Thomas Residence

[Midnights]

When ideas happen.

[Leighton Thomas]

It was dumb, but Leighton thought after she and Spencer slept together, he'd finally ask her to be his girlfriend. Two weeks later, it still hadn't happened. However, he did seem more into her than ever before, so that was a plus. He was consistently popping up out of nowhere and sending her sweet text messages. Her mom always told her that men fall in love with sex first, so Leighton used that to her advantage, and it worked for the most part.

Lying on her bed, Leighton held her phone above her face, staring at Spencer’s last few text messages to her, wondering why he had responded yet. Her head was swirling with many different scenarios, but she was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt while also trying not to think about his reputation before her. Things had been going so well. She couldn't imagine him wanting to throw all that away.

Hearing a knock at the door, her mother entered to tell her she was going to bed. She rolled over onto her stomach, looking back at the door. “Okay. Good night, love you too.” Leighton said. She looked back down at her phone, frowning. Tossing her phone aside, Leighton pulled her school books back in front of her and picked up her pencil. She was trying to focus, but she could only think about Spencer and how he hadn't texted her back.

After a while, Leighton gave up on her schoolwork and shut her books. She started to doodle Spencer’s name in a heart on the front of her math book cover. Looking at it for a moment, she realized if Spencer were to see it before he asked her to be his girlfriend, she’d be embarrassed. As she was about to scribble it out, erase it, do something, Leighton heard something outside her bedroom window. What the actual fuck? Getting out of bed, she went to the window to inspect. Before she knew it, her window slid open, and Spencer climbed through, not at all gracefully. She bent down and grabbed him by one of his arms, trying to help him to his feet. “What are you doing here? Do you want my mom to kill us both?” She questioned, her eyes darting between him and her bedroom door.

Spencer answered while he looked around her bedroom (https://i.ibb.co/SJ78MhL/46922496-F9-E3-4398-BC1-F-B37-B05-D13934.jpg). He’d only seen it briefly from the hallway when he came over for dinner once. “You missed me?” She looked over her shoulder as she hurried towards her door and locked it just in case her mother heard whispers and wanted to investigate. It would give Leighton time to hide Spencer. “We could’ve FaceTimed?” Or you could've just answered your text messages! Leighton wanted to scream at him, but she chose to take a different route. He was here. He wasn't with someone else. He was in her bedroom.

It hadn't occurred to her that she was wearing the shirt (https://i.ibb.co/cgVvpRY/43-BE4-C32-4725-4-E1-B-B851-3-AB9-B72-AF4-BE.jpg) he gave her to wear home once until he commented. Leighton glanced down. She was only in his t-shirt and underwear. Leighton looked back at him with a smile, “Oh well, it’s mine now,” Leighton shrugged and giggled. Happily moving towards him, her arms latched around his neck before her lips found his. After greeting him properly, she pulled back, gazing into his eyes, “Hi.” He still got to her every time.

[Spencer Walker]

In his mind, they were already a couple despite him not officially asking her out. It wasn't until Jess had talked to him that he realized that Leighton might not have seen things the same way. There were many reasons Spencer preferred to be a free agent, and having to verbalize his feelings and shit was definitely one of them. Still, Leighton was worth it and because of that, he had to at least try to be better. So, that was what lead him to stumbling in through her bedroom window late at night.

"No, not particularly," he answered facetiously asked if he wanted her mother to kill them. "I didn't realize how hard that would be," he told her as she helped him back to his feet. "I'm here because I missed you." Spencer looked around her room, taking in all the little details. His room was usually a mess and minus a few posters that he'd hung up with tape and thumbtacks, he hadn't put nearly the effort that she had into making his room look good. His attention turned back to the real reason he was here though, and he finally noticed a familiar shirt hugging her curves. "Is that mine?" he asked, wondering if she realized how incredibly hot that she looked. There was something irresistible about seeing a girl wear your clothes, he'd happily let her keep it.

His arms instinctively wrapped around her waist as she moved in close to him. The original purpose of his visit was suddenly foggy as she kissed him and suddenly all his teenage mind could think about was tearing that shirt off of her. "Hey," he replied with a hushed tone and smile. Unable to fight his urges, he leaned in to kiss her more, with tongue this time, one of his hands making its way to her ass and giving it a firm squeeze. Spencer didn't know how long they stood their making out for but finally he pulled back and smiled down at her again. "I actually came over here for another reason." he admitted.

Holding onto her forearms, he gently pulled her arms off his shoulders before taking one of her hands in his and leading her over to the bed to sit down. Pretending not to notice as she nervously flipped one of her textbooks over behind them, Spencer tried to figure out how to go about this. "I mean, I did miss you but, uh, what I really wanted to know... I was wondering, do you want to be my girlfriend?" 'Real smooth, Romeo.'

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton giggled when Spencer squeezed her butt. His hand stayed there until he stopped kissing her and announced he was there for another reason. Spencer moved the two of them over to the bed, where she nervously flipped her book over and pushed it away from them, hoping he hadn't noticed. Leighton hadn't expected what Spencer asked next.

Spencer Walker just climbed through my fucking bedroom window to ask me to be his girlfriend? What in the fucking Black Mirror? For a moment, Leighton was quiet as she dealt with her inner dialogue while still trying to process that everything she'd wished for was finally coming true. Once realizing that she’d been silent longer than she intended, she looked over at him, “Yes,” Leighton finally answered, nodding her head. “Yes. Always fucking yes,” she grinned uncontrollably. Leighton leaned in and gave him another kiss, pulling away from his lips, “It took you fucking long enough, you dingbat!” She teased and kissed him deeply. Her hand moved to the side of her face as they continued.

She didn't know how he did it, but time always seemed to stand still when they were together. Leighton understood why the teenage girls were always fawning over him. He was handsome and mysterious and could make you feel like the only girl in the world. Now he was finally hers and only hers. Leighton broke the kiss briefly to push her school books out of the way and move back against her pillows, with Spencer following. It probably wasn't the best idea she’s had lately with her mother in the other room, but she couldn't help it. He always tasted so good.

Leighton broke the kiss again after Spencer settled between her legs. She pushed some of the strands back that had fallen in his face, smiling and admiring him. “You make me so happy,” she admitted softly. “Happier than I've been in a long time.”

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer was overjoyed when she said yes, not that he showed it externally. A smile on his face and a sparkle in his eye was about the happiest emotional response he seemed capable of lately. Even with everything going right, he felt this overhanging sense of dread and despair. Not just in this moment either but in all aspects of his life.

Eagerly joining her on the bed as they made out some, he really hoped that Violet wasn't the bed check type but he honestly wouldn't it past her. Leighton knew her mom better than he did though so until she pulled away, he had no intentions of stopping. His eyes remained closed and lips slightly puckered in hopes that she would change her mind and continue kissing. Instead she spoke so he opened his eyes and smiled back.

"You make me happy too." It felt like a lie, only because hardly anything made him truly happy anymore. She was the only thing is his life that brought him close to that feeling of 'happiness'. "I like you more than I've ever liked a girl before." Not really wanting to talk about his feelings any loger, he leaned down and distracted her with more kissing.

Spencer's erection grew as their tongues swirled around each other and her hand gripped onto his hair. 'Fuck, I don't want her thinking I just came here for sex.' Spencer still didn't even know if doing anything of that nature was even on the table with her mom so close by. Maybe she was a wash sleeping pills down with wine deep sleeper kind of mom. Despite her being his girlfriend's mom and dad's girlfriend's best friend, Spencer really didn't know a whole lot about the woman. Just random rumors here and there that came from their classmates. Even Sam didn't know a whole lot of hard facts about her and Leighton didn't exactly like talking about her much either.

Spencer finally pulled back from the kiss and stared down at her, all the hair that she'd fixed falling right back down into his face again. "Hi."

[Leighton Thomas]

“Yeah?” Leighton’s eyes lit up when Spencer talked about his feelings as she played with the collar of his t-shirt. Her eyes instinctively closed when Spencer started to kiss her again, quickly getting caught up in the moment again.

