Kai Mercer's Residence

[Reputation]

Tbe

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had always been good at slipping in and out of places unnoticed — hotel lobbies, backstage corridors, even Lennon’s life when he was too young and too cowardly to know better. But this past week, he’d used that skill for something else entirely: sneaking himself into her world, piece by piece, not to disappear but to stay.

The notes had been the first step. Folded squares of his messy handwriting slipped into the corners of her days like secret anchors: one in the book on her nightstand, another tucked into her makeup bag, one taped under her coffee mug. He’d left them the morning after waffles — while she showered, he’d scribbled a few lines on scraps of hotel stationery and slid them into places he knew she’d reach for without thinking. Later, he found other ways — charming a mutual friend into “dropping off a delivery,” sneaking past her assistant at a studio with a grin that used to mean trouble and now only meant her.

Every note said something different — a memory, a reassurance, sometimes just a dumb joke because he knew she rolled her eyes when she smiled. But every single one ended the same way: I’m still here.

And tonight, he wanted to prove it wasn’t just ink on paper.

The pool at his place shimmered under a canopy of string lights he’d strung across the patio, their soft glow mirrored in the water. Floating candles bobbed lazily across the surface, circling the scatter of flower petals he’d tossed in until it looked like the pool had bloomed just for her. A small table sat near the water’s edge, draped in linen and set with two plates, silver cutlery that actually matched, and a bottle of wine sweating gently in the summer air. The scent of jasmine drifted in from the garden, mixing with the faint sweetness of the candles, wrapping the night in something slow and decadent.

He’d gone casual, but not careless — dark trousers, an open-collar shirt in soft navy that made his skin look warmer in the glow, sleeves rolled high enough to keep him from looking like he was playing dress-up. He wanted to look like himself, but better — like the version of himself he wanted her to keep.

For the first time in a long time, he felt nerves humming steady beneath his ribs. This wasn’t a stage, or a photo op, or a headline. This was Lennon Rae. His Lennon. And he was asking her to walk into something different with him tonight — not grand enough to feel like a spectacle, but not small enough to feel like an accident. Something in between. Something real.

He heard her car in the drive before he saw her. Heart picking up, he moved through the low candlelight toward the front door. He paused for half a second, smoothing his shirt down, raking a hand through his hair like it would make a difference. Then he opened it before she could knock.

She stood there in the spill of dusk and porch light, framed like something he might’ve imagined if not for the fact that she smiled — small, cautious, but real.

And Kai, who’d rehearsed a hundred lines in his head while stringing lights and laying petals, found himself leaning on the one thing that had always been instinctive with her.

“You,” he said, dimples flashing as his gaze swept her in with a warmth he didn’t bother to hide. “You look like trouble I’d get caught for twice.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon blinked at him, her lips twitching before the smile broke free.

“Kai Mercer,” she said, dragging his name out like it was both a warning and a laugh. “Do you hear yourself right now? Because I swear, half the time you sound like a Hallmark movie with dimples.”

She tilted her head, taking him in — the rolled sleeves, the way he’d clearly tried to look casual but better, the faint tug of nerves sitting right under the grin he thought could hide everything. And God help her, it almost did. Almost. The candlelight from inside caught at the edge of his hair, made the navy of his shirt look deeper, warmer. She hated that her first thought was how unfair it was that he’d gotten older like this — sharper, steadier, more deliberate — and how much harder it made it not to stare.

Memories flickered, uninvited. Him leaning against a hotel hallway wall, pretending he wasn’t waiting for her. The way he used to look at her backstage when no one else was paying attention, too young and too cowardly to do anything about it. The last time he’d walked away, and the notes he’d left now, paper crumbs marking a trail back to her. She told herself she was only smiling because of the ridiculous line he’d just dropped — but deep down, she knew better.

Her voice softened without meaning to. “And yet… somehow it works. It always does.”

She stepped closer, brushing her shoulder against his as she passed, light and deliberate, letting her perfume and her smirk linger in the space between them. He still smelled faintly like smoke and city air, like every late-night version of him she remembered, only steadier now.

“But if you’re planning on getting caught for me tonight, Mercer,” she added, glancing up at him sidelong, “you’d better hope your cooking’s improved since the Great Popcorn Disaster of 2014.” Her grin widened at the flicker of recognition in his face. “Because floating candles or not, I’m not swooning over burned kernels.”

She reached for the edge of the doorframe, fingers brushing the wood as if steadying herself, then looked back at him — playful and a little daring, her eyes catching his like they always had, heat threading through all the years in between.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out of him — low, unbothered, the kind of sound that used to get him out of trouble with teachers and now seemed to be working overtime with her. God, he’d missed that look in her eyes, the one that said she wanted to give him hell but maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t immune either.

“The Great Popcorn Disaster?” he echoed, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense as he shut the door behind her. “You wound me, Rae. That was a one-time thing. Experimental seasoning. Ahead of its time.”

His grin tilted, sharp and sure, but beneath it he could still feel the ghost of nerves buzzing in his chest. Not because he doubted himself, but because she was standing here, brushing his shoulder like it was nothing, smiling like she remembered everything. He wasn’t about to screw this up. Not tonight.

He slid past her, his hand brushing the small of her back as he guided her toward the pool deck, the glow of floating lights spilling across the water. “Lucky for you, I’ve leveled up since then. And by leveled up, I mean… this time I didn’t just Google ‘date night meals that don’t end in takeout.’”

What he didn’t add: the half hour he’d spent earlier that week with his mom on FaceTime, her patient voice walking him through herb crusts and pan temperatures like she was training him for the Olympics. Lennon didn’t need to know that part. Not yet.

He pulled out a chair for her at the candlelit table, the linen napkin folded just so, the wine glasses catching the flicker of firelight. “Dinner’s about five minutes from the oven to the plate,” he said, leaning against the back of her chair for a beat, close enough that the words brushed her ear. “Which means you’ve got just enough time to let me get you a drink.”

His eyes lingered on hers, playful but grounded. “Anything you want. Wine, champagne, bourbon… hell, I’ve got Pellegrino if you’re feeling rebellious.”

The corner of his mouth curved, dimples catching in the light. “But fair warning, Lennon Rae — I’m very confident you’re about to be impressed. And not just by my candle-arranging skills this time.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon slid into the chair with a little flourish, crossing one leg over the other like she was settling into a test he didn’t know he was about to take. Her eyes tracked the string lights, the petals, the way his shirt clung just so — and then landed right back on him, sharp and amused.

“Experimental seasoning,” she echoed, lips quirking. “Kai, you practically invented chemical warfare in that microwave. I’m still convinced you traumatized the housekeeping staff. And don’t even get me started on the way you swore popcorn was supposed to be… ‘avant-garde smoky.’”

She tilted her head, letting the tease hang there, though her chest was warmer than she wanted to admit. Because God, he was trying. Not the big, reckless kind of trying he used to pull when he thought he could distract her with charm, but the careful kind. The kind that felt like it cost him something.

Her gaze softened briefly before she covered it with a smirk. “Wine,” she decided, tapping the rim of the empty glass like it had been waiting for her all night. “Red. The expensive-looking kind, not the one you bought at 2 a.m. from that gas station in Houston because you thought screw tops meant ‘classy on the go.’”

Her grin widened, teasing but sweet. “And as for being impressed? Please. You had me at Pellegrino. Nothing screams reformed bad boy like carbonated water.”

For a beat, her voice dipped lower, playful but edged with something steadier. “But between us?” Her eyes held his, the kind of look that dared him to flinch. “You don’t need the lights, or the petals, or the candles. Those are pretty. You’re the impressive part.”

She leaned back in the chair, satisfied, one brow raised like she’d just thrown down a gauntlet he wasn’t getting out of.

“Now pour the wine, Mercer, before I start grading you on presentation.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai moved in close, bracing a hand lightly against the back of her chair as he leaned down, close enough that the candlelight kissed the angle of his jaw and the faint spice of her perfume threaded into his lungs. His voice dropped, softer than the grin on his mouth suggested.

“I know I didn’t need to do all this,” he murmured, letting his breath brush the crown of her head. “But I wanted to. Because you deserve to be spoiled, Rae. Every last bit of it.”

Before she could come back with another quip, he bent and pressed a quick, warm kiss to the top of her head — not performative, not teasing, just real. A quiet claim on the moment before he straightened.

He let his hand skim once across the back of her chair, reluctant to leave but already turning toward the kitchen. “Sit tight. Wine’s coming up. And, if you’re lucky, so is dinner.”


Inside, the glow from the pool bled faintly into the kitchen windows, but Kai’s focus was on the oven. He tugged the mitts on, pulled the door open, and the scent hit him — roasted rosemary and garlic, lemon butter sharp in the air, the salmon’s crust golden exactly the way his mom swore it should be.

Not bad, Mercer, he thought, setting the trays on the counter to cool. His pulse eased, just a fraction. This wasn’t 2014. He wasn’t some kid winging it on charm and half-burned snacks. He’d practiced. He’d paid attention. Hell, he’d FaceTimed his mom twice just to get the sauce right — not that Lennon would ever, ever hear that part.

The wine rack gleamed in the corner. He went straight for the heavy bottle he’d been saving, a deep Bordeaux that looked like it belonged in one of those black-and-white movies she loved to reference when she wanted to make him squirm. He popped the cork with more confidence than he felt, poured two glasses, and let the aroma breathe as if he hadn’t just Googled how long should wine sit before serving last week.

Balancing both glasses in one hand, he grabbed the bottle with the other and headed back out, the low thrum in his chest equal parts nerves and something sharper — anticipation.


He stepped back onto the deck, the firelight catching at the rim of the wine. Setting the bottle down with deliberate ease, he slid one glass toward her, his grin tugging wider.

“Expensive-looking enough for you?” he teased, though his tone was more velvet than sharp, as if he knew the answer already.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon arched a brow at the glass he slid toward her, fingers curling around the stem with mock suspicion. She lifted it just enough for the firelight to catch, giving it an exaggerated once-over before meeting his gaze.

“Expensive-looking, sure,” she said, her lips curving slow, teasing. “But you forget—I’ve seen your idea of classy before, Mercer. You once poured boxed wine into a decanter and tried to convince me it was vintage.”

Her smirk widened as she tipped the glass toward her mouth, letting the wine just graze her lips before she set it down again, untouched. “So forgive me if I need more than candlelight and a fancy cork to be convinced this isn’t just another one of your magic tricks.”

Still, her eyes lingered on him longer than they should’ve, taking in the way the firelight traced over his jaw, the steady confidence in the way he leaned there like the whole night was already unfolding in his favor. She hated how good he looked like this—how familiar it felt, how easy it was to forget the years stacked between them.

“Don’t get cocky,” she added, softer now, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest smile. “Dinner hasn’t even hit the table yet. Impress me first, then we’ll talk about whether you get points for presentation.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, deliberately casual. But when she finally picked the glass back up and took a sip, she let the taste linger, slow, like she was giving him the win anyway.

Her eyes flicked back to his, glinting. “Not bad, Mercer. Not bad at all.”

Lennon let the wine roll on her tongue before she set the glass back down, tapping one finger against the rim like she was weighing whether to call him out or let him keep his little victory.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and playful. “So…” she drawled, tilting her head just enough to catch him in the corner of her eye, “are we just gonna skip past the part where you snuck in a head kiss like you’re some kind of saint?”

She leaned forward on her elbows, smile tugging wicked now. “I mean, bold move, Mercer. Subtle. Sweet. Almost makes me think you’re going soft on me.”

Her lashes lowered, voice dropping half a note as she added, “Almost.”

Then, like she couldn’t help herself, she let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “God, you really haven’t changed, have you? Still pulling stunts that should annoy me and somehow… don’t.”

She reached for her glass again, lifting it toward him in a mock toast. “To you, Mercer. King of candlelight, surprise salmon, and unapproved head kisses.”

She clinked her glass lightly against his, her smirk curving wider. “Don’t get used to it.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai let the clink of her glass linger in the air, the sound sharper than it had any right to feel in his chest. He stayed leaned against the table’s edge for a beat, watching her sip, watching her smirk, and something in him settled.

Not because she teased him — she’d always done that, always would — but because she was still here. She could’ve laughed this whole thing off, rolled her eyes, walked out before the oven timer even thought about ringing. Instead, she was sipping Bordeaux under his lights, daring him to prove her wrong.

He bent closer again, letting his elbow rest on the back of her chair, his voice pitched low. “That head kiss wasn’t a stunt, Rae. None of this is. I’m not here to con you with smoke and mirrors anymore. I meant it. And I’ll mean it tomorrow, and the day after, and however long it takes until you start telling stories about this instead of all the other times I screwed it up.”

For a second, the air between them went still, only the faint pop of the fire cutting through. He didn’t flinch from it this time. Didn’t try to cover it with a joke. He just let it sit there, steady as his hand on the stem of his glass.

Then, softer, the grin tugged back at his mouth. “But if you want to call me out for being bold—” he tilted his head, a glint sliding back into his eyes, “—you’re not wrong. Head kisses are just the start. I’ve got a whole repertoire lined up you don’t even know about yet.”

He tapped his glass gently against hers again before straightening, giving her a wink like he hadn’t just dropped something raw in her lap. “Now, excuse me before the salmon goes from ‘impressive’ to ‘merely edible.’”

Back in the kitchen, Kai slipped the mitts back on and pulled the pans from where they’d been cooling. The rosemary-garlic steam rose up and hit him square, grounding him again. This isn’t a show. Don’t make it one. Just feed her. Just mean it.

He plated carefully — roasted salmon with lemon butter, wild rice pilaf, charred asparagus — the kind of meal he knew was clean, elegant, quietly confident. No stunts. Just him proving with action what words would never be enough for.

Carrying the plates back out, he set hers gently in front of her, then slid into his seat across the table, lifting his glass again with a quieter, realer smile.

“Alright, Rae. Moment of truth.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon blinked at him, glass still warm in her hand, the words he’d just dropped hanging heavier than the wine. Her first instinct was to fire something back, to tease him for getting sentimental or to roll her eyes so she didn’t have to admit how her stomach had just tied itself in a knot. But God — the way he said it. No joke. No shield. Just… him.

She tilted her head, eyes catching his as if to test whether he’d look away. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Mercer never had trouble locking in when he meant something, and that was the problem — she could always tell when he meant it.

The corner of her mouth lifted, soft and crooked. “Careful, Kai. You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you’ve actually grown up on me.” She let it hang there like a tease, but her voice betrayed her — warmer than she wanted, quieter than she meant.

When he leaned in about the head kisses, though, her laugh broke the tension, low and unguarded. She shook her head, biting at her lip as her brows arched. “A whole repertoire, huh? God help me, I don’t even want to know what counts as a Kai Mercer ‘move’ these days. But I’ll give you this — bold suits you better than pretending not to care ever did.”

She clinked her glass against his again, softer this time, a little smile tugging out of her despite herself.

And when he disappeared back to the kitchen, she let herself watch him go. Really watch him — the easy way he moved now, not all restless angles and boyish bravado. The version of him that wasn’t trying to be anybody’s frontman, just… hers, if she let him.

When he came back out, plates in hand, she actually sat up straighter. The smell alone was enough to make her laugh under her breath, half impressed, half caught off guard by how good it really looked. She picked up her fork, dragging it through the sauce before she even realized she was leaning closer to inhale.

“Okay,” she said, eyes flicking up to his, equal parts mock-serious and shining with something else. “If this tastes as good as it smells, you might have officially ruined every sad takeout night I have from here on out. So for my sake, Mercer, I hope it’s terrible.”

But the grin pulling across her mouth said the opposite — that she already knew she was about to be impressed, and that part of her hated just how much she wanted to be.

Lennon twirled the fork once, stalling — half because she wanted to make him wait, half because she was suddenly nervous about proving him right. Finally, she cut a clean bite of salmon, dragging it through the lemon butter, and lifted it to her lips with exaggerated ceremony.

She hummed before it even hit her tongue, just to make him sweat — but then the flavor hit, and her brows shot up despite every intention to keep her cool. Garlic, rosemary, the sharp brightness of lemon — it wasn’t just good. It was perfect.

She chewed, slow, letting her gaze flick up to him over the rim of her fork. He was watching her like the whole night hinged on this one bite, like he’d actually stop breathing if she didn’t say something soon. Which, of course, made her draw it out.

Finally, she set the fork down with a little clink against the plate and leaned back in her chair, arms crossing as if she were about to deliver a verdict. Her lips twitched. “Alright, Mercer,” she said, deliberately slow, voice curling smug. “I hate to admit it, but this is… kind of ridiculous. Like, annoyingly good. Which means either you suddenly discovered a secret talent or…” she tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion, “you kidnapped an actual chef and have them hiding in the kitchen.”

The smirk softened just enough for warmth to bleed through. “Either way, I’m impressed. And pissed about it.”

She lifted her glass again, tipping it toward him before taking another sip, hiding the way her mouth wanted to curve into something too genuine. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. One decent salmon doesn’t erase a decade of takeout cartons and tragic microwave popcorn attempts.”

But her foot brushed against his under the table, just once, light and unthinking — a slip she didn’t bother to take back.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t even try to play it cool — not with her chewing like she was deciding his fate in real time. He leaned his elbow on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes locked on her like she was center stage. Hell, like she was the whole damn show.

And yeah, maybe it was ridiculous, the way his pulse actually ticked up over a bite of salmon. But watching Lennon drag out the moment — humming before the fork even touched her lips, raising her brows when it finally did — it felt like more than food. It was the test. The quiet one. The one she didn’t know she was giving him.

Come on, Rae. Just this once, let me get it right.

When her verdict finally came down, all mock suspicion and smug little smirk, his mouth curved before he could stop it. That slow grin he used to use on stage when he knew the crowd was already his — except this time it wasn’t a show. It was her. Just her.

He tapped a finger against the stem of his glass, leaning back in his chair. “Full disclosure,” he said, voice smooth but edged with that boyish mischief he could never quite shake, “I might’ve had some… assistance. Don’t get too comfortable thinking I can whip this up on a Tuesday without setting off the smoke alarm.”

His grin crooked wider as he gestured to her plate. “But hey — if you’re impressed enough to let me try again, I’ll happily make a fool of myself in your kitchen. Can’t guarantee it’ll taste like this every time, but—” he shrugged, easy, cool, though his eyes stayed locked on hers, steady and unblinking, “I’ll try. That part I can promise.”

He lifted his glass in her direction, clinking softly against hers with just enough of a flourish to make it playful. “And honestly? I’ll take you being ‘pissed’ and impressed over you rolling your eyes at me any night of the week.”

Her foot brushed against his under the table, quick and light, but he felt it like a spark. Like something shifted — small, but real. He didn’t call her on it, didn’t let the grin tip into anything cocky. He just let his shoe stay there, a quiet press back, like an unspoken answer.

Inside, though? He was a mess. Half of him wanted to pump a fist in the air like an idiot. The other half just wanted to memorize this exact second — her glass tilted in her hand, her lips trying not to give away too much, her eyes glinting across the firelight.

No stunt. No trick. Just us. And I’ll take this version every time.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon held his gaze over the rim of her glass, the firelight flickering between them, and for once she didn’t look away first. Didn’t deflect with another smirk or toss out a quip to keep things easy.

Her foot lingered against his, not a slip this time, and she let it stay there while she set her wine down carefully on the table. “You know,” she said slowly, almost like she was testing the words before giving them to him, “I kept waiting for the catch tonight. Some punchline. Some grand Mercer performance where you play it cool, then vanish before dessert.”

Her fingers toyed idly with the stem of her glass, but her eyes stayed locked on his. Steady. “But you didn’t. You cooked. You poured wine like you weren’t about to spill it everywhere. You kissed my head instead of… whatever the hell you used to do. And it feels…” she paused, the corner of her mouth tugging upward, but softer now, honest, “it feels real. Like you actually mean it.”

She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as if at herself. “And I hate how much I like that. Because it makes it harder to hold onto all the reasons I swore I wouldn’t let you back in.”

Lennon leaned in slightly, resting her elbow on the table, chin propped against her hand in mirror to the way he’d been watching her. Her voice dropped, lower, sincere. “But maybe that’s the point, huh? Maybe I don’t want to hold onto them anymore. Because if this—” she gestured lightly between them, then down at the plates he’d plated so carefully “—if this is you trying, then it’s… enough. More than enough.”

She smiled then, small and unguarded, the kind he probably hadn’t seen from her in years. “So, congratulations, Mercer. You passed the test.”

Her fork nudged toward his plate, teasing flicker returning just barely. “Now hurry up and eat your half before I start stealing bites. Real or not, I’m not letting salmon this good go to waste.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t cut in. Didn’t smirk or try to soften the edges of what she was giving him. He just sat there, still as the fire behind her, and let every word land. For once, he didn’t need to fill the silence — he wanted her to have all of it.

When she finished, when that small, unguarded smile hit him harder than anything she’d said, he let a slow grin spread across his face. Not cocky. Not smug. Just warm.

“Guess that makes me officially terrified of what dessert standards I’ve gotta live up to now,” he said lightly, reaching for his own fork at last. “But hey, I’ll take passing a Lennon Rae test over a Michelin star any day. Way tougher critic.”

He stole a bite off his plate, pointing his fork at her as if to underline his point. “And for the record, I did notice that whole ‘you might steal mine’ threat. Which is rude, considering I’m pretty sure this side’s technically mine.”

A playful shrug, eyes still locked on hers. “Fine. I’ll share. But only if you admit this is the best salmon you’ve had outside of a five-star place—and that I look extremely attractive eating it.”

He took another slow, exaggerated bite like he was making a point of savoring it. Then he tipped his glass toward her, grin crooking back into that mischievous place.

“And as for vanishing before dessert?” His brow arched, tone smooth but carrying that undertone of silly, familiar Kai. “Not a chance in hell. Especially not when I already know what dessert is.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon laughed, quick and bright, her head tipping back for just a second before she reined it in, shaking her head at him. “God, you’re impossible.” But there was no bite behind it. No walls. Just that glow she couldn’t quite smother even if she tried.

She slid her fork into his salmon anyway, eyes flashing at the mock outrage on his face as she stole a bite right in front of him. “Mm. Best salmon I’ve had outside a five-star place,” she said with deliberate exaggeration, lips curving as she chewed. “There. Happy? You’re officially a culinary god and devastatingly attractive while eating. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Her foot brushed his again, firmer this time, no accident. It stayed there while she sipped her wine, the firelight painting her in gold. And when she set the glass down, her voice softened. “And just so you know, Mercer? Dessert’s not the only thing keeping me here tonight.”

She leaned forward across the table, chin resting on her hand as she smirked, sweet but sharp enough to still feel like her. “So if you were hoping for me to bolt before you unveil whatever ridiculous finale you’ve planned, you’re stuck with me. At least until you explain what you think counts as dessert.”

Her brows lifted, teasing. “Which, knowing you, could mean anything from crème brûlée to you pulling out a guitar and serenading me like it’s 2012. And I’m telling you right now, if it’s the second one, I will throw you in the pool.”

Lennon narrowed her eyes as Kai got that too-pleased look on his face — the one that always spelled trouble. She twirled her fork once in the air like a warning wand.

“Mercer,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair, “if you think I’m sitting through an acoustic encore of your greatest hits, you’ve officially lost your mind. I’ll dunk you myself, dress shoes and all.”

But her grin betrayed her, pulling wider when he only looked smugger. She kicked his foot under the table, this time deliberate, a firm nudge that lingered. “Don’t test me. I know you’ve still got that old Taylor in the closet somewhere, and I refuse to be serenaded after salmon. There are limits to what a girl will tolerate, even when the food is this good.”

Her fork clinked down onto the plate, the playfulness still alive in her voice, but her eyes softened as they stayed on him. “So… what is it then? You actually made something, didn’t you?” Her smirk tilted. “Something that’s either going to blow my mind, or poison me. Which one are we betting on?”

She lifted her glass again, holding it up between them, the flicker of the fire catching in the Bordeaux like it was in her eyes. “Go on then. Impress me, Mercer. Show me what dessert looks like when it isn’t just you trying to sweet talk your way out of trouble.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai stood, collecting their plates with a low whistle that was half amusement, half surrender. “For the record, Lennon Rae, you’d be lucky to get an acoustic encore of my greatest hits. That’s the kind of private concert people pay good money for.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, the clink of dishes faint against the hum of the fire. When he returned, it wasn’t with a guitar slung over his shoulder or some half-burned attempt at soufflé. It was a white bakery box, neat and square, tied off with red string.

He set it down in the middle of the table like it was a trump card, sliding into his chair with that maddening, boyish grin. “Relax. I didn’t make this. I learned my lesson after the ‘charred brownie incident of 2014.’” He popped the lid open and turned the box so she could see: two perfect slices of strawberry shortcake, layers bright and unapologetically sweet.

“Before you start,” he said, lifting his fork in mock defense, “yes, I could’ve gone with something fancy. Something French, something with fire involved. But…” He paused, softer now, eyes holding hers. “This used to be your order at midnight when we were kids and had no business sneaking into that diner. You always said it was better than birthday cake. So I figured—maybe I finally get points for remembering.”

He handed her a fork, the playfulness slipping back in as he leaned across the table. “And don’t worry, I’ve already got a running list of the other desserts I could try to whip up next time—lava cake disasters, flan catastrophes, possibly a s’mores tower if I can bribe someone with a blowtorch.”

His grin crooked wider. “But vanish before strawberry shortcake? C’mon, Rae. Even I’m not that dumb.”

He tapped his fork lightly against hers like a toast, still watching her with that steady patience she wasn’t used to from him. “So. You gonna share this one with me, or am I about to lose round two of food theft tonight?”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon froze when the box landed on the table, her mouth already curved into some smartass remark — and then she actually saw what was inside.

Her chest tightened before she could stop it. Strawberry shortcake. Messy layers of cream and berries, the kind of thing that didn’t belong in a glossy dinner spread but belonged to her. To them. Midnight booths, chipped mugs of coffee, her swinging her legs under the seat while he pretended not to steal bites.

“God,” she breathed, the word escaping softer than she meant it to. She laughed a little, shaking her head as if she could cover for it. “You remember that? I haven’t thought about those nights in forever.”

Her fork hovered, but instead of diving in, she looked at him — really looked. The grin, sure, but the way he was holding himself quieter now, waiting, giving her space to feel it. It knocked something loose in her chest.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, though there wasn’t an ounce of bite in it. Her smile was small, real, curling as she tapped her fork against his with a clink that felt a little like surrender. “And maybe a little smarter than I give you credit for.”

She scooped up a bite, the strawberries bleeding sweet against the cream, and hummed when it hit her tongue. “Still better than birthday cake,” she admitted around the fork, eyes narrowing like she hated giving him the win. “Damn it, Mercer. You’re actually good at this.”

Her foot brushed his again under the table, slower this time, lingering instead of retreating. She pointed her fork at him, cheeks warming even as her grin tilted sly. “But don’t think this means I’m sharing. You want more than two bites, you’re gonna have to fight me for it.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai’s grin tugged wider at her threat, but it wasn’t that cocky boyish thing she used to know. This was quieter, prouder. Like he’d actually managed to pull something off that mattered — and he knew it.

He leaned forward, fork in hand, and pointed it right back at her. “Fight you for it? Rae, I planned this whole night. I ordered the shortcake, remembered your favorite, even lit the damn pool like a Nicholas Sparks set piece. You think I’m walking away with just two polite bites? Not a chance.”

He stole a forkful before she could stop him, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers as he dragged it through the berries and cream. When he tasted it, he hummed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. “Yep,” he said, leaning back smug but not overplaying it. “Still better than birthday cake. And I am definitely getting more than two bites.”

Her fork came up in mock defense, but his free hand reached across the table, curling gently around her wrist before she could pull the plate away. He lowered his voice, softer now. “Relax, Lennon. I’ll let you win this one. But only because watching you guard strawberry shortcake like it’s crown jewels might be my new favorite thing.”

He tapped his fork against hers again, a little toast, eyes steady on hers. “Besides,” he added, grin tilting crooked, “I didn’t just plan on dessert tonight. I planned on us having dessert. Together. And that’s a tradition I don’t intend on letting go of anytime soon.”

Then, with deliberate slowness, he slid the plate back toward her side of the table, smirk still tugging at his mouth. “Go ahead. Pretend you’re not going to cave and feed me a bite in about thirty seconds. I’ll wait.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon just stared at him for a beat, fork frozen midair, eyes narrowed like she was trying very hard not to smile — and losing.

“You,” she said slowly, “are so full of yourself, Mercer, it’s actually impressive.”

But she didn’t pull the plate back. Didn’t even flinch when his fingers brushed her wrist. If anything, she leaned into it — not noticeably, not in a way she’d admit — but enough.

Because yeah, okay. He remembered the shortcake. He lit the pool. He said us like it was the most casual thing in the world, like he hadn’t shattered her with that word once before. And still — here she was. Heart thudding too hard for something this small, cheeks warm with something that wasn’t just the firelight.

“You really planned the whole night just for a bite of my dessert?” she asked, her tone teasing, but soft around the edges now. “Should’ve led with that. Could’ve saved yourself a salmon and two oven mitts.”

Her fork hovered again. Then — with the world’s most dramatic sigh — she scooped a bite of shortcake and held it out to him, leaning just far enough forward to meet him halfway.

“Alright, fine,” she said, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But if I feed you this, it does not mean I’m falling for your soft-eyed, candlelight nostalgia act.”

She paused. Looked right at him. And the smirk slipped, just slightly.

“…Even if it’s working.”

Then, a little quieter: “Open up, rockstar. Before I change my mind and eat the whole damn thing myself.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t even try to hide his smile. Not this time. Not when she was sitting across from him, fork extended like a dare, pretending she wasn’t giving him more than just a bite of shortcake.

He leaned in, slow, letting the moment stretch like he had all the time in the world. His hand brushed hers again — deliberate this time — as he closed the last inch of space and took the bite right off her fork.

For a beat, he didn’t speak. Just chewed, watching her with that same steady focus that used to make her want to roll her eyes, except now it was gentler. More certain. He licked a stray bit of cream from his lip before letting out a low hum, dramatic and satisfied.

“Worth every oven mitt,” he said finally, voice warm with a laugh under it. “And for the record? I’d burn through a hundred more if it meant you’d feed me dessert like this.”

He leaned back just enough to smirk, but there was softness threading through it — not the sharp-edged arrogance she used to know, but something steadier. “So go ahead, Rae. Pretend you’re immune to the candlelight nostalgia act. I’ll let you.”

His foot nudged hers again under the table, playful, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Because between us, I don’t need the whole shortcake anyway.” His smile curved, quiet but sure, like he was letting her in on a secret. “Just the part you’re willing to share.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t speak.

She just set her fork down with a quiet clink and pushed her chair back, the soft scuff of her boots against the floor the only sound in the room. She moved around the table, slow and certain, her gaze fixed on him like she’d already made up her mind.

Kai didn’t move.

Not when she stepped close, not when she sat in his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. One arm slipped around his shoulders, the other resting gently on his chest, palm warm over the steady beat of his heart.

Her fingers drifted up to his jaw.

She touched him like he was something rare — like she was learning his face all over again, every angle and edge changed by time but still achingly familiar. Her thumb traced the faint crease beside his mouth, the subtle lines that hadn’t been there when they were young.

But he wore them like stories.

Like proof.

“You got older,” she said, quiet and unguarded, her voice threading between awe and something deeper. “But somehow you look better now.”

Her hand lingered at his cheek, brushing down slowly. “I used to wonder if the boy I loved was just some version I made up. Some stage-lit, spotlight fiction.” She met his eyes again, closer now, nothing in her way. “But it’s not that. You’re him. Still. Just… grown.”

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t joke or deflect.

And that, maybe more than anything, made her want to believe every word he’d said tonight.

“I don’t know where this goes,” she said softly, her thumb still moving in slow circles near his collar. “But right now? I want to stay here. I want this.”

Her head dipped, just enough to press her temple to his. No show. No angle. Just her. Just him.

And the quiet, electric truth of what they still were. What they could be again.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t breathe for a moment. Couldn’t.

She was in his lap, her palm against his chest, her thumb grazing his jaw like he was something delicate instead of the mess he knew he’d been. And God, if she only knew what it did to him — sitting still, letting her see him like this. No stage lights, no cameras, no rehearsed grin. Just him.

Her words landed heavy, a confession wrapped soft but edged with truth. He felt them slip under his ribs, settle somewhere permanent. You got older. Better. Still him. Grown. He wanted to tell her he’d been afraid of the opposite for years — that she’d look at him and only see the boy who hadn’t been enough, who left her clutching silence where his voice should’ve been. But she didn’t. She was here, in his lap, touching the lines time had carved into him like they weren’t failures but proof.

So he leaned into it. Into her.

His hand found her thigh, slow, anchoring her there as if to say you’re not imagining this, you’re not holding a ghost. The other slid around her waist, fingers pressing lightly at her back, feeling the steady warmth of her against him. He let his nose brush her temple before he kissed her there — unhurried, reverent — the way he should’ve years ago when he only knew how to kiss like he was running out of time.

“Rae,” he murmured against her skin, voice low, steady, threaded with something unshakable. “You don’t have to wonder anymore. Not about who I am. Not about where I’ll be when the lights go out. I’m right here. And I’m staying.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, close enough that her breath was still warm on his lips. The firelight caught her, softened her edges, and for a second he thought he might forget every clever thing he ever knew how to say. But then his mouth curved — not a performance, just him, aching and steady and hers.

“You want this?” he asked, voice gentler now, thumb brushing along her hip like he couldn’t stop touching her. “So do I. All of it. The waffles, the salmon, the fights over strawberries, the mornings where I burn the coffee on accident. Every ordinary thing I was too dumb to give you before. That’s what I want now. That’s all I want.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, breath mingling in the quiet, and let the words land in the space between them — not promises, not performance, just proof.

“You’ve always been it, Lennon. And I swear to God, I’ll spend as long as it takes showing you I mean it.”

Then he kissed her — not hungry, not desperate, but slow. Certain. Like permanence itself.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver.

She let the kiss settle into her — not just on her lips, but somewhere deeper, somewhere older. It was the kind of kiss she’d stopped letting herself believe in, the kind that came with weight and warmth and the quiet ache of something real. And when it broke, when he pulled just far enough to breathe again, she didn’t speak right away.

She just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the firelight catching the flecks of silver near his temples. At the quiet resolve sitting in the corners of his mouth. At the eyes that used to sparkle with too much charm and now held something steadier — something that didn’t want to impress her, just hold her.

Her fingers brushed along the back of his neck, slow and tender, as her other hand slid from his jaw to rest flat over his heart again.

“I believe you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, like speaking too loud might break the moment. “I do.”

She blinked once, slowly, and let herself smile — not cautious this time. Not guarded.

“I’m all in, Kai.”

The words sat in the space between them like a promise. No conditions. No ifs. Just the truth.

“I don’t need some perfect version of what we were. I don’t want the fantasy. I want this — the actual you. The older, better, steady, burn-the-coffee you.” Her voice caught a little, but she smiled through it. “Because the truth is… I never stopped carrying you with me. Even when I tried.”

She shifted just enough to press a kiss to his cheek — soft, reverent, slow — and let her forehead rest against his again, hand still over his chest like it belonged there.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this. Tired of guarding my heart like I don’t already know who it beats for.”

And then, quiet but certain:

“So yeah. I’m here. I’m staying. And I’m yours — if you’ll keep being mine.”

Her lips brushed his again — once, then twice, like a seal. Like something sacred. Like she was saying yes the only way she knew how.

Lennon didn’t move at first.

Not because she didn’t want to — but because this felt like a moment worth memorizing. His breath against hers. His arms still wrapped around her like he meant it, like he wasn’t letting go this time. The way her own heart didn’t race the way it used to — it steadied. It settled. Like maybe, for once, she’d made it home.

And then?

She kissed him again.

But not soft this time.

Not shy.

Not like she was waiting to be convinced.

She shifted forward in his lap just enough to press her body closer — one arm still looped around his shoulders, the other sliding up to cradle the side of his face, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as her lips claimed his.

This kiss wasn’t hesitant. It was real — warm and slow and sure, deepening with the kind of tenderness that didn’t ask questions anymore. That already knew the answer.

She tilted her head, lips parting slightly as her hand guided him closer, and when he met her there — when he kissed her back like he felt it in his chest — she let out a soft sound against his mouth. Almost a laugh. Almost a breath.

It was like all the noise faded.

Like every lyric he’d ever written about her, every look they’d stolen, every almost that never made it to the finish line — had led to this one, breathless second.

And God, she was in it.

All of it.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to speak, her forehead rested against his and her eyes fluttered open, still swimming with the weight of it.

“Just so we’re clear,” she whispered, voice low and wrecked and hers, “that wasn’t a maybe. That was me saying yes — to all of it.”

Her fingers threaded lightly into his hair as she smiled, breath still brushing his lips.

“And you’re not getting that plate of shortcake back, by the way. You’ve got other things to eat first.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai’s laugh came low, rough in his chest — the kind that wasn’t about being funny but about being undone. About being wrecked in the best way by the woman sitting in his lap, telling him yes with her mouth, with her hands, with her whole damn body pressed against his.

“Christ, Rae…” His voice rasped, breaking softer than he meant it to as his forehead pressed harder to hers. He felt the words she’d given him, every single one, still vibrating in his ribs like an aftershock. I’m all in. I’m yours. He thought nothing could hit harder than a stadium roaring his name — until she whispered his like it was both a prayer and a claim.

The hem of her velvet dress brushed against his trousers as she shifted, warm and soft against the sharp lines of his lap. His hands found the curve of her waist, one thumb sliding beneath the edge of her cardigan, the other steady against her thigh where sheer fabric teased under his palm. The combination nearly undid him.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, lips brushing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth before finding it again — slow at first, then deeper, tasting the vow in her kiss, stealing every soft sound she gave him. “No idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that. To feel this again.”

Her rings caught faintly against the back of his neck as her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly, pulling him closer. He groaned against her mouth, kissing her back like he needed the taste to breathe. When he finally broke, breath heavy, his smile curved wicked and warm.

“You tell me I’ve got other things to eat first,” he drawled, voice husky with the fire she lit in him, “and I swear, Rae, I will take that as a challenge.” His lips ghosted her neck, lingering there, letting her feel the smirk against her skin before softening it with a kiss — reverent and slow.

Pulling back just enough to look at her, his hands stayed locked on her hips, velvet under his fingers like temptation stitched in fabric. The firelight behind her caught the sheen of her dark hair, her crimson dress glowing like it was lit from within. But she was brighter. Always brighter.

“So let’s be clear, too,” he whispered, eyes steady, a spark threading through the low warmth of his voice. “I’m not letting you go this time. You’re mine, Rae. Always were. Always will be. And I’m damn well gonna prove it — starting tonight.”

Then his mouth was on hers again, stealing the words back, stealing her breath, like the fire wasn’t in the hearth anymore but between them — and he had no intention of putting it out.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t melt — not exactly.

She anchored.

Like something inside her that had been loose for far too long suddenly snapped into place, steady and certain and right. Like the ache she hadn’t let herself name finally had a home.

His mouth on hers, his voice wrecked in that way only she could pull out of him, the feel of his hands on her hips like he didn’t need permission anymore — it wasn’t the past. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was now. Real. Earned.

When he kissed her again, claiming and full and hungry, she didn’t flinch. She answered — one hand still tangled in the back of his hair, the other slipping down to grip the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer like her body didn’t believe he was real unless she had him everywhere.

And when he said she was his?

Her lips curved against his.

Not in protest. In promise.

She kissed him deeper, open and warm and sure, her mouth tilting to steal the words right back before they even had a chance to cool. Her thumb dragged gently across the line of his jaw as she pulled back just enough to breathe — just enough to see him again.

Kai. Older. Softer in all the places that used to be sharp. But still him. God, still him.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she whispered, voice low and quiet like she didn’t want to risk the moment breaking. “You showed up, Kai. You stayed. And I see you.”

Her thumb swept his cheekbone, slow and reverent. “You’re not the boy I loved. You’re the man I want. And I’m not scared of you anymore.”

Then she leaned in again, forehead pressed to his, her words a murmur against his lips.

“So if this is the start? Then I want the whole damn beginning.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai swore he felt the earth tilt when she said it.

