Mason didn’t move for a few seconds after Rowan’s breathing changed.

He could tell the exact moment it happened—the tiny shift from awake-but-tired to gone. The way her forehead stayed against his, but the tension drained out of her face like someone had finally turned the volume down inside her head. Her hand went slack under the pillow, still touching his, but not holding on like she was bracing.

She was just… resting.

Safe.

Mason’s mouth softened into a smile he didn’t even try to hide.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead—slow, careful, the kind of kiss that felt like placing something back where it belonged. He held it there for a beat longer than necessary, because he could, because no one was rushing him, because the quiet was theirs.

Then he shifted—small, deliberate movements. He slid his arm a little lower under the pillow so his shoulder wouldn’t go numb. He tucked the blanket edge up by Rowan’s collarbone so the February air couldn’t sneak in. He adjusted Lyric’s swaddle by a fraction, smoothing the fabric flat across her chest and checking her tiny nose was clear, her chin tipped the right way.

Not paranoid. Not frantic.

Just… Dad.

He settled again on his side, closer, until he could feel the warm little weight of Lyric between them and Rowan’s steady presence right in front of him. He kept one hand near Lyric—not on her, just close enough to reassure his own brain that he’d feel it if anything changed. The other stayed under the pillow where Rowan’s fingers still touched his.

He stared for a second.

Two sleeping faces in amber lamplight. Rowan’s lashes dark against her cheek. Lyric’s tiny mouth slightly open, soft and milk-drunk even in sleep. The heater hummed. The room held.

Mason felt happy in a way that didn’t spike or ache—just settled. Confident. Content. Like something in him finally understood what “enough” looked like.

And of course his brain still wouldn’t shut up.

It pinged around like a bored stage manager.

They’re sleeping. Don’t move. Breathe quieter. Did you lock the front door? You did. Right? The bottle parts are in the sink. You’ll wash them in the morning. Or in ten minutes because you’ll convince yourself you forgot.

He stared at the ceiling for half a second, then back at them.

His girls.

He couldn’t believe he got to think that and not feel like he was borrowing someone else’s life.

He watched Lyric’s chest rise and fall, counted three breaths without meaning to, then forced himself to stop. He watched Rowan’s mouth part slightly as she exhaled, the tiniest sigh like her body had finally decided it could put the world down for a while.

Mason’s eyes burned a little—not with tears, exactly. Just with feeling too much and being too tired to pack it away.

He didn’t reach for a joke. Not out loud.

He just let the thought exist: This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

He shifted again—barely—tilting the lamp down a notch so the room dimmed further. Then he lay perfectly still and tried to follow Rowan’s breathing pattern, like if he matched it, his own mind would get the hint.

In. Out. Slow.

His gaze drifted between them, protective without being tense.

He checked Lyric’s swaddle again with his eyes. Fine. He checked the space between Rowan and Lyric. Safe. He checked Rowan’s blanket. Tucked.

Okay.

He closed his eyes.

Immediately, his brain tried to start a list.

Apartment. Our place. Thin walls. Bad plumbing. Broadway. Or a black box. Or community theatre. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.

He opened his eyes again and looked at them—like seeing them was the only thing that made the spinning slow down.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet.

“Okay,” he whispered, not to wake anyone—just to anchor himself.

Then he kissed Rowan’s forehead one more time, softer than before, and let his cheek rest into the pillow.

He stayed awake for a while after that.

Watching.

Listening.

Letting his mind run in circles until it finally got tired of itself.

And somewhere between one heater click and the next, with Lyric breathing steady and Rowan asleep against him, Mason’s eyes finally closed for good—still smiling, even as he drifted.

April had softened everything—except the cold.

Outside, the rest of the country was pretending it was spring. Sun, open windows, seventy degrees and people forgetting jackets.

Here, it still bit.

Not harsh. Just enough to keep the fireplace going at night.

Rowan had one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out across the couch, sock brushing lightly against Mason’s thigh. The TV played low in the background—some show neither of them were really watching, just noise filling the quiet in a house that finally, finally had a sleeping baby in it.

Lyric was out.

Completely out.

Bassinet pulled close to the couch, blanket tucked just right, her tiny chest rising and falling in that steady, hypnotic rhythm that had become the center of everything.

Rowan glanced over once—quick, automatic—then back.

“Okay,” she said, shifting toward Mason with purpose.

She reached behind her and tugged her hair over one shoulder, already half-loosening it with practiced fingers.

“Pay attention.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. Just… focused. Like this mattered.

Because to her, it did.

She split her hair into three sections without looking down, hands moving like muscle memory.

“Three pieces,” she said. “Not two. Not four. Three. If you mess that up, we’re done here.”

A beat.

Her eyes flicked to him.

“I’m serious.”

But there was a hint of a smile sitting underneath it.

She started the braid slowly, exaggerating the movement just enough so he could follow.

“Right over middle,” she murmured, crossing the strand cleanly. “Then left over middle.”

Her fingers were quick but controlled, weaving it down, then pausing halfway.

“Now you.”

She turned slightly, shifting closer so her shoulder pressed into his, offering the unfinished braid like it was a test.

“Don’t overthink it,” she added. “It’s literally just… pattern recognition.”

She watched his hands move—hesitant at first, then trying—and her expression softened in that quiet, almost proud way she didn’t make a big deal out of.

“Your job,” she continued, voice lower now so it wouldn’t carry, “is to not be the dad who says ‘your mom can do it’ and walks away.”

Her gaze flicked to the bassinet.

“She’s gonna have hair. Probably thick. Probably a mess.”

Back to him.

“And I’m not doing every single braid for the next ten years.”

There it was. The real reason.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder as he worked through the next cross.

“Mine never learned,” she said, quieter now. “He just… didn’t try.”

A small pause.

“I don’t want that for her.”

Not elaborate.

Not emotional.

Just… different.

She straightened again, nudging his hand slightly when he hesitated.

“No—keep going. You had it.”

Her fingers brushed his lightly, guiding the strand into place.

“Right over middle,” she repeated. “Then left.”

The fire crackled softly behind them. The TV flickered across their faces.

Lyric slept.

And Rowan sat there, teaching her husband something small that somehow felt like it mattered a lot.

Mason’s first thought was that hair had no business being this complicated.

His second thought was that Rowan’s hair felt softer than anything he was emotionally equipped to handle at this hour.

He sat very still beside her, one knee bent on the couch, socked foot braced against the cushion, his whole body angled toward her like this was not a casual lesson but a sacred transfer of knowledge. The fire snapped quietly behind them. The TV flashed blue across the room. Lyric slept in the bassinet, tiny and impossible and already the reason the entire house seemed to breathe differently.

And Rowan was trusting him with this.

Not just her hair.

The why behind it.

Mason looked down at the half-finished braid between his fingers, trying to keep the three sections separate while his chest did something embarrassingly tender.

Right over middle.

Left over middle.

Okay.

He could do that.

Probably.

His fingers moved slowly, clumsier than hers, the strands slipping once before he caught them again. His brow furrowed with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for opening night cues and trying to decipher whether a baby noise meant hunger, gas, or tiny existential crisis.

“Okay,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “Right over middle. Left over middle. This is choreography. It’s just… scalp choreography.”

Rowan’s shoulder shook against him in silent amusement, but she didn’t interrupt.

That made it worse, somehow. Better. Bigger.

