Mason Hayes could’ve actually levitated.

Like, physically floated off the bed and up through the damn ceiling, just from the way she said it—loved him—like it was messy and real and stitched right into her bones.

He sat there, completely wrecked in the most embarrassing, Mason way possible: stupid wide grin, heart hammering at hummingbird speeds, hoodie strings tangled around her fingers like she was tying him to her on purpose.

(Which, if she was, good luck ever getting him back. He was hers. Astronomically, cosmically, obnoxiously hers.)

His hands hovered for a second—like he didn’t even know where to start—and then he was everywhere at once: palms cradling her face, thumbs brushing under her jaw, forehead resting lightly against hers because standing the full blast of her saying those words without physical contact would actually kill him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, voice wobbling between a laugh and a breathless prayer. “Like, scientifically unfair. Weaponized adorableness.”

He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her cheeks. Soft little rapid-fire kisses like he was trying to cover every inch of her with proof that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d stay exactly where she wanted him, for as long as she wanted him.

“You think you’re the one who’s lucky?” he said, voice breaking into a bright, wrecked laugh. “Starling, I wake up every morning and can’t believe you even tolerate me, let alone—”

His throat caught.

He kissed her again, slower this time, hands sliding down to hold her face like she was something precious and ridiculous and absolutely necessary for his continued existence.

“I would stay through every version of you,” he murmured against her lips, so sincere it hurt. “The messy ones. The loud ones. The scared ones. The ones that don’t think they’re lovable.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her—eyes shining, grin soft and boyish and so full of stupid, endless love that he couldn’t have hidden it if he tried.

“I’m staying because there’s no place in the universe I’d rather be than right here, getting crushed by how much I love you and trying really hard not to cry about it like a tragic Victorian ghost.”

A beat.

He sniffed dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear away with the back of his hand. “Woe is me. Struck down by feelings. Felled by the hot, feral girl who thinks she’s hard to love. Somebody call the authorities.”

He felt her laugh—really laugh, against his chest—and the sound went straight to his ribs, softening every wrecked part of him.

“And for the record?” he added, tugging her closer by the hoodie strings she’d tangled herself into. “You’re never getting rid of me. You’re stuck. You read ‘Mockingjay’ quotes at me while cuddled into my lap. That’s legally binding.”

Another kiss, pressed long and slow into her hairline.

“Real,” he whispered again, the word humming right against her skin.

And God, if this was what being wrecked felt like?

He hoped he never recovered.

Rowan couldn’t even pretend she was unaffected.

Not when he was looking at her like that—like she wasn’t just real, but the only thing that had ever been real. Like he was a dying man and she was the thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

It was… it was a lot.

A terrifying, bone-deep, curling-under-your-skin kind of lot.

And still, somehow, it didn’t scare her.

Because it was him.

Mason, with his ridiculous hoodie strings now practically wrapped around her fists because she didn’t know how to let go. Mason, kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks like she was made of something rare and precious and not just the sum total of her own messy edges.

Mason, who talked about being crushed by feelings like it was a badge of honor instead of something to be ashamed of.

God, she loved him.

She loved him so much it made her fingers clench tighter in the fabric at his chest, made her lean up and catch his mouth in a kiss that wasn’t careful this time—wasn’t sweet or slow.

It was hers.

Claiming him the way he already seemed to claim her, no questions asked, no terms or conditions.

When she pulled back, her forehead dropped against his again, breathless, burning.

“You are so—” she tried, voice cracking on the first word. She let out a huff, half-laugh, half-wrecked. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?”

It wasn’t mean. It was affection in the way she only ever gave it when she couldn’t find safer words.

Because what she wanted to say—what she was barely holding back—was I love you so much it feels like I’m coming apart.

Instead, she smiled. Twisted and lopsided and all teeth.

“And you’re stuck too, genius,” she whispered. “Legally binding. No refunds. No exchanges. You’re my tragic Victorian ghost now. Hope you’re ready for a lifetime of dramatic sighs and unnecessary angst.”