Not the boy I loved. The man I want.

Christ. He almost lost it right there.

Her words burned hotter than the fire behind her, hotter than the velvet under his palms, hotter than anything he’d touched in years. His chest tightened, but not with fear — with something he hadn’t let himself taste in too long. Hunger, yes. But tethered to awe. To her.

He didn’t answer with words. Couldn’t.

He kissed her like he was staking a claim, slow at first, then deeper — his tongue sliding against hers, his hand leaving her waist to drag up her thigh, sheer fabric giving way under his palm until he was gripping her bare skin. She gasped into his mouth, just enough for him to take advantage, to swallow it down like he needed it more than air.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her mouth, lips trailing to her jaw, then her throat, tasting the skin he used to only dream about. He kissed there, open-mouthed and slow, letting his teeth scrape just enough to make her breath catch. His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the lace hem beneath the velvet, and it nearly undid him.

“You want a beginning?” His voice was rough, reverent, his forehead pressed to hers as his thumb stroked circles into the skin of her thigh. “Then it’s not just a beginning, Rae. It’s every chapter. Every page. Every damn word we never got to write.”

He kissed her again, harder this time, deep and demanding — the kind of kiss that didn’t leave room for maybe, that said mine without ever saying it. His free hand cupped her jaw, angling her mouth to his, taking more, giving more, until she let out that soft sound he remembered and craved in the same breath.

And when he finally pulled back, both of them wrecked and gasping, he smirked — ruined and reverent all at once.

“So tell me right now,” he whispered, lips brushing hers, voice molten, “am I allowed to take you upstairs? Or do I ruin that velvet dress right here in front of the fire?”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t answer right away.

She let the moment breathe — slow and charged — like a held note in a song only they knew. Her hand rose again, soft against his jaw, fingers tracing the faint lines time had drawn across his face. He’d aged like a lyric rewritten in better ink — deeper, more deliberate, and somehow more beautiful for the years that had carved him.

He still had the eyes of the boy she fell in love with. But the man looking back at her now?

He was hers — if she said yes.

And she did.

Lennon leaned in, kissed him slow — not like surrender, but like permission finally granted. Like flipping open a book she’d kept sealed for a decade and whispering, Start here.

When she pulled back, her breath ghosted against his mouth.

“You want to ruin the dress?” she said, mouth brushing his like punctuation. “Do it in a way I’ll remember tomorrow. And the next day. And every breath after that.”

Then she smiled — not coy, not fragile — but like a woman who had finally stopped waiting for permission.

Her hand settled over his heart, steady now. Like she was grounding herself to him, and him to her.

“You always were a wildfire,” she murmured, her voice lower now, threaded with heat and clarity. “Beautiful. Reckless. Dangerous if I got too close.”

She paused, thumb brushing just under his collarbone.

“But I’m not here to watch you burn this time. I’m here to walk into the heat with you.”

She kissed him again, slower this time — not a spark, but a match struck with intent.

And when she finally spoke again, it was quiet. Final.

“Take me upstairs, Kai.”

And just like that, the rest of the night didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like a beginning.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t joke.
Didn’t cover the crackle in his chest with charm the way he might have years ago.

He just stood, slow and sure, keeping her anchored in his arms like she belonged there. Velvet brushed his palms, warm skin beneath it making his pulse riot, but his stride never faltered. He kissed her once more — deep, claiming — before breaking just enough to murmur against her lips,

“Careful what you ask for, Rae. I don’t plan on letting you forget a second of it.”

Her laugh ghosted over his mouth, low and wrecked, and it made him harder than he wanted to admit. But he kept it smooth, steady, carrying her toward the stairs as the firelight threw them in silhouette against the walls. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her rings glinting as her hands slid through his hair, tugging just enough to test his restraint.

He made it up each step like it was deliberate — not rushed, not sloppy. Controlled. Because this wasn’t just hunger. It was reverence. It was ten years of silence combusting into a promise he intended to keep.

At the landing, he paused, pinning her gently against the wall with his hips, letting her feel the full weight of what she was doing to him. His mouth traced along her throat, slow and indulgent, teeth grazing that spot he remembered, the one that had always undone her.

“Upstairs,” he whispered, lips dragging against her skin, voice low and ruined. “But make no mistake, Lennon — the second that door shuts, you’re mine. Not just tonight. Not just for the fire. For good.”

Her answer was another kiss — fierce, breathless, her body arching into his like she was already gone for him.

And with that, Kai pushed off the wall and carried her the rest of the way, the sound of her soft gasp in his ear and the creak of the bedroom door opening like the beginning of a new verse — one he had every intention of singing into her skin until morning.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon barely remembered the stairs.

Just the way his arms stayed steady beneath her. The way the wall caught her breath when he did. The way her name sounded in his mouth — not as a question this time, but a vow.

And God, the way he looked at her. Like she was gravity. Like she’d always been gravity.

Her legs stayed locked around his waist, not from desperation, but because it felt natural now — inevitable, maybe. She hadn’t wrapped herself around him to chase something. She was holding on because she was done running.

His lips at her throat made her gasp, but it wasn’t surprise. It was memory. Muscle-deep and dizzying. His voice poured against her like smoke and velvet, and when he said mine, she didn’t flinch.

She leaned into it.

Let her hands curl tighter in his hair, let her teeth scrape his jaw as her answer. She could feel the restraint in his body — how he held her without letting go, how he kissed her without losing control — and it wrecked her. Because this wasn’t a boy trying to prove something. This was a man who already knew what he had in his arms.

Her mouth found his again just before the door opened behind them, and she kissed him like punctuation — sharp, certain, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.

“You want all of me?” she whispered against his lips, hips shifting with slow defiance. “You already have it.”

Then she smiled — not smug, not sweet, but sovereign. A woman who knew exactly what she was choosing. Who she was choosing.

“And tomorrow?” she added, her breath ghosting hot over his cheek. “You’ll still have it. Every day after that, too. So take your time, Kai. Burn slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

She let her forehead rest against his as the bedroom swallowed them whole — not in shadows, but in heat. In promise. In permanence.

And as he carried her across the threshold, Lennon didn’t think about what they’d lost.

She thought only of what they were about to claim.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t rush.

He wanted to. God, every inch of him ached to. The way she shifted against him, the way her words licked at the edges of his control — it lit him up from the inside. But he held steady, carrying her like she was the only thing he’d ever been meant to hold.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the sound curled through him like a promise sealed. He set her down onto the bed not with haste, but with reverence — like placing something rare where it belonged. Velvet fanned out against his sheets, her dark hair spilling around her face like he’d dreamed it would for years.

For a moment, he just looked.

His thumb dragged slowly along the inside of her thigh, barely there, enough to make her breath hitch. His mouth followed — jaw, throat, the line of her collarbone — each kiss lingering like he was memorizing her all over again, branding her into him one mark at a time.

“You want slow?” he murmured against her skin, voice wrecked and reverent. His lips ghosted down the curve of her shoulder, his hand smoothing the hem of her dress higher with patient insistence. “Then I’m going to take my time with every inch of you, Rae. Until tomorrow. Until every damn day after.”

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging, nails scraping his chest through the fabric, but he only smirked against her skin, shaking his head as he peeled it off himself — smooth, controlled, a man who wasn’t giving up the pace. Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about frenzy.

This was about reclaiming her.

When his mouth met hers again, it was slower, deeper — heat wound into restraint. He kissed her like a man starved, yes, but also like one who knew the feast wasn’t going anywhere. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

And when her hands slid down his back, urging, daring, he caught her wrists gently, pinning them above her head against the mattress. His eyes burned down into hers, his breath hot against her parted lips.

“Burn slow,” he echoed, voice rough silk. “But make no mistake, Lennon. I’m still going to set you on fire.”

And then he kissed her again — unhurried, devastating, every bit of restraint only turning the heat higher.

[Lennon Rae]

God, he was ruining her — not with speed, not with force, but with intention. Every kiss. Every pause. Every way he didn’t rush her.

It would’ve been easier, maybe, if he had.

But this? This was worship disguised as touch. This was Kai Mercer — the man who used to kiss her like he was running out of time — now kissing her like he finally had all of it.

And Lennon felt it everywhere.

In the way his hands mapped her like a chart he already knew by heart but wanted to study anyway. In the way he looked at her — not with hunger first, but recognition. Like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask out loud until now.

When he pinned her wrists above her head, her breath caught — not from fear, not from surprise, but from the flood of everything. Control, yes, but also reverence. Like he wasn’t holding her down. He was holding her in place — steadying her so she could finally stop spinning.

“Kai,” she breathed, half-laugh, half-prayer, her eyes burning into his. “You realize I was already on fire the second you looked at me like that.”

Her smile turned slower then. Less teasing. More honest. It pulled at the corner of her mouth like a secret finally safe to share.

“You could’ve had me messy,” she whispered. “You could’ve had me rushed and reckless like before.”

She leaned up as far as she could with her arms still caught in his grip, brushing her mouth against his, soft and sure.

“But instead,” she murmured, “you’re choosing to undo me.”

Her hips shifted beneath him, subtle but insistent, velvet slipping higher. “So don’t stop. Not even when I beg.”

And then she kissed him — slow, matching his pace, but deeper. Bolder. Like she was done being held back by history, and ready to rewrite the story in sweat and breath and his name.

Her mouth still on his, Lennon shifted under him, wrists slipping free from his grip — not to pull away, but to pull him closer.

She hooked her fingers into the hem of his shirt and tugged, slow at first, then with purpose, breaking the kiss just long enough to drag the fabric up and over his head. The fabric clung for half a second — like even the shirt wasn’t ready to give him up — before it fell somewhere behind them.

God.

He was beautiful.

Not just in the way that made fans scream or magazines fawn — no, this was hers. Broad chest, a scar low on his rib she hadn’t known before, the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch like his body was still learning how to be seen like this again.

But what stopped her breath was how much of him hadn’t changed at all.

The slope of his shoulder. The dimple in his left pec when he smirked. That faint line down his stomach like a sentence unfinished.

She dragged her fingertips over it — reverent, aching — before her palms flattened against his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real. And the second her nails scraped down, just enough to leave a mark, he shuddered.

“Still perfect,” she whispered, voice gone ragged around the edges. “Just… grown into it.”

And then her fingers curled. Not soft this time — claiming. She pressed her nails into his chest, just enough to make him gasp against her mouth. Just enough to feel how much he was holding back.

“You don’t have to be gentle, Mercer,” she breathed, lips brushing his jaw, her breath hot against his skin. “Not tonight. Not with me.”

Then she arched up, velvet brushing between them, her mouth finding his again — deeper this time, darker, hungrier. Her hands didn’t stop moving — one gripping his shoulder, the other digging in again over his heart like she could brand her name into him if she just held tight enough.

“Kai,” she whispered against his lips, voice shaking with want and something bigger. “Show me.”

[Kai Mercer]

Her wish was command.

And Kai wasn’t the kind of man to ignore a command like that — not from her.

His breath left him in a ragged rush as her nails pressed into his chest, as those words cut straight through every ounce of restraint he’d been clinging to. He’d been gentle. Careful. Patient. But the moment she said not tonight, not with me—

Christ.

The leash snapped.

His hands slid down her sides with deliberate heat, tracing velvet and skin until he found the hem of her dress. He didn’t yank — no, not yet. He bunched the fabric slowly, dragging it higher, higher, until his palms slid against bare thigh and the soft heat of her skin. He wanted her gasping not because he rushed, but because he savored. Because she’d feel just how long he’d been waiting.

“You think I don’t know I’m ruining you?” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips ghosting her ear as his hand slipped higher still. “That’s the point, Lennon. To take you apart so slow you feel it tomorrow. And the day after. Until you can’t think of anything else.”

Her hips arched into him, answering with defiance and fire, and it tore a groan from his chest — raw, unfiltered. He caught her mouth again, but this kiss wasn’t careful. It was claiming, a collision that stole her breath and gave her back something wilder. His tongue slid against hers, heat and hunger coiled tight, and when she moaned into him, it was all he could do not to lose himself right there.

The dress came higher in his grip, his knuckles grazing the edge of lace. He pulled back just enough to see her eyes, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and glistening. God, she was a vision. His. Always his.

“You begged me once,” he said, words molten, thumb pressing into her hip as he pinned her against the sheets, “but not like this. Not knowing I’d give you every damn thing you asked for.”

He kissed her again, but lower this time — her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. Each press was slower, hotter, his teeth grazing, his tongue soothing after. He marked a path down, down, until her back arched and her fingers tangled in his hair.

“Second dessert,” he rasped against her skin, lips brushing just above her breast. His grin was wicked, reverent, hungry all at once. “Finally.”

And then he gave in — no more holding back, no more pretending this was anything but the firestorm it had always been. His mouth traced down her body with the patience of a man intent on worship and the hunger of one who knew he might never stop once he started.

Because she’d asked him to show her.

And Kai planned on showing her everything.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t just feel worshipped — she felt rewritten.

Every brush of his mouth, every drag of his hands, every reverent promise tucked between breaths — it wasn’t just about want anymore. It was about time. About the weight of a decade collapsing into a single night, the kind of night where everything felt stitched back together, moment by moment, skin to skin.

Her hand slid into his hair, anchoring him there, thumb sweeping across the back of his neck like muscle memory. He felt different now — older, broader, the sharp edges worn into something stronger. But the way he looked up at her?

God.

That was still the same boy she’d fallen for under city lights and stage noise. Except now he kissed like he had something to prove — not just desire, but devotion.

“You think I’m gonna forget this?” she breathed, voice low and uneven as her fingers dragged down his back. “You could carve me from marble and I’d still remember what this felt like.”

Her legs shifted around him, drawing him closer, velvet twisting beneath them like smoke. Her nails found his shoulder blades, then his waist, pulling him deeper into the gravity of her. This wasn’t the kind of fire you ran from. This was the kind you built a home in.

“You waited,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his, lips brushing his with the kind of softness that shook. “So did I.”

And in that moment — breathless, burning, entirely undone — she stopped bracing for heartbreak.

Because this time?

This time she wasn’t surviving him.

She was choosing him.

All in.

Always.

Lennon’s breath stilled at the base of her throat — not out of hesitation, but reverence.

The weight of him above her, the years behind them, the promise in his hands — it all threaded together like a lyric she’d never forgotten. Her palm flattened against his chest, fingertips tracing the line of his sternum down, down, until they hovered at his waistband.

Her gaze didn’t falter.

She wanted him to see it — not just the want, but the choice. The trust. The knowing.

She murmured, voice low and wrecked and just for him, “Let me.”

Her fingers found the button, deft and deliberate. Not rushed. Not trembling. This wasn’t about frenzy — it was about claiming what had always felt unfinished. The metal clicked open, soft and final, and her thumb skimmed the line just beneath, teasing along the fabric as she watched him exhale like he’d been holding that breath for years.

She smiled — not coy, not innocent, but certain.

“You’re not the only one who remembers how to worship, Kai.”

And then she leaned up, mouth at his jaw, tracing along his neck as her hands pushed the fabric down inch by inch, dragging every second out like a vow. No more waiting. No more wondering.

Just this.

Just them.

Made new. Together.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had thought about this.
Hell, he’d dreamed about it, every night he let himself slip.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the reality of her.

Her lips wrapped around him, slow at first, deliberate, and Kai’s entire body went taut, like a live wire pulled too tight. His hand curled in her hair, not to force, not to control, but to feel—to anchor himself in the proof that this wasn’t a memory or a fever dream.

And when her tongue flicked against him, tracing down his length with maddening patience, his hips betrayed him—jerking, shallow, a ragged growl clawing free of his chest.

“Fuck, Lennon…”

The sound was half warning, half plea.

She didn’t falter. If anything, she leaned into it—taking more of him, inch by inch, until Kai was gripping the headboard with one hand just to keep from thrusting too deep, too fast. His thighs trembled beneath her touch, a muscle-deep shudder betraying how close he already was.

“Look at me,” he rasped again, voice cracked and dangerous. And when she tilted her eyes up at him—lips stretched around him, devotion written in the heat of her gaze—Kai broke.

A guttural moan ripped out of him, his head slamming back against the wall, throat exposed, jaw tight. He dragged his hand down the back of her neck, gentle but desperate, guiding her rhythm even as she set her own.

Her mouth was velvet fire, her pace a cruel devotion—slow enough to undo him, skilled enough to keep him teetering at the edge. And when she hollowed her cheeks, sliding down until his breath fractured into something primal, Kai’s hips stuttered.

“Jesus Christ—” His voice cracked, rough and reverent, like a prayer swallowed by a groan. “You have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me.”

She smiled against him, lips curving as she pulled back just enough to tease—just enough to make him see that yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. Her hand replaced her mouth for a moment, pumping slow, twisting at the head with a slick drag that made his vision blur. And then, as if she couldn’t bear to leave him aching, she sank her mouth back down—deep, unrelenting.

Kai lost the thread of his breath. Lost every curse, every vow, every lyric he’d ever written.

The only word left was her name, torn from him again and again, rough with disbelief and devotion.

“Lennon… Lennon…”

His hips betrayed him, rolling deeper into her mouth now, no longer able to hold back. Not forceful—never forceful—but unrestrained, surrendering to the worship she gave so freely. His hand tightened in her hair, his other gripping the sheet until the fabric screamed.

He looked down at her again—her lips glistening around him, her eyes dark and locked on his—and he knew.

He was done.

“God, baby…” His voice was ragged, unrecognizable, wrecked. “If you keep looking at me like that—I’m not gonna last.”

And it was true. His body was coiled, every nerve burning, his control shattered in the heat of her mouth. He wanted to drag it out, to memorize every second, but Lennon was pulling the choice right out of him with every slow, perfect slide of her lips.

He was hers now. Entirely. Irrevocably.

And Kai Mercer—man, myth, frontman, wildfire—was about to fall apart for her.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and sure, eyes never leaving his.

Kai was kneeling on the bed in front of her, ruined and gorgeous — chest rising hard with every breath, his hair a wild mess from her fingers, his eyes dark and dazed like she’d just rewritten his entire belief system.

Good.

She sat back on her heels, letting him look. Letting him feel every second of the power shift.

Then she rose to her knees too, coming in close. Her fingers skimmed his jaw first — slow, reverent — then dragged back into the curls at the nape of his neck, anchoring him there like she’d tethered him to gravity itself.

“Kai Mercer,” she whispered, and his name hit the air like a promise and a warning all at once.

“You said I’d feel it tomorrow.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips just shy of his. His breath caught like a prayer between them.

“So will you.”

Before he could speak — before he could even think — she kissed him. Slow. Certain. Deep enough to tilt the axis of the room.

Her hand slid down, over the lines of his stomach, back to where she’d left him aching. She curled her fingers around him again, and this time, she didn’t tease.

She took.

With purpose. With rhythm. With the kind of control that made him groan low into her mouth, one hand bracing on the mattress, the other instinctively finding her hip like he needed to hold on to something before he fell apart again.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to ruin,” she whispered against his lips, her hand still working him in slow, devastating strokes. “So let me, Kai. Let me show you how it feels.”

And he let her.

Head bowed.

Breath ragged.

Heart wide open.

Because if there was one truth left between them tonight, it was this:

Lennon Rae didn’t beg anymore.

She commanded.

And Kai — every part of him — obeyed.

[Kai Mercer]

God, she was killing him.

Her hand was merciless — slow enough to keep him suspended, skilled enough to drag every sound out of his chest until he didn’t recognize his own voice anymore. He could feel himself hardening again under her touch, blood roaring back like she’d called it home, every nerve raw and ready.

And the worst part? He let her.
He let her ruin him, let her work him into readiness, let her smirk against his mouth because she knew what she was doing.

But when her thumb pressed against the head just right and his hips bucked, when her whisper hit his ear like sin and salvation tangled together —

That was it.

The leash snapped.

Kai growled — deep, low, guttural — and in a single motion he caught her wrist, stopping her strokes mid-ruin. He didn’t give her time to react before he shifted, fast and sharp, pinning her to the mattress beneath him with his mouth crashing against hers.

No more restraint. No more patience.

She told him not to be gentle — and Kai Mercer always delivered.

His kiss was rough now, all teeth and hunger, devouring her mouth like he’d starved for a decade. His hands were everywhere at once — gripping her hip, dragging up her side, tugging at fabric with the kind of urgency that made the seams scream.

Her dress didn’t stand a chance.

He yanked it down off her shoulder, teeth scraping the newly bare skin before he tore it the rest of the way over her head. The sound of fabric hitting the floor was drowned out by the sound he made when he saw her — flushed, heaving, breathtaking in nothing but lace that was about to be history.

“Fuck, Lennon…” His voice cracked against her collarbone as he kissed down, down, finding the swell of her breast, nipping just enough to make her gasp. “You think I can be gentle now?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand slid under the band of her panties, knuckles brushing heat, and then he ripped them down, dragging the lace down her thighs and tossing it away like it had no right to be between them.

She was bare under him now. His.

Kai’s chest heaved as he looked at her, hovering for just a second — jaw tight, eyes wild, muscles coiled like a predator seconds before the strike.

“You wanted me unrestrained?” he rasped, voice gone dark and broken with want. His fingers dug into her thigh as he spread her open beneath him.

“Then you’d better hold on.”

No space. No pause. No reprieve.

Kai drove into her in one sharp, brutal thrust — so deep, so sudden, her gasp turned into a broken cry against his mouth. His own groan tore out of him, muffled in the kiss, guttural and wrecked as her body clamped around him like she’d been waiting just as long.

He didn’t let her adjust. Didn’t give her the mercy of time.

Because she’d told him not to.

His hips set a pace that bordered on savage, each snap forward rocking the bedframe, dragging her higher against the sheets. But his hands—God, his hands—were everywhere.

One gripping her thigh, spreading her wider, thumb dragging fire over the inside of her skin.
One palming her breast, thumb rolling hard over her nipple until she arched.
Then down again—his hand slipping lower, pressing against her clit with a rough, perfect rhythm that matched the relentless drive of his hips.

Every stroke was a command. Every touch, a demand.

Her nails clawed at his back, sharp enough to draw lines, but he only groaned into it, thrusting harder, pressing his fingers harder, worshipping and wrecking her in the same breath.

Her body trembled under him, the sound of her moans fracturing into something desperate, but he didn’t let her fall. Not yet.

Kai’s jaw tightened, sweat running down his temple as he ground into her, pushing her further, deeper, holding her just shy of breaking.

Because tonight wasn’t about release.

It was about ruin.

And God help them both—he wasn’t done.

[Lennon Rae]

Her breath caught — a sharp, ragged intake — as he filled her. As if the years had carved out space for him and him alone, and now that he was here, everything else fell quiet.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure.

Weight and heat and memory crashing into her at once — like a storm she’d watched roll in from a distance, knowing it would break over her eventually.

Her fingers dug into his back, clutching like she could hold the moment steady, like she could tether herself to the one person who had always known how to split her open and put her back together in the same breath.

And Kai — God, Kai moved like a man who understood the language of her body better than he ever had words. Each thrust was deliberate. Deep. Measured not in speed but in depth — not just of touch, but of feeling. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul through the echo of her skin.

She moaned — not sweet, not delicate, but raw. From her chest, from somewhere deeper. It wasn’t just the friction. It was the way he stretched her, filled her, made her feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with light.

He groaned into her neck, the sound low and guttural — the kind of sound that came from a man trying not to fall apart. But he didn’t slow. He pressed deeper, again and again, like he was chasing something holy in her — and maybe he was. Maybe they both were.

She arched into him, gasping as sensation crashed through her like lightning meeting water, flooding every edge.

“Kai—” she breathed, his name a prayer and a warning.

Every motion of his hips felt like gravity itself — not brutal, not careless, but relentless. Like the pull of the tide. Like the world had finally tilted back into place and it was him, always him, keeping her tethered to the earth.

The stretch of him was maddening — her body drawn tight around him, each inch pushing her further apart in the most devastating, beautiful way. It wasn’t just the thickness of him, the way he filled her to the edge of breaking — it was the way he moved, the quiet fury in it, the reverence disguised as ruin.

Her nails raked down his back, not gentle, not apologetic. She needed to feel him under her hands — muscle and heat and history. She needed the proof that he was real, that this wasn’t some cruel echo of a night she’d imagined too many times before.

He grunted into her skin when she clawed again, and the sound shot through her like a match to dry paper.

She met him now — hips rising, matching the rhythm he set, as if her body remembered him better than her mind ever could. It wasn’t about pace anymore. It was communion. Worship. Something ancient and aching and made only for them.

And when his hand slipped between them again — fingers finding that aching, burning center — she gasped so sharply it broke open in a moan.

Pressure coiled in her belly like a storm on the edge of the sky. Every nerve screamed for release. Every muscle locked down, trembling under the intensity of being wanted like this. Known like this.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai felt it — the quake of her body, the way her muscles clamped around him like she was seconds from shattering. Her breath hitched, raw and jagged, her nails scoring down his back in red streaks that only made him drive harder.

“Fuck—” the word tore out of him, ragged and low against her throat, but he didn’t ease up. He couldn’t.

Not when she felt like this.
Not when she was looking at him like this.

Her body trembled beneath him, her moans broken and desperate, and still he pressed his thumb harder against her clit, circling, dragging her higher. Keeping her right there. Edge so sharp it burned.

She writhed, hips bucking into his, every motion begging and demanding all at once.

But Kai didn’t let her go.

Not yet.

His mouth found hers again, crushing, devouring, swallowing every cry she tried to give him as he drove into her deeper, slower, more punishing with each thrust. His hand tightened on her thigh, holding her open, holding her steady, forcing her to take every relentless inch of him.

Her moans grew frantic, the coil in her belly threatening to snap, but he knew—God, he knew—how to keep her there. Hovering. Trembling. Needing.

Her hips rolled to meet him, chasing her own release, and he groaned into her mouth, nearly losing the thread himself. His control was fraying, his own climax building brutal and fast, but he forced it down, focused on her, on the way she was falling apart without ever breaking.

“Not yet,” he growled against her lips, voice low, shaking with restraint. His hips slammed into hers again, deep, brutal, exact. His fingers moved faster, pressing harder, coaxing and denying in the same breath.

Lennon cried out, head tipping back, body arching tight as a bow beneath him.

And Kai—God, Kai loved it.

Every second of her undone. Every second of her ruin.

But he wasn’t giving her release. Not yet.

Because when she finally broke, it was going to be because he let her.
Because he pushed her there.
Because she gave it up to him.

[Lennon Rae]

Her breath caught like lightning in a storm—sudden, luminous, dangerous. Every nerve lit up, trembling on the edge of surrender, and still he didn’t let her fall.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to.

Kai was everywhere—his body a force of nature, his hands the gravity pinning her down, his voice wrecked and reverent in her ear like a prayer she wasn’t ready to answer. He held her there, balanced at the brink, and all she could do was burn for him.

Her nails carved into his back not in desperation, but in worship—marking him, anchoring herself to the only thing that felt real in the chaos. She was unraveling by design, and he was the architect of every gasp, every ache, every perfect denial.

“God, Kai—” she choked, voice splintered with feeling. It wasn’t a plea, not quite. More like awe. Like surrender.

She felt split open, like a star collapsing inward, heat and light and longing coiled so tightly inside her it hurt. And still, he held her just above the fall, commanding the storm instead of letting it take her.

And maybe that was the worst part.

That she trusted him to catch her when he finally let her go.

Her eyes found his—dark, wild, unflinching—and in that look, she saw everything.

Not just lust. Not just power.

But care. Intention. A man breaking himself open to prove she was worth the wreckage.

So she let go of the fight.

Of control.

Of everything.

Her voice was a whisper now, raw and certain, rising up between shattered breaths:

“Then take me there.”

The words barely left her lips before he moved.

Like her voice was the spark and he was the flame — and now there was no stopping the burn.

Kai surged into her again, all restraint gone, his rhythm deep and relentless, but still controlled — not careless, not mindless. Every thrust was a vow, every grind of his hips a litany. She felt it in her spine, in her teeth, in the back of her throat where her breath caught and stayed.

And still, he watched her.

Not just the way her mouth fell open or how her lashes fluttered — but really watched her, like he needed to see the moment she unraveled just to survive it.

Her hands gripped his shoulders now, fingers curling like she was clinging to the edge of a cliff — because that’s exactly how it felt.

She was falling.

And falling.

And falling.

Until—

It hit her like a tidal surge — white-hot, shattering, electric. Her whole body arched, toes curling, back bowing, a cry clawing from her lips that was part pleasure, part disbelief.

It was too much and not enough and exactly right, all at once.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Her eyes squeezed shut.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Not until he followed her — low groan against her skin, hands trembling, body tensing like the wave had pulled him under too. His forehead dropped to hers, breath hot and tangled, hearts racing in unison like they’d broken the same rule and liked it too much to care.

She felt it then — not just the aftershocks in her limbs, but something quieter. Deeper.

The sense that something had shifted.

That they’d crossed a threshold they couldn’t uncross.

[Kai Mercer]

For a long, fragile moment, the only sound was their breathing. Ragged, uneven, slowly finding rhythm again in the hush that followed.

Lennon collapsed against him, her body still trembling with aftershocks, her face buried in the crook of his neck. Kai’s arms locked around her immediately, pulling her tight to his chest like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold her close enough.

Her skin was hot, damp with sweat, and he pressed his lips to her hairline—soft, reverent, completely at odds with the way he’d just wrecked her. One hand smoothed over her spine, tracing the curve of her back with quiet possession until her breathing steadied against him.

They lay like that for a minute—hearts hammering, bodies tangled, the air heavy with what they’d just done.

Then Kai tilted his head, catching her mouth with his. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deep enough to remind her that even in the quiet, he was still there. Still claiming.

When he pulled back, his voice was low, hoarse, laced with a hunger that hadn’t burned out—just banked, waiting.

“You think we’re done?” His mouth ghosted over hers, the corner of his lips curving in a dangerous little smirk. “Baby, that was only the first half.”

Her eyes flicked open, dazed but wary, and he kissed her again—slower this time, coaxing. Seducing.

Then he shifted beneath her, rolling her gently until she was straddling his hips. His palms slid up her thighs, curling around her bare skin, thumbs pressing into her flesh as he looked up at her like she was both the prize and the battlefield.

“Time to rally,” he murmured, his grin wicked, his gaze dark. “Get back on the field for the second half.”

His hands dragged higher, pushing the hem of her dress up with deliberate intent. “This time…” His voice dropped, heat curling around every word.

“…you’re on top.”

[Midnights]

Lennon blinked down at him, still catching her breath, her pulse echoing like distant thunder in her ears. Her thighs trembled where they straddled his hips, and her hands pressed to his chest—hot and steady beneath her, like the heartbeat of something ancient and unspoken.

She let out a soft, shaky laugh, more breath than sound. Then she shook her head slowly—not in protest, but in awe. In disbelief that they were still here, wrapped in the aftermath of something that had left her completely unraveled and somehow more whole at once.

Her gaze drifted down to the bunched fabric of her dress, sticky with sweat, clinging like a memory she no longer wanted to wear. With a slow exhale, she reached for the hem and peeled it off over her head, not teasing—just tired of pretending. She let it fall somewhere behind her, forgotten.

“I need a break,” she murmured, voice still frayed at the edges. “Before we do round two.”

Then, still breathless but grounded, she shifted slightly—and he sat up beneath her. Hands met her bare back as their bodies aligned again, not with urgency, but with something quieter. Her knees rested around his waist, her chest to his, skin on skin. No barrier left.

They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the silence. Not starting over. JustÂ… letting the world pause around them. Just this. Just now.

Because sometimes the most sacred thing wasnÂ’t the fire.

It was the space between the flames.

She didnÂ’t speak at first.

DidnÂ’t need to.

Not when she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under her palms, not when he was looking at her like she was the only real thing in a world that never stopped spinning.

Lennon let her eyes trace him — slow, unhurried — like she was memorizing him for the first time all over again.

The sharp line of his jaw, still flushed with effort.
The dark curls at his temple, damp and curling like ivy in the heat.
The constellation of freckles on his collarbone sheÂ’d once written songs about but never admitted aloud.
The way his eyes — those storm-tossed, sea-glass eyes — had gone soft now, less fire, more tide.

God, he was beautiful.

Not in the glossy, airbrushed way the world handed out like currency. But in the way mountains were. In the way old records crackled, in the way dusk made everything feel honest for a minute.

He was ruin and comfort and gravity. And somehow, all of him belonged to her.

Her fingers drifted across his chest, not with hunger but with awe — like brushing over the cover of a book she hadn’t finished reading but already knew would break her in the best way.

“You’re gonna kill me,” she whispered, barely audible. “And I think I’d thank you for it.”

Her smile was crooked, worn at the edges, but real. So real it ached.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, then another to the curve of his shoulder. Gentle. Slow. Like a prayer written in skin.

Then she just stayed there — her forehead resting lightly against his, breath syncing again, letting the quiet wrap around them like a blanket.

No need to rush the next chapter.

Not when the pause felt this holy.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai let the silence stretch, not because he didn’t have words but because he didn’t trust them not to ruin this.

Her weight settled against him—warm, real, grounding in a way nothing else ever had been. His palms smoothed across her bare back, slow arcs that weren’t about pulling her closer but about keeping her there, like his hands had decided her skin was the only map worth following.

The storm inside him was still there—always there—but right now it felt quiet, tethered by the way her forehead rested against his. By the way her laugh, small and shaky as it was, had lit something tender in his chest he hadn’t felt in too long.

“You think I’m gonna kill you?” His voice came low, a rasp softened by the aftermath. He tilted his head just enough to catch her eyes, that crooked smile of hers still tugging at him like a tide.

He brushed his thumb over the hollow at the base of her spine, a touch more comfort than heat, and let a grin edge its way across his lips.
“Nah, Rae. I’m trying to keep you alive. Just… maybe a little ruined along the way.”

Her crooked smile deepened, and he kissed it—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss meant for keeping, not conquering.

When he pulled back, his gaze lingered on her face like he was memorizing it, too—the stray strands of hair clinging to her damp skin, the raw flush in her cheeks, the softness that had slipped in where defiance usually lived.

God, she was everything.

Kai’s hand slid up, fingers brushing her jaw, tipping her chin so he could hold her eyes with his. “You look at me like that,” he said, voice lower now, steadier, “and I don’t care if round two takes all night. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

No rush. No push. Just promise.

He leaned in again, pressing his lips to her temple this time, lingering in the scent of her skin, the faint trace of sweat and sweetness and Lennon that had branded itself into him years ago and never left.

“Break as long as you want,” he murmured into her hair, arms tightening around her. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. Always.”

And for once, he meant every word without the armor of charm or the edge of challenge.

Because sometimes the most dangerous thing wasn’t the fire.
It was this.

The way she made him want to stay in the quiet.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon hadn’t meant to wander. Not really.

But the door to Kai’s studio had been open — just enough — and the low hum of his world called to her. The scent of warm wood, old strings, and something faintly citrus still clung to the air like memory.

She stepped inside quietly.

It was smaller than she remembered. Or maybe just fuller — not with clutter, but with him. Every wall, every shelf, every surface told a story. Guitars leaned like old friends against the far wall, their necks worn smooth by time. Cables curled like vines across the floor. A keyboard sat under the window, dusted with sunlight and a few scattered pages of chord progressions in his messy scrawl.

And there — above the desk — the photos.

She moved closer before she could stop herself.

Old polaroids and glossy prints thumbtacked to corkboard. Some framed. Some curling at the edges. Her heart caught when she saw one of herself, laughing, hair windblown, caught mid-spin in a field that no longer existed. Right beside it — his brothers, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, faces flushed with victory after some battle-of-the-bands win.

A younger Kai stood in the center of one photo, backlit by stage lights, one hand gripping a mic like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth.

God, he’d built a life here. Brick by brick. Song by song.

She could see it in the way he kept everything — even the broken picks, the faded ticket stubs, the photos worn soft at the corners. He hadn’t erased her. But he hadn’t frozen time either.

He had grown — around the grief, around the distance, around the ache they both pretended didn’t still hum beneath the surface.

The door creaked behind her.

Lennon didn’t startle. She didn’t turn.

She just let him find her like that — barefoot in his space, standing still in the middle of his past and his present, surrounded by proof that she’d been here once, and maybe, just maybe, belonged again.

She reached up and gently straightened the photo of them when they were teenagers, her fingertips ghosting over his smile.

Then, finally, she whispered — not an apology. Not a question.

Just: “You kept it all.”

[Kai Mercer]

For a moment, Kai just leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

She didn’t move, didn’t turn—just stood there like she’d been pulled out of one of the photos herself. Barefoot. Sunlight catching in her hair. Fingers grazing the edges of a life he hadn’t let go of, no matter how many times he swore he should.

His chest tightened.

She whispered it like she already knew the answer. “You kept it all.”

He swallowed, the words lodging in his throat before they ever had a chance to make it out. He wanted to tell her no, that he hadn’t—that these weren’t keepsakes, just scraps he never got around to tossing. But that was a lie, and he couldn’t stomach lying to her anymore.

So instead, he crossed the room.

Slow. Careful. Like one wrong step might send her spinning out of reach again. His hand brushed hers as he reached up, pressing the photo she’d straightened flat against the corkboard with the pad of his thumb.

“I don’t really throw things away,” he said finally, voice low, rougher than he meant it to be. “Guess I didn’t know how to start with you.”

Her breath hitched—not loud, but enough for him to hear.

Kai let his hand fall from the photo and to her wrist, his touch deliberate, grounding. He didn’t tug. Didn’t hold her still. Just… rested there, like he needed the reminder she was flesh and blood and not another ghost he’d pinned up to a wall.

He leaned in slightly, his cheek almost brushing her temple, his eyes fixed on the same frozen moment she’d been looking at. Two kids, smiling like they didn’t know the world was about to ask too much of them.

“I kept it because it mattered,” he admitted, softer now. “Because you did.”

His thumb swept slowly across her wrist, a quiet motion, the kind of touch that didn’t demand anything back.

“And maybe,” he added with a crooked exhale, “because some part of me always thought… if you ever walked back in—” his gaze flicked to her then, storm-gray eyes meeting hers, steady, unflinching—“I’d want you to know you were never erased.”

He gave her the ghost of a smile—small, aching, a little self-deprecating—and finally let the silence settle again.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just… full.

Like a song waiting for its next chord.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t look away.

Not this time.

His words cracked something open in her chest — slow and clean, like the way a song finds its final note and lets it linger. She didn’t flinch when his eyes met hers. Didn’t pretend it hadn’t landed.

Because it had.

God, it had.

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t let the silence swallow her. Not when he’d just handed her something so honest. So unguarded.

So Kai.

Her fingers closed around his wrist, gently now — a mirror of the way he’d touched her. No pressure. No urgency. Just anchoring them both to the present.

“You weren’t erased,” she said, voice low but sure. “Not even close.”

She let the words hang there for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he wanted to believe it but didn’t quite know how. So she gave him more.

“If you were to look under my bed,” she added, her lips curling just slightly — not a smile, not really, but something softer — “you’d find a box.”

Kai blinked, gaze still locked on hers.

“A shoebox,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Full of notes. Ticket stubs. Polaroids. That dumb pin you gave me before my first solo show.”

Her hand slipped up to his chest, settling just over his heart. “I didn’t throw us away either. I just… didn’t know what to do with all of it.”

She glanced at the corkboard — at their younger selves frozen in time — then back at him, eyes shining with a truth she hadn’t said out loud until now.

“But I couldn’t let it go.”

Her forehead pressed gently to his.

“And I never stopped hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai felt it hit him like a chord he hadn’t played in years — the kind that vibrated in his bones and wouldn’t let go.

She had a box.

Not just memories. Not just scraps. A box. Proof that she’d held onto the same fragments he thought he alone was pathetic enough to keep.

His hand tightened just slightly against her wrist, not to hold her, but to steady himself. Because for all the ways he’d imagined her moving on, rewriting herself without him — she hadn’t erased him either.

“Jesus, Rae…” His voice cracked on her name, quiet but certain. He let out a low laugh, more disbelieving than amused, shaking his head against her temple. “You’re telling me all this time, you had a shrine too? And here I was thinking I was the sentimental idiot.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, his grin tugging in lopsided, boyish despite the weight in the room. But the way he looked at her wasn’t boyish at all. It was reverent. Grounded.

