The Hollow Room

[Midnights]

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The Hollow Room isn’t in magazines. It doesn’t sponsor events. You won’t see a red carpet out front, just graffiti, shadows, and a door no one knocks on unless they know what’s inside.

But the stars come anyway.

Not the ones chasing flashbulbs. The other kind. The ones who write sad songs under aliases. The ones with Oscars they keep in drawers. The ones who disappear for months, then show up at midnight with cigarettes tucked behind their ears and stories in their eyes.

Here, they’re just part of the hum—blended into the dark leather booths, faces lit only by votives and the reflection of whiskey in crystal. There’s no velvet rope, no list. Just a rule: if you recognize someone, you don’t.

It’s not unusual to hear a voice you swear you’ve heard on vinyl. Not strange to see someone who once broke your heart on screen nodding along to a shoegaze band no one’s named yet. The magic is in the anonymity. In the trust. In the fact that The Hollow Room asks nothing of them but presence.

Sometimes Salem plays, and they all show up.

Hoodies pulled low. Sunglasses indoors. Elbows on the bar like it’s sacred.

Because here, it is.
And in the soft gold of the back room, even the famous get to be forgotten for a while.

[Lennon Rae]

It was stupid, how good it felt just to sit across from him.

Not even doing anything — just existing in the same stretch of dim, golden light while the singer crooned soft velvet into the hollow space around them. Her (https://i.ibb.co/6cwD5rTg/412-ACB48-2-F91-4-B8-E-A2-D5-B4-DAA77-D59-D5.png) drink was sweating between her hands, the condensation slick against her skin, but she didn’t move. Didn’t sip. Didn’t speak.

Because Kai was looking at her like this was already enough.

And for maybe the first time in a long time… she believed him.

They’d talked. Really talked. About all of it. The past. The space between. The fact that they were doing this — not dipping a toe in, not pretending it didn’t matter.

They were all in.

Now they just had to learn each other again.

Or maybe… remember.

She didn’t know what made her glance up just then. Some pull in her gut, maybe. Some flicker of intuition that told her he was about to move — and when he did, it was so quiet, so smooth, she barely had time to react.

Kai stood without a word.

Walked a few steps forward, slow and unrushed, and turned to face her with the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

Then he held out his hand.

Simple.

Open.

Offered.

Not a demand. Not a dare.

Just an invitation.

And it wrecked her.

Because she knew that look. Knew the feel of his gaze when it softened like that — when it wasn’t trying to prove anything, just… waiting. Letting her decide.

Her heart jumped once, hard.

She could’ve laughed at herself. Or melted into the floor. Or blurted something stupid just to cover the way her stomach flipped like she was seventeen again and already halfway in love.

But she didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, she set her glass down carefully. Smoothed the fabric of her skirt like it mattered. And stood — slow, careful, every nerve lit up and humming.

She didn’t look directly at him. Not yet.

Just slid her hand into his.

And let him pull her toward the music.

The space between the tables wasn’t big, but it didn’t have to be. He found a rhythm before she even settled, hands steady — one holding hers, the other resting just above her hip, warm and sure like he knew exactly where she belonged.

She moved with him, shy at first. Unsure of how close was too close. Unsure of how much of herself she was allowed to give away this early.

But then she let her head tilt — just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder — and felt his fingers tighten just slightly around hers.

And that was it.

That was the moment.

She smiled, small and private, hidden in the crook of his neck where he couldn’t see it.

And swayed.

Not because she knew all the steps.

But because for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care if she missed one.

He had her.

And she wasn’t scared.

Not tonight.

She closed her eyes for a second, just listening. Letting the soft ache of the lyrics brush against something buried in her chest.

Then, barely above a whisper — like she didn’t want to ruin it by saying it too loud — she murmured, “I think I wanna write again.”

Her voice felt like part of the song now. Soft. Unrushed. Honest.

She shifted just enough to meet his eyes, heart open in a way that still surprised her sometimes.

“Not for anyone else. Not yet. Just… for me.”

A beat.

Then a smile — quiet but sure.

“You make it feel like I still have something to say.”

And then she let her head fall against his shoulder again. Let the rest of the song carry them. Let herself believe — really believe — that maybe this was the start of something she could hold onto.

[Kai Mercer]

She didn’t know what it did to him, the way she moved into him like that.

Like trust.

Like surrender.

Like maybe — just maybe — she believed this could be real again.

Kai held her close, hand steady at her waist, the other curled around hers with the kind of care he hadn’t let himself imagine in years. Not since the last time they danced without music. Not since the last time her smile cracked something open in his chest and he let it stay open, just for her.

