Chapter 8: Team Reed-Whitaker Forever

Mason kept knocking.

He switched to tapping out the beat to “Seven Nation Army.”

I pulled him back and shouted through the door: “Grant, if you don’t open up, the wedding gift money doubles!”

I cupped my hands around my mouth for maximum effect.

As soon as I finished, the door flew open.

Grant popped out, grinning sheepishly. Classic.

The chat lost it.

Someone posted a meme of Grant with dollar signs for eyes.

“I’m dead, Chloe is so effective.”

“Grant: Allergic to giving wedding gift money.”

“Am I the only one dying to know how much it is? It actually got Grant moving.”

“Wild guess: seven figures.”

People started placing fake bets in the comments.

While everyone was speculating, Grant had already brought out the family sweatshirts.

He held them up like a proud dad at a science fair. Mason rolled his eyes.

Mason gave them a once-over, ready to play along.

He nudged me, whispering, “Should I act annoyed, or just go with it?”

He’d said in the car that when Grant brought out this gift, he had to tease him for being childish—just like Grant had teased him years ago.

He picked up the shirt and grinned: “Didn’t you call this childish? What, you regressing with age?”

He waved the shirt like a victory flag. Grant just smirked.

Grant shot back: “Yeah, after hanging out with you, how could my taste not regress?”

He grinned, and the banter was off to the races.

The two of them started bickering on camera.

I watched, arms crossed, like a referee at a high school basketball game.

The chat was full of people shipping them.

Someone posted a ship name: “Grason.” I nearly spit out my water.

“I can’t even—GrantMason CP is real!”

“Grant complains but still brings the gift—so shippable!”

“I mean, it’s cute, but the wife is right there—let’s not get carried away.”

Thank you.

Finally, someone noticed me. I waved at the camera, making a pouty face.

I’d been standing there for ten minutes—finally, I got a little love.

I mock-pouted, elbowing Mason.

Seeing Mason wanting to wear the shirt but pretending to hesitate, I lost patience and shoved the clothes into his arms: “Enough talking, just put it on.”

He grinned and bolted into the house to change.

Mason gratefully escaped and went to change.

He shot me a thumbs-up before vanishing inside.

Before going in, he kept up the loving husband act: “I’m only wearing it because my wife wants to see me in it.”

He winked at the camera, nailing the role.

Just as Mason finished changing, Marissa Lin arrived.

She swept in with her usual dramatic flair, hugging everyone and cracking jokes.

After a quick reunion, the crew announced the first challenge.

The producer handed us envelopes with our tasks. I braced myself.

Grant and Marissa got sent to the local farmer’s market to buy groceries. Whatever they bought would be our rations for the week.

Grant groaned, but Marissa fist-pumped. She thrived on competition.

Mason and I were stuck at home, responsible for dinner.

I exchanged a look with Mason. This was going to be… interesting.

When we heard this, all four of us just stared at each other in stunned silence.

A beat of awkwardness. The crew grinned, loving every second.

Marissa tried to protest: “How about letting Whitaker family head and Chloe shop, and I’ll cook with Grant?”

She flashed her best puppy-dog eyes. The crew didn’t budge.

The crew refused, saying this was a rare chance for the newlyweds to bond on camera.

The producer winked at us. “America wants to see you two in the kitchen!”

Grant realized there was no way out, so he went off to shop with Marissa.

He muttered about needing hazard pay. Marissa dragged him out the door.

Mason and I stared at the pile of groceries on the table for a long time, neither of us moving.

There was a mountain of produce, none of it remotely “easy.”

After a while, I finally broke the silence: “What do we do now?”

I eyed the potatoes like they were about to bite me.

One of us is always on a salad diet, the other once cooked a meal that sent four people to urgent care.

I shot Mason a look. “Remember the great chili disaster?” He winced.

Asking us to cook is like asking a dog to drive a car.

I started Googling “takeout near me” under the table.

Mason scratched his head: “How about a cold egg salad and some shrimp? I remember you love shrimp.”

He looked so hopeful I almost felt bad.

Great idea—in theory. I forced a smile.

But I pointed to the table: “No shrimp.”

I held up a potato as proof.

All we had were pork ribs, eggs, and potatoes.

I sighed. “Guess we’re improvising.”

And the crew wouldn’t let us look up recipes online.

They’d confiscated our phones, but I still had my wits. Or so I hoped.

