Evergreen Drive-In
 

The movie played on, all flickering color and soft static on the windshield, but Rowan had long since stopped trying to follow the plot. Something about an alien romance or a space station—she didn’t really care. Not when Mason was sitting like that beside her, hoodie collar rumpled, fingers loose on the console like he hadn’t even noticed they were inches from hers.

She sipped her cider, boots up on the dash, watching the glow of the screen stutter over the side of his face. He looked calm. Relaxed in that quiet way that only showed up late at night, when no one was asking him to be anything. No lines to memorize. No parts to play.

“Okay,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “You’re doing that thing again.”

She didn’t look at him right away. Just swirled the last inch of cider in her cup, waiting.

“That thing where you pretend to be watching the movie, but you’re actually watching me watch the movie. Which is weird, by the way.”

Her voice was teasing, but under it was something softer—something that said I see you. And I don’t mind.

She glanced over then, catching the ghost of a grin at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t deny it. Of course he didn’t.

Rowan smirked and nudged his leg with hers, letting the contact linger.

“I’m flattered,” she added, quieter now. “Also mildly concerned for your taste in entertainment. I’m like… ninety percent sure there are better things to look at than my dumb forehead reacting to space kisses.”

He said nothing, but his hand moved toward hers, and she met him halfway—gloved fingers threading through his like they’d done it a thousand times already.

She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that tasted like cinnamon and relief.

“You know,” she murmured, “I think I like this better than prom.”

And she did.

Because this wasn’t a night about sparkle or spectacle. It was popcorn and cider steam. It was a hoodie that still smelled like bookstore pages. It was warmth against her thigh and his hand in hers and the way the silence between them never felt empty.

Just full of everything they didn’t have to say out loud.

Not yet.

Mason didn’t move for a second.

Didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—just sat there with her hand in his, the ghost of that grin deepening like it had nowhere else to go.

Because yeah.

He’d been watching her.

Of course he had.

The movie was fine. Weird alien romance. A lot of slow-motion shots and interstellar longing. But Rowan? Rowan was the real main character. Always had been. The way the screen lit up her profile, how she cradled the cider cup with both hands like it held something sacred, how her eyes softened just before her smirk kicked in—he’d take that over any love story set in space.

He turned his head toward her fully now, eyes flicking to the glow on her cheek, to the tiny curve of her mouth.

“You know what’s wild?” he said, voice low, lazy with affection. “I don’t remember a single line from this movie. Not one. Couldn’t tell you what planet they’re on. But I can tell you exactly how many times you’ve smiled during it.”

He squeezed her hand once, thumb brushing slow circles over the ridge of her knuckle through the glove.

“Seven,” he said. “And a half, if I count that little almost-smile you tried to hide during the popcorn scene.”

He shrugged, eyes warm. “What can I say? Your forehead reactions are critically acclaimed.”

Her leg nudged his again, and this time, he leaned into the contact. Not bold, just… there. Steady. Present.

And then—because she deserved the truth, always—he added, softer now, “I like this better than prom too.”

His gaze drifted out the windshield, the blurred shapes of cars and trees dancing in the starlight flicker of the screen. “Prom was magic, don’t get me wrong. But this?”

He looked back at her.

“This is real. This is you, boots on my dash, calling me out for watching you like a creep and still holding my hand anyway.”

He laughed a little under his breath, then looked down at their joined hands, like even that was too good to be true.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, tugging her hand slightly toward him, “this beats tuxes and tiaras a hundred times over. I’d pick cider and space kisses with you every time.”

Then—because he couldn’t help it, not when the moment asked for it—he lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of hers.

Quick. Gentle. Like punctuation on a sentence he hadn’t needed to say out loud.

And when he looked at her again?

He was still doing that thing.

Watching her instead of the movie.

But this time, he didn’t pretend otherwise.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just let the moment stretch—soft and unhurried—like the air between them knew better than to interrupt. Her fingers stayed laced in his, glove creased against his palm, thumb brushing slow over his in return. Not because she was trying to be romantic. Because she didn’t want to let go.

The movie flickered across the windshield, casting color and motion across his face, and still—he was watching her.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

“You’re impossible,” she said finally, quiet and a little rough around the edges. Like maybe the weight of everything he’d just said had settled somewhere beneath her ribs and decided to stay. “Completely, chronically impossible.”