But this time, there was music.

Low and smoky. The kind that filled the room without trying to.

And she was pressed against him, soft and sure, her head tucked into his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He closed his eyes for a second — just to feel it. Just to remember what it was like to have her body in rhythm with his again. To breathe in her perfume and whatever the hell that was that always lingered on her skin — something warm and sweet and a little sharp, like amber and rebellion.

Then she said it.

I think I wanna write again.

It nearly knocked the wind out of him.

Not because she owed it to him. Not because it made anything easier.

But because it meant something had started to come back. That the girl who used to scribble lyrics on napkins and hum melodies under her breath when she thought no one was listening — she was still in there.

Still fighting.

Still trying.

And she was letting him witness it.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t need to. He just shifted his grip, his palm splaying a little wider across the small of her back, anchoring her like maybe he could carry some of the weight she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Her voice broke the quiet again, soft as ever:

You make it feel like I still have something to say.

He exhaled hard through his nose, forehead tipping forward until it brushed hers.

His voice was a rasp when it came, low and certain.

“You do.”

He felt her breath hitch against his collarbone, felt her fingers tighten slightly in his. But he didn’t push. Didn’t press.

He just moved with her.

Let the music hold the space between them. Let his thumb stroke slow, rhythmic circles at her waist, like muscle memory. Like prayer.

And maybe that’s what this was.

Not a second chance.

Not a fix.

Just a vow.

To be the quiet when she needed it. The steady when she couldn’t find her rhythm. The truth when the noise got too loud.

She was everything.

Still fire. Still grace. Still his favorite song — even when she wasn’t singing.

And as she breathed against him, heart open and trembling but still here, Kai Mercer made another silent promise:

He was gonna make damn sure she never forgot how much she still had to say.

And how worth hearing it was.

[Lennon Rae]

She felt it.

Not just his arms — but the vow.

That silent, bone-deep thing she knew better than to name. Because naming it might break it. Might make it feel too precious. Too big. Too much.

And maybe that’s what scared her most.

Because the truth was… she wasn’t whole yet.

But she was trying.

Still cracked. Still stitched together with stubborn hope and half-finished verses no one had read in years. But trying.

And the way he held her?

It made her believe she didn’t have to come back perfect.

Her voice was quiet when it came — not small, just stripped down.

“You always saw through the static.”

She didn’t pull back. Didn’t look at him yet. Just let the words hum low between them, like the song still curling in the air.

“I spent so long thinking the silence was safer. Like if I stopped talking, stopped feeling, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, slow and careful.

“But you—” she swallowed, voice thickening. “You never asked me to shrink. Never wanted the polished version. Just… me. Even when I didn’t.”

Then she finally looked at him.

And damn, it was hard not to fall all the way in.

“You make it easy to forget the noise,” she murmured. “And for the first time in a long time, I don’t hate the sound of my own voice.”

A beat.

Then her mouth tugged into something halfway between a smirk and a truth she wasn’t sure she deserved.

“So yeah. I’m writing again. Not for a comeback. Not for applause. Just because I finally remembered how to breathe.”

Another breath. This one steadier.

“And maybe I’m not done saying something after all.”

She tilted her head, eyes fierce now — not with anger, but with clarity.

“I don’t need saving, Kai.”

Her grip on his hand tightened — not as a warning, but as a declaration.

“But I wouldn’t mind having someone to stand still with while I figure it out.”

She leaned into him again — heart loud in her chest, soul a little braver — and closed her eyes.

Because this?

This was real.

And maybe — just maybe — she was ready to feel all of it.

[Kai Mercer]

He felt it.

Not just the way she leaned into him — but the shift. The soul-deep softening that didn’t look like surrender so much as courage. That moment when the armor slid off her shoulders, not because she was asked, but because she trusted she didn’t need it.

And God, he knew what that cost her.

So when she spoke — quiet but sure, with every word stitched from scar tissue and fight — it undid something in him.

You always saw through the static.

That line landed like a heartbeat against his ribs. Because she wasn’t talking about noise. She was talking about the silence. The kind that choked you. The kind that made you forget who the hell you were.

He’d lived there too.

He’d wandered through studios and spotlights and stages, trying to fill that silence with sound. But none of it ever hit the way she did. None of it cracked open the part of him that remembered who he was before the world tried to make him shinier, easier to sell.

But this? Her voice right now — raw and brave and shaking just enough to make it real — it was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

I don’t need saving, Kai.

