Mason watched her take the phone like she had every right to reach straight into the mess inside his head and start organizing it.

And the stupidest part was, he let her.

Of course he did.

His fingers stayed half-curled for a second after the phone left his hand, still holding the shape of it, still holding the shape of her touch where it had passed over his knuckles. The absence of her hand hit him harder than it should have—small, ridiculous, embarrassing—but then her knee pressed into his, her hip shifting closer, and the whole room seemed to click back into place.

There.

Still there.

He looked down at her as the screen lit her face from below, blue-white against the amber firelight. That little crease appeared between her brows—the one she got when she was focused, when the world narrowed to the task in front of her and heaven help anything that got in the way. It should not have been romantic, watching his wife search a cast recording on his phone while threatening his future bagels.

It was devastatingly romantic.

Mason’s chest tightened as she found the album, selected it with that quiet certainty of hers, and let the first notes slip into the room.

The sound was low. Careful. Almost secretive.

Still, his eyes went to the bassinet before he could stop them.

Lyric stayed asleep, one tiny fist near her cheek, mouth relaxed, the soft rhythm of her breathing undisturbed. The music settled under the room instead of over it—beneath the muted television, beneath the fire’s occasional crackle, beneath Rowan’s shoulder pressed warm and steady into his arm.

His throat went tight.

Because suddenly it wasn’t abstract.

It wasn’t Broadway as a word, or New York as a skyline, or an audition as some glowing, impossible thing he could keep at arm’s length and call a dream.

It was music in their living room.

It was Rowan’s hand slipping back into his.

It was their daughter asleep nearby while the first thread of the future played quietly through his phone speaker.

Mason took the phone back when she handed it to him, but his attention barely stayed on the screen. It kept sliding to her—to the curve of her mouth, the steadiness in her eyes, the way she had just looked at him and made the whole thing sound simple without making it small.

You know how to do this.

The words landed somewhere deep.

Too deep for a joke at first.

His thumb hovered over the track list, not touching anything, while he let himself feel the shape of them. She believed it. Not in the vague way people believed in dreams because it sounded nice. Rowan believed in evidence. In pattern recognition. In things she had seen with her own eyes.

And she had seen him.

That was the part that made it hard to breathe.

He swallowed, then let his fingers close more securely around hers, the phone resting loose in his other hand.

“Okay,” he whispered.

It came out quiet. Less polished than he meant it to. Rough at the edge, but steady enough.

He didn’t say more right away. He just listened.

The opening track moved through the room like a memory. It carried him back to auditorium dust and old stage curtains, to cheap props and hot lights, to the electric terror of waiting for a cue. He could feel the old version of himself in his ribs—the boy who wanted to be seen so badly and pretended that made him ridiculous instead of hungry.

He had been hungry.

He still was.

That realization should have scared him more than it did.

Maybe because Rowan was sitting beside him, shoulder against his, thumb moving slowly over his hand like she was keeping time. Maybe because Lyric was asleep a few feet away, proof that dreams didn’t have to cancel each other out. Maybe because the room smelled like smoke and baby lotion and Rowan’s shampoo, and somehow that made New York feel less like escape and more like an extension of this.

His life.

Their life.

He glanced at Rowan when she threatened the bagels, and the pressure in his chest loosened just enough for a smile to break through.

“Not the bagels,” he whispered, properly scandalized. “That’s cruel and unusual. I’m pretty sure it violates at least three marriage laws.”

His voice stayed low, but his eyes warmed with it, that familiar spark finding its way back through the awe.

He looked at the screen again, scrolling only enough to see the list, not to skip. He could feel her watching him. Could feel the warning in the way her fingers tightened once around his.

So he didn’t touch the track.

He lifted his free hand slightly instead—two fingers raised like a solemn oath.

“I will respect the process,” he murmured. “I will not cherry-pick the song that makes me sound emotionally wounded but vocally impressive.”

A beat.

Then, softer, with a sideways glance: “Even though I do have range.”

Her look nearly made him laugh out loud. He caught it in his throat at the last second, turning it into a breathy little huff that wouldn’t carry to the bassinet.

Lyric didn’t stir.

Good.

Mason let his head tip back against the couch for a second, eyes half-lidded, listening. Not performing. Not yet. Just letting the score remind his body what it already knew.

Breath low.

Jaw loose.

Shoulders down.

He hadn’t warmed up properly in months. Not really. He sang around the house, sure—quiet nonsense songs about diaper changes and bottle temperatures and whether Lyric had betrayed them all with a blowout after bath time. But this was different.

This was the old muscle waking up.

His fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stopped them, too restless to stay completely still. Rowan’s thumb kept moving over his hand, and he focused on that instead. Her rhythm. Her steadiness.

He glanced down at her.

She was looking at the phone now, or maybe the space between the music and his face. Her expression had softened, but there was still intention there. She wasn’t letting him float off into panic. She wasn’t letting him shrink it into a joke either.

She was keeping him in the room.

Mason turned slightly toward her, careful not to jostle the couch too much, and brought their joined hands up just enough to press his mouth to her knuckles.

It was brief. Quiet.

Necessary.

When he lowered their hands again, his voice came out softer.

“You know you’re kind of terrifying when you’re competent, right?”

He meant it as a joke. Mostly.

But the truth underneath warmed it.

“You just took my phone, found the source material, started the soundtrack, protected the bagels, and emotionally bullied me into believing in myself in under ninety seconds.”

His mouth curved, helpless.

“That’s a skill set.”

The music shifted beneath them, still low, and Mason’s attention caught on it again. He heard a phrase he knew. Something in his chest answered before his brain did. His breath adjusted around the melody, not singing yet, just shaping it silently behind his teeth.

Rowan noticed.

Of course she did.

His cheeks warmed, and he looked down with a small, sheepish grin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “My theater kid firmware is booting up.”

He shifted forward slightly, elbows resting lightly on his knees, phone still in hand, Rowan’s hand still caught in his. The glow of the screen threw the track list across his fingers. His wedding band flashed once when he moved.

That caught him too.

Husband.

Father.

Auditioning actor.

All three sitting in the same room like they belonged together.

He had spent so long assuming ambition required shedding parts of himself to be lighter. Easier to move. Easier to chase. But now the opposite felt true. Rowan’s shoulder against him, Lyric asleep nearby, the weight of his ring on his hand—none of it dragged him down.

It held him steady enough to want more.

He stared at the screen for another beat, then locked it and set it face down on the couch cushion between them. The music kept playing anyway, small and sure.

No skipping.

No spiraling.

Just the start.

He turned his face toward Rowan fully now, letting himself look at her the way he’d been trying not to because every time he did, it hit too hard. The firelight caught in her hair. Her eyes were tired but alive, softened at the edges in a way he still didn’t take for granted.

“You’re already in it,” he said quietly, echoing the part that had lodged in him hardest.

His voice thinned a little, and he let it. No smoothing it over.

“I keep thinking I have to invite you into the dream carefully, like I’m asking too much. And then you just…” He breathed out, almost smiling. “You walk in, rearrange the furniture, put snacks on the table, and tell me the audition’s Saturday.”

His eyes flicked to the bassinet once more, automatic, then back.

“I love you for that,” he murmured. “A lot.”

The words were simple. Smaller than what he felt. But if he tried to say the whole thing, it would come out ridiculous or too big for the room, and Lyric would wake up to her father having an emotional event over a cast recording.

So he leaned in instead.

Slowly.

Not a big kiss. Not one that asked for anything. Just a warm press to Rowan’s temple, then another near the edge of her hairline, where she always smelled faintly like home and whatever baby soap had become part of both of them now.

He stayed there for a breath.

Then he drew back just enough to murmur, “Playlist after source material. Warmups before ego. Bagels always.”

His mouth tilted against her skin.

“I can follow directions when they’re yours.”

He felt her smile more than saw it.

That was enough.

For a while, they just listened.

Mason let the music run under the quiet, under the crackle of the fire and Lyric’s breathing and Rowan’s thumb brushing slowly over his hand again. His brain still moved too fast—cuts, keys, flights, bottles, whether he still had the right shoes, whether audition rooms in New York smelled like nerves the same way high school dressing rooms did.

But it didn’t spin out.

Every time it tried, Rowan was there.

Shoulder to arm. Knee to knee. Hand in his.

The dream was still huge.

Terrifying, even.

But it had a couch now. A sleeping baby. A wife who had already picked the bagels.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

Rowan felt the kiss before she fully processed the words that came before it.

It wasn’t the kind that demanded anything. Not the kind that shifted the air or deepened the moment into something heavier than it already was. It was softer than that—placed, almost. Intentional in a way that made her chest tighten more than if he’d pulled her in and kissed her properly.

Her breath caught just slightly as his mouth brushed her temple, then lingered near her hairline, and for a second she closed her eyes without meaning to. The scent of him—faint smoke from the fire, something clean, something warm—mixed with the quiet hum of the room, and it settled into her like something she could keep.

Like something she already had.

Her hand tightened around his automatically, fingers pressing into his like she needed to anchor the feeling before it slipped past too quickly. It was a small reaction, almost invisible, but she felt it all the way up her arm.

He pulled back, but not far.

Not enough to lose the warmth.

And she didn’t move away either.

Her head tilted just slightly toward him, instinctive, the space between them narrowing without either of them really deciding it should. The music carried softly under everything, low and steady, and she became acutely aware of how quiet the house was—how every small movement felt amplified by it.

His words—simple, structured, a little bit him trying to hold onto something steady—settled into her slower than she expected.

Playlist after source material.

Warmups before ego.

Bagels always.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it.

