As long as he never suggested Steve again.)

“Last name’s definitely Hayes,” he said finally, mock-serious. “Because Indigo Grace Starling sounds like someone who writes poetry about vampires in a haunted lighthouse. And Hayes balances that out with the energy of a man who accidentally microwaves his iPhone.”

Rowan didn’t answer right away—just made a soft noise that was mostly laughter and partly you’re lucky I love you.

Mason looked down at their hands again, still tangled like they’d always known how.

And in the quiet that followed, he whispered it again under his breath, just to hear how it sounded in the space between them.

“Indigo Grace.”

Then, with a grin curling against the corner of his mouth, he added:

“She’s gonna have your eye roll and my taste in cereal. We’re doomed.”

Rowan only hummed. But she didn’t let go.

And Mason—heart full, screen forgotten, thumb still brushing her knuckles—wasn’t going anywhere.

Rowan didn’t laugh this time.

She wanted to. He was doing the whole dorky, dramatic Mason thing again—the cereal jokes, the haunted lighthouse commentary, the way he said doomed like it was a love language—but her chest felt too full. Too soft. Too caught in the quiet hum of Indigo Grace rolling off his tongue like he’d been saying it his whole life.

She kept their hands tangled.

She wasn’t letting go of that.

Her other hand drifted absentmindedly to her belly again, just resting there. Still nothing to see. Still just a whisper of what could be. But the weight of it—of her—felt real in a way that made her breath catch. Real in a way she didn’t know how to explain without sounding like she’d gone fully sentimental.

Which, maybe, she had.

“Indigo Grace Hayes,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “Sounds like someone who makes fairy crowns out of weeds and convinces the neighbor kids to build a castle out of cardboard.”

She felt him shift slightly beneath her legs, felt the way his thumb didn’t stop moving against her skin, and smiled.

“She’s definitely gonna be cooler than us,” Rowan agreed, voice low, full of something warm and reverent. “But if she ends up writing poetry about haunted lighthouses, that’s still your fault.”

Then, after a beat, quieter:

“I’m glad it’s Hayes.”

She didn’t say why. Didn’t have to. He’d feel it in the way she squeezed his hand, in the way her voice softened around his name like it wasn’t just a last name—it was home.

Rowan tilted her head back to look at him fully, catching the last of his grin before he dipped his head to kiss her shoulder again. He always did that. Kissed her like he had to. Like her skin had gravity.

“I guess now we need to come up with a boy name too,” she said lightly, brushing her toe along the side of his thigh. “Y’know. In case she’s not a she.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And no, before you ask, Draven is still banned. So is anything that sounds like a medieval weapon or the name of a morally gray antihero with a tragic backstory.”

A pause.

Then: “I’ll let you have one fantasy name if I get to name the next pet something normal. Like… Harold.”

She grinned at the look on his face and leaned forward to press a kiss to his jaw.

“We’re gonna be a mess,” she whispered. “A hot, cereal-eating, haunted-poetry-writing mess.”

Her lips brushed his cheekbone.

“But we’re gonna be a good one.”

And yeah.

She meant it. Every word.

Mason didn’t move right away.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe, maybe.

He just sat there like someone had hit pause on whatever scrappy, unhinged version of the future he’d been building in his head—and then replaced it with this one. With Rowan. With Indigo Grace. With a mess he actually wanted to make.

He wasn’t always good at quiet moments. He filled them with jokes, or trivia, or weird facts about the lifespan of bees—but this one?

This one held him still.

Because the way she said Hayes—soft and warm and like it meant something—hit him harder than anything ever had. Like suddenly he wasn’t just a boy in a hoodie trying to love her hard enough.

He was home.

Mason swallowed. His chest felt too full. His brain too loud in all the right ways.

“You’re gonna name a cat Harold,” he said finally, voice thick with emotion and sarcasm, “and I’m supposed to not counter that with a son named Blade?”

She glared. He grinned.

“Fine, fine,” he added, eyes flicking down to where her hand still rested over her stomach, “no antiheroes. No fantasy bro names. I can work within limits.”

He tapped their joined hands once against her leg, thoughtful.