Her words hit him like scripture.

She didn’t say I need you.

She said I want you here.

And that was louder than love. That was louder than history.

That was choice.

His throat worked once, hard. He didn’t speak — not right away. Didn’t need to. Instead, he wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, fingers splaying across the small of her back like he could anchor her there if she started to drift again.

Then, quietly, he leaned down until his mouth brushed the shell of her ear, voice low and steady:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A breath.

“You can scream. You can sing. You can go quiet for a week straight.”

He tilted his forehead to hers, the air between them thick with every version of the life they hadn’t lived yet.

“I’ll be here. Not waiting. Just… standing still. With you.”

He felt her exhale — not sharp, not shaky. Just full.

And for the first time in a long time, Kai didn’t feel like he was chasing something. Didn’t feel like he had to perform or prove or reach.

He just had to stay.

So he did.

Held her.

Let the music play on.

Let the night wrap around them like a song that didn’t need a chorus — just this one verse, on loop.

And thought:
This is what it means to be known.
This is what it means to come home.

[Lennon Rae]

She felt the words before she heard them.

That kind of vow didn’t live in sound. It lived in stillness. In the space between beats. In the grip at her waist and the steadiness of his forehead against hers.

I’m not going anywhere.

God.

It wasn’t even the promise that hit her. It was the way he said it like a fact. Like gravity. Like breathing.

She didn’t pull back.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, she let her fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, grounding herself. Steadying. Still a little stunned that someone could stand that still and mean it.

“You know I’m not always soft,” she murmured. “Sometimes I burn. Sometimes I bite. Sometimes I go too quiet and forget how to come back.”

She pulled in a breath — not shaky. Just real.

“So if you’re standing still with me, you better know it’s not always gonna feel like this.”

A beat.

Then her mouth curved — not quite a smile. Something heavier. Something truer.

“But it might feel like this again.”

Her fingers curled slightly in the back of his shirt.

“And I think I’m finally okay with that.”

Then, for the first time in too damn long, she let it crack open — that shimmer of something real in her chest, light and reckless and warm like laughter in the dark.

“I’m excited, Kai,” she breathed, voice suddenly bright in a way that startled even her. “Like—actually excited. For what we get to make. For what’s coming.”

She tilted back just enough to meet his eyes, something electric behind hers now. Not fragile. Not afraid.

“I forgot what this felt like. Not the dancing — not even you — but me. This me. Loud. Bright. Borderline annoying.” A grin finally tugged at her mouth. “You remember her?”

He let out a low chuckle, and she swatted lightly at his chest. “Don’t say yes too fast, asshole.”

But her smile stayed, softer now. Anchored.

“Thing is… I’m starting to. Remember her. And I think I want her back.”

She swallowed, then added quieter — but sure:

“And I want you here when she comes back.”

Her voice hitched — but didn’t break.

“I don’t wanna half-love anything anymore. Not my music. Not my life. And definitely not you.”

A long breath passed between them.

Then softer, braver:

“I think I’m ready to get it right this time.”

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.

She just stayed.

Right there in the music, in the quiet, in the middle of everything she used to run from.

Because this time?

She wasn’t dancing around the fire.

She was standing in it.

And he was still holding her hand.

[Kai Mercer]

He felt the shift before she spoke.

Not in the weight of her hand or the brush of her fingers — but in the air between them. In the way she stepped closer without moving. In the way her voice, when it came, wasn’t a test or a warning or a shield.

It was a truth.

One she was trusting him to hold.

You know I’m not always soft.

God, he knew.

He knew the way her light came with flame. The way her quiet wasn’t absence but aftermath. The way her love, when she gave it, wasn’t a filtered thing—it was a storm. Loud and messy and full of life.

And he wanted every second of it.

His breath caught when she said excited — because that word, from her, after everything? That word meant more than I love you ever could. It meant future. It meant choice. It meant she wasn’t bracing for the fall anymore.

She was ready to fly.

And she wanted him there.

Something in his chest clenched hard, but it didn’t hurt. It expanded. Like maybe this was the part of him that had been asleep for years and was finally waking up.

When she grinned and asked if he remembered her — that loud, bright, borderline annoying girl who used to take up space like she was born to — he laughed. Quiet and cracked open and helpless.

Because of course he did.

She’d been his favorite song before he even realized he’d memorized the lyrics.

“I remember all of you,” he said, voice low, warm against her temple. “Even the parts you tried to bury.”

His hands slid gently to her face, framing it like she was something sacred. Because she was. Because this was.

