Mason’s heart was no longer beating in his chest.

It was somewhere in his throat. Or maybe in her hands. Maybe both.

Because Rowan Starling was choosing him—with her hands, her lips, her body, her breath—and he felt it in every atom. She wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t testing. She was just here. Present. Real. Letting him feel all of it—her weight, her warmth, her want—and letting him be the one she trusted with it.

His breath caught again when her palm pressed lower, a full-body stutter that said more than words ever could. She grinned against his mouth, smug and golden and so goddamn beautiful it made his head spin.

“When I do the next part, I need you not to combust, okay?”

He choked on a laugh. “No promises,” he whispered, voice rough with affection and awe. “But I’ll die happy.”

And then she was shifting—leaving his arms, settling between his legs, every motion deliberate and unhurried like they had all the time in the world.

Which maybe they did.

Because this wasn’t about rush or release.

This was about her.

About him.

About the kind of love that didn’t ask to be earned, only accepted. Held. Answered.

His hand reached for hers, threading their fingers together before she could go any further—just for a second. Just long enough for her to look up at him and see it.

The wonder.

The reverence.

The silent, breathless thank you that lived somewhere behind his ribs and had been waiting for a night like this.

“I love you,” he said again, softer than breath, steadier than stars.

Then he let go.

When he finished, Rowan swallowed without hesitation. She also didn’t move right away.

She just stayed there, perched between his legs, sweater sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed, heart pounding with something that wasn’t nerves—just quiet satisfaction and maybe a little awe. Her fingers rested lightly on his chest, steadying herself more than him, though honestly? He looked like the one who needed grounding.

His eyes were open, sure. But barely.

Staring somewhere past her, up at the stars like they’d just given him a vision.

She tilted her head. Smirked. Let her thumb trace a lazy circle through the cotton of his hoodie.

Then, dry as dust, voice barely above a whisper:

“So. Do I need to check for a pulse, or…?”

No response.

She huffed a laugh through her nose, leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tap twice if you’re still alive, Hayes.”

Still nothing—at least not immediately. But his chest rose again, a little sharper now, like maybe breath was coming back in pieces. She grinned.

“Okay,” she murmured, settling back on her heels with a mock-thoughtful nod. “He lives. But barely. Gonna have to add ‘emotional CPR’ to my list of talents.”

And then—because she could, and because he hadn’t combusted yet—she leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth. A promise, a tease, a thank you.

“Recover at your own pace, drama boy,” she whispered. “I’ll be right here.”

Mason had heard her.

He just couldn't respond yet. Not when his brain had turned into soft static and his body was still somewhere in the stratosphere. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak—it was that language had temporarily left the building.

Rowan Starling had rendered him nonverbal.

Not with some flashy performance. Not with a grand gesture.

But with intention. With care. With the kind of quiet that left marks deeper than noise ever could.

So yeah, when she teased him—“Tap twice if you’re still alive, Hayes”—he was aware. He just couldn't move yet. Not until his heart decided to stop skipping like a record stuck on this is the best moment of my life.

But then she kissed him again. Soft. Precise. Right at the corner of his mouth.

And that?

That broke the spell.

He blinked. Finally. Then breathed. And then—

“Oh my God,” he croaked, voice wrecked and hoarse and utterly full of wonder. “I have seen the face of heaven, and her name is Rowan Starling.”

His eyes fluttered toward her—barely able to focus, grin lopsided, flushed to hell and back. “I’m not even being dramatic. I mean, I am, but I’m also being scientifically accurate. I just briefly left my mortal form.”

He shifted just enough to sit up straighter—slow, careful, like his limbs were still reacquainting themselves with Earth’s gravity. One hand found her waist, then her cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of her flushed skin like he had to make sure she was real.

“You,” he said, voice steadier now, still breathless but grounded, “are dangerous. I need you to know that. Like... top-tier weaponized affection.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her jaw—each touch slow, reverent, like his thank-you had turned into a liturgy.

“And also, for the record?” he murmured against her skin. “You just gave me a memory I’m going to think about every day until I’m ancient and annoying and probably still wearing this hoodie.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her again.

Fully.

And that grin—his real one, the one that curled just at the corner and made his eyes go all soft and shiny—broke across his face like the night had shifted just for them.

“I’m in so deep, Starling. Like, astronomically deep. Like, if loving you were a planet, I’d need a telescope and a crash course in astrophysics just to explain it.”

A beat.

“And yes, you absolutely get CPR privileges now. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. Legally. I'm filing the paperwork.”

Then, with a quiet laugh that melted back into awe, he pulled her gently back into his arms, tucking her against his chest like she was something rare and warm and his.

Because she was.

And Mason Hayes?

Yeah.

He was gone.

Rowan didn’t speak at first.

She couldn’t.

