Mason’s eyes went wide.

Comically, dramatically, Mason-level wide.

Because for a half-second, his brain conjured an actual mental image of her doing exactly what she’d just threatened—filming him mid-Newsies choreography and sending it to every human he’d ever met. Theater directors. Old classmates. His mom.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, visibly horrified, hand squeezing hers like she might already be reaching for her phone. “That would end me. I’d have to change my name. Start fresh in a new town. Grow a mustache. You’d be dating ‘Marcus Haythorne,’ amateur beekeeper and local cryptid.”

But then—her thumb brushed the side of his hand, and everything in him softened.

Because it was her. And of course she wouldn’t actually do it. Not to embarrass him. Not to hurt him. She’d joke, sure. Tease him until he was pink in the ears and hiding behind the snack counter. But she got it. She got him.

He relaxed instantly, the grin returning like it had just ducked behind a curtain for dramatic effect.

Still, he made a mental note: do not piss off Rowan Starling too much. She has the power. She has the audience. She has the range.

“I’m serious, though,” he said after a beat, quieter now, the warmth curling back into his voice. “It’s not about owing you. Not like a scoreboard or some weird emotional IOU.”

He turned toward her, gaze steady, thumb brushing hers in return.

“I just want to make you feel even a fraction of how you made me feel that night. Not because I have to. But because you deserve that. Always.”

His smile turned softer—less showy, more sincere.

“And I mean… if the bar is ‘one Broadway number per date night,’ I’ll make it count. I’ll rehearse. I’ll pick ones with finger snaps. Maybe even costume changes.”

He leaned closer, cheek brushing hers, voice low and flirty and just this side of a dare.

“But you’re gonna regret saying yes to ‘Sincerely, Me.’ Because the minute that chorus hits? You know I’m gonna hit it with choreography and backup vocals and emotional devastation, and you’re gonna be powerless.”

A beat.

“...Until you take over and upstage me completely, obviously.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, that crooked smile creeping in like it had nowhere else to go.

“You’re right, by the way. This plot? It’s already my favorite.”

Then he turned toward the screen like he was actually paying attention, even though they both knew the movie was just background noise to the real story happening in the front seat.

And after a quiet moment, he murmured, “God help us when we duet. We’re gonna ruin people.”

His fingers tightened gently in hers.

And yeah—he absolutely meant it.

Rowan didn’t laugh out loud.
Not right away.

She just looked at him—this boy, this walking musical number with too many feelings and not enough chill—and let the moment stretch until her smirk did the talking. Slow. Sly. Dangerous.

“I don’t date guys named Marcus,” she said finally, eyebrow raised. “Especially ones who keep bees and have something to hide.”

Her fingers squeezed his right back, grounding them again, because yeah—he was being ridiculous. But he was also being sweet. And sincere. And Mason. Which meant her heart was already halfway to melting, even if her face hadn’t gotten the memo.

“You’re not allowed to start fresh in a new town,” she added, quieter now. “You’re stuck with me. That’s the deal. Hoodie, chaos, and weirdly specific Hamilton references included.”

She let their hands rest between them, warm and easy, her boot nudging his leg like punctuation. She didn’t always know how to say things. Not the big stuff. Not when it counted. But she could say this:

“You don’t have to make anything even, Mason. That’s not how it works. Not with us.”

Her thumb brushed along the side of his hand again, slower this time.

“I don’t want you to think that you have anything to prove to me either.”

She leaned in just slightly, shoulder brushing his, voice dipping into something softer, more sure.

“But if you insist on one Broadway song per date, I’m picking next time. And I swear, if you so much as flinch when I queue up Hadestown, we’re gonna have words.”

She let her gaze flick toward him—challenging, fond—and added, “And for the record? I will upstage you. Gracefully. With great vengeance and dramatic flair.”

Then, after a beat, she turned her head and pressed the briefest kiss to his jaw. Just a blink of warmth. Just enough.

“And when we duet,” she murmured against his skin, “we’re not gonna ruin people. We’re gonna destroy them. Emotionally. Artfully. Broadway won’t know what hit it.”

And with that, she settled back in the seat, cider cooling in the cupholder, fingers still locked with his.

The movie droned on. Neon flickered across the windshield.

But for the first time all night, Rowan didn’t feel like she had to watch it to know how it ended.
She already knew her favorite scene.
And she was sitting right in the middle of it.

