Sweet Romance13 min read
Third Dragon Boat: Hot Springs, Little Feet, and One Quiet Yes
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This is the third Dragon Boat Festival I've spent with Mason Guerin.
"It's only three days," I said into the blank whiteness of my drawing board, "and he had to work at least one of them."
"You mean he works all festivals," Morgan Haas called from the doorway. "Seriously, Ava, your husband is relentless."
"He's responsible," I answered. "That’s different."
Morgan laughed and settled on the couch with her phone. "Responsible, sure. But don't you deserve to be pampered on a holiday?"
"I have my pencil and coffee." I tapped the tip of my brush against the palette. "And I have a kid who wants to go to his grandparents' house."
Evert Campos, our two-year-old, had been adamant. He liked his grandparents' backyard better than our sofa, and he liked his grandparents' snacks better than ours. So this Dragon Boat, it would just be me at home with deadlines and the quiet that comes with a child gone.
"He better send you at least one silly text," Morgan said.
"He did. He texted 'What are you doing?'"
"And?"
"I sent back 'Missing you.'" I smiled, remembering how my thumb hovered before I sent it. I imagined Mason reading the words and trying so hard not to show what he felt. He is the kind of man who keeps a soft expression behind a solid wall.
"Are you sure?" Morgan asked, eyes bright.
"I told him I'm trying for a second baby," I said. "He thought about it, and he said, 'If you want one, I'll help.' That was it."
"That is not 'it'—" Morgan said.
"That's his 'it,'" I replied. "He's not flashy with feelings, but he never says no to me."
"He'll say yes to everything except being dramatic," she teased. "So, what are you doing tonight? Come out with us."
"I can't," I said quickly. "I'm trying to keep off the wine—trying for a baby and all. Not a great time to be the designated bachelorette."
Morgan's grin only widened. "Try? So it's official?"
I shrugged, half laughing. "I guess so."
We sipped coffee. She got my extra plans out of me, my list of deadlines, sketches for a new children’s book, the set of pajamas I bought last week on impulse. "You bought a black set?" she said. "Ava, you're going to get me into trouble."
"I bought it because someone had it on," I said, warm and slightly embarrassed.
"Someone?"
"You know," I said. "Someone very boring who is my husband." My voice softened, and I paused. I wasn't complaining. Mason was a good man: steady, careful, loving in little ways. He took a left when needed without dramatics, he fixed the leaky tap in the bathroom, he never missed Evert's bedtime even when his meeting ran late. But being romantic? Not his strongest feature.
My phone buzzed. Mason: I'm in a meeting, can't text much.
I typed: Come home early tonight?
No reply for a long moment. My hands went cold. I began to imagine all the practical reasons: a client in another city, last-minute emergency, he stayed overtime. None of them felt warm.
Then a line from Morgan: "Ava, you should try something. Text him in a cheeky way."
"What?"
"Send him a comic panel." She went and grabbed my little tablet with the silly sticker I keep—the cartoon of a pouty woman. She plopped it on my desk and snapped a picture. "Send it. Tell him to come home and 'kiss the trouble out of you.'"
I bit my lip and sent it, half-joking. "Brother, tidy up the sister," the cartoon said, and I added, "Come home tonight. I miss you."
"He replied: I'm casting. Don't talk during the meeting," Maria texted back—wait, that name is not allowed; I must not invent. I corrected myself: I imagined a reply like that, but instead Mason's message came back later: I'm mirroring the screen. Don't say anything.
"He's in a call," I told Morgan. "He always calls in like that."
"Then he better come home," she said.
I waited. The clock crawled. I painted a small afternoon scene of Evert building a tower and tipping it with a triumphant giggle. The brushhead hovered as dusk crept in. The light in the apartment shifted orange, and I thought of Mason, of his quiet ways, and of the question we had talked about months ago: a second child. He'd said yes. He had sounded subdued when he said it, but he meant it. He always meant it.
Suddenly the front door clicked.
"You're home," I called without thinking, thinking it was a simple household greeting.
Mason was in the doorway, and for a second his face was a map I couldn't read. He froze, looking past me through the dim hallway light and taking me in.
"Are you... wearing that?" he said, which was as close to a compliment as he ever got.
"I—" My voice fell into a giggle. I suddenly felt very exposed—like the first time he held me and I realized that the steady hands that fixed pipes could also be gentle enough to soothe. I darted back to the bedroom in an animal panic and dove into the bed.
He padded in after me and, for a moment, we sat in the hush of the apartment.
"Do I smell like a meeting?" he asked, soft.
"No," I said. "You look like you didn't die in one."
He laughed once—a short, private laugh—and then he slid off my cover, his fingers finding the hem of the quilt. "Ava, don't be a statue."