“What about something weird-but-approachable?” he mused. “Like… Ezra. Or Cassian. Or—wait. What about Orion?”

Rowan stared at him.

Mason raised both eyebrows. “What? It’s spacey. It’s poetic. You love space metaphors. And it sounds like the kind of kid who wins science fairs and has a cool frog terrarium.”

She didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth tugged.

God, he loved that. The way she tried to stay unimpressed and still failed completely.

“And if we have twins,” he continued, deadpan, “we name them Indigo and Orion and immediately start a band. Like, cosmic indie folkcore with banjo solos and ambient whale noises. I can be their manager-slash-snack dad.”

Rowan groaned, flopping backward on the couch like the dramatics were too much to endure, but her fingers never left his.

And that?

That meant everything.

Mason leaned down and kissed her shoulder again—couldn’t not—and let his lips linger there, just breathing her in. Her laugh. Her steadiness. The absolute miracle of her choosing him again and again.

“You’re right,” he murmured into her sleeve.

“We’re gonna be a mess.”

He pulled back just enough to catch her gaze, a grin spreading across his face again—mischief and awe all tangled together.

“But babe? We’re gonna be a legendary one.”

And when she rolled her eyes and kissed him anyway?

Mason knew it.

They already were.

Rowan didn’t even try to hide her eye roll.

He was insufferable. Truly. A menace wrapped in curls and sarcasm and just enough emotional sincerity to wreck her on a regular basis. But when he said things like that—when he kissed her shoulder like it was something sacred and looked at her like she was the start of the universe—how was she supposed to stay mad?

She didn’t answer him at first.

Just stretched a little farther across the couch, her legs still draped over his lap, the rest of her sinking into the cushions like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. She was. She knew it. Even if the world still felt a little too big some days.

Her hand slipped from his and found his hoodie drawstring, tugging it gently. A quiet I’m still here. A quiet you’re mine.

“Ezra,” she said after a beat, as if testing the shape of it in her mouth. “Okay… I kind of love that.”

She felt his heart stutter under her palm.

“It’s soft,” she continued. “But strong. Feels like a kid who knows who he is, even if he doesn’t always say it out loud. Kind of like you.”

He didn’t speak—just stared at her like she’d handed him the stars.

“And Orion,” she added with a little smirk, “definitely the kid who corrects the teacher about comet trajectories but still gets invited to every birthday party.”

She paused.

“But no frog terrarium. I’m drawing the line there.”

Her gaze found his again—half-amused, half-serious. “And if we do have twins and name them Indigo and Orion, you better be ready for their joint science project to take over our kitchen. I’m talking glitter volcanos, solar system mobiles, possibly live-action Mars rover simulations.”

Mason looked way too thrilled at the idea, which only made her laugh more.

Rowan shook her head, nose scrunching, and leaned forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“You are so lucky I love you,” she murmured.

She let the moment hang for a second, her thumb brushing along the curve of his jaw, her other hand finding its way back to her stomach, like her body remembered before her brain did.

Then, softer: “But yeah. Indigo. Ezra. Orion. Whoever they turn out to be…”

She looked at him again—really looked.

“We’re gonna be a lot of things. Tired. Confused. Probably sticky.”

A smile tugged at her lips.

“But you and me? We’ll be solid.”

And somehow, saying that—naming it, aloud, in the quiet hum of the living room—made it feel more real than anything else had so far.

They were building something messy and beautiful and entirely their own.

And God, Rowan couldn’t wait to see who showed up next.

Mason didn’t even try to hide the way his face split into the world’s most ridiculous grin.

It wasn’t suave. It wasn’t cool. It was pure, unfiltered Mason Hayes short-circuiting at full emotional capacity—eyes wide, curls flopping into his face, mouth half-open like he couldn’t quite believe the girl of his literal dreams just casually said the words Ezra, Orion, and we’ll be solid like she hadn’t just restructured his entire genetic makeup.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, dazed, like it was a compliment. And it was.

Because that was the thing about Rowan Starling—she didn’t need to throw big gestures or use flowery declarations. She just said things like probably sticky with all the reverence of a love song, and somehow, that was what got him. Every time.