Not wide. Not bright. Just… there. Something warm at the edges, something that stayed.

“You better,” she murmured, her voice low, softened by the way the moment had shifted.

But there was no real warning in it anymore.

No edge.

Just familiarity.

Just them.

Her eyes drifted down for a second, catching the way he’d set the phone aside, face down, like he’d made a choice not to chase ahead. Not to control it. To just let it be what it was right now.

That did something to her.

Something quieter than pride, but just as steady.

When she looked back up at him, he was already watching her.

And that—God, that never stopped landing.

Not the look itself. The way he looked. Like he was still a little surprised by her. Like he was still figuring her out even after everything, and somehow that didn’t make her feel uncertain—it made her feel chosen.

Her breath slowed, her shoulders easing another fraction as she let herself sit in it.

“You don’t have to invite me into it,” she said after a beat, her voice softer now, but more certain than before.

Her thumb resumed its slow movement over his hand, a grounding rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with keeping them right here.

“I’m not… waiting at the door for you to decide if it’s safe for me to come in.”

A small pause.

Her gaze held his, steady, unwavering—not confrontational, just… honest.

“I’m already in the room.”

The words weren’t dramatic. She didn’t push them. Didn’t dress them up.

She just let them sit there, between them, as true as everything else that had been said tonight.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the bassinet again, softer this time, her chest tightening in that familiar, aching way that came with looking at their daughter. Even asleep, Lyric felt like gravity—like something everything else quietly revolved around.

Rowan’s fingers curled slightly against Mason’s hand again before she looked back at him.

“And so is she,” she added, quieter still.

There was something different in her voice now. Not heavier. Just deeper. Rooted.

Then, because she could feel the moment hovering on the edge of becoming too much again—too open, too unguarded—she let out a small breath through her nose, the faintest hint of a smile returning.

Her shoulder nudged his lightly.

“And for the record,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him, her tone shifting just enough to pull them back into something easier, “you make it sound like I did something impressive.”

Her brow lifted slightly, a hint of dry amusement threading through.

“I googled a cast album and threatened your breakfast.”

A beat.

Her lips curved a little more.

“Let’s not build a résumé around it.”

But she didn’t pull away from him.

Didn’t break the contact.

If anything, she leaned in a fraction more, her head angling just enough that it brushed lightly against his shoulder as the music continued to play low beneath them.

For a moment, she just listened.

Not analyzing. Not planning.

Just… letting it settle.

The notes were familiar, even if she couldn’t place every track by name. There was something about the rhythm of it, the structure, the way it moved that made her feel like she was stepping into something already in motion rather than starting from scratch.

Her thumb slowed against his hand.

Then stilled.

“You’re going to want to mark the cuts tomorrow,” she said quietly, her voice thoughtful now, slipping back into that steady, practical cadence he knew so well. “Not tonight. Tonight you just… let it sit.”

Her eyes flicked up to his again, softer, but still grounded in that quiet certainty she carried.

“Let your body remember it before you try to shape it.”

A small pause.

Her gaze lingered on his face—on the way he looked right now, a little overwhelmed, a little lit up, something vulnerable still sitting just under the surface.

Her chest tightened again, but this time it didn’t feel like something she needed to manage.

It just… was.

“And tomorrow,” she added, her voice gentler now, “we’ll figure out what actually feels right.”

Not what sounded impressive.

Not what he thought he should do.

What felt like him.

Her fingers squeezed his once, softer this time.

“You don’t have to prove anything in that room,” she said quietly. “You just have to show up as yourself.”

The words lingered between them, quieter than the music, but just as steady.

Then she let out a small breath, her mouth curving again, just enough to shift the air.

“And if that fails,” she added under her breath, tilting her head slightly toward him, “we pivot to the bagel vendor identity.”

A beat.

Her eyes flicked up, catching his.

“I think you’d do well in a beanie.”

Rowan didn’t move right away.

The space between them held—warm, charged, steady—and she let herself feel it without rushing to fill it, her eyes tracing the small shifts in his expression, the way he stayed with her even in the quiet.

Then, almost absently, she leaned forward.

Her hand reached past him, fingers brushing the edge of his phone where it rested, and she lifted it just enough to set it more securely onto the coffee table. The soft tap it made against the wood barely registered, just another small sound absorbed into the room.

Her body stayed angled forward for a second after, her gaze drifting naturally toward the bassinet again.

Lyric hadn’t stirred.

Still tucked into herself, still breathing in that soft, even rhythm that made something in Rowan’s chest ease every time she checked. The sight of her—so small, so completely unaware of the world shifting quietly around her—settled something deep and instinctive.

Rowan lingered there for a beat longer than necessary.

Then her eyes flicked toward the clock.

The time pulled a small, thoughtful pause out of her, her bottom lip catching between her teeth as she processed it—not late enough to matter, not early enough to ignore. Just that in-between space where the night felt suspended.

Her teeth pressed lightly into her lip, holding it there for a second as something shifted under the surface.

Then she exhaled.

And the corner of her mouth lifted.

A smirk—not loud, not exaggerated, just… there. Quiet. Certain. A flicker of something that felt like her, unfiltered.

Her gaze slid back to him, and she didn’t give herself time to think about it.

She leaned in.

The movement was smooth, instinctive, closing the distance like it had been waiting for permission that she’d just decided to give herself. Her hand found him again—fingers curling lightly into his shirt this time, not just holding but pulling him into her.

And then she kissed him.

Deep.

No hesitation. No testing.

Just warmth and pressure and familiarity that went beyond the surface of it—something that carried memory and present together in a way that made her chest tighten as she leaned into him fully.

Her other hand came up to his jaw, thumb pressing there, grounding him and herself all at once as the kiss deepened, slowed, settled into something that felt lived-in rather than rushed.

She pulled back slowly, her breath catching just enough to feel it, her lips still close to his as she hovered there for a second.

Her eyes searched his face briefly before she spoke, voice softer now, edged with something reflective.

“Do you remember when we got stuck in the supply closet?”

Her mouth curved faintly as the memory came into focus.

“You were dressed like a pirate,” she added, her tone warming with it, “and I had that flapper costume on.”

A quiet breath left her, almost a laugh.

Her gaze dipped for a second, then lifted again, steadier now.

“That was the first time I ever really let my walls down with a guy,” she said, the honesty in it simple, unpolished. “I didn’t care how I looked or what I said. I just… let myself be dumb with you.”

Her fingers shifted slightly where they held him, soft but certain.

“And it was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

She didn’t let the weight of it sit too long.

She leaned in again.

This time the kiss was slower, softer at first—like she was easing back into him instead of crashing forward. Her lips moved against his with a quiet familiarity, something that felt less like discovery and more like returning.

When she pulled away, she didn’t go far.

Her lips traced along his jaw instead, light and unhurried, following the line of it downward before drifting back up, her breath warm against his skin.

“I still have that hoodie,” she murmured, voice low, almost lost to the space between them. “The one you left under all the costumes and boas.”

A faint smile touched her lips as they brushed near his ear.

“You showed up that Sunday,” she continued softly, the memory unfolding in pieces, “when my parents were at book club.”

Her voice dropped just slightly, closer now, more intimate without being heavy.

“And I decided I didn’t want to be careful anymore.”

Her lips lingered near his ear for a second longer before she shifted back, just enough to look at him again.

Her expression softened as she met his gaze, something quieter settling in.

“And I took your virginity,” she added, her voice gentle, almost thoughtful.

A small pause.

Her smile came easier this time, softer, steadier.

“I knew I was in love with you by then.”

The words stayed between them, simple and real, as she held his gaze—present, grounded, and completely there.

Mason stopped breathing.

Not dramatically—not in the way he would’ve done it onstage, all hand-to-chest and tragic lighting. This was quieter than that. More dangerous. His body simply forgot what came next because Rowan had just said the words like they were nothing and everything at the same time.

I knew I was in love with you by then.

For a second, all he could feel was her hand in his shirt and the warmth of her mouth still lingering at his jaw. The music had gone soft beneath the moment, almost irrelevant now, just a low thread of sound under the fire and the faint white noise of the house settling around them. The bassinet sat close to the couch, Lyric asleep inside it, her breathing steady and small and impossibly grounding.

Mason’s eyes flicked there once.

Safe.

Still asleep.

Then back to Rowan.

God.

She looked so sure.

That was what undid him most—not the memory itself, not the mention of the supply closet or the Sunday afternoon or the hoodie he had absolutely pretended not to notice she kept. It was the way she held his gaze when she said it. Like she wasn’t tossing him a confession to see what he would do with it.

She was giving him a fact.

A piece of their history that had been true long before either of them knew what to call it.

His hand lifted slowly, almost like he had to remind himself he was allowed to touch her. His fingers found her jaw first, thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone, gentle despite the heat still sitting under his skin from the kiss. He could feel her pulse there. Or maybe it was his. Everything felt too close to tell apart.

“You knew then?” he whispered.

It came out rougher than he meant it to. Barely above the music. Barely above the fire.

A breath pushed through him, almost a laugh, but it broke apart before it became one. He looked down for half a second, smiling at nothing, at everything, at the impossible time loop of it all.

Pirate costume. Flapper dress. Feathers everywhere. A supply closet that smelled like dust and old paint and hairspray. The two of them trapped between prop swords and garment bags, trying not to laugh too loudly because rehearsal was happening somewhere on the other side of the door.

He remembered it with sudden, brutal clarity.