Leighton had turned down Spencer for months. There was no way she was telling him to stop. She'd go as far as he wanted to. Not to mention, Leighton thought if she kept him satisfied enough, he wouldn’t want to go exploring. She knew it shouldn’t have to be that way, but it was the only thing she could think of to help her sleep better at night. She didn’t feel pressured, and she enjoyed every touch he placed on her body. Leighton craved him so much more than she’d like to admit.

“Hi.” She moved one of her hands from the back of Spencer's head and cupped his face, kissing him a few more times before slipping from underneath him and getting out of bed. She doubled checked her bedroom door and flicked off her light before returning to the side of the bed. She removed the books that cluttered her bed and sat them on the floor carefully, trying not to make any concerning noises. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she bent over.

Leighton abandoned her clothes while Spencer watched before joining him back in bed. She was going to make sure her boyfriend left happy. “She’s gone to bed. It’s fine,” Leighton told him, watching his hesitation. “You just gotta be quiet. Okay?” Leighton tried to reassure Spencer before her lips found his again.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer fell onto his back once she'd excused herself from under him, his hands propping his head up as he watched her move. It took him a moment to adjust to the light change, but he was definitely able to see her remove what little clothing she had on. This was exactly what he'd wanted but now that it was happening, he felt oddly nervous. Usually, he wouldn't give a damn about being caught by parents, but this was different. They were officially a couple now and that meant that he had to impress her mom if he wanted to stand a chance at this lasting. That being said, he'd managed to get his pants off by the time she'd started kissing him.

He wasn't about to turn her down either because that honestly seemed worse than getting caught by Violet. Spencer kissed her back, one of his hands finding its way to her breasts, making sure to give both of them attention before moving down her curves to her outer thigh. From there his hand moved in between her thighs and worked its way back up. Spencer stroked her clit with his pointer and middle finger before sliding them down and inside of her once she was wet enough. Finally pulling back from the kisses, he left his two fingers in her while he spoke, "I can stay quiet, question is, can you?"

Giving her a few more kisses on her lips as he moved his fingers around, feeling her walls. His thumb began to work on her clit again as he moved his kisses down her body. Once he'd reached her boob, he withdrew his fingers from her as he tugged on her nipple gently with his teeth. Moving himself down and off the bottom of the bed, he stripped off his boxers and shirt before grabbing her by the ankles and pulling her ass closer to the edge of the bed. Kneeling down and placing her legs over his shoulders, Spencer kissed his way down to her thighs. His fingers found their way inside of her again as his tongue flicked around her clit, waiting to see how well she could contain her moans as he satisfied her.

[Leighton Thomas]

If Leighton knew anything about Violet, it was that her mother already had her three glasses of wine and nightly joint. She was most likely already tucked away, sleeping, and was the last person on Leighton’s mind.

Leighton made a soft noise when Spencer unexpectedly pulled her down to the edge of the bed—covering her mouth with her hand, hoping to silence any more noises. She quickly became nervous, watching as his silhouette kneeled and moved her legs over his shoulders. All of this was undeniably hot, turning her on more than she already was. Usually, Leighton didn’t like anyone's head between her legs. It caused unwanted flashbacks, but surprisingly tonight, it had been easier to keep the negative thoughts away. The only thing she had on her mind right now was Spencer.

Leighton propped herself up on her elbows, wanting to watch him as he ate her out. However, it wasn’t long before she fell back against the bed, feeling his fingers pressing against her walls and his tongue moving against her clit. It was almost impossible not to make any noises, and Leighton had been doing well until Spencer hit a particular spot inside her, causing her back to arch and her body to twitch. “Oooh, holy shit,” she moaned, trying to keep her reaction low. One of her hands moved to the back of his head while the other rested on one of her breasts, occasionally playing with her nipple.

As Spencer continued for a bit longer, the pressure between her legs built up more, making it even harder for Leighton to stay quiet. Biting her lip and grabbing at the sheets, “It’s coming,” she informed him. Spencer’s licking and fingering became more aggressive, causing her orgasm to come sooner than Leighton anticipated. When it finally hit, her back arched again, and she let out a long moan. It was louder than she wanted but still low enough that she didn’t think her mother heard.

Still feeling her walls contracting, Leighton stared at the ceiling, trying to process everything that just happened. Leighton had never experienced an orgasm of great magnitude. It was somewhat overwhelming. Spencer removed her legs from his shoulder, and she sat up, meeting him face-to-face before he could go anywhere. After her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and with some help from the moonlight, Leighton could see enough to wipe some of her juice off his face with her hand. She still couldn’t believe this was real. It would take a bit for reality to set in for her.

“It’s your turn,” Leighton whispered as she moved back, making room for Spencer on the bed. The thought of giving him a blowjob had crossed her mind, but honestly, she didn’t think she was ready for that. Leighton hoped Spencer hadn’t been looking forward to that because he would surely be disappointed.

[Spencer Walker]

[fade to black: sexy time]

Spencer climbed off of her and laid on his back on the bed next to her while he caught his breath. Once he had, he carefully removed the condom and looked around for a trash bin. When he had spotted it with the help of her guidance, he got up to throw it away, grabbing his boxers along the way and putting them on before crawling back into the bed next to her. Wrapping his arm around her as she cuddled into his chest, Spencer placed a kiss on her head and played with her hair while they lay there.

"I want you to know that I really did come here to ask you to be my girlfriend and because I missed you, not because I was horny. Although, I do love doing that with you, I guess I just wanted you to know that." Spencer admitted. He didn't know how to make pillow talk, usually he simply pretended to be asleep or left after sleeping with girls, but he figured he at least had to try with Leighton. She deserved the aftercare. Trouble was he didn't know what to say so he ended up spewing out whatever crossed his mind and hoped it would get her to fill the silence. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

"And now that you're my girlfriend, I want to take you on a proper date," Spencer paused and analyzed how that might sound. "Shit, that didn't come out how I wanted it to. What I meant to say is, would you like to go on a proper date?" This wasn't supposed to be about what he wanted; this was him trying to court her as best he could. His dad didn't treat his women badly, but he wasn't actually setting the same examples that Jess' dad was. His father had taught him everything he needed to know about getting the ladies, keeping and winning over the ladies he had to learn on his own.

[Leighton Thomas]

When Spencer got out of bed to dispose of the condom, Leighton took it upon herself to rearrange her covers, covering them both up when he returned. If she enjoyed anything more than sex with Spencer, it was cuddling with Spencer.

Even if it was hard to see him with the lack of light, Leighton still lifted her head to look at him when he started talking about why he came over. “I didn’t think that,” Leighton reassured. “If anything, I initiated because I wanted to, and I did it because I enjoy sex with you too.” Okay, Leighton may have had an alternative motive for why she put out again, but she wouldn’t tell him that. “I appreciate you saying that, though, because it does mean a lot to hear.” Even though Leighton knew Spencer’s track record, he hadn’t done anything to break her trust. Yet. That was the keyword. She pushed the doubts as far down as possible, tied them up in a box, and tucked them away in her mind. Leighton didn’t want her anxiousness to cause them to break up if she had no reason to worry.

Leighton placed her hand on his chest before resting her chin on top. “Look, it’s not like I was a virgin when we had sex the first time. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to think I was easy like Mindy or Jessica or whoever else you’ve had sex with. If you wanted me, I wanted you to work for it and show me you were serious,” Leighton explained. “I’ve been the girl to put out, and when it’s all said and done, I just felt used and gross. I didn’t even know if I had a chance with you, but, like, I didn’t want to risk you making me feel that way about myself or thinking you could turn me into another notch on your belt.” Leighton didn’t like opening up because opening up meant the things she wanted to keep hidden had a chance of coming out. “The way you make me feel in general is just mind-boggling, but the way you make me feel after sex is on another level, baby,” Leighton wasn’t going to backtrack this time because he was now her boyfriend. “You make me feel wanted and sexy. I’ve never had someone make me feel that way.”

Leighton smiled when Spencer quickly corrected himself, wondering if he could see. “It’s okay. I know what you meant,” she told him. “The Valentine’s Day dance counts as a date, though. And if I’m being honest, it was a damn good one too.” Leighton still reminisced about the dance. It was one of the best nights she had ever had. “But yes, another date sounds wonderful,” she gushed. “Have any ideas, or did you need help brainstorming?”

