Mason was gone.

Fully, stupidly, cosmically gone.

His heart had already been pounding like a middle school drumline, but when she said yes—when she kissed him like she wanted to carve her name into every beat of his pulse—he just… melted.

Right there on the kitchen floor, surrounded by post-its and glitter pens and leftover gummy worms, Mason Hayes became a puddle of heart-eyes and high-grade devotion.

She was everything.
His fiancée.
The soon-to-be mother of their kid.
The girl who ruined him with a smile and saved him with a Sharpie.

And now? She was saying yes to forever like it was the only word she’d ever needed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, grinning so wide it was borderline painful. “I’m gonna marry you.”

He said it like he couldn’t believe it. Like it hadn’t just happened five seconds ago. Like the words tasted like cotton candy and sparkler smoke and every warm summer night they’d ever spent dreaming too loud.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he said again, more reverent this time, like he was trying it on for the first time and finding out it fit better than anything he’d ever worn. “And you’re gonna have my baby. And you’re still letting me draw raptors on our seating chart.”

He let out a choked laugh—half cry, half wheeze, all Mason—and pressed his forehead to hers again, breath catching like he couldn’t hold it all in.

“You’re the dream, Ro. You always were.”

And then he kissed her.

Not soft this time. Not worshipful.

Hungry.

Like he’d waited his whole damn life for her mouth. Like saying yes had snapped something in him, something wild and sure and aching.

His hands gripped her waist, thumbs dragging under the hem of his hoodie where it bunched around her hips, pulling her closer like he needed to feel every inch of her saying yes, yes, yes.

Her legs curled tighter around him. Her fingers tangled in his hair. The world narrowed to lips and breath and heat and that stupid kitchen tile biting into his knees.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured against her mouth, voice wrecked and warm and full of awe. “Not now. Not ever.”

He kissed down her jaw, over the line of her throat, slow and hot and reverent. Like he was tracing the places he’d say his vows if he didn’t already know she’d feel them in every touch.

And when he looked back up at her—cheeks flushed, hair wild, eyes shining with laughter and tears and forever—he swore she was made of starlight.

“I can’t wait to watch you become a mom,” he said, thumb brushing over her stomach. “Can’t wait to build a life that’s chaos and pancakes and tiny socks everywhere.”

His smile turned soft again. Real.

“And I really can’t wait to see what our kid draws in the margins.”

Then he kissed her again—long and deep and certain.

Because yeah. He was ruined.

And it had never felt more like home.

Rowan didn’t realize she was crying until she laughed.

One of those hiccupy, borderline-hysterical, absolutely-overwhelmed laughs that cracked right through the center of her chest and left everything warm and open in its wake.

Because he’d said it.

Again.

I’m gonna marry you.

Like it had just occurred to him. Like it was some cosmic punchline and the whole universe was in on the joke. And then he’d kissed her like his soul had been waiting lifetimes for it.

She was ruined.

No, worse. She was happy.

Stupidly, fully, unreasonably happy.

“Mason freaking Hayes,” she gasped, still catching her breath, still wrapped around him like she had no plans of ever letting go. “You are such a disaster and somehow I still want to raise a whole-ass human with you.”

Her hand slid into his hair again, tugging gently—just enough to make him look at her. To feel it.

“You realize our kid is gonna come out drawing velociraptors in permanent marker on the walls, right? And it’s gonna be your fault.”

She grinned through the tears, nose scrunching, lips swollen from too many yeses.

“And you know what?” she whispered, cupping his face in both hands. “I can’t wait.”

Her thumb swiped the corner of his mouth like she could collect the remnants of his joy and keep it for later.

“I can’t wait for the chaos. For the glitter in the carpet. For the pancakes at midnight and the baby socks on the dog and you crying over kindergarten art projects.”

Her voice cracked.

But she kept going.

“I can’t wait to raise a tiny person who knows what love looks like because they see it. Every day. Right here.”

She kissed him again, slower now. Like sealing a vow.

And when she pulled back, forehead pressed to his, her breath was shaky but her smile was steady.

“You’re it for me, Mase. In every timeline. In every kitchen. On every floor.”