She tilted her chin up, brushing her nose lightly against his again, like she could nudge them both into a reality where this feeling didn’t have to be so scary.

It was just theirs.

“And if you ever try to walk away,” she added, voice dropping to something dangerously soft, “I’m showing up at your house with a baseball bat.”

A beat.

Then she kissed him again—quick, biting, more teeth than technique, like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.

The fairy lights hummed overhead, flickering gold against the tangle of their bodies, the barely-finished paperback still sprawled half-forgotten on the bed beside them.

And somewhere in the house, faintly, she could hear her mom calling:

“Food’s ready!”

Rowan didn’t move right away.

Didn’t even flinch.

Because Mason’s arms stayed tight around her, because his nose was still brushing hers, because the candles kept burning low and steady, and because whatever this was between them—

It wasn’t going anywhere.

Neither was she.

Not now.

Not ever.

Mason was stuck.

Absolutely, categorically, dramatically stuck.

Because here he was, in a fairy-light-lit bedroom that smelled like cinnamon and felt like safety, tangled up in Rowan Starling—the girl who loved him with teeth and baseball bat threats and ridiculous, soft, terrifying sincerity—and yet downstairs was her mom. Calling for dinner. Being the sweetest human alive and totally oblivious to the fact that he was approximately five seconds from declaring her daughter his entire universe in the most embarrassing way imaginable.

He groaned—low and dramatic, burying his face into Rowan's shoulder with all the subtlety of a boy who had already lost every ounce of chill he ever had. “I’m having a crisis,” he mumbled into her hoodie, voice muffled and completely wrecked. “Do I stay here and dissolve into a puddle of emotions with you, or do I do the responsible, good-boyfriend thing and drag us both downstairs before your mom thinks I’ve kidnapped you into some kind of literary-themed afterlife?”

He lifted his head slightly, giving her the most exaggerated, pleading, puppy-eyed look humanly possible. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, I'd love nothing more than to just stay right here forever—tragic Victorian ghost style, haunting your room with devastating affection and over-the-top declarations of love—but your mom made food, and I'm like, morally bound to respect your mother’s cooking.”

He sighed again, dramatically, pressing another quick kiss to her forehead before leaning back with an expression of profound, soulful suffering.

“You see my problem? My heart says ‘stay here and kiss your perfect face approximately two million more times,’ but my very strong need for your mom’s approval and those legendary garlic mashed potatoes says, ‘drag your girl downstairs and eat dinner like a functional human being.’”

He paused, tugging her gently toward him again, eyes shining with that hopeless, lovesick warmth. “Honestly, Starling, loving you this much is wildly inconvenient. It’s affecting my judgment, my time management skills, and my ability to form coherent thoughts. It's tragic, really. You should feel bad.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he swung his legs off the bed, keeping his fingers intertwined with hers as he stood, pulling her gently up after him—soft and steady and annoyingly sweet about it. He kissed her temple again, quick and sure, smiling into her hair.

“Come on, your mom's probably wondering if we disappeared into Narnia or something.”

And then he smirked, bumping her shoulder playfully with his.

“But later? You're mine again. No exchanges. No refunds. Lifetime subscription to Mason Hayes' patented dramatic sighs and Shakespearean-level declarations. You signed the contract, Starling. Now you're stuck too.”

Rowan tightened her grip on his hand as he tugged her upright, her face half-buried in his hoodie now because God, he was ridiculous.

And worse? She loved it.

Loved the dramatic speeches. Loved the forehead kisses. Loved that he looked genuinely torn between making out with her for eternity and chasing down garlic mashed potatoes like his life depended on it.

She bumped his hip with hers as they crossed her bedroom, her fairy lights tossing soft gold across his messy curls.


“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough that it still felt like a secret. “Otherwise I’d leave you to your tragic ghost fate and eat all the potatoes myself.”