“And I’ll be here for every version that comes back.”

A pause.

Then softer:

“Even the loud, annoying one. Especially her.”

She laughed — real and rough around the edges — and he swore it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Better than any crowd. Any chorus. Any sold-out stadium.

Her joy was his new favorite melody.

And when she said she didn’t want to half-love anything anymore?

That did him in.

Because he knew what it took to say that. To mean it.

He rested his forehead against hers again, thumb brushing just beneath her eye like he was memorizing the shape of this moment.

“I don’t need perfect,” he whispered. “I don’t need easy.”

A beat.

“I just need you. All the way.”

Then he kissed her — slow and deep and anchored. Not like a man claiming something.

Like a man finally allowed to stay.

Because this wasn’t a comeback.

This was the next verse.

And it was hers. Theirs.

Fire and all.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because that kiss?

That kiss wrecked her.

Not in the tragic, falling-apart way. But in the falling-into way. Like every nerve she’d been keeping on lockdown had just decided to light up and live again.

And she let it.

Because when he kissed her like that — slow, certain, like she was the answer not the question — something inside her finally stopped bracing.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead still resting against his, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like it refused to stay hidden.

“That was really fucking unfair,” she whispered, breath catching on a laugh. “I was trying to be all emotionally mature and composed and here you go pulling a Nicholas Sparks moment in the middle of my self-actualization arc.”

Her thumb traced the edge of his jaw, lazy, reverent. Then her voice dipped lower — not teasing now. Just honest.

“But… God, Kai. I needed that.”

She pulled back far enough to look at him — really look.

“I’ve been so scared of being too much for so long. Too loud. Too dramatic. Too broken. Too complicated.”

Her voice caught — just for a second.

“And you just— You’ve never asked me to shrink. Not once. Even when I was at my messiest. You just kept seeing me like I was still worth it.”

She shook her head, a quiet laugh slipping out.

“And I don’t know what kind of witchcraft that is, but it’s working.”

Then, without missing a beat:

“So yeah. I’m gonna write again. I’m gonna sing again. I’m gonna live again. And I’m probably gonna drive you crazy and throw at least three tantrums about song structure and eat all the peanut butter in your kitchen without replacing it.”

She grinned, eyes flashing.

“But I’m also gonna show up. All the way. No more half-anything.”

A beat.

“And I want you right in the middle of it.”

She leaned in again, brushing her lips against his, soft and fleeting — not because she was pulling away, but because this part mattered.

“This isn’t about saving each other. It’s about building something that doesn’t fall apart when it gets loud.”

She let the silence settle for a second.

Then:

“And for the record, I am annoying. And loud. And emotional. But I’m also fire. And fight. And so much fucking love, it terrifies me.”

She kissed him again, this time a little firmer. A little brighter.

“So I hope you’re ready, Mercer,” she whispered against his mouth. “Because I’m not walking into this quiet. I’m running in barefoot with glitter and a goddamn key change.”

And just like that, she laughed again — full and unapologetic.

Because this time?

She wasn’t scared of being heard.

[Kai Mercer]

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because his brain was somewhere between holy shit, she said that and dear God, she’s really doing this — glitter and key change and all.

And maybe he was a little wrecked too.

Because that kiss?

That kiss was proof.

Proof that she was here, all the way. Not holding back. Not softening the edges. Not waiting for permission.

Just—her.

Fire and fight and all that beautiful chaos he’d spent years pretending he wasn’t addicted to.

He kept his forehead pressed to hers, grinning like an idiot, voice low and lazy as it curled into the space between them.

“Okay,” he murmured. “First of all… that key change line? Hot.”

A beat.

“Second of all… I knew you were gonna steal my peanut butter again. That’s why I started buying the crunchy kind. You hate the crunchy kind.”

He felt her scoff more than he heard it, and it made his grin go stupid-wide.

“But third—and this one’s important—Lennon Rae, you could throw a tantrum in three-part harmony and I’d still think you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to my studio… and my couch… and probably my life.”

She tried to keep a straight face. Failed.

He kissed her smile anyway.

Because honestly?

That was the part that undid him. The smile that said I’m not afraid to take up space anymore.

He kissed her again, slower now, hands settling at her waist like maybe if he held on just right, he could memorize the shape of this moment.

Then pulled back with a tilt of his head and a glint in his eye.

“So just for the record,” he said, “if you’re running in barefoot with glitter, I’ll be the idiot behind you with a broom, a fire extinguisher, and a backup mic… in case you need to hit the high note twice.”

