He lights up instantly, describing a scene straight out of a storybook. A secluded clearing. Moss underfoot. Lanterns strung between trees like captured stars. He wants it to feel like a secret world built for them. Timeless and untouched.
It’s beautiful. It’s everything I love.
And like that, I’m off. The ideas pour out of me before I can stop them.
"We could use theatrical misters to create a soft, low fog. Hang silk ribbons from the trees. Build a path with glowing pebbles that lights up when you step on it. Maybe even place a string quartet beyond view, playing as you walk in…"
I'm soaring. Floating. Until I make the mistake of looking at Clara.
She's nodding politely. But her eyes are cool. Assessing.
"It sounds," she says, pause devastating, "incredibly complicated. How would you get power out there? What happens if it rains an hour before? What's the exact contingency strategy?"
Pop.
Just like that, my creative balloon deflates.
She's not brainstorming. She's building a fortress of logistics and facts around Ben's dream, brick by brick. My cheeks flush. My stomach tightens. I can feel my confidence slipping through my fingers.
I am officially failing.
Then, a voice, grounded as bedrock, cuts through the tension.
"The contingency strategy is multi-layered."
I turn. Mason is coming down the loft stairs. Not hesitant but moving with the ease of someone stepping into a negotiation. He's holding a dark blue portfolio I'm ninety-nine percent sure contains blank forms or old contracts.
My heart doesn’t flutter. It takes off. He’s changed into a crisp, dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the sight of him, solid, capable, present, grounds me in a way I didn’t expect.
He gives Clara a polite, disarming smile.
“Apologies for the interruption. Mason Kincaid.” He extends a hand to Clara, then Ben. “I handle operational logistics and risk assessment for Maddy’s projects.”
The title is a total fabrication, and I love him for it.
He flips open the portfolio with practiced ease, like he’s presenting prepared materials. The pages inside are notes, scribbled diagrams. Nothing formal.
"Maddy's vision is extraordinary, but it works because she thinks through the practicalities." His tone is calm, almost conversational, but every word eases the tension. "Power? Ever After uses marine batteries when we're off-grid. No disruptive generators. Weather? We have a tent on standby from Albany, set up in three hours if needed. If the forecast tips past thirty percent rain, we deploy. And if everything else fails? We have an indoor venue on soft hold."
He rattles off points with a confidence that makes it sound like this plan existed long before this moment. But I know better. He's stitching it together from scraps of our past conversations and sheer instinct and somehow making it sound ironclad.
Clara is transformed. The skeptical project manager melts away, replaced by a beaming, excited future fiancée.
"Ben," she says, grabbing her boyfriend's hand, "this is ideal. It's ... it's both. It's magical and it makes sense." She studies me and Mason, her eyes shining. "You two are incredible. We'll take it. All of it."
After they leave, giddy and glowing, the signed contract on my desk, the barn feels charged with our shared win.
"Operational logistics and risk assessment?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. My voice is shaky.
"A brand of genius like yours requires structural support," he says, his lips twitching into a small smile. He's echoing my earlier thoughts, and the casual intimacy of it steals my breath.
"Thank you," I say, and the words feel inadequate. "You didn't have to do all that. You ... you built a fortress for my fairy tale."
"It's a good fairy tale," he says. "It deserves a solid foundation."
Just then, my phone buzzes. It's a text from Clara. My heart hammers as I read it.
Clara