“I wanted to say, too, that you don’t have to be scared of saying something wrong. I know this is new for you. You’re trying, and that’s all that matters to me,” Leighton told him, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against his lips before moving back to her previous position on his chest. “You’re a good guy, Spence. We wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.” Leighton had always seen Spencer’s potential. It’s why she fell for him in the first place.

[Spencer Walker]

When Leighton moved her head, he played pushed some of her hair out of the way before propping his head up with his hand so he could see he better. It was nice knowing that she enjoyed the sex as well but he wanted to make sure that they had more than just that going for them. He never wanted to leave her feeling used and gross afterwards. "You are definitely sexy and I want you essentially all the time." He assured her. Sex with her was definitely the best he'd ever had and as afraid as he was to admit it fully, it was because of the feelings he had for her.

Spencer was finally coming back down from his own cloud nine but being snuggled up next to her wasn't exactly helping him. He could imagine doing this every night, forever. Something told him, their parents wouldn't exactly be too thrilled about that however. Her watched her, a smile tugging at his lips as he imagined what the future held for them.

"Valentine's was like a group date. It was special and amazing. Best v-day I've ever had." Spencer didn't even buy into that stupid holiday and somehow Leighton had managed to make it one of his favorites. "I have some ideas but I'm also open to suggestions." He always had Jess to help but he also wasn't about to refuse insider knowledge on how to keep the girl of his dreams. "I do know I want it to be the two of us, no distractions, just us." No friends with no filters, no jealous ex conquests, no nosy parents, just a boy and a girl falling in love.

Spencer exhaled through his nose when she mentioned him being a good guy. He certainly didn't feel like a good guy, or else he wouldn't have a long list of girls who hated him. He was trying with Leighton but what if it wasn't enough? What if he was just another shitty dude? He wanted to change but he didn't know how, it all felt easier said than done. "Yeah, thanks." Spencer smiled at her, trying his best to hide the sadness from his eyes. "You, uh, wanna smoke?" Self medicating and a best friend with an in meant, Spencer was always prepared when the feelings got to be too much.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton couldn’t stop herself from smiling when Spencer complimented her and told her how he always wanted her. It still didn’t make sense how someone like Spencer was into Leighton. But here they were, and he seemed just as into her as she was into him.

“I don’t like movie dates. It’s a lazy excuse for a date,” Leighton told him. “I also feel like guys only take girls to the movies for two reasons. One, they don’t want to talk to you, and two, they wanna make out with you and get a handful,” she finished and shrugged. “Other than that, I’d be down for whatever.”

Leighton could hear the tone in Spencer’s voice shift and wasn’t sure why. She knew he struggled and hoped one day he’d be comfortable enough to talk to her about things, but Leighton wasn’t going to hold her breath.

“Yes. Hang on, though.” Pushing the covers off, Leighton reached for her clothes before getting out of bed and putting them on. It wasn’t the first time she’d smoked in her room, so she had a routine. Instead of using the overhead light, Leighton turned the lamp on on her dresser, which was a bit dim. She wanted to keep the mood chill. Leighton grabbed the towel off the back of her door and placed it on the floor in front of it, hoping it’d stop any smoke from seeping into the hallway. Leighton lit a few candles she had around the room before walking over and opening the window by the side of the bed. She turned, facing Spencer, giving him a quick peck on the lips before reaching for the pillows and her furry blanket from her side of the bed. Leighton walked over to the window Spencer had managed to get through and dropped everything on the floor. She rearranged it, so they had someplace comfy to sit.

Leighton finally joined Spencer on the floor with a cup previously used as an ashtray. She passed it over to him after getting situated and crossing her legs into a pretzel style. “Other than when you’re sleeping, how many hours have you gone without smoking?” She asked curiously with a chuckle, her head resting against the wall as she watched him prepare the joint. It didn’t matter what he was doing; Spencer was always attractive. Like, she understood because his dad was hot too, but damn.

She was aware of his spurts of sadness. Not only could she see it with her own eyes, but Sam also told her a little bit. Did she feel bad for him? Yes, but Leighton wasn’t going to pity him. She knew if the shoe were on the other foot, she wouldn’t want the pity. It is one of the reasons why Leighton didn’t talk about her past. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her. When Leighton was sure he no longer needed his hands, she hugged onto his arm, resting her cheek against it, watching as he finally lit the joint. “You know, making stupid decisions doesn’t necessarily make you a bad person,” Leighton pointed out casually as she reached for the joint while keeping her other arm around his. She took a hit, holding it in, before returning it to him. After releasing the smoke, she looked at him, “I just want you to know you’re not alone, Spence, and I’m here if you need me,” she said before kissing his cheek and pulling back.

[Spencer Walker]

"No movie dates. Got it." Spencer replied knowing that she totally wasn't wrong. He went to movie with Jess when he actually wanted to see the movie, he took dates to the movies when he wanted some quiet time in the dark. Which was most dates honestly because he hadn't been on many, and the ones he had had were for the girls who required at least minimal effort before putting out.

Spencer admired her as she set up the perfect little smoke spot for them. He felt so lazy, opening the window or using a toilet paper roll with some dryer sheets was about all the extra effort he ever put into it. Then again, his dad wasn't exactly strict when it came to that kind of stuff. Grabbing a lighter, papers, and a small bag of weed from his pants, he made himself comfortable as he waited for her to join him. He paused to look up as he tilted his head and thought about the answer to her question. "I've gone a day or two before," he chuckled before going back to what he was doing. Grabbing a nearby textbook, he placed a paper down on it and began sprinkling weed bits along it before carefully picking it up and rolling it. Intentionally smirking over at her as he licked and sealed it.

Scooting the book out of the way, he stretched his legs out forward and relaxed some more. Placing the joint between his lips, he looked down at her and smiled as she latched onto his arm. Using his free arm, he lit the joint before tossing the lighter onto the ground next to them. Spencer tried to continue to keep his aloof demeanor but what she was saying, tugged at something inside of him. Spencer exhaled the smoke and cleared his throat before passing the joint back to her again. "Thanks Leighton." was all he could bring himself to say. He was afraid of opening up too much or else his already watery eyes might open the floodgates as well and he was convinced that girl's found guys crying unattractive. He wasn't ready to be that vulnerable with her yet. Hell, he sometimes struggled opening up to Jess and he viewed him like a brother.

Spencer's eyes wandered the surrounding area, trying once again to stop the sad thoughts from seeping in. His eyes landed on the textbook once more, this time really looking at it when he caught his name on it, with a heart around it. A smile spread on his face as he leaned forward to grab it. "What's this?" he teased playfully. He honestly found it rather cute, everything she did was either cute or sexy to him. He felt 'claimed' and for once he didn't mind it; it didn't make him feel trapped but instead, he was proud to be hers.

[Leighton Thomas]

When he responded, Leighton didn’t know what to say after that. Spencer was like an onion. He had layers and made it almost impossible for her to peel any of them back. “Of course,” she softly sighed and turned away slightly, taking the joint from him. She took a few hits, coughing a little, before returning it to him. Leighton didn't know why she wanted him to open up to her so badly. Maybe it was because she knew if he did, what they had would be different than what he had with the girls before her. It was hypothetical wanting him to open up, though. She hadn’t even told him about her trauma. If I tell him, he might be comfortable talking about his. Her thoughts were quickly interrupted when Spencer started to ask about her textbook.

Leighton’s eyes widened as he looked down at her doodles. “I… um…” she sighed, unsure what to say. “I was thinking about you, and it just happened,” she answered, reaching for it. “I was going to erase it or scribble it out before you saw it, but then you decided to climb through my window,” Leighton added with a smile and shrugged, sitting it on the other side of her. “I hope you’re not freaked out by it. I just really like you, that’s all.” The fact he asked her to be his girlfriend was a big deal, and she didn’t want something like this to scare him off. Sometimes she didn’t want him to know how much she adored him because she didn’t know how he’d respond. For all she knew, he’d run for the hills, and she’d be left heartbroken. Leighton couldn’t even think about what she’d do if something were to go sour between them. She’d grown accustomed to the way things had been.