Just as we were about to give up, Mason pointed at the camera and whispered, “We can’t use Google, but maybe the internet can help us out.”

He grinned, tapping the lens. “Hey, internet—got any advice?”

The crew never said netizens couldn’t help us.

Loophole found. I high-fived Mason.

Even if the crew wanted to stop us, they couldn’t. Mason leaned into the camera: “Any home chefs out there?”

He clasped his hands in a dramatic plea.

The chat went quiet for a second.

I held my breath. Would anyone come through?

After a moment, someone pasted a recipe: “Just found this online, good luck!”

A hero. I blew a kiss at the camera.

Mason and I put our hands together and bowed: “Thank you, kind stranger!”

We even made a heart with our hands. The chat exploded with hearts and applause emojis.

Following the recipe, we started cooking.

We argued over how to crack eggs and debated the meaning of “medium heat.” It was chaos.

The chat was buzzing again.

Someone posted, “This is me every Thanksgiving.”

“They’re so cute trying to cook, LOL.”

“So relatable—when I learned to cook, I wanted the recipe to say exactly how many grains of salt.”

I counted out the grains for comedic effect. Mason pretended to faint.

“I can’t cook, but watching them struggle is hilarious.”

Someone else posted, “My kitchen looks just like theirs—a war zone.”

“How big is a spoonful of sugar?”

“Reply: At least not a soup ladle.”

Mason and I followed the recipe for the sauce, but as soon as we put everything in the pot, we got nervous.

The smell was… interesting. I fanned the air, wrinkling my nose.

I kept asking, “Is it done yet? Want to try a bite first?”

Mason started out confident, telling me to wait.

He even set a timer, looking smug.

But soon, the pot started to smell burnt and the ribs were still raw.

I yelped, grabbing the pot holders.

We quickly killed the heat.

Smoke billowed. Mason waved a towel, coughing.

“The heat’s too high, you two goofs!”

The chat was full of advice and exclamation points.

“Add water, turn it to low, let it simmer!”

We scrambled to follow the instructions, splashing water everywhere.

Mason and I followed the chat’s step-by-step advice and finally finished dinner before Marissa and Grant got back.

We collapsed onto the sofa, faces dusted with flour, but triumphant.

I flopped on the couch, waving a napkin like a surrender flag: “From now on, you cook, or we just order DoorDash. I’m out.”

We followed every step, but the taste was still… off.

I poked at the food, hoping it would improve by sheer willpower.

It was a real hit to my confidence.

I’d survived critics, but not the kitchen.

Mason came over after washing his hands, ruffling my hair: “Don’t worry, I’m learning to cook. Give me a month, and you’ll be eating like royalty.”

He winked, trying to reassure me.

“But you have to hang out with me while I cook, or I’ll get bored.”

He pouted, giving me his best puppy-dog eyes.

Mason added.

He nudged my shoulder, grinning.

“Aww, is he being cute? I need more evidence.”

Someone posted a compilation of Mason’s “cute husband” moments.

“I declare, real couples are the sweetest!”

The chat was full of heart emojis.

“I need this kind of love before I die!”

People started tagging their partners, daring them to cook together.

Mason sat across from me, and I found myself tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, my heart fluttering.

He caught my gaze and smiled, a little softer than usual.

So this was the result of Mason’s self-training.

Maybe those books weren’t so useless after all.

Not bad, Mason. Not bad at all.

I mentally bookmarked that for future compliments.

Grant and Marissa sat at the dining table, eyeing the food with deep suspicion.

Marissa looked at the plate like it might come alive. Grant sniffed it dramatically.

Mason urged them, “We followed the recipe exactly—try it!”

He sounded so earnest, I almost believed him.

Marissa stared at the dish, then shrugged and took a bite.

Grant went full drama king—he whipped out a silver fork and poked the food like he was on MasterChef.

I rolled my eyes, but inside I was nervous.

He shouldn’t be called Oscar winner Grant, but Drama King Grant.

I whispered this to Marissa, who nearly choked on her water.

Mason rolled his eyes and snatched the plate: “Eat if you want, stop being so dramatic.”

He plopped two ribs onto my plate, grinning.

He put two pieces of ribs in my bowl: “Wife, you eat first!”

He even tucked a napkin under my chin for show. The chat went wild.