A beat.

“And also maybe an energy drink. Because I feel like loving you might be an extreme sport.”

He watched her laugh—head thrown back, hand clutching his shirt like she was trying to steady herself—and damn, he never wanted to be anywhere else again.

Not in this lifetime.

Not in any.

“Bring the noise, baby,” he whispered against her jaw. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to get loud with you.”

And just like that, he kissed her again.

Because if she was fire?

He’d gladly burn.

[Lennon Rae]

She kissed him like it was already written in the stars — or maybe just in the liner notes.

Because everything about this?

Felt right.

Felt like hers.

When he pulled back grinning like a damn idiot, she didn’t let go. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt like she was grounding herself — not from nerves, but from finally feeling steady.

Foreheads still pressed, she smirked.

“Okay, first of all,” she murmured, “I don’t regret the peanut butter. You left it out. That’s on you.”

A beat.

“And second? That tantrum in three-part harmony? Might be real. Especially if you keep pretending crunchy peanut butter counts as a valid food group.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, voice warm and teasing.

“But third… and this one’s serious…”

Her thumb brushed lightly over his jaw, eyes scanning his like she was committing this exact look — this exact version of them — to memory.

“I’m really happy right now.”

The words dropped quieter than the smirk that came before them, but they hit harder.

“I don’t mean stage-happy or press-happy. I mean this. Us. Finally getting to write what we want. Say what we want. Be who we are without anyone watching through a damn window.”

She let that sit for a second, because it mattered.

Then the grin broke loose — wild, reckless, free.

“I haven’t felt like this in a long time, Kai. Not just happy. Me. Like the me that used to write hooks in hotel bathrooms and dream up outfits for arenas and laugh at 3AM like it was survival.”

She tugged him closer by the collar, voice lowering with that old-school mischief he knew too well.

“I like her. The girl I am when I’m around you.”

A breath. Then a half-smirk, half-promise.

“And I’m excited as hell to keep writing with you. Loud. Messy. Ridiculous. Barefoot if I feel like it. Because this? Us? It’s already magic. And we haven’t even hit the bridge yet.”

She leaned in again, barely brushing his mouth.

“So you better keep up, Mercer. I’ve got verses to burn and glitter to spill, and I’m not slowing down.”

Then she kissed him again.

Not like a comeback.

Like a homecoming.

And for the first time in a long time, Lennon Rae didn’t feel like she had something to prove.

Just something to sing.

[Kai Mercer]

He should’ve said something back.

Should’ve come up with a smartass retort or a quiet I love you or maybe just a hell yes to all of it — to her, to the moment, to the music they hadn’t even made yet.

But she kissed him again before he could even catch his breath.

And damn if it didn’t light him up from the inside out.

Not because it was flashy. Not because it was choreographed. But because it was her. Wild and warm and fire-bright — and his, if he was lucky enough to keep her.

And maybe that’s what made him do it.

No warning. No countdown.

Just—

One hand sweeping behind her back.

The other catching hers as he dipped her, slow and deliberate, right there in the middle of the empty room like they were standing under stage lights instead of a flickering café bulb.

Like the world had quieted just to give them space.

She let out a breathy laugh against his mouth, startled and glowing, one hand clutching his shoulder like maybe he was the only thing keeping her from floating straight into the stars.

He held her there a beat longer than necessary.

Not for show.

But because he could.

Because she let him.

And because the look on her face — cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, that grin all teeth and freedom — might’ve been the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d ever seen.

“You kiss me like that again,” he murmured, voice low and rough with everything he hadn’t said yet, “and I’m gonna have to dip you every time. Even if we’re on stage. Even if you’re barefoot and yelling about a verse.”

He didn’t pull her up just yet.

Just leaned in, forehead brushing hers again, heart thudding hard in his chest like it had something to prove.

“Glitter and key changes don’t scare me, Rae.”

A beat.

“Neither do you.”

Then finally, finally, he pulled her upright — steady and soft, but with a glint in his eye like he was already planning the next moment she’d take his breath away.

Because she would.

Again and again and again.

And he was so fucking ready for all of it.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because the thing was — she didn’t feel like talking.

Not when her whole body was still humming from the dip. From his hands. From the way he said her name like it didn’t scare him to love her out loud.

So she just stood there — steady on her feet but slightly breathless, one hand still fisted in the front of his shirt like she was holding onto something electric.

Then:

“You’re gonna regret giving me that kind of power,” she said, lips curving slow, eyes sharp with heat. “I’m already planning my next three moves.”