Not just the funny parts. Not just her rolling her eyes at his pirate voice or him pretending a sequined headband was cursed. He remembered the feeling underneath it. The strange, bright shock of Rowan laughing without guarding it first. The way she’d looked at him like she’d forgotten to be unimpressed. The way the air had changed between them in that tiny closet, crowded and absurd, like something had cracked open and neither of them had wanted to move too fast in case it shut again.

His thumb moved over her cheek again, slower now.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” he admitted softly. “Not the closet. That was unfortunately very real. I still have emotional damage from being attacked by three feather boas.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on hers.

“But you,” he said, quieter. “You laughing with me like that. Letting me see you like that. I remember thinking…” He swallowed, shook his head once, almost embarrassed by his own honesty. “I remember thinking I was never going to get over it.”

He let that sit there because it was true.

He hadn’t gotten over it.

Not then. Not later. Not when she took the hoodie. Not when she showed up that Sunday with that look in her eyes like she had already made a decision and was waiting for him to be brave enough to meet her there.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second before he pulled it back up, not because he didn’t want to kiss her—he did, badly—but because what she’d just given him deserved more than reflex.

“That Sunday,” he murmured, and his voice changed despite him. Lower. Softer. Wrapped in memory. “I was so nervous.”

His smile went crooked.

“Like, aggressively nervous. Oscar-worthy internal panic. I kept trying to act normal, which, as we both know, is not really where I shine.”

He felt her fingers tighten faintly in his shirt, and the small pressure went straight through him.

“But you weren’t careful,” he said. “Not in the way you usually were. You were still you—still sharp, still pretending you were in control of the room, obviously—but there was this part of you that just… stayed open.”

His hand slid from her jaw to the side of her neck, thumb resting near the edge of her pulse.

“And I knew I loved you.”

There it was.

Simple.

No joke to cushion it. No performance wrapped around it. Just the quiet truth of a boy who had been gone long before she ever gave him permission to be.

“I don’t know if I knew how to say it then,” he added. “Or if I would’ve survived saying it without combusting. But I knew.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again, warmer this time.

“And for the record, you did not take anything from me.” His brows rose slightly, that familiar Mason spark threading back in because the memory was tender, yes, but it was theirs, and theirs always had room for a little ridiculousness. “I was very much present. Enthusiastic, even. Probably too enthusiastic. Honestly, I should send Past Me a gift basket for not fainting.”

He leaned in then, unable to hold back anymore, and kissed her.

Not hard. Not rushed. Not the kind of kiss that forgot where they were or who slept a few feet away. It was slow and full, his hand steady at her neck, his mouth lingering like he was answering something he’d been waiting years to answer properly.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

He could feel the warmth of her breath. The faint tremble of the moment between them. The hum of music still playing low. Lyric’s tiny breath in the bassinet. The world, impossibly, holding.

“You kept the hoodie,” he whispered.

His grin softened into something almost boyish.

“I knew it.”

He’d suspected. Of course he had. He’d noticed the way it disappeared and never came back, the way Rowan acted like stolen clothing was a natural consequence of proximity, the way he never really wanted to ask for it back because the thought of her wearing it made his brain short-circuit in a way he couldn’t explain without sounding like a lovesick idiot.

Which, to be fair, he was.

He still was.

“I think part of me hoped you kept it,” he admitted. “Like if you had something of mine, maybe I wasn’t completely making up how real it felt.”

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw again, reverent and absent.

“And now you’re sitting here telling me you knew you loved me by then, and our daughter is sleeping right there, and we’re talking about New York auditions like it’s normal.”

A quiet laugh left him, stunned and warm.

“Ro, my brain is doing cartwheels and a full tap break right now. I need you to understand the scale.”

But beneath it, there was a steadiness in him he could feel. Not panic. Not disbelief.

Joy.

Big, quiet, ridiculous joy.

He looked at her and felt no urge to run ahead of the moment. No urge to turn it into a speech. He just wanted to stay right there, close enough that her hand could keep hold of his shirt, close enough to hear the small changes in her breathing, close enough to remember that every version of his dream now had her inside it.

“I love that you were in love with me before you were ready to say it,” he said, voice gentler. “I love that you let yourself get there in your own time.”

His eyes searched hers, open and unguarded.

“And I love that I get to know now.”

He kissed her once more, shorter this time, a soft press that tasted like gratitude.

Then he tipped his head slightly toward the bassinet, careful and fond.

“We should probably not wake the very tiny witness,” he murmured, his mouth still close to hers. “Because I do not want to explain to Lyric someday that her parents derailed audition prep because her mom confessed love in a dangerously hot way.”

A beat.

His eyes glinted.

“Actually, that sounds exactly like something she’d judge us for.”

He pulled back only enough to breathe, his hand sliding down from her neck to rest over hers where it still held his shirt. He covered it there, warm and sure, pressing her fingers lightly against his chest like he wanted her to feel what she’d done to him.

His heart was still racing.

He didn’t hide it.

“Playlist can wait a minute,” he whispered.

The fire popped softly behind them.

The music kept playing low.

Mason stayed close, smiling like a man who had just found out one of the best days of his life had been one of hers too.

Rowan didn’t try to fill the silence.

She let the suspended quiet hold them.

Beneath her knuckles, the sudden, absolute halt of his breath felt like the center of the room giving way. She leaned into the calloused warmth that finally found the curve of her cheek, watching the disbelief unravel his features.

“I knew,” she murmured. Her voice was barely a scrape of sound in the quiet room. “I didn’t have a name for it yet, but I knew.”

A fierce, protective ache bloomed behind her ribs as he unspooled his own memories, pulling her right back into the dust and claustrophobic heat of that prop closet.

A quiet, involuntary exhale of a laugh slipped past her lips at his defense.

“You were ridiculous,” she countered softly.

Her thumb stroked a slow, rhythmic line against his collarbone.

“But you were looking at me like I was the only person in the room. It was terrifying.”

Her fingers curled deeper into the worn cotton of his shirt as he brought them back to that Sunday. She remembered his restless, vibrating energy. Hearing him admit just how completely gone he had been—that he had been actively trying not to faint while she was just trying to look brave—made the history between them feel impossibly heavy.

He had been standing there holding the exact same unspoken truth she was.
“You hid it well,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “Or maybe I was just too busy trying to keep my own heart inside my chest to notice.”

When the pull of his kiss finally came, she yielded to it completely.

Closing her eyes, she grounded herself in the slow, deliberate rhythm of his mouth. She breathed in the faint scent of woodsmoke clinging to his skin.
The world-altering gravity of his confession settled perfectly into the dimly lit, cluttered reality of her parents' living room.

She didn’t pull away when he broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.
A soft, betraying smile pressed into the narrow space between them at his accusation.

“It was lonely,” she deflected smoothly. “And you left it unguarded. That’s just negligence.”

His chaotic, sprawling joy vibrated directly against her skin.

She absorbed the absolute warmth of his acceptance. He didn’t resent the time it took her to say the words. He just loved that they were true.

She pressed back into the second, shorter kiss, her heart swelling as his attention shifted.

Following his gaze to the bassinet, the soft, rhythmic breaths of Lyric kept the universe tethered.

Rowan huffed a quiet breath against his mouth at the idea of their tiny, sleeping daughter judging them.

“She absolutely would,” Rowan agreed, her voice dropping to a low, intimate hum.

Then his hand slid down, pressing her palm flush against his chest.

The sheer, frantic speed of his pulse completely betrayed the steady, boyish amusement on his face.

He was racing.

Frantic, wild, and entirely hers.

The meager inch of space remaining between them suddenly felt completely intolerable.

Her free hand slid up his arm, her fingertips tracing the solid warmth of his neck before coming to rest on his shoulder.

She angled her knee on the cushion.

With a slow, fluid adjustment of her weight, she pulled herself from the dip of the couch. She moved over him, sliding one leg across his thighs, and sank smoothly into the cradle of his hips.

Straddling him.

Bringing her center of gravity entirely against his.

The shift aligned the hammering rhythm of his chest directly against her own.
Resting her forearms lightly on his shoulders, Rowan looked down at him. Her expression was stripped of all pretense. Just steady, incredible warmth.

“And you're right,” she breathed.

She settled completely into his space.

“The playlist has absolutely lost priority.”

The weight of him beneath her felt like gravity finally correcting itself.
Her thighs bracketing his hips. The solid wall of his chest rising and falling directly against hers.

The faint, amber glow of the firelight painted the edges of his face, catching the absolute, unguarded devotion in his eyes. It was almost too much to look at.

Almost.

She lifted her hand from the curve of his shoulder.

Her fingers brushed upward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before her palm settled fully against his cheek.

His skin was radiating heat. It was slightly rough under her fingertips where he hadn't shaved, a tactile, grounding friction that sent a quiet thrill straight down her spine.

He leaned into the cup of her hand instantly.

It was a reflexive, helpless little motion. It made her heart ache all over again.
She smiled, the edges of it soft and impossibly fond.

Leaning forward, she closed the minuscule gap between them and pressed a brief, affectionate kiss right to the bridge of his nose.

It was instinctive. Playful.

When she pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just far enough to share the same breath. Just far enough to see the way his eyes darkened, the way the air between them felt suddenly thick and deeply charged.

Every breath he took belonged to her. She could feel the erratic, hammering rhythm of his pulse against her sternum, answering the frantic thrum of her own.

“It’s a good thing I’m just as obsessed with you as you are with me,” she whispered quietly.

She let the words hang there in the quiet space.

A confession wrapped in a tease.

She felt the slight hitch of his breath. The subtle, involuntary tightening of his grip wherever his hands had landed on her. The heavy, wonderful truth of her words settling perfectly over them both.

She didn’t give him a chance to formulate a witty comeback.

She didn't want him to think at all.