Then, a beat. Her voice dropped to a whisper—raw, reverent, real.

“So yeah. Let’s get married. Let’s raise a raptor baby. Let’s ruin each other forever.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it wasn’t a question.

It was a promise.

Mason barely remembered how to breathe.

Somewhere between her laugh and the word raptor baby, his heart had gone off-script entirely—just pounding out a rhythm so loud it felt like his whole body was trying to memorize her.

Because this? This was his actual dream sequence. Not the polished kind. Not the one with matching outfits and curated playlists.

No.

This was the Rowan Starling brand of forever.

Messy. Hiccupy. Glitter-smeared and loud and so full of love it nearly brought him to his knees again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, glowing. “Like actually kill me with how perfect you are. And I’ll die smiling, just so we’re clear.”

He kissed her again—quick, breathless, reverent—before resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed like he was trying to tattoo this moment into memory.

“And for the record,” he mumbled, lips brushing hers between words, “that kid is definitely drawing raptors on the walls. But they’ll be accurate, because I’ll teach them proper tail proportions.”

Her laugh made his whole chest ache—in the good way. The best way.

He brushed his thumbs under her eyes, catching tears before they could fall too far, then leaned back just enough to look at her properly. To see her. All flushed and fierce and tender, tangled in his hoodie with that storm of emotion still flickering behind her lashes.

And something in him clicked into place. Like, cosmically.

“You’re it for me too,” he said quietly, the words soft but unshakable. “You were it when I was thirteen and you told off Mr. Fenton in science class. You were it when you climbed into my car that night and didn’t look back. You’re it every time you let me see the real you—messy, brave, loud, brilliant.”

He paused, his thumb tracing her cheekbone like he could anchor himself there forever.

“You’re the reason I believe in timing. And magic. And Target runs that accidentally turn into wedding planning.”

He swallowed, smile turning crooked.

“I wanna build every version of home with you. Even the ones with glitter in the grout and pancakes at midnight and plastic dinos stuck in the heating vent.”

And before she could speak, before she could crack another joke or cry another tear, he kissed her like the sky might fall if he didn’t.

It was deep. Steady. Certain.

And when he pulled back, the grin returned—slow, boyish, smitten beyond saving.

“C’mon, Starling. Let’s ruin each other forever,” he said, hand sliding into hers like it was muscle memory. “But first—we gotta finish the seating chart.”

He reached for the highlighter like he wasn’t still vibrating with joy, and whispered conspiratorially:

“Tell me… how many raptors is too many?”

Rowan couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry, laugh, or climb him like a tree.

Because of course he said all of that.

Of course he went from soft-eyed cosmic devotion to highlighter-wielding raptor conspiracy without missing a beat. Like her soul hadn’t just been obliterated by that forehead-pressed, wedding-in-the-aisles, “you’re it for me” monologue.

She was ruined.

Wrecked.

Deliriously, stupidly in love with this disaster of a man who made her feel like every version of herself—loud, sharp, soft, chaotic—was home.

“Mason Hayes,” she whispered, grinning so hard it hurt, “if you say one more perfect thing, I will sob into this seating chart and you’ll have to explain to our child why their mother cried on a diagram of table five.”

He looked smug. So of course she kissed him again—fast and firm—just to shut him up before he could get worse.

Which he definitely would.

“And yes,” she added, still breathless, still glowing, “our kid’s going to draw anatomically correct raptors on every surface. The walls. The fridge. Probably the dog.”

She laced their fingers together beneath the table, squeezed once.

“I can’t wait.”

Then, a beat. Her voice dropped, low and soft, carrying something a little heavier. A little brighter.

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to have everything. The mess. The magic. The stupid little house with glitter in the grout and dinosaurs in the vents. You make forever feel like breathing.”

And then, because she couldn’t help it—

“…But Mason, if you put more than four raptors on this chart, I’m calling the venue.”

She snatched the highlighter from his hand, kissed his cheek, and pressed her forehead back to his with a smile that reached somewhere eternal.

“Let’s ruin each other forever,” she whispered, “but with taste.”

Mason looked like a man on the edge of completely losing it—in the best, most love-struck way possible.

Because taste?