“Can I tell you something without completely ruining the mood? Well, no, it’s going to ruin the mood, but I think you should know,” Leighton said, sitting up and turning her body in his direction, tucking her feet underneath her. She nervously ran her hand through her hair and wanted to make eye contact with him, but it seemed impossible. Leighton didn’t know how to start the conversation, and honestly, she already felt like she needed to vomit. “My mom doesn’t always make the best choices,” she paused, looking down at her hands. “Especially when it came to the men she married,” Leighton said, her voice cracking before looking back at him. “My mom also let many random people watch me as a kid when she had to work.” Leighton wondered if Spencer had started to put the pieces together or not. She began to snap the hair tie around her wrist against her skin as she felt overwhelmed. It wasn’t there for that purpose, but it worked for the moment. “My mom’s last husband… he raped me most of their marriage, and then there were a few before that, but like, not as extreme. My mom found out, freaked the fuck out, and moved us here. We have a theme and move every time she breaks up with someone. I’ve lived in,” she started to count how many times they moved. “Twelve… thirteen places, if you include Oahu.” The look on his face wasn’t a surprise. He looked horrified. “And I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” she could feel a knot in her throat. Leighton didn’t want to cry, but she was sure she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. “Or not like me because of it.”

Leighton took the joint back from Spencer, taking a bigger hit than usual. She turned back around, resting against the wall, waiting for her boyfriend to become her ex-boyfriend because what guy would want to hear all that? “I’d understand if you want to leave,” Leighton said as she wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared straight ahead.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer teasingly pulled the textbook away when she went to reach for it, before finally handing it over to her. "I'm not freaked out. It's cute. Maybe, don't erase it? Keep it." Spencer wasn't sure why he liked the idea so much but something about knowing everyone would see his name on her book. Unless they wanted to break bro code, dudes were going to see that and know better than to try messing with her. Spencer hoped she didn't want him doing the same though, half the time he ended up using his covers to make his own joint filters. He didn't want her to have to see the state of them and think he didn't care about her and have his own 'love fern' situation on his hands.

Nothing could have prepared Spencer for what she told him next. Holding the joint to his lips, he nervously side eyed her while he waited to hear exactly what it was that she needed to tell him. His eyes slowly widening in horror with each word that fell from her mouth. This had changed his opinion about her mother more than it had his opinion of Leighton. Yes, he felt more sympathy and suddenly wanted to be gentler with her, but her mom? He kind felt like he might hate her for letting that happen to her daughter. He certainly no longer gave a fuck what she thought of him because he didn't think very highly of her right now.

Spencer only snapped back into when she started to sound like she was about to cry and took the joint from him. "Shit... I'm sorry." Staring at her for a moment before scooting closer and working his arm between her and the wall so he could wrap it around her. Placing his thumb and pointer on her chin, he softly turned her face to look at him before helping her wipe away some more of the tears. "Listen, Leia. None of that should have ever happened to you. I'm sorry that it did, but I'm not going anywhere. Only way you're getting rid of me is if you kick me out." Giving her a kiss on her forehead, he leaned back into the wall again but kept his arm around her.

"I, uh, so I... fuck. I'm not good at this. Opening up. But like..." Spencer sighed and cleared his throat, trying to figure out how he wanted to word what he was going to say. "First time, I had sex, I was like eleven or twelve. I can't exactly remember but young enough that my dad still thought I needed a babysitter while he went drinking. Anyway, it started out as her teaching me how to kiss and one thing led to another and, I didn't really want to do it... but like I didn't exactly say no either. Plus, it felt good so maybe I just didn't realize I wanted it yet, ya know?" Spencer finally looked over at her and was met with a face probably similar to the one he just gave her. "What? Did I fuck up? Should I not have told you that? I was just trying to let you know that I kinda, sorta, maybe can relate. I'm an idiot. Probably just sounds like I'm trying to brag or something."

[Leighton Thomas]

“Okay, fine. I won’t erase it,” Leighton responded with a smile.

She was surprised by how well Spencer was processing what she told him. She wasn’t expecting him to comfort her the way he did. It was nice, though. She wiped one side of her cheek while he wiped the other. “I don’t plan on kicking you out, ever,” Leighton said, feeling relief rush over her.

Leighton opened up about her sexual abuse because she thought it’d help him open up, too, and it did. She hadn’t expected his trauma to mirror hers, which caught her off guard. When he started backtracking, Leighton shook her head. “No, no, no,” she began and shifted under his arm, turning her body towards him. “I want you to tell me these things. As awful as they are. I want to know everything about you, babe, the good and the bad,” she admitted, tucking some of his hair behind his ear. “Sometimes getting you to open up is like pulling teeth, but I don’t want to pry. That’s why when you shut down or change the topic, I let you,” she admitted. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” finally acknowledging his abuse. “She did take advantage of you, and that’s awful,” she frowned. If Leighton had to guess, her abuse started before she was ten, but she doesn’t remember anything before the age of twelve because she suppressed all of it.

“I mean it when I tell you you’re not alone. You don’t have to tell me everything, and I don’t expect you to, but when you want to talk to someone about what’s going on in that handsome head of yours,” she said, leaning forward and reaching out to turn his head towards her, “I hope I’m the one you choose to talk to,” Leighton finished and pulled her hand back. “I just don’t want you to hide from me or think I’m going to judge you because I’m not.”

Leighton moved his arm from around her and interlocked their fingers together, resting their hands in her lap. She traced over the back of his hand with her other. “Oh, quick question, who’s Leia?” She raised an eyebrow. It could’ve been a nickname. Leighton just never heard him use it before.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer's dad hadn't given him the best example of how to deal with his problems. Usually, when they had issues, they'd let their tempers rise and scream or hide behind slammed doors, but they rarely ever sat down and talked about things. His dad wasn't a terrible dude, but he had a father who did the same things with him, and the cycle kept repeating. If it hadn't been for his mother, Spencer probably would have been worse off than he was. Granted, she usually had to drag it out of him too, but she was persistent; she ensured he knew it was okay to open up. He was thankful for that because, without her "nagging", he and Leighton most likely wouldn't stand a chance. His father taught him how to reel in all the girls, while his mother taught him to catch and keep the best ones. Leighton was one of the best, and she craved that deep connection.

His eyes sunk to the floor when she openly confirmed his suspicions that he had been taken advantage of. Spencer tried to hide the sadness behind his eyes when she turned his head to look at her. He hadn't told many people about that, but when the few times he had, they usually reacted much differently. They'd also been teenage boys. Spencer didn't know if it was a reaction to spilling more information about himself than he was used to but found he struggled to speak now. Instead, he nodded and flashed a sincere, albeit small, smile. Before he had a chance to think of anything to say, his thoughts were interrupted by her questioning who Leia was.

'Shit!'

It was a nickname he'd come up with and had been calling her for a while, but somehow, he'd forgotten to fill her in on this. "Yeah..." he started, his eyes wide as he tried to figure out how to say the next part without sounding lame. There was no way around it without lying, and he didn't want to do that, so he opted for the honest, nerdy truth. "Well, you've seen Star Wars, right? Not the newer ones, the originals..." He tilted his head forward to gauge the reaction on her face before continuing. "Well... this is embarrassing, but, like, you're the Leia to my Han. So, yeah, you. You're Leia." Spencer rolled his eyes at himself as he heard it aloud, knowing there was no way he could tell her the rest of it yet. They'd probably have to be married before he was ready to admit to the sex dream he had about her in those exact roles.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton was a bit surprised, but she loved it. No boy had ever given her a nickname. Little did Spencer know things like that made Leighton fall for him more than she already had. Finally, he was letting his guard down, even if it was only a little at a time. It was still happening. "No, stop," she placed her hand on his forearm to comfort him. "It's cute and super sweet. I'm proud to be your Leia." Leighton didn't know much about Star Wars, but she knew enough and knew Leia and Han were iconic. “I'm proud to be your girlfriend, Spence,” Leighton assured him with a smile. She hoped he was as serious about her as she was about him. Leighton knew their relationship was premature, but she already fell in love with him before he showed interest in her. Her feelings for Spencer had only intensified since they'd gotten together. Leighton knew this one would hurt when they finally came crashing down from Cloud 9.