There was a little burnt flavor, but it wasn’t bad.

I chewed thoughtfully, then gave Mason a thumbs-up.

I nodded and praised Mason: “You might have a future as a chef.”

He beamed, clearly pleased.

Marissa heard me and tried some too, giving us a double thumbs-up.

Grant watched us for a minute, saw we weren’t faking it, and took a bite: “Chloe, not bad—you managed to train a kitchen disaster into a decent cook.”

He winked at me, still playing it up.

Mason rolled his eyes at him, and when Grant tried to grab more food, Mason batted his fork away.

They started bickering again, just like old times.

“Hahaha, Mason’s so over Grant.”

Someone posted a gif of Mason swatting Grant’s hand.

“Mason: Can’t stand friends with no boundaries.”

“The power of love, I ship it.”

The chat was relentless.

After dinner, I suggested going for a walk.

I needed some air—and maybe a break from the kitchen carnage.

Mason took my hand and we headed out, but when Grant tried to follow, Mason shut the door in his face: “This is couple time, man. You stay here and be good.”

He wagged his finger at Grant, who pouted theatrically.

Grant: “….”

He mouthed “traitor” at me through the window. I stuck out my tongue.

At first, Mason and I just enjoyed the fresh air.

The sun was setting, the air crisp and clean. It was almost peaceful.

But then a bug crawled up my leg and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I shrieked, hopping around. Mason jumped into action, swatting it away.

Mason, startled, quickly brushed it off for me.

He crouched down, checking my leg for any more critters. I clung to his shoulder, still shivering.

But even after the bug was gone, my legs felt like jelly.

I clung to Mason, laughing shakily. “I swear, that bug was the size of a Ford.”

All these years, it was the first time I’d seen such a monster bug!

I made a mental note to wear jeans next time.

Mason crouched down in front of me: “Come on, I’ll carry you home.”

He looked back, grinning. “Hop on, city girl.”

This time, I didn’t hesitate and hopped on his back: “Thanks for the lift.”

He grunted dramatically, but I could tell he was pleased.

Once I was settled, Mason started walking.

He adjusted his grip, careful not to jostle me.

As we walked, he asked, “Want to put on some medicine when we get back?”

His voice was gentle, almost shy.

A few years ago, when we were filming, the environment was rough and there were bugs everywhere. I got serious rashes from them, but never figured out which bug I was allergic to. After that, I always bundled up on shoots like this.

I remembered those days—itchy skin, endless ointments, and Mason always hovering nearby.

This time, I was just careless.

I sighed, wishing I’d been more careful.

I shook my head: “Didn’t bring any ointment. I’ll be fine.”

I tried to sound tough, but my voice wobbled.

Mason, so close to me, shrank back a little, his ears turning red.

He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool.

After a long pause, he said, “I brought some, but there are too many types—you’ll have to pick yourself.”

He sounded almost embarrassed, which made me smile.

I was stunned.

I blinked, surprised by how thoughtful he was.

Back then, I was being targeted by haters, so I didn’t dare mention this, afraid people would call me delicate.

I’d kept quiet, not wanting to seem weak.

I couldn’t help but ask: “How did you know?”

I leaned closer, genuinely curious.

I remembered clearly—everyone was busy, we didn’t talk, there was no way he could have known.

I racked my brain, trying to remember if I’d let something slip.

Mason adjusted his grip and explained, “Didn’t you post a Facebook update? I asked a doctor friend, figured it’d be handy to have some medicine, but when I checked again, you’d deleted the post. No choice, so I brought all ten or so ointments.”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. My heart squeezed a little.

I lay on his shoulder and whispered, “Mason, is this also in your ‘How to Be a Loving Husband’ guide?”

He snorted, but there was a softness in his voice.

He almost made me cry.

I blinked back tears, grateful for him in ways I couldn’t put into words.

Mason paused, then grumbled, “You need a book to learn that? No wonder you’ve been single so long.”

I smacked his shoulder, laughing.

Sigh.

I let out a dramatic sigh, resting my chin on his shoulder.

I replied, “I just lack experience. I’ll do better next time.”

He squeezed my hand, silent but reassuring.

Mason tightened his hold and, after a while, said, “Chloe, if you keep nagging, I’ll toss you into the ditch.”

He nodded at a muddy ditch nearby, raising an eyebrow.

I glanced at the deep ditch nearby and clung to his neck.