The girl who once flipped off a boy for mocking her annotated poetry journal just told him to ruin her forever with taste.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, mock-offended, eyes wide and adoring, “you mean to tell me my vision of a velociraptor-themed table centerpiece isn’t sophisticated enough for you? Rowan. Babe. This is art. This is legacy.”

He leaned in dramatically, one hand clutching his heart, the other gesturing vaguely like he could summon the ghost of Monet to defend him.

“Our child’s gonna inherit my sense of dinosaur aesthetics and your crippling perfectionism. We are doomed. And by doomed, I mean unstoppable.”

Then, quieter—because she was glowing like starlight and he was already halfway to worship again—he brushed his nose against hers.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he murmured, voice raw with wonder. “I mean, I can, because I know how much you love chaos… but still.”

He kissed her temple.

“I love you.”

He kissed her cheek.

“I’m in love with every version of you.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

“And I promise—three raptors. Maybe four. But only if they’re wearing bow ties.”

And when she finally melted into him again, head tucked under his chin, highlighter discarded, seating chart forgotten—Mason closed his eyes, held her close, and smiled like he already knew.

This was the beginning of the rest of everything.

And it was hers.

Rowan was gone.

Like, fully gone. Emotionally compromised. Mentally melted. Somewhere between crying and laughing and plotting her escape from this absurdly perfect man who just declared velociraptor centerpieces a legacy.

She curled into him anyway.

Because Mason Hayes was somehow the only person on earth who could make her feel like the floor was falling out and like she was finally safe — at the same time.

Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she exhaled a little too hard.

“You know I used to be normal,” she muttered, voice muffled in fabric. “I had boundaries. Spreadsheets. A Google Doc titled Acceptable Life Outcomes.”

She tipped her face up just enough to look at him, brows raised in mock betrayal.

“And now look at me. I’m engaged to a man who draws bow ties on raptors and thinks glitter is a wedding essential.”

He grinned — she could feel it — and it only made her spiral further.

“You’ve ruined me,” she said flatly. “Absolutely ruined me. And I like it. That’s the worst part.”

She tried to stay serious. She did. But the way he smelled like home — soap and tea and stupid hope — made her chest pull tight in a way that felt suspiciously like joy.

“And don’t even get me started on what you’ve done to my anxiety,” she added, poking his side half-heartedly. “I used to panic over dinner reservations. Now I’m planning a wedding with a man who just used the phrase ‘dinosaur aesthetics’ and I haven’t even flinched.”

She sat up slightly, straddling his lap now, and framed his face in both hands.

“I said yes to forever, and you know what that includes, right?” she said, eyes narrowing. “That includes waking up next to your morning hair. That includes sharing the last granola bar even when I pretend I’m not hungry. That includes watching you cry at every Pixar short, and explaining to our child why Daddy once tried to glue googly eyes on the mailbox.”

Her voice cracked — not from emotion, but from laughter she couldn’t contain.

“And it includes this,” she whispered. “This chaos. This magic. This… us.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his nose, then his cheek, then his lips — warm, lingering, adoring.

When she pulled back, her forehead stayed resting against his, and her voice dropped to something soft. Honest.

“I don’t need perfect, Mase. I don’t need polished or planned or Pinterest-worthy. I just need you. Exactly like this.”

A beat passed. Her smile returned, wicked and bright.

“But if you add a fifth raptor,” she warned, poking his chest, “I will call your mother, and I’ll make her pick a side.”

She laughed, then kissed him again — deeper this time.

Then, quieter:

“And if she picks you, I’m calling Aunt Susan.”

Mason made a sound that could only be described as a choked laugh-sob. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s being lovingly threatened with familial warfare over glitter and dinosaur décor while simultaneously having his heart surgically removed via forehead kiss.

He was so gone for her.

“Aunt Susan would absolutely take your side,” he said, mock wounded, eyes wide with theatrical betrayal. “She already offered to knit the baby a ‘Team Rowan’ onesie. In pastel vengeance pink.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, anchoring them both in the ridiculous, radiant joy of the moment.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, voice dropping, “I’d share every last granola bar. Even the good kind. The peanut butter chocolate chip ones I hoard in the back of the pantry like a gremlin.”