Leighton was scared Spencer would shut down, and she didn't want him to. They were making progress. "You know what is embarrassing, though," Leighton began, moving back against the wall again, "Thinking you could never like me." Leighton looked over at him briefly, "Well, it's true," she argued, catching his expression. "I'm me and you're, well, you're you... have you seen you?" Leighton teased, nudging him in his side. "I watched you go through more than a dozen girls since I've been here, and none of them looked like me," Leighton said, shrugging. "I, however, no longer have that insecurity," she admitted and slipped her hand into his. "I'm your Leia and they're not." It was easy to say that because Spencer hadn't given her any reason to think otherwise. The thought, of course, always lingered in the back of her mind.

“I vote you climb through my window more often,” Leighton admitted with a grin. “Especially if we get to have more moments like this,” she added, leaning over and kissing him softly. “I also vote that you sleep over. I want more cuddles,” she said against his lips, kissing him again. Finally, Leighton pulled away and got on her feet. She leaned over him to shut the window before stepping back and extending her hand. Before climbing into bed, Leighton put her hair up in a secure bun on the top of her head. She wanted to make sure her hair didn't smother Spencer in the middle of the night. Once in bed, she pulled the covers up and turned to face him. “Despite the topics of conversation, tonight was pretty perfect.” Leighton was a relatively simple girl. She didn't need something fancy or extravagant to happen to think it was a special moment.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer’s hands were shaking so bad he almost dropped the goddamn gutter pipe.

His hoodie clung to him, damp with sweat even though the night air was sharp against his skin, too many sounds crowding the edges of his brain—
a car door slamming down the street, a dog barking three houses over, the hum of a streetlight flickering above him.

Too loud.
Too much.
Too fast.

His chest tightened, shallow and frantic, like his ribs were shrinking around his lungs.

Breathe.
He tried.
Failed.

The world tilted sideways and inside out, breath scraping ragged against his throat as his fingers scrambled for purchase against the rough brick.
Everything felt wrong—
his hands, his heart, his skin.

Too fast.
Too loud.
Too much.

He didn’t think.
Didn’t plan.

He just climbed.

Fumbled over the ledge like a goddamn ghost, sneakers scraping against the windowsill as he hauled himself inside, breathing like he’d just outrun something that wasn’t finished chasing him yet.

He landed hard—knees hitting the carpet with a muted thud—but he didn’t care.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there.

On the floor.
In the dark.
Back pressed against the side of her bed like if he made himself small enough, the panic wouldn’t find him here.

For a second, the room spun—walls and ceiling tipping sideways—but then—

then he saw her.

Leighton.

Curled under her blankets, breathing steady and slow, moonlight catching the edges of her hair, casting soft shadows across her sleeping face.

And something cracked inside Spencer that had nothing to do with fear this time.

He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth like he could shove the noise back down, the panic clawing up the back of his throat.

It was still there.
Still buzzing under his skin like electricity with nowhere to go.

But it didn’t feel as sharp now.

Didn’t feel like it was going to tear him apart molecule by molecule anymore.

Because he was here.
Because she was here.

Spencer curled his arms around his knees, dragging them tight against his chest, and dropped his forehead down to rest on them.
Breathing.
Trying.

The chaos outside—the world, the noise, the shit he couldn’t shut off in his head—it couldn’t follow him all the way in here.

Not when she was wrapped up in sleep two feet away,
not when her breathing painted the whole room in something steady,
something soft,
something safe.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Inhaled through his nose.
Exhaled slow through his mouth.

Her presence anchored him better than anything else ever had.
Better than therapy.
Better than meds he never took.
Better than running himself into the ground until his lungs gave out.

He stayed there on the floor, tucked into himself, letting her breathing set the rhythm for his own.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Not fixed.
Not healed.

But not drowning either.

Not anymore.

Yes, absolutely —
that’s such a beautiful choice because it keeps the moment raw, quiet, and full of weight without him even meaning to wake her.

Spencer stayed there, forehead pressed to his knees, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

The world still felt like it was vibrating underneath him, the panic not gone, just muted—like a storm had moved offshore but left the waves still crashing inside his ribs.

He barely registered the soft creak of the floorboards behind him.

Barely heard the rustle of covers shifting.

Too wrapped up in trying to stay still, trying not to ruin the fragile quiet that was keeping him stitched together.

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes—slow, heavy, raw—that he saw her.

Leighton.

Awake.

Blinking sleepily down at him, her cheek still creased from the pillow, hair messy around her face, brows furrowed in that soft, worried way she always got when she didn’t know where to put the hurt she couldn’t fix.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t gasp or sit up or ask a thousand questions like anyone else might have.

She just looked at him.

Wide-eyed and quiet.
Still half-wrapped in blankets, still tucked into her bed, but looking right at him.

Spencer blinked, heart slamming hard against his ribs—part panic, part something way worse.

She’s awake.

She sees you like this.

For a second—
a stupid, brutal second—
he thought about bolting.
Thought about scrambling back out the window like he hadn’t just shown up wrecked and desperate at her feet.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because the way she was looking at him—
it wasn’t judgment.
It wasn’t pity.

It was something quieter.
Something softer.

Something like stay.

Spencer swallowed hard, dragging one trembling hand out from under the crook of his knees just to give himself something to do, something to anchor him to the ground while she kept staring at him like he was still something whole.

And then—

so slow he barely realized he was doing it—
he lifted his head a little higher.

Met her eyes properly.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t apologize.

Just let her see him.

Every shattered, shaking, storm-ridden inch of him.

And when she shifted—when she reached one hand out from under the blanket, slow and careful, palm open toward him—

Spencer thought maybe, just maybe, breathing didn’t have to be a fight anymore.

Not with her.

Not here.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton woke up slow.

The way you do when something in the air shifts—
not loud,
not violent,
just different.

Her eyes cracked open in the dark, vision swimming a little as she blinked the heavy sleep away.
The room was still wrapped in shadows, moonlight pooling soft across the floor.

And there—
there he was.

Spencer.

Curled against the side of her bed, hoodie damp, knees drawn tight to his chest like he was holding himself together with nothing but willpower and shaking breath.

Leighton’s heart twisted in a way that almost made her dizzy.

He looked so small like that.
So raw.

But not weak.
Never weak.

Just worn down.
Bone-deep tired from fighting a war inside himself no one else could see.

She didn’t sit up.
Didn’t startle.
Didn’t say anything.

Just watched him for a second—
watched the way he pressed his forehead against his knees like he could disappear into himself,
watched the way his hands trembled where they clutched the fabric of his jeans,
watched the way he was still trying to breathe like it was a battle he didn’t know how to win.

And God, it made her chest ache—
not with fear,
not with sadness.

With love.
With something steady and heavy and endless.

She didn’t call his name.
Didn’t ask him if he was okay.

He wasn’t.
And that was okay.

Instead, slowly, carefully, she reached one hand out from under the cocoon of blankets, palm open and empty and waiting.

No pressure.
No demands.

Just a quiet offering:

I’m here if you want me.

Leighton didn’t move right away.

She just kept her hand extended—still, patient, steady—
offering him something without asking for anything back.

And when he didn’t reach for it—
when he stayed curled in on himself, trembling and too small and too wrecked to even pretend to know how to ask for help—

she didn’t pull her hand back.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t let disappointment touch her, not even for a second.

Instead, Leighton shifted.

Slow. Careful.
Making sure every move told him exactly what he needed to hear:
I’m not scared of you.
I’m not leaving.
I’m not going to make you do this alone.

She pushed the blanket off her legs, bare knees catching the cool air of the room, and slid down off the side of the bed without a sound.

The carpet scratched soft against her skin as she knelt in front of him—still careful, still giving him room—but close enough that he could feel the heat of her, the steadiness of her breathing.

Still close enough to choose her if he wanted to.

Still close enough to be chosen if he could.

Leighton settled there, cross-legged, folding herself down to his level without a word.
Making herself small beside him, not above him.
Not reaching, not demanding, not dragging him anywhere he wasn’t ready to go.

Just there.

Just breathing with him.

She watched the way his shoulders jerked once—tiny, involuntary—like he was trying to steel himself for something that wasn’t coming.

And it made something sharp and protective burn deep in her chest.

Without thinking, without rushing, Leighton reached out again—
this time slower, smaller—
and brushed the backs of her fingers lightly along the side of his arm.

A touch so soft it could have been a whisper.

I’m here.

I’m still here.

He flinched the tiniest bit—just a shudder at the contact—but he didn’t pull away.