I squeaked, “Not a chance!”

I thought I heard Mason laugh.

It was a soft, genuine sound. I smiled into his shoulder.

Not sure what was so funny, I shifted to look.

He turned his head, trying to hide his grin.

Mason couldn’t take it: “Stop moving.”

His voice was low, a little breathless.

“Okay.”

I settled in, letting him carry me the rest of the way.

...

When we got back to the yard, Grant was FaceTiming his wife.

He waved his phone in the air, narrating every detail for her.

Seeing Mason carrying me, he was stunned: “Chloe, are you hurt?”

He sounded genuinely worried, for once.

I tried to get down, but Mason wouldn’t let me.

He shot Grant a smug look, as if to say, “Top that.”

I could only lie on his back and explain: “No, there were just too many bugs, so he carried me back.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool.

Grant pouted, turned to his wife, and said, “See, newlyweds are so sweet, even have to carry each other home. I’m much more mature by comparison.”

He puffed out his chest, trying to look dignified.

Mason and I: “….”

We exchanged a look, then burst out laughing.

Mason was about to argue when Grant’s wife exposed him: “Yeah, so mature, but you still have to carry me at home and ended up making me fall.”

Her voice rang out through the phone. Grant turned beet red.

Grant coughed awkwardly, grabbed his phone, and went inside to continue the call.

He muttered something about “bad reception” as he disappeared.

Mason, still carrying me, snorted: “Not as strong as me.”

He flexed his arm for the camera. I rolled my eyes.

I was speechless.

But secretly, I was charmed by his goofiness.

He even found a sense of superiority in this.

He strutted around the yard, still holding me piggyback.

This walk was edited by the crew and posted on Instagram.

The video was set to a cheesy love song. It racked up a million views in an hour.

Another trending topic.

People started making fan edits, adding sparkles and hearts.

#MasonCarriesChloeHome#

#ChloeWillHaveExperienceNextTime#

#GrantIsMuchMoreMature#

The hashtags multiplied. Even my grandma texted me a link.

Netizens loved this slice-of-life content, and the view count quickly soared to the top.

People commented things like, “This is better than any romcom!”

The comments section was lively:

Someone wrote, “Mason’s the blueprint for modern husbands. Take notes, gentlemen!”

“Wow, what a modern husband Mason is—even remembers to bring ointment.”

Another posted, “My boyfriend won’t even bring me Advil. Step up, Jake!”

“Haha, when Chloe said ‘I’ll have experience next time,’ Mason’s face was darker than my coffee.”

There were screenshots of Mason’s scowl, turned into reaction memes.

“Mason: When I carried my wife home, she was already thinking about her next husband—so angry.”

“Chloe is always thinking about remarrying, hahaha.”

People started joking about my “serial bride” energy.

“Isn’t Grant and his wife hilarious too? One tries to act mature, the other exposes him—they’re a perfect match.”

There was a poll: “Who’s the funniest couple—Grant & wife or Mason & Chloe?”

Always competitive, Grant posted on Instagram:

He uploaded a gym selfie, flexing. Caption: “Fake news, I can totally carry her.”

Unfortunately, not only did his wife call him out—even fans didn’t buy it.

People started roasting him in the comments.

“Bro, not to be mean, but you really should hit the gym—you’re getting fat from happiness.”

“Ask your daughter if she believes it.”

“Seriously, if you keep drinking soda, you won’t even be able to carry your little one.”

Someone posted a side-by-side of Grant’s old action movie physique and his current dad bod.

The trending discussion quickly shifted from Mason and my sweet marriage to the whole nation urging Grant to work out, so when he spoke to us later, he was gritting his teeth.

He called me, swearing revenge. I told him to join my yoga class. He hung up.

The second episode of the show had the four of us catching fish in the river.

The producers handed out waders and nets. I eyed the river warily.

Of everyone, only Mason had done this kind of show before—the rest of us were newbies.

He looked way too comfortable in those boots. I suspected he’d practiced.

Especially Grant, who was afraid of water and looked reluctant.

He clung to the shore, muttering about “Hollywood hazards.”

Marissa and I encouraged each other for ages before finally getting the courage to hold hands and wade in.

We counted to three, then squealed as the cold water hit our ankles.

Maybe we were just unlucky, but as soon as I stepped in, I slipped and almost hit a rock behind me.