“You kept my pin?” he asked, tone warm, teasing, but his eyes softened with something heavier. “That thing was cheap as hell. Thought you would’ve tossed it the second you realized I’d bought it off a merch table in Nebraska.”

She gave him that look — the one that told him she saw through the joke, the deflection, straight into the thrum in his chest. And he didn’t try to hide it this time.

His hand slid up from her wrist to her jaw, thumb brushing along the edge like he was sketching her back into his memory in real time.

“I didn’t stop hoping either,” he said finally, voice low, stripped down, like it was just for her and the corkboard and every ghost of who they used to be. “Didn’t matter how much noise I made, how many shows, how many cities. Somewhere in me, it was always you.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead — slow, firm, lingering. Like punctuation. Like sealing a vow.

Then, softer, a spark weaving through the weight: “Guess that makes us both hoarders, huh? Only difference is, mine comes with a better lighting setup.”

His smile curved — warm, steady, a little wicked — as his lips hovered just above hers again. “But you? You’re the only part of the collection that ever mattered.”

And before the silence could claim the moment, he kissed her — deep, unhurried, the kind of kiss that told her he didn’t just want her here in his studio. He wanted her everywhere. Always.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t pull back. Didn’t breathe out.

Just let the kiss settle — like a truth, like a homecoming, like every unanswered question finally finding its echo somewhere between the lines of his mouth and the press of his hand against her jaw.

Her chest rose slow as she eased back, not far, just enough to find the shape of his breath again. Their foreheads touched, close and warm and steady. Her voice came quiet — scratchy at the edges like it had been waiting years to be let out.

“You weren’t the only one who kept hoping.”

Her fingers curled lightly into the hem of his shirt, the soft cotton familiar under her grip. She didn’t look away. Didn’t soften the words. Just let them land, like they were owed.

“I used to pull the box out on nights I swore I was over it. Just to remind myself what lying felt like.”

Her voice was steadier now, but something flickered behind her eyes — not regret exactly, but memory. All the long drives home, the empty rooms, the songs she couldn’t finish writing because they sounded too much like him.

She blinked once, slow. Then glanced past him — toward the corkboard, the soft light spilling across the edges of the room, catching on years of dust and almosts.

“And yeah,” she added, voice turning low, wry, aching, “your pin’s still in there. Along with a hotel receipt from Chicago… your old setlist from Dallas. The napkin where you first wrote my name like it already belonged to a lyric.”

She smiled — small, half-sad, half-real — as she looked back at him. “The ink bled a little. I kept it anyway.”

Her fingers moved, brushing gently along his collarbone before trailing up to rest at the side of his neck, thumb stroking lightly where his pulse beat steady beneath her skin.

“But I wasn’t holding onto trash, Kai. I was holding onto us. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to say that out loud anymore.”

Her words were quieter now. Closer.

“And I didn’t want to move on. I wanted to press pause until you came back.”

She searched his face like it was a map she still knew by heart. The faint scar at his temple. The crease between his brows that only showed up when he was trying not to say too much. The way his eyes hadn’t changed, even if everything else had.

“You did,” she whispered. “You came back.”

She lifted her hand higher, fingertips brushing across the line of his jaw — slow, reverent — not to pull him in, but just to feel the now of him. The still-here. The not-gone.

And then, without a trace of hesitation, she leaned in again and kissed him — slower this time. No urgency. No ache.

Just the quiet promise of something still unwritten.

Still unfolding.

Still theirs.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had been on stages in front of tens of thousands, lights blinding, noise deafening. But nothing — nothing — had ever leveled him like this.

Her words. Her touch. The simple, unflinching truth in her eyes.

He felt it all at once, like every photo on his corkboard had peeled itself off the wall and come to life again — every version of them pressing in, reminding him this was the only song he’d never stopped writing.

When her mouth found his again — slower, gentler, not hungry but home — Kai let it undo him. His hands slid to her waist, not to pull, not to claim, but to hold. Just hold. Because she’d just handed him the one thing he’d been afraid he’d lost for good: permission.

“God, Rae…” His voice was rough, a rasp low in his chest, and he barely recognized it as his own. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw like he couldn’t stop proving she was real. “You don’t know what that does to me — hearing you say you didn’t want to move on. That you were waiting.”

His mouth curved, soft and almost boyish, but steadier than he’d ever been. “I’ve been chasing every stage, every city, like it would fill the space you left. But the truth?” He leaned closer, breath mingling with hers. “I never left. Not really. Not where it mattered.”

The words hung there, raw but certain. He kissed her again, deeper this time — still slow, still reverent, but with a weight that said believe me, because I finally believe myself.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested to hers, and he let a smile ghost across his mouth — quiet, wry, but honest. “I don’t care about the pin. Or the setlist. Or even the napkin.” His hand moved, flattening against her spine, warm and grounding. “The only thing I care about is right here. You. This.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft, deliberate, almost teasing. “I came back, Lennon Rae. And I’m not leaving again. You’ve got me — all of me — for as long as you’ll keep me.”

His other hand rose, fingertips brushing her hair back behind her ear, lingering there like he was memorizing the shape of her face all over again. “So press play, Rae. Let’s write the rest.”

And with that, he kissed her once more — long, unhurried, sealing every word in the space where their breaths met, as if to prove the promise was already in motion.

[Lennon Rae]

She let the silence settle for a beat.

Not because she didn’t know what to say — but because for once, she didn’t feel the need to fill it. Not immediately. Not with reassurance, or humor, or even relief.

Her heart was still beating out of sync. Like it hadn’t caught up yet with what she’d just heard. With what he’d just said.

And maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe some part of her was still standing in that version of the past where he walked away and she learned how to pretend it didn’t wreck her. Where she boxed up pieces of him and labeled it moving on.

But this?

This wasn’t pretend.

Her eyes scanned his face — not with wonder or disbelief, but with the quiet steadiness of someone who’d lived through the middle part. Who knew how hard it was to reach this kind of honesty and still stay standing.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t smile, not right away.

Instead, she leaned forward, pressed her forehead lightly to his, and whispered, “Okay.”

Just that.

Because it was enough.

Because it meant: I heard you. I believe you. And I’m still here, too.

She let the quiet hold them for a second more, then pulled back — just a little — and brushed her thumb along his jaw. Her voice, when it came again, was soft. But certain.

“We’re not fixing the past,” she said. “We’re starting over. And this time… we’re not leaving blank spaces.”

Her lips quirked — just slightly. A real smile, tired and true. “You always did like a dramatic return.”

And then, without warning, she grabbed his hand.

“Come on,” she said, already heading for the door. “Let’s get out of this room before I start crying like an idiot and ruin the moment. I want something stupid. Slushies. Or mini golf. Or a parking lot dance break.”

She looked back once, grin crooked, eyes still a little glassy.

“We did the hard part, Kai. Let’s go live the fun part.”

And this time, she didn’t wait for him to follow.

Because she knew he would.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t ask if she was serious. Didn’t need to.

Because the second her fingers slipped through his and tugged, his body was already moving — like muscle memory, like instinct, like gravity. And God, wasn’t that the whole truth? He’d been orbiting her for years, even when he tried to pretend otherwise. Following her wasn’t new. It was inevitable.

Her “okay” still rang in his ears, simple and devastating and enough to undo him more than any grand speech ever could. He could’ve lived in that word forever. Could’ve built a whole album around it. But then she grinned, glassy-eyed and wild, and asked for slushies, and he knew — this was what starting over looked like.

Not stage lights. Not promises carved in stone. Just Lennon Rae dragging him out the door in her bare feet, daring him to keep up.

“Slushies,” he echoed, his voice low, rough with laughter as he caught her stride and fell into step beside her. “That’s what we’re calling the next chapter of our epic comeback? Guess I’ll have to make peace with neon blue tongue stains in every paparazzi shot.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, smirk sharp but eyes soft. He smirked back — dimples flashing, that mix of mischief and certainty threading through him like current.

“Mini golf after, though,” he added, squeezing her hand just enough to make her glance down at where their fingers were tangled. “I’m warning you now, Rae — I play dirty. And by dirty, I mean undefeated champion of the 2010 Houston Summer Fest Parking Lot Invitational.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips curved anyway.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he went on, grin widening as he leaned in closer, voice dipping so only she could hear. “You’re the one who asked for stupid. And baby…” His thumb stroked the back of her hand, deliberate, grounding. “…I’ve got a lifetime of stupid I’ve been saving just for you.”

The studio door clicked shut behind them, muffling the ghosts inside. The night stretched wide and waiting ahead, neon and messy and ordinary in all the ways that mattered most.

Kai let her lead — out the door, down the steps, into the kind of life he’d once been too blind to hold onto.

And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

[Lennon Rae]

The hoodie was too big — same as always — sleeves past her hands, hem halfway down her thighs. It still smelled like him, too. Warm detergent. That citrus-wood cologne he never actually admitted to wearing. Faint smoke, like the sweatshirt itself remembered every night he stayed up too late on the porch, humming into the dark.

Lennon tucked her knees in closer, bare legs brushing the blanket as she sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed. The boxers were his too. Of course they were. She hadn’t worn her own clothes in… she wasn’t even sure anymore.

There was a drip of water still trailing down her collarbone, her hair damp and curling, the air conditioning brushing against her skin as she tried — really tried — not to think too hard.

But the bed was made. The lamp was on. The drawer on the nightstand still stuck if you pulled it wrong. And her backpack? It hadn’t moved in twelve days.

She could hear him in the kitchen.

The quiet scrape of a pan. The faint clink of glass. A cupboard shutting with that specific creak near the end. And then the unmistakable sound of him muttering at the stove like it had personally offended him.

Normal. Mundane. The exact kind of soft rhythm that used to feel like a luxury she wasn’t allowed to want.

Her palm flattened against the comforter beside her, steadying.

He hadn’t asked her to leave. He’d asked her to stay. They’d said it out loud. Named it, even. This wasn’t a maybe. This wasn’t some almost-limbo they were pretending not to fall into.

Kai wanted forever. And for once in her life, so did she.

But still. Still.

Her fingers curled into the fabric. Not because she doubted him — not anymore — but because she could still feel the old panic trying to crawl its way back in. That voice that whispered it was only a matter of time. That she was too much. Too reckless. Too ready to ruin something good.

Because this — this stupid hoodie, this creaky bedframe, that boy in the other room cooking dinner like it wasn’t a big deal that she was here and still hadn’t left — this felt like everything.

And it terrified her.

Because she wasn’t used to love like this. Love that didn’t threaten to vanish. Love that made room. That looked at her with steady hands and said, “Stay as long as you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

She swallowed hard. Blinked once.

And then, without letting herself overthink it, she stood.

Because she wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore.
She was already barefoot.

Her feet padded soft against the hardwood as she crossed the room, hoodie shifting around her legs. Down the hall. Past the framed photos and the open closet and the shelf where her keys used to live.

The staircase creaked under her heel — a warning she didn’t care to hide. She turned the corner.

And there he was.

Back to her, standing at the stove, flipping something that smelled like garlic and butter and the kind of comfort she didn’t know she was allowed to crave. His hair was a little messy. He hadn’t shaved. And he was humming under his breath again, off-key in that way that made her smile before she could stop it.

Her feet barely made a sound against the wood, but he must’ve sensed her anyway — the way his shoulders shifted, the way his hands stilled just slightly over the pan like he felt her moving toward him before she even touched him.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

She just stepped up behind him, close enough that her chest met his back, and slipped her arms around his waist. Her hands flattened against his stomach, warm and certain, pulling him into her like she was anchoring them both.

Kai’s breath caught — not sharp, not surprised. Just full. Like something in him had been waiting for this exact kind of contact.

She pressed a slow, quiet kiss to the space between his shoulder blades, right where the soft cotton of his t-shirt clung damp with the heat of cooking. Her lips lingered. No teasing, no smirk — just her mouth against his spine like a prayer she hadn’t realized she was whispering.

He exhaled.

Soft. Steady. Like he’d been holding it for days.

One of her thumbs moved in a slow circle over his ribs, grounding herself in the shape of him. Real. Solid. Here.

Still saying nothing, she buried her face into the back of his shoulder, eyes closing for half a second as the smell of dinner wrapped around them both — garlic, basil, a little burnt toast, probably. It didn’t matter. He was cooking. She was home.

And for the first time in too long, she let herself believe it.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t have to turn around to know.

He could feel her — the weight of her cheek against his shoulder, the press of her arms cinched tight around his middle, the way her breath warmed through cotton and skin until it hit bone. Lennon Rae, wrapped around him like she was afraid the world might try to pry her off if she let go even a fraction.

And maybe that was what gutted him most.
That she still half-expected life to snatch this away.

He kept his hand steady on the pan anyway, even though his chest had gone tight in that dangerous, too-full way. He didn’t need to see her face to read her. He’d known her too long, lost her too hard, loved her too damn much not to know when her silence was louder than words.

So instead of asking what’s wrong, instead of spooking the moment, he let his free hand slip over hers where they clutched him. Laced his fingers lightly between her own. Warm, sure, no rush.

“You know something wild?” he murmured, low enough the garlic hiss nearly covered it. “I’ve stood in this kitchen a thousand times. Burned a hundred dinners. Muted a million sports highlights in the background. And not once did it feel like a home until you walked in barefoot and stole my hoodie.”

He squeezed her hand once, gentle, before setting the spatula down. His other hand slid to cover her wrist, thumb brushing idle circles against her skin — steady, like he wanted to sync her heartbeat to his until she stopped bracing for a fall that wasn’t coming.

“I don’t care if it’s twelve days or twelve years,” he said, voice rough but certain. “You’re not too much, Rae. You’re exactly it. Exactly what I’ve been waiting on. And if it freaks you out that it feels this good? Good. Let it. I’ll be right here while you figure out you don’t need to run.”

Then, finally, he turned in her arms.

Her face tipped up automatically, damp hair curling along her jaw, his hoodie swallowing her whole. God, she was devastating like this — all edges stripped away, all armor dropped, just Lennon Rae looking at him like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to stay.

Kai cupped her cheek, slow and easy, brushing his thumb beneath her eye. Then he leaned in and kissed her forehead — not playful, not hurried. Just warm, grounding, infinite.

“Dinner can burn,” he said softly against her skin, a crooked smile tugging after the words. “But you? You’re staying.”

And then, because she needed to hear it in a way only he could give, he kissed her again — lower this time, catching her mouth with the kind of patience that promised this is real, this is safe, this is ours.

The stove hissed on behind him. Her hands stayed tight at his waist.
And Kai thought, not for the first time, that this — garlic, hoodies, her heartbeat steadying under his palm — was the only forever that had ever made sense.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t pull away.

Not when his lips left hers. Not when the heat of the stove kissed the back of her legs. Not even when her throat went tight with everything she couldn’t say fast enough.

Instead, she stood there — arms still wound around him, hoodie sleeves slipping, bare toes curling against the tile — and let herself feel it.

All of it.

The way his hands knew exactly where to settle.
The way his voice slipped beneath her skin like it had never stopped living there.
The way he said stay like it wasn’t a question, like it had always been a truth just waiting to be spoken out loud.

Her breath caught, sharp and silent.

“I used to think,” she said finally, voice quiet against the shell of his collarbone, “that maybe I’d get parts of this. Little pieces. A night here. A memory there. Something to look back on when it all fell apart again.”

She swallowed. “But not like this. Not garlic on the stove and your hands on mine and you turning around like I’ve always been yours.”

Her fingers gripped him tighter.

“I never let myself imagine that I’d get to have this with you. Not after everything. Not when we burned like we did.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes rimmed pink, mouth parted like she was still catching up to her own heartbeat. “But I think I’m done pretending I don’t want the whole damn thing.”

Her voice cracked — not with weakness, but with awe.

“You say I’m staying,” she whispered, her thumb brushing beneath his jaw. “And for once, I believe you.”

A beat. Then softer:

“And maybe for the first time in my life…I want to stay, too.”

She rose up just slightly, kissed the corner of his mouth — not fiery, not tentative, but certain. A promise pressed into skin.

And when she settled against him again — breath slowing, fingers hooked in the hem of his t-shirt like she’d anchor there forever — her voice came one last time, small and real and clear as glass:

“Don’t let me go, Kai.”

Like she already knew he wouldn’t.

Like this time, she was choosing to believe it.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t try to outdo her words or lace them with a joke to keep things easy. He just stood there with her pressed against him — damp hair, oversized hoodie, bare feet curled against his tile — and let the weight of what she’d just given him settle.

Because it was a gift.
Maybe the biggest one she’d ever handed him.

He tilted his head just enough to press his lips against her temple, lingering there like he could breathe the doubt right out of her, like he could kiss every old fracture smooth again. His arms tightened around her waist, not crushing, but steady. Unmoving.

“Lennon Rae,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges but warm, “I couldn’t let you go if I tried.”

He eased back only enough to meet her eyes, his hand sliding up her spine until it rested between her shoulder blades. His thumb moved in slow circles there, grounding, sure. “And believe me, I tried. I tried to move on. To play it cool. To pretend like I didn’t see you in every damn song I wrote. But I never stopped wanting all of it. The loud nights, the quiet mornings. The sugar, the salt. Even the burn.”

His smile tugged crooked, soft but certain. “Especially the burn. Because that’s us. And I don’t want half of it. Not pieces. Not scraps. I want the whole thing.”

He kissed her then — slow, reverent, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, didn’t rush. It just was. A kiss that promised permanence without needing to say the word.

When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to hers, his voice low and sure. “You don’t have to imagine it anymore. You’re here. You’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.”

Then, with that familiar Mercer grin sliding through — not to undercut, but to remind her of the joy in it — he brushed his nose against hers and added, “Now… either let me finish this garlic before it burns, or you’re taking over dinner. And fair warning, Rae — if you think I’m letting you eat takeout again tonight, you’ve got another thing coming.”

His tone was playful, but his arms didn’t ease their hold. He wasn’t moving. Not until she believed, all the way through, that he meant it.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t trust her voice. Didn’t trust the weight of the air between them not to crush her if she tried to shape it into sound.

Because God, it was so much.

He was so much.

And this — this was more than she’d ever let herself picture. Not a fantasy. Not a daydream she could run from. But real. Solid. Here.

Her fingers clenched a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him in — just to feel it again. To feel him. Warm, steady, still holding her like she was the anchor. Like she was the one who’d made his world stop spinning.

And maybe she had. Maybe this time she had.

She blinked slowly, letting her forehead rest against his. Letting her breath catch up with itself as his words settled around her, low and steady, no place for doubt to hide in them.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this with you,” she whispered finally, almost like a confession. “Not like this. Not when we were kids trying to pretend we knew how to love without breaking each other. Not when I watched you get married and thought… okay, that’s it. That’s the last time I get to be yours.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t let the tears win. Not tonight. She wanted to feel this. All of this.

“You waited,” she said softly, like it was just hitting her. Like the truth of it had finally landed where it could stay. “And I came back. And we’re here. And I think that’s the craziest part. That this… garlic-burning, hoodie-stealing, wine-on-the-counter version of us? It’s the best one. And we had to live a thousand different lives to get to it.”

Her voice broke a little then — but it didn’t sound like fear.

It sounded like peace.

She leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth — not deep, not urgent, just grateful — and then took a step back, still holding his hand.

“Okay, Mercer. Finish the garlic,” she said, brushing the pad of her thumb over his knuckles. “I’ll set the table.”

And with that, she moved — barefoot across the tile, hoodie swishing just above her thighs, hair still damp from the shower. She pulled down plates from his cabinet without asking where they were, grabbed two mismatched glasses from the shelf she’d helped reorganize three nights ago.

She poured the wine like she’d done it a hundred times, even though this was only the third. Laughed quietly when she had to rinse dust out of one of the glasses first.

And when she looked back at him — skillet in hand, still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked — she smiled.

Not the old Lennon. Not the one who ran, or burned, or begged the stars for do-overs.

This was the new one. The one who stayed.

“Let’s eat,” she said, voice light but full of something deeper. “Before we end up calling for takeout again and destroy your entire credibility.”

Then she slid into one of the chairs, legs tucked up under her, fingers curled around her glass — and waited for him to join her. Not because she needed proof.

But because she already knew.

He was home. And so was she.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai plated the food like it mattered.

Not like it was a test, not like he was trying to impress her with some five-star trick — but like every scoop, every turn of the wrist, was proof. A kind of ritual. The garlic had nearly gone too far (he’d never admit how close), but the butter and basil balanced it, steam curling up like something holy. He dished out the pasta, set the skillet down, and turned just in time to catch her sliding into the chair like she belonged there.

Bare legs tucked up under the hem of his hoodie. Fingers curled around her wine glass. Hair damp, cheeks still flushed from earlier. She didn’t even know how devastating she looked — how domestic, how undone, how herself. And God, it wrecked him.

Because Lennon Rae wasn’t a guest in his kitchen anymore. She wasn’t a ghost from the past he’d boxed up with ticket stubs and old lyrics. She was here. Sitting across from him at his table like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Like she planned to do it again tomorrow. And the day after that.

He set her plate in front of her first. Then his own. Then sat down across from her, elbows leaning casual on the table even though his heart was doing double-time against his ribs.

For a second, he just looked at her.

Then, with that Mercer grin that came out when things got too big and too real, he lifted his glass.

“To garlic that almost burned, wine that definitely isn’t vintage, and the fact that you’re still sitting here anyway.” His tone was light, but his eyes weren’t. His eyes said the rest. The important part. To us.

He clinked his glass gently against hers, then twirled his fork and nodded toward her plate. “Go on. Before I lose all credibility and you make me order pizza.”

And when she took that first bite, when her eyes softened like she was tasting more than just dinner — he leaned back in his chair, glass cradled in his hand, and let the warmth of it settle in his chest.

This wasn’t a stage. It wasn’t a stunt.

It was just him, just her, just now.

And for once, Kai Mercer didn’t feel like he had to say anything to make her stay.

She already had.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t, really.

Not when the steam was curling up between them like a promise. Not when her plate hit the table first like it was instinct — like he didn’t have to think twice about taking care of her. Not when he looked at her like this was everything. The garlic. The wine. The hoodie. The way her legs were curled up like she was staying.

Because she was.

And that was still breaking her a little, in the softest, sharpest way.

She let her eyes meet his across the table, her fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass, warmth pressed into her palms and her chest and somewhere even deeper than that. Somewhere that used to ache every time she pictured this and had to swallow the knowing that it wasn’t hers.

But now?

Now he was sitting across from her, dishing pasta with basil and butter and care. Watching her like she was the song. Like she was the memory he got to keep this time.

She let the toast land — let the warmth of it slide under her skin — then clinked her glass back against his, eyes catching on the glint of the overhead light in his.

“To the burn,” she said softly, echoing him from earlier. Her voice didn’t break, but it came close. “To the thousand wrong turns that still got us here. To this.”

Then she took a sip, set her glass down, and picked up her fork.

And when she took that first bite — garlic and butter and whatever else he’d done to make it taste like safety — she couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. Not big. Not loud. But real.

“Okay,” she said, chewing slowly, dragging it out just enough to make him lean in like he was bracing for a punchline. “I’ll give you this one. It’s good.”

She stabbed another bite, nudged her foot against his under the table.

“But just so we’re clear… if you ever come near the edge of burning garlic again, I will revoke all culinary privileges and you’ll be relegated to toast duty for a month.”

Her tone was light — but her eyes weren’t. Her eyes stayed steady on his, warm and quiet and home.

Because this wasn’t pretend. Wasn’t a glimpse.

This was them — real, grown, choosing each other on a Tuesday night in a house with bad lighting and good wine.

And Lennon Rae had never tasted anything sweeter.

She ate in slow bites after that.

Not because the food wasn’t good — it was, obnoxiously so — but because she was trying to make it last. The moment. The quiet. The way the chair felt under her thigh, the hoodie sleeves pushed past her wrists, the curl of her toes against the rung of the stool. This wasn’t some dream she’d wake up from. It was real. Tuesday. Dinner. Them.

And maybe it was the wine. Or the way he kept glancing at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there. But something in her eased. The knot at the base of her ribs loosened. Her shoulders dropped an inch. She let her body lean toward comfort — the kind that wasn’t just physical but stitched into the way he’d set the table without asking, how he hadn’t flinched when she’d wrapped herself around him earlier, wet hair and all.

She carried her plate to the sink when they finished, rinsing it like she’d done it a hundred times before. Like this kitchen was hers too. Like she already knew where the dish towel hung, because she did. She wiped her hands dry, turned, and found him still sitting there — glass in one hand, content in the other.

The sight of him like that — relaxed and golden under the kitchen light — made her want to bottle it. Or paint it. Or maybe just stay.

She walked back over slowly, hips swaying a little from comfort not performance, and pressed her hand gently to the center of his chest as she passed. Just a pause, just a touch. Then she dropped onto the couch, legs folded under her, hair damp and frizzing at the ends against the cushion.

“You know what I want?” she said aloud, mostly to the room, maybe to herself. “Something stupid. Familiar. Like a movie we’ve both seen too many times.”

Her voice was lazy now, sleepy with safety. She didn’t look over to check his reaction — she didn’t have to. She already knew he’d follow. That he’d settle in next to her, maybe let his knee bump hers, maybe not move away.

She grabbed the remote, thumb hovering. “No war dramas. No heavy plots. Nothing that’ll make me cry in your hoodie.”

She smirked a little to herself. Tossed a look over her shoulder.

“Something easy. Something where they end up together.”

She didn’t need a fairytale.

But tonight — this — felt close.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai leaned back in his chair, glass of wine still in hand, and let himself just…watch her.

Not the polished version the world thought they knew. Not the girl under stage lights, all armor and angles. This Lennon Rae was hoodie-drowned, damp-haired, barefoot on his couch like it was hers. And hell if it didn’t make his chest feel like it was about to crack open.

He could read her even when she didn’t try to hide. The way her shoulders had finally dropped, the way she moved in his kitchen like she’d always known where the plates lived, the way she’d said something easy, something where they end up together with that lazy little smirk—he could see it all. The fear still tucked at the edges, sure, but also the part of her that was finally letting herself want this.

Want him.

So he didn’t tease, not this time. Didn’t ruin the softness with a quip about her picky movie rules. Instead, he pushed himself up from the table, crossed the kitchen in easy strides, and dropped onto the couch beside her without asking. His knee brushed hers, deliberate, and when she didn’t move away, he let his arm fall across the back of the cushions, close enough that the scent of her shampoo rose up when she leaned.

“Something easy,” he echoed, voice low, warm, like he was filing the request under done. He tipped his glass toward her, lips quirking just enough to let the charm bleed through without drowning the moment. “Guess that makes us a rom-com then, Rae. Two idiots who took the long way back just to end up on this couch anyway.”

She gave him that look—the one that said he was ridiculous, but also maybe right—and he let it land, let it hang there between them. Then, softer, truer, he added:

“And for the record? This is my favorite version of you. Hoodie, damp hair, outlawing war dramas. This one.” His eyes stayed steady on hers, no smirk now. Just him. “The one who doesn’t run.”

He reached over, plucked the remote gently from her hand, and scrolled until some half-forgotten classic flickered across the screen—something light, something safe, something that ended the way she’d asked.

Then he set the remote down, stretched out, and tugged her effortlessly against him until her head found his chest and his hoodie swallowed her whole. His hand rubbed idle circles into her hip, grounding her in the kind of touch that wasn’t a demand—just a reminder. Here. With me. Stay.

“Let’s watch,” he murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head before settling back, voice dropping lower, smoother. “We’ll end up together anyway. Might as well get the spoiler out early.”

And then he just held her. Warmth, wine, the hum of the TV filling the silence while the steadiness of his heart did the rest.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t say anything at first.

Not because she didn’t have a thousand things running through her — she did. The kind that tumbled through her chest and caught behind her ribs, the kind she used to scribble in notebooks or sing into empty green rooms or shove down deep enough that even Kai Mercer couldn’t get to them.

But now?
Now she just let it be quiet.

Because she was wrapped in his hoodie and his arms and his stupid, steady warmth, and there was something reverent about the way he held her. Not possessive. Not performative. Just sure. Like he knew, bone-deep, that she was meant to be there.

And maybe for the first time, she believed it too.

She let her fingers play absently with the hem of his t-shirt, brushing the warm skin underneath. She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek, the steady drum of his heartbeat syncing with hers. God, how many times had she imagined this? Not the shows, not the crowds — but this. The ordinary magic of movie night and garlic and no one needing to leave.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “I used to think wanting this made me weak.”

She felt his breath catch — just slightly.

“I thought… if I slowed down, if I stopped running, everything would catch up to me. Every headline, every mistake. You.” Her thumb traced an idle path over his ribs. “But the truth is, I wasn’t scared of losing myself.”

She tilted her head up just enough to look at him — not performing, not hiding, just her. “I was scared I’d get it. All of it. The thing I wanted most and didn’t think I deserved.”

The way he looked at her right then — steady, unshaken, like she was the thing he’d been chasing — made her throat tighten.

“So yeah,” she whispered, tucking herself back into his chest. “Let’s get the spoiler out early. We end up together. Because I’m done rewriting this ending.”

And then she reached for his hand and laced their fingers without hesitation. No rush, no rescue, just them.

Here.
Now.
Finally.

She didn’t need to look at him again to know what was in his eyes.

She knew that look. Knew how it wrapped around her like a second skin, how it burned a little going down — not because it hurt, but because it was real. Because it meant something. Because it saw her. Not the version she sold. Not the girl they all thought had it figured out. Just her.

And somehow, even now, that still undid her a little.

Lennon let their joined hands rest on her stomach, his thumb brushing rhythmically across her knuckles. Her body had fully relaxed into his — like it had been waiting for this exact gravity. Waiting for the quiet after. After the running. After the push and pull. After the doubt.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice half-wrapped in sleep and the other half in something older, something truer, “we were never going to get this when we were kids.”

She felt him shift, the smallest inhale — not disagreement, just recognition.

“I mean—” a breath of a laugh left her, soft and self-aware, “we tried. God, we really did. But it was always fireworks and fallout. And back then, I thought that was love. Thought it had to hurt to matter.”

She turned her face into his chest a little more, inhaling the scent of him — warm cotton, salt, something citrus-soft. Home.

“But this?” she whispered. “This is the part I didn’t believe we’d ever get to. Where nothing’s on fire. Where you’re not walking away. Where I’m not… running first.”

A beat. Then:

“I don’t want to miss this because I’m still flinching at shadows.”

The TV flickered in front of them, painting the walls with gentle color, but she didn’t look. Didn’t move. Just stayed wrapped around the kind of stillness that felt earned.

And quieter, so quiet it almost wasn’t meant to be heard:

“Please don’t let me mess this up.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a test.

It was a prayer. One she’d never said out loud before.

But if she was going to believe in anything again — in them, in this version of love that didn’t come with bloodshed — it was going to start here. In his arms. In his hoodie. With garlic on her breath and her whole heart on the line.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai tightened his arm around her without even thinking, like his body knew before his mind did what she needed.

The words landed heavy — not because they scared him, but because they were hers. Because she’d finally handed him the rawest, most unguarded piece of herself, and all he wanted was to catch it. Hold it. Never let it hit the ground.

He let the silence breathe for a moment, not rushing in with reassurance she wasn’t ready to hear. Just letting his thumb keep tracing that slow rhythm across her knuckles, steady, grounding. Letting her feel the truth in his touch before he even shaped it into sound.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Certain. “You’re not messing this up, Rae. Not this time. Not when we’ve already lived through every wrong version and still ended up here.”

His hand shifted from hers just long enough to brush damp curls back from her cheek, fingers lingering there, gentle. “You think I don’t know what scared feels like? You think I haven’t replayed every time I walked away, every time I let you believe I couldn’t choose you? I know those shadows too. I just don’t live in them anymore. Not when I’ve got this right in front of me.”

He pressed his lips to her temple, slow, deliberate. Stayed there a beat longer than he had to. “I don’t need fireworks. I don’t need chaos. I don’t need the version of us that made good songs and bad nights. I need this. Garlic and wine and you in my hoodie, stealing the blanket and making me watch bad movies.”

Kai leaned back just enough to look at her, to make sure she saw it — not charm, not performance, just the weight of everything he meant. “I waited because I knew we weren’t finished. And if you think I’d let fear or shadows or old versions of us screw that up now?” His mouth curved, soft but steady. “Not a chance. You’re mine. And I’m yours. That’s the story now.”

He laced their fingers again, firmer this time, anchoring both their hands against her stomach like he was staking his claim not with possession, but with permanence. Then he kissed her knuckles, slow and reverent, like a seal.

“Sleep if you want,” he murmured against her skin, eyes still locked on hers. “Or stay awake and make fun of my movie taste. Doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

And then he tucked her closer, hoodie and all, letting the movie flicker across the room while his hand kept that same rhythm over hers — a steady beat that said, without words: You can stop running. I’ve got you.

[Lennon Rae]

Her breath hitched — not loud, not dramatic — just enough to crack something open inside her.

Because she did believe him. Not in the fairytale way. Not in the way she used to believe in songs and second chances and boys who promised forever with crossed fingers. This was different. Realer. He wasn’t reaching for the perfect lyric — he was just here. Warm and solid and unshaken, even as she unraveled in his arms.

And God, she wanted to be held like that. Not just physically. But like her mess didn’t scare him. Like he’d already seen the worst and chosen her anyway.

She didn’t say anything at first. Couldn’t. Just let her fingers tighten in his like she was afraid he’d slip through if she didn’t hang on tight enough. Her forehead rested against the line of his jaw, and for a long stretch of seconds, she just breathed. Counted the beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Let it settle something wild in her ribs.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I think I always knew we’d circle back.”

Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand. “Didn’t know it’d feel like this, though. Like… like I could actually stay.”

She shifted just enough to look up at him, eyes still shining, lashes damp from all the words she hadn’t said. “You know I was scared, right? That this would fall apart the second I stopped running? That I’d finally have you and somehow still lose everything?”

She smiled, small and real and devastatingly soft. “But I’m here. Hoodie and all.”

Then, with a flicker of that familiar Rae defiance, she leaned up, kissed the corner of his mouth — slow, sweet, and certain. “So you better be serious about the bad movies, Mercer. Because I’ve got a whole list.”

She settled back against his chest, limbs tangled with his, the flicker of the screen casting quiet light across both their faces. And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she had to protect herself. Didn’t feel like she had to be anything other than exactly what she was: scared, messy, wildly in love — and safe.

“I’m yours too,” she whispered finally, eyes slipping closed. “For real this time.”

And she meant it. Every word. Every second.

Because this? This was theirs. At last.

Lennon stayed there for another breath, maybe two, her body curled into his like a song she’d finally stopped trying to rewrite. His heartbeat was steady under her cheek, and his hoodie still smelled like the dryer sheet he always overused — warm, nostalgic, stupidly comforting.

But then the screen flickered.

A trumpet blared.

And she blinked.

Slowly, suspiciously, she lifted her head just enough to catch the opening credits rolling across the screen — bright serif font, jazz in full swing, a montage of old New York skylines in pastel tones. Her brow furrowed. She tilted her face toward his, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh.

“Wait.” A beat. “Did you seriously put on Guys and Dolls?”

Her voice wasn’t accusing — not really — more…utterly baffled. Equal parts disbelief and amusement. She sat up slightly now, bracing herself with one hand on his chest, eyes narrowing like she couldn’t decide if he was messing with her or just had deeply questionable taste.

“You, Kai Mercer, willingly chose a technicolor musical? With synchronized sewer-dancing gangsters and Brando pretending to sing?” She poked a finger gently into his ribs. “Is this penance for something? Did I miss a bet? Are we being haunted by a Broadway ghost?”

And then she laughed — really laughed — the kind that made her eyes crinkle and her whole body shake for a second. She sank back against him with a groan, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Oh my God, you’re serious,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “You actually like this movie. I am in physical pain.”

But her arm curled tighter around his middle, and when she looked up again, her smile was softer. Teasing, yes — but laced with affection so full it nearly glowed.

“Okay. Fine. You get a pass. But only if you sing along to ‘Luck Be a Lady.’ And I will be judging your falsetto.”

She nestled in again, letting the film play, letting the weird joy of it wrap around them both.

And under her breath, so quiet he almost missed it:

“This is ridiculous.”
A pause.
“I love it.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai bit back a grin, the kind that tugged dimples deep and gave him away no matter how hard he tried.

Of course she’d catch it. Of course she’d call him out. That was Lennon Rae—sharp as a tack, funny as hell, and just reckless enough to make him feel like home wasn’t a place but a person pressed against his side in a hoodie two sizes too big.

He slid a hand over hers where it rested on his chest, thumb brushing lazy circles against her knuckles. “First of all,” he said, his voice dropping into that mock-serious tone he used when he wanted to disarm her, “Guys and Dolls is a classic. Sinatra, Brando, the whole neon gangster thing—it’s cinematic history, Rae.”

Her finger poked him in the ribs again and he winced, laughing, letting the sound roll low in his chest where her ear rested. He tilted his head just enough to kiss the crown of her damp hair, breathing her in between sentences. “Second of all, yes. I am one hundred percent serious. And third?” His mouth curved closer to her ear, warm and teasing. “You’re mine, you’re staying, and that means you’re stuck watching musicals with me. Forever.”

He leaned back to catch her expression, catching the way her eyes narrowed like she might throw her wine glass just to make a point. God, she was beautiful—messy hair, bare legs, cinnamon still clinging faintly to her skin. More beautiful than any memory he’d ever pinned to a corkboard.

“So yeah,” he added, softer now, his voice brushing steady against the noise of trumpets and pastel skylines, “I’ll sing ‘Luck Be a Lady.’ I’ll even dance, if you’re lucky. Because this—” his hand lifted, gently brushing the edge of her jaw, steady and reverent, “—this is the stupid, ridiculous life I want with you. Garlic, musicals, churros, all of it. I’m not letting go.”

He kissed her again then, slow and deliberate, before settling back into the couch with her curled against him.

And when Sinatra’s voice filled the room, Kai did exactly what she dared him to do—sang quietly under his breath, just for her, low and slightly off-key but unshaken. Because if forever meant being ridiculous with Lennon Rae, he’d sign up twice.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t even try to hide the smile this time.

Didn’t try to act unimpressed or toss out a sarcastic quip — not when his voice was in her ear, not when his hand was on her jaw like she was something sacred. Not when he kissed her like that, like he was sure, and slow, and so goddamn here.

Lennon Rae just let herself feel it.

The kiss.
The couch.
The movie she’d made fun of two seconds ago but secretly loved.
The boy she never got to keep — now the man who wouldn’t let go.

She didn’t say anything when he started singing, either. Just closed her eyes for a second, tucked against him, heart doing something traitorous in her chest because of course he knew all the lyrics. Of course he was a little flat on the high notes. Of course he was serious.

And she was gone for him. Totally, completely, no-way-back gone.

Her fingers found his under the blanket, lacing through without thinking, holding tight like she needed something to anchor her to this version of reality — the one where they were actually doing this. Not breaking. Not pretending. Not running.

Just her. Just him.
Just a ridiculous old movie and a future they’d named in a kitchen full of garlic and wine.

“You know this means I’m choosing next time,” she whispered eventually, voice lazy with sleep and smirking all the same. “And I swear to God, if you mock Mamma Mia, I will walk into the sea.”

She didn’t wait for him to promise. Just leaned in, kissed the underside of his jaw, and settled back down against his chest.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai couldn’t help it—he laughed. That full-bodied, head-tipped-back kind of laugh that made his chest shake beneath her cheek and gave away exactly how hard he was gone for her too.

“Mamma Mia?” he echoed, looking down at her with mock horror, his thumb still stroking over the back of her hand under the blanket. “Rae, you’re seriously threatening me with ABBA right now? Do you even know what you’ve just unleashed? Because I will commit. I’ll know every harmony, every Pierce Brosnan warble, every dance break. You’re not ready for the chaos.”

Her smirk tilted up against his skin, and God, he’d live on that expression forever if he could. He tightened his arm around her, playful but anchoring, pulling her in like the couch wasn’t big enough to hold them both.