His hand slid up her spine, slow and reverent, the kind of touch that said I see you. All of you. And then, like a confession:

“I don’t need perfect either. Just this. Just you. Crying on seating charts and declaring war over raptor quotas and making me want to be ridiculous and brave and better. Every damn day.”

He kissed her again, slow and steady, like he was memorizing her mouth. Like he wanted to file it under every version of home.

And then, against her lips, he whispered:

“You’ve ruined me too, Rowan Starling.”

A beat.

A smile.

“But if we do go with five raptors, I’m making them seasonal. Fall wedding? One’s wearing a tiny scarf.”

She made a sound of pure disbelief.

Mason just kissed her nose, grinning.

“Go ahead and call Aunt Susan,” he dared, voice smug and sunlit. “She helped me order googly eyes in bulk.”

Rowan squinted at the tiny silver screw in her hand like it was mocking her.

She’d already dropped three of them, stepped on one, and somehow managed to get another tangled in her hair — which should’ve been impossible, but apparently pregnancy had granted her the fine motor skills of a raccoon.

The nursery was warm with late afternoon light, the air still faintly smelling of paint and new wood. The crib pieces stretched across the floor in organized chaos — or, well, her version of organized chaos. Mason’s version sat neatly in piles labeled with Post-its and quiet judgment.

He was sitting cross-legged across from her, calm and methodical, flipping through the instruction manual like it was the holy text of baby furniture. Of course he was.

She, on the other hand, had decided patience was for people who didn’t have a mild competitive streak and a growing bump making it hard to sit cross-legged for more than five minutes.

Rowan glared at the paper in his hands. The smug, perfectly folded paper. The one she’d already seen him reread four times.

Nope. Enough of that.

Without warning, she leaned forward, snatched the directions right out of his grip, and lobbed them over her shoulder with dramatic flair. They fluttered to the floor like a paper dove giving up on life.

“There,” she said, wiping her hands like she’d solved world peace. “We don’t need those. It’s self-explanatory.”

Mason didn’t say anything — which, honestly, was worse than if he had. She could feel the look. That quiet, amused, okay-let’s-see-how-this-goes look.

Rowan ignored it. Or tried to.

Instead, she grabbed a long wooden panel that definitely looked like it belonged on the crib and turned it one way, then the other, then upside down, squinting at the edges like they might whisper secrets if she stared long enough.

“This makes sense,” she muttered to herself. “Totally makes sense. Four screws, two dowels, no problem.”

The problem, it turned out, was that the panel had no visible holes. Or maybe she was holding it wrong. Hard to tell.

She glanced back at Mason, who was now quietly sorting hardware like some kind of Zen monk surrounded by chaos. It was both endearing and infuriating.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, pointing a screwdriver at him. “I’ve got this.”

He didn’t reply — just lifted an eyebrow and kept organizing.

Rowan rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Okay,” she said under her breath, half to him, half to herself. “Maybe not self-explanatory, but definitely figure-out-able. There’s a difference.”

She fit one piece into another. It didn’t line up. Tried again. Still didn’t line up.

Then, determined, she shifted to her knees, baby bump nudging the box of leftover parts, and huffed. “You know what?” she said, picking up a random screw like it was the secret to the universe. “I’m going rogue. Who needs directions when you have confidence?”

She twisted the screwdriver once, twice—then stopped.

“…Okay. Maybe just a tiny peek at the diagram wouldn’t hurt.”

Her voice was softer now, mostly to herself, mostly out of pride.

But still—she wasn’t admitting defeat.

Not yet.

Mason watched her like she was the center of gravity in a room full of scattered stars.

God, he loved her.

Even when she was jabbing a screwdriver at him like it was a saber of righteous defiance. Even when she hurled the manual over her shoulder like a warrior queen declaring war on flat-pack furniture and common sense. Even when she refused to admit that her version of “organized chaos” was actually just… chaos.

Especially then.

He didn’t say anything when she snatched the instructions — just let her have the moment. Let her try. Because she was trying, and that mattered. She wanted this to be something she built, something she could say she’d had a hand in. He understood that. He respected it.