My heart leapt into my throat. I flailed, reaching for anything.

Mason moved fast and grabbed me, but the momentum sent both of us under.

There was a splash, then everything went cold and blurry.

Marissa steadied herself but couldn’t see us, and panicked: “Oh no! Chloe and Mason fell in—quick, save them!”

She shouted for help, her voice echoing off the water.

Grant, still on shore psyching himself up, was shocked and threw down a rope.

He tossed it with surprising accuracy. Maybe those action movies paid off.

The chat hadn’t figured out what was happening yet.

People spammed question marks and worried emojis.

“Is this real or just for show?”

Someone posted, “If this is scripted, give them all Oscars.”

“Doesn’t look like acting—why is the crew just standing there? Save them!”

A few viewers threatened to call the network.

“Why set up such a dangerous task?!”

The crew finally reacted and rushed in to save us.

I heard someone yell, “Medic!” as hands pulled me up.

Mason tried to support my waist and push me up.

I gasped for air, clutching his arm.

Just as I broke the surface, a piece of waterweed floated by my hand.

It brushed my wrist, making me panic.

Afraid it would tangle Mason, I tried to push it away, but accidentally hit his head, making him sink again.

I yelped, realizing what I’d done.

The crew pulled me to shore, then went back for Mason.

I watched, breathless, until he emerged, sputtering but safe.

Because of the camera angle, my action looked bad to netizens.

Clips circulated online, slowed down for dramatic effect.

“Even if it’s instinct, I have to say—Chloe’s action was really selfish.”

People started armchair-psychoanalyzing me.

“She and Mason are married—didn’t she think she could make it harder for him to get up?”

I wanted to yell at the screen: “It was an accident!”

“Also, why go in the water if you can’t swim? Does she just count on Mason to save her?”

The comments stung, even though I tried to brush them off.

“Agreed, feels like Chloe doesn’t care about Mason at all. Even when he carried her home, she didn’t think about whether he’d get tired.”

People dissected every gesture, every glance.

“Chloe doesn’t treat Mason like a husband. Can’t ship it.”

I saw a poll: “Are Mason and Chloe real, or just acting?” The numbers made my stomach drop.

Mason coughed up some water, and after coming ashore, wrapped me in a blanket.

He rubbed my arms, whispering reassurances. I shivered, more from nerves than cold.

Three of us were so shaken we had to go back inside to rest.

The crew brought us towels and hot tea. I huddled on the couch, still rattled.

I changed clothes and brought ginger tea to Mason.

I added extra honey, just the way he liked it.

When I walked in, I saw him frowning at his phone.

His jaw was tight, eyes scanning the comments.

He looked up, quietly put the phone down, and reached out to feel my forehead: “Did you drink the ginger tea? If you feel sick, tell me right away—we’ll go to the hospital.”

His hand was warm, steadying me. I blinked back tears.

Hearing his concern, my eyes turned red and I blurted out, “I was just afraid the waterweed would tangle you—I didn’t mean it, I…”

My voice cracked. I twisted the hem of my shirt, fighting to explain.

Thinking about it now, I was still scared.

I hugged myself, remembering the panic in the water.

If Mason had really been hurt because of me, I’d never forgive myself.

The guilt weighed heavy on my chest.

Before I could finish, Mason interrupted: “I know. As long as you’re okay, nothing else matters.”

He squeezed my hand, his voice gentle. I finally let myself cry.

...

Before dinner, I finally had time to check my phone.

I scrolled through notifications, dreading what I’d see.

I saw that today’s incident was trending, with a flood of opinions.

Everyone had an opinion, and most of them stung.

Some said I was selfish and didn’t care about Mason’s life.

The comments were harsh—some even called for me to be taken off the show.

Some said Mason was blinded by love.

They painted him as a martyr, me as the villain. It hurt.

Some blamed the crew for making us catch fish in the river without proper safety measures.

At least someone was calling out the real issue.

Arguments were so heated that Twitter was lagging.

My app crashed twice. The drama was everywhere.

After refreshing several times, I finally saw the latest post.

My heart pounded as I clicked on Mason’s name.

It was from Mason.

He’d posted a photo of us, soaked but smiling.

He posted the full video from another camera angle, with the caption: “Chloe’s only intention was to protect me, and all I wanted was to keep her safe. Thank you for your concern, but I just want to say—being able to protect her as her husband is my dream.”