His hands moved before he could overthink them, one landing lightly on her shin again, the other finding its way over hers, right where it rested on her belly. Still barely there. Still just a possibility. But suddenly it felt massive. Holy. A them in the making.

“Okay,” he said, very seriously. “No frog terrariums. But I reserve the right to build a model solar system using exactly fourteen types of glitter.”

Rowan made a sound that could only be described as deeply skeptical amusement.

He leaned down and kissed her knee like it was a vow. “You said probably sticky, babe. I’m just honoring the prophecy.”

She didn’t laugh this time. Not quite. But the look in her eyes—the one that softened at the corners and made his throat tighten? Yeah. That was better than any laugh.

His voice dropped a little as he brushed her hand with his thumb. “You and me. We’re solid.”

He said it like a confirmation. A promise.

Then—without warning—he plucked her phone off the cushion, typed Ezra into the notes app right under Indigo Grace, and gave her a look.

“What?” he said, chin tilted, eyebrows raised. “I’m cataloguing future excellence.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, which he accepted as a personal victory, then watched in real time as she melted back into the couch with a sigh.

Their sigh. The we’re-tired-but-we’re-safe one.

He wanted to bottle it.

He looked over at her again—this girl who somehow made every terrifying thing feel less like a disaster and more like a story worth living—and thought, Yeah. I could do this forever.

Mason didn’t say that out loud.

He didn’t have to.

Because when she leaned her head against his shoulder, and her fingers laced back into his, and the TV droned on with its perfectly terrible dialogue in the background, they were already writing the first chapter of something he knew they’d never want to edit.

Chaos. Crumbs. Cereal bowls and middle names.

And all of it—every last second—would be theirs.

Rowan didn’t move for a long moment.

Didn’t speak either—just stayed folded into the couch like the gravity in this exact spot was stronger than anywhere else in the world. And maybe it was. Because here? With him? With one of his hands curled around hers and the other still resting over her stomach like they’d always known to do that?

Yeah.

This was the softest kind of magic.

She glanced at the phone in his hand—Ezra typed in neatly below Indigo Grace—and fought the ridiculous urge to swipe it from him and write Not Orion in all caps just to be a menace. But she didn’t. Because even she had to admit… Ezra was kind of perfect. Soft. Easy. Like something you could grow into.

Like someone who wouldn’t flinch when the world got hard.

But more than that?

She knew how much it mattered to him. The space metaphors. The way his eyes lit up when he said names like Orion like they meant something ancient and beautiful. And maybe they did.

So she shifted slightly and murmured, “Ezra Orion.”

She didn’t say it like a question. She said it like a gift.

Like a compromise that didn’t feel like giving anything up.

“It matters to me,” she added, fingers tightening just slightly around his. “That it feels like you, too.”

Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand once. Then again.

She tilted her head slightly to look at him—Mason Hayes, her fiancé, her problem—and said with zero hesitation, “We’re still not naming anyone after a star chart.”

Then she smiled. For real. That slow, quiet kind of smile that only he ever really got.

“But Ezra Orion? Indigo Grace? Yeah. That feels like us.”

She didn’t say I love you—not out loud.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the way she shifted just enough to sit up and slide into his lap, her legs folding to either side like it was second nature. Her arms wound around his neck, slow and sure, and her forehead pressed against his like they were the only two people in the world who knew what this moment meant.

And maybe they were.

Because no one else got to see him like this. Quiet. Steady. Soft in all the places she used to be scared to touch.

Her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck as she leaned back just slightly to look at him.

“We’re not gonna get it all right,” she said. “We’re gonna screw some things up. Forget appointments. Drop crackers in the car seat. Have entire conversations about what kind of wipes are best.”

She smiled, nose brushing his.

“But if this is how it starts—messy and soft and slightly glitter-covered—I think I’m good with that.”

And she was.

Because Mason made her laugh when everything felt too big.

Because they could sit in silence and still feel understood.

Because Indigo Grace and Ezra Orion were more than names.

They were beginnings.

And both of them felt like home.

Mason didn’t move either.