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Didn’t pull her boots off the dash.

Didn’t tell him to stop looking at her like she was the most interesting thing in a galaxy full of slow-motion aliens and glowing planets.

She turned her head toward him instead, cheek pressed lightly against the seatback, lashes low beneath the screenlight. “You really counted?” she asked, a little incredulous, a lot endeared. “Seven and a half?”

Then, because it felt like the only thing left to do, she leaned over and kissed him. Nothing flashy. No big, cinematic swell. Just her mouth on his, cider-warmed and certain. A thank-you. A you’re right. A me too.

When she pulled back, she let her forehead rest against his temple, eyes slipping closed like she was bracing herself against how real this all felt.

“I don’t do tiaras,” she whispered. “But I’d do this. Again. And again.”

The movie kept playing. The world kept moving.

But in that car, on that night?

She didn’t feel like she had to catch up.

Not when Mason Hayes was still holding her hand like it meant something. Like she meant something.

And maybe, finally, she believed it.

She stayed right there for a moment longer—forehead to his temple, breath synced to his like maybe their lungs had agreed on something without telling them. The kind of stillness she didn’t usually trust. The kind that made her want to say things out loud she normally kept buried beneath sarcasm and locked journal pages.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Because this—this quiet, this flickering, this strange little movie neither of them were actually watching—was the kind of real she never let herself hope for. The kind that felt like waking up in the middle of a good dream and realizing it hadn’t ended yet.

“I’ve been stared at before,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Judged. Picked apart. Compared. But you…”

She drew in a breath, slow and steady, like it hurt and healed her at the same time.

“You look at me like you already love every version I haven’t even figured out how to be yet.”

She tilted her head, eyes open now, gaze locked on his in the glow of the screen. “That’s not nothing, Hayes.”

Her fingers curled tighter around his. Not nervous. Not shy. Just honest.

“I think that’s everything.”

She leaned in again, pressed a kiss to his cheek this time—softer, slower, letting her lips linger.

Then she pulled back just enough to smirk, eyes glinting. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’re still the guy who spilled cider on his own shirt and blamed the thermos.”

Her boot nudged his thigh lightly. Teasing. Familiar. And so completely hers.

“But yeah,” she added, settling into the seat again, letting her head tip onto his shoulder like it was always meant to be there. “Next time? You’re picking the movie. Because I need at least one alien subplot I actually understand.”

And still—her fingers didn’t let go.

Mason was toast.

Not the lightly-golden, pleasant kind. No—he was full-on burnt around the edges, emotionally flambéed, barely holding-it-together toast. And somehow? He didn’t mind at all.

Because she’d said it—that’s everything—and now it was echoing inside his skull like a cathedral bell, still ringing even as she nudged his thigh with the boot that was currently resting against his entire will to remain normal.

And her fingers.

Still laced with his like they were holding something sacred between them.

He didn’t look away when she kissed his cheek. Didn’t flinch when she smirked and teased him about the cider incident. If anything, he leaned into it—into her—because there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be roasted gently by the love of his life than in the passenger seat of her heart-shaped apocalypse.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, forehead tipped just slightly toward hers. “Absolutely feral and soft and cosmic and grounded and—you kiss like a plot twist and talk like you invented gravity.”

A pause.

“And now you’re telling me I get to pick the next movie?”

He turned to her, completely deadpan. “Starling. That’s like giving a golden retriever the aux cord.”

A beat.

“I am going to abuse that power. You know this, right?”

But even as he said it, his hand rose to her face—bare fingertips brushing just below her jaw like he was still memorizing her. Not the way she looked, but the way she felt. All glow and sarcasm and truth under skin.

“You say I look at you like I already love every version of you,” he said, voice low, meant for her and only her. “That’s because I do.”

He didn’t say it like a line.

He said it like fact. Like weather. Like he was just reporting something the universe had already carved into his ribcage.

His thumb traced along her cheekbone. “And I plan to keep loving all of them. Even the one who made me sit through a two-hour alien rom-com that might’ve just been an extended perfume commercial for stardust.”

She snorted, and his chest bloomed with it.

And then—because she was tucked into his shoulder and his hand was still wrapped in hers and he had about sixteen more ways to fall for her tonight—he kissed the side of her head, slow and full.

Not for show.

Just because he could.

“Next time,” he whispered, “you bring the sarcasm, I’ll bring the plot.”