His words were simple, but they hit me hard.

My finger hovered over the screen for a long time before I wiped away my tears.

I sniffled, feeling a wave of gratitude.

I suddenly really wanted to see Mason.

I stood up, heading for the door.

But as soon as I got out of bed, Mason pushed open the door and came in.

He looked tired, but his eyes softened when he saw me.

Seeing my red eyes, he said helplessly: “I knew you’d been crying.”

He handed me a tissue, his touch gentle.

He reached out to wipe my tears, and to lighten the mood, joked: “So moved? If I’d known, I’d have staged a hero-rescues-beauty scene for you earlier.”

He winked, trying to make me laugh. It worked.

For ten years, Mason and I had spent half our time being shipped as a couple.

There were fanfics, art, even a podcast dedicated to us.

So I never dared to be sure if he was just acting for the cameras, or if he actually liked me.

The line had always been blurry, and I’d been too afraid to cross it.

But now, I finally dared to believe it.

Something in his eyes told me it was real.

So I grabbed Mason’s collar and kissed him.

I pulled him close, not caring about the cameras or the world.

The chat exploded.

The comments flew by: “I KNEW IT!” “OTP FOREVER!” “SOMEONE CALL 911, I’M DEAD!”

“Ahhh, they kissed!”

There were gifs, memes, even a slow-motion replay.

“Do they even know they’re live?”

People joked about needing heart medication.

“Don’t mind me! I’m dying from the sweetness!”

Someone posted a video of themselves sobbing with joy.

“Mason, you really played the sympathy card!”

A few fans started a conspiracy thread about our “master plan.”

“Those who trashed his wife this afternoon—are you eating your words now?”

The tide was turning, and I felt a weight lift.

“Hehehe, keep going, I love it.”

The chat begged for more, but Mason pulled away, grinning.

After a while, Mason let go and whispered in my ear: “This can’t be broadcast.”

His breath tickled my ear. I blushed, realizing what we’d done.

I stared at him, stunned.

My cheeks burned. “Mason!”

The next second, the live stream cut off, and the cameraman rushed in to turn off the camera.

He looked apologetic, but also amused.

Before leaving, he politely said: “Sorry to interrupt, carry on.”

He winked, closing the door behind him.

My face turned bright red: “Why didn’t you warn me? Now everyone saw!”

I buried my face in my hands, mortified.

I thought after today, the live stream would be over.

I seriously considered faking a cold to avoid filming tomorrow.

How was I supposed to face people?

Mason’s eyes sparkled, clearly in a good mood: “It’s fine, now they can’t see anymore.”

He pulled me closer, his smile softening.

With that, he leaned in again.

This time, there were no cameras—just us.

...

When I woke up the next day, I saw the top trending search:

My phone was blowing up. I braced myself for the headlines.

#WhatDidChloeAndMasonDo#

#ChloeMasonLiveRoomBanned#

Fans speculated wildly, posting theories and memes.

Seeing the director’s aggrieved look, I finally understood.

He’d posted a selfie, captioned: “Never thought I’d get banned for too much love.”

Because my kiss with Mason was a bit too much, the live room was banned.

I texted the director an apology. He replied with a laughing emoji.

But that didn’t dampen netizens’ enthusiasm.

If anything, it made them more excited.

They bought the director a VIP account so he could stream from his own account.

Someone started a GoFundMe, jokingly calling it the “Chloe & Mason Romance Fund.”

At this point, Grant came out of his room and pouted at us: “Shame on you!”

He wagged his finger, but his eyes were twinkling.

Marissa, for once, took his side.

She crossed her arms, pretending to be scandalized.

But when they learned that the third episode would bring their families on the show, their faces brightened up.

Grant did a little dance, Marissa squealed. It was chaos.

Especially Grant, who strutted around like a peacock and spent ages getting ready.

He changed outfits three times, asking everyone for opinions.

As soon as the show ended, I found out I was pregnant.

I stared at the test, heart pounding. Mason found me crying happy tears in the bathroom.

Mason originally wanted to keep it secret until after a smooth delivery, but netizens are sharp-eyed.

Someone posted a side-by-side of my old and new photos, circling my slightly rounder face.

Not only did they spot my pregnancy, they even guessed how far along I was.

There were spreadsheets, theories, even a betting pool.