So she stayed there.
Tracing soft patterns against the worn fabric of his hoodie with the back of her hand, no urgency, no expectation.

Her knees bumped gently against his.

Her breathing stayed slow and even, setting a rhythm for him to find if he needed it.

And she didn’t speak.

Didn’t tell him to calm down.
Didn’t ask what was wrong.
Didn’t say anything at all.

Because sometimes words made the wounds deeper.
Sometimes the only thing you could offer was presence.
Steady. Fierce. Quiet.

Leighton inched a little closer, her knees brushing his, and slowly—so slowly it made her own heart ache—she reached out again.

This time she rested her palm flat against his shin, grounding him without pinning him, a touch that didn’t ask anything but gave everything.

And when he didn’t move away—

when he just sat there, breathing ragged and raw, letting her stay—

Leighton let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and pressed her forehead lightly against his knee.

Soft.
Steady.
Home.

She stayed like that.

Silent.
Anchoring him with every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of space she filled up beside him without forcing him to be anything but exactly what he was.

Because if he couldn’t reach for her yet—
if he couldn’t take her hand—

then she would just get close enough that he wouldn’t have to.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer couldn’t lift his head.

Couldn’t uncoil the tight knot his body had wound itself into.

Every breath still scraped against his throat like broken glass, shallow and thin and sharp enough to make his whole chest ache.

He felt her before he really registered what was happening.

A brush of warmth along his arm.
A bump of knees.
A hand—small, steady—pressing against his shin.

At first it made the panic surge higher, a flash of fight-or-flight snapping in his spine.

Touch meant danger.
Meant pressure.
Meant what’s wrong with you, why can’t you just pull it together, what the hell is your problem—

But then—
then—

she didn’t move.

She didn’t pull.
She didn’t demand.

She just stayed there.

Warm and solid and silent beside him, grounding him without trying to fix what wasn’t broken, just battered and bloody and too tired to keep pretending.

Spencer squeezed his eyes tighter shut.

His fingers flexed against the denim over his knees, desperate for something, anything to hold onto.

And then he felt it.

The slow, careful way she leaned in.

The brush of her forehead against his knee—barely there, so soft he would have missed it if he hadn’t been falling apart so slowly it felt like the whole world was moving in reverse.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t tell him to breathe.

Didn’t tell him to calm down.

She just was.

And somehow—
somehow—

that cracked something open in him deeper than any shouted word ever could.

His breathing stayed rough, jagged, ugly—but it wasn’t fighting him so hard anymore.

It started to sync, little by little, with the slow, steady rhythm of hers.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

He stayed like that for a while, forehead tucked tight against his own knees, feeling her hand resting warm and real against his leg, feeling her breathing hum steady into his bones.

The world outside blurred and faded.

The only things left were her hands, her touch, her breathing.

Her.

Spencer uncurled the smallest bit—
not much.
Just enough to loosen the vice grip he had around himself.

Just enough to feel her instead of only feeling the panic.

His heart was still racing, still hammering too fast against his ribs, but it wasn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest anymore.

It was just… there.

Alive.

Terrified.

Still beating.

And when he finally lifted his head—shaky, slow, raw—he didn’t even think about hiding the wreckage from her.

Didn’t apologize for the tears he hadn’t even realized had spilled down his cheeks.

Didn’t shrink away from the way she stayed kneeling there in front of him, forehead still resting lightly against his leg like she belonged there, like he was the one anchoring her too.

He dragged in a breath.

Wrecked.
Heavy.

Tried to find his voice through the gravel lodged in his throat.

It came out quieter than he meant it to, but somehow steadier too:

"I'm trying."

His hand—still trembling—lifted off his knee, reaching for her without thinking.

Fumbling.

Clumsy.

But real.

He caught the edge of her sleeve between two fingers and just—
held on.

Tight.
Like if he let go, he’d fall back into the dark that didn’t know her name.

Spencer blinked, dragging his gaze up to her finally.

Meeting her eyes in the moonlight.

And in a voice that cracked all the way down the middle, he rasped it again:

"I'm trying, Leigh."

It wasn’t an apology.

It wasn’t enough.

But it was everything he had.

And somehow—
with her hand on his leg, her breath steady in the dark, her forehead still pressed against him like a prayer—

it felt like maybe it could be enough anyway.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t move when she felt it.

The slow, shaky way he started to uncurl himself.
The rough drag of his forehead lifting off his knees.
The breath he pulled in like it cost him everything just to take it.

She stayed kneeling there—anchored to the floor, to him—her forehead still resting lightly against his leg, one hand still cradling his shin, the other hovering nearby in case he needed more.

When she finally lifted her head enough to look at him, her chest cracked wide open.

He was a mess.

Tears streaking his cheeks.
Jaw tight.
Shoulders trembling like he was carrying every bad thing he’d ever been told about himself.

But he wasn’t hiding from her.
Not anymore.

He was letting her see it.
All of it.
All the wreckage, all the ruin, all the broken places he didn’t know how to bandage anymore.

And God, she loved him so much it hurt.

When he rasped it out—

“I’m trying.”
—Leighton felt the words lodge somewhere deep inside her ribs, a quiet, feral kind of love that didn’t ask for perfect or polished or anything but this.

Him.
Here.
Still fighting.

Still choosing to stay.

When his hand lifted—fumbling, clumsy—and caught the edge of her sleeve between trembling fingers, she thought she might actually break apart from how much she loved him.

Not the way she expected love to feel.
Not soft and easy.

But fierce.
Unshakeable.
Something raw and brutal and endlessly steady.

When he whispered it again, voice cracking in half:

“I’m trying, Leigh.”

She didn’t answer with words.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, Leighton moved slow, deliberate—like the whole world had narrowed down to this one boy and the fragile, beautiful way he was still trying.

She slid her hand carefully up from his shin, tracing the inside of his wrist where his pulse stuttered wild and frantic under his skin.
Let her fingers lace gently through his.

No pressure.
No tug.

Just giving him something to hold onto that wasn’t fear.

She leaned forward the tiniest bit more—close enough that their knees bumped harder, close enough that he could feel her breath whispering over his skin.

And when he didn’t pull away—
when he just stayed there, wrecked and reaching—
Leighton cradled the side of his face with her free hand, palm curving gently along his jaw.

Her thumb brushed slow over his cheekbone, sweeping through the wetness there like it didn’t scare her, like it didn’t change a damn thing.

Like he was still hers.
Exactly like this.

She tilted her head—soft, careful—and pressed her forehead lightly to his again.

Just breathing him in.

Just letting him feel her.
Steady.
Unmoving.

Choosing him again.
Choosing him always.

When she finally moved, it wasn’t to pull away.
It was to wrap her arms around him completely, slow and sure, tugging him against her chest like he was something precious that deserved to be held just for existing.

Leighton tucked his face against the curve of her neck, hands moving slow up and down his back, anchoring him to her body, to her breath, to the rhythm that didn’t ask him to be anything more than exactly what he was.

She kissed the top of his head once—barely more than a breath—soft and reverent.

Still no words.
Still no rush.

Just a girl in love with a boy who thought he had to bleed to be worthy of staying.
Holding him tighter.
Loving him harder.

Showing him every second he let her stay:

You’re trying.
That’s enough.
You’re enough.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not now.
Not ever.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t know how long he stayed folded into her.

Didn’t know how long she kept breathing slow against his skin, hands moving steady up and down his back like she could anchor him just by existing.

He only knew it was the first time in longer than he could remember that the panic wasn’t winning.

Not completely.

It was still there—buzzing low under his skin, a static hum in his bones—but it didn’t own him here.
Not with her holding him like this.
Not with her heart beating slow and stubborn against his ribs, loud enough to drown out the noise in his head.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shuddering against her collarbone, the weight of it almost knocking him sideways.

She tightened her arms around him instantly.

Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask.

Just stayed.

And something in Spencer cracked wider under the gentleness of it.
Something that wasn’t made of fear this time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead harder into the warm curve of her neck, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Her hands kept moving—slow, patient, steady—up and down his back.
Not rushing him.
Not pushing him to be okay faster than he could.

And slowly—so slowly it almost hurt—he let himself sag heavier against her.
Let himself be held.