Because he knew what she was doing. She wasn’t just teaching him how to braid. She was handing him a piece of her childhood and saying, please don’t leave this undone for her too.

And God, Mason wanted to be worthy of that.

He glanced toward the bassinet. Lyric’s little mouth was parted, her hands tucked near her face beneath the blanket, lashes resting against cheeks that still looked too small to be real. She had no idea yet. No idea how loved she was. No idea that her mother was sitting beside a fire in April, teaching her father how to braid hair because love meant trying before anyone had to ask twice.

Mason swallowed.

Then he looked back down and crossed the next strand.

It was not beautiful.

It was, honestly, kind of tragic.

But it held.

A slow grin tugged at his mouth.

“Not to be dramatic,” he murmured, voice low so he wouldn’t wake Lyric, “but I think I’m becoming a girl dad in real time.”

Rowan’s hand brushed his wrist, guiding the tension without taking over. He loved that about her. The way she let him try. The way she corrected him without making him feel stupid. The way she always made room for him to become better.

He crossed another section. Then another.

His confidence grew by approximately six percent.

“Okay, wait,” he whispered, leaning closer to inspect his work. “This is either a braid or a tiny rope bridge for fairies. But structurally? I’m proud.”

He felt Rowan lean into him again, brief and warm, and the joke faded from his face before he could stop it.

Her father hadn’t learned.

Mason couldn’t stop thinking about that.

Not with Rowan sitting right here, older now but still carrying the shape of that small disappointment. Not dramatic enough to be called neglect. Not cruel enough to turn into a family legend. Just one of those quiet things. One of those he didn’t try things that stayed with a person longer than anyone realized.

Mason looked at the braid in his hands and understood, suddenly and completely, that fatherhood was probably going to be made of a thousand moments exactly like this.

Small chances to try.

Small chances to stay.

Small chances to say without saying: You matter enough for me to learn.

His voice came softer when he spoke again.

“I’m gonna learn,” he said.

No flourish. No bit.

Just the truth.

His thumb smoothed carefully over the section he’d just crossed, keeping the pattern intact.

“I don’t want to be that guy either,” he added, eyes still on her hair because if he looked directly at her, he might say too much and wake the baby with the sheer force of his feelings. “The one who taps out because something looks hard. Or because I’m bad at it the first time.”

A beat.

Then, because he was still him, his mouth curved faintly.

“Which is unfortunate, because I am very bad at this the first time.”

Rowan huffed softly, and the sound went straight through him.

Mason kept going.

Right over middle. Left over middle.

The braid tightened slowly beneath his hands, uneven but recognizable. The end of it rested against her shoulder, glossy and soft in the firelight, and Mason felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

The same kind he’d felt when Lyric burped for him the first time.

The same kind he’d felt when he figured out how to fold the stroller without nearly losing a finger.

The same kind he imagined he’d feel someday when Lyric stood between his knees with tangled hair and absolute faith that he could fix it.

That thought nearly took him out.

He blinked once and cleared his throat quietly.

“Someday,” he whispered toward the bassinet, “when you’re late for school and demanding two braids, matching ribbons, and emotional support cereal, just know I trained for this.”

Lyric slept on, unimpressed.

Mason nodded solemnly. “Tough crowd.”

He reached the end of Rowan’s hair and froze.

“Uh.”

He looked at the tiny elastic on the couch cushion like it was the final boss.

Then, carefully—absurdly carefully—he wrapped it around the end once. Twice. Three times. It snapped lightly against his finger, and he flinched like he’d been wounded in battle.

But the braid stayed.

Crooked.

Loose in one spot.

A little weird near the top.

Still a braid.

Mason stared at it.

Then looked at Rowan with the slow, dawning pride of a man who had just returned from war holding a flag.

“I did it,” he whispered.

His grin broke through fully then—bright, boyish, completely helpless.

“I mean, don’t put it on a wedding Pinterest board or anything, but I did it.”

He lifted the braid gently, reverently, then let it rest back against her shoulder. His fingers lingered for one second longer than necessary, brushing the ends before his hand dropped to her knee.

The room had gone quieter somehow. Or maybe he had.

He leaned in and kissed the side of Rowan’s head, just above her temple.

“Thank you for teaching me,” he murmured.

Then, after a pause, even softer:

“And for trusting me to try.”

He stayed close after that, shoulder pressed to hers, eyes drifting back to the bassinet.

Lyric breathed steadily.

Rowan’s braid sat slightly crooked over her shoulder.

The fire burned low.

And Mason Hayes—former theater kid, current husband, brand-new father, and apparently apprentice hair stylist—felt something settle deep in his chest.

Not triumph.

Not even pride.

Something quieter.

A promise taking root.

He would learn the braids. The bottles. The bedtime songs. The favorite snacks. The hard questions. The things Rowan’s father hadn’t known to try and the things Mason himself would mess up before getting right.

He would learn all of it.

Because Lyric deserved a father who tried.

Because Rowan deserved a partner who stayed.

Because this life—sleeping baby, cold April night, firelight, crooked braid and all—was the best role he’d ever been given.

And he intended to show up for every scene.

Rowan didn’t move right away.

Not when he said it. Not when the words settled into the quiet between them, softer than the fire, heavier than anything he’d said all night.

I’m gonna learn.

It didn’t land like a promise people say when they’re trying to sound good. It didn’t feel like something he’d forget in the morning. It felt… rooted. Like something that had already decided to stay.

Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap before she even realized she was doing it.

She could feel the braid resting against her shoulder—uneven, a little loose near the top, tighter toward the bottom where he’d figured it out. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t reach up and smooth it or redo it out of habit.

She just let it sit there.

Because he’d done that.

Because he’d stayed with it.

Because he didn’t hand it back the second it got frustrating.

Her throat pulled tight in that quiet, inconvenient way she hated—no warning, no drama, just a sudden fullness that made everything feel closer to the surface than she preferred.

Her hand came up slowly, not to correct him, not to check the braid—but to rest lightly over his where it had settled on her knee. Warm. Slightly rough from nothing in particular. Familiar already in a way that still caught her off guard sometimes.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” she murmured, voice low, steady, shaped more by instinct than intention. “Not tonight. Not next week.”

Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles, small and grounding.

“She doesn’t even have hair yet.”

A breath slipped out of her, quieter this time, almost a ghost of a laugh.

“But she will,” she added, softer now. “And she’s gonna wake up one morning and decide she wants something complicated. Something specific. Something that makes absolutely no sense at six in the morning.”

Her eyes flicked toward the bassinet without turning her head fully, just enough to catch the shape of Lyric in the dim light. Tiny. Still. Completely unaware of the weight of all this.

“And I won’t always be here for it,” Rowan continued, the words coming easier once she let them. “There’s gonna be a day I’m out, or running late, or just… not in the room. And she’s gonna look at you like you’re the answer anyway.”

Her gaze came back to him then, not dramatic, not searching—just there.

“And I don’t want you to have to tell her no,” she said simply.

There was no accusation in it. No edge. Just truth.

Her hand shifted slightly, fingers curling more deliberately over his now, not guiding, not correcting—just holding.

“You don’t have to be good at it right away,” she added, softer. “You just have to try. You already are.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to the braid again, the corner of her mouth lifting—not because it was neat, but because it existed at all.

Because he’d made it exist.

And God, that did something to her.

She leaned into him without thinking about it, shoulder fitting against his like it had learned the shape already. The fire cracked behind them, low and steady, and she let herself settle there for a second longer than she usually would.