Mason didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she said stuff like that. Not when she kissed his jaw like it was just... casual. Like kissing him there was as easy as breathing. Like she'd claimed the spot and wasn’t giving it back.

He sat there for a beat—genuinely stunned, heart thudding like it had its own separate musical number happening inside his chest. He turned his head slightly, catching the faintest glimpse of her smirk tucked against the curve of the seat, and had to physically bite back the dopey grin trying to take over his entire face.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, voice low and half-ruined already, “Marcus Haythorne, local beekeeper and cryptid, is devastated by your rejection.”

He squeezed her hand once, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing the soft brush of her skin like it was muscle memory now. Maybe it was. Maybe it always had been.

“But second,” he went on, recovering some of his usual cocky, flirty cadence, “you’re seriously out here thinking you’ll upstage me?”

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows like he was giving her a moment to rethink her entire life.

“I love you, Starling, but if you think I’m not gonna meet your Hadestown ballad with a full body turn and emotionally devastating harmonies, you clearly haven’t learned anything about my need for dramatic dominance.”

His voice dropped even lower—flirtier, rougher, just this side of a dare.

“And just so you know,” he added, eyes gleaming, “this? Us? You trusting me enough to curl up in my passenger seat and talk about conquering Broadway together? Yeah. Pretty sure this is what people mean when they say they peaked.”

He leaned in then, shoulder brushing hers, nose brushing lightly against her temple before he whispered it, low and teasing and sincere all at once:

“Lucky for you, I’m fine staying permanently peaked if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

He grinned against her hair, cocky but so full of affection it practically leaked out of his pores.

A long beat passed—just their breathing and the hum of the movie and the steady, electric hum of something more curling between them.

Then he added, just to make sure she didn’t get too comfortable:

“Also, don’t think I won’t bust out the tap shoes if the Hadestown duet demands it. Broadway isn’t ready for our villain arc.”

He kissed the top of her head—quick, reverent, unmistakably his—and settled back again, hoodie soft against her cheek, their fingers still tangled, their story still unfolding in the flickering dark.

And Mason Hayes?

Yeah.

He wasn’t throwing away a single second of it.


---

Would you like a version with an even slightly more mischievous Mason tone too, just to see the contrast?

Rowan didn’t look at him at first.

Couldn’t, really—not when her entire face was threatening to betray her. Because Mason Hayes was doing that thing again. That soft-voiced, thumb-brushing, utterly sincere thing that made her heart trip over itself like it hadn’t learned how to stay steady in years.

She’d kissed his jaw because she could. Because it felt right. Because it was her way of saying I like this version of us too—without losing her footing entirely.

And now he was unraveling. Dramatically. Lovingly. Like every joke he made was laced with something honest underneath. Like every “Marcus Haythorne” and “tap shoes” comment was just his way of saying I’m yours.

She breathed out a laugh—low, quiet, just for him—and tilted her head enough to meet his eyes.

“Okay, first of all, Marcus Haythorne would’ve absolutely worn cargo shorts in the winter,” she said dryly. “I did you a favor.”

Then, softer, “And second? You might have the flair, Hayes, but I have the range. Don’t underestimate me.”

She leaned in, bumping his shoulder with hers—playful, but not hiding. Not this time.

“Besides,” she added, “if we’re peaking in your car at a drive-in with bad cider and worse alien plotlines… I think I’m okay with that.”

Her fingers squeezed his—light, steady.

And when she finally settled again, her head against his shoulder and her breath syncing with his, she let the silence stretch. Let it say what she wasn’t ready to out-loud yet:

That maybe she was falling harder than she expected.

And for once?

She wasn’t scared of the landing.

Rowan wasn’t watching the screen anymore.

Not really. She caught flickers of movement—glowing eyes, dramatic embraces, the occasional explosion of glittery space dust—but it barely registered. Not when Mason’s fingers were still laced with hers. Not when his hoodie smelled like too much sugar and not enough self-preservation. Not when the entire car felt like it belonged to them and no one else.

She tilted her head slightly, chin resting near his shoulder, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of his profile in the glow of the drive-in screen.

God, he was trying so hard not to smile.

Like she hadn’t just casually kissed his jaw and derailed his whole nervous system. Like he didn’t immediately go soft the second she called him out and meant it.

Rowan smirked.

“You really are a menace,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. “You say stuff like that and then expect me not to combust in the middle of an alien rom-com.”