She heard his scandalized gasp—full musical theater levels of betrayal—and smirked into his arm as she pulled open the door.

“And for the record?” she added, glancing up at him, her voice low and a little smug as their fingers tangled tighter. “You’re absolutely mine too. Lifetime subscription. No refunds.”

She leaned in, kissed his jaw—quick, wrecking, impossible to recover from—and grinned as he stumbled a step like she’d actually short-circuited his brain.

Then she dragged him toward the stairs with a wicked little tug, laughing under her breath.

“Now move it, Hayes. You can make tragic ghost eyes at me after mashed potatoes.”

Rowan tugged him down the stairs without mercy, their hands still laced like it was second nature now. She could feel him practically vibrating with nervous energy behind her—trying to act cool, probably overthinking every step.

She smirked to herself.

Good.
He deserved a little emotional chaos after how thoroughly he wrecked her upstairs.

The house smelled amazing—garlic, butter, something a little sweet underneath it all—and the low, familiar clatter of dishes made everything feel a little too normal after the way her heart had been trying to escape her chest ten minutes ago.

Her mom appeared around the corner first, grinning that soft, knowing mom-smile like she already knew every secret Rowan thought she was hiding. “Hey, you two. Dinner’s ready.”

Rowan flashed her a casual, easy smile, pretending her whole body wasn’t still buzzing from Mason’s hands in her hair.

“We’re coming,” she said, giving Mason’s hand one last squeeze before letting it go.

The second her fingers slipped free, she felt the cold creep in—not bad, not lonely, just… a reminder of how much she already missed him when he wasn’t touching her.

She shoved the feeling down and led the way to the table, where her dad was flipping through an old paperback like he hadn’t just heard them practically fall down the stairs.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, plopping into her usual chair without ceremony. She nudged the chair next to hers with her foot—the silent invitation obvious.

She didn’t need to look to know Mason would sit there.

She could feel him.

Could feel the way he hovered just a second too long before lowering himself down, still buzzing, still probably giving himself a silent pep talk.

Rowan smirked again and reached for the serving spoon, loading her plate with mashed potatoes like her stomach wasn’t doing slow flips under the table.

“So how was the market today?” she asked her mom, falling into the easy rhythm of dinner conversation like it wasn’t a big deal that her boyfriend was sitting inches away, trying to remember how forks worked.

Every so often, she felt his knee bump hers under the table.

Accidentally at first.

Then… maybe not so accidentally.

She didn’t call him out. She just shifted closer, letting her boot tap his sneaker, casual, deliberate. Her mom caught it—Rowan could tell by the way her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh—but said nothing, bless her.

Halfway through dinner, Rowan dared a glance sideways.

Mason was doing his best to look attentive, nodding at something her dad was saying, but his hand had drifted halfway across the space between them under the table, fingers brushing her jeans like a secret apology for every stupid, chaotic feeling he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Rowan bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too hard. She shifted again—just enough to press her shin against his—and kept eating like it was nothing.

Because this?
This was everything.

The fairy lights upstairs.
The garlic mashed potatoes.
The way his knee kept finding hers like he couldn’t help it.

Later, she’d drag him back up to her room.

Later, she’d kiss him until neither of them remembered why breathing mattered.

But for now?

She just let herself sink into it—the flicker of candlelight, the low murmur of her parents’ voices, the secret gravity pulling her closer and closer to the boy who’d already made himself home.

Mason was a goner.

Utterly, catastrophically, happily a goner.

He sat there, one knee bumping hers under the table like he physically couldn't help himself, trying to pretend he was listening intently to her dad talk about the local farmer’s market (there was something about honey samples? goats? he had no idea), but really, every brain cell he had was currently dedicated to:

A.) not making tragic Victorian ghost eyes at Rowan
B.) not reaching over and pulling her into his lap like some deranged golden retriever with a crush
C.) not proposing marriage because she brushed her boot against his sneaker like it meant something.

Which, okay.

It did mean something.

It meant everything.