“I love watching you do this,” she admitted, quieter now, the words almost tucked into the space between them. “All of it.”

Her head tilted just slightly, enough that her temple brushed closer to his.

“Not just this,” she added, a small exhale following it. “But you with her. You figuring it out. You not backing off when it’s new or weird or… not yours yet.”

Her fingers shifted again, absent this time, tracing lightly along his hand like she was memorizing something she hadn’t expected to have.

“You’re already really good at it,” she said, almost like she didn’t want to make a big thing out of it. “Being her dad.”

That one sat differently.

Heavier. Truer.

She let it linger, then eased back just enough to breathe again, her mind catching on something softer, easier—something that didn’t feel like it might break if she held it too tight.

Mother’s Day.

It slipped in gently, almost out of place in the weight of everything else, but she followed it anyway. Let it lighten the edges.

Her fingers stilled over his for a second before she spoke again, voice shifting—still soft, but less heavy now. More… curious.

“Did you already make plans for Sunday?” she asked, glancing at him without fully turning her head, watching his reaction more than waiting for the answer.

There was a pause—just long enough for the thought to settle.

“And if you didn’t…” her mouth curved slightly, something a little more her slipping back in, “I might have an idea.”

She didn’t rush it. Didn’t pitch it yet.

Just let it sit there between them—like everything else had tonight.

Offered. Not forced.

Her shoulder pressed back into his again, steadier this time, like she’d decided she was staying exactly where she was.

Firelight flickering.

Baby breathing soft and even.

A crooked braid resting against her collarbone.

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to fix anything.

Mason forgot the braid for a second.

Forgot the fire. Forgot the half-watched show murmuring from the TV. Forgot the fact that his leg had started to go a little numb beneath him and that Lyric’s bassinet was close enough for him to count every tiny rise and fall of her chest if his brain decided to get dramatic again.

Because Rowan had just said he was good at being her dad.

Not trying.

Not learning.

Good.

And Mason Hayes, who had once convinced himself he could handle applause without it going to his head, discovered very quickly that praise from Rowan Starling was an entirely different category of ruin.

His throat tightened. Fast.

He looked down at her hand over his, the gentle weight of it, the way her thumb kept making these small, absent movements like she didn’t even realize she was grounding him too. The braid sat crooked over her shoulder, imperfect and loose and somehow one of the proudest things he had ever made.

She hadn’t fixed it.

God. That got him too.

He stared at it for half a second too long, then swallowed and looked toward the bassinet, where Lyric slept like she hadn’t just become the center of a promise she was too small to understand.

“I don’t want to tell her no,” he said quietly.

His voice was soft, but it came out steadier than he expected. Maybe because it was true in the easiest way. Maybe because the second Rowan said it, he could picture it: Lyric at six years old in pajamas and one sock, hair a disaster, demanding something with braids and ribbons and absolutely no patience for a father who hadn’t bothered to learn.

He wanted to be ready.

Not perfect.

Ready.

“I mean, I’m definitely going to tell her no when she tries to eat glitter or join a baby fight club,” he added, because he was still him and the emotion in his chest needed somewhere to go before it took him out completely. “But hair? Yeah. I can learn hair.”

His fingers turned beneath Rowan’s, palm up now, so he could hold her hand properly.

“I’ll learn all of it,” he murmured. “Braids. Ponytails. Whatever terrifying thing happens with bows. The one where people twist hair into, like, a cinnamon roll shape? I’ll figure that out too.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“And if she asks for something complicated at six in the morning, I’ll panic internally like a professional and then tell her, ‘Absolutely, small queen, your stylist is emotionally prepared.’”

He felt Rowan lean into him again, and something in him settled.

The thing was, she was right. It wouldn’t always be her in the room. It wouldn’t always be Rowan catching every need first, solving every tiny disaster with those careful, capable hands. There would be mornings that belonged to him. Bedtimes. Sick days. Rushed school drop-offs. Questions he didn’t know how to answer until he tried.

He wanted them.

Every messy, underprepared second.

When Rowan asked about Sunday, he went still in a different way.

Not caught.

Not guilty.

Just very suddenly aware that the tiny plan he had been building in secret—mostly in notes app bullet points and one whispered phone call to her mom—was not nearly as smooth as he had imagined it would be.

His eyes slid toward her.

“Define plans,” he said carefully.

He tried for casual. Failed immediately.

Because Rowan knew him. She had married him, which meant she had unfortunately been granted full access to his face when he was lying badly.

He sighed, shoulders dropping with theatrical defeat.

“Okay, yes. I have plans. Or… plan-adjacent materials.”

He glanced once at Lyric, then back at Rowan, voice still low.

“Nothing huge. I know it’s your first Mother’s Day, and I didn’t want to make it weird or overwhelming or accidentally turn it into a production where I cry into pancakes and give a speech while holding a baby footprint craft.”

A beat.

His expression shifted.

“There may still be a baby footprint craft.”

He gave her a look, half-apology, half-pride.

“But I wanted it to feel like you,” he admitted. “Not what people think a first Mother’s Day is supposed to be. Just… yours.”

His thumb brushed along her palm.

“Because you are really good at this too,” he said, quieter now. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you don’t feel like yourself. Even when you’re sitting here acting like teaching me a braid isn’t one of the most romantic things anyone’s ever done.”

He leaned in and kissed the side of her head, just above the crooked braid.

Then he stayed there for a second, lips near her hair, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of her.

“So yes,” he murmured. “I made plans.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly.

“But if you have an idea, I want that more.”

His smile turned soft, all boyish devotion and quiet certainty.

“Tell me what you want, Ro. First Mother’s Day. Your rules. I’m just the husband with the questionable braid technique and a baby footprint craft hidden somewhere in this house.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have something to say—but because the way he said it, the way he shifted when he admitted he had plans but still wanted to hear hers… it caught her off guard in that quiet, disarming way he had. Like he was handing her space and trust at the same time and expecting her to actually take it.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it—small, almost private, the kind of smile that started in her chest and worked its way up slowly.

Of course he had plans.

Of course he did.

He always did it like that—like dreaming wasn’t something loud or performative, just something he carried around in his back pocket and only pulled out when it mattered.

Her fingers found the edge of the table between them, tracing a faint groove in the wood, grounding herself for a second before she looked up at him fully. Really looked.

There was something in her chest that felt… steady. Not rushed. Not spiraling. Just… ready.

“I’ve been keeping up with it,” she said, voice quieter than she expected, but sure. “Since we talked about New York.”

Her gaze flicked to his face, watching for the shift, the way his eyes would focus in when something actually mattered to him.

“Broadway stuff,” she added, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t been checking it almost daily. “Casting calls. Open runs. Who’s doing what.”

Her fingers stilled, then pressed flat against the surface.

“There’s a three-month stint this summer,” she said, more deliberate now. “Little Shop of Horrors. Open casting.”

She let that sit for half a second, watching him—not pushing, not selling it. Just placing it between them.

“I want to go,” she said simply.

Not dramatic. Not tentative.

“I want to see you audition.”

Her shoulders shifted, a small adjustment, like she was settling into the truth of it as she spoke it out loud.

“And if you get it…” She exhaled, soft, thinking as she went. “I’ve got the college fund. I can use it—for a bit. Just while I figure things out there. Find a job. Get settled while you’re in rehearsals and doing…” Her lips twitched faintly, almost amused. “Whatever else theater people do besides dramatically suffer and memorize lines.”