“Honestly?” he went on, grin crooked, voice dropping into that warm, teasing register he knew got her. “You think I’m mocking? I’m about to out-sing you on ‘Voulez-Vous.’ Full falsetto. Shimmies included. Then what?”

She snorted into his shirt, muttering something about him being insufferable, but he caught the way her fingers curled tighter into his, like she didn’t actually want to move even a fraction of an inch away.

“Face it, Rae,” he said, brushing a kiss across her temple before leaning back to catch her eyes, playful but steady underneath. “We’re officially that couple. You know, the obnoxious one who sings showtunes on the couch and scares the neighbors.”

He kissed her again then, quick and soft, but the kind that lingered after it ended. The kind that promised more of this—of garlic and musicals and mornings where she’d still be in his hoodie.

When he pulled back, his grin was easy, boyish, completely undone by her. “So yeah. Queue up your Mamma Mia. Because if I’m stuck with you—and spoiler, I want to be—I’m stuck with ABBA too. Forever.”

Then, quieter, with that signature Mercer spark in his eye:

“And Rae? I like the sound of that.”

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t respond right away.

Mostly because she was busy burying her face in his chest to muffle the laugh that broke out the second he said “full falsetto.” Because of course he would. Of course Kai Mercer would threaten her with jazz hands and a Brando impression one minute and then turn around and promise forever like it was just as casual. Just as easy.

God, he made it feel easy.

She tilted her head back enough to look up at him, eyebrows raised, mouth curved in that barely-contained smirk she got when she was pretending not to be completely, stupidly in love with him.

“You’re unwell,” she said, voice soft but teasing, her thumb brushing lightly over his collarbone. “Truly. Mentally unwell. You just admitted to liking Pierce Brosnan’s singing voice, and I don’t know how I come back from that.”

But her eyes didn’t leave his. Not when his fingers kept tracing hers like muscle memory. Not when he kissed her temple like it was second nature. Not when he said “I’m stuck with you” like it was something he’d picked, not something that just happened.

Her heart thudded harder in her chest, the kind of rhythm she used to write songs about—fast, terrifying, beautiful.

And still, she didn’t run.

She leaned in, pressed her lips to his jaw, right beneath the stubble she liked too much, and said it so quietly it barely counted as teasing anymore:

“Well, Mercer…” Her smile softened, more awe than sarcasm now. “You better learn the choreography to ‘Lay All Your Love on Me,’ because if this is forever…”
She paused, thumb grazing the hollow of his throat.

“I’m not running either.”

Then she kissed him — slow and sure, laughter still caught in her breath — and curled closer with the kind of ease you only have when you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.
On this couch.
Watching Guys and Dolls and planning ABBA-themed threats like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

Honestly, she thought she was winning — curled against him, warm from wine and kisses and the sheer ridiculousness of imagining him performing a full dance break in the living room. She was still smiling when she tucked herself tighter beneath his arm, fingers laced with his under the blanket, and let her cheek settle back against his chest.

He felt like safety.

And his heart — steady, rhythmic, that quiet percussion beneath her ear — was the last thing she remembered before the movie drifted into background noise and her lashes fluttered closed without permission.

It wasn’t dramatic. No dreamy sigh or whispered promise. Just the kind of sleep that only happened when she felt completely, utterly safe.

Her breathing evened out. Her body softened into his. And her fingers, once curled so tightly into his hoodie, went loose and trusting over his ribs.

The television flickered on — Brando’s voice still crooning in the distance — but she didn’t stir. Not even when he shifted just slightly to pull the blanket higher over her bare legs. Not when he pressed the softest kiss to the top of her head. Not when he whispered her name — not to wake her, but just to say it aloud, like a prayer he’d finally been allowed to keep.

Lennon Rae was asleep.

In his hoodie.

On his chest.

In his house.

And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel like she was crashing somewhere.

She felt like she was home.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not when her breath had settled against his chest, soft and steady, each exhale syncing with the rhythm of his heart like she’d found her place there and finally—finally—let herself rest. He tightened his arm just slightly around her, careful not to wake her, and let his fingers brush lazily through the damp curls at her temple.

God, she was out. And God, she was beautiful like this. No fight. No walls. Just Lennon Rae in his hoodie, asleep against him as if she trusted him to keep the whole world away while she dreamed.

He swallowed, the lump in his throat stubborn.

Because it hit him—hard, deeper than any lyric ever had—that this wasn’t temporary. Not to him. Not anymore. He’d had her in green rooms and hotel hallways, in songs and stolen minutes. But this? Her sleeping on his chest with a churro still sitting half-crushed on the counter and Brando warbling from the TV? This was the forever he wanted. The forever he was building.

He bent his head and pressed another kiss into her hair, slower this time, lingering just enough to breathe her in. “Home,” he whispered into the curls, the word almost catching before it landed. “That’s what you are, Rae.”

The movie droned on, lights from the screen throwing stripes of color across the living room, but he barely noticed. All he saw was her—the way her fingers still rested loosely against his ribs like she’d finally unclenched, the way her mouth curved the faintest bit even in sleep, like she’d carried her smile into her dreams.

His free hand tightened around hers beneath the blanket, thumb brushing over her knuckles on instinct. He let himself picture it, just for a moment: every night like this. Every morning with her hair a mess and her voice grumbling about coffee. Every argument softened by laughter, every silence filled by this kind of ease.

He smiled—soft, crooked, stupidly gone.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and murmured against her hair, voice low and sure:

“Forever’s got nothing on us.”

She didn’t stir. Didn’t open her eyes.

But her body curled instinctively closer, like she’d heard him anyway.

And Kai Mercer? He held her tighter, let his head tip back against the couch, and thought—for the first time in a long, long time—that he didn’t need the stage, or the spotlight, or even the perfect song.

He had her.

And that was enough.

[Lennon Rae]

They’d been in a good rhythm lately.

Most days started with music in the kitchen — Kai barefoot, messing with old vinyls or stirring eggs with a pencil tucked behind his ear. His brothers had been around more too, dropping in with guitars and inside jokes, staying late to write or argue about bridges that didn’t need rewriting.

It had been noisy. Full. The kind of busy that didn’t drain her.

She liked watching them together. Liked seeing how easily Kai fell into step with them again — that rare blend of playful and focused, laughing one minute and completely tunnel-visioned the next. She’d curl up on the couch sometimes, pretending to scroll while secretly listening to the way their voices layered over chords and old memories.

It felt like real life.
Not borrowed. Not temporary. Just… steady.

Today, she’d offered to help clean up. A pile of laundry had gathered in the corner of the bedroom — mostly his, a few of hers, all of it familiar. She’d tossed on one of his old sweatshirts, rolled her sleeves, and got to work while the shower ran in the next room.

She wasn’t snooping.

Not really.

She was just moving through the drawers like she always did, folding things that had lost their shape, smoothing out wrinkled tees, tucking away a pair of socks with mismatched logos. Her hands worked on autopilot.

Until the last drawer.

Bottom right. The one that used to stick.

It slid open easily now.

Empty.

Not cluttered. Not messy. Just… clean.

She stared at it.

No receipts. No cables. No random guitar picks or wristbands. Just space.

Space where something could go.

She held the rolled sweatshirt in her hand a second longer, then lowered it, heart skipping a beat she hadn’t planned on. It wasn’t a big thing. It didn’t mean anything.

But still.

She glanced toward the bathroom door. Steam curled along the frame. His voice was faint now, humming some half-finished verse he’d been workshopping all week — the one his brothers had given him hell for not recording yet.

It made her smile.

She turned back to the drawer and gently touched the edge. Her fingers didn’t shake, but her chest felt warm and tight, like something unnamed had just settled behind her ribs.

When the water shut off, she called out without thinking — casual, light.

“Hey… this drawer,” she said, tapping it once with the side of her hand. “Was it always empty?”

No pressure. Just curiosity.

The bathroom door creaked open a second later.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai stepped out, towel low on his hips, hair dripping, steam following him like he’d dragged the shower out into the room. He was still humming, still in that half-dazed, post-songwriting rhythm he got when the melody stuck in his head — until her voice cut through.

“This drawer.”

His eyes flicked toward where she stood, oversized sweatshirt swallowed around her frame, hand resting on the open wood.

For a second, he froze.

Not because she’d found anything — but because she hadn’t.

The bottom drawer. The one that used to catch. The one he’d spent too many late nights filling with scraps he couldn’t let go of. Ticket stubs. Set lists. Photos he didn’t look at but couldn’t throw away. A shoebox full of her handwriting, her songs, pieces of them he’d convinced himself were safer out of sight.

He’d cleared it two weeks ago. Not because he stopped caring — because he finally understood he didn’t need a drawer to prove she wasn’t gone.

And because maybe, just maybe, he wanted space for something better.

Something now.

Something hers.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, towel still dripping onto the hardwood, and let the corner of his mouth tip into that slow, easy smirk she always caught him with when he was trying to play cool but meant it too much.

“Wasn’t always empty,” he admitted, voice low, casual in the way that made her eyes narrow because she could always hear the weight beneath it. “But it is now.”

He let the silence hang just long enough to see her lips part, her hand still resting at the edge like she was afraid to move it.

Then he pushed off the frame, crossed the room barefoot, and stopped just close enough that the damp heat off his skin brushed against her sleeve. He looked down at the drawer, then back at her, and reached out — not to close it, but to slide his fingers over hers where they rested on the wood.

“Figured it was time to make space,” he said softly, thumb brushing over her knuckle. “Didn’t want to keep holding onto the past in a box when…” His eyes found hers, steady, warm, completely unshaken. “When I’ve got the real thing standing in front of me.”

Her breath hitched, and he grinned — softer this time, not cocky, not flippant. Just Kai.

“Drawer’s yours if you want it, Rae. Hoodies. Notebooks. Random churro crumbs. Whatever makes it feel like you.”

Then, quieter, tilting his forehead to hers:

“Guess I’m just hoping you’ll fill it.”

He kissed her temple, damp hair dripping onto her cheek, and didn’t move away. Didn’t soften the truth of it.

Because yeah, it was just a drawer.

But to him, it was proof.

He wasn’t keeping space for the ghost of her anymore.

He was making space for her to stay.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t answer right away.

Her fingers brushed over the edge of the drawer again, slower this time, like she was trying to feel the weight of everything he’d just said without tipping it over. It wasn’t like her to get quiet, not when things mattered. But for a second, she needed it — needed the hush of it. The honesty.

The drawer was empty.

But the moment wasn’t.

She finally looked up at him, her gaze catching on the smirk he wore like armor. That soft, crooked thing he always used when the truth got too close. And God, it was all over him now. Bare skin, bare words, towel barely staying on — and somehow, still, it was the openness that undid her most.

Her voice came out low. Steady, but quieter than usual. “You cleared it out for me?”

There wasn’t shock in the question. Just… reverence. Like she was still learning how to hold what they were becoming without breaking it.

She let him touch her hand, didn’t pull away. Her pulse skipped a little under his thumb — of course it did — but she didn’t shift.

Instead, she gave a half-smile. Something crooked and real. “You know I’m a mess, right? If I start putting stuff in here, it’s not gonna be some cute, aesthetic display. It’s gonna be receipts and hair ties and probably a half-melted lip balm.”

She tried to laugh, but it caught somewhere softer in her throat. She let it settle.

“I’m not good at this,” she added, barely above a whisper. “At letting people make space for me. I never really… expected anyone to.”

Her eyes flicked down to the drawer again. Still open. Still waiting.

And then back to him.

“But maybe I want to try.” She swallowed, voice steadier now. “Maybe I want to see what it feels like to have a drawer.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And quietly — almost too quietly to be teasing — she added, “You sure you’re ready for the churro crumbs?”

Her thumb pressed lightly into his, grounding. Answering.

Because yeah, she was scared.

But she wasn’t walking away. Not this time.

She didn’t need him to say anything.

Not right now.

He was still standing there — warm and quiet and his — but the words were done for now, and what was left between them didn’t need sound to mean something.

Lennon eased the drawer shut, not with finality, but with something gentler. A promise in pause. Not no — just not yet. Her hand lingered on the wood, fingertips brushing the worn groove in the corner like she was learning the shape of this new version of them, slow and careful.

This wasn’t like before.

They hadn’t had this when they were seventeen, when everything burned fast and wild and unfinished. Back then, they never talked about drawers or what came after the high. They just crashed into each other and called it love. But this — standing in his room with steam clinging to the walls and the ghost of a melody still humming in the air — this felt like a life, not a fire.

She moved toward him before she could think too much, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her forehead against the middle of his chest. Water clung to his skin, damp against her cheek, and she didn’t care.

He didn’t pull her closer — didn’t have to.

She was already there.

Already his.

And maybe that scared her more than anything else.

Because she didn’t believe in permanence. Not really. She believed in almosts and what-ifs and people leaving when they got tired. But he’d cleared out a drawer. He’d left space. And not for memory, not for grief — for her.

That kind of thing left a mark.

She let her eyes close for a second, just breathing him in. No words. No rush. Just the sound of the room, the softness of the moment.

Then she leaned back enough to look up at him.

And without breaking eye contact, without giving herself time to pull back into safety, she pressed a kiss to his collarbone — slow, certain, sealing.

The kind of kiss you didn’t give unless you meant to stay.

She stayed like that for a moment — arms looped around his waist, breath soft against his chest — letting the silence stretch, letting it say what they hadn’t before. Not like this. Not when it counted.

Her fingers curled lightly into the towel at his back, anchoring herself, even as her heart thundered like it might break through her ribs.

She didn’t need grand gestures. She didn’t need a perfect line.

She just needed him to know.

So she tilted her head up, eyes steady on his, voice quiet but unwavering.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a question.

It was a truth.

Simple. Soft. Undeniably hers.

She saw it land in his eyes before he could say anything — the stillness, the flicker of awe, the way he looked at her like she’d just handed him the one thing he’d never ask for but had always wanted anyway.

And then she smiled — small, a little crooked, but full of everything she didn’t know how to put into words. The drawer. The space. The staying.

She meant all of it.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai swore he could feel the world tilt.

Not in that dizzy, stage-light way it used to when the crowd roared and his name bounced back at him. No, this was quieter. Slower. A shift so deep it sank straight into his bones.

Because Lennon Rae had just said it.

I love you.

And she wasn’t performing it, wasn’t dressing it up in jokes or song lyrics or some sarcastic shield to soften the blow. She was standing in his hoodie, damp hair curling down her shoulders, arms wrapped tight around his waist like she already knew she belonged there—and she’d handed it to him raw. Real. Hers.

His first instinct was to laugh—not because it was funny, but because his chest hurt with how much it landed. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment and didn’t believe he’d ever get to hear it outside his own head.

Instead, he let the quiet breathe between them for a beat. Let himself look at her—really look—like she’d just rearranged the sky again.

Her lips at his collarbone. Her fingers clutching the towel like he might vanish if she didn’t hold on. The steady fire in her eyes that told him she meant every word.

God.

This woman.

Kai dipped his head, forehead brushing hers, his voice coming out low and steady, laced with that same crooked charm that had gotten him through everything—but softer now. Bare.

“I love you too, Rae.”

No hesitation. No clever line. Just the truth, spoken like it had been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for her to be ready to catch it.

He kissed her then—slow, reverent, lips lingering over hers like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t just promising her tonight, or the drawer, or even this room, but every morning after. Every garlic-burned dinner, every stupid musical marathon, every breath they hadn’t gotten to share before now.

When he pulled back, his hand slid down her arm, fingers tracing over her wrist until he caught her hand again. He lifted it, pressed a kiss to her knuckles like she was something rare, something precious, and then laced their fingers tight together.

“Mess, churro crumbs, bad lip balm and all,” he said with a smirk that didn’t quite hide the awe in his eyes. “That drawer’s yours. This house is yours. Hell—Rae, I’m yours.”

He let the words land, simple and unshaken, then leaned in close again, his lips brushing her temple.

“And I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”

The steam from the bathroom was already fading, but the air between them burned warm, steady. Kai grinned softly against her skin, breathing her in, and thought to himself that if this was what it meant to stay—he was never walking out that door again.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon stayed pressed against him, forehead tucked just under his jaw, not because she didn’t know what to say — but because for once, she didn’t feel like she had to say anything at all.

She just was. With him. In this room. In this body that still carried too many memories and defenses and almosts, but for the first time, felt like it might actually be allowed to want more.

The words hung between them, still soft, still holy.

She felt them sink in like heat after cold — not shocking, just slow and total.

“I love you too, Rae.”

God, she’d never wanted anything to be more true than that.

Her eyes burned. Not because she was overwhelmed, but because he’d said it like it wasn’t fragile. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like he’d already chosen her, long before this moment, and everything after was just a confirmation.

Her grip tightened slightly where her hands rested at his waist, steadying herself with the damp cotton of the towel. She could still feel his heartbeat against her chest — fast, grounded, real.

She tilted her head just enough to look up at him, gaze caught on the way he looked at her like she wasn’t a question mark anymore. Like she was the answer.

And she hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

“I wasn’t trying to make it a moment,” she said finally, her voice low, a little hoarse. “It just… was one.”

Her thumb brushed over his side, slow and thoughtful. “I’ve loved you before tonight. I think you know that. But I wanted it to feel like this when I said it.”

Another beat of silence passed. His eyes were still on her. She could feel them.

So she gave him the rest of it. Quiet. Undramatic. Just hers.

“It does.”

She exhaled against his collarbone, body relaxing fully for the first time since she’d stepped into this house all those days ago. Her hoodie sleeve was damp where it touched his shoulder. Her hair was curling more now as it dried — wild and soft and untamed, like everything she used to fight about herself but he never tried to tame.

Lennon let her fingers trace up his spine slowly, memorizing him again. Not like she used to when she didn’t know what would happen next — but like she knew.

Like she was learning him as home now.

And maybe that drawer was still technically empty. Maybe she hadn’t put anything in it yet. But her presence — her love — was already filling the spaces he’d made for her.

“Okay,” she whispered, nodding into him as if agreeing to something neither of them had to explain.

And then, finally, she stepped back just enough to grab the edge of the towel and tug him gently toward the bed.

“You’re dripping all over the floor,” she teased, soft again. “Come on. Before we turn the bedroom into a Slip ’N Slide.”

She didn’t say it like it meant everything — but it did.

It meant: I’m staying.

It meant: You’re mine too.

It meant: Tomorrow’s coming, and I’m still gonna be here when it does.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai couldn’t help it—he laughed. Low, warm, a little wrecked around the edges, because she’d just said I love you like it was gospel and then immediately followed it up by dragging him toward the bed like he was some overgrown Labrador dripping saltwater everywhere.

God, that was Lennon Rae.

And he loved her so much it hurt.

“Slip ’N Slide, huh?” he said, letting her tug at the towel, playful grin tugging at his mouth as he let her lead. “You know, if you’d said that ten years ago, I would’ve absolutely tried to make it happen. Hose, plastic tarp, bad decisions—I had the whole kit.”

Her eyes flicked up at him, half a glare, half soft, and he swore he’d never seen anything better.

“But now?” He stepped closer, letting the towel trail a little just to prove her point about the floor. “I’m older. Wiser. Definitely hotter.” He dropped his voice, smooth as velvet. “And I know better than to waste water when you could just towel me off yourself.”

Her laugh broke, sharp and real, and he caught it with a kiss—quick, sweet, messy in the way only they could be. When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against hers, his smile softer now.

“You weren’t trying to make it a moment,” he murmured, thumb brushing over her cheekbone, “but, Rae… every time you look at me like that? It is one. I don’t even have to try.”

He let that settle—real, steady—before the grin slipped back in. “And for the record? The drawer’s not waiting on churro crumbs. It’s waiting on you. Lip balm, receipts, whatever chaos you come with—I’ll take it. Happily.”

He tugged her closer by the hoodie hem, still damp against her legs. “So yeah. You’ve officially upgraded from hoodie-thief to co-owner of this mess. Congratulations, Rae. No returns, no exchanges.”

Then, without letting her get a word in, he bent, swept her up off the damp patch of floor with ease, and carried her the last few steps toward the bed.

“Now sit,” he teased, dropping her gently onto the comforter, his smirk playful but his eyes lit with something deeper. “Before you break an ankle trying to domesticate me.”

He grabbed the edge of the towel, half for show, half serious. “And for the record? If anyone’s making puddles in here tonight, it’s not just gonna be me.”

He winked. Playful to the bone.

And God, he’d never meant anything more.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of her, full and incredulous, as he dropped her onto the bed like she weighed nothing and stood there dripping smugness and shower water in equal measure.

God, he was ridiculous.

And hers.

That was the part still short-circuiting her brain — the part where all of this, all of him, wasn’t a memory or a song lyric or something she’d have to rewind later and wonder if it was real.

No, this was now. This was them. And somehow, against every law of reason and every version of herself who used to flinch at the idea of forever, she’d said it.

I love you.

And now he was saying things like “co-owner of this mess” and tossing around the phrase “no returns, no exchanges” like he didn’t even realize how hard she was memorizing it.

Her hoodie was damp. Her heart was louder than it should’ve been. And there he was, half-naked and beautiful and smiling at her like she was both the joke and the punchline — like she’d never once been too much or too late or too anything other than exactly what he wanted.

She leaned back on her elbows, hair curling around her shoulders, one eyebrow arched as she watched him smirk and grab the towel like he hadn’t just said puddles with a wink.

“Wow,” she said, dry as sand, “so that’s where we’re at now, huh?”

Her lips curved slowly. “You say you’re older, wiser, hotter—and then immediately hit me with Slip ’N Slide and innuendo like we’re still seventeen and trying to get kicked out of a community pool.”

She shook her head, amused. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

And she meant it. All of it. The ribbing, the warmth, the way her chest felt way too small for the love pressing at the edges of it.

Because under all the jokes, under all the water and sarcasm and hoodie banter — she was still reeling. Still trying to keep herself from getting too still, in case the weight of what she felt knocked her flat.

She sat up slowly, tucking her legs beneath her, eyes never leaving his.

“And for the record?” Her voice dropped a little, less sharp now. “I was always gonna stay. Even before the drawer. Even before you said it back.”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of the towel now, more nervous than she meant to be.

“I just didn’t want to move in by accident, you know?” she said, softer still. “I wanted it to be a choice. Not just comfort. Not just momentum. You.”

A beat passed. Then another. She looked up at him again — really looked.

“You can have every weird receipt and empty chapstick I’ve got,” she said. “Just… don’t act surprised when I reorganize your kitchen. And your closet. And probably your entire life.”

A pause. Then a crooked smile.

“And yeah, you’re hotter now. Barely.”

She reached out, hand curling in the front of his towel, and pulled him in like gravity had already made the decision for her.

“I love you, Kai. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She kissed him then — slow, sealed, no grand crescendo — just something final. Something steady.

Because she wasn’t joking anymore. Not this time.

She was all in.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t need a spotlight, or a crowd, or even the guitar leaning against the wall in the corner.

This? Right here—damp hoodie, towel clutched between them, her eyes soft and wicked all at once—this was the stage he’d been chasing without even realizing it.

He let her pull him in, let her kiss him like she was laying a claim she’d never dared speak before, and when she broke it just enough to breathe, he stayed close. Forehead to hers. Breath mixing with hers.

“You realize what you just signed up for, right?” His grin was easy, teasing, but his voice carried that warmth that only came out when he wasn’t hiding. “I leave socks everywhere. I eat cereal out of the box. And my brothers? They’re gonna treat you like you’ve been living here forever the second they find out you reorganized my kitchen.”

Her smile was still crooked, still impossibly Rae, and God, he couldn’t stop staring at it.

“But…” His thumb brushed across her jaw, slow and reverent. “You want all that? You want me, mess and all?”

He let the pause hang, not because he doubted, but because he wanted her to feel the weight of it. Then, softer, sure:

“Good. Because you’ve already got me. Whole damn thing. Receipts, chapsticks, bad falsetto, and whatever else comes with the Mercer package.”

He bent, kissed her again—deeper this time, but not rushed. Slow, steady, like a vow sealed in the space between their mouths. When he pulled back, his smile was there again, that Joe Jonas kind of boyish charm threaded with something much more permanent.

“I love you, Rae. Every version. Every mess. Every drawer.”

He straightened just enough to peel the towel from his waist, tossing it toward the floor with zero aim. “And if you really want proof?” He gestured at the empty drawer with a mock flourish. “I hereby grant you full jurisdiction over my chaos. Congratulations. You’re officially in charge.”

Then, softer again, he leaned close, nose brushing hers, words dipping into something only she got to hear:

“And yeah… you’re not going anywhere. Not because you can’t. Because you don’t want to. And that’s the part I’m never letting myself forget.”

He eased down beside her on the bed, damp hair dripping into the pillow, hoodie sleeves brushing his arm. He laced their fingers again like it was muscle memory, tugged her hand to rest against his chest where his heartbeat ran steady.

No rush. No fire to put out. Just them.

And as the quiet folded in around them, Kai kissed the top of her head, let his eyes close, and whispered like it was the simplest truth in the world:

“This feels like forever already.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t answer right away.

She couldn’t.

Because her throat had gone tight and stupid, and her heart was thudding against her ribs like it was trying to escape, and there he was — God, there he was — saying things like “this feels like forever already” with his fingers wrapped around hers and his stupid, damp hair dripping into the pillow like it didn’t even matter.

Like this was the moment they’d both been orbiting toward, years in the making, and it had finally stopped spinning long enough for them to land.

She exhaled slow.

Tried to hold still.

But his heartbeat was right there under her palm — warm, steady, real — and the way he’d said it, not because you can’t… because you don’t want to — it gutted her.

Because it was true.

She could’ve left. A dozen times. A thousand. She could’ve packed the hoodie and the toothbrush and the part of her heart he didn’t even ask for and disappeared like she used to.

But she hadn’t.

She didn’t want to.

Not now. Not ever.

And somehow he knew that — not like he was clinging to her, not like he needed her to say it again — just knew, in the way his voice went soft and reverent and teasing all at once, in the way his body curved instinctively toward hers like gravity was a decision they both made.

She shifted slightly, head tucked beneath his jaw now, arm sliding across his chest like she was trying to memorize the map of him.

“You really give me a drawer,” she whispered after a while, not teasing — just quietly stunned. “Like… actually?”

Her fingers brushed over his shirt where it had bunched beneath the hoodie.

“Because that’s a big deal, Mercer. I’ve never had one before.”

She didn’t mean the drawer.

Not really.

She meant the space. The invitation. The idea that someone like him — built from music and sun-drenched chaos and brothers who loved hard and loud — had made room for her.

For all the mess she was still trying to believe was worth loving.

“I used to think I wasn’t the drawer type,” she said after another beat, her voice a little raw. “That I was just… temporary. Pretty to visit. Easy to forget.”

She paused. Let herself feel it.

“But you make it feel like… like maybe I get to stay. Like maybe staying doesn’t mean disappearing.”

Her thumb traced along his chest once, slow.

“You sure you want that?” she murmured. “Because I’m warning you now — I organize spices alphabetically and I will put your cereal in matching containers. And if your brothers start calling me Rae-Rae again, I’m not responsible for what happens.”

She smiled into his skin, soft and real.

Then, quieter: “But yeah. I want it. All of it.”

She tilted her head, pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw — feather-light, certain.

“You. This. Whatever version of forever we can build out of hoodies and open drawers and bad falsetto and garlic-burned dinners.”

She didn’t open her eyes.

Not yet.

Not when everything already felt so full — his breath against her forehead, the weight of his arm slung across her back, the slow shift of his chest beneath her hand, rising and falling like the world finally remembered how to be quiet.

But her hand moved.

Slid down, slow and deliberate, skimming the length of his torso — over the soft trail of hair low on his stomach, over the curve of his hip where he’d kicked the towel off without a second thought. He was warm under her fingers, bare and steady, and the contrast of her hoodie against his skin made her throat tighten for reasons she couldn’t name.

She kept going.

Let her fingertips drift lower, to the inside of his thigh — that smooth, sensitive place just shy of a promise. She traced it lightly. Feather-soft. Barely there.

Not to push. Not to pull.

Just to be.

To touch him the way he touched her — like he already knew every part of her and loved her more for it.

Her mouth followed. Kisses like breath. Like something sacred.

First his jaw, then his cheekbone, then the place beneath his ear where his stubble caught against her lips in the best kind of way. A little rough, a little real. Like the version of him no stage ever got to see. The version that only existed here — tangled in bedsheets, heartbeat under her palm, skin flushed from the shower and whatever came next.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

This was the answer.

To every quiet what-if. To every unspoken fear. To every version of her that had once flinched at being wanted this much.

She wanted him, too.

The whole of him. Loud and quiet, clean and messy, body and soul.

Her fingers curled slightly against the inside of his thigh, slow and certain now, anchoring her there.

And when she kissed the hollow beneath his jaw, slow and reverent, she let herself breathe it:

He’s not going anywhere.

And neither was she.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai swore he felt it before he even processed it.
The way her hand slid down, tentative but sure. The whisper of her hoodie brushing his skin. The trail of kisses—jaw, cheek, that soft spot beneath his ear—that stripped him of anything clever he could’ve said.

For once, he didn’t try to fill the silence.
Didn’t joke. Didn’t throw a line to deflect.

He just let it happen.

Because Lennon Rae was touching him like he wasn’t some passing thing. Like he wasn’t a firework that burned bright and fast and fizzled out. She was touching him like permanence. Like maybe she’d finally decided the map of his body was worth learning in full.

His breath stuttered when her fingers brushed the inside of his thigh, a sharp inhale that wasn’t just want but awe. Because she wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t pushing. She was just being. Showing him in the quietest, fiercest way possible that she’d chosen to stay.

And God, he felt wrecked by it.

His hand slid up under her hoodie, palm flat against the curve of her spine, warm and steady, grounding them both. His thumb traced lazy circles there, mirroring the way she’d done on his chest earlier, and he lowered his mouth to her hair.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with sincerity. “Every word. Drawer’s yours. Kitchen’s yours. Hell, Rae, I’m yours.”

He tilted his head, pressing a slow kiss to her temple, lingering there like he wanted to etch the moment into his bones. “And I’m not scared of your receipts or your spice alphabetizing. I’ve been waiting for it. For you.”

Her hand tightened just slightly against his thigh, and he groaned—quiet, helpless—but still didn’t rush. He kept the rhythm slow, sweet, deliberate, his fingers sweeping up and down her back. “You don’t have to prove you’re staying. I already know.”

Kai shifted then, rolling just enough to angle her onto her back so he could see her. So he could memorize the flush in her cheeks, the damp curl of her hair against the pillow, the softness in her eyes she only ever gave him.

He braced one arm beside her head, leaned down, and kissed her—slow and deep, a kiss that felt like an oath. His other hand slid down to tangle with hers again, pulling it from his thigh and pressing their joined palms flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Feel that?” he whispered against her lips. “That’s yours too.”

He kissed her again before she could answer, gentler this time, as if sealing it. “I love you, Rae. Not just the part that laughs at my bad falsetto or steals my churros. All of it. Every piece you thought no one could make space for.”

He pulled back just enough to grin, softer now, that Joe-Jonas-boyish tilt she knew too well. “So yeah. You’re not temporary. You’re not visiting. You’re home. And I’m not letting you forget it.”

Then, with a mischievous glint cutting through the reverence, his free hand brushed deliberately up the inside of her thigh—mirroring her earlier touch, slow, certain, teasing—until his grin broke wider.

“Besides,” he added, voice dropping to a playful murmur, “I can’t exactly let you get away with starting the overtime game without me, can I?”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t know how he did it.

How he said things like that’s yours too without flinching, how he kissed her like he already knew all the broken pieces she didn’t talk about and loved them anyway. How he held her hand to his chest like he was offering it up — not just the heartbeat, not just the skin and breath and warmth, but the whole goddamn history of him.

She didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

Not when he was hovering over her like this, all golden skin and dripping curls and that stupid boy-band grin that still managed to wreck her on sight. Not when his words still echoed through her, quiet and earthshaking all at once.

You’re home.

God.

It unraveled her.

She smiled — not big, not cocky, just soft. Sure. A little wrecked. The kind of smile that only existed in moments like this, where her guard was down and her heart was loud and she couldn’t remember how to pretend she didn’t want every inch of this man.

Her fingers tightened in his.

“Careful,” she whispered, voice a little raw, a little dangerous. “You keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start believing you actually mean it.”

She didn’t need his answer. She saw it in the way his eyes softened. In the way his body didn’t press, didn’t push, just waited — reverent and steady and entirely hers.

So she kissed him.

Harder this time. Deeper. Like she was finally, finally done asking for permission to want him this much.

And when his hand traced up her thigh again — slow and maddening — she arched into it, breath hitching at the contact. Her hoodie rode higher, the hem bunching at her waist now, bare legs tangled with his, skin on skin, and still she couldn’t get close enough.

“You wanna talk about overtime,” she murmured against his mouth, one hand slipping up to tangle in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, “then don’t get cocky, Mercer. You might’ve played the first half, but I’m still winning.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower — stubble rough against her lips, familiar and addictive. Her fingers drifted from his hair to his shoulders, over the muscles that tensed beneath her touch, steady and sure.

No more hesitation.

No more maybes.

Just her and him and this bed and the truth still humming between their ribs like a secret they didn’t have to keep anymore.

She looked up at him again, eyes darker now, heat threaded through the softness.

“I want all of it,” she said, quieter now. “The cereal, the drawer, your chaos, your brothers, your kid’s drawings on the fridge—you.”

She held his gaze, steady as ever.

“And I don’t care what anyone thinks. Not your ex, not the label, not the world. If you want me here, I’m here. And I’m not afraid of being seen.”

A beat. Then, with a crooked, reverent smile:

“Now shut up and let me ruin you.”

And this time, she moved first.

Lennon didn’t wait.

She didn’t need to.

Because his eyes told her everything — wide and reverent, drinking her in like she was both the storm and the calm that followed. And maybe she was. Maybe that was the whole damn point.

She shifted beneath him, just slightly at first — hips angling, thighs bracing — then rolled them cleanly with a practiced twist of her body, pinning him to the mattress with her breath still caught in her chest.

He let her.

Of course he did.

And when she settled on top of him — knees on either side of his waist, hair falling loose around her shoulders — she didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Her eyes roamed over him slowly, hungry and awed all at once, like she couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour.

Maybe both.

She sat back just enough to grab the hem of the hoodie still clinging damp to her skin — the one that smelled like him, that she’d stolen a hundred times before and would steal again — and in one smooth pull, she dragged it up and over her head, letting it fall somewhere behind her without a sound.

Cool air kissed her skin.

But it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze.

She leaned down again, palms flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide like she was claiming the whole map of him. Her hair fell around them, dark curtain and cocoon, and her mouth hovered just above his.

Then lower.

A kiss — slow, deep, deliberate.

Not frantic. Not rushed.

Just her. Owning it.

Letting him feel what it meant when she didn’t run. When she chose him. When she climbed into his bed and let herself stay — not out of fear, not out of habit, but because she wanted to.

Her lips moved against his with a rhythm that wasn’t hurried but hungry in its own way — the kind of hunger that came from missing something you didn’t know you needed until it was already yours.

She shifted her hips against his, just enough to draw a reaction, then kissed the corner of his mouth, then lower — jawline, throat, collarbone — each kiss softer than the last, but never tentative.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again, breath warm against his skin.

“I love you,” she said, because she did. Because she needed him to feel it, not just hear it. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Then she kissed him again, deeper now.

Like a vow sealed in skin.

Like gravity wasn’t pulling them down — she was.

She kissed him again—slow, sure, the kind of kiss that spoke more than any whisper ever could—and then she shifted, her body moving with a quiet confidence that surprised even her.

Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and without breaking eye contact, she rolled them gently, guiding him onto his back.

There was no hesitation.

She moved with intention, straddling his waist, knees braced on either side of his hips. The hem of the borrowed hoodie slipped higher with the motion, but she didn’t rush it. She just looked down at him, at the man who kept handing her softness like it wasn’t something dangerous. Like she hadn’t spent years convincing herself she didn’t need it.

And then—slowly, deliberately—she peeled the hoodie over her head and let it drop to the side.

His hands stayed exactly where she’d left them.

Her hair tumbled over one shoulder as she leaned down again, brushing a kiss to his lips—soft, reverent. Then his jaw. Then lower.

One hand splayed over his ribs, fingers spreading as if to hold him steady while her mouth found the curve of his collarbone. The center of his chest. The faint line where his breath hitched beneath her.

She kissed him down the length of his sternum, warm and unhurried, like she was trying to memorize him in pieces. Like every inch of skin deserved its own moment. Like permanence could be stitched together in touch and silence and the way her lips lingered just a beat longer each time.

Because maybe it could.

Maybe this was how it started.
Not with fireworks. Not with fear.
But with a girl who stayed. And a boy who let her.

And a kiss that didn’t ask for anything—only promised everything.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai thought he knew what it meant to be wanted.
The stage had taught him that—screaming crowds, hands reaching, a hundred voices chanting his name. He’d learned how to take it, how to soak it in, how to smile like he deserved it.

But this?

This was different.

This was Lennon Rae, stripped down to nothing but skin and certainty, kissing him like permanence wasn’t a curse but a promise. Kissing him like every scar, every song, every bad choice had somehow led here. To this bed. To this moment. To her.

His chest rose hard under her hand, breath stuttering every time her lips found a new place to claim. Jaw. Collarbone. Sternum. Each kiss unhurried, reverent, leaving a heat that wasn’t just physical but something deeper, something that made him feel cracked open and whole all at once.

She was staying.

She’d said it, but more than that, she was showing him. Every kiss, every touch, every steady look that pinned him to the mattress like gravity itself had made a decision.

His hands twitched at his sides, aching to move, to grab, to flip her back under him. But he didn’t—not yet. He let her take, let her own, let her remind him that love wasn’t always about leading. Sometimes it was about surrender.

And he’d never surrendered like this before.

His fingers finally lifted, brushing along her thighs where they bracketed his hips, slow and gentle at first, then firmer, sliding up until his palms fit around her waist. He held her there, not to guide, not to stop—just to ground himself in the reality of her.

“Rae,” he rasped, voice caught somewhere between wrecked and worshipful. His grin tried to break through, boyish and helpless, even as his eyes went dark with everything else. “You’re killing me.”

But God, he didn’t want her to stop.

When she leaned down again, kissing his chest like she was writing scripture, Kai let his head fall back against the pillow, a low groan slipping free. His hands pressed her closer, thumbs stroking circles into her skin, desperate and soft at once.

And then, when her mouth found the hollow just above his stomach, he lifted his head, caught her gaze with his, and let the grin finally show. Not smug. Not cocky. Just his—the one he only gave her.

“I love you too,” he said, steady, no hesitation, no armor. “So much it’s stupid.”

His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her back up to him. He kissed her then—long and slow, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could. The kind that anchored. The kind that stayed.

And when he pulled back, breath mingling with hers, he whispered against her lips, “Forever, Rae. You hear me? Drawer crumbs, bad falsetto, reorganized spice rack—whatever you bring, I want it. All of it.”

His grin tilted again, playful through the reverence. “Even if it ruins me.”

Then his hands moved—one at her waist, the other sliding up her back—rolling them easily until she was under him again, his mouth trailing her jaw, her throat, the edge of her shoulder.

Because she’d made her vow in kisses, and now it was his turn to answer in kind.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon couldn’t speak at first.

Not with his mouth on her neck, not with his hands reverent and grounding, not with every breath from him unraveling some thread inside her she hadn’t realized was still knotted.

She had waited years for this. For him.
And not just the version of him the world saw — the stage-lit swagger, the heartbeat behind a mic. She wanted this version. The one whispering forever like it wasn’t terrifying. The one who said whatever you bring, I want it and meant it.

God, he meant it.

Her fingers curled against his back, just below his shoulder blades. She didn’t drag. She didn’t clutch. She just held. Anchored. The way he’d done to her a hundred different ways she hadn’t had words for until now.

His words were still echoing through her chest — drawer crumbs, falsetto, ruined spice rack — and somehow they hit harder than poetry. Because they weren’t grand. They were real.

He wanted her reality. Not her polish. Not her playlist. Her.

And she didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

“Kai,” she breathed, voice barely there, more reverent than she meant to be. But she didn’t backpedal. Didn’t soften it with a joke or a smirk. Not this time.

Because she could feel it. The shift.