Couldn’t, really. Not when she climbed into his lap like it was just breathing—like she belonged there, and maybe he belonged there too. His hands found her hips without thinking, grounding himself in the warmth of her weight, the way she curled into him like they were puzzle pieces that had been waiting a little too long to click into place.

Ezra Orion.

His brain, for once, was quiet.

No jokes. No chaos. Just that name echoing through him like it had been written in the stars long before they ever opened that dumb baby name app.

Rowan said it like a secret she was ready to keep.

And Mason—God, Mason just stared at her. Completely and unapologetically smitten. Her hair was falling over her shoulder. Her ring caught the light like it was showing off. Her eyes looked tired and wild and sure. And he was done for.

He didn’t say “I love you,” either.

He just leaned forward, touched his forehead to hers, and let out the kind of breath people usually reserve for mountaintops or miracles.

His fingers slid under the hem of her hoodie—just barely—resting warm and steady over the soft, still-small curve of her stomach. That impossible new gravity between them.

Ezra or Indigo. Doesn’t matter. He already loved them both.

And when she said they’d screw it up? That they’d drop crackers and debate baby wipes and argue about bedtime playlists?

He smiled. That stupid crooked Mason Hayes smile that made her roll her eyes and kiss him anyway.

“Good,” he whispered against her mouth, right before he kissed her like it meant something permanent. “Because I plan on being the most embarrassing dad alive.”

And honestly? That felt like a pretty decent start.

To everything.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because Mason was already holding her like she was something sacred, like she’d just handed him the whole universe in a name—and maybe she had. The way he looked at her then, forehead resting against hers, breath slow and reverent like he was trying to steady the world around them—God, it did something to her.

Softened her. Anchored her. Lit something warm and pulsing behind her ribs.

So she brought both hands to his face, slow and sure, fingers sliding up to cradle his jaw like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. Her thumbs brushed along his cheeks, right where the flush had started to rise—because of her, always because of her—and she leaned in.

Not to speak.

Not to tease.

Just to kiss him.

Softly.

Once on his forehead. Then each cheek. The tip of his nose. The space just beside his eye.

Like a trail of tiny, quiet yeses.

Yes, I see you.

Yes, I’m with you.

Yes, I’m still choosing this.

He didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Just let her take her time like he knew what she was saying without a single word.

When she finally kissed his lips—slow, steady, more smile than heat—she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his again.

Her fingers stayed at his jaw, gently framing him.

“I’m kind of obsessed with you,” she whispered. “In case that wasn’t painfully obvious.”

He let out a soft sound that might’ve been a laugh, but she didn’t give him time to recover.

“Also—when our kid grows up and tells their friends their mom named them Indigo and their dad wanted to call them Blade, I want you to know I’m absolutely blaming you for every therapy session that follows.”

Her lips curved into a grin, even as she brushed another kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“But I’ll love you through all of it. Even the bedtime playlist arguments.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face fully now, hands still holding him like something precious.

Because he was.

He always had been.

And now?

He was hers. Completely. Stupidly. Permanently.

And that—this—was the kind of forever she hadn’t even known she was allowed to want.

Until Mason Hayes showed up and gave it to her. One kiss, one name, one hand over her stomach at a time.

Mason swore he was breathing, but everything about this moment made it feel like he wasn’t doing it right.

Because how were you supposed to breathe when someone looked at you like that?

When they kissed you like every part of you was worth knowing?

When they touched your face like you were a prayer they didn’t want answered too fast?

He didn’t move—couldn’t. Not when her hands were on his jaw and her voice was whispering confessions like I’m kind of obsessed with you with zero irony and one hundred percent sincerity.

His heart didn’t just stutter—it jumped. Like it wanted to fist-bump gravity just for getting them here.

And then she said the thing about Blade.

And therapy.

And bedtime playlists.

And he lost it—not loudly, not in the way he sometimes did when she roasted him in public—but in the quiet, Mason Hayes way. That crooked grin. That bright-eyed, heart-too-full way. Like he’d never quite recover from being chosen by someone this sharp and soft and real.

He leaned in, nose brushing hers, voice low and wrecked with affection.