Rowan lowered her head, tipping her chin just enough to find his mouth.

This time, she kissed him with absolute, deliberate intent.

Slow.

Deep.

A sinking, heavy pull that left the rest of the world entirely behind.

Mason’s brain simply stopped working.

For one stunned second, all he could register was weight and warmth and Rowan—Rowan moving over him like she had decided the space between them was offensive, Rowan settling into his lap with that steady, devastating confidence that made every thought in his head scatter like stagehands after a missed cue.

His hands found her automatically.

Not greedy at first. Not even smooth.

Just instinctive.

One palm landed at her waist, the other at the curve of her back, fingers spreading like he needed to confirm she was real, that she was here, that she had chosen this exact moment—fire low, music soft, their daughter asleep in the bassinet beside the couch—to climb into his lap and look at him like he was something worth keeping.

His heart was doing something deeply humiliating.

No rhythm. No dignity. Just a frantic, stupid, lovesick percussion section under his ribs.

And then she kissed his nose.

His nose.

Mason might have survived the straddling, theoretically. Maybe. With effort. With prayer. With a great deal of personal growth.

But the kiss to the bridge of his nose? That tiny, affectionate, completely unguarded thing?

That nearly ended him.

His eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he could stop them, his face tilting into her palm like he had no pride left and didn’t care who knew it. He felt the roughness of his own jaw beneath her hand, the warmth of her skin against his cheek, the soft pressure of her thighs bracketing him, and all he could think was that every version of his life before this had been in black and white.

Then she said it.

Obsessed.

Just as obsessed with him as he was with her.

Something low and helpless caught in his throat—not a laugh, not quite a groan, something trapped between disbelief and desire. His grip tightened at her waist before he could temper it, then softened instantly, because even in the middle of being absolutely obliterated, some part of him remembered softness. Remembered the bassinet a few feet away. Remembered that this love had a sleeping witness with tiny fists and judgmental eyebrows.

But Rowan didn’t give him time to be clever.

Thank God.

Because he had nothing.

No line. No bit. No theater-boy recovery.

Just her mouth on his.

And Mason sank into it completely.

The kiss pulled the air out of him slowly, not all at once. It was deep enough to make his spine press back into the couch, slow enough to make him feel every second of it. Her hand at his cheek. The weight of her body over his. The way she kissed like she wasn’t asking anymore, wasn’t testing, wasn’t bracing for him to vanish.

She kissed him like she knew he would stay.

That was the part that wrecked him most.

His hand slid higher along her back, holding her closer without crushing the space between them, his thumb moving once over the fabric of her shirt like he could write something there with touch alone. His other hand stayed at her hip, grounding her, grounding himself, because the whole room had narrowed to her breath and her warmth and the quiet, impossible truth that she had loved him even then.

In the closet.

In the hoodie.

Before the vows. Before Lyric. Before New York became something they could say out loud.

She had loved him.

Mason kissed her back with everything he couldn’t say without waking the baby. Every startled, aching piece of him. Every old version of himself that had waited in the wings hoping she’d look his way. Every new version that knew the shape of a bottle in the dark and the exact way Lyric sighed before falling asleep.

When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t by much.

His mouth stayed close to hers, breath unsteady, forehead brushing hers as he tried very hard to remember he was a functioning person and not a pile of emotional wreckage in sweatpants.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice rough and barely there. “So.”

A beat.

His eyes opened slowly, meeting hers in the firelight.

“I had a really charming comeback planned.”

He did not.

He had absolutely nothing planned.

His thumb flexed once against her hip.

“But then you climbed into my lap and kissed me like that, so now I have, like… one working brain cell, and it’s just screaming your name.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the humor didn’t erase the heat in his face, the stunned softness in his eyes. He looked at her the way he always did when the joke was only there because the truth was too big to hold barehanded.

His gaze flicked once, quick and automatic, to the bassinet.

Lyric was still asleep.

Safe.

Tiny chest rising and falling.

Mason exhaled quietly, then looked back at Rowan, his expression shifting again—less teasing now, more exposed.

His hand came up to her face, mirroring her touch from before. He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, careful, reverent, like she was still the girl in the flapper costume and also his wife and also the mother of his daughter and also the person who had just handed him a future with Broadway inside it.

All of those things at once.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he whispered.

No flourish.

No defense.

Just true.

“Embarrassingly. Historically. Probably medically.”

His smile softened.

“And I loved you then too. In the closet. That Sunday. Every version of it. I was just… too scared to say it without sounding like I was about to burst into song.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second, then came back up.

“Which, to be fair, I usually am.”

He leaned in again, slower this time, giving her every chance to pull back even though he knew she wouldn’t. His lips brushed hers once. Barely. Then again, warmer, lingering.

The house stayed quiet around them.

Firelight, low music, the soft breathing from the bassinet.

His hands settled more securely at her waist, not pulling now. Just holding.

“You’re my favorite thing that ever happened,” he murmured against her mouth. “Before I knew what to call it. After. Always.”

Then he kissed her again.

Not rushed.

Not reckless.

Deep enough to answer her. Gentle enough not to forget where they were. Full enough that when he pulled back, his chest actually hurt with how much he loved her.

He let his forehead rest against hers again, breathing carefully through the heat still humming under his skin.

Then, with the faintest crooked grin, he whispered, “Also, for the record… if Lyric wakes up and judges us, I’m blaming you.”

His thumb brushed her side, slow and warm.

“You started the lap situation.”

Rowan felt it all land at once, not in pieces, not staggered, just one steady, overwhelming press of him—his voice still rough from the kiss, the way the humor tried to come in first and didn’t quite hold, the softness in his eyes that never stayed hidden for long when it came to her. She didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Not with him this close, not with his breath still uneven against her mouth, not with his hands resting at her waist like he needed the contact just to stay grounded. She could feel the slight flex of his thumb against her side, that unconscious movement he always did when he was trying to play something off and failing, and it made something in her chest tighten in a way that wasn’t painful, just full, just real. The fire crackled low behind him, music barely there under it, and somewhere to her left Lyric breathed soft and steady in the bassinet, that small, constant reminder of everything they’d built, everything they were now, sitting quietly beside the version of them that had existed long before they knew what to do with it.

Her hand stayed at his chest, feeling the uneven rhythm under her palm, and she noticed it—the way it hadn’t quite settled yet, the way he was still catching up to her, to what she’d said, to what she’d done. She noticed everything. The way his eyes flicked down and back, the way his mouth softened after the words he didn’t dress up, the way his voice dropped when he stopped hiding. He meant it. Not in a grand way. Not in a way that needed to be performed. Just… true. And that hit her harder than anything else.

Her thumb moved once against him, slow, grounding, before her gaze dipped briefly—his mouth, still close, still warm—and came back up. She felt the second kiss before it fully happened, the way he gave her space for it even though he already knew her answer, the way he still chose to be careful with her even now. Even after everything. Her fingers slid up into his hair without thought, holding him there, not pulling, just meeting him, letting the kiss deepen again in that quiet, certain way that didn’t ask anymore. She kissed him back just as fully, just as steadily, letting herself lean into it without bracing, without holding anything back.

When he spoke again against her mouth, it softened something in her further, that line—so simple and so devastatingly him—and she felt her lips curve faintly against his before they parted just enough to let the words land properly. Her forehead rested back against his when he pulled away, breath still shared, her hand still in his hair, the other sliding up from his chest to his cheek again, thumb brushing along his skin the same way he had done to her.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured quietly, but there was no bite in it, no real teasing, just warmth threaded through every word.

Her eyes searched his for a second longer, softer now, more open.

“I mean that in the most devastatingly sincere way.”

A small breath left her, almost a laugh, almost something else, before her expression shifted—just slightly. Not losing the softness. Just adding something underneath it.

That flicker.

That choice.

She didn’t warn him.

She didn’t overthink it.

Her hands slid from where they rested—one from his cheek, one from his chest—down along him, light and unhurried, and then she moved. Not pulling away from him completely, just shifting, her weight lifting off his lap in one smooth, slightly messy motion as she leaned back into the couch. It wasn’t perfect. Her knee caught slightly on his thigh, her balance adjusting halfway through, but she didn’t stop, didn’t break the movement.

And she didn’t let him go.

Her hands stayed on him, guiding, pulling him down with her, and she felt it—the way he followed automatically, the way his body adjusted without question, the way he let her lead that shift without hesitation. He settled between her legs, close, grounded there, his weight redistributing in that careful way he always did when it was her.

The space changed.

Not distance.

Just angle.

Just enough room to see him again.

Really see him.

Rowan’s back pressed into the couch, her legs loosely around him, and when her eyes lifted to his again, there was something different in them now. Still soft. Still warm. But threaded through with something lighter. Something a little more dangerous in the quietest way.

Her mouth curved.

Slow.

Deliberate.

“How’s this position?” she asked, voice easy, like she hadn’t just orchestrated the entire shift to get him exactly there.

Her hands came back to him without pause, settling on his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her thumbs pressed in lightly, slow, absentminded, like she was just easing tension that might’ve been there, like she wasn’t paying attention to the way he felt under her hands.

Except she was.

Completely.

Her fingers slid down his arms a second later, tracing the length of them before drifting back up again, unhurried, repetitive, like she had nowhere else to be.

Her gaze didn’t leave his.

Not once.

“Feels like an upgrade,” she added softly, her tone quieter now, less teasing but not entirely innocent either, her thumbs brushing once more along his shoulders before settling there again, warm and steady.

She just looked at him. Not searching. Not teasing. Not even soft exactly—just still. Her gaze fixed on his like she was taking him in without trying to shape it into anything else.