Not because he deserved it.
Not because he thought he was enough.
But because his body was too tired to fight the truth anymore:

He needed her.

Needed this.

Needed her.

His fingers, still trembling, fumbled against the fabric of her shirt, curling into it like if he could just hold on tight enough, the whole broken world would stop tilting sideways.

He stayed like that—quiet, wrecked, breathing her in—until the words started to claw their way up his throat.

At first he tried to swallow them back down.
Tried to bury them under the shame, under the fear, under the cracked armor he always wore too tight.

But he couldn’t.

Not here.

Not with her hands still tracing steady lines against his spine.
Not with her heart still beating slow and patient into the side of his face.

So he pulled in a shaky breath, throat raw, chest aching, and rasped it out against her skin:

"I don't deserve you."

The second the words left him, he hated them.

Hated how small they sounded.
Hated how true they felt.

He shifted a little, instinctively starting to pull back—to retreat into himself the way he always did when the vulnerability got too real, too dangerous, too fucking much.

But before he could,
before he could rip himself away—

her hands moved.

Not rough.
Not desperate.

Just there.

One sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
The other smoothing over the center of his back, pressing him closer.

Holding him like she wasn’t afraid of the sharp edges.

Holding him like he wasn’t a burden.

Holding him like she meant it.

Spencer let out a sound then—a broken, gasping thing that barely made it past his throat—and buried his face deeper against her neck, arms locking tighter around her waist like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

Another tear slipped free.
He felt it track slow down his cheek, smearing into the fabric of her shirt.

He didn’t wipe it away.

Didn’t apologize for it.

He just stayed.

Letting her carry the pieces he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

And when she shifted slightly—when she pressed a kiss into his hair so soft he almost didn’t feel it—Spencer felt something he didn’t have a name for break loose in his chest.

Something that didn’t feel like fear.
Something that didn’t feel like running.

It felt like staying.

Like choosing.

Like hope.

He clutched her tighter and, in a voice so low he wasn’t sure she could even hear it, he whispered against her skin:

"Don’t let go yet."

Not because he thought she would.
Not really.

But because he needed to say it.
Needed to ask for it.
Needed to believe it could be okay to need her like this.

And when she held him tighter in answer, arms steady and sure around him, Spencer finally—finally—let himself breathe.

Not fighting.
Not bracing.

Just breathing.

With her.

For her.

With himself.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t loosen her hold.

Not when he pressed himself tighter against her.
Not when his voice broke against her skin.
Not even when the weight of him sagging into her nearly knocked her back onto the carpet.

She tightened her arms around him, one hand sliding higher to cradle the back of his head, the other smoothing slow and steady over the broad line of his back.

Not pulling.
Not forcing.
Just being.

Here.

She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, fast and frantic still, but no longer drowning him.
No longer tearing him apart.

She just rocked them gently—barely moving, just enough for him to feel it.

Feel the rhythm of her breath.
Feel the way she wasn’t letting go.

Feel the way she wouldn’t.

Her hands kept moving slow over him, tracing invisible patterns into the fabric of his hoodie—along his spine, across his ribs, the dip of his waist.
Familiar places.
Places she loved.

She didn’t try to find words.

There weren’t any big enough for this.
No string of syllables that could hold everything she wanted to give him.

That he could stay.
That he didn’t have to fight alone.
That he was allowed to need her without apology.

She let the way she touched him say it instead.

Let the slow, sure slide of her fingers through his hair, the way she tucked his face deeper into her neck, the way she held him like he wasn’t something broken she had to fix—just something beautiful she chose—say everything.

When his breathing finally started to slow, when the trembling of his hands softened into something smaller, something closer to trust, Leighton smiled against his hair.

Tiny. Private.
The kind of smile meant for moments like this.
The kind you didn’t even need light to see.

She pressed another kiss into his hairline—soft, lingering—then tucked her chin lightly over the crown of his head, cradling him there.

Her knees ached from the hard floor.
Her arms would probably fall asleep from how tight she was holding him.

But she didn’t care.
She would sit here all goddamn night if she had to.

If that’s what it took for him to believe it wasn’t just a moment.

It wasn’t temporary.

It was real.

He was real.

Loved.
Wanted.
Safe.

Exactly like this.

Leighton stayed there, cradling him against her, until she felt the tremors in his body start to ease into something slower, softer.

Not gone.
Not forgotten.
But manageable.

She pressed one more kiss into the side of his head, her lips lingering there like a promise, before she finally whispered against his hair—low and careful, like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile peace they’d fought to build between them:

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you out of these damp clothes, okay?”

Her voice was barely more than a breath.
Gentle.
Patient.

A suggestion, not a command.

She felt him stiffen for half a second against her chest—instinct, fear, something defensive flickering up even now—but then he sagged again, nodding the tiniest bit against her neck.

That was all she needed.

Leighton shifted her weight and carefully started to untangle herself from around him, moving slow enough that he never felt jostled, never felt rushed.

She slid her hands down to his waist, grounding him with every touch, and helped guide him up to his feet.

He wobbled a little, blinking down at her like he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him.

Leighton just smiled—small, soft, steady—and smoothed her hands along his sides once more before gently steering him toward the bed.

He sat down hard on the edge, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead.

He looked wrecked.
Exhausted.
Beautiful.

God, he was so beautiful.

Leighton didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t make a big deal of it.

She just gave his knee a soft squeeze—I’ll be right back—and turned toward her dresser, bare feet padding quiet across the carpet.

She rifled through the drawers, pulling out old shirts, a few tank tops, the oversized hoodie she sometimes slept in when she missed him too much.

Nothing felt right.

She needed his.

She needed something that would smell like him, feel like him, wrap him up in the way she knew words couldn’t reach.

She crossed the room to the chair tucked under her window—half-buried in a mess of blankets and clothes—and fished through the pile until her fingers closed around it.

His old gray t-shirt.

The one she always stole when he wasn’t paying attention.
The one she wore to bed more nights than not.

Soft and worn thin at the seams.
Still smelling faintly of soap and something sharper—something uniquely him.

Leighton smiled quietly to herself and straightened, clutching it to her chest for a second before she turned back toward the bed.

Spencer hadn’t moved much.

Still sitting there, hunched over, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he didn’t quite know what to do next.

Her chest ached at the sight.

She crossed the room again—slow, steady—and knelt down in front of him, just like before.

She held out the shirt between them, offering it with both hands like it was something sacred.

Something he deserved.

Something that said, you’re still mine. you’re still safe. even now.

Her voice stayed soft when she spoke again:

“Here, baby. Let’s get you comfortable.”

No rush.
No pressure.
Just love.

All of it, poured into the smallest, gentlest things

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer stared at the shirt in her hands.

His hands hovered stupidly for a second, useless, like he didn’t know how to take something so simple without breaking it.

But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.

Just waited.

Steady.

Soft.

And somehow—
somehow—
he reached out.

Clumsy fingers brushed hers, and for one gut-wrenching second, he almost dropped it.
Almost ruined it.

But he caught it.
Gripped the fabric tight.
Held it like it might save him.

It still smelled like her.
Like soap and something warmer.
Something he couldn’t name without falling apart again.

He pressed the shirt into his lap, head still bowed, breathing hard against the ache in his chest.

When he finally looked up—
when he finally made himself meet her eyes—
the words came out wrecked and raw before he could stop them.

"You’re the only thing that feels real."

It wasn’t brave.
Wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had.

And she—
God, she didn’t laugh.
Didn’t shy away.

She just smiled, that tiny, private smile he used to think he imagined on the worst nights.

The next thing he knew, her hands were at his sides, tugging at the hem of his soaked hoodie.

He stiffened instinctively, the muscles in his spine snapping tight—
reflex.
Fear.

But when her fingers brushed the barest line of his skin beneath the fabric, so careful, so patient—

he exhaled.
Nodded.
Let her.

The hoodie peeled away from him slow, the cool air brushing against his overheated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

He shivered, blinking down at the floor, feeling raw and peeled open, feeling stupid for how badly he needed her to keep touching him anyway.

The soft weight of the shirt—the one he'd been clutching like a lifeline—settled in her hands again.

He ducked his head, let her guide it over him, let her hands slip the fabric into place along his arms and over his chest.