She nudged his leg with hers, not hard. Just enough to remind him she was still here. Still tethered to this moment.

“I mean, I’m still gonna crush you when the duet hits,” she added. “But, like… respectfully.”

A pause.

Then softer, without the edge of sarcasm she usually wore like armor:

“This is the part I never thought I’d get. Not the movie. Not even the playlist debates. Just… this. The quiet in between.”

She looked down at their hands, gloves pushed back just enough for skin to touch skin.

“And I like it.”

She didn’t mean to sound surprised. But maybe she was. A little.

Not because she didn’t expect to feel something. But because she hadn’t realized how easy it could be to feel everything.

With him.

She leaned over again, pressed a kiss to his shoulder—quick, like punctuation—and settled back into the seat with a content breath.

The stars outside were fake. The plot on the screen barely made sense.

But the warmth in her chest?

That was real.

And if Mason Hayes kept looking at her like that?

Yeah.

She was definitely in trouble.

Mason didn’t say anything at first.

Which was rare, for him.

But when a girl casually dismantles your nervous system with a single kiss to the shoulder, tells you she likes the quiet, and then smirks while promising to respectfully obliterate you in a duet? Yeah. Sometimes even Mason Hayes needed a second to reboot.

He stared straight ahead for a beat, blinking at the glittery, incoherent alien love triangle playing out on the windshield like it might offer some kind of guidance.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

So he cleared his throat, shifted slightly, and said—very seriously—

“Okay. So here’s my new plan.”

He turned toward her, gaze locked, mouth twitching like he was trying to keep a straight face and failing.

“I’m gonna be emotionally devastating for the next five minutes. Then I’m gonna make a weird snack confession. Probably something like ‘I used to eat dry pancake mix with a spoon when I was eight.’ Then I’ll ask you something deeply personal that sounds casual but will haunt you for the rest of the week. And then—then, Rowan Starling—just when you’re emotionally off-balance, I’m gonna sing show tunes at full volume and crush you with perfect harmonies.”

He paused.

“Respectfully.”

His smile cracked wide then—all teeth and dimples and absolutely no self-preservation—because God, he liked her. He liked her. And she was here. In his hoodie. In his passenger seat. In every beat of his heart that hadn’t figured out how to slow down since the rooftop.

He glanced at their hands again, fingers half-uncovered, skin warm where it touched skin.

“I like the quiet too, you know,” he said softly. “I mean, I live for the chaos. But this? This is what I’ll remember.”

Another beat.

“And for the record,” he added, nudging her knee gently with his own, “I wouldn’t survive the duet even if you didn’t crush me. Because it’s you. Because you’d look at me like this—” his voice dipped, teasing but sincere, “—and I’d forget every lyric and probably call you my wife halfway through a verse.”

He tilted his head, mock-casual. “Just letting you know in advance. In case you’re not emotionally prepared for spontaneous musical proposals in the middle of Hadestown.”

Then he sighed, long and theatrical, letting his head tip back against the seat as the glow from the movie cast faint purple streaks across his face.

“God, I like you so much it’s embarrassing.”

He glanced sideways at her, grin softer now, hand still tangled with hers.

“And I think I’m okay with that.”

Rowan stared at him for a second.

Blinking.

Breathing.

Trying really hard not to combust on the spot.

Because seriously—how was she supposed to survive this boy? This boy who talked about emotional devastation and snack confessions like they were part of a normal Saturday night plan. This boy who somehow made a casual wife joke while also looking at her like he actually meant it in the weird, soft, too-early-to-say-it-but-still-undeniable way.

She squeezed his hand once—quick, deliberate—like she needed to remind herself he was real.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, voice low and almost steady, “you’re an actual menace. No one asked for a detailed emotional destruction itinerary. No one.”

She nudged his knee with hers, barely more than a bump, but it made her chest tighten anyway.

“And second,” she continued, turning toward him a little more, “if you’re gonna propose mid-duet, at least pick a better song than Wait for Me. I am not explaining to people that we got fake-engaged over sad Persephone cosplay.”

She rolled her eyes for effect—obviously—but her mouth tugged into a smile she couldn’t quite hide.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

Not when he said he liked the quiet too.

Not when he held her hand like it wasn’t just habit, but choice.

Rowan let her head tip lightly against his shoulder again, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat against her temple. She didn’t need to say anything about it. He’d already given her the words without even realizing it.