Her hands were already back in his hair without thinking, fingers threading slowly through it. Quiet. Repetitive. Her nails grazed lightly along his scalp before smoothing down again.

She felt it—the way he leaned into it. Just a fraction. Just enough.

And she noticed. She always noticed.

Her eyes didn’t leave his, close enough to catch everything—the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the slight part of his lips, the way he hadn’t fully caught up yet. Like he was still somewhere inside everything they’d just said, everything they’d just done.

She let that sit. Didn’t rush to fill it. Didn’t soften it. Just stayed there with him.

Her fingers slowed slightly in his hair. Not stopping. Just easing. Her touch stayed steady. Familiar. Grounding.

The fire cracked low behind him. Music barely there. Lyric’s breathing soft and even beside the couch. The whole room felt still, wrapped around them.

Rowan felt all of it at once—the warmth, the closeness, the way his weight settled between her legs, the way her back pressed into the couch, the way her body reacted to him without effort.

Her other hand lifted slowly, resting along his jaw again. Her thumb brushed once along his cheek—slow, absent, tracing just beneath his cheekbone.

She felt him shift into it. Subtle. Barely there. But enough. Always enough.

There was no expression on her face. Not because she felt nothing, but because she felt too much to reduce it to something simple.

Her breath stayed steady. Even.

She didn’t look away.

She stayed right there with him, her hand still in his hair, fingers moving slower now, more deliberate, like she was aware of every strand she touched, every small shift he made under her. Her thumb traced along his cheek again, softer this time, like the rhythm of it had settled into something steady, something familiar.

Her eyes stayed on his—not intense, not searching, just there.

And then her lips curved, small, almost like she didn’t mean to let it happen.

“See,” she said quietly, her voice low so it wouldn’t break the quiet they’d built, her fingers slipping a little deeper into his hair as she held him there without pulling.

“When I think about doing this my whole life…”

She paused just a fraction, not because she didn’t know what came next but because she felt it land again in real time—the weight of it, the simplicity, the way it wasn’t complicated even though everything about them had been at some point.

Her thumb brushed his cheek once more, slower.

“My stomach does that stupid somersault, because I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

Mason felt the words hit him everywhere.

Not loudly. Not like some big cinematic swell. They landed quieter than that, somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere lower, somewhere old and aching and too tender to joke away right away.

Her fingers were still in his hair, slow and deliberate, and he had to fight the stupid, helpless instinct to close his eyes and just lean into it like a golden retriever with a marriage license. Because God, her hands. Her voice. The way she looked at him from beneath him, steady and soft and entirely unguarded, like she had decided there was no point hiding from him anymore.

That almost broke him.

His weight was braced carefully above her, one arm tucked against the couch cushion, the other near her waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go. He could feel her beneath him—warm, real, close enough that every breath she took shifted the space between their chests. The firelight moved across her face in low gold, catching in her eyes, along the edge of her cheek, in the small curve of that smile she hadn’t meant to give him.

And Lyric breathed softly in the bassinet beside the couch.

That tiny sound kept part of him anchored to the room. To reality. To the fact that this wasn’t a dream he’d made up after rehearsal one night when he was seventeen and too lovesick to be normal about it.

This was his life.

His wife under him on the couch, smiling like happiness still surprised her.

Their daughter asleep a few feet away.

The future humming quietly in the background beneath an old musical cast album.

Mason swallowed, and it took actual effort.

His mouth curved before he could stop it, but the smile came out uneven. Softer than usual. A little wrecked.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

One word. Barely anything.

But his voice betrayed him anyway.

It came out rough and warm and too full, and he knew she heard it because her eyes changed—just slightly. That tiny shift she always had when she caught something he hadn’t meant to show all the way.

His hand lifted to her face, slow enough to give her every chance to move, though he knew she wouldn’t. His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, then settled near the corner of her mouth, where the ghost of that smile still lived.

“Mine does that too,” he murmured.

A beat.

Then, because his heart was attempting to exit his body and he needed at least one stupid sentence to keep himself intact, he added, “Which is medically concerning, probably. We should both see someone. Very serious couple diagnosis. Chronic happiness nausea.”

Her mouth twitched.

There it was.

The smallest almost-laugh.

Mason’s chest loosened around it, but only barely, because then her fingers shifted in his hair again and every thought he had scattered like loose script pages in a wind machine.

He dipped his head and kissed her—not hard, not rushed, not careless. He kissed her like the room was sleeping around them and the moment had to be protected. Like if he moved too fast, he’d wake more than the baby.

Her lips were warm under his. Familiar in a way that still felt impossible. He knew the shape of her mouth now, knew the little breath she took when she softened into him, knew the way her hand tightened in his hair when she wasn’t trying to be in control anymore.

It still felt new every time.

He pulled back only enough to breathe, his forehead hovering close to hers. His thumb stayed at her cheek, moving once, slowly.

“I didn’t know either,” he said quietly.

The words came out before he could polish them. Maybe that was better.

His gaze stayed on hers, though part of him was still aware of everything else—the low burn of the fire, the soft vibration of the music, the tiny sigh from the bassinet that made him pause for half a second before Lyric settled again.

Only then did he keep going.

“I thought happy was supposed to feel… bigger, I guess. Louder.” His mouth curved faintly, self-aware. “Which, okay, coming from me, shocking.”

He saw the warmth in her eyes and had to look down for a second, to the place where his hand rested at her waist, fingers curled gently into the fabric there. She was so close. Close enough to make him forget how sentences worked. Close enough that the heat in the room had nothing to do with the fireplace anymore.

“But this?” he said, voice lower. “This is the stuff that gets me.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“You looking at me like that. Lyric asleep right there. You telling me your stomach flips when you think about keeping me.” A breath, shaky enough that he couldn’t hide it. “That’s… kind of fatal, Ro.”

His thumb dragged softly along her cheekbone.

“I’m trying very hard to survive it.”

He smiled then, but it faded almost immediately into something more honest.

Because she’d said my whole life.

Not someday.

Not maybe.

Not the bright, early version of forever people said when they were trying to make the future less scary.

She’d said it like she could feel the shape of it. Like she could imagine doing this—loving him, touching him, choosing him—not as an escape from everything else, but as a life.

Mason had wanted a lot of things in his eighteen years. Stages. Applause. His name on a program. To be good enough. To matter in the way people noticed.

But nothing—not one single thing—had ever hollowed him out and filled him back up the way Rowan saying she was happy did.

His hand slid from her waist to her hip, settling there with careful pressure. Not to pull. Just to hold. Just to let his body say what his mouth couldn’t quite manage without making it sound like a monologue.

“You know what’s unfair?” he whispered.

He dipped his head, brushing his nose along hers before his mouth found the corner of her lips. Not quite a kiss. Not quite not one.

“You say things like that in this voice,” he murmured against her skin, “and then I’m supposed to just keep being a functional person.”

He kissed her once, barely.

“Bad news, by the way.”

Another kiss, softer.

“I am not functional.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair, and his eyes fluttered despite himself. He leaned into it, just enough to make her know he felt it. That he noticed every little thing she did to him. That he was not, despite all evidence, immune.

The baby made a faint sound then—not awake, just newborn sleep noise, a small squeak that cut through the heat like a tiny judge clearing her throat.

Mason froze instantly.

Full stop.

Not moving. Not breathing. One hand still at Rowan’s hip, the other near her face, his eyes going wide in a way he knew probably looked ridiculous.

He looked toward the bassinet without lifting off Rowan entirely, every muscle locked in place like he’d been caught committing a felony by a six-week-old.

Lyric settled again almost immediately.

Mason waited an extra beat.

Then another.

When the steady breathing continued, he turned back to Rowan very slowly, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“She knows,” he whispered.

His face was dead serious.

“She absolutely knows. That was a warning shot.”

Rowan’s silent laugh moved through her body beneath him, and the sensation nearly undid him all over again.

He dropped his forehead to her shoulder for half a second, smiling into the fabric near her collarbone, trying not to laugh too loudly. The smell of her there—skin and shampoo and the faint sweetness of baby soap that seemed to cling to both of them now—settled him and ruined him at the same time.

When he lifted his head again, the playfulness had softened, but it hadn’t disappeared. It never fully did with them. That was part of the magic. Heat and humor, awe and absurdity, all tangled up until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his weight so he wasn’t pressing too much into her, careful even now. His palm smoothed once along her side, a quiet check-in.

“You okay?” he asked, barely above a breath.

Not because he doubted her.

Because he always wanted her to know she got to answer honestly.

Her gaze held his, and whatever she gave him in return—look, breath, touch—settled the last bit of worry in his spine.

He kissed her again.

This time deeper.

Still quiet, still careful, but with more weight behind it. A slow, sinking kiss that made the edges of the room blur without making him forget where they were. His hand cradled the side of her face; his other anchored at her hip, thumb moving in a small, absent rhythm. Her mouth opened to his, and something low and warm moved through him, not frantic, not reckless—just want threaded through with so much love it almost hurt.

He kissed her like he had time.

Like the whole life she’d just named stretched out in front of them and he didn’t need to rush toward any of it because he already had the important part beneath his hands.

When he finally broke away, his breathing was uneven. Hers was too.

He stayed close, lips brushing her cheek, then the soft place beside her ear.

“I love you,” he whispered there.

Simple.

No flourish.

Then, because the feeling was too big and he could feel himself tipping toward saying something embarrassingly earnest enough to make both of them need a minute, he breathed a laugh against her skin.

“And I am deeply obsessed with you,” he added, voice low, “which is apparently fine, because we’ve established it’s mutual. Very healthy. Very balanced marriage. Ten out of ten.”