A step closer, almost chest to chest now.

“Starting with this one.”

She hooked her fingers into his belt loop — just enough to pull him a hair closer — and tilted her head like she was about to kiss him again but didn’t. Not yet. Just let the tension hang there, sweet and unrushed.

“You dip me again, Mercer,” she murmured, “I swear to God I’m gonna make you duet High School Musical 2 with me. On camera. Full choreography.”

Her smirk deepened at the flicker in his eyes — that split second of actual fear.

“But until then…”

She finally kissed him again — not soft this time, not tentative. Just herself, all in. Fierce. Playful. Alive.

And when she pulled back, her voice was quieter — not serious, just full of something real.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

A shrug. A smile that didn’t apologize.

“I just wanna be here. With you. Like this.”

And for once — finally — that was enough.

[Kai Mercer]

He should’ve seen it coming.

That look in her eye — all teeth and glitter and challenge — yeah, it was dangerous. Not in the way that warned you off. In the way that pulled you in. Like a spark right before the fuse lit. Like a verse right before the chorus drops.

And God, when she grabbed his belt loop?

Yeah. He felt that in his fucking soul.

“Three moves ahead, huh?” he said, voice low and teasing as he let her tug him in. “That’s cute. I’ve only been planning the next ten years.”

But before he could lean in, she hit him with the real threat.

High School Musical 2.
On camera.
Full choreography.

His soul briefly left his body.

The flicker of fear must’ve shown on his face, because she grinned like she’d just won a damn Grammy. And honestly? She had. At least the one for Best Original Chaos. He’d give her a trophy himself.

“Okay,” he said slowly, mock-casual, lips twitching. “Counteroffer: you never say ‘High School Musical’ in a sexy voice again and I don’t combust on the spot.”

But then she kissed him — full and fearless — and he forgot every word of protest he ever meant to say.

Because that?

That was her.

All fire and tempo, all tangled melody and unapologetic feeling.

And when she pulled back — when she said she didn’t want to talk about it, not yet — something in him exhaled. That quiet thing in his chest that never really settled until she was this close.

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, slow and reverent.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Then we don’t talk.”

Not tonight.
Not right now.

Just this.

His hands slid around her waist again, pulling her back into the same rhythm they always found — not choreographed, not planned. Just them.

“You already know the words,” he said, a little smile curling at his mouth. “So let’s just keep playing the song.”

And then, softer — for her, only her:

“I like this version of us.”

A breath.

“No lights. No noise. Just… you and me. Making something no one else gets to write but us.”

Then he leaned in again, his mouth brushing her jaw, warm and easy.

“And for the record? I’ll duet whatever the hell you want. High School Musical. Taylor Swift. Sesame Street. Just don’t act surprised when I steal the harmony and win the hearts of millions.”

A pause. His smile widened against her skin.

“Especially yours.”

[Lennon Rae]

She snorted.

Not cute or coy — snorted. Right there, pressed up against him like her fingers hadn’t just claimed the waistband of his entire soul.

“You’re so dramatic,” she muttered, shaking her head against his collarbone. “It’s High School Musical, not a hostage situation.”

But her smile betrayed her — wide, real, and a little too full of teeth. Because yeah… she’d seen his face when she said it. She’d felt it — that tiny flinch of panic. Which, honestly, made the whole idea ten times hotter.

She leaned back just far enough to look at him — brows lifted, chin tilted, pure challenge in every inch of her.

“You’re not combusting,” she said, like she was testing him. “Yet.”

Then, softer, as her hand slid back up his chest:

“But I’m not promising I won’t say it again… especially in a sexy voice.”

And God, the way he looked at her — like she was the song and the beat and the reason he even bothered showing up to the damn show — it hit somewhere stupid in her ribs.

So she kissed him again.
Because of course she did.

And when he said he liked this version of them?

She didn’t laugh.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t even try to be funny.

She just looked at him.

Really looked.

Because truth was — she liked it too. This soft, off-script, no-audience version where she didn’t have to carry a punchline or a playlist or a perfectly rehearsed comeback. Just them. Hands and breath and gravity. No labels. No pressure.

Just… the quiet.

So when he whispered “just you and me” — she felt something in her settle. Like a note finally hitting the right key.

And because she couldn’t help herself, she reached up and ran her fingers lightly through the back of his hair, letting her thumb pause just behind his ear.