"Don't make me sound like a museum piece," I hissed. He tugged the covers away. "Don't laugh at me."
"Why would I laugh at you?" he said. He cupped my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. The warmth of it made me feel both childish and cherished.
"Because you're always so serious," I muttered.
"Because I'm practical," he corrected. "Because someone has to be practical when you buy black hot-pajamas."
He grinned and stood straighter, like he'd made a decision. "Tonight, we do something practical too," he said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"A hot spring. I'll book a private suite."
"A private suite?" The words felt like a dare.
"Yes," he said simply. "No mixed baths. A private suite. You do the worrying about a second baby; I'll do the booking."
He had that look—small, resolute. I had seen it the first time we decided on apartments, the first time we agreed to be parents, the first time he held Evert at three in the morning and didn't let him cry. It was the same measured focus: decision, plan, follow-through.
"You swapped your shift for this?" I asked.
"Remy sorted it," he answered, like that explained everything. "He couldn't believe it either."
"He... he did?" I whispered. Remy Karlsson was Mason's colleague, an easygoing man who always seemed to know when to step in. Mason nodded once. He moved to the closet and began to pack with methodical calm.
"Are you serious?" I asked again. "All of this for me?"
He lifted his chin. "For us."
He kissed my temple. The heat that rose in me then was deeper than embarrassment. It was like the slow bloom of a promise I hadn't thought I deserved. "You know," I said, "I bought a set of black pajamas because they were bold."
"Bold is good. But I'm coming too." He opened his arms, and it was an invitation I couldn't refuse.
We arrived at the hot spring as the sky deepened. The place was lit by lanterns; the steam rose like a gentle curtain. Mason had reserved the suite with a small courtyard and a private onsen pool. The room smelled faintly of cedar and citrus.
"This is... fancy," I said.
"You said you wanted something," he replied, and that was all the explanation he offered. He set down our bags and took my hand like an old habit—familiar, unshowy.
We were told the suite had a big bath and a sliding glass door that opened to a small stone courtyard. There were flowers floating in a delicate pattern, and the moon hung low like a silver coin.
"Do you want some tea?" Mason asked.
"No," I said. My voice dropped. I felt the warmth of the room and the warmth in his eyes.
"I like you in heat," he said without irony, and I snapped my head up. "What?"
He was deadpan. "You are ridiculous," I laughed. "You sound like a villain in a rom-com."
"I sound like me," he said, and for a moment he let his face soften, a tiny smile that reached his eyes. It was one of those small things I'd come to notice—the way he smiled at me when he knew I could see it. "Change into this." He tossed me the black pajamas I'd bought earlier.
"I brought only one?" I teased.
"You didn't bring anything else," he said. "I like it. Put it on."
The pajamas fit like a private joke. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched with a quiet fondness that made me both bold and shy all at once.
"Will you help me?" I asked when I felt self-conscious.
He stood, came closer, and without fanfare, took my hands. "I will help because I like helping you." He nudged my shoulders gently, and when he brushed a strand of hair from my face, the touch was so small and precise it set off a soft flare in my chest.
"Do you want to swim first or..." I started.
"We'll soak," Mason replied. "Then we'll walk around the courtyard, drink a little tea, and if you still want to try..." He didn't finish the sentence.
"Try what?" I asked, though I knew. He reached for the towel and then for me, and the rest of the evening was a kind of slow, warm slide into the place between laughter and tenderness.
We soaked in the hot water, the steam wrapping us like a blanket. He was careful and quiet, his arms around me while our legs drifted lazily. He teased me with small touches—squeezing my toes, nudging my hip, trailing a finger along my forearm. I watched him watch me, noticed the little differences: how his jaw relaxed when he talked to me, how he'd hum a tune only when he thought I couldn't hear.
"Are you cold?" he asked suddenly.
"No," I lied.
"Then let go of the towel," he said, and there was a private command in his voice. I pretended not to hear and dove my face into the steam, letting the warmth gather into my cheeks.
"Remember when you couldn't decide on two?" he murmured.
"Who couldn't decide?" I teased.
"You said you couldn't decide about the second kid." His hand smoothed my hair. "You worried I didn't want another, and I was... slow to show it."
"I know you are slow," I said. "But you showed up."
"Because you asked," he replied. "Because you wanted it."
I looked at him. In the soft light of the lanterns and the steam, his face looked younger somehow. "Do you know what you'll do if the baby hates broccoli?" I asked as a joke.
"I will bribe them with candy," he said without missing a beat.
"That's horrible parenting."
"Mmm." He drew a circle on the steam and said, "But endearing."
There were three moments that night that would warm me for years.