He felt her smile against him before he saw it.

That smile.

God, that smile.

He pulled back enough to look at her again, and for a second he just let himself do it. Let himself stare. Let himself memorize the way she looked under him in the firelight, hair loosened from the crooked braid he had made, eyes bright and open, cheeks warm, mouth softened by kissing.

His wife.

The girl from the supply closet.

The girl who had kept his hoodie.

The girl who had known before she had words for it.

The mother of his daughter.

The person who made him want Broadway and quiet nights and bagels and rent and bad plumbing and every terrifying ordinary thing that came after this.

His throat tightened again, but this time he let the feeling sit without trying to turn it into anything else.

“You being this happy,” he said after a moment, voice softer, “is going to mess me up for the rest of my life.”

His thumb brushed her lower lip once, gentle, almost absent.

“In a good way,” he added. “Obviously. A devastating, legally binding, husband-related way.”

He glanced toward the bassinet again, checking on Lyric with the same instinctive sweep of attention that had become second nature. Still asleep. Still safe.

Then he looked back at Rowan, and the humor in his eyes softened into something steadier.

“We have to be quiet,” he whispered, as if either of them needed the reminder.

A beat.

His mouth curved.

“Which is tragic for me, because I have several emotions that would normally require volume.”

He leaned down again, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“But I can be quiet.”

His nose brushed hers.

“For you.”

A kiss, feather-light.

“For her.”

Another, slower.

“For the record-breaking Broadway audition playlist waiting patiently over there.”

Rowan’s breath hitched, and Mason smiled against her mouth, helpless and completely gone.

He didn’t push for more. Didn’t rush the moment toward anything it wasn’t already becoming on its own. He just stayed over her, warm and careful and fully present, letting his hand slide back into her hair, letting the firelight move over them, letting the quiet hold.

Outside, April cold pressed itself against the dark windows.

Inside, the room was all low music, sleeping baby, soft breath, and the impossible truth of Rowan beneath him, smiling like she had finally stopped waiting for happiness to be taken back.

Mason looked at her and thought, not for the first time, that every version of his future had narrowed and expanded at once.

A stage somewhere.

A city maybe.

A life definitely.

But this first.

Always this first.

He kissed her again, slow enough to make the room disappear.

And when he pulled back, barely, just enough to breathe, he smiled down at her like he knew exactly how lucky he was.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice warm and rough and entirely hers. “Your whole life, huh?”

His eyes flicked over her face, soft with wonder.

“Yeah.”

A quiet kiss to her forehead.

“Mine too.”

Rowan felt it before she sorted it into words.

The way everything in him softened and broke open at the same time, like he didn’t know how to hold what she’d just given him without it spilling out somewhere. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t overwhelming, but it pressed into her all the same—into her chest, into her stomach, into that quiet place that had always known he would feel things like this even if he tried to hide it behind something easier.

Her fingers stayed in his hair, slow, steady, and she felt the way he fought it, the way he wanted to lean in harder than he let himself. That small resistance told her everything. The way he held himself just enough together to stay present with her instead of disappearing into it. It made something warm and aching settle deeper in her.

Her gaze didn’t leave his.

She watched the uneven smile, the effort behind it, the way his voice dropped to something softer than he probably meant it to be. She heard the one word for what it really was—not small, not casual, just all he had in that second. Her thumb brushed along his cheek when his hand came up to her face, meeting him there without hesitation, leaning into it just slightly so he’d feel that she wasn’t going anywhere.

When he admitted it—mirrored her—something in her chest pulled tight in a quiet, steady way. Not surprise. Not even relief. Just recognition. Like of course he felt it too. Of course it landed the same way in him.

Her mouth curved at his attempt to make it lighter, the softest hint of a smile slipping through before she could stop it, and she knew he saw it, knew he needed it. The joke wasn’t really a joke. It was him trying to stay upright in something that felt bigger than him, and she let him have it without undercutting it, her thumb moving once more along his cheek in a quiet acknowledgment.

When he kissed her, she met him immediately, her fingers tightening slightly in his hair without thinking, her body responding before her thoughts could catch up. She felt the care in it, the restraint, the way he held back just enough to keep the moment from breaking. It made her soften further into him, her breath shifting against his mouth, her hand steady where it held him.

She noticed when he pulled back. The way he stayed close. The way his thumb didn’t leave her skin. The way he spoke again without dressing it up this time.

That landed differently.

Deeper.

Her eyes stayed on his as he talked about it—about how it wasn’t what he expected, how it wasn’t loud the way he thought it would be—and she understood that too. Because she felt it the same way. This quiet, this closeness, this life right here with the fire low and the music soft and their daughter breathing beside them—it wasn’t smaller. It was just… real.

Her hand slid from his hair to his jaw for a second, grounding him there as he kept going, as his voice dropped lower, as he tried to explain something he didn’t fully have words for. She could see it in the way he looked at her, in the way his breath hitched slightly when he said it. Fatal. The way he said her name in the middle of it.

Rowan didn’t interrupt.

She let him finish.

Let him feel it all the way through.

Her thumb traced along his cheekbone again when he said he was trying to survive it, her touch steady, reassuring without making a show of it.

When his hand shifted to her hip, she felt the intention in it immediately. Not pulling. Not taking. Just holding. Just anchoring himself there, and she let him, her body settling into that hold without resistance.

Her breath softened when he leaned in again, those half-kisses, that not-quite-space between them, and she felt the way he unraveled just a little more under her hands. When he said he wasn’t functional, she almost laughed, the sound catching low in her chest, her fingers tightening briefly in his hair before easing again.

Then Lyric made that small sound.

Rowan felt him freeze instantly, and that—more than anything—made something warm and helpless move through her. The way he went completely still, the way every part of him shifted toward her without actually leaving her, like he was trying to be everywhere at once.

She turned her head just slightly too, listening, her body going quiet with his.

When the baby settled again, she exhaled slowly, the tension easing out of her shoulders, and when he came back to her with that dead-serious look, that whispered suspicion, she couldn’t stop the small smile that broke through.

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, thumb brushing there lightly. “She absolutely thinks we’re ridiculous,” she murmured, voice soft, matching his, her tone warm with quiet amusement. “We’re already losing.”

When he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, she felt it everywhere. The weight, the warmth, the way he tucked himself there just for a second. Her hand moved automatically, smoothing through his hair again, slower this time, giving him that moment without making it bigger than it was.

When he lifted his head again, she was still there.

Still watching.

Still steady.

His question came soft, careful, and Rowan felt that too—the way he always made space for her answer, even now, even here. Her eyes held his as her hand slid back to his cheek, her thumb brushing once, grounding.

“I’m good,” she said quietly, simple and certain, letting him hear it in her voice, letting him see it in the way she stayed right where she was.

When he kissed her again, deeper this time, she felt the shift in it immediately. Not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just fuller. She leaned into it without thinking, her fingers sliding back into his hair, her other hand curling lightly into his side as she met him there. She felt the way he stayed with her, the way he didn’t rush past it, and something in her settled deeper because of it.

When he pulled back, her breath wasn’t even, but she didn’t try to steady it. She let it be there between them, warm and shared.

His mouth at her cheek, her ear—the words—

Rowan’s eyes closed briefly, just long enough to feel them land without interruption.

Then she opened them again, looking at him, really looking.

Her hand slid from his hair to his jaw again, thumb brushing along his lower lip where it had softened. “You’re stuck with me,” she murmured, voice low, steady, not teasing, just true.

She saw the way it landed.

Let it sit there.

When he kept going, when he softened it again, tried to make it lighter, she didn’t stop him. She just watched him, taking in every piece of it, the humor and the honesty tangled together the way they always were with him.

His words about her being happy hit something deeper this time, and Rowan felt it settle in her chest, quiet and solid. Her thumb moved along his cheek again, slower now, her gaze holding his.

“You’re allowed to be messed up by it,” she said softly, not dismissing it, not brushing it off. “I am.”

When his thumb brushed her lip, she felt that too, her breath catching just slightly before settling again.

And then—

his reminder.

The quiet.

The reason for it.

Rowan felt the shift in him again, that instinct to pull it all in, to contain something that didn’t really want to be contained.

Her mouth curved, just slightly.

“What exactly did you think was about to happen,” she murmured, voice low, teasing threading through it gently, “that required that kind of warning?”

Her fingers slipped back into his hair as she said it, not pulling, just holding him there, her gaze warm now, a quiet lightness settling over everything without taking away from the weight of what had already been said.

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t break the closeness.

Just stayed there with him, letting the moment breathe, letting him decide what came next.

Mason’s mouth parted.

Nothing came out.

Which felt, given his entire personality, both unprecedented and deeply rude.

He stared down at her for half a second too long, caught between the warmth in her eyes and the little thread of teasing in her voice, between the way her fingers had slipped back into his hair and the way his entire nervous system seemed to interpret that as a formal request to lose his mind.

He was aware of everything at once.

The couch cushion dipped under his knee. The fire had burned lower, turning the room amber at the edges. The old cast album had moved into some softer track he couldn’t place, strings and piano slipping through the quiet like they were trying not to wake the baby either. Lyric made no sound now except that small, even breathing that had become the most important rhythm in the house.

And Rowan was beneath him, looking at him like that.

Like she knew exactly what she had done.

Like she also knew he would never, ever recover.

His eyes narrowed a little, but it was useless. He could feel his expression betraying him already, softening around the edges before he managed to make it teasing.

“That,” he whispered, voice low enough to belong to the room instead of disturb it, “is a trap question.”