Mason realized he couldn’t hide it, so he just came clean.

He posted a photo of us holding a tiny pair of shoes, captioned: “Coming soon.”

But no one could have guessed that the day Mason made the announcement would become everyone’s nightmare.

He went on a posting spree, flooding every feed.

He posted over twenty Instagram updates in a row—from names for the baby, to guessing the gender, to asking netizens how to relieve morning sickness.

He even polled fans for nursery color ideas.

In short, he spammed everyone’s feed.

People started joking that he’d broken Instagram.

Some fans couldn’t take it and sent Mason a pregnancy manual, commenting: “Please, stop posting—my phone is lagging because of you.”

Someone sent him a digital sticker: “Dad Level: Overachiever.”

“If you really want to post, get a side account.”

A petition started: “Give Mason a Dad Blog!”

“Agreed, first time I haven’t looked forward to Mason’s posts.”

People posted memes of overloaded phones.

Thankfully, Mason took the hint and opened a side account.

He even made a big announcement: “Follow for baby updates!”

Username: “Chloe’s Husband.”

He posted a selfie with a “#ProudDad” mug.

Grant and Marissa even messaged me to tease: “Hahaha, is Mason crazy?”

They sent screenshots of his posts, covered in laughing emojis.

“You’ve had it rough—following him around and losing face.”

Marissa sent me a meme of a woman chasing her husband with a phone.

“With Mason like this, we can’t show our faces either. We’re blocking you until after you give birth.”

They joked about going off the grid until the baby arrived.

Me: “….”

I sent back a string of crying-laughing emojis.

They’d definitely regret that decision.

I made a mental note to save every embarrassing post for future blackmail.

Turns out, Mason’s vengefulness is no joke.

He started plotting his “revenge” in the group chat.

On the day our daughter was born, Mason immediately created a group chat and demanded a baby gift from Grant and Marissa.

He even sent a countdown: “You have 24 hours.”

At first, Grant refused.

He posted a gif of a locked wallet.

Mason just sneered and sent him a hundred photos of our daughter, with a note: “I have a big move ready.”

He even threatened to post a slideshow set to dramatic music.

Grant was so scared he Venmo’d the baby gift money to me right away, and even asked: “What’s Mason’s big move?”

He sounded genuinely nervous. I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

I glanced at Mason taking pictures of our daughter and smiled: “It’s ten thousand photos of our daughter.”

I showed Grant a sample—he replied with a string of terrified emojis.

Grant: “….”

He sent a meme of someone fainting.

He must have felt indignant and posted on Instagram—a photo of his daughter with a little fist: “That Mason guy is so funny. I’m not the only one with a daughter.”

The two of them started competing, flooding their feeds with parenting posts.

It was the Dad Olympics—who could post the cutest baby photo, who had the best dad joke.

Grant posted photos of feeding the baby; Mason posted photos of making a hat for our daughter.

He even crocheted a tiny beanie, bragging in the captions.

Grant posted about making baby food; Mason posted a video of our child saying “Daddy” for the first time.

He added a slow-motion replay. Fans went wild.

At first, fans hoped they’d post more, maybe even declare a winner.

Someone made a bracket, March Madness-style.

But later, they couldn’t take it and tagged me and Grant’s wife on Instagram.

The comments were desperate: “Save us from the Dad Spam!”

“Please, take these two embarrassing dads home! And confiscate their accounts!”

There were memes of us dragging them away from their phones.

Grant’s wife and I discussed it and made them digital photo albums.

We set up private folders, hoping to contain the chaos.

But the two dads were so competitive, they started seeing who could store more photos in their album.

They even started a spreadsheet. I gave up.

Looking through all the photos of our child growing up, I couldn’t help but think—the best thing about Mason’s competitive streak is that every moment of our child’s growth is recorded.

I scrolled through the photos, smiling at every milestone.

I turned to see Mason coaxing the baby and smiled.

He was singing softly, the baby giggling in his arms.

Mason noticed, walked over with the baby in his arms, and kissed my forehead.

He whispered, “Team Reed-Whitaker forever.”

The baby babbled, calling out, “Daddy, Mommy.”

We both laughed, hearts full.

Mason and I looked at each other and smiled, feeling that happiness was probably just like this.

I thought, maybe this is what I’d been searching for all along—love, laughter, and a family that’s just a little bit wild.

(The End)