He let their hands settle again, fingers warm through the gloves, the movie still flickering on—forgotten, unimportant.

Because in that car, with her head against his shoulder and her breath against his collar, Mason Hayes wasn’t watching a movie.

He was watching a future.

And it looked exactly like her.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just let herself stay right there—pressed against him, fingers tangled, the weird alien rom-com flickering quietly in the background while Mason went full poetic chaos in the driver’s seat. She could feel the grin trying to creep onto her face, and she bit it back, barely.

He was… ridiculous.

And kind. And warm. And completely incapable of hiding how deeply he felt things, especially when it came to her.

“Golden retriever with the aux cord is honestly the most accurate threat I’ve heard all week,” she muttered into his shoulder, voice dry but fond. “You’re gonna make me listen to show tunes or like… emotionally devastating folk ballads with no warning, aren’t you?”

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed, smirk tugging at her lips.

“Honestly, kind of rude that you’re still this sweet after I made you sit through two hours of space perfume. Thought that might’ve knocked the charm out of you.”

But then—quieter—she gave his hand a little squeeze.

“I like that you watched me more than the movie.”

Her voice dipped, softer than she meant it to be.

“And yeah. You can love every version. Even the feral one.”

She leaned in a little more, temple resting against his jaw now, the smell of his hoodie curling around her like a secret.

“You already have, I think.”

And just like that, the sarcasm was gone. No armor. No joke at the ready.

Just her. Honest. Open. Still learning how to be held without bracing for impact.

The screen lit up in another dramatic shot of glowing stars and teary alien confessions, but Rowan barely noticed. Her eyes were closed, breathing in the calm of his shoulder, letting the weight of his affection settle somewhere safe.

“We’re a menace together,” she added, lips brushing the edge of his hoodie, the words barely there.

But her fingers never let go of his.

And her heart—soft, full, steady—stayed exactly where he’d found it.

She could feel him still watching her, even after the teasing had faded, even after the quiet had settled like dusk between their shoulders. And normally, that would’ve made her twitchy—like she had to fill the silence, dodge the weight of it with something sharp or clever.

But not with Mason.

Not with his hand in hers and that steady thrum of warmth beneath her cheek like gravity had finally picked a side.

“Don’t make a habit of saying stuff like that,” she mumbled, more into his collar than anything else. “You’ll ruin me.”

She didn’t mean it to sound as soft as it did. Didn’t mean for her fingers to tighten around his like a reflex. But maybe that was the point—maybe she didn’t have to mean to, not with him. Maybe it could just be real.

Still.

She smirked against his shoulder a second later. “And for the record, if you do put on show tunes next time, I reserve the right to judge your choices very dramatically.”

Her tone was light, but the way her thumb moved—slow, sure, brushing over the side of his palm—carried something quieter beneath it. Something she wasn’t ready to say yet, not out loud. But she figured he’d hear it anyway.

He always did.

Another alien cried on screen. Some melodramatic string swell played. Rowan didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she just shifted slightly so her head rested more squarely on his shoulder and whispered, “Next time, let’s bring a blanket. And maybe sneak in those lemon bars you pretend not to like.”

A pause.

Then, a tiny, honest murmur:

“I like this version of us.”

And she didn’t need a movie to know how that story ended.

She was already living it.

Mason didn’t say anything right away.

Mostly because his brain had short-circuited again—but in that slow, syrupy way that came from hearing her say I like this version of us while curled against his side like she’d always belonged there. Like his shoulder was home and not just a lopsided hoodie draped in sugar-sticky nostalgia and stupid devotion.

He turned his head just slightly, enough to rest his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the faint trace of cider and her shampoo and whatever magic ingredient she was made of that made him forget what day it was.

And then, because the moment was perfect and still and clearly begging to be ruined in the most Mason way possible, he sighed dramatically.

“You do realize,” he said, voice muffled into her hair, “that by suggesting show tunes, you’ve given me tremendous power.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes alight with mischief and affection and entirely too much enthusiasm for someone who’d just sat through a film that could only be described as Intergalactic Feelings: The Perfume Edition.

“I mean, next time? I’m not just putting on the Les Mis soundtrack—I’m performing it.”

He held her hand aloft like a Broadway spotlight had just found him in the front seat. “I will be Jean Valjean. I will belt ‘Bring Him Home’ like my emotional stability depends on it. And I will cry.”