Because Mason Hayes had just said the kind of things you’re not supposed to get in real life. The kind of things that usually live in the margins of old books or in the lyrics of songs you never admit make you cry.

And he’d said them to her.

Not some dream girl. Not some curated version of who she thought she had to be.

Her.

She tucked her chin against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie—God, his hoodie—and let herself breathe it all in. The warmth of him. The tremble that still hadn’t fully left his body. The smell of cider and sky and something distinctly Mason.

He really was gone. And he really was hers.

“I think,” she said after a long, quiet moment, voice rough in that just-kissed kind of way, “if I ever had to write down the definition of ‘safe,’ it would just be this.”

Her hand slid up to his heart, slow and reverent, resting over it like maybe she could memorize the rhythm.

“You,” she added, even quieter.

She didn’t say much more after that. Didn’t need to.

Because the way she curled into him said everything.

I love you.

I trust you.

I’m not going anywhere.

And maybe—just maybe—the sky had rearranged itself for them tonight.

Because she wasn’t looking at stars anymore.

She was looking at him.

She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her palm, strong and steady, like it had nothing to hide.

Like it had been waiting for this—for her.

And it terrified her, how much she wanted to stay in this moment forever. Not because it wasn’t real, but because it was. Because Mason Hayes had become something sacred. Not untouchable, not perfect—but hers.

He made her feel like being known wasn’t dangerous. Like softness didn’t have to be earned. Like loving someone didn’t mean shrinking for them—it meant unfolding beside them.

She shifted just enough to press her mouth to the center of his chest, right over the rhythm that had welcomed her in like a song she used to hum without knowing the words.

“You’re not my escape,” she whispered into the cotton of his hoodie, more to herself than to him. “You’re my answer.”

And she meant it.

For every time she’d held herself together alone, for every night she’d sketched stars to feel less small, for every moment she thought love was just another thing she had to armor herself against—he was the answer.

Not because he fixed her.

Because he saw her.

Rowan exhaled slowly, one leg draped over his, their bodies tangled like they belonged in the same shape. She let her fingers drift—down his side, over the hem of his shirt, back to where their hands could tangle again.

Her thumb brushed his knuckle, and she smiled against his chest.

“I’m gonna ruin every future rooftop for you,” she murmured, a little breathless, a little smug. “Sorry in advance.”

She felt him laugh—and it echoed in her bones.

This was what home felt like.

And she wasn’t giving it up.

Mason let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a sigh laced with pure adoration—and wrapped his arms tighter around her like he was afraid she might drift away with the breeze.

“You’re already my favorite ruin,” he murmured, voice still hoarse and wrecked in the way only she could make it. “Honestly, roofs had a good run. But if you’re the reason I can never sit on one again without needing a moment to collect myself, I’m not complaining.”

His fingers found hers again, threading through like muscle memory, like prayer.

She had her ear pressed to his chest, her leg draped over his, her breath rising and falling in perfect counterpoint to his own. And still, he felt the words swelling inside him, too big to contain.

“Also—just for the record?” he added, a grin blooming lazily across his face, “I definitely owe you.”

He leaned down slightly, lips brushing her temple in a soft, reverent pass.

“And I do plan to return the favor.”

His voice dropped slightly, teasing but threaded with longing. “I just need to, you know… remember how to form coherent thoughts again. Maybe relearn the alphabet. Possibly get my soul back from wherever it went while you were ruining my entire existence in the most perfect way imaginable.”

He felt her smile against his chest and grinned wider, smug in that dorky, completely lovesick way he only got with her.

“I mean, sure. You’ve ruined rooftops. But also…”

He tilted his head, looking up at the stars, then back down at her like she was the brightest thing in the sky.

“This isn’t ruined. This is ours now.”

He let that settle.

Then—because he couldn’t help himself, not with her tangled around him and the whole world narrowed to the space between their breaths—he whispered, “Honestly, I say we ruin all the rooftops. Just make it a thing. A lifestyle. Tour the country. Leave emotional devastation and excellent kiss memories in our wake.”

A beat.

“Obviously, I’ll pack snacks.”

He kissed her again—slow, sweet, sure—and tucked her closer, like the only thing that mattered in the world was making sure she knew she was safe, and adored, and his.

And in that rooftop silence, with her fingers wrapped in his and the stars still blinking on above them, Mason Hayes decided that if this was what being ruined felt like?

He never wanted to be whole again.

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

She was too busy smiling into the fabric of his hoodie, heart beating slow and full in the space between his ribs and hers. His voice was still echoing in her—silly and sweet and reverent in that way he only got when the rest of the world faded out and it was just them.

And something in her chest had quietly, permanently rearranged itself.

Because he meant it. Because he always meant it.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part—how safe she felt in all his chaos. How real this had become. How entirely she wanted it.