“You win the harmony, huh?” she murmured, voice low now, half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Okay. But just know if you take my high note, I will fake a twisted ankle mid-bridge and make the entire performance about my recovery arc.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his before she whispered:

“And I will win the hearts of millions.”

Then, softer still — real now, no glitter, no games:

“But you already had mine. You didn’t even audition.”

She kissed him again — just once, warm and certain — then tucked her face against his shoulder like maybe the world could stop here for a while.

Because if it was up to her?

It would.


She stayed there for a beat — face tucked into his shoulder, breath syncing with his like it was second nature.

Then, without warning, her voice broke the silence, muffled slightly against his shirt:

“…okay but if we are gonna duet,” she mumbled, “you have to promise not to do that thing where you try to make it sound effortless while secretly showing off your stupid perfect pitch.”

She tilted her head just enough to side-eye him, mock-serious.

“I know what you’re doing when you hit those long notes. You think I don’t, but I do. You do that smirky little inhale and then—bam. Falcon scream. And then I’m over here sounding like Kermit on a rollercoaster.”

She made a dramatic noise in her throat, then giggled, nose scrunching.

“Unfair advantage. You’re literally genetically designed for harmonies. I’m just a gremlin with anxiety and two vocal cords held together by iced coffee and spite.”

She paused, then added, softer:

“…but I do sound really cute on ‘Gotta Go My Own Way,’ so. Just saying.”

Her fingers drummed lightly against his chest, then stilled.

“Also,” she said, tone shifting sweet and sleepy, “remind me to tell you about my childhood obsession with the behind-the-scenes special on how they filmed the pool dance scene. I used to watch it on repeat. Like… what kind of nine-year-old hyperfixates on the choreographer’s commentary?”

She laughed quietly, then looked up at him again — all soft cheeks and fond eyes.

“I was so weird,” she whispered, like it was some kind of secret.

Then, gentler still:

“Still am, probably.”

A beat.

“But you make it feel… kind of magic. Like being weird is the point.”

She nudged her forehead against his, that familiar grin returning — quieter now, but still unmistakably hers.

“Which is dangerous, by the way. Makes me wanna tell you everything. Even the stuff I swore I’d keep locked in the vault.”

Another pause.

“…like the fact that I used to fake being asleep in the car just so my mom would carry me inside. Way past the acceptable age for that.”

She wrinkled her nose again.

“Okay, your turn. Embarrassing childhood habit. Go.”

[Kai Mercer]

He didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with her still wrapped around him like that — head tucked against his shoulder, voice buzzing against his chest, fingers tracing stories into his heartbeat like they already lived there.

God, he was wrecked.

Not by the kiss. Not by the laugh. Not even by the High School Musical death threat (though let’s be honest, he’d already started mentally preparing his choreography for “Bet On It”).

No, he was wrecked by this.

Her. Like this. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unraveling in the softest way. Like she finally believed she didn’t have to armor up to be loved right.

And then she asked him that — childhood habit, go — and he felt the laugh escape before he could stop it. Not performative. Just reflex. Just Lennon Rae doing what she always did: pulling something real out of him without trying.

“Okay,” he said, tilting his head like he needed to think about it. He didn’t. “But first of all, that ‘falcon scream’ line? Genuinely offended. That’s my moneymaker. Respect the squawk.”

A pause, then a slow grin.

“And second? You’re not Kermit. You’re, like… emotionally intelligent Elphaba. With more glitter and slightly less murder.”

He bumped his nose against hers — soft, playful — then finally gave in.

“Alright. You want a confession? Here goes.”

He lowered his voice, like he was about to reveal state secrets.

“When I was eight, I used to sneak into my cousin’s room when no one was home and try on her rhinestone-studded jean jacket. And not just try it on. I would full-on perform in the mirror to ’NSYNC’s ‘It’s Gonna Be Me.’”

A beat.

“With choreography.”

He closed his eyes like the shame still lingered.

“And once? I got caught mid-spin by my grandma. She said, and I quote, ‘Kai, sweetie, if you’re gonna steal the jacket, at least get the arms through the sleeves first.’”

He opened his eyes, grinning helplessly.

“So yeah. That’s my origin story. Bedazzled denim and Justin Timberlake. It explains a lot, actually.”

His hand found the back of her neck again, thumb grazing soft at the edge of her jaw.

“But you know what?” he added, voice softer now, honest beneath the teasing. “I think weird is the whole damn point.”

He kissed her again — not rushed, not showy. Just steady. Like punctuation. Like truth.

“You’re magic, Lennon Rae. Even when you’re threatening to out-sing me on a Disney duet.”