This was no longer the reunion of two people fumbling through what used to be. This wasn’t nostalgia, or chemistry, or even just hunger. This was something else. Something rooted. Grown.

Her hands slid to his face, thumbs brushing along his jaw, the familiar scratch of stubble grounding her even more. She pulled him closer, nose brushing his, and whispered it before she could stop herself.

Not a confession. Not a reveal. Just the truth, finally spoken aloud.

“I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.”

It came out like an exhale. Like a secret finally set free. And the way his eyes met hers—wide and undone and his—made her feel like maybe she’d just rewritten the rules of gravity.

She could’ve cried. She didn’t.

Instead, she kissed him again.

Slow. Deep. Deciding.

And when his hands gripped her tighter, when he moved to deepen it, she let him. Not because she was giving in — but because she’d already chosen.

Because this time, she wasn’t running.
Because she was his.
Because he was hers.

And she wanted to memorize every inch of him until there were no pieces left unknown.

[Kai Mercer]

He didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.

Not when her voice hit him like that — soft and certain, reverent in a way that shattered him more than screaming ever could.

I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.

The words didn’t just settle into his chest. They detonated. Quiet and cataclysmic.

Because he remembered her at sixteen.
God, did he remember.

Back then, she was music before lyrics, wildfire in denim, all edge and heart and eyes that made him forget his own name. She’d kissed him once in a parking lot with slush in her boots and defiance in her smile, and he’d been wrecked ever since. He just hadn’t known how to stay wrecked — not then.

But now?

Now, he didn’t want anything else.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath uneven, eyes searching like he needed to memorize her all over again. Maybe he did. Not just her body, not just her laugh. The whole of her. The girl who’d kissed him in secret and the woman who just told him the truth like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Sixteen?” he whispered, voice rough and stupidly full. “Fuck, Rae.”

His hand slid to her jaw, thumb brushing along her cheekbone like she might disappear if he blinked. But she didn’t. She held. Just like always.

And suddenly it wasn’t about sex or tension or even the kiss still ghosting between them.

It was about the timeline.

The fucking timeline of her.

Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Every almost. Every maybe. Every version of her he’d watched walk away or walk toward him or walk right past while he pretended it didn’t level him.

“I should’ve said it then,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers now. “I should’ve—God, I should’ve told you every damn year after that.”

His eyes closed for a breath.

Then opened again.

“I love you,” he said — not louder, just firmer, steadier, like he needed her to feel it echo. “Not just now. Not just this version of you in my bed. I love the girl who gave me her hoodie in the rain and told me I was a coward in front of the vending machines and made me believe music could mean something.”

He swallowed.

“I love the girl who left. I love the one who came back. I love the one who organized my entire bathroom like a psychopath and still calls me Mercer when she’s mad.”

His fingers curled at her waist now, pulling her impossibly closer.

“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life learning every version of you I missed. Okay? Every single one.”

There was no oxygen left in the room. Just her. Just them.

Still tangled in sheets, still skin-to-skin, but everything about the moment had changed — deepened, steadied, cracked wide open.

He didn’t move yet. Didn’t rush it.

He just kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. Gentle. Devout.

Like he finally understood what it meant to have her.

[Lennon Rae]

She couldn’t breathe.

Not in the way that meant panic — not in the way she used to feel before every show or after every fight or when the door had closed behind her the night she left.

This was different.

This was breathless like awe. Like standing in front of something holy and knowing it had nothing to do with God and everything to do with him.

Because Kai Mercer didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

And he was saying this.

He was saying every version of her was loved — even the ones she thought no one could stomach. Even the girl who left. The one who ran. The one who didn’t know how to stay. The one who still sometimes doubted her own enoughness in the quiet hours when the world got too loud.

He saw all of her.

And he didn’t flinch.

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She just looked at him — at the boy who used to chase her up fire escapes and pull focus with a smirk, now looking at her like she was the whole goddamn sky. The boy who used to leave every door open but never ask her to walk through.

Now he was asking.

Now he was here.

And her heart couldn’t take it. Not in the devastating way. In the real way. The finally way. The kind of way that made all the chaos make sense.

She kissed him.

Not rushed. Not wrecked. Not claiming or coy.

Just home.

Soft and slow and sure.

Because no one had ever kissed her like that before — the way he had when he said forever. And she wanted him to know she meant it too.

When her mouth finally left his, she didn’t pull far. Just enough to rest her forehead against his again, their noses brushing. Their bodies still tangled. Their past finally still.

“You do,” she whispered, voice thin with everything she didn’t know how to say. “You love all of me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was wonder.

Then, quieter: “I think that might be the scariest and safest thing I’ve ever felt.”

Her fingers found his again, threading through, holding like she finally believed they could. Like she wouldn’t have to let go this time.

And maybe that was the most radical thing of all.

She was still here.

And this time, she wasn’t afraid of being loved. Not by him.

Not anymore.

Her thumb traced the inside of his wrist, slow and steady, like she needed to memorize the shape of him all over again. The moment felt too full to move, too reverent to break — but she didn’t want to break it.

She wanted to deepen it.

To step fully into it.

So she kissed him again.

Not tentative this time. Not shy.

It was a yes.

A kiss that said I hear you. That said I want this. That said Keep going.

Her hand slid from his, fingertips ghosting down his side, pausing at his hip before curling around his back. She held him there, anchoring herself in the feel of him — the muscle, the heat, the way his skin rose beneath her touch like he was waiting for her to decide.

And she had.

She pulled back just enough to look at him again. The way he was watching her — open, reverent, already ruined — made her breath catch all over again.

But this time she didn’t stall.

She shifted beneath him, her legs parting slightly as her hands moved lower. Her fingers found the waistband of the boxers she still wore — his, soft and worn and clinging low on her hips now. Her eyes didn’t leave his as she started to push them down.

Inches at first.

Then further, slow and deliberate, easing the fabric over the curve of her hips, her thighs. She could feel his breath stutter against her cheek, feel the way his body tensed above hers — not in restraint, but in reverence.

She paused once the boxers reached mid-thigh, gaze still steady, still holding his.

And then she whispered, “Okay.”

That was all he needed.

His hand slid over hers, warm and certain, helping guide the rest down — over her knees, past her ankles, until they were gone. Until there was nothing between them but the heat they’d been circling for years.

She let out a shaky breath.

Not nervous. Not unsure.

Just overwhelmed by the truth of it — the nakedness, the trust, the fact that she wasn’t hiding anymore.

And when his eyes met hers again — wide open, full of everything he hadn’t said yet — she didn’t look away.

She just whispered, “I’m yours, Kai.”

Then pulled him down to her like a vow.

[Kai Mercer]

He didn’t even try to speak.

Not when she said I’m yours like it was something sacred.

Not when her body moved beneath him, lush and open and waiting — like she’d already made the decision and was daring him to catch up.

She was bare now. All of her. Her skin warm and flushed and real beneath his palms, her curves lit by the faint gold of the bedside lamp, casting her in soft light like she was something divine. The way her chest rose and fell, the way her thighs shifted just slightly to welcome him in — it was too much and not enough, all at once.

And God, she was beautiful.

Not just stunning — though she was that too. But devastating in her reality. In the way she let him see her. In the way she wasn’t hiding anymore.

He dragged in a breath like he needed it to stay grounded, even as his world narrowed to the way her eyes stayed locked on his. Steady. Trusting. Like he hadn’t already ruined himself for anyone else.

He kissed her again — deep and slow — because he couldn’t not. Because every inch of him wanted to taste that vow she’d just given him. Her lips parted for him, mouth warm and sure, and the softest sound caught at the back of her throat when his fingers slid along the curve of her waist.

He followed the line of her hip with reverence, let his hand sweep over the softness of her belly, then upward — palms wide, touch firm but unhurried — until he was cupping her breast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She arched into him instinctively, no hesitation, just heat and want and yes. Her breath hitched when his thumb brushed over her, slow and circular, and he felt her hands curl into the muscles of his back, urging him closer.

Christ.

He’d touched her before. Many times.

But never like this.

Never with this weight behind it.

This wasn’t about getting lost. This was about being found.

He let his mouth trail along her collarbone, then lower, stubble grazing soft skin, tongue soothing over the spot just below her breast until she trembled — hips rising, chest heaving, her legs slipping wider beneath him. Inviting. Anchoring. Offering him everything.

His hand drifted lower again, fingers finding the tender inside of her thigh — and still he didn’t rush. He explored her like a song he already knew but never wanted to stop learning. Like every note mattered. Like her body had become his favorite language.

She gasped, hips twitching when he finally slid his fingers over her, just once — a teasing press, reverent and deliberate.

She was soaked.

And he was wrecked.

“Kai…” she breathed, head tilting back into the pillow, the line of her throat exposed, flushed and waiting.

He kissed the hollow of it.

“I know,” he said softly — not a promise, not a plea, just a fact.

Then he pressed into her again.

Deeper now.

Gentle but certain.

The way her body responded made his restraint fracture.

Her thighs framed him, curved and perfect and warm, pulling him in like gravity, like fate. Her hands clutched at his shoulders now, nails digging in with every slow thrust of his fingers — and he matched it with his mouth on her breast, his breath ragged against her skin.

Still, he didn’t let her fall apart.

Not yet.

Because this was more than just release.

This was a worship.

A claiming.

A homecoming.

And he was going to make sure she felt every goddamn second of it.

[Lennon Rae]

She couldn’t think.

Not clearly. Not the way she used to when she had to stay three steps ahead or pretend like her heart wasn’t a fucking liability. That version of her—the one who needed armor just to survive—felt a million years away.

Because right now, she was here.

Right now, Kai was worshipping her like she was made of something softer than bone. Something that could be broken open without bleeding.

And God, she was breaking open.

Every touch, every kiss, every breath he dragged across her skin made her feel like maybe she’d been holding herself too tightly all these years. Like maybe this was what it meant to be let go of and held at the same time.

Her hips shifted without asking permission, chasing the slow rhythm of his fingers. But it wasn’t just about pressure or need—it was about feeling known. The way his touch never faltered. The way he paused just long enough to let her gasp. The way his eyes stayed on her, dark and reverent, like he was watching a sunrise he never thought he’d get to see again.

“Kai,” she whispered, voice catching on the edge of his name, like it was too full to hold steady. Her hand reached for him, fingers curling against the side of his neck, thumb brushing just beneath his jaw. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His mouth twitched like it wanted to grin, but he didn’t. Not fully. He just kissed the center of her chest like he understood what she meant. Like maybe he was already ruined too.

But neither of them pulled away.

Instead, she let herself feel it.

The weight of his body, warm and solid against hers. The slow drag of his mouth as it moved from her breast to the curve of her ribs. The way his fingers stilled and started again, unhurried, like he was learning her all over—like she was worth the time it took to remember every piece.

She swallowed hard, breath catching when he hit that spot again, when her thighs clenched without warning, when heat surged low in her belly and her back arched off the mattress. But still—still—she didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, but her voice was thin, trembling, laced with too much everything.

Her fingers moved to his wrist, holding there—not to stop him, not to guide him, but to feel him. To anchor herself.

To say without saying:

This is real.

And when his mouth brushed just below her navel and his fingers started again—slow, perfect, intentional—she knew she wasn’t scared anymore.

Not of loving him.
Not of being known.

Not even of coming undone in his hands.

Not when he was holding her like this.

[Kai Mercer]

She said he was going to ruin her.

But she had no idea.

Because Kai wasn’t just touching her — he was memorizing her. With his mouth, his hands, his breath. Every inch of her skin mapped beneath his palms like a language he hadn’t spoken in years but never forgot. A song he’d kept humming long after the silence set in.

And now she was here.

Soft. Bare. Shaking beneath him.

Letting him see her — all of her — without armor or irony, and God, he didn’t know how to move slow enough to deserve it. But he was trying. Every breath, every stroke, every press of his lips to her skin said: I remember you. I see you. I’m still yours, if you’ll still have me.

Her voice cracked on his name, and it made his throat burn.

You’re gonna ruin me.

No.

He was already gone.

Because she’d undone him with the way she opened for him — not just her body, but her trust. Her fear. Her goddamn grace. She was all curve and softness and heat beneath his mouth, and he couldn’t stop kissing her. Her chest. Her ribs. Her belly.

He dragged his tongue just below her navel, slow and warm, feeling the tremble ripple through her. Her hand was at his wrist now, holding — not desperate, not directing, just feeling. Just staying.

He could’ve cried from it.

Instead, he leaned into her body and gave her more.

He moved his fingers again, sliding lower, letting the pads of them slip through the slick heat between her thighs. He didn’t rush. Didn’t press too deep. Just circled, slow and reverent, letting her hips rock up in answer, her thighs twitching like her body was speaking for her now.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed.

He wouldn’t dream of it.

“You feel like a prayer,” he murmured against her stomach, voice hoarse. “Like something I was stupid enough to leave behind and lucky enough to get back.”

She gasped again — not from what he said, but from the way his fingers pressed just right, the pad of his thumb catching her clit in slow, perfect rhythm, drawing tiny, aching sounds from the back of her throat.

Her back arched. Her breath broke. Her thighs fell wider.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Because this wasn’t just about pleasure. This was about all the years he didn’t get to touch her like this. All the time he spent trying to forget what it felt like to have her in his arms and failing spectacularly.

He kissed the inside of her thigh. Then again. Then higher.

Her fingers tightened at his wrist, her whole body trembling now — not in fear, not in hesitation, but in surrender.

He could feel her getting closer, feel the way she was unraveling beneath him, but still holding on. Still watching him like he was the one holy thing left in a world that had cracked them both open.

“Let go,” he whispered, finally meeting her eyes again.

She looked at him like she already had.

And when she came — soft and sudden, hips jerking, mouth falling open with a breathy gasp of his name — Kai felt it everywhere. In his chest. In his bones. In every fucked-up piece of him that used to wonder if he’d ever get a second chance.

He kissed her again — the inside of her knee, her hip, the curve of her belly. Slow. Anchoring.

Then he came up beside her, gathering her into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other curled low around her waist. Her skin was damp and flushed, still shivering slightly as she buried her face in his chest.

He pressed his lips to her hair, closing his eyes.

“You’re not ruined,” he said, voice barely audible. “You’re home.”

And she was.

She always had been.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t cry.

She thought maybe she would — thought maybe all the pressure in her chest would finally break free — but it didn’t. It settled instead. Low and quiet and warm, like the first deep breath after a storm.

Because he held her like that.
Like calm.
Like shelter.
Like someone who had seen the worst of her and still stayed.

She lay there, still trembling in the crook of his body, face tucked into the place where his shoulder met his throat. His skin was damp with sweat and breath and everything they hadn’t said, and still, he held her. Still, he stayed.

You’re not ruined. You’re home.

God.

He didn’t know what those words did to her.
What they unraveled.
What they rebuilt.

Because for so long, she’d taught herself to survive without softness. Without safety. Without him.

And now she was here — skin against skin, breath against breath — and it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like return.

She pressed her lips to the center of his chest — right over his heart — and let the silence stretch. Not awkward. Not broken. Just full. Full of everything they couldn’t say yet. Full of all the things that mattered more than language.

He didn’t ask for more.

Didn’t rush. Didn’t move.

And that’s how she knew he meant it.

Because love like this didn’t need permission.

It only needed truth.

So she stayed.
Still. Bare. Breathing.

Not ruined.
Not running.

Just home.



[ end ]

[Lennon Rae]

The fire crackled low, its glow painting the grass in amber and gold.

They’d been out here for hours — Wren’s idea, of course. A “real campout,” she’d said with that look that made it impossible to say no. So now there was a little green tent pitched crookedly beside the fire pit, half-filled with stuffed animals, coloring books, and one flashlight that had already been used to tell three very dramatic ghost stories.

Lennon sat on the blanket with Wren curled against her, small legs tucked under, the kid’s head resting just below her chin. The blanket was big enough for two but she’d wrapped it around both of them anyway, the soft fabric catching faint sparks of light from the fire.

The night above them was vast and unhurried — stars sharp against the dark, the moon just a thin silver curve. Somewhere behind them, the city hummed faintly, a soft reminder that they were still part of something bigger, but right here, it was just them.

Wren blinked slowly, heavy-lidded but stubborn. “I’m not sleepy,” she mumbled, her voice thick with yawn.

Lennon smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “No? You sure? ‘Cause that sounded like a sleepy sentence.”

“I’m resting my eyes,” Wren said, matter-of-fact, snuggling closer. “So I can see the stars better.”

“Smart plan,” Lennon said, biting back a laugh. “You’re gonna have to teach me that trick.”

Kai was across from them, sitting near the fire, poking at a log with a stick like it was a full-time job. The light caught on the edge of his jaw, his profile soft and unreadable, and for a moment Lennon just watched him — the quiet ease in his shoulders, the faint half-smile he probably didn’t even realize he was wearing.

Wren stirred again, tilting her face up toward the sky. “Look, Lenny,” she murmured, pointing at a cluster of stars. “That one looks like a jellyfish.”

Lennon followed her finger. “A jellyfish, huh? You and your ocean stars.”

“’Cause jellyfish glow,” Wren said, fighting another yawn. “Like the lights.”

Lennon looked up at the fairy lights strung between the trees — the same ones Kai had rigged earlier, claiming they were “necessary for ambiance.” They flickered gently, reflecting in Wren’s sleepy eyes.

“Yeah,” Lennon said softly. “Just like the lights.”

For a long stretch, no one spoke. The only sounds were the fire crackling, the rustle of the trees, and the faint rhythm of Wren’s breathing as her small fingers absently played with the drawstring of Lennon’s hoodie.

Kai leaned back on his palms, glancing toward them. Lennon caught his gaze across the fire — the kind of look that didn’t need words.

She smiled a little, murmuring just loud enough for him to hear, “She’s fighting it.”

He smiled back, eyes warm, firelight catching gold in the dark.

And as Wren pointed out another star, her voice softer now — “That one’s a dragon… and that one’s us” — Lennon felt something quiet settle in her chest.

Not peace. Not certainty. Just this moment — the warmth, the weight of Wren against her, Kai’s eyes steady across the fire — and the sense that maybe this was what home could feel like.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai watched the two of them in that soft, golden hush — Lennon and Wren folded into each other, the kind of picture that made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t name.

The stick in his hand had burned down to half its length, the end glowing red before he let it fall into the fire and lean back again, palms pressed to the cool grass. The night smelled like smoke and pine sap, like something old and steady. The kind of scent that reminded him life didn’t have to be loud to mean something.

Wren’s words drifted over the crackle of the fire — that one’s a dragon… and that one’s us.

He looked up, following her small hand as it traced constellations in the air, and for the briefest moment, he let himself believe her. That somewhere up there, past the smoke and sky, there was a version of this burned into the stars. A small kid with a heart too big for her chest. A woman who made the world feel like a song again. And him — just trying to keep the fire lit.

His throat tightened. He didn’t say anything; didn’t trust his voice not to give him away.

Instead, he leaned forward and gently tossed another log into the flames. Sparks spiraled upward, catching in the air like fireflies. Wren’s eyes tracked them sleepily, her hand going slack against Lennon’s hoodie drawstring as the weight of the day finally won out.

Kai smiled to himself, small and quiet. “Told you, kiddo,” he murmured under his breath. “No one beats the campfire.”

He stood slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans, then crossed the few steps around the fire. Lennon looked up at him as he came near, but he just gave a small nod toward the tent — a silent I got her.

He crouched down, arms slipping carefully beneath Wren’s tiny frame. She stirred, mumbled something about jellyfish and dragons, but didn’t wake. Her head dropped against his shoulder, warm and heavy. The faintest smile touched her lips.

Kai carried her to the tent, tucking her into the tangle of blankets and stuffed animals, making sure the flashlight was still within reach even though she’d never use it. He brushed a bit of hair off her cheek, thumb lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

When he turned back, Lennon was still sitting where he’d left her, knees pulled up, watching him through the firelight. He met her eyes — and for a moment, the world was only that. The stars, the fire, and her.

He exhaled, slow and low, like a man trying not to disturb a fragile kind of peace.

Then he crossed back to her, dropped down beside her on the blanket, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither of them spoke. The fire crackled low, the night hummed, and somewhere behind them, Wren’s soft breathing filled the quiet.

Kai let his head tip slightly toward Lennon’s, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t need to say it out loud — this feels right. She’d feel it in the way he stayed, in the way his hand found hers beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for once, it really was.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon watched him through the soft pulse of the firelight — her heart caught somewhere between awe and something even deeper, quieter.

The way Kai moved when he was with Wren always undid her a little. There was no performance in it, no script — just instinct. The kind that came from somewhere honest. She’d seen him command stadiums and silence rooms with a single note, but this? This was his real magic — this small, steady tenderness that never asked for recognition.

She smiled when he glanced back, that silent exchange passing easily between them — the kind that didn’t need words because they’d both learned how to read in looks.

When he came back and settled beside her, the world seemed to realign around it. His shoulder brushed hers; his warmth bled into her side. The night air was cool, but the fire’s glow wrapped them in that gold-orange halo that made everything feel softer, slower.

Wren’s tiny breaths rose and fell inside the tent, rhythmic and sure. Lennon found herself exhaling in time with them, her body finally catching up to the calm her heart had already surrendered to.

She let their fingers link beneath the blanket, and something inside her clicked into place — not dramatically, not in a way that demanded attention, just in that quiet way truth tends to show up.

Her voice came out low, barely louder than the pop of the fire.
“She’s gonna remember this one,” she said, smiling toward the tent. “The stars, the fire, the jellyfish stories — it’s all gonna stick somewhere in her. You gave her that.”

She turned slightly, just enough to catch the outline of him beside her — that soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the reflection of the flames flickering in his eyes.

“I get why she loves you so much,” Lennon added gently. “You make people feel safe… without ever making them feel small. That’s rare.”

The words left her before she could second-guess them. Usually, she’d pull back, lace everything she meant to say in humor or something lighter. But not tonight. Tonight, everything felt too real to dilute.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand still threaded through his.
“This,” she whispered, eyes tracing the sky. “This feels like the part of the movie everyone waits for. Not the ending — the middle. The moment before everything changes, when everything finally makes sense for a second.”

Kai didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. His thumb brushed over her hand, slow and sure, grounding her.

She smiled, soft and complete. “You know… if Wren was right, and that one up there really is us,” she murmured, nodding toward the star she and Wren had claimed earlier, “then I hope it never burns out. Even if it’s small, I hope it just keeps shining like this.”

The night stretched quiet again, only the fire’s breath and the hum of the earth filling the air. Lennon’s head stayed resting against him, her heart calm in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

For once, there was no overthinking, no performing, no pretending. Just the sound of their hands finding each other in the dark and staying there.

And for Lennon — that was everything.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai felt the words settle somewhere deep — not sharp, not sudden, just a slow, spreading ache that felt a lot like being seen.

She had that way about her.
The kind of honesty that didn’t need to be loud to hit hard.

He watched the fire chew through another log, sparks bursting and fading like tiny worlds, and thought about what she’d said — you make people feel safe without ever making them feel small. He didn’t know what to do with that kind of compliment. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been built for them.

But he could feel it in the way her head rested against his shoulder, in the weight of her trust. And maybe that said enough.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, voice low and a little rough. “She’ll remember it.”
His thumb moved over her hand again, slow circles against her skin. “Probably the jellyfish part most of all. Kid’s already rewriting constellations.”

Lennon smiled against his arm, and it did something to him — cracked open that quiet place he guarded too much.

He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the same sky Wren had named earlier. It wasn’t perfect — clouds smudged parts of it, and the firelight blurred the rest — but he found the faint glimmer of the star she’d called them. Small, maybe, but steady.
The kind that didn’t fight to be seen, it just was.

“Funny thing about stars,” he said after a long silence. “Even when they burn out, you still see the light for a while. Takes years to fade. So maybe we don’t disappear — maybe we just… keep showing up, even after.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because she made him believe it — that something could last even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it changed shape over time.

The fire shifted, low and soft. Her fingers twitched in his, and he turned his hand over so their palms pressed together. The fit was easy. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense and didn’t have to.

Wren mumbled something from the tent, a sleepy sound that made both of them glance over instinctively. When she went quiet again, Kai exhaled slowly — the kind of breath that let the night sink in.

“This feels like the middle to me too,” he said finally. “The part before the story gets loud again. But I think… I’d be okay if it stayed right here for a while.”

He turned his head just enough to catch the shape of her face in the firelight — eyes half-lidded, a little wind-tousled, and so damn real. The sight of her like that, unguarded and soft, hit him harder than anything on stage ever had.

He brushed his thumb along her knuckles again, a quiet promise threaded in the touch.

“Whatever comes next,” he said, voice barely above the crackle of the fire, “I hope it still feels a little like this.”

The flames popped. The world stayed still.
And with her head on his shoulder and her hand in his, Kai let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — it would.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon’s gaze stayed fixed on the fire — its slow, hypnotic sway — but her chest tightened at his words. Not the grand ones, not even the ones about the stars. It was the last line that hit her: I hope it still feels a little like this.

She smiled faintly, her cheek brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

It came out quiet, but it was the truth — the kind that sat heavy in her ribs, warm and a little terrifying.

The night air cooled around them, pine and smoke curling close, and for a moment she just let the silence breathe. Her fingers stayed laced with his, thumb tracing small, nervous arcs along the back of his hand.

She didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to pull them out of the calm they’d found, but the thought had been hovering at the edges all night — that quiet twinge she couldn’t quite ignore.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she said finally, her voice slow, careful. “It’s probably dumb, but… I keep hoping Isla doesn’t feel weird about any of this.”

Kai shifted slightly beside her, listening, not interrupting — and that alone gave her the courage to keep going.

“I mean—” she let out a small, nervous laugh, “—if Wren goes home talking about the aquarium and the penguins and the tent and all the things we did this week… I just don’t ever want it to sound like I’m trying to take up space that isn’t mine.”

Her throat tightened, and she looked down at their joined hands. The firelight turned his skin gold against hers. “She’s her mom. That’s not something I’d ever try to compete with. I just—” she exhaled, a small shake of her head, “—I love the way Wren looks at the world. I love being part of her excitement. But I never want it to come at the cost of anyone else’s peace. Especially hers.”

Lennon pressed her lips together for a moment, then gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I know you and Isla have your rhythm. Whatever that is, I’d never want to mess with it. I just… hope she knows I’m not trying to be anything. I’m just here. With you both. However I fit.”

The confession hung between them, soft and unguarded. The kind of truth that didn’t ask for reassurance, just understanding.

After a beat, she leaned into him again, her head finding its way back to his shoulder like muscle memory. The tension in her voice eased, replaced by something gentler — acceptance, maybe.

“She’s a good mom,” Lennon murmured, eyes flicking toward the tent where Wren slept. “You can tell. The way Wren talks about her, the stories, the little things — she’s loved the right way. You both did that.”

Her voice broke into a faint laugh. “So if she ever gets home and talks about dragons or rhythm penguins or, God forbid, the Jelly Squad, I hope Isla just smiles and knows it’s all because of you. I’m just… lucky I get to be around for some of it.”

The fire cracked again, and she fell quiet. Her thumb brushed his hand once more, slower this time — less nervous now, more sure.

“I don’t take any of this for granted, Kai,” she said finally. “Not the nights like this. Not you. Not her.”

And when she looked back up at him, there was no hesitation in her eyes — just warmth, steady and open.

“Whatever comes next,” she said softly, echoing his words, “I hope it keeps this feeling too. The kind where everyone gets to shine — no one taking from anyone else. Just… all of us finding a way to fit under the same stars.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai stayed quiet for a long time after she stopped talking.

Not because he didn’t have anything to say — but because he didn’t want to ruin the honesty of what she’d just given him. It wasn’t the kind of thing people said to win points or sound good. It was real. Raw in that quiet, human way that always knocked the wind out of him a little.

The fire cracked again, the sound soft but grounding. He watched the sparks rise and vanish into the night, thinking about Wren asleep in the tent — about how easy she made all of this feel when, really, it shouldn’t be.

He finally exhaled. “You know,” he said, voice low, thoughtful, “I used to think family had to fit a certain shape. Two lines, two sides, neat little boxes.” He gave a small shake of his head, eyes still on the fire. “Turns out, it doesn’t. It just… keeps growing if you let it.”

He glanced down at her hand still in his, tracing his thumb gently over her knuckles. “Isla will always be her mom. Nothing changes that. And I wouldn’t want it to. Wren’s lucky — she gets to grow up surrounded by people who love her in different ways. I think that’s the best kind of childhood there is.”

He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “And you’re part of that, Lennon. You don’t have to try to be anything. You already are. The way you show up — the patience, the laughter, the way you see her… kids feel that stuff. They know when someone really likes being around them. She knows.”

For a moment, he let that hang there, then added softly, “And so do I.”

He turned his head slightly, catching her eyes in the flicker of the firelight — not to make her blush or fluster, but to make sure she saw the truth sitting steady in his. “You make space, not take it. That’s rare too.”

The tent rustled faintly behind them — a sleepy kick, a tiny sigh — and Kai smiled, small and quiet. “She’s gonna wake up tomorrow and tell Isla all about the Jelly Squad,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “And Isla’ll laugh, because she knows Wren’s happy. That’s all either of us ever wanted.”

He let his arm slip around Lennon’s shoulders then, drawing her a little closer until her head fit beneath his chin. The movement wasn’t grand — it just was. Natural. Like muscle memory born out of care instead of impulse.

The night hummed softly around them, the fire burning low, the world finally still.

Kai rested his chin against the top of her head, voice barely more than a whisper. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “All of it. No rush, no pressure. Just… one small, good thing at a time.”

He felt her breathe out, steady and calm, and smiled into her hair.

“Besides,” he added after a moment, quieter, almost to himself, “if she’s got this many stars looking out for her, I think she’s gonna be just fine.”

And for the first time in a long while, he believed it — every word.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon felt something catch in her chest — that quiet, stinging warmth that came when someone saw you clearly and didn’t flinch.
She didn’t look at him right away; she couldn’t. The firelight was too tender, too revealing, and if she met his eyes now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold herself together.

But his words — you make space, not take it — wrapped around her like a blanket she hadn’t realized she’d been cold without.

She swallowed, a small, shaky laugh slipping out. “You always know exactly what to say to undo me, don’t you?”

He smiled, the kind of smile she could hear without needing to see it, and it pulled another breath from her.

“You’re right, though,” she said after a moment, voice soft but sure. “Family doesn’t have to fit a shape. I think I was scared of that for a long time — that there was some right way to belong. That maybe if I stepped wrong, I’d mess it all up.”

Her thumb traced lazy circles against the back of his hand — the same motion he’d done earlier, unthinking, grounding. “But you make it easy to believe there’s room for all of it. For her, for Isla, for me… for whatever this is between us. You make it feel… steady.”

Lennon finally looked up then. His arm was still around her shoulders, his chin resting on her hair like it belonged there. She could feel his heartbeat where her temple met his chest — slow, even, real.

“I don’t need a stage or a perfect moment. I just…” She smiled, her eyes glassy, her thumb brushing against his wrist. “I love you. The dad who keeps the fire going, the man who doesn’t realize he’s the safest place in the room, the one who still believes in dragons and jellyfish and forever — even when it scares him.”

Her voice dipped, softer. “And I know this isn’t simple. I know there’s Isla, and Wren, and a life that existed before me. But I don’t want to take from it. I just want to fit into it — the way you’ve already fit into me.”

The night held its breath for a beat — only the soft crackle of the fire, the whisper of wind moving through the trees.

Then Lennon leaned in, her hand finding his jaw, her lips brushing his like a promise — slow, sure, nothing rushed or uncertain about it.

When she pulled back, she stayed close enough that her next words could only be meant for him.

“I love you,” she whispered again, quieter this time, like it wasn’t a declaration — but the truth she’d finally stopped trying to hide.

[Kai Mercer]

For a heartbeat, Kai couldn’t move.

The world seemed to tilt — not in the dizzying, stage-light way he was used to, but in that slow, quiet way that happens when everything finally lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

Her words kept echoing, soft but sharp — the dad who keeps the fire going… the safest place in the room… He didn’t know how to hold that kind of love. Not the loud, chasing kind. The kind that came with stillness.

He felt her thumb still tracing his wrist, small, deliberate, grounding.

He breathed out, the sound shaky around the edges. “You know,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough, “for a long time, I thought love only worked if you earned it — if you kept proving yourself worthy of it.”
His hand found her cheek, his thumb brushing just below her eye where the firelight caught a trace of tears. “But then you came in and didn’t ask me to perform. You just… saw me. Stayed anyway.”

He smiled then, small but real — the kind that crept in slowly and stayed.
“I love you too, Lennon Rae,” he said quietly, the words landing steady and certain. “For every reason you listed… and for all the ones I’ll never find the right words for.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the space between them filled with the crackle of the dying fire and Wren’s soft breaths from the tent.

“This,” he whispered, almost to himself. “This is the kind of forever I want to believe in. Not the one that burns too bright and disappears — the one that stays warm. The one that keeps showing up.”

He kissed her again — slower this time, the kind of kiss that carried more gratitude than urgency, more truth than performance.
When they broke apart, he didn’t move far, his thumb still tracing idle lines along her jaw.

“Wren’s gonna wake up tomorrow,” he said with a faint smile, “and see the ashes and think we fought a dragon.”
His laugh was quiet, breathy. “And maybe she’ll be right. Maybe we just did — all the things that try to scare you out of letting someone in.”

He let the words fade, pulled her a little closer, until the only thing left between them was warmth — firelight fading, the hum of the trees, her heartbeat pressed steady against his.

He exhaled, eyes on the stars she and Wren had claimed earlier.
“Guess it’s our turn to keep shining,” he murmured.

And for the first time in a long time, Kai didn’t doubt that they would.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon felt her whole body still — not from shock, but from the kind of quiet that comes when the moment you’ve been afraid to hope for finally becomes real.

She didn’t even try to blink away the tears this time. They weren’t the heavy kind. They were soft — warm, grateful, human.

When he said I love you too, Lennon Rae, she felt it everywhere. Like the words seeped into her skin, filled every space she’d kept hidden. No music, no audience, no build-up — just truth, whispered into the air between them.

Her fingers curled gently around the fabric of his shirt near his chest, grounding herself in the steady rhythm beneath it. The sound of the fire faded into background noise, like the whole world had dimmed just to let this exist.

“You don’t have to earn it,” she said quietly, her voice a whisper against his collarbone. “You already did — just by being you.”

She lifted her head a little, their foreheads still almost touching. “That’s what I’ve always seen, Kai. Not the headlines or the version of you people think they know. Just… this. The man who shows up. The one who doesn’t realize he’s already everything he was trying so hard to become.”

Her voice softened further, trembling a little with what she’d held in for years.
“You probably already know this,” she said, a small, nervous smile ghosting across her lips, “but if you don’t… I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head at herself. “It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t some teenage phase I was supposed to outgrow. It was you — it’s always been you.”

Her eyes found his, bright in the flickering firelight. “Back then, I used to wish I could’ve loved you properly. The way I wanted to. Not as part of some PR fairytale or Disney Channel contract or whatever story they were selling about us. But even knowing what it was… even knowing what it wasn’t, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one single moment.”

She brushed her thumb over his jaw, slow and certain. “Every version of us — the messy, the public, the almosts — it all got us here. Right here.”

Kai’s smile flickered through the firelight, small and awed, and it pulled one from her too.

When he mentioned Wren waking up and thinking they’d fought a dragon, Lennon let out a soft laugh that caught halfway between amusement and tenderness. “She’ll be the first to draw it,” she said, brushing her thumb over his jaw again. “And she’ll make sure it’s got glitter and wings, just so everyone knows we survived something magical.”

Kai’s quiet laugh against her hair made her heart tighten in the best way. She leaned into it, into him, until her head found that spot on his shoulder that already felt like home.

The stars above them shimmered faintly — the same ones Wren had claimed earlier — and Lennon smiled through the quiet, her words half a murmur.

“Then I guess we better keep shining,” she said, echoing him softly. “Even when it gets dark. Especially then.”

She tilted her face up just enough to meet his eyes again, her voice steady now, threaded with the kind of certainty that only came once in a lifetime.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kai. Not from you. Not from her. Whatever comes next — the chaos, the quiet, the dragons — I’m in. All of it.”

Her hand found his again under the blanket, fingers fitting easily back into place. “You keep the fire going,” she whispered, smiling. “I’ll make sure we don’t run out of stars.”

And when she leaned in to kiss him this time, it wasn’t hesitant or careful. It was sure — the kind of kiss that didn’t need promises because it already was one.

When they finally pulled apart, the fire had burned down to embers, the night wrapped close around them. Lennon glanced toward the tent, then back up at the sky, her head still resting against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she breathed, quiet but certain. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t answer right away.
He couldn’t.

There were some words that didn’t want an answer — they just wanted to live in the air for a while, to settle in between heartbeats until they became part of you.
And this… this was one of them.

He looked at her — really looked — the way a person does when they’re afraid to blink and lose the moment. The tears in her eyes caught the firelight, soft and glinting, and for a second, it didn’t feel like they were out here in the backyard anymore. It felt bigger than that — like the universe had tilted just a little, just enough to make room for what was finally happening.

Sixteen.
The word hung in his head like a ghost and a prayer all at once.

He let out a shaky laugh, running his thumb along her jaw, tracing the path of her words. “Sixteen, huh?” His voice was barely above a whisper, threaded with disbelief and wonder. “Guess I’m a little late to the party.”

He shook his head, smiling softly. “But if it took all of that — every version, every mess — to get us here, then I wouldn’t change a thing either.”

His thumb lingered against her skin, memorizing the warmth of her there. “You should know something, though. Back then… I always saw you too. Not just the kid with the voice that could stop a room — but the way you laughed when the cameras weren’t on, the way you made everything around you feel lighter without even trying.”

He swallowed, voice softening. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to reach for it. For you.”

Her eyes met his, and the look in them — steady, unflinching — made something in him unclench that he didn’t even realize had been tight for years.

“So yeah,” he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against hers again. “Maybe it was always gonna be us. We just needed a few detours to figure out how to show up right.”

The fire was nearly gone now, reduced to glowing coals and the faint scent of smoke. Wren stirred inside the tent, a soft little sigh before the world went quiet again.

Kai smiled into the dark. “You hear that?” he whispered. “That’s the sound of peace. Might be the rarest thing I’ve ever had.”

Lennon’s hand found his again under the blanket, her fingers threading through his like they’d always belonged there.

He turned his head just enough to kiss her temple — slow, reverent — before letting his voice fall low beside her ear. “We’ll keep the fire going,” he said. “And if it ever goes out, we’ll start another. That’s what we do.”

Her promise — I’ll make sure we don’t run out of stars — echoed in him like music.

He smiled, the kind that lived somewhere deep, where love turns into certainty. “You and me, then,” he whispered. “Dragons, chaos, quiet… all of it.”

She nodded against his shoulder, and he pressed another kiss into her hair, breathing her in — smoke, and sweetness, and something that finally felt like home.

Above them, the sky stretched wide and endless, the faint shimmer of their claimed constellation still burning soft and stubborn.

Kai looked up at it one last time before closing his eyes, his hand still wrapped around hers.
“Yeah,” he murmured, barely more than a breath. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

And for once, he didn’t just hope it.
He knew.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t speak right away.

She couldn’t.

Because everything he’d just said — the way he said it, quiet but steady, like he’d been carrying the words for years and finally found the courage to let them out — hit her straight in the chest.
She felt it in the softest, most fragile parts of her. The parts that had been waiting for this without ever daring to name it.

Her eyes stayed on him for a long moment — on the way the fading firelight painted his jaw in gold and shadow, on the little crease between his brows when he was trying to keep his heart from showing too much. It was useless. She could see every piece of it.

“Sixteen,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, a small, trembled laugh escaping. “Yeah… you were kind of late to the party.”

She smiled then, a real one — tired and bright all at once. “But I think I liked the detours. Even the hard ones. They made this feel earned.”

She shifted, just enough to turn toward him fully, their knees brushing beneath the blanket. “I saw you back then too, you know. Not the press version or the kid they told you to be. I saw you. The one who was quieter than people realized. The one who wanted to make everything mean something.”