But he also wasn’t about to let their future kid sleep in a crib that had one leg longer than the others and screws left over that somehow “didn’t fit anywhere.”

So he kept sorting — quietly, methodically, respectfully — watching her every now and then over the edge of a labeled baggie. Her bump shifted when she moved, just enough to make his heart ache in the best way. He could already picture their daughter someday asking why the slats on the crib were a little crooked, and Rowan lying straight-faced through her teeth: “It’s avant-garde. Ask your father.”

He bit back a grin.

When she muttered something about going rogue, he just hummed low in his throat like he hadn’t heard. But when she finally — finally — said she maybe needed to peek at the diagram, he looked up fully.

“Just a peek, huh?” His voice was soft, teasing, the kind of warmth you wrapped around yourself. “Not a full surrender?”

He reached over without standing, dragging the manual back toward them with two fingers, and set it between them like a peace offering.

“No shame in calling in backup,” he added, eyes flicking from the mess of panels to the quiet shimmer of determination on her face. “Especially when it’s a team effort. We’re building something important here, Ro. Might as well make sure it doesn’t collapse when she learns to stand.”

He scooted closer on the floor, careful not to disrupt her chaos piles, and nudged her knee with his.

“I know you want to do it yourself. I know this matters,” he said gently. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me. Or to her. You’re already the fiercest, most capable person I know. I’m just here to make sure the thing’s baby-proof, and that you don’t put the side rails on backwards. Again.”

He said it with a grin — but the emotion underneath was real.

His hand found hers instinctively, fingers brushing over the screw still clutched in her palm.

“We’re figuring it out together,” he murmured. “Every weird bolt and wobbly leg. Every late-night feed and diaper blowout. Every laugh, every mess, every little piece of her world — it starts here.”

Then, without giving her the chance to get flustered or deflect, he leaned in and kissed her — slow and warm and full of everything he wasn’t always good at saying. A quiet I’m with you. A steady I’m ready.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and he smiled against her mouth.

“Now hand me that rogue screw, future Mrs. Hayes,” he said, voice low and fond. “Let’s make sure this crib survives the apocalypse. Or, you know, a teething toddler with a grudge.”

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Partly because her brain short-circuited the second he called her future Mrs. Hayes, and partly because — damn him — he was right. About all of it.

Her heart did that traitorous flutter thing, the one that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing with the screwdriver still in her hand. The air between them smelled like cedar shavings and lemon polish and the faint sweetness of paint, but all she could really focus on was the warmth in his voice — the kind that could melt all her stubborn edges if she wasn’t careful.

She looked at him — really looked at him — sitting there with his steady hands and that quietly smug half-smile, the kind that said he’d let her throw the manual again if it made her feel better.

“Don’t start with me, Hayes,” she said finally, her tone mock-dangerous but soft around the edges. “You can’t just say adorable, emotionally stable things while I’m in the middle of proving my dominance over Allen wrenches. It’s unfair warfare.”

Still, her hand relaxed in his.

She glanced down at their fingers, his thumb tracing her knuckles, and felt the smallest laugh slip out. “You know, I was this close to making this a one-woman show. You, me, a baby, and a moderately unsafe crib. Would’ve been iconic.”

Her eyes flicked toward the tossed manual behind her, still sprawled dramatically across the floor like a crime scene. “But fine,” she sighed, reaching for it with exaggerated reluctance. “Maybe we’ll use the sacred texts of flat-pack wisdom. For the baby’s safety. And your peace of mind.”

She met his gaze again, that teasing smile curving her lips — the one she knew he’d never recover from. “But for the record? You definitely just kissed me so I’d cave. Manipulation, sir. That’s what that was.”

When he chuckled under his breath, she leaned forward and kissed him again — a quick, playful press of gratitude disguised as rebellion.

Then she pulled back, tapped the manual once with her screwdriver, and nodded solemnly.

“Alright, partner,” she said. “You read. I’ll build. And if this thing ends up lopsided, we’re calling it modern art.”

She tossed him a wink, then nudged one of the crib legs with her foot. “Hand me that rogue screw, then. Let’s build our apocalypse-proof masterpiece.”

Her voice dropped just slightly, quieter. “Together.”