Mason’s whole body felt like it might actually combust—and not in the theatrical, overdramatic way he usually joked about.

This was different.

This was her forehead against his. Her fists curling into his hoodie, then smoothing out. Her voice, shaky but sure, whispering “My idiot.” Her lips brushing his like a promise she wasn’t scared to make anymore.

And it wrecked him.

Steady. Fierce. Real.

It was better than any musical crescendo, any spotlight moment he could dream up.

Mason smiled so wide his cheeks hurt, the kind of smile he didn’t even try to hide, because how could he? Not when she looked at him like that. Like she wasn’t just here—she chose to be.

“Good,” he whispered back, his nose bumping hers lightly, his voice low and a little wrecked. “Because you’re stuck with me too, Starling. Forever. Sorry, no takebacks. Should’ve read the fine print.”

He pressed one last, lingering kiss to her forehead—the kind that felt more like a vow than anything he could say—and then, with every ounce of reluctance, leaned back into the seat, pulling her with him.

He tucked her close, one arm slung securely around her shoulders, letting her curl into his side like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.

The movie buzzed faintly on the windshield, casting purple and silver flashes over the car interior, but Mason wasn’t watching it.

Not really.

He was busy memorizing the way she fit against him. The way her hand stayed twisted into his hoodie like she wasn’t planning on letting go. The way his heart beat steadier with her weight tucked under his arm.

They stayed like that for a few minutes—quiet, warm, hearts syncing up in the dark.

Until—

A slow, dramatic sigh escaped him.

“Oh my God,” he muttered into her hair, tone full of mock despair. “They’re doing the tragic alien farewell scene. Again. How many star-crossed planet lovers does it take to figure out teleportation isn’t a real exit strategy?”

He felt her shake with a small, muffled laugh against his chest, and it only fueled him.

“Seriously, though,” Mason continued, eyes glued to the absurdly glittery CGI explosion happening onscreen, “if I ever get abducted by aliens, you better not give me some sad, slow-mo goodbye speech about love transcending space-time.”

He nudged her gently with his knee, smirking.

“You better storm the mothership with a baseball bat and demand my immediate release. Very respectfully, of course.”

He felt her snicker quietly, and it made his chest ache—in the good way, the God-I’m-in-so-deep-and-it’s-the-best-thing-that’s-ever-happened-to-me way.

Mason tightened his arm around her, kissed the top of her head again without thinking, and smiled against her hair.

Yeah.

She was stuck with him.

And somehow, impossibly, she didn’t seem to mind.

Rowan smirked against his shoulder, hearing Mason’s tragic alien rant like it was background noise to the real show: him, hopelessly dramatic and hers.

“Okay,” she said, deadpan, like she was negotiating a very serious treaty. “If you ever get abducted by aliens, I’m starting a full-blown intergalactic manhunt. Step one: call dibs on your Spotify account. Step two: learn how to hotwire a UFO. Step three: show up at their weird little mothership and demand you back.”

She lifted her head just enough to squint at him in the dashboard light, feigning suspicion.

“And you better not be out here giving some star princess sad boy eyes while you wait. I will drag you back by the hoodie.”

Mason made some helpless noise against her hair, and she grinned, victorious.

“But you’re lucky,” she added, settling back against him with a dramatic little huff. “You’re cute. I’d declare space war for you.”

She said it casually—like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t the most reckless, quietly unhinged promise she’d ever made.

And maybe it was. But it also wasn’t a joke.

Because she meant it.

In the row of flickering cars, under a movie they weren’t even pretending to watch anymore, with his hoodie tangled around her and his thumb brushing slow, steady circles on her hand—

Rowan realized something terrifying and kind of wonderful:

She’d go to war for him. She’d steal a spaceship for him. She’d memorize a thousand dumb musical numbers and storm every last alien empire if it meant she could keep him looking at her like this.

She sighed, stretching her legs out and nudging his shin under the dashboard.

“Next time,” she said, voice lighter, “we’re picking a movie where the main characters don’t have to sacrifice themselves in slow motion every five minutes.”

A beat.

“And where no one has glitter blood.”

She felt his chest shake with another silent laugh, and smiled so wide her cheeks hurt.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic.

But it was real.

And as she tucked herself closer to him, fingers playing lazily with the frayed hem of his hoodie, she decided she didn’t need anything more than this.

This chaos. This quiet. This ridiculously doomed alien love story on screen and their own much-better one happening right here, in stolen breaths and cheap cider and the kind of handholding that felt like a lifetime.

She tilted her face up, smirking against the side of his jaw.

“You owe me a better ending next time, Hayes,” she said. “And Milk Duds. I demand Milk Duds rights.”

And before he could answer—because she knew he would, dramatically, of course—she kissed his jaw again, quick and sure, like punctuation.

A promise.

And maybe a dare.

Mason just about melted right there in the seat.