Still, after a few seconds, she muttered, soft and just for him:

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Hayes. Otherwise, I’d have to sabotage your whole musical number out of spite.”

Another nudge of her knee into his.

Another smile—crooked, real, quietly wrecked.

And yeah—maybe she was already halfway to writing their stupid, perfect duet in her head.

Maybe she didn’t even mind.

Because sitting here, in the dark, in the sugar-sticky safety of him—

Yeah.

This was already her favorite song.

Mason’s heart absolutely exploded.

No warning. No cool-down period. Just full combustion right there in the passenger seat because Rowan Starling—his Rowan Starling—was smiling like that, teasing like that, trusting him like that.

He was gone.

So naturally, he did the only rational thing a lovesick theater boy could do in the middle of a drive-in surrounded by innocent civilians:

He threw open his window.

Not dramatically. Not with a speech planned. Just... pure impulse. Pure Mason Hayes chaos.

And he yelled into the night:

“I’M IN LOVE WITH ROWAN STARLING!”

The words cracked into the cold air, echoing off car roofs and concession stands like some doomed, beautiful comet.

For a second, there was stunned silence across the parking lot.

Then—

A loud honk from three rows back.

A scattered cheer from somewhere near the snack shack.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Someone else—faint but unmistakable—yelled, “GET IT, BRO.”

Mason beamed, wide and utterly unapologetic, as he pulled his head back into the car, slammed the window up again, and turned toward her with the smuggest, most absolutely no regrets smile she had ever seen.

His curls were a mess. His hoodie was bunched up under his seatbelt. His cheeks were pink from cold and shameless glee.

And still—he looked at her like she hung the damn stars.

“Told you I peaked,” he said, a little breathless, a lot in love.

Then, softer, like it was just for her, like the cheering and whistling outside didn’t even exist:

“And for the record? You’re the only song I’m interested in singing.”

He squeezed her hand once more—tight, sure—and grinned that lopsided, boyish grin that had absolutely no defense mechanisms left intact.

“And yeah,” he added, chuckling under his breath, “next date? You’re picking the duet. Just... be gentle. I’m fragile.”

He turned back toward the flickering movie like he hadn’t just wrecked the emotional landscape of the entire drive-in—and somehow, impossibly, squeezed her hand even tighter.

Because Mason Hayes had never been subtle.

And he was never going to start now.

Not when it came to loving her.

Rowan just… stared at him.

Wide-eyed.

Mouth open in a silent what the actual hell kind of way.

Because Mason Hayes—Mason freaking Hayes—had just screamed her name into the night like he was starring in some rom-com fever dream. Like this was a rooftop confession scene in act three and not, you know, a weird alien romance drive-in with scattered popcorn in the footwells.

Someone honked again. Someone else whistled. Rowan didn’t move.

She didn’t blink.

She definitely didn’t breathe.

For about three full seconds, she just sat there, cider cup forgotten, heart in her throat, body frozen like if she so much as twitched, the entire universe would realize this moment wasn’t actually meant for her.

Except—no.

It was.

It was for her.

Because Mason was grinning at her like she was the reason he learned how.

Because his hand was still wrapped around hers, grounding, steady, real.

Because he wasn’t embarrassed. Wasn’t flinching.

He was proud.

Of her.

Of them.

Of loving her out loud in a way that made the whole sky feel too small to contain it.

Rowan let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, slow and shaky, and dropped her forehead lightly against his shoulder with a tiny, incredulous huff.

“You’re… actually insane,” she muttered against the worn fabric of his hoodie. “Like certifiably, clinically, absolutely unhinged.”

She felt his chest shake with a silent laugh. Felt his fingers tighten around hers again, that steady, infuriating, beautiful pulse of him.

And still—still—she couldn’t stop smiling.

Not a smirk. Not a tease.

The real kind.

The kind that hurt a little because it felt so big.

She turned her face just enough to look up at him—messy curls, starlight eyes, cheeks flushed with cold and ridiculous joy—and muttered, dry as ever:

“If anyone posts that online, you’re legally required to marry me just to deal with the fallout.”

A beat.

A blink.

Her thumb brushed along his knuckles, slow and sure, and this time, her voice dropped—softer, rawer, a little wrecked:

“…Not that I’m complaining.”

And just like that, Rowan Starling, black cat soul and all, folded a little more into the boy who never once asked her to be anything less than everything she already was.

Because Mason Hayes didn’t just love her.

He loved her loud.

And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe she could be that brave too.