Mason shifted in his seat, trying to casually nudge his fingers closer to hers under the table, as if maybe, maybe he could survive this night without combusting in front of her entire family and having to live with that particular brand of legendary shame forever.

Spoiler: he was barely surviving.

And when she bumped him back—light, deliberate, smug like she knew exactly how much havoc she was wreaking?

Yeah.

He almost dropped his fork.

He caught it mid-air like a freaking ninja, cleared his throat way too loudly, and forced himself to focus on scooping an absolutely inappropriate mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

(Distraction through carbohydrates: a time-honored Mason Hayes survival tactic.)

Meanwhile, Rowan was just sitting there.

Cool. Effortless. Absolutely gorgeous under the warm kitchen lights, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with this little half-smile that made his ribs hurt.

Real, he thought helplessly. Real, real, real.

She was real and she was here and she was—God help him—bumping her stupid perfect knee against his like it was some secret Morse code for "you're mine."

He swallowed hard.

Almost said it out loud.

Instead, he cleared his throat again (less ninja this time, more dying seal) and flashed her mom his most award-winning, all-American good-boyfriend smile. “Uh, yeah, the, uh... the honey samples sound awesome, Mr. Starling.”

Crushed it.

Rowan’s hand slid against his under the table. Not fully linking fingers, not grabbing him—but just... there. Brushing.

And Mason nearly blacked out.

He pressed his knee back into hers, slow and sure, answering her the only way he could without doing something massively stupid like standing up and announcing to her family that he was irrevocably, annoyingly, stupidly in love with their daughter.

(Yet. He wasn’t ruling it out long-term.)

He dared a glance at her out of the corner of his eye—and she was already looking at him, her mouth twitching at the edges like she was barely, barely holding back a laugh.

He grinned.

Big. Dopey. Gone.

Under the table, his pinky caught hers—just the smallest, tiniest touch.

And he decided right then and there:

He was never letting her go.

Not for all the mashed potatoes in the world.

Rowan barely heard the scrape of chairs or the polite murmur of goodbyes.
Her mind was already upstairs.
Already two steps ahead.
Already tangled in Mason.

She didn’t tug him hard—just enough. Just enough pressure on the sleeve of his hoodie to say now without needing a word.
She caught the way his breath hitched. The way he followed without hesitation.
Good.

The door clicked closed behind them.
Fairy lights hummed low and golden.
The cinnamon candle flickered.
The book still sat abandoned on the bed.

Rowan turned.

And for a second—just a second—she let herself look at him. Really look at him. Hoodie rumpled, curls a mess, cheeks flushed from dinner and smiling and too much softness he couldn’t hide from her anymore.

She moved first.

Of course she did.

Fist curled in the front of his hoodie, dragging him down to her level, crashing their mouths together with zero ceremony.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t neat.

It was necessary.

Mason caught her with a groan—hands already sliding under her sweater, desperate and grounding, anchoring her like he thought she might bolt.

She pushed him back onto the bed with more force than she meant.
He didn’t complain.
Just landed there, stunned and laughing, wide-eyed like she’d knocked all the air out of him and he liked it.

Rowan didn’t wait.

She climbed after him, straddling his hips, pinning him with her knees against the mattress.
Watching his stupid beautiful face tilt up to her like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Her hands slid up his hoodie—slow at first, then greedy.
Warm skin.
Fluttering heartbeat.
Muscle and softness and Mason, all under her palms like he was built to be mapped by her touch.

She kissed him again, slower now, surer.

Felt the way his whole body leaned into it—into her—like he didn’t know how to exist without it anymore.

Good.
Neither did she.

Her hands moved without thinking—up his chest, dragging nails lightly just to feel him shudder underneath her.
He arched up into her.
Lost a sound against her mouth that she swallowed down like it belonged to her.

God, he was easy to wreck.

And even better? He wanted her to.

She barely pulled back—just enough to breathe against his lips.
His hands found her hips, squeezing like he thought she might float away if he didn’t anchor her.