Not from the kiss on his jaw—okay, maybe a little from that—but mostly from the way she said it. Like chaos and demands and tiny acts of affection were just how they spoke now. Like she wasn’t running anymore. Like this—this tangled, reckless, messy thing they were building—wasn’t some fragile maybe.

It was the thing.

He grinned—so wide and so dumbly fond that it was honestly a miracle he didn’t short-circuit his entire nervous system—and tightened his arm around her, pulling her even closer.

"You’re unbelievable,” he said into her hair, voice low and stupidly happy. “Starting an intergalactic war for me, negotiating Milk Duds like a pro, threatening star princesses... honestly? Peak girlfriend behavior.”

He leaned back against the seat, letting the flicker of the world's worst alien romance light up the inside of the car while he soaked her in. Her warmth tucked against him. Her fingers playing idly with the hem of his hoodie like she wasn’t even thinking about it.

Like she was home.

He exhaled a laugh, shifting just enough to brush his nose lightly against her hairline.

“You want a better ending?” he said, voice all fake solemnity and real, reckless affection. “Done. Next date: no glitter blood, no tragic space kisses, no dying in someone’s arms at the last second. Just Milk Duds, good music, and me not dying even a little bit. Maybe a musical number. Maybe a rooftop. Maybe a small, tasteful spaceship hijacking, if you're still feeling ambitious.”

He felt her laugh against him—felt it buzz in her chest, in his bones—and smiled even wider.

“And obviously,” he added, tilting his face down so his mouth brushed just above her ear, “you can have all the Milk Duds rights. Negotiated. Sealed. Legally binding.”

A beat.

Then, grinning full-wattage, that mischievous Mason Hayes glint lighting up his whole stupid soul:

“But you know… if you're gonna keep kissing me like that every time you win a negotiation...”

He pulled back just enough to catch her eye in the flickering light, voice dropping to a low, flirty drawl:

“I might have to start losing on purpose.”

He didn’t even give her a chance to roll her eyes.

He just kissed her—quick and smiling and real—right there between explosions of glittery alien blood and the slightly stale scent of cider and popcorn dust.

Because whatever came next—bad movies, musical showdowns, spaceship thefts, slow dances in parking lots—

He was already all in.

Rowan couldn’t help it—she laughed.

Not polite, not pretty. Real. That short, breathless kind of laugh that cracked out of her before she could catch it, muffled against Mason’s hoodie like maybe she could hide how hard he wrecked her just by burrowing closer.

He was impossible.

Absolutely, catastrophically impossible.

And the worst part—the part that made her toes curl in her boots and her heart kick so hard it nearly bruised her ribs—was that he meant every single word.

Milk Duds rights? Legal and binding.

Hijacking a spaceship? Sure, why not.

Kissing her like surrender was the only option he ever wanted?

Yeah.

Yeah, that was real too.

She tilted her head up, smirking against the curve of his jaw even though her cheeks were burning. “You’re such a menace,” she muttered, voice low and amused. “Like, full-time menace. I should start charging you rent for all the dumb stuff you’re putting in my brain.”

She nudged his side with her knee under the dashboard, light but firm. “And you’re not losing on purpose, Hayes. I want full-strength chaos when I win. No pulling your punches just ‘cause you think I’m cute.”

She tapped the center of his chest with two fingers for emphasis, like she was sealing the deal with a warning. “I can handle it.”

He made some half-choked sound that was either a laugh or the beginning of a very dramatic death scene, and God, she loved him for it. Every dorky, reckless, overgrown theater boy part of him.

Her fingers tangled back into the hem of his hoodie, tugging it just slightly like she needed to ground herself. Like she wasn’t ready to let go yet—and wasn’t planning to anytime soon.

“Also,” she said, quieter now, like she was slipping a secret between them, “if you think I’m not already planning the full Newsies-style showdown at the next bad movie we pick… you’re clearly underestimating me.”

She tipped her forehead back against his shoulder, letting the comfort of it settle deep into her bones, and for a second, she just stayed there—soaking it all in.

The sound of his heartbeat under her ear.

The way his thumb traced lazy patterns on her side.

The smell of cold air and cider and whatever detergent he used that smelled suspiciously like warm chaos and maybe home.

And beyond the windows, the world was slowly coming back to life.

The credits started rolling, faint and silver across the drive-in screen. Car engines rumbled to life around them. Headlights flashed in bursts as people packed up blankets and snacks, shaking off the last dregs of starlit magic to return to reality.

Rowan smiled against him—small, private, a little smug.

She didn’t need a tragic alien love story.

She had this.

This stupid, perfect boy in a too-big hoodie.

This passenger seat that felt more like a front row to every good thing she hadn’t let herself hope for.

This ridiculous night, ridiculous future, ridiculous plan to conquer Broadway and Milk Duds and maybe the galaxy if they felt like it.

She squeezed his hand once, slow and sure, and whispered just loud enough for him to hear over the rising hum of the parking lot:

“Let’s get out of here, Hayes.”

Because the movie was over.

But their story?

That was just getting started.