An outdoor drive-in theater is the kind of place that feels dipped in nostalgia, even if you’ve never been before. Nestled at the edge of town or just off a winding highway, it opens up into a wide, gravel-paved lot surrounded by tall trees or low hills, the perfect natural backdrop for stargazing in between scenes.

At the far end stands a massive white screen, weathered slightly by seasons but still proud and glowing when the reels start to roll. Beneath it, rows of parked cars are lined up—vintage convertibles, pickup trucks with pillows in the back, even modern SUVs with their trunks popped open. Kids sit cross-legged in the beds of trucks or curled in blankets on hoods. Some adults bring lawn chairs, coolers, and citronella candles, creating makeshift living rooms under the sky.

String lights zigzag overhead near the entrance, and the concession stand glows like a beacon—offering buttered popcorn in striped paper bags, glass-bottled sodas, soft pretzels, and maybe even root beer floats in frosted mugs. There’s a slight hum of chatter and static from radios tuned to the right frequency, the sound of the movie crackling through open windows.

As the sun sets, the screen flickers to life and the real magic begins: headlights dim, the night settles soft and low, and the world quiets around a shared story unfolding under stars.

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.”