She brushed her nose against his—soft, claiming—then kissed him again, slower, sinking into it like she could crawl inside his chest and live there if she wanted.

When she finally spoke, it was wrecked and breathless against his skin.

“Real,” she whispered, just to hear the way his fingers clutched at her.
Just to feel him tremble with it.

She didn’t need him to say it back.

She already knew.

It was written in the way he touched her like she was something sacred.

In the way he let her take whatever she needed without flinching.

In the way he kissed her like they had all the time in the world and he wasn’t afraid of any version of her, even the ones she still didn’t know how to name.

Rowan kissed him again, slow and aching, hands sliding over him like she was committing him to memory.
Every inch.
Every sigh.
Every heartbeat.

When they finally broke apart, she stayed there—forehead pressed to his, fingers twisted in his hoodie, breathing him in like she could survive off it.

The room blurred around them.
Fairy lights, candlelight, messy bedsheets, forgotten dinner plates downstairs—none of it mattered.

Just Mason.

Just this.

Just real.

Mason could barely see straight.

Not because of the fairy lights blurring into halos overhead or the soft flicker of the cinnamon candle, or even the way the world outside her bedroom door felt so distant it could’ve been another planet.

No.

It was her.

It was Rowan Starling wrecking him in the most exquisite, unfair, holy-shit-I’m-the-luckiest-dumbass-on-Earth way imaginable—straddling him, hoodie fisted in her hands, kissing him like she’d invented it and he was just some grateful idiot lucky enough to be the first to find out.

And God, he was so grateful.

He let his hands slide up her sides, fingers greedy and reverent at the same time, like he could somehow map every line of her if he just tried hard enough. She kissed him again, slow and deep, and he couldn’t help it—he arched into her, chasing the taste of her, making a noise in the back of his throat that would haunt him if he had even an ounce of dignity left.

(Spoiler: he didn’t.)

Still, there was a tiny, stubborn, wildly inconvenient part of his brain firing weak little warning signals:

Her parents. Downstairs. Still alive. Still possessing ears.

Mason groaned, half into her mouth and half at the injustice of existence.

His hands curved around her hips, squeezing lightly as he dropped his head back against the mattress, breathing hard, brain absolutely short-circuiting.

“Okay,” he rasped, trying very, very hard to sound reasonable and not like he was dying inside, “I wanna let you climb me like a tree, I swear—”

He broke off with a breathless laugh when she nipped at his jaw in response, making him shudder like a total loser.

“—but I’m also having, like, small, responsible thoughts,” he managed to gasp out. “Like, teeny-tiny ones. Whispering that if your mom walks in right now, I’m gonna have to change my name and flee to another country. Possibly one with no extradition treaty.”

Rowan’s breathless laugh puffed against his skin, smug and devastating, and he could feel her grin even without looking.

God help him.

And—because he was Mason, and he had the emotional impulse control of a golden retriever—he brushed his nose against hers, voice low and teasing and stupidly full of love.

“But also, not to, like, ruin the mood—” (he was absolutely going to ruin the mood) “—but I do kinda want to know what happens next in the book. Y’know. In case Peeta gets abducted by glitter aliens or something while we’re too busy making out.”

He tilted his head just enough to catch her expression—wrecked and amused and stupidly beautiful—and smiled, slow and sure.

“Fair warning, though,” he whispered, eyes sparkling up at her, “the second you finish that chapter, I’m dragging you right back down here. No escape. No survivors.”

He kissed her again, quick and grinning and so full of affection it practically hummed out of his skin.

Because real wasn’t just heavy and holy and terrifying.

It was also this.

The laughter against her mouth.
The knee bumping hers under the table.
The way he could still be wrecked by a single kiss and still want to tease her into laughing between breaths.

He tightened his arms around her waist, tucking her even closer, and whispered against her jaw:

“God, I love you.”

Then he grinned, hopeless and shining.