Her eyes narrowed. He grinned harder.

“And when the Newsies number hits? You’re getting choreo. Full windshield wiper choreography. Don’t test me.”

He kissed the back of her hand again, softer now, like he couldn’t help it, like the joke had done its job but the gravity of her hadn’t let go.

“And you can judge,” he said, smile dimming into something more tender, “but only if you agree to join in when Wicked hits the speakers.”

A beat.

His voice dipped, low and real.

“Because I wanna know what it sounds like when the feral version of you sings ‘Defying Gravity.’”

She didn’t answer right away—probably plotting her rebuttal—but her hand was still warm in his. Her head was still on his shoulder. Her heart was still doing that quiet, steady rhythm against him like it had decided he was safe.

And Mason Hayes?

He was absolutely done for.

“This version of us,” he echoed softly, gaze flicking from her to the screen and back again, “is already my favorite story.”

He let the alien soap opera continue in the background, all dramatic tears and weird glowy neck jewelry, but he didn’t care.

Because the only scene he wanted to replay was this one.

Rowan. Hoodie. Cider breath. A promise in her hand and a whole lifetime tucked into the quiet between movie dialogue.

And yeah—next time?

He was absolutely bringing lemon bars and a speaker.

Because the world needed to hear exactly how obnoxiously in love he could sound belting “Sincerely, Me” at a drive-in.

And if she joined in?

Even better.

Rowan rolled her eyes—affectionate, dramatic, and only half-annoyed.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, but she didn’t move from where her head rested on his shoulder. If anything, she leaned in more, letting her fingers tighten around his like she was bracing for whatever chaos he planned to unleash next.

“I swear, if you belt Les Mis in the car, I’m pulling out my emergency earplugs. And if there’s choreography?” She turned just enough to look at him, eyebrow arched. “You better stretch first. I am not driving you to the ER because you pulled something mid-Newsies.”

But her lips twitched, fighting a grin.

Because the truth was, she loved it. The way he made even the weirdest nights feel like something warm and woven together. Like a memory in progress.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she added, mock stern, though the thumb she brushed along the back of his hand said otherwise. “And you’re lucky your ridiculous drive-in serenade fantasy sounds… kinda perfect.”

She pressed her cheek back to his shoulder.

“And just so you know,” she murmured, voice softening, “if Wicked happens? I’m singing Glinda. And I’m not holding back.”

Outside, the movie carried on without them. Inside, she felt it—something quiet and steady and good.

This version of them?

It didn’t need a spotlight.

It already glowed.

Rowan let the silence linger for a beat, cheek still pressed against the fabric of his hoodie. It smelled like him—like clean laundry and cinnamon gum and something a little intangible. Something she didn’t have the words for yet, but felt anyway.

“I’ll even let you do the dramatic arm grab,” she added, eyes on the flickering screen in front of them. “You know, the one from every musical where someone dramatically gasps and clutches their chest like they’ve just discovered feelings for the first time.”

A pause.

“And I reserve the right to mock you relentlessly for it… while secretly loving every second.”

She shifted, just enough to nudge her knee against his again. Not to move away—just to remind him she was still there, still listening, still choosing this moment over every other version of what tonight could’ve been.

Then, quieter: “You make everything feel like it matters.”

Her voice wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t teasing. Just honest. Simple. Like she’d plucked the thought out of her chest and handed it over without wrapping it in sarcasm first.

“You take a random Friday night and turn it into a core memory. It’s annoying.”

A beat.

“But it’s also kind of amazing.”

She didn’t look at him right away. She didn’t have to. His hand was still wrapped in hers, and the way he held on—like she was the one thing grounding him—said enough.

Rowan reached for the half-empty cider cup in the cupholder, took a sip, then leaned back in again like she hadn’t just casually rewritten what comfort looked like.

“Next time you bring lemon bars,” she said, lips curving just slightly, “I’ll bring a playlist. Something equally chaotic. Equal parts Broadway and broody.”

She finally glanced up at him, eyes catching the light of the screen.

“And maybe… if you’re lucky, I’ll sing.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she rested her head against his shoulder again, the shape of her smile hidden in the dark—but real.

Unmistakably hers.

Mason didn’t respond immediately.

Mostly because he was busy dying.

In the best way.