Her fingers lifted to his collar, tracing the edge of it, like she was learning him all over again. “You didn’t have to reach for me,” she whispered. “I was already there. I just didn’t know how to say it without breaking the illusion they built around us.”

Her voice softened, raw but certain. “And even if it was for the cameras — the songs, the PR, the picture-perfect smiles — it still meant something to me. Every bit of it. Because even in the middle of all that noise, I knew it was real somewhere underneath.”

She paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the tent, where Wren’s soft little sigh drifted through the quiet. The sound made her chest ache in the gentlest way. “And now look at us,” she murmured. “Somehow, we made it back here — older, a little bruised maybe, but… right where we’re supposed to be.”

She reached for his hand again beneath the blanket, threading her fingers through his, her thumb brushing slow circles against his skin. “I don’t know what tomorrow looks like,” she admitted, voice faint but sure. “But I do know that I want to keep showing up. For her. For you. For this.”

When he leaned his forehead against hers, she let her eyes fall closed, her words coming out softer — a confession stitched into the space between them.

“I used to think love had to be fireworks or heartbreak to mean something,” she said. “But this… this is the kind that lasts. The kind you build a life around.”

She tilted her head up just enough to kiss him, slow and steady, like punctuation at the end of a truth she’d been writing for years. When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath.

“So, yeah,” she whispered, echoing him with a faint smile. “You and me. Dragons, chaos, quiet — all of it.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “And when the fire burns low, I’ll be right here helping you start another.”

Then she leaned into him again, her head finding that familiar place beneath his chin, her hand still tangled in his. The night wrapped around them like it was listening.

The stars above them shimmered, small and steady — theirs now, undeniably.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t just hope she was right.
She knew it.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t even try to answer at first.
There wasn’t a word big enough for what she’d just said — or small enough to fit in the space between her breaths.

So he just looked at her.

At the way the firelight curled around her features, soft and gold, catching on the damp shimmer of her lashes. At the way her voice still trembled a little when she said things that mattered — and the way she said them anyway.

She’d always been brave like that.
Even when she didn’t think she was.

His throat tightened as he watched her. Sixteen. Detours. Fireworks and quiet. Every word she’d said stitched something back together inside him that he hadn’t even realized was torn.

When she settled against him again — small, certain, home — he let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his chest for years.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low, rough-edged from everything it carried. “We made it back.”

He turned his head slightly, letting his lips brush her hairline as he spoke — not for her to hear every word, but to feel it.

“You know what’s funny?” he whispered. “All those years, I thought peace was gonna come when everything slowed down — when the noise stopped, when the lights faded. But it wasn’t that. It was this. You. Me. Her. The small stuff. The kind of quiet that means something because of who’s in it.”

His fingers tightened lightly around hers, just enough to make sure she knew he was holding on.

“I used to write songs about forever,” he said after a beat. “But I don’t think I ever understood what that word meant until now.”

He smiled against her hair — tired, honest, full. “It’s not the perfect moments. It’s the staying. It’s lighting the fire again when it burns out. It’s… starting over, together.”

The last of the flames folded into embers, the air cooling around them. The world was so still it almost didn’t feel real — like even the stars had stopped moving just to listen.

He looked up at them — the ones Wren had claimed as theirs — and for the first time, he didn’t wish on them. He didn’t have to.

Lennon’s hand shifted slightly in his, the smallest movement, but it grounded him like gravity. He turned back to her, pressing a slow, quiet kiss to her temple.

“Guess we’re both right,” he said softly. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

He pulled the blanket a little tighter around them, the gesture instinctive, protective. Wren murmured something in her sleep — a sleepy, mumbled sound that almost made him laugh.

Kai smiled into the dark, his voice barely more than breath.
“Go on, little dragon,” he whispered, his arm tightening around Lennon. “We’ve got you.”

Then, quieter still, just for the woman in his arms:

“And I’ve got you too.”

The night didn’t answer back — it didn’t have to. The fire’s last glow faded, the stars kept shining, and the three of them — tangled in love and quiet and belonging — stayed exactly where they were.

Home.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon (https://i.ibb.co/jvDbdtWw/IMG-7816.png) squinted at the chaos in front of her — flour-dusted counters, apple peels curling like confetti, the dough refusing to cooperate. She sighed.

“Okay,” she muttered, pressing her hands to her hips. “So, in case it’s not obvious… this is a cry for help.”

She turned toward Kai, who was leaning against the counter, clearly amused. “You can wipe that look off your face. Some of us are trying to impress your mother, not sabotage her kitchen.”

Her voice softened — just a little. “She’s hosting Thanksgiving. I can’t just show up with store-bought pie. She’ll think you’re dating a fraud.”

A small laugh escaped her as she tried to re-roll the dough. “And before you say it — no, I don’t care that she likes me. This is strategic. I’m cementing my position as ‘the girl who brings dessert and doesn’t burn it.’”

She frowned at the dough again. “Except, apparently, I do burn it. Or at least emotionally damage it.”

When he chuckled under his breath, she shot him a mock glare. “Don’t even start, Mercer. You’re the one who said, ‘It’ll be fun, babe — we’ll bake together!’” She held up the mangled crust like evidence. “This is not fun. This is a domestic disaster in real time.”

He reached for one of her mixing bowls, and she leaned forward, catching his wrist. “Wait — before you fix it and make me look worse, at least let me pretend I’m learning something.”

Her tone lightened, teasing again. “You’re too good at this. It’s infuriating. How do you even slice apples that thin? You’ve got producer hands, not baker hands.”

He said something smart — probably something smug — and she rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “You are so not helping my case with your perfect pie geometry. If your mom sees us together, she’s gonna think I’m the one freeloading off your talent.”

She brushed a bit of flour off her cheek, realizing it only made things worse. “You realize this is how Hallmark movies start, right? The stressed-out overachiever who pretends she’s not terrified to meet the mom — and the guy who pretends not to notice.”

Her words trailed for a second, softer now. “Except… I think yours would actually have a happy ending.”

She reached for the sugar bowl and found it empty. “Wait—did you already use all the sugar? Oh my God.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re out here freelancing as a pastry chef while I’m emotionally unraveling over apple ratios.”

She stopped long enough to glance up at him, her smile pulling gentler. “Still,” she said quietly, “I like this. The trying part. Even if I fail spectacularly.”

Then, after a beat — the kind that carried more honesty than she meant to give away:
“Your mom’s important to you. So I want to get it right.”

Her gaze met his — steady this time, unguarded. “Not perfect. Just right.”

The timer beeped faintly in the background, and Lennon exhaled a shaky laugh, brushing flour off her palms. “Alright,” she murmured, voice slipping back to playful. “Moment of truth. If this pie’s edible, you’re telling her I made it. If it’s not…”

She smirked, sliding the oven mitts on. “We’re blaming Wren.”

She bent to open the oven, heat spilling out like applause, the smell of cinnamon and courage filling the room.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai bit back a laugh, hard enough that it came out as a strangled cough instead.
He lifted a hand, feigning innocence. “Hey, I didn’t say anything—” he started, but the look Lennon shot him over her shoulder could’ve burned the crust right off the pie.

He grinned anyway. “Okay, okay, first of all… emotional damage to dough isn’t real. I Googled it once during quarantine, and the internet said it’s not diagnosable. So we’re safe there.”

She shot him another look, and he had to press his lips together to keep from smiling outright. “And second, for the record, I didn’t say it’d be fun because I thought you’d enjoy it. I said it’d be fun because watching you narrate your own baking breakdown like a Food Network hostage situation is objectively hilarious.”

He gestured broadly at the counter — the flour cloud hanging in the air, the dough crime scene, the apple massacre. “This is art. Like performance art. You’re Banksy with a rolling pin.”

When she groaned and pointed her rolling pin at him like a weapon, he lifted both hands. “Alright, truce! But you can’t blame me for being good at this. My mom had me peeling apples before I could spell ‘peeling.’”

He reached around her, grabbing the bowl she’d been trying to rescue, and gave the dough a practiced fold. “See, you just gotta be gentle with it,” he said, keeping his tone serious but eyes teasing. “Talk nice to it. Whisper encouraging things. Maybe hum a ballad. I recommend something mid-tempo, emotional bridge.”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re impossible, and he laughed. “Yeah, but you love it.”

He stole a quick glance at her then — the streak of flour across her cheek, the mess of her hair, the focus in her eyes — and damn if his heart didn’t just do that thing again. That ridiculous, unhelpful, completely traitorous thing where it forgot how to keep rhythm.

When she said your mom’s important to you, it landed softer than anything else in the room. He felt it in his chest — the way she meant it, the way she wanted to get it right. He reached out, brushing a bit of flour off her jaw with his thumb before he could stop himself.

“She’s gonna love you,” he said simply, like it was fact — because to him, it was. “You could show up with a burnt Pop-Tart and she’d still tell everyone her son’s dating a goddess who bakes.”

The timer beeped again, and he straightened with mock ceremony. “Moment of truth,” he declared, stepping back like an announcer clearing the stage. “Will the pie rise to glory, or will the ghost of Julia Child haunt us forever? Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.”

When she pulled open the oven, the smell hit him — cinnamon, butter, sugar, and victory (or at least survivable defeat). The crust was… not perfect, but definitely not a disaster. He tilted his head, squinting in exaggerated critique.

“Okay, okay… I’d give it a solid eight out of ten,” he said, pretending to jot something down on an invisible clipboard. “Bonus points for style. Deduct one for emotional trauma sustained by the dough.”

She gave him that look again — the one that meant she was about to either laugh or throw something — and he couldn’t help it. He leaned in, low and conspiratorial. “You know,” he murmured, “if it really does taste bad, we can always tell my mom Wren made it. Everyone loves Wren. She’s the untouchable brand.”

He smirked. “We’ll just say she freelances in pastry arts when she’s not fighting dragons.”

Then, softer — the humor still there, but threaded with warmth — “But, hey… for what it’s worth? You already got it right.”

He nodded toward the pie, then back to her. “You showed up. That’s the part that counts.”

A beat passed, then his grin returned, crooked and smug. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go hide the evidence of the Great Sugar Shortage of 2025 before Wren finds out and files a grievance with Santa.”

He winked, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands — and maybe, just maybe, brushing it playfully across the flour on her cheek before ducking out of reach.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon stilled, rolling pin in hand, eyes narrowing as she slowly turned to face him.
“Oh, you didn’t say anything,” she said, voice deceptively calm. “But you were absolutely thinking it. Loudly. Like—megaphone-level loudly.”

When he started in on the dough’s emotional damage, she let out an incredulous laugh. “You Googled it? During quarantine?” she repeated, shaking her head as she dusted flour off her hands. “That might actually be worse than me stress-baking right now.”

But when he called her a “Food Network hostage,” she lost it completely — pressing a flour-covered hand to her face to smother a laugh. “You’re the worst. You know that, right? The actual worst.”

Then came Banksy with a rolling pin.
Lennon pointed the rolling pin straight at his chest. “You’re really committed to your own death, huh?” she said, but her lips betrayed her, twitching upward. “And for the record, this is called dedication. Not chaos.”

When he mentioned his mom, she softened a little, setting the pin down. “That’s actually kind of sweet,” she admitted. “So this runs in the family, then — the Mercer men and their weirdly competent domestic skills.”

She glanced sideways as he reached around her, his arm brushing hers, and tried to focus on the dough instead of how warm his hand looked against the bowl. “Gentle, huh?” she said, voice dipping somewhere between teasing and self-conscious. “Okay, but if I start serenading the crust, that’s on you.”

At his yeah, but you love it, Lennon gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk — except it didn’t quite land because she was fighting a smile. “Careful,” she warned. “You’re on thin ice, Mercer. One more line like that and I’m putting your smug ass in charge of cleanup duty.”

When his hand brushed her jaw, her breath caught. Just for a second.
“That’s… that’s not fair,” she said quietly, eyes flicking up to his. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m trying to impress your mother through pastry.”

And then, because the silence that followed was too charged for her own sanity, she grabbed the oven mitt and announced, “Moment of truth,” like it was a line in a movie.

When he gave his mock critique, she huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Eight out of ten? Wow, you really do grade like a producer — never a perfect score, just enough to keep me hungry for approval.”

At the mention of blaming Wren, Lennon laughed for real this time — a small, bright sound that filled the kitchen. “Oh, she’d take full credit,” she said. “She’d be like, ‘Miss Lennon was my sous chef, but I did all the magic parts.’”

But when he got serious — you already got it right — her laughter faltered, replaced by something quieter, steadier.
She met his eyes, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. “You really think so?” she asked. “Because I swear, the last time I saw your mom, I had purple streaks in my hair and called her ‘dude.’ I think I’ve got a little PR work to do.”

He just kept looking at her like she didn’t need to fix a damn thing.
That did something to her.

“Okay,” she said finally, exhaling. “Fine. Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’ll like me even if I burn the crust.” A beat. “But if she doesn’t, I’m blaming you for hyping me up.”

When he made his grand exit with that towel, she gasped, feigning outrage as he swiped it across her cheek. “KAI!” she yelled, laughing so hard she nearly dropped the pie plate. “You did not just—okay, that’s it. I’m making you scrub this counter until it shines.”

She chased him halfway to the sink, still laughing, flour now dusting both of them.
“Fine!” she called, leaning against the counter with a grin she couldn’t fight. “Go ahead, run. But if your mom asks who destroyed your kitchen, I’m telling her it was you.”

Then, softer — mostly to herself as she glanced back at the cooling pie —
“…and that it was worth it.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai froze mid-escape, one hand on the faucet, the other holding the towel like a weapon of mass flour destruction.

He turned slowly — mock-serious, eyes narrowed, lips twitching. “You’re threatening a man in his own kitchen,” he said, voice all low gravitas. “You realize that’s a dangerous move, right? We’ve got a code in the Mercer family.”

He walked back toward her, dusted in flour like a ghost of domestic failure. “See, here’s the thing—” he leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing a generational secret “—the Mercer men only gain their domestic magic once they find their perfect match. It’s genetic. Ancient folklore. Probably written on a casserole dish somewhere.”

He gestured toward the pie cooling on the counter, the crust golden and slightly uneven but undeniably theirs. “So technically, if this thing tastes even half decent, you might’ve just activated my powers.”

He squinted down at the pie with exaggerated intensity. “Can’t confirm until the tasting ceremony, though. Legend says the chosen one has to take the first bite while the other watches dramatically from the shadows.”

Lennon shot him a look over her shoulder — the one that said you’re out of your mind — but he was already grinning, the kind of grin that reached his eyes.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” he said, smirking. “You’re the one who started this whole ‘strategic dessert diplomacy’ plan. I’m just fulfilling my ancient Mercer destiny.”

When she didn’t immediately respond, he reached past her, stole a tiny piece of crust, and popped it into his mouth. He paused theatrically, hand over his heart. “Oh, yeah,” he said after a long beat. “Yep. Magic officially confirmed. You did it, Lennon Rae. You’ve unlocked the domestic gods. My mom’s gonna build a shrine in your honor out of pie tins.”

He leaned against the counter beside her again, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You realize what this means, right?” he asked, his tone a perfect blend of mock-gravity and affection. “You can never leave. Mercer family law states you’re now responsible for all future holiday desserts. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Arbor Day… it’s in the fine print.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, and that soft, reluctant smile broke him a little every time.

He bumped her shoulder gently with his. “Hey,” he said, quieter now, still smiling. “Don’t worry so much, alright? My mom’s gonna love you.”

He tilted his head, eyes softening as he looked at her. “She’ll take one look at you — at us — and she’ll get it. She’s gonna see the way you fit here, the way this fits.”

The teasing edge in his voice faded, replaced by something steadier, something that felt like certainty. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not with her. Not with me.”

The pie steamed gently between them, the kitchen smelling like sugar and warmth and whatever the opposite of chaos was.

Kai’s grin returned then, smaller but still bright. “Besides,” he added lightly, “if she doesn’t love you, I’ll just tell her you’re the reason my domestic magic finally kicked in. She’ll take that as fate.”

He bumped her shoulder again, softer this time. “So yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “We’re good. You’re good.”

And for once, it didn’t sound like reassurance. It sounded like truth.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon blinked at him, a laugh catching somewhere between disbelief and affection. “You’re out of your mind,” she said, turning fully toward him, hands on her hips. “Ancient folklore? On a casserole dish? That’s your big Mercer family legacy?”

She gestured toward the pie with mock solemnity. “Wow. Centuries of domestic greatness, and it all comes down to this slightly lopsided apple pie.”

When he called it a tasting ceremony, she tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You mean to tell me you’ve turned my panic-baking into a religious experience?” she asked. “Should I light a candle? Say a prayer to Saint Betty Crocker before you take your sacred bite?”

But the corner of her mouth twitched when he leaned in like that — all dramatic and smug and too close for her composure. She swatted at him lightly with the oven mitt. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, laughing now, the sound breaking through the warm quiet of the kitchen.

Then he stole a bite of crust, and her jaw dropped. “You did not just—Kai!” she said, reaching to grab the towel from him, but he dodged, grinning around his words. “Unbelievable. You’re supposed to wait for the official presentation!”

Still, when he called it magic, her laugh softened into something smaller, quieter. “Magic, huh?” she said, eyes flicking toward the pie, then back at him. “I think it’s just dumb luck and too much butter.”

But when he started talking about never leaving, about Mercer family law, she just shook her head, smiling to herself. “Oh, right. The fine print,” she said, pretending to sigh. “Guess I should’ve read the terms and conditions before I started dating a Mercer. I didn’t realize ‘mandatory pie duty’ was part of the deal.”

She nudged him with her elbow when he bumped her shoulder, trying not to let how natural it felt show too much. “You know,” she said softly, “you really shouldn’t be this confident about me meeting your mom. I was a teenage disaster the last time she saw me.”

Her tone was teasing, but there was truth there — the old nerves, the memory of their Disney Channel days and all the noise that came with it.

Lennon leaned against the counter beside him, mirroring his stance but letting her voice drop a little. “She always had that look, though. Like she could see straight through the PR version of us. That scared me when I was sixteen.” She smiled faintly. “Now it kinda makes me want to hug her.”

When he said you don’t have to prove anything, she went still for a beat. Her hands stilled on the counter, flour dusting her fingertips.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I still want her to like me. Not because she’s your mom — because she’s your mom. You talk about her like she’s the one who taught you how to love people right. So, yeah… I guess I just want her to see what you see.”

Her throat tightened, and she tried to shake it off, reaching for humor again. “Also, if she doesn’t, I fully plan to bribe her with dessert. I can weaponize cinnamon like nobody’s business.”

The teasing didn’t quite hide the warmth in her expression when she looked back up at him.

He bumped her shoulder again, gentler this time, and she smiled — small, genuine. “You really believe that, don’t you?” she said softly. “That I fit here.”

She exhaled, glancing at the pie between them. “I think I do too.”

Then, lighter — her grin returning — “But just so you know, if your mom ends up liking the pie more than me, I’m holding you personally responsible. That’s also in the fine print.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face — the kind that started slow, tugging at the corners of his mouth before it took over completely. He looked at her like she’d just walked straight into his favorite punchline.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, lifting his hands in mock defense, “the Mercer folklore is highly classified information. We don’t share casserole-based prophecies with just anyone. You should feel honored. Next Christmas, I’ll show you the scrolls — they’re written in gravy.”

He let out a laugh, the sound low and warm, before nodding toward the pie. “And second — hey, this ‘slightly lopsided apple pie’ might be the key to the whole dynasty. It’s got rustic charm. My mom’s gonna love that. She’s all about ‘character.’ Which is good, because this thing’s got loads of it.”

When Lennon teased him about turning her panic-baking into a religious experience, he pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Excuse you — Saint Betty Crocker is absolutely in the Mercer Hall of Fame. Right next to Saint Instant Mashed Potatoes and the patron saint of perfectly toasted marshmallows.”

Her laugh filled the kitchen again, and he felt it — the way it warmed everything, softened the space between them until it didn’t feel like a mess anymore. Just… them.

When she started worrying about his mom, though, he could hear the shift in her voice — that old thread of doubt woven through her teasing. So he bumped her shoulder again, gentler this time, the grin still there but softer now.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter. “You forget — I wasn’t exactly the golden child either.”

He leaned back against the counter beside her, gesturing vaguely toward himself. “Middle kid. Total stealth chaos. My brothers broke stuff, got caught, learned lessons. I broke stuff, blamed it on the wind, and somehow got away with it.” He smirked. “Mom says it was the dimples. I say it was strategy.”

He glanced at her then, tone shifting just enough to show the truth beneath the joke. “She’s seen me at my worst, Len. Way before I figured out who I wanted to be. So trust me — if she could survive that version of me, she’s gonna adore you.”

Her brows lifted, and he grinned wider. “I mean, yeah, she might still have teenage you in her head — purple streaks, eyeliner rebellion, calling her ‘dude’ — but honestly?” He shrugged. “She loved you even back then. She just didn’t get to know you yet. Now she will. And she’s gonna see exactly what I see.”

He nudged her again, eyes warm. “You’re the kind of person people just… root for. She’s gonna feel that the second you walk in.”

The pie steamed quietly between them, filling the air with cinnamon and butter and something that felt suspiciously like peace.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And if she doesn’t — which she will, but hypothetically — we’ll just lean into it. You can charm her with your ‘weaponized cinnamon’ and I’ll remind her I’m the middle child. She’ll immediately take pity on both of us.”

He shot her a sideways grin, bumping her shoulder once more. “Face it, Rae. Between the folklore, the dimples, and your dangerously good bribes, we’re unstoppable.”

He looked down at the pie again, then back at her, his tone light but certain. “And hey — if she ends up liking the pie more than you, I’ll handle it. I’ll start an argument about crust thickness, distract her, and casually redirect the praise your way. I’m a professional.”

He paused, his grin turning softer. “But between you and me?” He lowered his voice like he was sharing another Mercer family secret. “She’s gonna love you. Way more than the pie.”

He winked, bumping her shoulder once more for good measure. “Even if that breaks every law of Mercer baking tradition.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms as she stared him down — or at least tried to, because the grin on his face was making it impossible to stay annoyed.

“Written in gravy,” she repeated, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was even entertaining this. “You’re insufferable. Actual, walking kitchen chaos. You know that, right?”

But the corner of her mouth was already twitching, her voice softening around the edges. “Although, if the scrolls are real, I fully expect a dramatic unveiling ceremony. Candlelight. Gregorian chants. Maybe a choir of potatoes singing in harmony.”

When he called the pie rustic charm, she snorted. “Rustic charm? That’s what we’re calling ‘barely held together but trying its best’ now?” she teased, turning back to glance at it. “Well, I guess that tracks. It’s on brand for both of us.”

She caught his next line and shot him a look, half laughing. “Did you just canonize instant mashed potatoes? I swear to God, Kai, if you actually have a family shrine with a gravy-scented candle, I’m calling a documentary crew.”

But then he laughed, that real kind — the one that didn’t hide behind anything — and it hit her how long it had been since she’d heard it like that. Unfiltered. Easy.

She looked down for a second, letting the sound settle in her chest.

When he mentioned not being the golden child, her brow arched. “Oh, right, stealth chaos Mercer,” she said, pretending to think. “That checks out. You had that suspiciously calm energy in interviews — like you were secretly setting fires just off camera.”

She laughed when he said dimples but her voice went quieter when he went on, and she glanced up at him, her expression softening. “You really don’t give yourself enough credit,” she said. “Even back then, you were the one holding it all together. You made everyone else look like they knew what they were doing. Including me.”

When he said she’s gonna adore you, Lennon exhaled slowly, trying to mask how much that landed. She traced her fingertip through a bit of flour on the counter, pretending to focus on that instead of the way her chest had just tightened.

“She always was too kind,” she murmured, smiling a little. “She could’ve told me I was an absolute disaster, but instead she made me cocoa and asked if I missed home.” Lennon laughed softly at the memory. “I think I told her I didn’t have time to miss anything. Which was code for ‘I definitely do but please don’t make me cry about it.’”

She looked over at him again, eyes a little shinier than before. “It’s weird, you know? Back then, everything was so loud. All the cameras and expectations and… versions of us. I don’t think I ever got to just be around you like this.”

Then, because the air felt too honest, she nudged him with her elbow and added lightly, “So yeah, if I can survive that, I can survive your mom.”

When he brought up weaponized cinnamon, she grinned, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m already planning my strategy. I’ll bring cookies as a distraction. Compliment her table settings. Maybe throw in a sob story about how I was orphaned by bad pie recipes.”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “You can handle the dimples and folklore angle. I’ll handle the pastry manipulation. Divide and conquer.”

When he said we’re unstoppable, she looked up at him again — and this time the smile that spread across her face was slow, genuine, and warm. “Unstoppable,” she repeated softly. “That’s… new. I like that.”

Then his last line landed, the one about her mom liking her more than the pie, and Lennon laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You really think you can out-charm your own mother for me?” she asked, her voice dipping lower, playful but tender. “That’s bold, Mercer. Borderline reckless.”

She stepped a little closer, bumping his shoulder back, eyes glinting. “But hey — if you’re wrong, and she ends up loving the pie more…”

Her mouth curved into a grin. “I’ll just tell her it was your recipe. Then we’ll both win.”

She turned back to the counter, brushing a bit of flour from her hands, and added quietly — almost like she didn’t mean for him to hear it —

“Still… I really hope you’re right about her.”

Then she looked up again, that teasing spark returning just in time. “Now are you gonna help me clean this, or do I have to call the flour exorcist to handle the Mercer curse?”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai laughed, low and unbothered, because yeah — he probably deserved that one.

“Alright, first of all,” he said, straightening and gesturing broadly toward the mess around them, “you make it sound like I chose to be kitchen chaos incarnate. This is generational. It’s inherited. We can’t all be blessed with pastry serenity, Lennon Rae.”

He paused, tapping his chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Although, the potato choir idea? Noted. I’ll pitch that at the next Mercer family summit. We’ll gather in the sacred kitchen, sing hymns to Saint Crockpot, and close with a gravy benediction.”

When she rolled her eyes, he grinned, but his chest felt lighter — the kind of light that came from watching her laugh here, in this little patch of ordinary life, where nothing needed to be perfect.

And still, when she said rustic charm, he winced dramatically. “You wound me. I’ll have you know ‘barely held together but trying its best’ is the Mercer family motto. It’s right there on the crest, above the spatula and below the passive-aggressive casserole.”

Her laughter pulled one out of him too — the real kind, the one he hadn’t felt stuck behind a microphone or in front of a camera in years.

But when she brought up his mom, the humor softened around the edges. He looked down, brushing some stray flour off the counter, voice dipping low. “Yeah, she’s… kind of the best.”

He smiled at the thought, eyes distant for a second. “Thing is, she’s seen every version of me — the good kid, the stage brat, the middle-child ghost no one was really watching because my brothers were busy breaking bones and winning trophies. I wasn’t bad, exactly… just good at going unnoticed when I wanted to.”

He shrugged, still smiling, but smaller now. “Guess it’s easier to joke about being the problem than admit I was just a kid trying to keep up.”

Then he looked back at Lennon, eyes warm again. “But you don’t have to worry. If my mom loved that version of me, she’s gonna love you. You don’t have to charm her or bribe her or weaponize cinnamon — though, admittedly, that sounds incredible.”

He nudged her gently, his shoulder brushing hers. “She’s got this thing about people who show up as themselves. Always said the world gets loud enough without us pretending to be someone else.”

He smiled faintly. “So, yeah. She’ll like you. Not in spite of who you were at sixteen, but because of who you are now.”

Lennon said something under her breath about hoping he was right, and Kai caught it — didn’t call her out on it, just let his hand drift to rest over hers on the counter for a second. “Trust me,” he murmured. “I’m right.”

Then, before the air could get too heavy, he glanced around the disaster zone of the kitchen and grinned. “Now, as for this flour exorcism you mentioned…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I know a guy. Specializes in hauntings caused by overconfident bakers and middle-child energy.”

He reached for the towel and flicked a puff of flour her way before she could dodge. “But his rates are high, so you might have to pay him in pie.”

Lennon gasped, scandalized, and he laughed — the kind that came from somewhere deep, somewhere happy.

“Relax,” he said, ducking away before she could retaliate. “You summoned me, remember? Domestic magic, folklore, and all that.” He gestured to himself with exaggerated pride. “I’m your flour exorcist and your cleanup crew. Congratulations — you’re officially dating a one-man kitchen cult.”

He reached for the rag again, brushing a streak of flour off her cheek, softer this time. “And for the record,” he said, voice gentler now, “you’re gonna be just fine.”

He gave her that easy grin again — the one that carried both the joke and the truth beneath it — then added, “Now grab a sponge, Saint Lennon. Let’s prove to the ancestors we can clean as well as we conjure.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon blinked at him, then pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh — and failing spectacularly.

“A one-man kitchen cult,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That’s what you’re going with? Not, like, band frontman, or chart-topping producer, or even just guy with a working oven?” Her mouth curved as she eyed the mess around them. “You’re really locking in on kitchen cult leader as your brand?”

She pointed at the flour explosion coating half the counter. “And for the record, this doesn’t scream inherited magic, Kai. This screams, ‘a ghost sneezed in self-defense.’”

When he mentioned the Mercer family motto, she laughed — soft and genuine, the kind that crinkled her eyes. “Barely held together but trying its best?” she said. “That sounds less like a family crest and more like the title of your memoir.”

But her teasing softened when he talked about his mom. The shift in his tone pulled her in, quieted something in her chest. She leaned a little closer, her voice gentle now. “You weren’t invisible, you know,” she said. “You were just—steady. You had this way of making chaos look like it was supposed to happen.”

Her mouth lifted in a small, crooked smile. “And yeah, you joked your way through most of it, but I don’t think anyone ever missed you. You were the gravity holding the rest of it together.”

When he said his mom would love her, Lennon didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him — the easy way he said it, the quiet certainty that made it sound like fact instead of hope.

She swallowed, glancing down at their hands when his brushed over hers. “That’s a lot of faith for a girl who once set her sleeve on fire making grilled cheese,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “But… thank you.”

Then, because lingering too long in that softness made her nervous, she arched a brow. “Also, for the record, I absolutely plan to weaponize cinnamon. I don’t care if she likes me for me — I’m still stacking the odds.”

When he flicked flour her way, she gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, you did not just—”

He did.

“Alright, that’s it, cult boy,” she said, grabbing a handful of flour and lunging at him, barely missing as he dodged out of reach. “You wanna start a flour war? Fine, but just know I will win.”

The kitchen dissolved into laughter and chaos — streaks of white on countertops and clothes, both of them tripping over their own bad aim until Lennon finally leaned against the counter, out of breath, cheeks flushed.

“Okay,” she said between laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Truce. I don’t think your ancestors would approve of this level of sacrilege.”

When he reached out again, brushing the last bit of flour off her cheek, she stilled — the playfulness easing into something smaller, quieter. “You’re really sure about me meeting her, huh?” she asked softly, eyes searching his.

And when he said you’re gonna be just fine, it landed in that place between her ribs that always seemed to catch when he said things like that — not big declarations, not promises, just truths that felt like home.

She smiled — really smiled this time — and nudged him with her elbow. “Fine, flour exorcist,” she said lightly, though her voice was still a little too warm. “But if we’re summoning the Mercer ancestors, I’m making you do the dishes. They’ll expect a sacrifice.”

Then she grabbed a sponge, bumping his hip on her way past him toward the sink. “And next time,” she tossed over her shoulder, “we’re sticking to cookies. Less holy intervention required.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai grinned, brushing a streak of flour off his forearm and watching her like she was the best kind of chaos—his favorite kind.

“Cookies, huh?” he said, leaning against the counter, pretending to think. “That’s a dangerous downgrade for a cult leader. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You can’t just go from mystical pie summoner to… casual cookie guy. There are rankings to these things.”

She bumped his hip on her way past, and he let out a quiet laugh that melted straight into something softer. Watching her move around the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair a little wild, smile still tugging at the edges of her mouth—yeah. He could live in this kind of mess forever.

When she called him cult boy, he pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “Excuse you. We prefer the term ‘flourship leader.’ Much more dignified.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, and he lost it, laughing hard enough that he had to lean on the counter to catch his breath. “Okay, okay—fine. Cookies next time. But don’t think you’re getting out of doing the ritual chants.”

Lennon shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ridiculous, but there was color in her cheeks, and the sound of her laugh still hung between them.

Kai picked up a sponge from the sink, flicking a bit of suds her way just because he could. “You started this war, you know,” he teased. “I was an innocent bystander until the cinnamon-wielding witch over here declared martial law.”

She threw him that try me look again, and it made something warm tighten in his chest.

“Man,” he said under his breath, mostly to himself, “how did I get this lucky?”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But once it was there, hanging in the air with the smell of apples and sugar, he didn’t take it back.

Because it was true.

All the joking, the folklore, the flour fights—they made it easy to forget the part that scared him most: that someone like her could see him as more than the goofy kid who got lucky, who stumbled into music, into life, into her. But hearing her say he’d been the gravity, that he’d held things together… it made him want to believe it.

He stepped closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers as he reached for the dish towel. “For the record,” he said, quieter now, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m positive you’ll be fine when you meet her. She’ll see you the way I do.”

She glanced up, caught off guard, and he softened the moment with a smirk. “Which means she’ll probably think you’re way too good for me and ask how you’ve survived my culinary crimes this long.”

He turned back to the sink, rinsing off a bowl, but his voice stayed easy, steady. “Still… she’ll get it. Us. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”

When he looked back, Lennon was watching him, that quiet little smile still ghosting on her lips. He couldn’t help returning it, brushing the back of his hand against her arm as he passed her a clean plate.

“Team Mercer, huh?” he said, nodding toward the pie cooling on the counter. “Not bad for a couple of saints and sinners with a rolling pin.”

Then, with a grin that was equal parts challenge and affection, he added, “Next round, though—cookies. I’m bringing the folklore. You bring the fire extinguisher.”

He waited for her laugh—because it always came—and when it did, it was everything.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Flourship leader. You can’t even hear yourself, can you?”

She turned, pointing the towel at him like a gavel. “You say things like that and then expect me to take you seriously when you’re talking about ancient Mercer traditions and pastry rituals. You are one burnt crust away from being banned from your own kitchen.”

He grinned, that half-sheepish, half-smug look that always seemed to undo her, and she groaned dramatically. “God, you really are the same guy who tried to convince a whole film crew that the oven was haunted back in 2011.”

She tossed the towel over her shoulder, a smile tugging despite herself. “Spoiler alert: it was a loose pilot light. Not a vengeful carb spirit.”

But when he laughed—really laughed—it pulled something loose in her chest. It wasn’t loud or showy; it was the kind that rolled low and easy, familiar in the best way.

When he called her the cinnamon-wielding witch, she smirked, leaning back against the counter beside him. “That’s Dr. Cinnamon Witch, thank you very much. I earned my title in battle.”

He flicked suds at her, and she gasped, wide-eyed in mock outrage. “Did you just—?!” She grabbed the nearest thing—a measuring cup—and filled it with water, holding it threateningly above the sink. “You sure you wanna start a second kitchen war, cult boy? I don’t think your ancestors have the emotional stamina for another one.”

But then he said it. That small, unguarded how did I get this lucky—and everything in her stilled.

Her hand lowered, and for a second, she just looked at him. Really looked. The curve of his mouth, the way the light from the window cut through the flour haze and caught the flecks of gold in his eyes.

She smiled softly, the kind that didn’t need to be big to feel real. “You’re lucky?” she said quietly, shaking her head. “You make everything fun, Kai. Even the parts that are supposed to be stressful.”

When he said she’d be fine meeting his mom, she bit her lip, pretending to busy herself with rinsing a bowl, but her heart was somewhere else—caught between his certainty and the warmth in his voice.

“She’ll probably think I’m a menace,” Lennon said, forcing a grin, “or at least deeply unqualified to operate her son’s kitchen equipment. Which, honestly, fair.”

He passed her a plate, and their fingers brushed, a small touch that felt too electric for something so ordinary. She took it, setting it on the drying rack, but her voice came out quieter. “Still. Thanks, Kai. For saying that.”

When he said Team Mercer, she finally looked back at him, eyes soft. “Team Mercer, huh?” she echoed, smirking. “Careful, that sounds dangerously close to commitment. You might have to start printing shirts.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she added, “I get veto power on the slogans, though. I’m not walking around in public wearing Saints and Sinners with a Rolling Pin.”

Her laughter came easily then, bubbling up before she could stop it. “Alright, flourship leader,” she said, leaning one hip against the counter, “cookies next time. But no folklore, no hauntings, and absolutely no summoning rituals. Just… you, me, and maybe something we can actually eat without fear of divine punishment.”

Then, softer, with a small smile that lingered, she added, “Though, between us—this was kind of perfect.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai was absolutely, one hundred percent, pleased with himself.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with that lazy, crooked grin that meant he knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded and had no intention of stopping. “Can’t hear myself?” he repeated, feigning offense. “Lennon Rae, I’m a flourship leader. We operate exclusively through divine chaos and questionable acoustics.”

She gave him that towel-pointing glare — the one halfway between exasperation and affection — and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Hey, for the record,” he said, “that oven did make noises. You can’t prove it wasn’t haunted. Pilot lights are just how ghosts communicate in the modern age.”

When she called him out on it being a “vengeful carb spirit,” he couldn’t hold it anymore — his laugh came easy, rolling through the flour-thick air, the kind that warmed the room more than any oven could. “Okay, okay, fine. Maybe I embellished a little. But in my defense, the craft services guy looked terrified. I was creating an experience.”

The “Dr. Cinnamon Witch” line just about finished him. He straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh, pardon me,” he said, bowing deeply, hand over his heart. “Dr. Cinnamon Witch, PhD in Confectionery Combat. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of kitchen royalty.”

He barely ducked in time when she raised the measuring cup. “Whoa, whoa, truce! The ancestors can’t handle another uprising,” he said, laughing so hard he had to put a hand on the counter to steady himself.

She was radiant like that — messy, alive, glowing with something that didn’t come from the kitchen light at all. He wanted to bottle the sound of her laugh, the flour in her hair, the easy way she moved through the wreckage like it was some kind of home.

When she said you’re lucky, he didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Oh, I know I am,” he said, voice low but sure, eyes never leaving her. “Seriously. You walk into my life, and suddenly I’ve got folklore, chaos, and a kitchen that smells like a bakery caught in a snowstorm. I’ve never been luckier.”

He meant it — every word — and he didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

When she teased about Team Mercer shirts, he just hummed thoughtfully. “Too late. Already ordered a batch. Front says Saints and Sinners with a Rolling Pin, back says Join the Flourship. Limited edition.” He gave her a mock-serious look. “I’m thinking merch line. We’ll go global.”

Her laugh hit him like gravity — the kind of sound that made the world tilt back into place.

He watched her, utterly content, his chest full in that steady, impossible way that love sneaks up on you — not loud, not dramatic, just there. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “if this is what kitchen chaos looks like with you, I think we might be onto something holy after all.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but he caught the smile she tried to hide.

He pushed off the counter, closing the space between them just enough to brush a bit of flour from her shoulder — an excuse, maybe, but one he’d happily take. “Cookies next time,” he said softly, that amused edge still curling through his voice. “No folklore, no hauntings. Just you, me, and something edible. Deal.”

Then, after a beat, his grin widened. “But if they accidentally turn out perfect, I’m still claiming divine intervention. Can’t risk losing my brand.”

Her laugh came again, easy and bright, and Kai decided right then that he could spend forever trying to earn that sound.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon laughed softly under her breath, shaking her head as she wiped the counter with the corner of a towel. “You realize you’ve completely hijacked this kitchen with your cult of carbs, right?” she said, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and fondness. “We were supposed to be baking, not summoning spirits of the oven.”

When he quipped something back about divine chaos, she let out a mock groan, throwing the towel onto the counter. “Divine chaos, my ass. You’re just allergic to structure. You should’ve come with a warning label—may cause spontaneous messes and excessive laughter.”

His grin widened, and she sighed in fake exasperation, though her voice softened at the edges. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, “but at least you’re entertaining.”

When he teased about the haunted oven, Lennon shot him a look over her shoulder, the kind that could’ve melted the butter left on the counter. “You and your ghost stories. I’m starting to think the real haunting here is your ego.”