The first was when he smiled at me across the water. It wasn't a public, declarative expression. It was private, like a door opened just a few inches. "You look different tonight," he said.
"Different how?" I asked.
"Soft," he replied. "You look soft."
"Soft is not a compliment," I said.
"It's a compliment from me." He reached for my hand and squeezed it. "I don't tell you enough that I like you. I do."
The second was when the night air cooled and I shivered. Before I could protest, he had gone to the room and come back with his jacket. He shrugged into it and offered it around my shoulders wordlessly. The jacket was too big, but I felt wrapped and seen. He stood there, a little awkward, waiting to see if I would accept.
"You're so bad at this," I teased.
"Bad at what?"
"This," I said, gesturing at him. "Being dramatic in a competent way."
He laughed and tucked me closer anyway. "I am good at keeping promises," he whispered. "That matters more."
The third moment was later, when the courtyard was quiet and we lay on the tatami. He reached out and brushed the hair from my forehead. "If we do this," he said, "if we make another..." He stopped.
"If we make another," I finished, "we will need more coffee."
He half-laughed. "And more curtains."
We did make another. I remember the water on our skin, the moon above, the small, steady rhythm of someone who knows how to be present. The second time felt like a quiet arranged conspiracy between us: he planned, I yielded, and it was exquisite in its ordinary way.
Months later, I found out I was pregnant.
"How do you feel?" Mason asked the night he told me.
"Terrified," I said. "And excited. And tired."
He took my hands the way he always did. "Then we'll be terrified together," he said. "And excited together. And tired together."
I told him about the black pajamas and the hot spring and how I had sent a silly comic panel the day before. He blinked and then laughed, and the laugh was small and soundless, but it filled the kitchen like sunlight.
Pregnancy is weird and long and glorious. It brings an abundance of small intimacies. He learned the sound my stomach made when I was hungry. I learned the number of spoons of sugar he liked in his coffee. We developed rituals: he would sing a short melody in the mornings, and Evert would try to join in, producing a delightful warble that we called 'the chorus of chaos.'
There were more moments that made my heart tilt.
One evening, I came back from taking Evert to kindergarten. I had had a bad day—my drawing got rejected, and my editor had sent a dotted list of changes. I walked into the living room with my shoulders heavy.
"Bad day?" he asked from the kitchen.
"The worst." I threw myself on the couch. "I feel like nothing I draw is right."
He set down the kettle, came over, sat beside me, and without a word took my hand and led it to a blank page he'd taped on the wall. "Draw me anything," he said.
"I can't," I said.
"You can," he insisted. He handed me a tiny pencil. "Draw what you want me to do when you're feeling like this."
I drew two stick figures—one holding an umbrella, one with a messy halo of hair. Beside them I wrote: 'Hold.' He looked at it and nodded, and then he took my other hand and kissed my knuckles.
"Do you hear my heart?" he asked later that night, when the baby was only an idea floating in my belly. He put his ear to my stomach, grinning like a kid.
"I hear a drum," I said.
"A concert," he corrected. He was always ready to name things that made ordinary life feel framed and special.
There were days when he was practical in the way only he could be. He would make lists for the hospital bag. He would remind me about vitamins, about sleep. He'd research baby monitors until his eyes were tired. But there were also small rebellions: he would slip in little notes under my pillow—"You are allowed to rest," "You make the best pancakes," "Ask me anything." The notes were clumsy and earnest and they made me melt.
"Would you like to pick the name?" he asked one lazy Sunday.
"Only if you promise to agree," I said.
"Fine. I promise." He put his hand over mine.
We argued and laughed over names for days. I wanted something soft. He suggested names that sounded strong. We ended up with a compromise: a first name that felt quiet and a middle name that would make her smile in daylight. We didn't finalize anything; naming kids felt like choosing colors for a room we were finishing together.
On a late summer night, I woke to a strange pain—a gentle pressure at first, then a more certain rhythm. Mason jolted awake beside me, quick as a streetlight. He got up without a word and ushered me into the car with a focus that felt like a public safety drill.
At the hospital, he was a steady presence. He filled forms in block letters and rubbed my back and told me jokes that were terrible but delivered with gravity. He paced the corridors with the silence of someone who could hold a thousand details but would fold them into a single purpose: to be there.
"This is so unfair," I muttered at one point between contractions. "You promised coffee."
"I brought thermoses," he said. He sounded proud that he had thought to bring thermoses.
The labor was long and then swift. The world narrowed to the sound of my breathing, the bright hospital lights, and the rhythm of hands—Mason's most of all. When the baby slid into the world, tiny and wrinkled and loud, Mason was the one to say, "She's perfect," and I did not need to ask who. He looked at our daughter like someone who had just read a book he never wanted to put down.
We named her Cadence Koehler.