Because Rowan Starling—fierce, sharp, terrifyingly cool Rowan Starling—had just told him she’d sing Glinda. That she wanted equal parts Broadway and broody. That she would mock his dramatic arm grabs while secretly loving them. And then, then, she hit him with “you make everything feel like it matters.”

Which. Yeah.

Dead. Gone. Finished.

He blinked a few times, trying to mentally resuscitate himself, and then—because he is who he is—he let out a breath, cracked his neck with theatrical flourish, and said solemnly:

“I warned you.”

Then, under his breath—low and crooning like he was prepping for a Tony nomination—he started:

“I am not throwing away my shot…”

He raised her hand dramatically like he was toasting an invisible balcony.

“I am not throwing away my shooooot—”

Then he stopped mid-line, cutting himself off with a raised eyebrow and a self-satisfied smirk. “See? Restraint. Growth. That’s me being merciful. I could’ve gone full Sky Masterson. You don’t want to see what happens when I get to Sondheim.”

He glanced sideways at her, eyes flicking to the soft smile still tucked into her cheek against his shoulder, and let the moment settle again.

Warm. Comfortable. Real.

And maybe just a little smug, because she had said his ridiculous serenade fantasy sounded perfect.

Still, his voice dropped a bit, losing the playfulness but none of the weight.

“You know I haven’t forgotten, right?” he murmured, fingers brushing over hers. “About owing you.”

He turned toward her a little more now, chin nudging her temple as his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle over the back of her hand. “What you did on the rooftop…”

His breath caught—just for a second—then settled.

“That’s not something I’m letting slide under a playlist joke or a drive-in kiss. That was—you.” His voice dropped again, rougher, more real. “Trusting me. Choosing me. Giving me something I’ll never stop being grateful for.”

A beat.

“And I fully intend to return the favor. I’m just pacing myself. Letting you emotionally prepare. Because once I get going?”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to smirk down at her with faux-serious intensity.

“I will ruin your entire life. In the most respectful and consensually devastating way possible.”

Then he leaned in, kissed the top of her head—soft, slow, like punctuation—and whispered,

“So be ready, Starling. Because I’m not throwing away my shot.”

And just like that, he settled back, fingers still tangled in hers, cider-sweet air curling between them, Broadway stars flickering on the windshield.

The movie kept playing.

But Mason Hayes?

He was already plotting the sequel.

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because she was busy trying not to smile too much. Which was hard, honestly, when the boy next to her was quoting Hamilton like it was his birthright and talking about ruining her life with the kind of reverence normally reserved for sacred texts or season finales.

She turned slowly, one brow arched, her cheek still pressed against his shoulder.

“You realize,” she said, dry as the winter wind outside the car, “that if you ever do a full Newsies routine in my presence, I’m legally obligated to film it and send it to everyone you’ve ever met.”

Her fingers squeezed his, just once. Not because she was trying to tease him out of sincerity—but because she needed the grounding. Needed him, real and close and still kind of ridiculous. And because he kept saying things that made her want to kiss him into shutting up, which wasn’t exactly conducive to maintaining her usual level of emotional detachment.

“I’m serious, though,” she added, her voice softening just a little. “You get one Broadway number per date night. Max. I have standards.”

She paused. Nudged his shoulder gently with hers. Then let her thumb brush the side of his hand, the way she always did when she didn’t know how to say something without saying everything.

“And I know,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “I know you haven’t forgotten. About the rooftop. About… what that meant.”

Her voice dipped, quiet but steady.

“I didn’t do it so you’d owe me anything, Hayes. I did it because I wanted to. Because I trust you. Because you’re—”

She shook her head, smirking again, just enough to balance out the truth.

“God, don’t make me say something mushy while you’ve got Les Mis stuck in your head. I’ll never recover.”

And still—her hand stayed in his.

Still, her leg leaned gently into his.

Still, her breath lingered warm against the fabric of his hoodie as she tilted back toward him.

“I’m not worried about the sequel,” she said after a moment, voice low and sure. “Because the plot? Kinda already has me hooked.”

She looked back at the screen, the movie flickering in hazy purples and slow zooms across the glass.

And then, without looking at him again:

“But for the record… if you ever sing ‘Sincerely, Me’ in public, I’m breaking up with you on the spot.”

A pause.

“…Right after I join in on the second verse.”

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.

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.