Her eyes dropped for a second, then came back to him, steadier.

“If we’re good—if it works—we stay.” A small shrug, like it didn’t need dressing up. “And if it doesn’t, we don’t pretend it did. We come back. Save. Try again later.”

There was no panic in it. No edge.

Just… options.

Just movement.

Her thumb brushed lightly along the table again, but this time it wasn’t nervous—it was absent, thoughtful.

“I remember seeing you in it,” she said, softer now, something shifting underneath the words. “At school.”

Her nose scrunched slightly, a hint of self-awareness slipping through.

“I didn’t even want to go. It was for a drama credit, and I thought it was gonna be… bad.” A breath of a laugh, quiet, almost embarrassed. “Like—painfully bad.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his, holding it this time.

“But it wasn’t.”

There it was—that moment. Still clear. Still sharp.

“That was the first time I realized you weren’t just… some theater kid.”

Her voice didn’t soften—it steadied.

“You had range,” she said. “You had control. You knew what you were doing.”

A beat.

“And I don’t think you’ve fully seen that yet.”

Her head tilted slightly, studying him in that way she did—like she was lining something up in her mind and waiting for it to click into place for him too.

“I want you to,” she added, quieter.

Then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—

“Auditions are Saturday.”

She leaned back just a fraction, like she’d finally said the part she’d been holding.

“Flight leaves Friday. We come back Monday.”

A small pause.

“We can sightsee too,” she said, the faintest hint of a smile returning, softer now. “Make it… not just that.”

Her fingers moved, brushing against his hand briefly—not grabbing, not holding, just enough contact to anchor the moment in something real.

Then she stilled again.

Let it sit.

Let him meet her there.

Mason didn’t understand what she was saying at first.

Not because the words were complicated. They weren’t. Casting calls. Open runs. Three-month stint. Saturday. Flight Friday.

Simple words.

Easy words.

But they entered his chest all wrong—too big for the space they were given, too bright in the low light of the kitchen. For a second, all he could do was stare at her hand on the table, her thumb tracing that faint groove in the wood like she wasn’t actively setting a match to the quiet, carefully folded part of him that still kept Broadway stored away as a someday.

A someday dream.

A not-now dream.

A maybe-when-we’re-stable dream.

And Rowan had just placed it between them like it belonged on the table with everything else.

Like groceries. Like bills. Like Lyric’s burp cloths.

Like it was real.

His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Because she had been looking. Since New York. Since that conversation in the dark with Lyric asleep between them. She had taken the dream he’d admitted in a whisper and gone searching for a door.

His throat tightened so hard it almost hurt.

He looked up at her then, really looked, and there she was—steady, open, not selling him on it, not trying to make it sound easier than it was. That was the thing that got him. She wasn’t pretending it was simple. She wasn’t wrapping it in glitter and telling him they’d figure out the details because love conquered airfare and childcare and rent.

She was giving him options.

Movement.

A chance.

His eyes burned, and he blinked once, fast, because absolutely not. Not over Little Shop of Horrors. Not in front of the woman who would never let him live down crying over a man-eating plant musical.

But then she said she remembered seeing him in it.

At school.

And the room went very still.

He could see it suddenly—the old auditorium, the heat of the stage lights, the dusty curtains, the fake plant that had never opened right on cue. He could feel the nerves from that night like they’d been waiting under his skin all this time. He remembered looking past the first few rows and finding her in the dim, arms crossed, face unreadable.

He’d thought she was bored.

Of course he had. Rowan Starling had made unimpressed look like an art form.

But she’d seen him.

Not the loud version. Not the class-clown-theater-kid version. Not the boy who threw himself into everything because if he was entertaining enough maybe no one would notice how badly he wanted to matter.

She’d seen the work.

The control.

The part of him that wasn’t a bit.

Mason’s hand shifted on the table, his fingers flexing once before he caught the place where hers had brushed his. He didn’t grab. Not yet. He just let his knuckles rest close enough to feel the warmth she left behind.

“You’ve been checking casting calls,” he said quietly.

It came out like he was confirming something impossible.

His gaze dropped for half a second, not away from her exactly, but down to the table between them, to the ordinary wood holding the extraordinary thing she’d just offered.

Then he laughed once under his breath—small, stunned, not really amused.

“Ro.”

That was all he managed at first.

Just her name.

Because anything more felt like it might come out too big.

He looked back at her, and this time he didn’t bother hiding what it did to him. The awe. The fear. The sudden pulse of want so sharp it almost scared him.

“You want to spend your first Mother’s Day weekend watching me audition for a musical about a homicidal plant.”

His voice was soft, but there was that flicker in it—the Mason part, the part that still reached for humor when his heart was halfway out of his chest.

His mouth curved, uneven.

“That is either the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, or definitive proof that sleep deprivation has fully taken you.”

But the joke didn’t hold long.

Not with her looking at him like that. Not with all that certainty in her face. Not with the knowledge that she’d looked at his dream, measured the risk, and still said I want to go.

His fingers finally moved, sliding over hers on the table. Slow. Careful. Like he was afraid if he touched the moment too hard, it might vanish.

“You remember that show?” he asked, quieter now.

He already knew she did. She had just told him. But part of him needed to hear the shape of it again, needed to stand inside the fact that she had been carrying that memory all this time.

His thumb brushed lightly against her knuckle.

“I thought you hated it,” he admitted. “I thought you were sitting there doing that thing with your face where you look like you’re mentally writing a complaint letter to the universe.”

There it was. The corner of her mouth. Almost a smile.

It steadied him.

He breathed out slowly, then shook his head, gaze dropping for a second as the reality of Saturday circled back and hit him all over again.

An audition.

New York.

Her beside him.

Lyric, somehow part of it too—whether with them or waiting safely at home with grandparents who would probably cry over the logistics and pack six extra onesies.

He wanted it.

God, he wanted it.

The wanting moved through him before he could soften it into something reasonable. It was bright and embarrassing and alive. He wanted to stand in a room and sing until his lungs shook. Wanted to be scared for the right reasons. Wanted to walk down a New York street with Rowan’s hand in his and know they had chosen the leap together.

But he also saw everything else. The plane. The money. The baby. Rowan’s body still recovering in ways she didn’t always say out loud. The pressure he refused to place on her, even accidentally.

His hand tightened slightly over hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Not because he doubted her.

Because he loved her too much not to ask.

His eyes held hers, steady now.

“I need you to know that I want this. Like—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I want it so badly I’m trying very hard not to stand up and do something humiliating with jazz hands.”

A breath of a laugh left him, but his face stayed open.

“But not if it turns your first Mother’s Day into me spiraling about sheet music while you’re juggling bottles in an airport bathroom.”

He leaned forward a fraction, his voice lowering.

“I don’t want the dream if you become the cost of it.”

There.

The thing under the thing.

The fear he hadn’t wanted to name because naming it made it seem noble, and he didn’t want to be noble. He wanted to be honest.

His thumb moved over her hand again, tracing the same small rhythm she’d made against the table.

“But if you mean it,” he said, softer, “if this is something you actually want with me—not for me, with me—then…”

He exhaled, and the smile came back, helpless this time. Younger. Brighter.

“Then yeah.”

The words landed in him as he said them.

Yeah.

He felt the room tilt—not in panic, not in pressure, but in possibility.

“Yeah,” he said again, a little steadier. “Let’s go.”