Mason felt it hit him—all of it—like a second heartbeat thundering right beneath his own.

Her words. Her smile. That soft, raw “…not that I’m complaining.”

It wrecked him.

In the best way. In the only way that mattered.

He didn’t laugh this time. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even make a dumb comment about the legal intricacies of shotgun drive-in marriages.

Because the truth slammed into him with so much clarity it practically stunned him still:

He was absolutely, certifiably, already crazy in love with Rowan Starling.

And yeah—marriage? The idea of it should’ve made his brain short-circuit, should’ve sent him running for a panic snack or an emergency musical number.

But it didn’t.

Because when he looked at her—head tucked into his shoulder, fingers brushing his knuckles like she meant it, like she was choosing him—he didn’t feel scared.

He felt sure.

Would he marry her tomorrow if she asked?

God, yes.

Was he remotely ready for that kind of life step?

Absolutely not.

Was he thinking about what it would sound like, her voice slipping through a doorway and calling his name like it was always meant for forever?

Yeah.

He was.

A ridiculous grin broke over his face—messy, unstoppable, so wide it ached—and he leaned in without thinking, without planning, because planning was for people who weren’t hopelessly, recklessly, stupidly gone.

His hand slipped up, curling around the side of her jaw with a kind of reverence that made the whole world fall away. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, slow and soft, like he could memorize the smile before it disappeared.

“Starling,” he whispered, voice wrecked and flirty all at once, “you have no idea what you just signed up for.”

And before she could fire back—before she could breathe another sarcastic word—he kissed her.

Properly.

Like the world outside the windshield didn’t exist.

Like she was the beginning and ending of every stupid song he'd ever belted at the top of his lungs.

It was warm and slow and full, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything but gave everything.

And when he finally pulled back—just barely, just enough to rest his forehead against hers—he grinned that wicked, lovesick, hopeless grin and whispered:

“Told you I’m crazy.”

A beat.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, gentle and sure.

“Crazy in love with you.”

And Mason Hayes, hoodie rumpled, curls wild, heart thrown recklessly at her feet, didn’t need the movie or the starlight to know—

This?

This was the only story he ever wanted to live.

Rowan didn’t move at first.

Didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t even try to hide the way her hands fisted into the fabric of his hoodie like she had to hold onto something or she might just float straight out of her own skin.

Because Mason Hayes—her ridiculous, chaotic, golden retriever of a boyfriend—had just looked at her like that. Had just kissed her like he knew exactly how many pieces she’d been hiding and loved her because of them, not in spite of them.

And it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It wasn’t chaos, not the kind she usually braced herself for.

It was steady.

It was sure.

It was him.

Her forehead stayed pressed against his, breathing him in like she was trying to memorize this moment in case the universe tried to steal it back. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his hoodie—tight at first, then looser, smoothing over the worn cotton like she was grounding herself. Like she was choosing to stay.

Because she was.

She squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, just long enough to whisper back—steady and small and not sarcastic for once:

“You’re an idiot.”

A breath.

A laugh, soft against his cheek.

“My idiot.”

She opened her eyes then—slow, sure—and let him see it.

All of it.

The terror. The awe. The reckless, stupid, terrifying love.

The part of her that wasn’t running anymore.

Rowan Starling didn’t believe in fairy tales. She didn’t believe in fate. She didn’t even really believe in happily ever afters.

But this?

This dumb, too-big feeling curling in her ribs, stealing her breath, making her fingers shake where they touched his?

She believed in him.

“Crazy’s fine,” she whispered against his mouth, teasing but breathless. “I like crazy.”

And then—because sarcasm was armor but Mason was safety—she leaned in and kissed him again.

Fiercer this time.

Like she wasn’t scared of wanting anymore.

Like maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready to admit she didn’t just fall for him.

She chose him.

Right here. Right now.

Alien movies. Hoodie strings. Rooftop promises and drive-in confessions.

Her fingers slipped up, brushing his jaw, holding him steady the way he always somehow held her.

And when she finally pulled back, breathing hard but smiling like she couldn’t help it, she muttered:

“Hope you’re ready, Hayes.”

A beat.

“Because you’re stuck with me now.”

And as she settled back against him—cheek tucked into the curve of his shoulder, fingers still tangled up in his hoodie like a lifeline—Rowan realized something that didn’t scare her anymore:

She didn’t just love him.

She trusted him to love her back.

Exactly as she was.