“Indigo is gonna tell her entire class that her dad wanted to name her after a sword and a constellation and the concept of vengeance, and you are not gonna stop her.”

He felt her laugh against him. Felt it everywhere.

“And bedtime playlists?” he added, fingers drifting to where her hand still rested over her belly. “That’s a hill I’ll die on. There will be lullabies and mood lighting and probably a themed playlist called ‘Sleep Like a Star Baby, You’ve Got This.’”

She groaned. He grinned wider.

But then his thumb moved—just barely—over the hand she was using to hold him still. Slower. Quieter. Reverent again.

And his voice softened.

“But I’ll love you through all of it too,” he said.

No smirk. No joke.

Just truth.

Just Mason, still holding on, still memorizing her in the dim afterglow of choosing each other again.

Because yeah, she named their kid Indigo.

And yeah, she kissed him like he was something sacred.

And maybe he didn’t have the words to explain what that did to him.

But he’d spend the rest of his life trying.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She couldn’t.

Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that. Not when his thumb was tracing slow, quiet circles over her hand like it was a sacred text only he was allowed to read.

She didn’t need poetry when he talked like that.

Didn’t need vows when he looked at her belly like he already loved what hadn’t even been seen.

So instead, she leaned in—just slightly—and let her forehead rest against his, noses brushing. Her fingers curled against his hoodie like she was afraid to let go, even for a second. Like her grip was the only thing anchoring her to this moment.

“You’re gonna ruin her,” Rowan whispered, not accusing. Just awed. “In the best way.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, really look—eyes scanning every inch of that open, crooked, Mason smile. The one that cracked her open and made her feel known.

“She’s gonna hear those playlists and think the stars are only quiet because her dad told them bedtime stories,” she said, softer now. “She’s gonna think magic is just… how we live.”

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. Once. Twice.

And then she smiled. Slow. Crooked. The kind of smile that made it very clear she was just as doomed as he was.

“We’re not even parents yet, and I already want to make fun of other couples for not being us.”

She kissed his forehead. His cheek. The curve of his jaw. All of it slow. All of it certain.

And then, right at his ear—barely above a whisper:

“I’m even more in love with you.”

She let it hang there for a moment. Let him feel it.

Then, with a little breath of laughter, she added, “Even when you name hypothetical playlists like you’re a moonlight DJ in a toddler rave.

Then: “But if she grows up dramatic, it’s definitely your fault.”

And when he didn’t argue, when he just smiled and kissed her shoulder again?

She knew.

This was it.

This was her favorite part.

Rowan didn’t mean to yawn, but it escaped before she could swallow it back. Soft. Contagious. The kind that tugged at the edges of everything—her limbs, her thoughts, her heart—until they all went a little loose.

She shifted just slightly, thinking maybe it was time to move, to stretch, to peel herself off the couch and drag him upstairs where the blankets were warmer and the light didn’t flicker with bad commercials. Her hand was still resting over his, the one curled protectively on her stomach. The TV buzzed with half-hearted drama. The names Indigo and Ezra were tucked somewhere between their joined palms like they’d always been there.

She looked up, ready to push herself upright.

But Mason beat her to it.

Without so much as a warning, he tightened his arm around her back and the one under her knees, and stood—smooth, steady, like she weighed nothing at all.

Rowan let out a small, surprised laugh against his chest, her aend instinctively wrapping around his neck as he held her like it was second nature. Like carrying her upstairs was just what people did when they were stupidly in love and couldn’t be bothered with separate footsteps.

“Mason,” she murmured, mock-scolding into the fabric of his hoodie, “you’re going to throw your back out and I’m not calling your mom.”

But she didn’t ask him to put her down.

Not even a little.

Because her cheek was pressed over his heartbeat. Because she was warm, and safe, and loved in that quiet, easy way that only happened after everything else fell away. And because she knew—without question—that he wasn’t carrying her out of romance or pride.

He just didn’t want to let go yet.

And honestly?

Neither did she.

So Rowan let him carry her toward the stairs. Toward their room. Toward whatever came next.

Still barefoot. Still laughing. Still completely wrapped up in the boy who had turned a couch, a name, and a maybe into something real.