His grin broke wider before he could stop it, the kind that always got him in trouble because it showed too much. Too much hope. Too much Rowan. Too much of the boy who still lived somewhere in him, staring at Broadway marquees online and pretending it was research.

He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm.

Not dramatic.

Not polished.

Just because he needed to.

Then he rested their joined hands back on the table and looked at her like she had just opened a door in the middle of their kitchen.

“You’re really dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, eyes bright. “Not in the scary way. In the ‘quietly rearranges my entire future while looking calm and hot at the table’ way.”

He shook his head, still smiling, still a little wrecked.

“And for the record, theater people also panic quietly in hallways, overuse throat coat tea, and pretend they’re not superstitious while absolutely being superstitious.”

A beat.

“So we’ll need tea.”

Another beat.

“And probably snacks.”

His expression softened again, all the charm giving way to something warmer and more rooted.

“But mostly,” he said, “I need you there.”

His voice dropped.

“Not because I can’t do it without you. I can.”

He looked at her fully.

“But because I don’t want to. I want to look out after and see you. Win, lose, humiliating dance call, whatever happens—I want you there.”

The words made his chest ache, but he didn’t pull them back.

He couldn’t.

Because this was what she had offered him. Not just a trip. Not just an audition.

A version of the future where wanting didn’t mean leaving them behind.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the baby monitor on the counter—habit, instinct, fatherhood stitched into the edges of everything now—then came back to Rowan.

“And if it doesn’t work,” he said, repeating her logic because he needed her to know he’d heard it, “we come home. We save. We try again.”

His mouth curved.

“And if it does work…”

He paused there, letting the possibility breathe.

A tiny apartment. Thin walls. Bad plumbing. Her painting one wall something stupid and bold. Lyric learning to sleep through sirens. Him coming home from rehearsal exhausted and euphoric to find Rowan on the floor with takeout containers and a baby toy in her hair.

His whole life, terrifying and shining.

“If it works,” he said quietly, “then we stay long enough to find out who we become there.”

He squeezed her hand once.

Then, because the feeling in the room was getting too big and his heart needed a pressure valve, he sat back slightly and pointed at her with mock severity.

“But you understand what you’ve done, right? I now have approximately forty-eight hours to become emotionally stable enough to audition for Little Shop in New York City.”

His eyes widened.

“That is not enough time. I’m going to need vocal warmups, a playlist, three emotional support bagels, and at least one moment where I stare out a plane window like I’m in the opening credits of my own coming-of-age film.”

He paused, softer now.

“And you.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles again.

“Always you.”

Rowan felt it the moment his expression shifted—before he said anything, before his hand moved, before the words even had time to settle between them.

It was in his eyes first.

That quiet, startled brightness.

Like something inside him had been touched too gently to defend against.

Her chest tightened around it.

She hadn’t expected that part to hit so hard.

She’d planned this carefully—kept it practical, grounded, wrapped in just enough realism that he wouldn’t dismiss it outright. She hadn’t come to the table with fantasy. She’d come with logistics. With options. With something he could hold without it slipping through his fingers.

But she hadn’t prepared for the way he would look at her.

Like she’d handed him something fragile and holy at the same time.

Rowan held his gaze anyway, even as something in her instinctively wanted to retreat from the intensity of it—to deflect, to roll her eyes, to soften the moment into something easier to stand inside.

She didn’t.

Not this time.

Her fingers stilled against the table when his hand edged closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him without contact. It was such a small thing, but it made her pulse shift, made her hyper-aware of the space between them—how deliberate it was, how careful he was being with it.

With her.

Her throat moved slightly when he said her name.

Just that.

Soft.

Like it carried too much weight to dress up into anything else.

Rowan’s gaze flickered over his face—the uneven curve of his mouth, the way he tried to tuck everything he was feeling behind something lighter and almost managed it. Almost.

She knew that version of him.

The one that reached for humor when something real got too close to the surface.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out yet.

Not because she didn’t have something to say.

Because she was watching him.

Feeling him.

Letting herself understand exactly what this meant to him before she spoke into it.

When his fingers finally slid over hers, slow and tentative, her breath caught—just a fraction—but enough that she felt it all the way down. Her hand didn’t pull back. It turned, almost instinctively, fitting into his like it had always known where to go.

That small, grounding contact settled something in her and unraveled something else at the same time.

She let him talk.

Let him circle it.

Let him say all the things he needed to say—fear wrapped in jokes, want softened into caution, hope trying very hard not to become something reckless.

And God, she could feel the want in him.

It wasn’t subtle.

It never had been, not when it came to things that mattered.

It lived in the way his voice shifted, in the way his hand tightened just slightly over hers, in the way he couldn’t quite sit still inside his own body when the possibility of it got too real.

Rowan swallowed, her gaze dropping briefly to where their hands were joined.

His thumb moving over her knuckle.

Mirroring the exact rhythm she’d been tracing into the table before he’d even understood what she was offering.

That hit her harder than it should have.

The quiet way he met her where she was without even realizing it.

Her chest pulled tight again.

When he asked if she was sure, she didn’t answer right away.

Not out of hesitation.

Out of care.

She lifted her eyes back to his, really looked at him this time—the openness, the restraint, the way he was trying so hard to hold both things at once. What he wanted. What he refused to risk losing.

Her free hand came up slowly, almost unconsciously, brushing along his wrist where it rested against hers. Not stopping him. Not grounding him.

Just there.

A quiet acknowledgment.

“You don’t get to decide for me what I can handle,” she said softly, her voice steady but not sharp.

There was no edge to it.

Just truth.

Her thumb pressed lightly against his pulse point, feeling it there—fast, alive, matching the way her own had started to race without her permission.

“I know what this is,” she went on, quieter now. “I know what it costs.”

A small breath.

Not heavy.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

“And I still want it.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

Not when she said it.

Not when it settled between them.

There was something almost stubborn in the way she held it there—like she was bracing for him to try and soften it again, to turn it into something smaller, safer.

She wouldn’t let him.

Not this.

Her fingers shifted in his, tightening just slightly, enough to make the contact intentional.

“You think I didn’t think about the airport?” she added, a faint, almost dry note threading through her voice. “Or the bottles. Or the fact that I’ll probably be half-asleep and wearing something with spit-up on it while you’re having a life-changing moment?”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—touched the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t fully form.

“Of course I did.”

Her expression softened after that.

Not weaker.

Just… more open.

“I just didn’t think any of that was a reason not to go.”

The honesty of it sat there, unpolished.

Unprotected.

Rowan shifted slightly in her chair, leaning forward just enough to close the space he’d created earlier, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was deliberate this time.

Grounded.

“I’m not doing this for you,” she said, quieter still, her voice dipping into something that felt closer to confession than conversation. “I’m doing it because I want to be there.”

Her eyes searched his—not for permission, not for approval.

Just for understanding.

“I want to see it happen,” she added. “Whatever ‘it’ ends up being.”

Her gaze flicked down briefly, to his mouth, then back up again, something softer slipping through the edges of her composure before she caught it.

“And if it’s a disaster,” she murmured, “then we get bagels after and pretend it wasn’t.”

A beat.

Barely a second.

“But I don’t think it will be.”

That part came out quieter.

More certain.

Like something she hadn’t meant to say out loud but didn’t take back.

When he said yes—really said it, not hedged, not softened—she felt it in her body before her mind had time to process it.