Then, lips brushing her temple, low and certain:

“And for the record? I would’ve carried you inside too.”

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because God, she felt it. The way he kissed her. The way he said her name like it meant something. Like she meant something — even with her chaos and glitter and Kermit falsetto and unhinged Disney threats.

Maybe especially because of them.

Still, she wasn’t about to let the rhinestone jean jacket slide without proper commentary.

So she pulled back just enough to look at him — wide-eyed, mock-serious.

“…I’m sorry. Rhinestones?”

A beat. She blinked.

“Kai.”

She shoved at his chest like she was scandalized. “You’ve been holding out on me. That’s, like, elite-level content. Why have I never seen the footage? Because I know you recorded yourself. You don’t just full-body spin to ‘It’s Gonna Be Me’ in a stolen jacket without documenting it for future blackmail.”

She grinned, wild and delighted, then added:

“I demand a reenactment. Immediately. I’ll even play Lance Bass. I’ve been told I have range.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “You can’t just drop grandma-level shade and not expect me to weaponize it. We are absolutely reenacting this on my birthday. I’ll find a bedazzler and everything.”

But then — like always — her smile softened. The kind that meant more. That felt more.

Her hand slid up to his collar, fingers curling there, anchoring herself in that little patch of fabric and familiarity.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter now, “if you’d told eight-year-old me that one day I’d be cuddled up with a boy who unironically performed ‘It’s Gonna Be Me’ in rhinestone outerwear, I would’ve cried tears of joy. Possibly written a Wattpad about it.”

She nudged her nose against his. “But if you’d told me he’d also be the one who makes me feel… like this? Like I don’t have to earn being soft? I don’t think I would’ve believed you.”

Her thumb brushed just under his jaw — gentle, rhythmic, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

“And for the record?” she whispered, echoing him.

“If anyone was gonna carry me inside, I’m glad it would’ve been you.”

A breath.

“But also? You would’ve complained. Loudly. And then tripped over my backpack and pulled us both down like a tragic romance novel.”

She smiled again — sleepy, sweet, safe.

“And I still would’ve said thank you.”

Then, because she couldn’t help it, she added:

“…but I am gonna need that jacket story in full. Visual aids. Dance break. Preferably before Christmas.”

She tipped her head forward to rest against his.

“Deal?”

[Kai Mercer]

He was grinning before she even finished the sentence.

Not a smirk. Not a tease. That full, helpless, god-I’m-so-in-love-with-you kind of grin that tugged something stupid in his chest every time she did that — flipped from chaos goblin to warmest thing in the room without warning, like it was a song she knew by heart.

“Deal,” he said, voice low and wrecked and already ruined by the way her fingers curled into his collar like she planned on staying.

Then, because he was a menace too — just the slow-burn kind — he added, “But only if I get to pick the color of the rhinestones.”

A beat.

“And we’re making it a full group number. I’m talking hats. Fake microphones. One of those horrible silver tinsel curtains you can buy on Amazon for six dollars.”

He slid his hand up her back, settling it between her shoulder blades like it belonged there — because it did. It had. Since the second he met her and realized she was never going to fit into the version of his life he thought he wanted.

She was louder. Wilder. Brighter.

Better.

“I’ll even let you autotune my falcon scream,” he murmured near her ear, mock-reverent. “But only if you promise to wear those oversized sunglasses you hate and make everyone call you DJ RaeRae during the dance break.”

He felt her laugh before he heard it — that shake in her chest, that little hitch in her breath — and something in him settled.

Not because they were joking.

But because this was them now. Their version of serious. Of soft. Of stay.

“And for the record,” he added, brushing his thumb lightly across the dip of her spine, “you don’t have to earn any of this. Not the softness. Not the glitter. Not me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes — not intense, not dramatic, just honest.

“You already did that just by being Lennon. And maybe tripping into my life like a raccoon in rhinestones. Which, by the way, I’m still pitching as the band name.”

Then he leaned in again, nose brushing hers.

“And I would’ve carried you, backpack disaster and all. I’d carry you now. I am carrying you now. Not literally — unless you really want me to try — but like…”

He paused, fingers curling lightly at her hip.

“Whatever this is? We’re doing it together. No one’s holding the whole weight alone.”

Another breath.

Another look.

“Even if the weight is emotional damage from Disney Channel choreography.”

Then, softer — no punchline this time:

“I’m in this, Lennon. All of it. Loud. Barefoot. Sparkly. Yours.”

And he didn’t need her to say it back.

Because she was already here.