“Now. Read to me before I make even worse choices.”

Rowan couldn’t breathe.

Not in the bad way. Not in the panic way.

In the too much, too good, too real way.

The kind of breathless that only happened when the boy you loved was sprawled out beneath you, hoodie rumpled, cheeks flushed, voice wrecked from kissing you like you were gravity and he was just some idiot willing to fall forever.

She was supposed to be reading. Finishing the chapter. Being responsible.

Instead, she was hovering over him, laughing into his mouth, feeling his hands skim reverent patterns up her sides like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t memorize her right now.

God, he was ridiculous. Sweet and stupid and hers.

And when he rasped out that thing about responsible thoughts and fleeing the country? When he nudged his nose against hers like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss her again or breathe her in?

Rowan’s heart pulled so tight it physically hurt.

She grinned—wild and feral and so stupidly in love she didn’t care if it showed—and bumped their noses together again, teasing.

“You’re the one who started this, Hayes,” she whispered, voice low and warm, letting her fingers slip into his curls and tug just lightly. “Don’t act like you’re some innocent casualty.”

He shivered under her hands, and she felt it—felt the way she wrecked him. Felt the way he let her.

God, she loved him.

And when he joked about glitter aliens and “no survivors” and getting wrecked by a Hunger Games book, she laughed so hard she had to bury her face in the curve of his neck for a second just to catch her breath.

She pulled back just enough to look at him—Mason Hayes, lit up like some messy, beloved miracle under her fairy lights—and tucked his hair back from his forehead with the softest touch.

“Peeta doesn’t get abducted by glitter aliens,” she murmured, mock-serious. “But if you keep looking at me like that, you might.”

She kissed him—slow, deep, anchoring herself to the feel of his mouth, the stupid smile she could feel blooming under it even when he tried to kiss her back properly.

And when he pulled away, whispering “ I love you” like it was the only thing he knew how to say anymore, she felt it crack something open inside her.

Something permanent.

Something real.

She rested her forehead against his, breath catching on the edges of everything she couldn’t quite shape into words yet.

Instead, she kissed him once more—soft, quick, mine—then reached blindly for the book beside them, flipping it open against his chest without moving off him.

“Fine,” she said, voice lighter now, teasing, threading her fingers back into his hair like she wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon. “But you better be prepared to get emotionally devastated by the next five pages.”

She grinned against his jaw, feeling him smile too—lazy and wrecked and so stupidly in love she could taste it between them.

“Your fault,” she added, flipping to the right paragraph and clearing her throat with faux-dramatic flair. “You asked for this.”

And just like that, she started reading again—voice steady even as her heart beat wild under her hoodie, under his hands, under everything they’d built and broken and healed together.

Because this?

This was real.

And Rowan Starling had never been more sure of anything in her life.

Mason couldn't even think anymore.

Not in any organized, human way.

Not when she kissed him like that, forehead-to-forehead, fingers in his hair, flipping open that poor battered book against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world to half-straddle him and start emotionally demolishing him one paragraph at a time.

He was supposed to be listening.

Supposed to be following the plot. (There were rebels. There were districts. Someone probably needed therapy.)

Instead, all he could hear was her.

The sound of her voice—low and steady and threading straight through the middle of him. The way her thumb kept brushing tiny, unconscious circles into the side of his neck like she was trying to ground him but was absolutely making it worse.

He grinned up at her, utterly wrecked and knowing it, and didn't even pretend to be subtle about it.

"I regret nothing," he whispered, loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough to interrupt her reading.

(Okay. Maybe a little loud enough to interrupt her reading.)

Rowan shot him a warning look without even breaking cadence, flipping a page with a practiced flick of her wrist like she wasn’t about to physically end him with a Katniss monologue.

Mason smiled wider, teeth and dimples and every ounce of stupid, lovesick chaos he had left in him.

And then—because he was Mason Hayes and Mason Hayes had zero self-preservation when it came to her—he slid his hands back under her hoodie, fingertips skating lightly along the bare skin at her waist.