A shift.

A release.

Something in her chest loosening and tightening at the same time.

Her breath left her in a slow exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

And then he was smiling like that.

Too bright.

Too open.

Too much of the version of him that had always undone her a little without her permission.

Rowan huffed a quiet breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh threatening at the edges as she shook her head slightly.

“God, you’re dramatic,” she murmured, but there was no bite to it.

None at all.

Her fingers flexed in his when he turned her hand over, when his mouth pressed against her palm. The contact sent a sharp, unexpected warmth up her arm, settling somewhere low and steady in her chest.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

Instead, her fingers curled slightly when he set her hand back down, like she was holding onto something that hadn’t quite left her skin yet.

Her eyes stayed on him.

On the way he looked at her now.

Like she’d shifted something fundamental.

That should’ve made her uncomfortable.

It didn’t.

It just made her quieter.

More aware.

More careful with what she did next.

When he called her dangerous, her brow lifted just slightly, a faint, unimpressed expression flickering across her face out of habit—but it didn’t fully land. There was too much warmth sitting underneath it.

“Please,” she muttered, softer than usual. “You were already halfway there.”

But her thumb moved over his knuckles again as she said it, betraying her.

When he kept going—tea, snacks, nerves dressed up like jokes—she watched him with something that had softened past defense entirely.

Past teasing.

Into something steadier.

Something that stayed.

Her hand shifted again, sliding more fully into his, anchoring there.

When he said he needed her there—

That he wanted her there—

It landed differently.

Not as pressure.

Not as expectation.

As choice.

Her gaze dropped for a second, just long enough to steady herself, before lifting back to his.

“I’ll be there,” she said.

Simple.

No decoration.

No performance.

Just a promise.

Her voice didn’t waver.

Her hand tightened once more in his, grounding the words into something physical.

Real.

Her eyes followed his brief glance toward the monitor, instinct pulling her attention there too, a flicker of something softer moving through her at the reminder of the life sitting just a few feet away.

Then she looked back at him.

At everything he was holding.

At everything they were about to step into.

Together.

When he painted the future—small, imperfect, alive—something in her chest shifted again, quieter this time.

Not fear.

Not even hope, exactly.

Something steadier.

Something she could stand on.

Her lips pressed together briefly, like she was holding back more than she was saying.

Then she leaned in.

Not far.

Just enough that her forehead brushed his temple, her voice dropping into something softer, closer.

“You’re going to be insufferable for the next forty-eight hours,” she murmured.

A beat.

“And I’m going to let you.”

Her hand slid up from his, fingertips brushing lightly along his jaw—not dramatic, not lingering—just a quiet, grounding touch before settling back between them.

Her gaze held his again.

Steady.

Certain.

“Start with the playlist,” she added, softer now. “I’ll handle the snacks.”

A flicker of something warmer passed through her expression.

“And the bagels.”

Then, after a moment—quieter still—

“Always the bagels.”

Mason went quiet in a way that felt different from hesitation.

It was the quiet of being corrected and realizing the correction had been deserved—not cruelly, not sharply, but clearly enough that it found the exact place it needed to land.

He had been trying to protect her from the cost of his dream.

She had just reminded him she was not something fragile he got to protect by deciding the shape of her life for her.

His fingers tightened around hers once before loosening again, an instinctive apology made with touch instead of words. Her thumb at his pulse point made it impossible to pretend she hadn’t felt how fast his heart had been going, how badly he wanted this, how afraid he’d been to want it too loudly in front of her.

He swallowed, eyes staying on her face.

The steadiness in her voice did something to him. It didn’t make the fear vanish. It gave it edges. Made it something he could hold without letting it spill over everything else.

She wanted it.

Not as charity. Not as sacrifice. Not as the selfless wife handing him a dream while she stood off to the side and carried the weight.

She wanted to be there.

That was the part that kept echoing.

Mason looked at her hand in his, at the way her fingers had slid more fully into place, at the slight warmth her palm left behind when she shifted closer. Her shoulder brushed his arm, deliberate and grounding, and it sent a quiet spark through him—not heat exactly, though there was always that too with Rowan, but recognition.

She wasn’t stepping away from the possibility.

She was leaning into it.

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose, careful to keep it quiet. The house had that late-night texture to it now, fire low behind them, television flickering forgotten color across the walls, Lyric asleep in the bassinet nearby with one tiny fist curled beside her cheek. Everything felt held together by soft noises: the heater, the baby’s breathing, the almost-silence after Rowan’s last words.

Start with the playlist.

I’ll handle the snacks.

Always the bagels.

God.

Of course bagels were what nearly took him out.

Not the audition. Not New York. Not the fact that his wife had been tracking Broadway casting calls like a covert agent with postpartum exhaustion and a fully operational snack strategy.

Bagels.

Because that was them. That was the shape of it. Big dream, practical carbs. Broadway, bottles, airport bathrooms, throat coat tea, and Rowan sitting across from him like the whole thing could be terrifying and still worth doing.

He let out a breath that almost became a laugh but didn’t quite make it there.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

One word first. Because anything else needed a second to gather.

His eyes flicked once toward the bassinet, automatic now. Lyric was still out, her chest moving in that tiny even rhythm that had become the metronome of his life. Safe. Sleeping. Completely unaware that her parents were whispering a future into existence a few feet away.

Then he looked back at Rowan.

Really looked.

At the calm she was holding. At the warmth under the almost-dry humor. At the soft set of her mouth after she’d touched his jaw and pulled away before it became too much. Rowan had always known exactly how to leave him wanting more without making him feel abandoned. A graze. A look. A promise made in the space before contact ended.

His voice came lower when he spoke again.

“You’re right.”

It cost him a little to say—not because he didn’t believe it, but because the words opened something in him he hadn’t realized he’d been keeping braced shut.

“I don’t get to decide what you can handle.”

He held her gaze, not flinching from it.

“And I’m sorry if that’s what it sounded like. I wasn’t trying to make you smaller. I just…” His mouth pulled to one side, not quite a smile. “I panicked because I love you, which is very noble in theory and very annoying in practice.”

There it was. A little bit of him. The theater-boy reflex. The soft landing.

But he didn’t hide behind it.

His thumb brushed along the side of her hand, slow enough to feel each knuckle.

“I know you thought about it,” he said. “The bottles. The airport. The spit-up outfit. The part where I’m pretending I’m not losing my mind while absolutely losing my mind.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“And the fact that you still want to go after factoring in all of that is… kind of the hottest logistical decision anyone’s ever made.”

The joke came out softer than usual, warmed through with gratitude.

Then the smile faded into something more serious, more open.

“I want you there,” he said again, because the first time had been true, but this time it felt rooted. “Not as backup. Not as proof I’m worth watching. Just because when something big happens, you’re the person I look for.”

His fingers shifted, sliding between hers more securely.

“And if it’s good, I want to see your face after. If it’s humiliating, I want to see your face after. If I accidentally sing the wrong sixteen bars and have to flee into the street and become a mysterious bagel vendor under a new identity—”

Her mouth twitched.

He loved that twitch. Lived for it, honestly.

“—I still want you there.”

He leaned in a fraction, not enough to crowd her, just enough that the warmth between them changed. The fire snapped softly behind him, and the scent of smoke and baby lotion and Rowan’s shampoo sat in the air like memory.

“You saying you’ll be there,” he murmured, “that does something to me.”

He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t make it pretty.