His hand, still near her face, shifted with embarrassing gentleness. His knuckles brushed along the line of her jaw, not because he needed to touch her there, exactly, but because apparently his body had stopped understanding distance as a concept. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers. Soft. Real. She leaned into him just enough to ruin him all over again, and his throat tightened around the next breath.

He tried to hold onto the joke.

He really did.

The joke had always been his first doorway into tenderness. The safe one. The one that let him step close without admitting how badly he needed to. But Rowan kept looking at him with that quiet, steady brightness, with happiness still sitting there in her face like something she had decided to trust, and the joke slipped out of his hands.

He swallowed.

“I was warning myself,” he admitted.

The words came out rougher than he meant them to. Barely more than breath.

His thumb stilled near the corner of her mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of her exhale. He watched the tiny change in her face when she heard him—not surprise, exactly. Rowan rarely looked surprised by the parts of him he thought he had hidden well. More like recognition. Like she had already known and had simply waited for him to catch up.

That undid him in a quieter way.

“I’m the problem,” he continued, and tried to make it lighter, but the softness had already gotten in. “Historically. Repeatedly. With evidence.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again because if he stayed there too long, he was going to forget every responsible thought he had ever had.

“I have very poor survival instincts around you.”

There.

That was closer to joking.

Almost.

Except it didn’t feel like one.

Not fully.

Because it was true in the strangest, safest way. He had spent years feeling like loving Rowan meant standing at the edge of something and trying not to fall. Now falling was the point. Now she was looking up at him from the couch in the low firelight with his daughter asleep beside them, telling him she was happy, telling him he was allowed to be wrecked by it, teasing him gently because she trusted the shape of his wanting not to turn careless.

That trust did something to him.

It made him warmer.

Quieter.

More careful, not less.

His hand slid from her jaw into her hair, fingers threading in just enough to cradle, not hold. He lowered his head, but he didn’t kiss her mouth. Not yet. He pressed his lips to the space beside her cheekbone, slow and almost unbearably soft, and let himself stay there for one second. Then another.

Her scent lived there now in layers he knew by heart—shampoo, skin, the faint clean sweetness of baby soap, the trace of their laundry detergent on the collar of her shirt. Home had become a smell. A person. A baby sleeping three feet away. A couch that should have been replaced months ago but had somehow become holy because of nights like this.

Mason breathed in carefully.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You ask me that while you’re doing the hair thing,” he whispered, with the faintest accusation, “and looking at me like you know exactly where all my bones are weak.”

His eyes flicked over her face, helplessly attentive. The curve of her mouth. The warmth in her cheeks. The way her lashes lowered for half a second when his fingers moved at the back of her head. The little, almost imperceptible shift of her breath when his thumb brushed her temple.

He saw all of it.

He always had, maybe.

Even before he had the right to notice it this closely.

Back then, he had noticed from across rooms and pretended not to. Noticed in rehearsal, in hallways, in those strange almost-moments when she wore his hoodie or stood too close or smiled like she was trying not to. He had collected details in secret because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Now he could touch them.

Now he could say her name into the quiet and watch her soften because of it.

A tenderness so sharp it almost hurt moved through him.

“I know,” he murmured.

His voice changed on the words, dropping out of the teasing entirely.

He hadn’t planned to say that. He didn’t even know what he was answering at first. Her being stuck with him. Her being messed up by happiness. Her letting him decide what came next. All of it, maybe.

“I know,” he said again, softer. “And I don’t—”

He stopped.

Because there it was.

The place where the sentence wanted to become too big.

His chest tightened. His hand flexed once in her hair, then eased immediately, the movement small but telling. Rowan’s eyes stayed on him, patient in a way that made him feel seen and exposed and loved beyond reason.

He breathed through it.

“I don’t take that lightly,” he finished.

It sounded simple.

It wasn’t.

His gaze moved briefly to the bassinet, not because Lyric had stirred, but because he couldn’t help it. She was still asleep, tiny and impossible, one fist tucked near her cheek like she was preparing to object to something in a dream. The sight of her softened him and steadied him at the same time.

His daughter.

Their daughter.

The proof that his life had become something he couldn’t have written without thinking the script was too sentimental.

When he looked back at Rowan, his eyes were warmer, a little darker at the edges with everything he was holding back and everything he was choosing to hold carefully.

“You’re happy,” he said quietly, like he was still getting used to the shape of it. “And you’re here. And she’s there. And I keep waiting for the part where my brain turns it into a joke because otherwise I have to just…”

His mouth curved, but barely.

“Stand here emotionally naked in the living room.”

A beat.

His brows pulled together faintly.

“Which is a bold choice, considering I am technically wearing sweatpants.”

The joke landed softly, almost under his breath, but he didn’t let it take the moment away. His thumb brushed along her hairline, and he watched her the whole time.

“But I mean it,” he whispered. “I don’t take it lightly. Not you. Not this. Not the fact that you let me be the person who gets to see you like this.”

His hand shifted lower, palm cupping the side of her face again.

“Not bracing,” he said, barely audible. “Not waiting for it to go wrong. Just… here.”

That was the part that made his voice falter.

He remembered the versions of her who had learned to measure happiness like it might come with terms and conditions. The versions of both of them, really. Teenagers with too much feeling and not enough language. Kids in costumes and borrowed clothes and half-lit rooms, standing near each other with entire futures pressed behind their teeth.

He hadn’t known then that love could become this.

Not easier.

Not simple.

But steadier.

A place to put his hands.

A baby asleep beside them.

A woman beneath him who could tease him about warnings because she trusted him to hear all the softness underneath.

His thumb moved once along her cheek, reverent despite the heat still humming under his skin.

“So, what did I think was about to happen?” he murmured, returning to her question at last, voice low and careful and threaded with warmth. “Honestly?”

He leaned closer, close enough that his nose brushed hers.

“I thought I was about to make a very compelling argument for why kissing my wife should count as a legally protected quiet activity.”

His mouth hovered over hers.

“And then I remembered that I am married to you, which means the court will find me biased.”

He kissed her once.

Soft.

Brief.

A promise more than an answer.

But when he pulled back, he didn’t go far. He stayed close enough to feel the way her breath changed, close enough for the room to narrow again until there was almost nothing but the two of them and the sleeping little miracle beside the couch.

His hand at her hip pressed once, grounding. Asking without asking.

Then he shifted.

Not away.

Just enough to ease some of his weight off her, careful in the way that had become instinct now. He lowered himself beside her more than over her, one arm braced along the back of the couch, the other sliding behind her shoulders so he could draw her with him without making it feel like an instruction. The movement was slow, quiet, built around Lyric’s sleep and Rowan’s comfort and the fragile peace of the room.

He settled them on their sides, tangled but softer now, her body still close, his knee brushing hers, his hand still in her hair. The angle changed the heat of it into something more sustainable, though not less intimate. Maybe more.

Because now he could look at her without hovering. Could touch her without feeling like every breath was a test of restraint. Could keep his face near hers and still see the bassinet in the edge of his vision.

The whole life, arranged within reach.

He exhaled, long and quiet, and his forehead found hers again.

“There,” he whispered. “Safer.”

A pause.

His mouth tugged faintly.

“For the general public.”

His fingers slipped through her hair in a slow, absent rhythm. Once. Twice. He watched the movement more than he meant to, watched dark strands catch faintly in the firelight, watched his own hand learn the shape of this quiet like it was something sacred.

Then he looked back at her.

Really looked.

The teasing faded again, but it didn’t vanish completely. It stayed at the corners of him, where it belonged, holding the tenderness up instead of hiding it.

“I like this,” he said.

The words were simple enough that he almost felt silly saying them. But his chest didn’t feel silly. His chest felt full to the point of aching.

“I like getting to be quiet with you.”

His thumb brushed the back of her neck where his hand rested, small and slow.

“I like that we can have the huge, terrifying, life-altering feelings…” His eyes flicked toward Lyric, and his smile softened. “At indoor volume.”

Another breath.

“I like that you’re not running from it.”

That one came out more vulnerable than he expected.

He felt it as soon as he said it, felt the old fear it came from, the place in him that still remembered wanting too much and thinking it might scare her. But Rowan didn’t move away. Her eyes stayed open and steady, and the tenderness in her face made something in him loosen.

He let it.

He was learning how to let things.

His hand slid from her hair to her back, palm resting between her shoulder blades, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric. He didn’t pull her closer. She was already close enough. He just held her there, in the quiet, while the fire shifted and the music slipped into another song and Lyric kept breathing her tiny, unimpressed rhythm nearby.

“I used to think if I ever got this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I would know exactly what to do with it.”

His mouth curved, self-deprecating.

“Very arrogant of me.”

His eyes searched hers.

“But mostly I just keep looking at you and thinking… don’t mess this up. Don’t rush it. Don’t make it smaller because it scares you how big it is.”

The honesty sat between them, warm and exposed.

His fingers moved once against her back.

“And then you touch my hair and I forget the entire character arc.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth because he couldn’t help it. Then her cheek. Then the tip of her nose, a quiet retaliation, soft enough to make his own smile break through.

When he drew back, his eyes were bright with it.

“There,” he whispered. “Nose kiss. Full circle. Devastating. Historic.”

His smile softened as he watched her.

For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything else.

He let the room breathe around them. Let his pulse settle where it could. Let himself feel the shape of her beside him, the weight of the night, the strange miracle of being this young and this tired and this certain. Outside, the glass of the windows reflected a room that looked ordinary from a distance—couch, fire, bassinet, two half-folded baby blankets abandoned on the chair, a mug gone cold on the table.

But from inside it, nothing felt ordinary at all.