Innocently.

Supportively.

Emotionally responsibly.

Rowan’s voice faltered for half a second—barely—but Mason caught it. Caught it and felt it bloom under his palms like he’d just found a secret lever to completely wreck her.

He wiggled his eyebrows shamelessly up at her.

"Emotional devastation," he murmured, way too pleased with himself. "Thought we were a team, Starling."

She glared at him—half-hearted, mostly fond—and kept reading, but he could feel the way her knees tightened around his hips. Could feel the way her breath snagged a little more often between sentences now.

God, she was so easy to love.

So ridiculously, breathtakingly easy.

Mason leaned his head back against the pillows, hands still curved around her waist, and let her words wash over him—the book, the heartbeat in her throat, the fact that he could feel the exact moment she relaxed fully into him again, trusting him to catch her if she fell too deep into the story.

It was almost too much.

Almost.

He grinned lazily, closing his eyes for a second, and said—just loud enough for her to hear:

"Real, Starling."

Like a reminder.

Like a promise.

Like the only thing he wanted her to know—on the page, between kisses, under fairy lights, and every second after.

God, he was infuriating.

In that stupid, beautiful way that made her want to both kiss him senseless and shove him off the bed just for being so unbearably him.

Rowan didn’t even bother hiding her smirk when his hands slipped under the hem of her hoodie, fingers dragging slow, lazy shapes against her skin like he wasn’t actively dismantling her spine one featherlight touch at a time.

She tried—truly tried—to keep reading. To stay locked into the rise and fall of Katniss’s voice, the steady cadence that usually grounded her.

But Mason was not helping.

Her voice hitched. Barely. But his grin sharpened, like he caught it—like he knew exactly what he was doing to her and had zero plans of stopping.

She shot him a look. Behave, she warned silently, flipping the page with more force than necessary.

He just wiggled his eyebrows like a menace.

Rowan pressed her lips together, biting down the laugh that wanted to break free, and kept reading—but she sank closer, let her knee nudge against his hip, let her fingers slip from the book’s spine to rest against the side of his neck.

If he was going to be an emotional terrorist, fine.

Two could play that game.

Her thumb brushed the pulse point under his jaw, slow and deliberate. Felt the way it stuttered under her touch. Wrecked you right back, Hayes.

And then—because he deserved it—she leaned down between paragraphs, mouth ghosting along the edge of his ear.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, low enough that it melted straight into his skin, “and you’re lucky I love you.”

He exhaled like she punched the air out of his lungs.

Good.

She grinned, satisfied, and kissed the spot just below his ear, slow and lingering, before she pulled back and pretended to read again like nothing had happened.

(She didn’t even make it two sentences before she felt his whole body tense like he was barely holding it together.)

Victory.

Rowan turned the page, pretending she wasn’t fully aware of every place their bodies touched—her thighs bracketing his, the way he tightened his hands slightly at her waist every time she shifted, the way his heart beat so loud she could practically feel it.

And when he whispered it—Real, Starling—soft and reverent and so Mason she could’ve cried?

She didn’t tease him.

She didn’t joke or smirk or hide.

She closed the book softly against his chest, let her hands frame his stupid, beautiful face, and whispered right back:

“Real.”

A beat.

“And you’re stuck with me, Hayes. No takebacks. No extradition treaties.”

She kissed him then—full and slow, smiling against his mouth when she felt him melt into it completely—then pulled back just enough to see his face.

“Finish the chapter?” she teased, arching an eyebrow.

Then, softer, thumb tracing his cheekbone.

“Or should we just call it a win and start rereading from the beginning?”

Because honestly?

She could’ve stayed right here forever, tucked against him under a halo of fairy lights and cinnamon-sweet air, rewriting every broken piece of herself one page, one kiss, one real at a time.

And by the way he was looking at her—

Like she’d just handed him the stars without asking for anything in return—

She knew he would’ve stayed too.