His throat tightened, and he let it.

“It makes it feel real. Like I’m allowed to go want it with my whole chest because I’m not leaving my life behind to do it. I’m bringing my life with me.”

His gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands, then lifted back to hers.

“And that’s you,” he said. “And her.”

His eyes cut toward Lyric again, softer this time, a small helpless smile touching his face before he came back to Rowan.

“And bagels, apparently. Foundational element.”

He could feel the energy starting to rise in his body now—the audition beginning to become a living thing in the room. Saturday. Flight Friday. Three-month stint. Little Shop of Horrors. He could already hear the first notes in his head, could already imagine the wrong shoes, the wrong cut, the fluorescent hallway, the clipboard, the nerves.

His knee bounced once under the table before he forced it still.

Rowan would notice. Rowan always noticed.

He exhaled, then gave up and let the grin break through.

“Playlist first,” he agreed.

He reached for his phone with the hand not holding hers, moving carefully, like sudden motion might wake Lyric or spook the fragile thing they’d just built between them. The screen lit his face blue for a second. He squinted at it, still smiling like an idiot, and opened his music app with the focus of a man preparing for battle and/or opening night.

“What are we calling it?” he whispered. “Because my instinct is something subtle and mature, like Mason’s Absolutely Chill New York Audition Playlist Where Nobody Cries at the Gate.”

He glanced up at her.

“Too long?”

Her look answered him, and he huffed a silent laugh, shoulders loosening.

“Fine. Working title.”

He typed anyway. Slowly. Dramatically. Knowing she was watching his thumbs move like he was committing a crime.

Then he paused, phone still in hand, and his expression softened again.

“Thank you,” he said.

The words were quiet. Not tossed in. Not casual.

Thank you for looking.
Thank you for believing.
Thank you for wanting to be there.
Thank you for making wanting feel safe.

He didn’t say all of that. He didn’t need to cram the room full of words until the moment buckled under them.

He just looked at her and let the rest show.

Then, because the emotion in his chest was getting dangerously close to becoming visible in a way Rowan would absolutely clock and probably be gentle about, which would only make it worse, he looked down at the phone again.

“Okay,” he murmured. “We need warmups. Something dramatic. Something calming. Something that makes me feel like I have cheekbones and purpose.”

A beat.

“And absolutely no songs that make me think about you too hard or I’ll show up to the audition emotionally compromised and accidentally propose again.”

He glanced at her from under his lashes, all crooked grin and barely contained wonder.

“Which would be awkward. Since we’re already married.”

His thumb hovered over the first song.

The future didn’t feel distant now.

It felt like a screen glowing between them, a sleeping baby nearby, Rowan’s hand in his, and the first note of something they hadn’t heard yet waiting to be pressed play.

Rowan felt the shift in him before he ever said a word.

It was in the way his fingers tightened and then eased, like he’d caught himself holding on too hard and didn’t want to make it feel like pressure. It was in the quiet that settled around him—not empty, not uncertain, but full. Full of something landing. Full of something rearranging.

She didn’t move her hand away.

If anything, her grip softened into him instead of out of him, her thumb staying where it rested against his pulse, feeling the rhythm there—fast, alive, honest in a way he didn’t always let himself be. It grounded her as much as it did him. Reminded her that this wasn’t theoretical. This wasn’t some distant version of their life they were trying on for size.

This was happening right here. In their living room. With the fire low and the TV flickering shadows against the walls and their daughter breathing softly a few feet away.

Her chest tightened at the thought of Lyric—at the way his eyes flicked there, instinctive, protective, the way his whole body seemed to check in with her without even thinking. Rowan followed the glance without turning her head, just listening for that small, steady breath that had already rewired something in her permanently.

Safe.

Okay.

She let herself exhale.

When he looked back at her, really looked, something in her stomach dipped—not nerves, not fear, but that quiet, familiar awareness of being seen by him in a way that didn’t let her hide behind ease or humor or deflection.

She held his gaze anyway.

Because this mattered.

Because he mattered.

Because she had meant every word she’d said, even if some part of her still felt the tremor of it underneath.

Her lips pressed together for a second when he admitted it—when he owned the part where he’d tried to make the decision for her. Not in a way that pushed him away, but in a way that let the truth sit between them without softening it too quickly.

She felt it land.

Felt the apology in the space between his words, in the way his voice dipped, in the way his thumb traced along her hand like he needed to stay anchored to her while he said it.

And something in her loosened.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… enough.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction, tension she hadn’t realized she was holding easing out through her breath. Her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth when it pulled to the side like that, that almost-smile that always meant he was trying to thread sincerity through something lighter without losing either.

God, she knew him.

Knew the reflex. Knew the instinct to soften the edges before they got too sharp.

But he didn’t hide this time.

That was what caught her.

He stayed there. Stayed open. Stayed in it.

Rowan’s throat tightened unexpectedly when he started listing it—the bottles, the airport, the spit-up, the chaos of it—and she felt a small, almost incredulous huff of breath leave her at the accuracy of it. At the fact that he had seen it too. Not just the dream. Not just the stage and the lights and the possibility.

All of it.

Her gaze dropped to their hands for a second, watching the way his fingers slid more securely between hers, the weight of it settling into something steadier. Warmer.

“You think I didn’t factor in the spit-up outfit?” she murmured, her voice soft but threaded with that dry edge he knew so well. “Please. I already picked which one you’re embarrassing yourself in.”

But the humor didn’t fully take.

Not this time.

Because when he said he wanted her there—really said it, stripped of everything else—it hit somewhere deeper than she’d been braced for.

Her breath caught, just slightly, just enough that she felt it in her chest before she could smooth it out. Her eyes lifted back to his, and for a second she didn’t have anything to say.

Not because there was nothing there.

Because there was too much.

The way he framed it—not as support, not as obligation, but as instinct. As something he needed, not because he couldn’t stand on his own, but because she was part of what standing looked like for him.

It settled into her bones in a way that was almost overwhelming.

Her fingers curled tighter around his without thinking, anchoring herself in the contact.

“You don’t have to earn me being there,” she said quietly.

The words came out softer than she intended, but she didn’t pull them back.

Her thumb moved against his hand again, a small, absent motion that betrayed more than she would’ve said outright.

“I’m not… showing up because you’re doing something impressive.” Her mouth twitched faintly, but her eyes stayed steady. “I’m showing up because it’s you.”

There it was.

Simple. Bare. True.

Her chest rose slowly with her next breath as she let that sit between them, didn’t rush to cover it with something easier. The fire cracked behind him, a small, sharp sound that seemed louder in the quiet, and she became acutely aware of everything at once—the warmth of his knee brushing hers, the faint glow of his phone lighting his face, the soft, rhythmic inhale of their daughter in the bassinet.

Their life.

Right here.

Not something he was leaving.

Something he was carrying.

Her gaze softened when his did—when it flicked toward Lyric again, that helpless, almost disbelieving warmth in his expression that she was still getting used to seeing. It did something to her every time. Something deep and quiet and fiercely protective.

She followed the look this time, letting herself actually turn her head just enough to see their daughter, small and impossibly still, her tiny hand curled near her cheek like she’d decided the world could wait a few hours.

Rowan’s chest tightened again.

Then she looked back at him.

“And her,” she echoed softly.

Her voice held something different now. Something fuller.

Then, because the moment had stretched just enough that she could feel it tipping toward too much—too heavy, too exposed—she let the corner of her mouth lift.