"Cadence because we like music and rhythm," I explained when people asked. "Koehler because—" I looked at Mason and he shrugged, "—it sounded like the kind of middle name that would keep her grounded."
Mason laughed. "It sounds like she can waltz while solving a math problem."
Evert loved the baby instantly. He would creep into the nursery and pat her small feet with a solemnity I didn't expect from a two-year-old. He taught her how to fake a train whistle with his hands.
Life after the baby arrived was a new kind of terrain. There were nights of feeding and mornings of quietness. There were diapers and more diapers. There were little things that bloomed into meaning: Mason would sing Cadence a short, improvised melody about the hot spring where she had almost begun; Evert would make a crown out of orange wrappers for his new sister and solemnly declare her "queen of the couch."
One afternoon, months later, we took Cadence to the park. Mason had his camera and was taking pictures of Evert chasing pigeons. Cadence was asleep in her stroller, and the light fell in a way that made the city look like a painting.
"Remember when we booked that suite?" I asked Mason, nudging him.
"Yes," he said, smiling at the photograph he'd just taken.
"You said it would be practical."
"I said I would do practical things for you."
"You said it like it was a job," I teased.
"Ava," he said, solemn. "It is a job. And I love it."
He reached for my hand, and there was my small family all in one frame: my sketchbooks in my bag, Evert's sticky hands, Mason's camera, and Cadence's small sleeping face. It was ordinary in a way that felt sacred.
We didn't make romances of every night. There were bills and schedules and days when Mason's office ran late and days when the baby refused to sleep. But there were also the three heart moments that I kept in a little drawer in my memory: his private smile in the hot spring, the jacket around my shoulders when the night breezed cold, and the small, ridiculous promise that we would need more coffee for the second child.
When people asked me later, "Was it planned?" I would smile and say, "It was quiet and practical and very loud in the best ways."
Sometimes, during the long of the night when Cadence slept and Evert snored softly on the couch after a long day of toddler play, Mason would reach for my hand and press a small kiss into my palm. "Do you remember the comic you sent me?" he'd whisper.
"I do." I would close my eyes. "You told me you were mirroring the screen."
"And you told me to be punished," he said.
"I demanded it," I admitted.
"And I punished you with a hot spring," he said. "And a baby."
"And a thermos," I added, and we laughed.
Evert would come to us sometimes, solemn and sticky-fingered, and ask, "Is hot spring for babies?"
"It can be when the moon is polite," Mason would answer, and Evert would nod as if this explained everything.
Years later, at family gatherings, people still asked Cadence how she was born.
"In the hot water," she would say in a tone that made everyone smile because kids make their epics sound like fairy tales.
I would watch Mason's face as the story unfolded—his jaw, the familiar lines at the edges of his eyes. He would sometimes lean toward me and whisper, "We did good."
"We did perfect," I would answer.
The baby book we kept had a page for her birth story. I wrote the words carefully: "Born beneath the lanterns, in warmth and moonlight. Named Cadence for rhythm and Koehler for balance. Her first lullaby borrowed from a man who is quiet but full of small promises."
On the last page, I drew a tiny pool with a moon above it and two stick figures—one holding an umbrella that leaned protectively, one with a messy halo. Next to them I wrote: "Hot spring night. Third Dragon Boat. Evert's giggle. Mason's thermos. Two children, one steady brother, one small sister. Our ordinary, our sacred."
That, I thought, would be the line that stayed.
The end came not like a thunderclap but like the soft closing of a door—distinct and final in its own small way. I made tea, flipped through the baby book, and Mason stood in the doorway watching our children play with a camera in his hand and a smile he only reserved for us.
"Ready for another festival?" he asked.
"Only if you promise to bring the thermoses," I said.
"I promise," he said, folding his hands like he meant it.
We sat on the little couch later with a blanket and watched Cadence sleep in her cot. The house smelled faintly of citrus and warm linens. Outside, the city hummed. The hot spring night lived in us like a small, steady glow.
I pressed my palm to Mason's and felt the same steady heat that had always been there—practical, unflashy, and enough. I thought of the comic panel, the awkward smile at the door, the private suite with lantern light and cedar.
I whispered into his skin, "Thank you."
"Thank you for asking," he answered.
We had a story that would be told and retold, with small adjustments like the way a melody changes depending on who sings it. But the chorus remained: a hot spring, a night of steam and moonlight, two children, and a man who kept his promises.
And on the first anniversary of Cadence's birth, when Evert insisted on making pancakes and Mason brought out thermoses as if a ritual must be honored, I drew a tiny moon in the margins of my sketchbook.
The sketch said it all—one small pool, one lantern, a little family, and a quiet, practical man who had made the best kind of noise in my life.
The End
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