It felt chosen.

His gaze drifted once more to Lyric, then back to Rowan.

“I do want the whole life,” he whispered.

No joke now.

No ornament.

Just the truth laid down carefully between them.

“The loud parts. The quiet parts. The auditions and the bills and the laundry we keep pretending isn’t developing a personality in the basket.”

His thumb moved along her spine.

“You in every room I’m lucky enough to come home to.”

His throat tightened, but he stayed with it.

“Her in the next room. Or this room. Or screaming through a wall at three in the morning because apparently sleep is a scam invented by people without infants.”

A small breath left him, almost a laugh.

“And me, probably making pancakes too big because I don’t understand moderation. You pretending not to smile about it. Broadway, maybe. Or not maybe. I don’t know. I want that too, obviously, because I am still me and therefore dramatic.”

His eyes held hers.

“But this is the thing I don’t want to miss while I’m chasing it.”

The room went very quiet after that.

Or maybe he just heard it differently.

His own heartbeat. Her breathing. Lyric’s tiny sleep sounds. The faint crackle of the fire.

Mason leaned in and kissed Rowan again, slow and careful and quiet, letting the kiss hold what the words couldn’t without becoming too much. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a promise with trumpets behind it. It was smaller than that and bigger because of it—his mouth against hers, his hand steady at her back, his whole body learning again that happiness didn’t have to be grabbed before it disappeared.

It could stay.

She could stay.

He could, too.

When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that their noses brushed.

His smile came slowly this time.

Warm.

Wrecked.

Entirely hers.

“And for the record,” he whispered, eyes flicking briefly toward the bassinet before returning to her, “I still think she started it.”

A beat.

“She made that noise with attitude.”

His hand moved gently over Rowan’s back, soothing even as his mouth curved.

“But I’ll forgive her. Because she’s very small. And because she has your face when she’s judging me.”

He tucked his forehead back against Rowan’s, eyes closing for half a second because the room, the night, the life of it all, was almost too much.

When he opened them again, his voice had gone softer.

“Stay like this with me for a little while?”

It came out almost shy.

Not because he doubted the answer.

Because asking still mattered.

Because even now—especially now—he wanted every closeness between them to feel chosen.

His fingers threaded gently through hers where they had come to rest between them, and he brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with ridiculous, aching sincerity.

“I promise to keep all catastrophic husband feelings at a whisper.”

Rowan didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have one.

Because she felt it—every word he’d just laid between them—settling somewhere deeper than language. It didn’t rush through her the way his feelings moved through him, bright and immediate and alive in real time. It sank. Slow. Certain. Taking root in places she used to keep guarded out of habit more than necessity.

Her hand stayed in his.

She could still feel the imprint of his mouth against her knuckles, the softness of it, the intention behind something so small it almost could’ve been missed if it had come from anyone else. But not him. Not Mason. Nothing about him was careless, even when he tried to pretend it was.

Her thumb shifted slightly against his fingers.

Grounding.

There.

Present.

Her eyes didn’t leave his face. Not when he spoke. Not when he softened. Not when that quiet, almost-shy question slipped out of him like it still mattered to ask.

It did.

That was the thing.

It mattered more now.

Rowan exhaled slowly, her breath brushing his mouth because he hadn’t gone far enough for it to miss. The space between them wasn’t distance—it was awareness. Of him. Of the room. Of the tiny life breathing steadily a few feet away. Of the way everything had narrowed into something that felt both fragile and completely unshakeable at the same time.

Her fingers tightened just slightly in his.

A choice.

Always a choice.

Her other hand, the one resting against his chest, shifted upward—not quickly, not urgently, just enough to trace the line of his collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her touch was light, but deliberate. Mapping. Confirming. Like she needed to feel the reality of him under her hand to match what he had just said out loud.

Her gaze softened.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the sharp edge of her usual control gave way to something quieter.

Warmer.

“You ask like I might say no,” she murmured, her voice low enough to live in the same careful space his had been in.

There was no accusation in it.

No edge.

Just observation.

Her thumb brushed once across his knuckles, mirroring what he had done to her without thinking too hard about it. It wasn’t mimicry. It was instinct. Meeting him in the same language he spoke when words started to feel too small.

Her eyes flicked—briefly—to the bassinet.

Lyric hadn’t moved.

Still there.

Still steady.

Still theirs.

Something in Rowan settled further because of it.

When she looked back at him, there was no hesitation left.

Her hand slid from his chest to the side of his neck, her fingers slipping into the hair at the nape the same way they had before—but slower now. More aware of what it did to him. More aware of what it did to her, too. The quiet power of being able to undo him without needing to.

Her thumb pressed lightly just behind his ear.

A small, grounding point.

Her forehead leaned into his without breaking the line of their closeness, her nose brushing his again, familiar now. Easy.

“I like this too,” she added, softer.

Her voice shifted on it—not losing control, but letting something underneath it be heard.

The part she didn’t offer easily.

“I like that you don’t turn it into something else,” she continued, her gaze steady on his even this close, even with the softness in it. “That you let it be what it is.”

A pause.

Her thumb moved once through his hair.

“You don’t make it smaller,” she said, quieter. “Even when you’re trying to.”

There was the faintest trace of something dry at the edge of her tone—just enough to acknowledge him without breaking the moment open. It stayed gentle. Intentional.

Her hand slid from his neck back down to where his rested at her back, settling there, palm over his. Not to move it. Just to hold it in place.

To keep him exactly where he already was.

“You don’t have to keep warning yourself,” she added after a second, her voice barely above a whisper now. “You’re not going to ruin it.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

She didn’t rush the reassurance. Didn’t over-explain it. She just let it sit there, steady and unembellished, because that was how she meant it.

Because she had already decided it.

Her fingers pressed lightly into his hand against her back.

A quiet emphasis.

“Not like this,” she said.

Her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth—just for a second—before returning to his eyes again. Not shy. Not hesitant. Just aware. Choosing not to rush it, the same way he hadn’t.

Matching him.

Meeting him.

Her breath slowed.

The room stayed quiet around them, the fire shifting softly, the music threading low under everything, Lyric’s steady rhythm still anchoring it all.

Rowan leaned just slightly closer—not to close the space, not to take anything from him—but to exist fully inside it with him.

Her voice dropped softer still.

“Stay,” she said, echoing him—but it wasn’t a question when it left her. Not really.

It was agreement.

Her hand slid down, fingers threading through his again where they rested between them, tightening just enough to be felt.

Choosing.

Still choosing.

And then, after a beat—just enough time for the moment to settle into something lived-in instead of fragile—her mouth curved faintly at one corner.

“She definitely started it,” she added, quiet and dry, eyes flicking once toward the bassinet before returning to him. “I’ve seen that face. She’s strategic.”

A pause.

Her thumb brushed his hand again.

“But we’ll let it slide,” she murmured. “This time.”

Her gaze held his.

Steady.

Warm.

Certain.

And she didn’t move away.

Her fingers came up to his face, settling against his jaw first, then sliding higher until her palm rested along his cheek. Her thumb traced just beneath his eye, slow, deliberate, grounding.

She didn’t rush the touch.

Didn’t make it bigger than it needed to be.

She just held him there.

Real.

Her gaze softened—not dramatically, not all at once, but enough that the quiet intensity in her eyes warmed into something steadier. Something he could lean into without question.

“This is real,” she said quietly.

No hesitation.

No room for interpretation.

Her thumb brushed once more along his cheek, feeling the faint warmth there, the life in him, the way he always felt just a little too much and tried to carry it like it might spill.

“It doesn’t disappear when you look at it too closely,” she added, softer. “Or when you say it out loud.”

Her fingers shifted slightly, tucking more firmly along his jaw, keeping him right there with her.

Her eyes held his.

Steady.

Certain.

“I love that you still get like this,” she admitted after a beat, her voice lowering—not shy, just honest in a way she didn’t waste. “That you don’t treat it like it’s already figured out. Like it’s done.”

The corner of her mouth moved faintly.

Almost a smile.

“Most people would’ve gotten comfortable by now,” she said. “You didn’t.”

Her thumb pressed lightly against his cheekbone.

“You still feel it.”

A pause.

Not heavy.

Just enough to let that land.

“And I like that,” she finished, quieter.

Her hand didn’t move away.

If anything, it settled more.

Anchoring.

Her forehead leaned into his again, close enough that her voice didn’t have to travel far at all when she spoke next.

Simple.

Direct.

Final in a way that didn’t need emphasis.

“When you wake up tomorrow,” she continued, her tone calm, grounded in something that had already been decided long before this moment, “we’re still going to be married.”

Her thumb moved once along his skin.

“She’s still going to be right there,” she added, a brief flick of her eyes toward the bassinet before returning to him.

“And in forty-eight hours,” she said, quieter now, but no less certain, “we’re all going to be in New York.”

A beat.

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Watching you audition.”

She let that sit there.

Didn’t soften it. Didn’t hedge it.

Just gave it to him the way he needed it—clear, solid, without fear wrapped around it.

Her fingers slipped slightly into his hair at the edge of his temple, not to undo him this time, but to steady him.

“To be clear,” she added, a trace of her dry tone threading back in, soft but unmistakable, “this isn’t the part where you spiral and decide you’re going to ruin everything.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek again.

“This is the part where you let it happen.”

Her eyes searched his—not for doubt, not for confirmation, just to make sure he heard her the way she meant it.

Then her hand slid down, slower now, from his face to the side of his neck, resting there, warm and steady.

“I’m here,” she said, softer.

Not as reassurance.

As fact.

Her fingers tightened just slightly against him.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”