“Yeah,” she added, glancing briefly at their hands again. “Bagels really pulled it all together.”

Her shoulder nudged his lightly, deliberate, grounding, just enough to bring them back into something that felt like them without losing what had just passed between them.

She watched the way his energy shifted after that—the subtle bounce in his leg, the barely-contained anticipation building under his skin—and it made something warm bloom in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to excitement.

Not just for him.

With him.

Her eyes tracked his hand as he reached for his phone, the glow lighting his face, catching in his expression in a way that made him look younger for a second. Or maybe just more open.

She leaned slightly into him without thinking about it, her head angling just enough that she could see the screen, her hair brushing faintly against his shoulder.

“What are we calling it?” he asked.

Rowan’s brow lifted slowly as she looked at him, then at the screen, then back at him again—an entire answer in the look alone.

Her lips pressed together, fighting the smile for exactly half a second before it slipped through anyway.

“Absolutely not,” she whispered.

There was no hesitation in it. No debate.

Her fingers tightened briefly around his hand, like she was physically vetoing the idea.

“Keep typing that and I’m taking the phone.”

Her voice stayed low, careful not to carry, but the threat in it was softened by the warmth underneath.

She watched him type anyway—of course he did—and the sight of it, the quiet normalcy of him being ridiculous in the middle of something that felt this big, made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite name.

When he paused—when his expression shifted again, softer, quieter—she felt it before he spoke.

And when he said thank you, something in her stilled.

Completely.

Her breath caught again, sharper this time, and she held his gaze without moving, without filling the space, letting the weight of it land exactly as he meant it.

She didn’t deflect it.

Didn’t brush it off.

Didn’t turn it into a joke.

Her free hand lifted almost without her deciding to move it, fingers coming up to rest briefly against his jaw, her thumb brushing just once along the edge of it—a mirror of what she’d done earlier, but slower this time. More deliberate.

“You don’t have to thank me for that either,” she said quietly.

Her voice was steady, but there was something softer underneath it now, something that didn’t quite hide.

“I’m already in it.”

Her hand lingered for a second longer before she let it fall back to her lap, not pulling away entirely but giving the moment just enough space to breathe.

Then she tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking back to the phone, to the blank beginning of something that suddenly didn’t feel abstract at all.

“Okay,” she murmured, voice shifting again—lighter, but still anchored in everything that had just been said. “Warmups first. And if you put anything on there that makes you spiral, I’m skipping it.”

Her gaze slid sideways to him, a hint of challenge in it now.

“I mean it. No dramatic ‘I was born to suffer for my art’ energy until at least the second round.”

Her shoulder pressed into his again, a quiet, steady contact.

“And for the record,” she added, softer, her eyes flicking up to his face, catching that crooked grin, that barely-contained wonder he hadn’t quite managed to hide, “if you propose again at the audition…”

A beat.

Her mouth curved.

“I’m saying yes again. But I am judging your timing.”

The words hung there, warm and easy and threaded through with something deeper that neither of them had to say out loud.

The future didn’t feel far away to her either.

It felt like this.

His hand in hers. His phone lighting the space between them. Their daughter breathing softly nearby.

And the quiet, certain knowledge that whatever came next—

They were already in it together.

Rowan watched his thumb hover, watched the way he lingered over the blank space like the right first note might decide everything that came after it.

It was endearing.

It was also very him—overthinking the entry point to something he already knew how to do.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it, something softer than amusement settling in her chest as she shifted just a little closer, her shoulder pressing more fully into his arm. The warmth of him was steady, grounding, familiar in a way that made everything else feel quieter by comparison.

“Okay, give me that,” she murmured, low enough not to carry past the small bubble of space they’d built.

She didn’t wait for him to argue.

Her fingers slipped easily from his, only to replace the contact a second later when she reached across and gently—but decisively—plucked the phone from his hand. Not abrupt. Not sharp. Just… certain. Like she already knew he’d let her.

Her thumb brushed briefly against his knuckles in the process, a small, unconscious reassurance that she wasn’t pulling away—just taking over.

For a second, the absence of his hand in hers registered more than she expected. A faint echo. So she compensated without thinking, her knee nudging more firmly against his, her hip angling closer so the contact stayed.

Always balancing.

Always staying connected.

Rowan tilted the phone slightly, the glow lighting her face now, catching in her eyes as her expression shifted—focus settling in, the same quiet competence she slipped into when she had something to do.

“Playlist comes after source material,” she said, almost to herself, though she knew he’d hear it.

Her thumb moved across the screen with easy familiarity, navigating without hesitation. Search. Tap. Scroll.

There was no dramatics to it.

No overthinking.

Just intention.

The faintest crease formed between her brows as she typed, her lips pressing together in concentration, the firelight flickering against the side of her face while the cooler blue from the phone softened the rest. It gave her that split-light look he always stared at too long—half warm, half shadowed, fully hers.

“Little Shop…” she muttered under her breath, finishing the search with a small, decisive tap.

A list populated.

She scanned it quickly, not rushing, but not lingering either—eyes moving with quiet precision until she found the one she wanted. Original cast. Clean. Reliable. No weird covers. No distractions.

“There,” she said softly.

Not triumphantly. Just… found.

Her thumb hovered for a second before she tapped into it, the track list opening up in a neat column of titles that felt suddenly heavier than just songs. Her gaze lingered there a moment longer than necessary, something in her chest tightening—not with doubt, but with the weight of what this actually meant.

This was real.

Saturday.

Flight Friday.

Three months.

Her fingers stilled on the screen for just a breath.

Then she exhaled slowly through her nose, steadying herself the same way she’d steadied him earlier.

And moved forward.

“We start here,” she decided quietly, glancing sideways at him—not fully turning her head, just enough that her eyes caught his, checking in without making it a question.

Her thumb tapped the first track.

The opening notes slipped into the room—soft at first, almost tentative, like the music itself was aware of the hour, of the sleeping baby nearby, of the fact that this moment didn’t need volume to matter.

Rowan adjusted the volume instinctively, lowering it just enough so it sat under everything else instead of over it.

Background.

Foundation.

Her head tilted slightly as she listened, her body already responding in small ways—subtle shifts in posture, a faint rhythm settling somewhere in her shoulders. Not performance. Not yet.

Just… familiarity.

She handed the phone back to him then, but not all the way.

Her fingers lingered on it, brushing his again as she passed it over, her touch deliberate this time. Grounding. A quiet echo of earlier.

“You don’t get to spiral about it like it’s some abstract thing now,” she said softly, her voice warm but edged with intention. “It’s just music.”

Her eyes held his for a second longer, something steady and unwavering in them.

“You know how to do this.”

The words weren’t big.

They didn’t need to be.

Her hand slipped back into his after that, like it had never left, her fingers threading through his with quiet certainty. She leaned into him again, her shoulder settling against his arm, her head tipping just slightly in his direction as the music continued to play low in the background.

For a moment, she let herself just listen.

To the track.

To his breathing.

To the soft, even rhythm of Lyric across the room.

Her thumb moved absently against his hand again, a slow, grounding motion that matched the pace of everything else.

Then, after a beat, her mouth curved faintly.

“Also,” she added under her breath, almost like an afterthought, though it wasn’t, “if you try to skip ahead to the song you think you’ll sound best in before actually warming up…”

A small pause.

Her fingers squeezed his once.

“I’m revoking bagel privileges.”