Her fingers tightened around his, the rooftop blanket pulled haphazardly around their legs, her cheek resting right above his heartbeat.

She closed her eyes for a second, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb traced slow patterns over her knuckles. Her body was still flushed from before, but it wasn’t heat that anchored her here—it was gravity. Trust. That ridiculous hoodie smell and the fact that he held her like a secret he wanted to keep safe forever.

“You’re mine, Hayes,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the night air. “Just so we’re clear.”

And when she tilted her chin and kissed the line of his jaw—light, slow, final—it wasn’t about proving anything.

It was a promise.

Because tonight wasn’t about stealing moments.

It was about keeping them.

Rowan sighed—deep and reluctant—the kind of sound that came from her soul, not her lungs.

She didn’t move at first. Just pressed her nose into Mason’s hoodie, inhaled once like she could bottle this moment if she tried hard enough. Like maybe if she stayed still, the clock would too.

But time, predictably, didn’t care.

She shifted slightly, her leg brushing his, their fingers still tangled in the space between them.

“I hate this,” she mumbled against his chest. “Like… viscerally.”

Mason didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She felt the way he tightened his hold on her, just enough to let her know he hated it too.

She let herself stay there another breath. Two. Then sighed again—resigned this time—and tipped her face up to look at him, her expression somewhere between fond and tortured.

“But if I don’t make curfew, my mom’s going to assume I got abducted by aliens or joined a secret moon cult.”

A pause.

“She’s not entirely wrong, but still.”

Rowan sat up slowly, hoodie wrinkled, hair a little wild, eyes soft with something that didn’t need saying out loud. She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle tug.

“Come on, Hayes. Walk me down like the gentleman you are.”

Then, smirking faintly: “And try not to trip over your own devotion on the way.”

Mason made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh, head tipping back against the rooftop for one drawn-out second like he was appealing directly to the stars.

“Unreal,” he muttered dramatically. “I give you my heart, my soul, my hoodie—and you hit me with moon cult slander and a curfew.”

But when he sat up—hoodie bunched, curls a mess, grin utterly wrecked—it was clear he wasn’t even pretending to be mad.

He looked at her like she was the cult. Like he’d gladly follow her to the moon and back, no questions, no hesitation. Hell, he’d carry the snacks.

“You realize,” he said, voice thick with affection as he let her pull him upright, “this is the part where I say something really smooth and charming, but unfortunately, you already tapped me out emotionally and physically. So you’re just gonna have to settle for this.”

He kissed the back of her hand.

Soft. Sure. No crowd. No spotlight.

Just them.

Then he stood, tugging her gently with him, brushing his thumb along the inside of her wrist like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he tried.

“Also, for the record,” he added, leaning in close enough that his words ghosted against her jaw, “you saying ‘you’re mine’ like that? That’s going in the permanent collection. Right next to the ‘I love you’ and the time you ruined me with a single look.”

He straightened, pulled the blanket around her shoulders even though she was already warm, and gave her that crooked Mason Hayes smile—the one that looked like it belonged to a boy who hadn’t just fallen, but had leapt.

“Let’s go, Starling,” he said, tucking her hand into his like it was always meant to be there. “I’ll try not to trip over my devotion, but I make no promises about tripping over you.”

And with that, he led her back down into the quiet dark of the school, hoodie rumpled, heart full, mouth aching from smiling too much—and absolutely no regrets.

Because if this rooftop was the beginning?

Then the rest of the world had no idea what was coming.

Rowan exhaled against his chest, letting herself rest there a moment longer—her fingers curled into the edge of his hoodie, her breath syncing slowly with his. The rooftop was quiet now, their laughter and heat and confessions still lingering like a held note in the air.

But time was creeping in.

And as much as she hated it—really, truly hated it—she had to say something.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, one hand still resting over his heart.

“Okay,” she said softly, almost like she was apologizing. “I have to be home in twenty minutes. And as much as I want to ignore reality entirely and live up here with you in hoodie-and-cider exile…”

She trailed off, lips pressing briefly into a guilty smile.

Mason groaned—dramatic and unhelpful—and let his head fall back against the rooftop like she’d just asked him to break up with gravity. She rolled her eyes but leaned down to press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose anyway.

“Don’t make it harder,” she said, voice teasing, but her fingers lingered a little longer at his wrist before she stood.

She bent to gather the blanket, folding it roughly into her arms. Mason joined her a second later, rumpled and flushed and hopelessly beautiful in the way that made her stomach ache. He reached for the thermos, then offered her his hand.

She took it without hesitation.

And as they made their way toward the stairwell—silent, warm, still tangled in each other—Rowan squeezed his hand once and murmured, “I love you, Hayes. Thanks for one of the best nights ever.”

Just a truth.

Because even as they stepped back into the hallway and the real world crept closer—

That rooftop?

It would always be theirs.