He said something back—probably smug—and she rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, quieter this time, her words more instinct than thought. “Otherwise, I’d have thrown this pie at you five minutes ago.”

He countered, teasing again about his divine luck, and Lennon just smiled, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You think you’re charming, don’t you?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

When he reached over and brushed the flour from her sleeve, she froze for a heartbeat. It was such a simple thing—small, easy—but it hit different. Slower. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric, the steadiness of him standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Cookies next time, huh?” she echoed, her voice quieter now, more sincere than teasing. “Fine. But if we burn them, I’m blaming you—and your flourship.”

He said something about divine intervention again, and Lennon smiled, shaking her head as she grabbed a rag to finish cleaning up. “Right. Divine intervention. That’s one way to put it,” she said, glancing at him through the faint haze of flour in the air.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. The laughter, the warmth, the soft hum of the room—it all felt suspended for a second, like the kind of moment that didn’t ask to be named.

She exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the counter.

“Yeah,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “definitely cookies next time.”

And for the first time in a long time, she realized she was already looking forward to it.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon sat cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, surrounded by a half-organized sea of photo prints. Test shots. Outtakes. Possible covers for the new EP.
Some were glossy, some matte — all of them pieces of something she couldn’t quite name yet.

The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, golden and soft, catching on the edges of the scattered photos. A mug of half-finished coffee sat within arm’s reach, cooling fast. Her laptop was open beside her, a half-typed note that just read:
Title ideas:
– something honest
– something that sounds like healing
– something that still hurts a little

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, eyes moving between the prints — the close-ups, the blurred ones, the accidental ones she secretly loved most.

That’s when she heard it — the familiar sound of the front door opening, the muffled laughter that always came before Wren’s voice.

“Lenny! We saw ducks!”

Her head lifted just in time to see Kai and Wren step into the living room — cheeks flushed from the cold, Wren still clutching a stick like it was treasure. Lennon smiled, automatically. “Ducks, huh? You make any friends?”

Wren nodded seriously, shedding her coat with the kind of chaotic precision only kids could manage. “Two ducks and a dog,” she said, climbing up onto the couch. “The dog barked at Daddy but he said it was fine.”

Kai muttered something about overconfident golden retrievers, but Lennon was already laughing.

Wren’s eyes darted to the table, curiosity lighting up her whole face. “What’s this?” she asked, kneeling beside Lennon before she could answer. Little hands started rearranging the photos, turning some upside down, stacking others in neat little piles.

“Pictures,” Lennon said gently. “For my new project. I’m trying to pick which one should go on the cover.”

Wren tilted her head, studying them like she was about to deliver a professional critique. “The one where you’re smiling is pretty,” she said after a moment. “But this one—” she pointed to a shadowy black-and-white frame, “—looks like when a song gets sad before it gets better.”

Lennon blinked. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone’s said about my music,” she murmured, glancing toward Kai with a soft smile.

Then Wren looked up, eyes bright and earnest. “Are you a singer too? Like Daddy?”

The question landed in that small, tender way only kids could manage — simple, curious, unfiltered. Lennon felt her heart tug a little. She brushed a piece of hair behind Wren’s ear and smiled.

“Yeah, kinda like Daddy,” she said quietly. “Except I write songs about messy kitchens and too much coffee instead of dragons and campfires.”

Wren giggled at that, eyes wide. “Can I help you pick?”

Lennon nodded, sliding the photos toward her. “Absolutely. You’ve got good taste, kid. Maybe you should be my manager.”

Wren gasped, delighted by the idea, and Kai’s laughter drifted from behind the couch — low, familiar, grounding.

And as Lennon watched Wren sort through her prints with tiny, serious hands, she realized the afternoon light had changed again — softer now, spilling gold across the photos like the universe was quietly choosing for her.

Maybe the cover didn’t need to be perfect.
Maybe it just needed to feel like this.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai paused in the doorway for a second, watching the two of them before saying anything.

The living room looked like a creative battlefield—prints scattered like confetti, coffee cooling in the middle of the chaos, Lennon cross-legged in the middle of it all. Wren had already claimed her usual post beside her, humming something under her breath as she reorganized Lennon’s “artistic vision.”

And, honestly, Kai couldn’t remember the last time something had looked so right.

He set down Wren’s little jacket and the stick she’d named Sir Quackalot (“official duck ambassador,” she’d informed him on the walk home) and leaned a shoulder against the wall, smiling to himself. The whole room glowed the way it only did at this hour—sunlight soft, honey-colored, catching in Lennon’s hair, lighting up Wren’s tiny determined frown as she decided which of the prints belonged in the “good pile.”

He had no business being this content, but here he was.

“You realize,” he said, tone dry but amused, “that my kid has more natural A&R instincts than half the label execs I’ve met, right?”

Wren perked up immediately. “What’s A&R?”

“It’s the people who think they know which songs sound like money,” he said, walking over to crouch beside her. “But I think you’ve got better ears, kid. You’re hired.”

Wren grinned wide, already pointing at another photo. “This one looks like a secret,” she said, showing it to him with both hands.

Kai glanced at the picture—a candid one of Lennon laughing, hair half in her face, the kind of shot that wasn’t trying to be anything. He felt the corner of his mouth lift. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it does.”

He looked over at Lennon, who was watching them with that quiet, amused expression that always made him want to kiss her right where she sat. He didn’t, mostly because Wren was still dramatically curating an album rollout on the floor, but the thought was there—loud and persistent.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching Lennon’s gaze for a beat. “She’s right, you know. About the photos. The ones that don’t try so hard… those are the ones that stick.”

Wren nodded in emphatic agreement. “Messy ones are the best.”

Kai laughed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That’s the family motto at this point.”

He stayed there for a while, kneeling in the golden light with both of them, helping Wren line up photos in straight rows that didn’t stay straight for long. Every so often he’d catch Lennon watching him, that soft look returning—the one that made his heart feel too big for his chest.

It wasn’t loud or cinematic or the kind of moment you wrote songs about. It was better.

Wren held up two final prints for a dramatic tiebreaker. “This one,” she said, “because it’s happy. But this one’s brave.”

Kai looked at Lennon and smiled, quiet but certain. “Then maybe that’s the whole EP right there,” he said. “Happy and brave. Sounds like you.”

Wren beamed at the idea, clearly taking full credit for the discovery, while Kai leaned back on his heels, watching them both framed in light and music and peace.

He couldn’t have planned it if he tried—this strange, beautiful, ordinary perfection—but he didn’t need to. It was happening all on its own.

And for the first time in years, Kai Mercer didn’t want to be anywhere else.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon laughed softly, shaking her head as Wren rearranged another handful of photos like a tiny record exec. “Happy and brave, huh?” she said, smiling. “That’s a pretty good combination. You might’ve just outdone everyone I work with.”

Wren’s grin was immediate, her fingers already tapping one of the prints. “So that’s what it’s called?”

Lennon hesitated, leaning back on her palms. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “I’ve been trying to find something that feels like me. Something that sounds like this.”
She gestured around the room — the scattered prints, the soft afternoon light, Wren humming quietly against her shoulder. “It’s not about perfect anymore. It’s about honest.”

Wren furrowed her brow, thinking hard in that way she did when she took something seriously. Then she looked up, eyes bright. “What about Lenny?”

Lennon blinked, caught off guard. “Lenny?”

Wren nodded, completely sure of herself. “Yeah. ’Cause that’s what I call you,” she said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “It’s your name but smaller. Like… closer.”

The words landed soft and deep — that kind of innocent truth that hits harder because it’s simple. Lennon felt her throat tighten just a little as she smiled. “Lenny,” she repeated, quieter now, tasting it like a lyric. It wasn’t polished or clever, but it was hers. It sounded like everything she’d been trying to write.

“You know what, kid?” she said after a beat, brushing her thumb over Wren’s cheek. “That might be perfect.”

Wren’s whole face lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Lennon said. “You just named my EP.”

“Cool,” Wren said proudly, going right back to stacking the photos. “Can I put that one on the cover?”

Lennon followed her finger to the candid shot — her mid-laugh, hair wild, nothing posed about it. “That one?” she asked softly, smiling to herself. “Yeah. I think you just picked the one.”

Wren grinned, leaning back against her. Lennon slipped an arm around her waist, resting her chin lightly on the little girl’s shoulder as the room fell quiet again, full of sunlight and that unspoken ease she still wasn’t used to feeling.

Across the room, Kai was still leaning against the wall, watching them both — that half-smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that made her chest feel unsteady in the best way.

Lennon met his gaze, her voice low but sure. “Guess it’s official,” she said. “Lenny. Named by the only person who ever gets away with calling me that.”

Wren giggled, twisting to look up at her. “Told you I’m good at naming stuff.”

“Yeah, you are,” Lennon murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Remind me to hire you forever.”

And as Wren turned back to her masterpiece of crooked photo piles, Lennon glanced up once more — Kai’s eyes still on her, that quiet, steady kind of pride written all over him.

It wasn’t loud or perfect or staged. But it was real.
And that, she decided, was exactly what Lenny should sound like.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t move for a long moment — didn’t want to, really.

From where he stood, the scene looked like something the world had no right to interrupt. Lennon, hair loose, sunlight curling through it like gold thread. Wren, tucked against her side, humming off-key and rearranging photos like a professional with a very loose grasp on sequencing. And the word Lenny still hanging in the air, soft but certain, like it had always been waiting for her.

He felt the corner of his mouth lift, that small, uncontainable smile that came when something inside him quietly clicked into place.

It figured that Wren would be the one to name it. The kid had a sixth sense for moments that mattered — maybe inherited from him, but if Kai was honest, she’d refined it all on her own. He just stood there, letting the sight of the two of them fill up the parts of him that used to feel empty.

“Lenny,” he repeated under his breath, testing the word himself. It fit her in a way that Lennon Rae never quite did. Lennon was stage lights and interviews, polished edges. Lenny was this — sunlight, laughter, honest mess, the way she looked at Wren like the world finally made sense again.

He let out a slow breath, still smiling.

She caught his eye then, that small proud smile tugging at her mouth, and something in his chest tightened — that old familiar mix of admiration and affection that had become second nature around her.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s perfect.”

Wren, completely oblivious to the weight in the room, was now giving one of the photos a dramatic pep talk about “being brave enough to go on the album.” Kai bit back a laugh, watching the seriousness on her little face. “You’re running a tight ship, kid,” he said lightly. “Gonna have to start paying you royalties.”

Wren gasped. “Like… money?”

“Or cookies,” he amended quickly. “Depends on the label budget.”

That earned him the bright, unrestrained laugh he’d been hoping for, the kind that made Lennon shake her head in mock exasperation — but she was smiling, too, that quiet, unguarded smile that he couldn’t seem to stop memorizing.

Kai pushed off the wall and crossed the room, crouching down beside them, careful not to disturb the sea of prints. Wren immediately grabbed his hand, tugging him closer so he could “help” choose the final pile. He let her, pretending to study the options seriously even though he already knew which one was right.

The candid one. The one that looked like her.

He looked up at Lennon, catching her watching him. Her eyes were soft, bright in the fading light, and for a second, the noise of the world outside felt miles away.

“This one’s it,” he said quietly, nodding toward the photo Wren had picked — the one with her laugh caught mid-breath. “It already sounds like music.”

Lennon smiled, that warm, knowing kind of smile that didn’t need to say thank you out loud.

Wren clapped once, satisfied with herself. “See? Told you I’m good at this.”

Kai laughed, ruffling her hair. “Remind me never to argue with my best producer.”

And as Wren went back to rearranging her “tracklist,” Kai glanced at Lennon again — the way she fit into this quiet, golden afternoon like she’d always belonged in it.

It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t perfect. It was everything.

And as far as Kai was concerned, Lenny already sounded exactly like home.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon smiled faintly, still sitting cross-legged between the couch and coffee table, her fingertips tracing the edges of a few scattered photos. “Best producer, huh?” she murmured, glancing at Wren, who was now giving one of the prints an encouraging thumbs-up. “You realize she’s never going to let either of us forget that.”

Wren perked up at the sound of her name. “That’s because I’m right!” she announced, rearranging the same three pictures for the fifth time. “And I like this one. It feels happy.”

“Happy’s good,” Lennon said softly, her smile warming. “Happy’s kind of the point.”

Her gaze lifted to Kai then, catching him watching her the way he always did when he thought she wouldn’t notice—quiet, steady, that mix of pride and something she didn’t have a word for yet. It made her chest ache in the best possible way.

She nodded toward the photo he’d picked, the one of her mid-laugh. “You’re both right,” she said. “That one already sounds like something.”

Wren leaned back against her, satisfied. “Like Lenny,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she’d just named the stars themselves.

Lennon brushed a strand of hair from Wren’s face, her voice dipping to a whisper. “Like Lenny,” she echoed. “Yeah, I think it does.”

Wren yawned then, small and sudden, her body going limp against Lennon’s side. Within moments, her little hums faded, her breathing slowed, and she’d fallen asleep right there in Lennon’s lap — her curls tangled against Lennon’s arm, fingers still clutching the corner of a photo.

Lennon froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled — soft, instinctive, a kind of tenderness that came from somewhere deep. With a careful motion, she slid one arm under Wren’s knees, the other beneath her shoulders, and stood in one smooth motion that surprised even herself. The little girl barely stirred, just murmured something incoherent and nuzzled closer.

Kai was already there before she could say anything, meeting her halfway. Their eyes met over Wren’s sleeping form — quiet, wordless understanding passing between them — and Lennon gently transferred her into his arms. He took her like he’d done it a thousand times, tucking Wren’s head against his shoulder, whispering something only she could hear as he carried her down the hall.

When he disappeared around the corner, the room felt softer somehow. Still humming with warmth, but quieter. Lennon stood there for a moment, then looked down at the creative chaos spread across the rug — her life in still frames.

She crouched to gather them, stacking prints into neat piles, brushing her thumb over the glossy edges. A few had smudges now, fingerprints she didn’t bother wiping away. Somehow, they felt right — a reminder of what this afternoon had been.

She moved slowly, grounding herself in the motion — photo after photo, laughter still echoing faintly from moments before.

By the time Kai came back, she’d made some kind of order out of the mess. He stopped in the doorway again, watching her as she crouched over the last stack, hair falling forward, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

She glanced up at him, the quiet stretching between them again — easy, familiar. “She’s out?”

He nodded, and Lennon’s smile grew just a little. “Knew it,” she said softly. “The kid runs on pure sugar and stubbornness. Crashes like a rock.”

Her eyes drifted back to the photos spread between them. “Guess Wren was right.”

Lennon picked up the last photo, the one with her laugh caught mid-breath, and set it gently on top of the stack. “Happy and brave,” she murmured. “I think that’s enough.”

And as the last of the light dipped lower through the window, she smiled — not the one for cameras or crowds, but the quiet kind. The kind that stayed.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai lingered for a second at Wren’s doorway, just long enough to watch her roll onto her side and curl into the blankets. She always did that—folded herself small like she was tucking the whole world in with her.

He brushed his hand lightly over her hair. “Night, bug,” he whispered. She murmured something in reply, still half in dreamland, and he smiled. “You named a record today. Big day.”

He eased the door almost closed, leaving the usual sliver of hallway light peeking through, then turned back toward the living room.

Lennon was still there, on the rug, the late sun painting everything gold and quiet. She’d made order out of the chaos—of course she had—but there was still a scatter of color and shine around her, like the room had decided to keep a little of the mess on purpose.

Kai stopped in the doorway again, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a moment he just watched her. There was something about seeing her like this—barefoot, cross-legged, lost in thought—that knocked the air right out of him every time.

He could still feel the weight of Wren against him, that easy trust, that small hum of warmth that didn’t ask for anything. And maybe that was what hit him hardest—the way Lennon had fit so naturally into that moment, like it wasn’t something new, but something they’d all been moving toward without realizing it.

She looked up at him then, and he couldn’t help the smile that found him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, answering the question she’d asked a minute ago. “She’s out cold. Didn’t even make it to the pillow before declaring victory over ducks and photo curation.”

Lennon laughed under her breath, that soft little sound that always did something to his chest.

He walked over, crouching beside her, his hands brushing the carpet as he helped gather a few stray prints she’d missed. “You’ve got fingerprints all over these,” he said, pretending to examine one like a critic. “The collectors’ edition. Limited run, chaos included.”

She smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Kai stacked the last photo—the laughing one—on top and let out a quiet breath. “She was right, though,” he said. “About happy and brave. About this.”

He looked over at her, the golden light catching on the edge of her cheek. “That’s the thing about Wren. She’s got this radar for truth. She doesn’t overthink it. Just points and says, ‘That one.’” He smiled faintly. “You and I could take notes.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, but she didn’t say anything, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. It was the good kind—comfortable, solid, the kind that meant you were right where you were supposed to be.

He glanced back at the photos, at the shot she’d picked for the cover—the one Wren had called happy. Brave. Honest. “You know,” he murmured, “I think that’s what people are gonna hear when they listen. Not the polish. Not the production. Just you. The part that laughs in the middle of everything.”

He let his gaze settle on her again, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “That’s the part they’re gonna fall in love with.”

She looked up at him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Kai smiled again, soft and content, the kind that lived somewhere deep. “Here,” he said, nodding toward the empty space beside her on the floor. “Scoot over.”

When she did, he sat down beside her, shoulder brushing hers, close enough to feel the soft rhythm of her breathing. The quiet wrapped around them again, threaded with the hum of the fridge and the fading sound of the city outside.

He leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting across the photos spread between them. “You ever notice how everything looks better like this?” he asked. “Right before the light goes. Like it’s all just holding on a little longer.”

She didn’t answer, just smiled, and that was enough.

He nudged one of the photos with his thumb. “You know, I could get used to this,” he said, teasing but sincere. “Creative chaos, caffeine, you on the floor surrounded by ideas. Might have to make it a recurring event.”

Her laugh came quiet, easy, and Kai’s grin widened. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I think Wren’s already planning her next A&R session. Probably gonna start charging us snack royalties.”

Lennon shook her head, smiling, and Kai watched her again—really watched her, the way he always did when the world slowed down just enough to let him catch up to it.

The light was fading, but he didn’t reach for the switch. He liked it this way—dim and golden, all edges softened, like the universe had decided to give them a little extra time before the night settled in.

And for once, Kai wasn’t thinking about endings at all.

[Lennon Rae]

The front door flew open before Lennon could even get her keys back into her bag.

“Daddy! LOOK!”

Wren shot inside like a glitter-powered comet, half skipping, half sprinting, her little boots clicking dramatically against the hardwood. She skidded to a stop in the middle of the living room and threw her arms out like she was presenting the final number of a world tour.

Lennon stepped in behind her, juggling far too many bags from far too many stores, a pair of sunglasses sliding slowly down her nose. “I swear she started the day with normal human energy,” she said, breathless and amused as she nudged the door shut with her hip. “Somewhere between the glitter bar and the juice stop, she ascended.”

Wren twirled — a full, committed spin — her new outfit sparkling in the afternoon light. Purple tulle skirt. Star-pattern leggings. A sweatshirt with a sequined unicorn whose mane changed color when she swiped it. And a tiny purse shaped like a donut, worn proudly across her chest.

She paused mid-twirl, panting dramatically, hands pressed to her hips. “Lenny said I look iconic.”

Lennon set down three bags, then another two, then one that exhaled tissue paper like it was relieved to be freed. “In my defense,” she said, raising a hand, “I only said it because it’s true. She saw herself in the mirror and said—direct quote—‘I look like a girl with a plan.’ I couldn’t argue with that.”

Wren ran back to Lennon to grab the remaining bags — or at least attempt to — before deciding she preferred being the star of the moment and darted right back into the center of the living room.

She posed again, this time one leg kicked out behind her. “And LOOK!” she announced, reaching up to tap the purple streak now clipped into her hair. “We matched!”

Lennon laughed, tucking a loose strand of her own hair behind her ear where a thin lavender clip glimmered. “Temporarily,” she said under her breath. “She tried to talk me into glitter eyeliner, too. I negotiated my way out with soft serve.”

The bags rustled as she kicked them into a neat pile near the couch. “We might’ve done a little damage,” she admitted, eyeing the shopping haul with a mixture of pride and apology. “But in our defense, she was very persuasive. And very cute.”

Wren marched up to Kai, smoothing the front of her sweatshirt with both hands, chin tipped up with dramatic importance.

“She said I needed an outfit for our girls day,” Wren announced proudly. “And she said girls days need fashion.”

Lennon lifted a brow playfully as she leaned against the entryway wall, arms crossed, watching Wren beam. “She also said girls days need french fries, but I’m guessing she’ll save that part for later,” she added under her breath with a small grin.

Wren took one more breath — preparing clearly for the grand finale — and spread her arms again.

“AND NOW I LOOK AMAZING!”

She waited there, beaming up at him, waiting for him to take it all in.

Lennon just smiled, soft and warm, watching her with that familiar tug in her chest — the one she always felt when Wren shined this bright.

A girls day well spent.

A moment worth coming home to.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had been staring at spreadsheets for so long his brain had started silently begging for mercy.

Budget notes. Draft emails. A scheduling doc that was somehow twelve tabs long even though he’d only opened five. Every once in a while he’d reach for his coffee, realize it was cold, sigh dramatically, then keep typing like the responsible adult he never wanted to become.

He was mid-sentence—Requesting clarification on the third… whatever… blah blah corporate nonsense…—when the front door exploded open.

“Daddy! LOOK!”

Kai barely had time to blink before Wren came blasting across the living room like someone had fed her pure sunshine and glitter for lunch. She was all purple tulle and starry leggings and unicorn sequins, moving like she wanted the world to see every single spark at once.

He never even tried to hide the way his face lit up.

“Whoa—” he exhaled, already closing his laptop, “—whoa. Somebody looks like she had a day.”

Then Lennon stepped in behind her, looking like the battle-worn survivor of a very adorable war. Too many bags. Too much glitter. Sunglasses hanging on for dear life. He couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.

Yeah. This was definitely better than spreadsheets.

Wren spun again, her donut purse bouncing against her hip like backup choreography. “Lenny said I look iconic!”

Of course she did. Because she did.

Kai pushed off the couch and knelt down immediately—right to Wren’s level, always, because she deserved to feel the center of every room she walked into. Especially when she came home looking like a disco ball with opinions.

He rested his hands on his thighs, giving her his full, undivided attention.

“Iconic?” he echoed, eyes going wide with dramatic seriousness. “Kid… ‘iconic’ doesn’t even cover it.”

Wren beamed so hard he thought she might actually levitate.

“I mean—” he gestured in a slow up-and-down sweep “—the skirt alone? Powerful. The unicorn? Life-changing. The donut purse? Honestly? Revolutionary.”

Wren giggled so hard she swayed.

“And the hair?” Kai leaned in, squinting playfully at her purple streak before flicking his gaze to Lennon’s matching one. “Matching with Lenny? That’s… wow. That’s elite. Fashion duo energy.”

He said it lightly, but something warm tightened in his chest.

Because they matched.

Because they got along.

Because Lennon looked at his kid like she was magic, and Wren looked at her like she was already part of the constellation.

It did things to him. Quiet, dangerous things.

Wren tugged his sleeve. “We had a girls day, Daddy.”

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling as he reached out to fix the edge of her unicorn sweatshirt. “Looks like you two crushed it.”

He glanced up at Lennon then—taking in the lavender hair clip, the faint glitter smudge on her cheek she probably didn’t know she had, the soft, tired, happy expression warming her whole face.

“Definitely matching,” he said softly, playful but sincere. “I like it.”

Lennon looked down at the pile of shopping bags like she’d been caught red-handed by the fashion police. He smirked, shaking his head.

“You two are trouble,” he said, standing up from his kneel but keeping a hand lightly on Wren’s shoulder. “The very cute kind, but still trouble.”

Wren gasped. “We’re not trouble. We’re FASHION.”

Kai barked a laugh, warm and loud.

“Sorry—my mistake,” he corrected quickly. “You are absolutely fashion.”

He lifted her donut purse, placing it gently so it didn’t tangle. “And you look amazing. Like… stupidly amazing. Like… every duck in the park is going to start a fan club.”

That did it. Wren lit up like a sparkler.

She launched herself into his chest, and Kai scooped her up automatically—one arm under her legs, the other bracing her back as she squealed into his neck.

Lennon watched them with that soft little smile she tried to hide.

Kai glanced at her over Wren’s shoulder—hair messy, arms full of bags, eyes tired but glowing—and something inside him settled.

Yeah.

Yeah, this was the good stuff.

He shifted Wren to his hip and nodded toward the mountain of rainbow bags Lennon's brought in.

“So…” he said, grinning crookedly, “how much damage are we talking here? Like… fun damage? Or ‘Kai needs to sell a kidney’ damage?”

Wren gasped again, outraged on principle.
“DADDY—fashion is IMPORTANT.”

Kai shot Lennon a helpless, deeply amused look.

“Oh, trust me,” he murmured, brushing a loose bit of tulle off Wren’s skirt. “I can tell.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon could barely get her shoes off before the sight in front of her hit her right in the chest.

Wren, legs wrapped around Kai’s waist, donut purse bouncing against his side, cheeks flushed from excitement, looking like the personification of a confetti cannon. And Kai — laughing, bright, the kind of soft she only ever saw reserved for moments like this.

God.
If she wasn’t careful, she was going to melt straight into the hardwood.

She leaned her shoulder against the entryway wall, trying — failing — to hide the smile tugging at her mouth. Her sunglasses slid down her nose again, and she didn’t even bother pushing them back up. She just let herself look.

Wren beaming up at him.
Kai smoothing down her tulle.
The two of them taking up the whole room like they were meant to.

It was stupidly, stupidly sweet.

“Fun damage,” Lennon said dryly, finally stepping forward to offload a few bags onto the couch. “Definitely fun damage. Zero kidney involvement.”

Wren whipped around over Kai’s shoulder, scandalized and proud all at once. Lennon tapped the donut purse lightly. “In our defense, someone found her ultimate fashion destiny at the third boutique,” she said, lifting her brows. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

Wren preened instantly, smoothing her skirt with both hands. Lennon watched her do it — that tiny, confident gesture — and felt something warm and achy uncurl in her chest.

She had no business feeling this full, this settled, this… included.
But here it was anyway.

She reached out and fixed the purple clip in Wren’s hair — the same one she’d insisted they match with. “And she earned every bit of that outfit,” Lennon added softly. “She walked an actual runway. In a juice store. Twice.”

Wren nodded enthusiastically, confirming this important detail.

Lennon laughed under her breath, pushing a stray glitter smudge off her own cheek with the back of her wrist. “We also had fries, painted nails, built a family of stuffed ducks, and she taught an entire Sephora aisle how to do a ‘fashion spin.’ So… yeah. I’d say it was a solid girls day.”

She looked up then — accidentally catching Kai’s eyes over Wren’s shoulder.

And something in the room shifted, quiet and undeniable.

Because he was still watching her.
Really watching her.
Like the lavender clip and glitter smudge mattered as much as the kid in his arms.

Lennon blinked once, slow, and smiled before she could stop herself.

“Anyway,” she said gently, stepping closer to lightly run her hand down Wren’s arm, “your girl is officially the most stylish person in Malibu.”

Wren gasped and immediately straightened up like she’d just been knighted.

“And,” Lennon added, tapping her nose, “my co-captain of fashion.”

Wren giggled — loud and delighted — and tucked her head into Kai’s neck, the kind of trust that made Lennon’s heart squeeze.

Then Lennon picked up one of the lighter bags and raised a brow playfully.

“Come on, superstar,” she said to Wren with a grin. “Let’s show Daddy all your treasures. He should probably sit down for this part. You know… emotional impact.”

Wren squealed, wriggling excitedly. Lennon laughed again, warm and bright.

Yeah.

Yeah, this felt like home in all the ways she didn’t see coming.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai wished he could freeze this exact second.

Not the dramatic ones, not the stage ones, not the moments people yelled about online.
This.
His kid buzzing with cosmic-level joy.
Lennon trying (and failing) to pretend she wasn’t melting.
The living room looking like two planets just collided and landed in a pile of glittery shopping bags.

Hell, he’d take this over a sold-out arena any day.

Wren still clung to him, donut purse smacking lightly against his ribs with every excited wiggle, and he just held her closer, one arm wrapped under her legs, the other bracing her back like it was muscle memory.

“Girls day, huh?” he murmured into her hair, already grinning. “Must’ve been next-level.”

She nodded into his neck so enthusiastically he almost lost his balance.
Yeah. Next-level.

He peeked over her shoulder—Lennon with glitter on her cheek, her shirt a little wrinkled from carrying bags, sunglasses crooked, smiling in that soft way she tried to hide when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And something inside him settled.
Like… yeah.
This was the good stuff.
The stuff he never quite believed he’d get to have.

Some days he still felt like a teenager faking his way into adulthood, hoping nobody noticed he was guessing his way through fatherhood and love and everything in between.
But moments like this—Lennon laughing with her whole face, Wren shimmering like she’d swallowed a disco ball—made him feel like maybe he actually had learned something.
Like maybe he wasn’t winging it.
Maybe he was… doing okay.

Lennon lifted one of the shopping bags with a grin that said brace yourself. “He should probably sit down for this part. Emotional impact,” she’d said.

Wren lifted her head from his shoulder and gasped dramatically at the reminder.
“DADDY. WE BOUGHT SO MANY THINGS.”

Kai laughed, a low warm thing in his chest. “Oh, I figured.”

He stepped away from the couch and gently set Wren back on her feet. She immediately grabbed two bags twice her size and dragged them like they were sacred artifacts.

Kai crouched—just for a moment—to be eye-level with her as she tugged at a stubborn handle.
“Hey,” he said softly, brushing a purple hair clip back into place before she could lose it again. “I’m proud of you, superstar. You had a big day.”

Wren nodded, bouncing with importance. “A HUGE day.”

He tapped her nose. “I can tell.”

She giggled and ran to Lennon, nearly tripping over her tulle in the process. Lennon steadied her with an easy hand, slipping right into that space beside her like she’d been doing it forever.

God.

Some part of Kai’s chest tightened—soft, warm, dangerous.
Because they were adorable.
And unstoppable.
And his.
Both of them.
In ways that mattered deep.

Lennon spread the bags out like she was unveiling a limited-edition, world-saving treasure haul. The floor became a clutter of sequins, stickers, duck plushies, and tiny glitter nail files.

Kai leaned a shoulder against the couch, crossed his arms, and watched.
Watched Wren beam.
Watched Lennon guide her through her “presentation” with the same patience and spark she used in the studio.
Watched them fall into step without ever having to try.

He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
The feeling said it for him.

Yeah.
This felt right.
Real.
Easy.
Like home.

And as Wren pulled out a neon frog hat that somehow existed and proudly announced, “THIS IS FOR FRIDAYS,” Kai let out a soft laugh, eyes drifting back to Lennon.

“Well,” he murmured, warmth blooming through him, “sounds like I really did miss an iconic girls day.”

Wren nodded so fast her unicorn almost slipped off.
Lennon shook her head, smiling, cheeks warm.

And Kai—shoulder against the couch, heart stupidly full—thought, not for the first time:
Yeah.
He could do this.
He could do all of this.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon couldn’t stop smiling — not even with both hands full of shopping bags and glitter still stuck to the side of her cheek. The living room looked like a rainbow tornado had detonated, but Wren was vibrating with joy and Kai was watching them like they’d just walked in carrying the moon.

Lennon set one of the bags down, caught her breath, and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. “Okay,” she announced, trying for serious and failing miserably, “before the fashion presentation begins, I need everyone here to emotionally prepare themselves.”

Wren gasped immediately, clutching her donut purse. “Daddy, she means it. This is SERIOUS.”

Lennon nodded solemnly. “Very serious. We had a mission today.”

Wren threw both hands up. “WE DID FASHION.”

Lennon laughed, ruffling Wren’s sparkly headband. “We did so much fashion.”

Wren spun in a slow, dramatic circle, tulle skirt swishing. “Lenny said I’m a style legend.”

“I did,” Lennon confirmed with a nod. “I stand by that statement. History will remember you.”

Wren beamed. “I got sunglasses! And the frog hat! And the tiny glitter lip gloss that tastes like watermelon but you can’t eat it, even though I wanted to.”

Lennon shot Kai a helpless little shrug. “It was a whole conversation.”

Wren gasped again, remembering something crucial, and rummaged through one of the bags until she triumphantly produced something sparkly and chaotic.

“LOOK, Daddy!” she squealed. “These are matching clips for ME and LENNY.”

Lennon leaned in conspiratorially. “She made sure we matched in every mirror within a three-mile radius.”

Wren bounced on her toes. “Because we’re a GIRLS TEAM.”

“Obviously,” Lennon said, bumping her shoulder gently.

Wren swung the frog hat in the air like a victory flag. “And THIS is for Fridays. Because Fridays need frogs. Everybody knows that.”

Lennon bit back a laugh, shaking her head. “You tell him, babe. He needs to stay informed.”

Wren leaned closer to Kai, whispering loudly, “Lenny also said you’re gonna freak out in a good way.”

Lennon groaned dramatically. “Traitor.”

Wren giggled, not remotely sorry.

Lennon turned back to Kai then, softer now, her expression warming in a way she didn’t bother hiding. She nudged one of the bags with her foot. “We might’ve, um… gone a little overboard. But she was so happy, Kai. She owned every store we walked into.”

Wren nodded proudly. “I told Lenny we should buy sparkles because sparkles are IMPORTANT.”

“And who am I to argue with that logic?” Lennon said, shrugging with an innocent smile.

Wren planted her hands on her hips. “Daddy, we’re fashion geniuses.”

Lennon laughed softly, eyes drifting back to Kai — a little teasing, a little shy, a whole lot fond.

“She’s right, you know,” she said. “We’re unstoppable.”

Wren grabbed Lennon’s hand and tugged her closer. “Can we show him the shoes? The sparkly ones? The ones that Lenny said are ‘dangerously powerful’?”

Lennon nodded with theatrical seriousness. “Yes. It’s time.”

Wren clapped with both hands, glitter flying. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER.”

Lennon looked at Kai one more time — warm, bright, a touch breathless — and smiled.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It really has been.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had absolutely no business standing there grinning like an idiot, but there he was — arms crossed, leaning against the back of the couch, watching the two of them like they were performing a Broadway show written exclusively for his soul.

Wren was vibrating.
Lennon was glowing.
And the living room looked like Claire’s Boutique had detonated.

He could’ve cried from happiness, but instead he went with the much safer option: sarcasm.

Wren whipped out the frog hat at full velocity, nearly smacking him in the face as she declared it sacred Friday attire.

Kai nodded gravely. “Obviously. How have I survived thirty years without Friday frog culture? Truly, I walk among legends.”

Wren puffed her chest like she’d just been promoted.

Lennon tried and failed to hide her laugh, glancing at him in that soft, warm way that made his knees do something suspiciously wobbly.

Wren dove into another bag and pulled out something that sparkled aggressively enough to blind a small crowd. She held it straight up to Kai’s face.

“DADDY LOOK. CLIPS. FOR ME. AND LENNY.”

Kai did a dramatic gasp. “Hold on. Hold on. Lenny got MATCHING ACCESSORIES?”

Wren nodded so fast the purple streak clipped into her hair trembled like a betrayed chihuahua.

Kai turned to Lennon, eyebrows raised. “Matching clips? Wow. That’s commitment. That’s, like… girlband level commitment.”

Lennon shot him a look that said don’t be cute, except she was already smiling like she didn’t mean it at all.

Kai crouched down next to Wren’s bag-dug mountain of merchandise. “Alright, superstar. Show me what else you two unleashed on the economy today.”

Wren, accepting her role as head of the fashion department, cleared her throat dramatically and lifted a shoebox above her head as if presenting Simba on Pride Rock.

“THESE,” she declared, “ARE DANGEROUSLY POWERFUL.”

Kai held up both hands. “Should I be wearing safety goggles?”

Wren gasped. “YES.”

She flung the lid off the box, and inside sat shoes so sparkly they looked like they were auditioning to be their own constellation.

Kai’s whole face went soft at the edges. “Oh man. Kid… those are sick.”

Wren squealed and launched into a high-speed explanation of how she chose them — something involving a dance test, a mirror twirl, and “Lenny saying I looked like a superhero.”

Lennon snorted under her breath. Wren beamed.

Kai couldn’t decide which one was cuter, so he let himself get hit by both.

“Alright,” he said, standing up and stretching his back with a small groan. “We need a full fashion haul debrief. Shoes, clips, sunglasses, lipstick that is NOT food…” He gave Wren a teasing look. “And any and all frog-related declarations.”

Wren hopped once — literally hopped — because she’d already committed to the frog bit.

Kai reached out and smoothed her tulle again, fingers gentle. “You look amazing, baby. I’m serious.”

She lit up like a lantern.

“And Lenny?” Kai said, glancing at her with that warm, unguarded softness he didn’t even bother trying to hide. “You made her whole week. I can tell.”

Lennon looked down at her hands, smile widening, but said nothing.

Wren began her next dramatic presentation, and Kai crossed his arms, completely content.

Let spreadsheets wait. Let adulthood be confusing later.

Right now?
His kid was happy.
His girl was laughing.
And his living room was a fashion battlefield.

Yeah.
If this was winging it, he hoped he never stopped.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t even pretend she wasn’t melting anymore.

She sat cross-legged on the floor beside Wren, one hand resting lightly on the mountain of pastel shopping bags, the other absently smoothing Wren’s tulle skirt each time it puffed upward like it had its own agenda. She looked up at Kai just in time to catch the end of his ridiculous frog-culture speech — and her laugh slipped out before she could reel it back in.

“Don’t encourage her,” Lennon teased softly, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her. “She already thinks she’s running a small fashion empire.”

Wren gasped and immediately confirmed it. “I am running a fashion empire.”

Lennon gently tucked the unicorn headband back behind Wren’s ear where it was sliding off. “You absolutely are, baby. And you have excellent taste.”

That earned her a beaming smile and a dramatic hair flip, which sent glitter flying in three different directions. Lennon didn’t even flinch. She just picked a fleck off Kai’s sleeve like this was a perfectly normal Sunday afternoon.

When Wren ripped open her shoebox presentation with Broadway-level intensity, Lennon leaned into Kai just a little — shoulder brushing against his knee — and murmured with a grin, “She almost cried picking these out. Like full emotional arc.”

Wren nodded aggressively. “They SPARKLE, Daddy. Like destiny.”

Lennon cupped Wren’s cheek with a proud, soft hand. “You should’ve seen her. She tried them on and did this little spin, and I swear the whole store applauded.”

Wren puffed out her chest. “They DID. That lady by the sunglasses said I was FABu-lous.”

Lennon laughed, the sound light and completely unguarded. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Wren, now riding the high of being the moment, shoved a new bag toward Lennon. “Show him the jackets! Show him! SHOW HIM!”

Lennon humored her immediately, pulling out a tiny lavender bomber they’d found in the kids’ section and holding it up for Kai to see. “Okay, but tell me this isn’t the cutest thing ever. She put it on and looked like she was about to headline her own tour.”

Wren kicked her legs proudly. “I could headline a tour.”

Lennon pressed a kiss to the top of her head — quick, affectionate, instinctive. “I know you could, sweetheart.”

Then she glanced up at Kai, cheeks flushing just a little at how obviously he was watching them.

“And don’t look at me like that,” she said with a shy, playful smile. “She did all the choosing. I just… carried her bags.”

Wren immediately corrected her. “NO. Lenny helped. Lenny said I looked like a superhero. And a princess. And a singer.”

Lennon blinked, touched in a way she didn’t try to hide. “Well… you do.”

She draped an arm around Wren’s shoulders, pulling her into her side. Wren leaned right into the warmth, still vibrating with sparkly purpose.

As Wren launched into another excited monologue about Friday frog hats and world domination, Lennon looked up at Kai again — soft, glowing, full of something she’d never quite had words for.

Her smile was warm and impossibly gentle.

“Just so you know,” she said quietly, sweet and teasing all at once, “I’m absolutely blaming you when she starts demanding a backstage wardrobe room.”

Wren perked up instantly. “BACKSTAGE ROOM?”

Lennon kissed her cheek to soften it. “Later, baby.”

Then she gave Kai one more smile — small, real, impossibly tender — the kind that said without saying:

Yeah.
This feels like ours.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had no business loving this moment as much as he did, but there he was — folding his arms, biting back a grin so wide it physically hurt, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching the two most important people in his life run a full-scale fashion summit on his rug.

Not even the spreadsheets abandoned on his laptop could compete with this level of chaos.

Wren had fully transitioned into her PowerPoint presentation phase — hands waving, voice pitching up an octave, everything a Very Big Deal — and Lennon was right beside her like the composed co-CEO of Sparkle Incorporated.

And him?

He was just the idiot in love standing in the back of the meeting.

Wren shoved another bag toward Lennon and declared, “SHOW HIM THE JACKETS,” like she was about to reveal state secrets.

Kai pressed a fist to his mouth, fighting a laugh. “Okay, okay, I’m bracing myself. The jackets might emotionally destroy me.”

When Lennon pulled out the tiny lavender bomber, Kai actually whistled.
“Ohhhh man. Look at that,” he said, squatting down enough to see it eye level. “That’s… wow. I wasn’t prepared. That’s tiny pop-star energy right there.”

Wren nodded fiercely. “I’M READY FOR THE STAGE.”

Lennon kissed the top of her head, soft and instinctive, and Kai felt something stupid and warm tighten in his chest.

Yup. There it was.
That feeling again — the one that made him want to swear loudly and emotionally in private.

And when Lennon added, “And don’t look at me like that — she did all the choosing,” Kai snorted and shook his head.

“I’m absolutely looking at you like that,” he said, warmth threading through his voice. “Because you say you ‘just carried bags,’ but I’m pretty sure you two could’ve taken over half the stores on the block without breaking a sweat. That’s force-of-nature energy right there.”

Wren gasped like she’d been bestowed royalty. “WE HAVE FASHION POWER.”

Kai laughed. “Yes, you do. Dangerous levels.”

Wren then held up the glitter lip gloss with reverence. “Lenny said I shine like a diamond.”

Kai nodded seriously. “She wasn’t wrong. I can barely look at you without sunglasses. Very dangerous.”

Wren preened, kicking her glitter shoes so hard the light bounced off the walls.

Lennon tucked her arm around the little girl, looking impossibly soft as Wren’s excited monologue drifted into frogs, fashion empires, and the backstage room she absolutely planned to demand later.

Kai’s grin softened into something steadier, deeper.

God, he loved them.

Loved this.

Loved watching Wren lean into Lennon like she’d always belonged there — because she did, and because Lennon did too.

And when Lennon looked up at him with that small, tender smile — half teasing, half something he didn’t dare say out loud yet — Kai felt every part of him settle.

She said, “I’m absolutely blaming you when she starts demanding a backstage wardrobe room,” and Kai let out a soft laugh, pushing himself to his feet.

“Oh, I already assume it,” he said. “Honestly? I kind of can’t wait. Because you know what comes next after the wardrobe room?”

Wren froze mid-spin. “WHAT?”

Kai smirked.
“The tour rider.”

Wren gasped dramatically. “WHAT’S A RIDER?”

Kai winked.
“A list of everything you absolutely must have backstage. Sparkles. Juice boxes. Frog hats. Donut purses. Full diva energy.”

Wren clutched her donut purse to her chest like it was sacred.
“I NEED A RIDER.”

Kai pointed between the two of them. “Take it up with your co-captain. I think she approves.”

Lennon’s eyes softened at him again — that look, the one that felt like it brushed straight against his ribs.

And Kai thought, not for the first time:

Yeah.
This is ours.
And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon watched him from the floor — the way he stood there with that stupid, endearing grin he tried (and failed) to hide — and felt warmth bloom in her chest so fast she almost forgot to breathe.

God, he had no idea what he looked like right now.
No idea what it did to her.

Wren, who had achieved peak sparkle-radiation-level excitement, immediately interpreted his smirk as a personal challenge. She planted her feet, lifted the lavender bomber jacket above her head like a trophy, and declared:

“SEE, LENNY? Daddy’s FACE is saying we WON.”

Lennon burst into a laugh she didn’t even try to hide as she gently took the jacket from Wren’s hands before she accidentally yeeted it across the room.
“He’s definitely overwhelmed,” she told Wren, brushing glitter from the little girl’s eyebrow with her thumb. “That’s what that look means. We broke his entire brain.”

Wren gasped, thrilled.
“WE BROKE IT WITH FASHION.”

Lennon leaned over and kissed her cheek, soft and certain.
“Honestly? I think he loves it.”

Wren preened, absolutely glowing. “Because we’re POWERFUL,” she said, adjusting her unicorn headband like a crown.

“You are,” Lennon agreed, tugging her gently into her side. “The fashion power is… honestly terrifying.”

Wren nodded, all business. “And Lenny, when I go on MY TOUR, we need a room. Like a—like a—BACKSTAGE ROOM.”

Lennon bit her lip, smiling as she looked up at Kai’s soft gaze and then back at Wren.
“Oh, baby… we’ll make you the sparkliest backstage room anyone has ever seen.”

Wren gasped again. “With snacks?!”

“Snacks, glitter, frog hats… anything you want.” Lennon smoothed her hair, voice velvet-soft. “If you’re going to be the world’s tiniest superstar, you need the full setup.”

Wren practically levitated at that.

Satisfied she had the universe arranged in her favor, Wren dove back into her bags and pulled out the glitter lip gloss. “This is because Lenny said I shine like a diamond,” she said proudly, holding it up for Kai like a sacred relic.

Lennon blushed but didn’t deny it.
“You do,” she murmured, brushing Wren’s cheek. “You shine everywhere you go.”

Wren giggled so hard she collapsed into Lennon’s lap, arms flung wide like a fainting movie star.

Lennon wrapped her arms around her, hugging her tight, cheek pressed to the top of her head.
“You two are going to be trouble together,” she whispered, glancing up at Kai with a soft, shy warmth that slid right through her.

Her smile turned tender — real, deep, quietly certain.

“And just so you know,” she added, voice dropping into something meant only for him, “I really did have the best time with her today.” She paused, fingertips tracing Wren’s shoulder. “She makes everything better.”

Wren perked up at that, beaming like the words powered her.

“And,” Lennon said, eyes lifting to meet Kai’s with a sweetness she didn’t bother hiding anymore, “so do you.”

Wren squealed immediately, flinging her arms upward.
“FAMILY HUG!”

Lennon laughed — soft, warm, impossibly full — and opened her arms as Wren barreled into both of them, glitter and tulle and love hitting all at once.

And in that little explosion of chaos on the living room rug, with shopping bags everywhere and Wren wiggling between them like a sparkly sandwich, Lennon’s smile softened into something almost shy.

Because yeah.
This felt right.
This felt steady.
This felt like home.

And she wouldn’t trade a second of it either.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai hadn’t stood a chance.
Not against the glitter.
Not against the lavender jacket triumph ceremony.
And definitely not against the two brightest people in the room looking at him like he was the one who’d been chosen.

Wren’s shout — “WE BROKE IT WITH FASHION!” — was still ricocheting through his head, but honestly?
Yeah. Accurate.
His brain wasn’t just broken. It was a melted, glitter-covered puddle on the floor.

And then there was Lennon.
Looking up at him from the rug, cheeks flushed from laughing, Wren curled against her like she belonged there — like they belonged there — while bags and glitter lip gloss and faux-designer sunglasses formed a halo around them.

God.
He was done for.

He tried to keep his face neutral when Wren demanded a family hug, but the second the kid launched herself forward like a sparkly missile, he caved. Fell right into the gravity of the two of them.

Lennon’s arms wrapped around Wren first — instinctively, protectively — and then, without hesitation, they wrapped around him too, pulling him in until all three of them were tangled together in one soft, warm, glitter-smudged mess.

Kai closed his eyes for half a second.

And it hit him.
Full-force.
Like a chord he’d been trying to write for years finally resolving.

Right here — this pile of chaos on the rug, the glitter on Lennon’s cheekbone, Wren giggling so hard she hiccuped — this was the happiest he’d ever been inside four walls.

He felt Wren mash her glittery lip gloss into his shirt as she squeezed harder.
“Daddy, we’re a sandwich!”

“Yeah, Jelly Bean,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head, voice thick in the best way. “Best one ever made.”

He felt Lennon’s shoulder brush his, felt her softness, her steadiness, her heartbeat pressed right there in the middle of the hug — not running, not uncertain, not half in, half out.

Just… there.

He opened his eyes to find her looking at him over the top of Wren’s hair.
Her expression hit him straight in the chest — warm, hopeful, a little shy around the edges, the kind of look she probably didn’t even know she was giving.

And he couldn’t help it — the smile that tugged at his mouth was helpless, slow, absolutely wrecked with affection.

He brushed his knuckles lightly against her arm, subtle but sure.
“Lenny,” he said softly, meant just for her as Wren burrowed between them, “you make everything better too.”

Wren squeaked happily at the word better — convinced it meant she’d won something.

Kai laughed under his breath and pulled them a little closer.
Not because Wren asked for a sandwich hug.
Not because Lennon had said anything that needed answering.

But because it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, Wren wriggled free again, immediately distracted by the lip gloss.
Kai stayed where he was for a beat — sitting on the rug beside Lennon, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth between them still lingering.

He glanced around at the mess — the shopping bags, the glitter explosion, the unicorn headband now perched slightly crooked on the couch.

Then back at Lennon.

Then at Wren twirling in the lavender bomber jacket that swallowed her whole.

And he let out a breath that felt like contentment in its purest form.

Because this — the laughter, the glitter, the warmth — wasn’t temporary.

Not for him.

Not anymore.

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon hadn’t expected the hug to hit her the way it did.

One second she was laughing, trying to keep Wren from knocking over another shopping bag, and the next — Wren was shouting about sandwich hugs, launching herself at both of them with full tiny-supernova force.

She barely had time to register Kai’s arms coming around them before she felt it — the way Wren melted against her, the way Kai’s warmth settled at her side, the way the whole world seemed to exhale all at once.

And Lennon…
Lennon let herself sink into it.

Her hands curled instinctively around Wren’s back first, rubbing slow circles the way the little girl always seemed to love. Wren squealed into both their shoulders, squeezing with all her might, glitter lip gloss transferring to anything within two inches. Lennon felt the sticky shimmer smear her cheek and didn’t care at all.

Because Wren was happy.
Because Kai was warm beside her.
Because the moment wrapped around her like something she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for.

Wren declared, muffled and delighted, “WE’RE THE BEST SANDWICH EVER,” and Lennon’s laugh came out soft and breathless, her chin brushing the top of Wren’s head.

“You’re the best part of it, baby,” she whispered, kissing the crown of her purple-streaked hair.

Wren giggled like the world had tipped in her favor.

But then Lennon looked up — just for a second — and met Kai’s eyes over Wren’s shoulder.

And everything inside her went still.

His expression…
God.
Warm. Full. Real.
Like he was memorizing them.

Her breath caught; she hoped it didn’t show.

Wren squeezed them tighter, hiccuping from giggles, and Lennon let her forehead rest gently against Kai’s shoulder — not leaning, not claiming, just… connecting. Close enough that she could feel the steadiness in him, the quiet that only showed up in rare, truthful moments like this.

Wren finally wriggled free, landing on her feet with all the wobbliness of a newborn deer, immediately drawn back to the glitter lip gloss like it was her life’s work.

Lennon stayed on the rug, her shoulder still brushing Kai’s, her hands lowering slowly from the hug like her body hadn’t quite caught up to the moment ending.

Wren turned back toward them, lavender jacket swallowing her whole, donut purse bouncing, and announced proudly:

“WE ARE A FASHION FAMILY.”

Lennon laughed, soft and helpless, reaching out to fix the crooked unicorn headband Wren had abandoned on the couch.

“Yeah, baby,” she murmured, eyes following Wren as she twirled, “we really are.”

And when she glanced sideways — just for a heartbeat — her gaze flicked to Kai again.

This time her smile was shy.
Soft.
Sincere in a way she wasn’t even trying to hide.

Because he’d meant what he said in that hug.
Because she’d felt it.
Because something deep and warm in her chest agreed with all of it.

She reached for one of the fallen shopping bags, brushing glitter from the handle, and laughed under her breath at the absolute chaos of the room.

Then she looked at Wren twirling again.
Then back at Kai.

And she thought — quietly, privately, with a warmth that didn’t scare her anymore:

Yeah.
This feels like something that’s going somewhere.

Wren didn’t stay still for long — she never did.

The second she remembered the rest of her fashion empire waiting inside the shopping bags, she let out a tiny gasp of revelation.

“My STUFF!” she declared, as if she had just discovered gravity.

And before Lennon could say careful, baby, Wren had scooped up two bags nearly half her size — dragging them across the hardwood like they were treasure chests — and took off down the hallway in a chaotic blur of lavender jacket, glitter shoes, and donut purse.

“DON’T COME IN! I’M DOING A SURPRISE!” she shouted, her voice echoing proudly from down the hall.

Lennon laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she watched Wren disappear around the corner.

Of course she was doing a surprise.

Of course.

The quiet that followed was soft and warm — the kind that settles into a room after joy has passed through it.

Lennon glanced around at the glitter-splattered battlefield that used to be the living room — lip gloss lids, tissue paper, crinkled receipts, one lone frog sticker on the coffee table like a mascot of the chaos.

Slowly, almost instinctively, she brushed her hair back behind her ear and reached for a stray pair of sunglasses on the rug.

Even cleaning up, her movements were gentle — almost tender — her smile lingering as she tucked everything into bags or small piles like she was preserving the memory of the moment rather than erasing it.

She lifted the lavender bomber jacket wrapping paper off the floor, smoothing it out before folding it neatly. She gathered tissue paper Wren had shredded into confetti and dropped it into a bag, shaking her head fondly when she found a glitter nail file wedged under a pillow.

She moved quietly, softly — humming under her breath without realizing it — the kind of content, effortless sound that only slipped out when she felt safe. When she felt… home.

Every now and then, she paused and looked down the hallway, listening to Wren’s muffled chatter as she set up whatever surprise she had in mind.

Lennon’s smile grew, warm and full, the kind that stayed in the corners of her mouth long after it was gone.

She picked up the last of the bags, straightened a cushion Wren had trampled, and brushed a little glitter off her jeans — as if she didn’t secretly love every sparkly reminder of the afternoon they just had.

The living room slowly returned to something recognizable, but the joy hung in the air like leftover sunlight.

Lennon paused, hand resting lightly on the back of the couch, breathing in the softness of it all — the laughter still echoing in the walls, Wren’s excited rambling still drifting from her bedroom, the lingering warmth of the hug they had shared on the rug.

And for a moment she just stood there, quiet, serene, her heart full in a way she hadn’t quite known what to do with until recently.

Lennon brushed the last bit of tissue paper into the bag and tied the handle loosely, setting it aside. The room was still a little glittery, a little chaotic, but the kind of chaos that made her smile instead of stress.

She straightened, smoothing the front of her shirt, and finally let herself look toward Kai.

He was still there — leaning against the couch, arms crossed, watching her with that quiet, steady warmth he didn’t even try to hide anymore. The kind that made her chest tighten in the softest way.

She drew in a breath, more to steady herself than anything.

“You know…” she said lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “…for someone who claims spreadsheets are exhausting, you look pretty entertained right now.”

Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. Fond, teasing, with that little flutter underneath she couldn’t seem to control around him.

She took a few steps toward him, picking up a stray frog sticker from the floor as she passed — Wren’s chaos leaving little breadcrumbs everywhere. Lennon held it out with a small smile.

“Wren wanted to decorate your water bottle with this,” she said, raising her eyebrow. “So, uh… consider yourself warned.”

She laughed softly, the sound quiet and genuine, then let her hand fall to her side as she stood in front of him.

For a moment she just looked at him — really looked — at the way the afternoon light caught his hair, at the way his shoulders finally seemed relaxed for the first time all day, at the softness in his expression that made her feel like she was standing on the warmest part of the earth.

Her voice dropped, gentler now.

“She had the best day,” Lennon said, her eyes flicking down the hallway toward Wren’s room. “Like… the absolute best.”

Then she looked back at him, and her smile shifted into something smaller, more intimate.

“And I liked it too,” she admitted quietly. “More than I probably should’ve.”

Her fingers toyed with the frog sticker again, nerves and affection tangled in her chest.

“I like… doing things with her,” she said. “With you. With both of you. It just…” She exhaled softly, searching for the right words. “…it feels easy. And good. And not scary for once.”

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “Which is wild, because nothing about my life has ever been not scary.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes warm, honest.

“But this? Today? Being here?” A tiny smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “It felt right.”

She wasn’t sure if she meant to say the last part out loud, but once it was there, she didn’t take it back.

Lennon looked up at him, a little shy, a little brave, standing in the soft golden light of his living room with leftover glitter in her hair.

“I just… thought you should know.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai didn’t breathe for a beat.

Not because she said anything earth-shattering.
Not because the room had gone quiet or because Wren was humming off-key down the hallway.

But because of her — standing there in the middle of his living room with glitter in her hair, a frog sticker between her fingers, and honesty sitting so gently on her mouth he felt it like a punch straight to the ribs.

God, she had no idea.

No idea what she looked like right now.
What she did to him.
How easy she made everything feel.

He pushed off the couch slowly, not wanting to startle the moment, hands dropping from where they’d been tucked against his chest. He crossed the last few feet to her — steady steps, quiet, like his whole body remembered exactly how to move around her.

He stopped close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of glitter clinging to her cheekbone.

Close enough to smell her shampoo mixed with Wren’s vanilla lip gloss.

Close enough that it felt dangerous in the best way.

“Lenny,” he said softly — not teasing, not coy, just soft — and he reached out, brushing the faintest bit of glitter from her jaw with his thumb. He didn’t even think about it; his hand just… found her.

“You’re not supposed to tell me things like that while you’re covered in glitter and my kid’s calling you family.”

His voice came out low, warm, a little uneven from the way she was looking at him.

He let his hand fall, but only so he could take the frog sticker from her fingers — carefully, like it mattered.

“You liked today more than you should’ve?” he murmured, eyes flicking between hers. “Good. Because I did too.”

He let out a soft breath — a laugh, almost, but gentler.

“And you wanna know something wild?”

He held up the sticker for a second, then tucked it behind her ear like a makeshift hair clip, his touch lingering half a heartbeat too long.

“I like doing life with you. Not the big showy stuff. Not the music or the press or the storms we’ve both walked through.”
His throat tightened, but his smile didn’t falter.
“I mean the small things. The quiet things. The ‘help my child pick out sparkly boots’ things.”

He tilted his head, eyes softening even more.

“And the scary stuff? I’m not scared of it anymore. Not with you around.”

He reached for her hand — slow, certain — threading their fingers together with a confidence that didn’t need to be loud.

“You say it feels easy?”
He squeezed her hand gently.
“That’s because it is. Because you make it that way.”

He stepped closer still, the distance shrinking until her shoulder brushed his chest.

“And for the record?” he murmured, voice warm and a little smug. “You didn’t like today more than you should have.”

His smile grew, quiet and sure.

“You liked it exactly the right amount.”

Wren’s voice drifted faintly from down the hall —
“DON’T LOOK IT’S A SECRET!” —
followed by a crash that absolutely did not sound safe.

Lennon’s head snapped toward the hallway, but Kai didn’t let go of her hand.

He tugged her gently back toward him, eyes dancing.

“Relax,” he whispered. “It’s fine. Worst-case scenario? She’s glitter-bombing the laundry basket again.”

He brushed his thumb along her knuckles, grounding and warm.

“Stay here with me for a second,” he said quietly, almost a plea, almost a promise.

“Just like this.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t pull away this time.

If anything, she swayed a little closer — like her body had made the decision before her thoughts caught up.

Her breath steadied, slow and warm, as she let the weight of his words settle into her ribs. Glitter clung to her skin, her palms were still faintly sticky from Wren’s lip gloss disaster, and somehow it felt… right. Like this was exactly how he was meant to see her.

Her fingers tightened once around his, just enough to acknowledge the truth he’d spoken into the space between them.

“Kai…” she murmured, her voice quiet but sure, “you can’t say things like that and expect me to stay unaffected.”

She lifted her free hand, thumb brushing the fabric at his shoulder, almost absentminded — a soft, grounding touch she didn’t normally allow herself.

“You look at me like this is the easiest choice in the world,” she whispered, eyes lifting to meet his. “Like choosing each other isn’t some big, complicated thing. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m the one who keeps… expecting it to be harder than it is.”

Her gaze softened, her mouth curving into something small and unguarded.

“And you putting a frog sticker behind my ear definitely isn’t helping the whole ‘play it cool’ plan.”

He smiled — that warm, wrecking smile — and her stomach fluttered.

She breathed out gently, letting her thumb trace down the inside of his wrist. “I didn’t mean to say too much today. Or… maybe I did. Maybe it just slipped out because being with you two makes it feel safe to say the things I’ve been avoiding.”

Her voice dipped to almost a whisper.

“And yeah… I liked it. All of it. You. Her. The whole ridiculous, perfect day.”

Another thump echoed down the hallway — Wren probably moving furniture again — but Lennon didn’t turn this time. She kept her eyes on him.

“You know,” she said softly, “it wasn’t the shopping. Or the glitter. Or the stickers. It was watching her trust me. Watching you look at her like she hung the moon. Feeling like”—she hesitated only a beat, vulnerability flickering through her expression—“like there was room for me in it.”

She squeezed his hand, light and certain.

“So if you want me to stay here for a second?” she whispered, stepping that final inch closer until her forehead nearly brushed his.
“I want that, too.”

A quiet smile pulled at her lips.

“And I think Wren will survive five more minutes without us.”

Her hand slid down his arm until her fingers intertwined with his again, fitting easily, naturally.

Lennon looked up at him — eyes soft, glitter catching the fading light — and let the truth fall gently between them:

“I don’t want this moment to end either.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had been undone before — onstage, in studios, in moments he’d swear were the peak of everything —
but none of it, none of it, prepared him for this.

For her.

For the way she didn’t pull back, the way she swayed a little closer like gravity had finally stopped being polite and just claimed the space between them.

Her fingers tightened around his, small but steady, and every last thought in his brain short-circuited in one very articulate sentence:

Oh. Oh, I’m in trouble.

She whispered his name — soft, breathy, too gentle to survive anywhere except right here — and he felt it travel straight down his spine.

“You can’t say things like that and expect me to stay unaffected.”

Kai almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he was one wrong breath away from being completely ruined.

He had the urge to say something clever, something charming — a joke about frog stickers or how he absolutely had expected her to be affected —
but nothing snarky made it past the tight warmth in his throat.

Not when she touched him like that.

Her thumb brushed his shoulder, feather-light but grounding, and he let his eyes fall half-closed for a beat because damn—that was all it took. One touch and he wasn’t Kai the musician or Kai the co-parent or Kai the guy who still didn’t fully trust himself to not screw up happiness.

He was just a man standing in his living room with glitter on his socks and the girl he’d loved in a hundred different ways leaned inches from his chest.

“You look at me like this is the easiest choice in the world,” she breathed.

Kai felt the breath freeze in his lungs.

Because she was right.
Because it was easy.
Because somewhere between spilled glitter and tulle skirts and the way Wren said “Lenny” like it meant something, he’d stopped fighting the truth:

He wanted this.
Her.
Them.
All of it.
Loudly, stupidly, without hesitation.

She mentioned the frog sticker he’d tucked behind her ear and he huffed a helpless, quiet laugh — because of course she noticed. Of course she did.

Then her thumb traced the inside of his wrist and—
oh, hell.
He felt that everywhere.

He didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t dare.
He just watched her — watched the glitter catching in her lashes, watched her swallow like she was saying something brave, watched her step that tiny, devastating inch closer until their foreheads almost brushed.

“I want that, too,” she whispered.

He didn’t breathe for a full second.

And this time, he didn’t hesitate.

Kai lifted their joined hands, gently, steadying her as he leaned in — slow, deliberate, like he wanted her to feel every fraction of the space he closed —
and he kissed her.

Not rushed.
Not hungry.
Not the kind that tried to say too much at once.

Just soft.
Certain.
A kiss that settled everything he hadn’t been able to put into words.

Her breath caught against his mouth, and he felt her fingertips curl into the fabric at his shoulder — that familiar, effortless fit they’d rediscovered in a dozen quiet moments already.

He drew back barely an inch, still close enough that their noses brushed, still close enough to feel her breath warm against his lips.

“Lenny…” he murmured, voice low and uneven.
“You don’t… you don’t know what you’re doing to me right now.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles — gentle, almost shy, the kind of touch he hadn’t given anyone in years.

“You think I’m looking at you like you’re an easy choice?”
His voice dipped, warm and sincere.
“Baby… I’ve been trying to choose you for a decade.”

Her breath stuttered; he felt it.

He leaned his forehead to hers, the softest, simplest contact — more intimate than anything on a stage could ever be.

“You being here with her today?” he whispered.
“You being here with me right now?”
His hand curled lightly around the back of her neck, grounding, tender.
“That wasn’t complicated. That was… everything.”

Another thump echoed faintly down the hallway. Wren. Obviously.

But Kai didn’t move.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t even blink.

“Five more minutes,” he murmured with a smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Yeah… she’ll survive.”

He kissed her again — a quick press of his lips to hers, soft and sure, sealing the truth they’d both finally stopped running from.

And when he pulled back, he kept their hands intertwined, kept his forehead against hers, kept that smile — warm, quiet, completely gone for her.

“And for the record?” he added softly.
“I don’t want this moment to end either.”

[Lennon Rae]

The house felt different without Wren — calmer, gentler — the kind of quiet Lennon didn’t get often. Not the empty kind. Just… still.

She closed the door behind her and let out a long, exhausted breath, the kind that came from eight hours of meetings, deadlines, and people talking at her instead of to her. Her shoulder bag slid off with a thud, and she rubbed the tension at the back of her neck.

Her head was still buzzing with label chatter — dates moving up, decisions piling on, everyone wanting her EP yesterday.

She wanted five minutes.
Just five.

And that’s when she saw him.

Kai stood in the warm spill of kitchen light, leaning casually against the doorway like he’d been waiting for her without making a big deal of it. His face softened the moment he saw her — the kind of soft that went straight to her ribs.

Lennon didn’t bother pretending she wasn’t tired.
Didn’t bother pretending she didn’t need him right now.

She walked straight toward him.

He met her halfway, arms coming around her waist in a slow, sure embrace that made something in her unclench all at once. She pressed her forehead to his chest, breathing in soap and warmth and the faint smell of something simmering.

He didn’t ask anything.
Didn’t fuss.
Just held her — one hand on her back, the other sliding up to cradle the side of her head.

Lennon melted.

Her arms looped around his middle, pulling him close until her muscles finally understood they could stand down. His warmth anchored her, his breath brushing her hair, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

She tilted her face up after a moment, and Kai dipped his head, brushing his lips over her temple, then her cheek — slow, careful, like he was easing her back into her own body.

Lennon smiled — small, tired, but real.

He brushed his knuckles along her jaw, a touch full of quiet affection, then turned slightly and guided her toward the kitchen with a gentle palm at the small of her back.

The stove was on.
A pot simmered.

Her favorite soup.

Of course he remembered.

She leaned against the counter as he lifted the lid, steam curling up between them. The soft amber glow made everything look warmer — the kitchen, the meal, the man standing in front of her with that effortless, grounding tenderness.

Lennon stepped closer, slipping a hand beneath his arm and resting it over his heart as he stirred. He glanced down at her with a small smile, one corner of his mouth lifting in that quiet way he only saved for moments like this.

She tilted her head to rest against his shoulder, letting the smell of broth and herbs and home settle into her chest. His free hand found her waist and tugged her closer, thumb sweeping a slow circle against her hip.

Her voice came out softer than she expected, warm against his shirt.

“I missed you today.”

His arm tightened instinctively around her, the slightest pull that said I’m here without needing anything added.

She turned her face into him, letting her lips brush against his neck, lingering there for a moment before she murmured, quieter still:

“Being here with you… this is the best part of the whole day.”

She felt him breathe out — not a sigh, not a laugh — just that warm, quiet exhale she’d started thinking of as his version of saying everything at once.

Lennon slid her fingers into his, weaving their hands together by the stove, letting the moment sink in before whispering against his shoulder:

“Come eat with me.”

He pressed a soft kiss into her hair.

And together — palms linked, bodies close, soup steaming gently beside them — they moved toward the little kitchen table, the end of the day finally softening around them.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had already been halfway gone the second she walked in the door.

He pretended he wasn’t — pretended he was just casually leaning there like some off-brand rom-com lead who got cast because the real one was stuck in traffic — but the truth was, the moment Lennon’s shoulders dropped, something in him clicked into place. The kind of instinctive, quiet okay, I’ve got you that only ever switched on for her and Wren.

And now?

Now she was tucked against his shoulder like she belonged there, her hand warm through his shirt, her voice still echoing in his chest.

“I missed you today.”

He was pretty sure his heart did a full gymnastics routine behind his ribs.

Not that he let it show.
He kept stirring the soup like a totally normal man who definitely did not momentarily forget how wrists functioned when she said that.

Smooth, Mercer.
Very collected.
Do not spill the soup like a sitcom dad.

When she added that part — the part about being here with him being the best part of her day — Kai felt the air leave his lungs in one of those embarrassingly soft exhalations he would deny if questioned under oath.

He didn’t need her to explain it.
He didn’t need to ask how her day went.
He already knew: too many people, too much pressure, too much noise.

So he gave her the opposite.

Warmth.
Stillness.
A kitchen that finally stopped feeling too big after the divorce.
A place she could land without bracing.

And he meant it — every quiet inch of his body meant it — when he kissed her hair and let her guide him toward the table.

He set the bowls down, sat beside her instead of across, their knees nudging under the table like they’d made a mutual subconscious pact to pretend there weren’t other chairs in the room.

Kai reached for her hand again, thumb sweeping slow, lazy lines over her knuckles. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t need to.

But after a moment, he let a grin curl into his voice — soft, warm, laced with that ever-present chaos that always managed to sneak out around her.

“You know,” he murmured, nudging her shoulder with his just enough to make her look at him, “I was fully prepared to pick you up like a Disney princess and carry you away from that door if you looked even one degree more exhausted.”

He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of hers — slow, not showy, just honest.

“Soup was the safer option,” he added lightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But don’t tempt me. I’m one foot away from dramatic Prince charming-energy at all times.”

He leaned in a little, his forehead almost touching hers, voice dropping to something warmer — not teasing, just true.

“And for the record? Having you walk into this house today… yeah. That was the best part of my day.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. He didn’t need her to.

Instead, he squeezed her hand once more, then picked up his spoon with a soft kind of contentment — the kind that only existed when she was sitting right here beside him.

Domestic. Easy.
The kind of quiet he never thought he’d get back.

And the kind he wasn’t about to let go of again.

[Lennon Rae]

She didn’t answer him right away.

Mostly because she couldn’t.

Because the way he said that — the way it slipped out of him without hesitation, without performance, without trying to be anything but honest — it did something to her chest she wasn’t prepared for. Something slow. Something steady. Something she’d spent years convincing herself wasn’t meant for her.

Her fingers tightened around his, just a little, her thumb brushing the place he’d kissed like she was memorizing it.

“That’s…” she exhaled a breath that came out softer than she meant it to, “that’s dangerously sweet, Mercer.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing. Not really. And she knew he’d hear that.

She shifted closer, enough that their shoulders brushed, enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the exhaustion still clinging to her bones. Her soup sat untouched for a moment while she absorbed the fact that she was allowed to sit here like this — allowed to want this.

“I think the Disney princess thing would’ve taken me out,” she admitted quietly, tilting her head so she could look at him. “Like… full emotional collapse. On your hallway floor.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“And honestly? I think you knew that. Which is… unfairly perceptive of you.”

Their knees bumped again under the table, and she didn’t move hers away this time. She let it stay pressed to his, grounding herself in the simple fact that he was here, warm, real, steady in a way nobody ever had been for her.

She finally lifted her spoon, but before she took a bite, she nudged his arm lightly with her elbow.

“You know what the best part of my day actually was?” she asked, voice gentler than she’d planned.

She didn’t wait for him to guess.

“It was walking in here and seeing you pretend like you weren’t waiting for me,” she said with a soft laugh, eyes dropping to their joined hands. “Like you just… accidentally ended up in the exact spot I needed you in.”

She shook her head, smiling into her bowl.

“And the soup,” she added, bumping his knee once more. “Definitely the soup. Very heroic move.”

A beat.

Then she let herself lean into him again, just a hair, but enough that it was unmistakable.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For being… this. For making coming home feel like coming home.”

She took a slow sip of her soup, letting the warmth settle through her, then turned her head just slightly toward him — enough for her voice to soften even further.

“…and,” she added quietly, “how was your day?”

Not small talk.
Not filler.
Just genuine — the way she only ever asked when she really wanted to know.

[Kai Mercer]

Kai tried very, very hard not to look as undone as he felt.

But the way she leaned into him, the way her voice went all soft at the edges when she said coming home, the way she kept brushing his knee like she didn’t even realize she was doing it — yeah, no, he was gone. Absolutely done for. Someone should probably put out a PSA.

He blew out a quiet breath, one that wasn’t nearly as subtle as he hoped, and set his spoon down like answering her properly required the use of both hands.

Because it did.
Because she did.

“Well,” he said slowly, squeezing her fingers where they were still laced with his, “in the spirit of transparency… my day was aggressively mediocre.”

He tilted his head, catching her eye with that confident, crooked smile he only ever let out around her — the one that hit somewhere between teasing and sincerity.

“Couple conference calls, one existential crisis about whether I’m becoming a guy who owns decorative throw blankets, a minor battle with the garbage disposal, and—”

He paused, leaning closer just enough that his shoulder bumped hers again, this time intentional.

“—that familiar, weird moment where the house goes from Wren-level chaos back to… quiet.”

Not new.
Not shocking.
Just strange, every single time.

He exhaled softly.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now, right? Split custody’s been our normal for a while. But it still hits the same. One minute it’s glitter explosions and requests for dinosaur-shaped pancakes, and the next it’s just… me. And the silence. And the socks she left under the coffee table.”

His thumb dragged a slow circle across the back of her hand — grounding, not dramatic.

“But honestly?” His voice warmed, softened. “Tonight it didn’t feel as weird. Because you came home.”

Then that grin returned — playful, Kai-coded, shamelessly fond.

“Which was great for my mental health, but terrible for my ability to pretend I wasn’t absolutely waiting for you like some lovesick—”

He caught himself, cleared his throat, pretended he wasn’t about to say something too honest.

“—like some very respectable, totally normal adult man who definitely didn’t check the clock more than three times.”

He nudged her bowl with the end of his spoon.

“And the soup was heroic, by the way. I accept that title. Prince Charming-energy is a heavy crown but I wear it with dignity.”

Then, softer — the kind of soft that melted the grin at the edges:

“And for the record? You leaning on me like that? Yeah. That was the best part of my day.”

He let the moment settle between them, warm and unhurried, before adding with a low hum of amusement:

“Also, if you had collapsed on the hallway floor? I would’ve picked you up. Probably dramatically. Possibly with a dip. Very storybook.”

His knee pressed gently into hers again, lingering this time.

“Just saying. Collapsing is always an option.”

[Lennon Rae]

Lennon didn’t stand a chance.

Not with the way he said my day was aggressively mediocre like he was confessing a federal crime.
Not with the way he squeezed her fingers when he talked about Wren’s socks under the coffee table.
Not with the way he almost said lovesick and then bailed like a man clinging to the last ounce of his dignity.

She tried—truly tried—not to betray just how much that entire ramble hit her.
But her face was absolutely not cooperating.

A slow smile pulled across her mouth, warm and a tiny bit dangerous.

“Well,” she murmured, tipping her head so her temple brushed his shoulder, “I’m glad you survived the garbage disposal and the existential throw-blanket spiral. Very heroic of you.”

His hand was still wrapped around hers.
She didn’t fix that.
She just let her thumb stroke over the back of his knuckles—slow, absentminded, like muscle memory.

“And the house going quiet…” she added, her voice lowering a little, gentler than she meant it to be, “I know that one. The shift. The… sudden stillness after too much noise.”

She nudged her foot against his under the table—soft, not playful this time. More like I hear you.

“You’re not weird for feeling it,” she said, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You’re just a really good dad.”

That landed. She saw it.
Saw the way something in his expression flickered and softened, like she’d hit a place nobody else remembered to acknowledge.

“And the socks under the coffee table?” she added with a tiny laugh, “That’s not silence. That’s Wren-level ambiance.”

His grin returned—crooked, warm, fond in a way that made her chest ache.

She leaned in a little more, their shoulders pressed now, not accidentally.

“And just so we’re clear,” Lennon continued, tone sliding into something teasing-soft, “you absolutely did wait for me like a lovesick something.”

He groaned under his breath, but she could feel him smiling.

“But,” she went on, tightening her fingers around his, “I liked it.”

She let that truth sit there, unhurried, unhidden.

“I… liked knowing someone wanted me home.”

Her spoon dropped back into her bowl with a small clink as she shifted closer, letting her knee rest against his fully, no hesitation this time.

“And the hallway collapse?” she murmured, amusement curling into the warmth of her voice, “Don’t tempt me. Because the idea of you picking me up dramatically is… honestly kind of appealing.”

She paused, eyes softening.

Then — quieter, but steady:

“And Kai… thank you. For saying all of that. For waiting. For being… this.”

Her thumb brushed his hand again, slower this time.

“You were the best part of my day,” she added.
“Even before the soup.”

[Kai Mercer]

Kai had no business being this affected over soup and a woman saying you were the best part of my day, and yet here he was, sitting at his own kitchen table feeling like someone had just slid open a window in his ribcage.

Because she said it like she meant it.
Because she leaned into him like she trusted him.
Because she looked at him like he didn’t have to pretend anything for her.

And yeah.
He was done for.

He tried to swallow the smile tugging at his mouth, but it kept breaking through anyway — too real, too warm, too "you’ve just emotionally dismantled me with compliments" to hide.

“Okay,” he said, voice touching the edge of a laugh but soft with something deeper, “first of all, I did not confess my aggressively mediocre day like it was a felony. That was very dignified reporting.”

A beat.

“…from a man who absolutely considered calling maintenance about the garbage disposal before remembering he is the maintenance.”

Her fingers tightened around his again, and Kai felt it — the quiet, grounding weight of it — all the way down his spine.

“And second,” he continued, shifting just enough so his shoulder pressed fully to hers, “if you call me a good dad again, I’m gonna have to pretend my allergies are acting up.”

He tipped his head so he could see her better, expression gentling without him meaning it to.

“Seriously, though… thank you. You saying that—” His jaw flexed once, the emotion sliding through him before he could filter it. “It matters. More than I can explain without ruining my cool-guy persona.”

He squeezed her hand, thumb tracing a slow arc across her skin.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes flicking to her mouth for one half-second before returning to her eyes, “lovesick is a compliment in my book. I could do worse things than be stupidly happy you exist.”

She nudged his knee again — a deliberate, steady press — and he let his own settle against hers, anchoring there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“And don’t even get me started on the dramatic hallway rescue,” Kai said, leaning in just slightly, grin blooming wide and unrepentant. “Because if you think I wouldn’t sweep you up in some extremely unnecessary, overly-princess-coded maneuver? Lennon Rae, please.”

He shook his head once, eyes bright.

“I was born for overly dramatic entrances. Give me a reason.”

Her laugh — soft and tired and gorgeous — went straight to the center of him.

But then she said thank you.
Thank you for being this.
Thank you for waiting.
Thank you for being the best part.

Kai’s smile softened, the edges going warm and still.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles gently against the side of her thigh beneath the table, “I didn’t wait because I had to. I waited because I wanted you home. That’s… it. No mystery.”

His voice dipped, honest in a way he rarely let himself be.

“You walked through that door, and the whole place felt right again.”

He lifted her hand, turning it palm-up so he could press a slow, lingering kiss to the center — not rushed, not jokey, but real.

“And if I was the best part of your day…” He looked up at her through his lashes, something warm and certain settling in his chest. “You were mine before you even stepped inside.”

Then — because he could never leave it too heavy without balance — he added with a crooked grin:

“Though I am taking full credit for the soup. Let’s not downplay my heroic culinary triumph.”