It wasn’t a grand thing.
It wasn’t some cinematic moment.

It was quieter.
Sadder.
Realer.

It was someone letting him be human.

It was someone loving him through it.

When she brushed his hair back out of his face—gentle, brief, no fanfare—he almost broke again.
Almost folded back into himself.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Sat there with the shirt clinging warm to his skin, the world no less heavy, but somehow less lonely.

And after a long, shaking breath, he tipped forward.
Pressed his forehead against her shoulder.
Let his hands, still clumsy and unsure, find her sides and hold on.

Not desperate.
Not pleading.

Just needing.

Just being.

His voice cracked low against her collarbone, barely loud enough for her to catch:

"Thank you."

It wasn’t enough.

But it was everything he had left.

And when her arms came around him again—steady, sure, home—Spencer let his eyes fall shut.

Let himself breathe her in.

Let himself stay.

[Leighton Thomas]

She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t ease up.

Just stayed curled around him, breathing slow and deep, letting her own body set the rhythm he could match if he needed it.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

When he shivered against her, she only tucked him closer, her cheek resting lightly on top of his head, hands smoothing steady paths over the trembling muscles of his back and shoulders.

She didn’t tell him it was okay.
She didn’t tell him to stop shaking.
She didn’t tell him he was strong.

She didn’t tell him anything.

Because sometimes the bravest thing wasn’t dragging yourself upright.

Sometimes it was letting yourself be held.

Letting yourself stay.

And she would hold him for as long as he needed.
As long as he wanted.

Even if that meant sitting here all night, wrapped up on the edge of her bed, letting the rest of the world keep spinning without them.

Because right now, this was all that mattered.

Him.
Her.
This.

Leighton kissed his hair again—softer this time, almost a breath—and whispered it so low she wasn’t even sure he would hear it:

“I’ve got you.”

A promise.
A prayer.

And this time—
this time—
she knew he believed it.

Because he didn’t pull away.

He stayed.

Breathing her in.
Letting her love him.

Letting himself be loved.

Exactly as he was.

Leighton kept him wrapped tight against her for another breath.
Another heartbeat.

Long enough to feel the way his weight shifted subtly in her arms—
not pulling away,
not running—
just sagging heavier, like his body was finally realizing he didn’t have to brace for impact anymore.

She kissed the crown of his head again, slow and careful, before letting her hand slide down the curve of his back.

Still patient.
Still steady.

But she could feel it—the way the damp fabric of his jeans clung cold and uncomfortable to his skin, the way he shivered even tucked so close against her.

She shifted her weight slightly, pulling back just enough to nudge her forehead against his.

Soft.
Quiet.

“Come lay down with me, baby,” she whispered, her voice low, warm against the shell of his ear.
“Let’s get you comfortable, okay?”

She felt him tense for a heartbeat—pure instinct—but he didn’t resist.
Didn’t bolt.

Just breathed out a shaky exhale that hit her collarbone like a storm finally blowing itself out.

Slowly, gently, she guided him upright, her hands bracketing his ribs, keeping him steady as she coaxed him backwards toward the pillows.

He followed her lead without a word, clumsy and dazed, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

When the back of his knees bumped the edge of the bed, he sat down heavily, one hand still fisting weakly in her shirt like he didn’t want to lose his tether.

Leighton brushed his hair back again, soothing her fingers through it, and bent low to press another kiss to his forehead.

“You’re okay,” she murmured against his skin.
“I’ve got you.”

She crouched down in front of him again, hands moving to the waistband of his damp jeans, fingertips careful, asking permission without words.

He gave a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.

Trust.

Real and trembling.

She worked his jeans down slow, careful not to jar him—peeling the wet fabric away from his legs, leaving him in his boxers and the soft worn t-shirt she’d slipped over his head.

No shame.
No judgment.

Just care.

Just love.

She balled the jeans up and tossed them into the growing pile by the door, then tugged back the covers with one hand, sliding under them first.

The blanket was warm from her body heat, the sheets soft from too many washes, the whole bed still smelling faintly of her shampoo and the lavender spray her mom had given her.

Home.

She scooted over, holding the covers open for him.

“Come here, Spence,” she whispered, soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question.
Like she already knew he would.

And he did.

God, he did.

Moving slow, clumsy, still trembling in places—but he crawled in beside her, curling into her side like gravity didn’t give him a choice.

Leighton pulled the blanket up over both of them, tucking it around his shoulders, then slid her arm around his back, cradling him against her like he was something precious and breakable and hers.

He tucked his head under her chin, breath still hitching in his chest every few beats, hands clutching the hem of her shirt like if he let go, the world would tilt sideways again.

She kissed the top of his head.
Again.
And again.

Until she felt the tension start to bleed out of him.
Until his breathing evened out against her throat.
Until his fingers loosened just slightly in the fabric at her waist.

Leighton curled her other arm around him too, full body wrapped around his like a shield, a shelter, a promise.

“You’re safe, baby,” she whispered into the dark, her voice threading into his skin.
“I’m right here.”

And this time, when she felt him nod against her collarbone—

small.
shaky.
real—

she knew he believed her.

At least for tonight.

And that was enough.

It was everything.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer stayed tucked under her chin, breathing her in like oxygen he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Her hand moved slow against his back—up and down, up and down—keeping him anchored even though the worst of it was finally ebbing out of him.

He still felt wrung out.
Still felt stupid.
Still felt like he’d cracked himself open and dumped all the worst parts of himself into her lap.

And she hadn’t flinched.

Not once.

God, he didn’t deserve her.

The thought wedged itself under his ribs, sharp and familiar.

He shifted slightly—just enough to bury his face deeper against her collarbone—and mumbled it against her skin, low and wrecked:

"I'm sorry."

Her hand stilled for a second, a soft pause he felt more than saw.

But she didn’t say anything yet.
Didn’t interrupt.

So he kept going.
Breathless.
Broken.

"For climbing in. For waking you up. For—"
his voice cracked, frustration bleeding through,
"—for being so fucking bad at this."

He squeezed his eyes shut, arms tightening instinctively around her waist like maybe if he held on hard enough, she wouldn’t hear how much he meant it.

"I just—"
a breath, sharp and shaky,
"—I didn’t know where else to go."

It slipped out quieter than the rest.
Almost an admission.
Almost a prayer.

Spencer felt the way her hands started moving again—softer this time, smoothing slow circles into the small of his back like she was rubbing the apology right out of him.

He hated that he couldn’t look at her when he said it.
Hated that he still felt like he might shatter if he saw the way she was probably looking at him right now—like he was something worth saving when he knew better.

He tried to laugh it off—weak, brittle—but it broke halfway up his throat.

"You're the only thing that makes sense when my brain decides to be a dick about everything."

It was a joke.
Sort of.
Not really.

It was the truth, too.

She shifted a little, enough that he felt her lips brush his hair again—another soft kiss, another reminder he wasn’t too much for her—and his whole chest squeezed tight around it.

He finally forced himself to lift his head.

Just enough to see her face in the dim light.

God, she looked at him like he wasn’t a burden.

Like he wasn’t a wreck.

Like he was just...
hers.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Let his forehead rest against hers—soft, careful, a little clumsy—and closed his eyes.

"Thank you,"
he whispered, so rough it almost wasn’t words,
"for not telling me to leave."

Another beat.
Another breath.

He rubbed his nose lightly against hers—barely there, almost sheepish—and added, softer:

"Or, y'know...for not calling the cops when a stray idiot climbed through your window in the middle of the night."

He cracked a ghost of a smile then.

Tiny.
Tired.
Real.

And it hit him—sharp and full and terrifying all at once—that he loved her.

He loved her so much it scared him stupid.

But for once, he didn’t run from it.

Didn’t lock it down.

He just stayed.

Pressed against her.
Breathing her in.
Letting her arms stay locked around him like it wasn’t a mistake.
Like he wasn’t a mistake.

And when he whispered it again—quieter this time, just for her, just for now—

"Thank you"—

he meant it with everything he had left.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton stayed wrapped around him, breathing slow against his hair, feeling the way he kept clutching her like he was scared he’d disappear if he let go.

She didn’t loosen her grip.
Didn’t shift away.
Didn’t let the silence fill with anything ugly.

She just held him tighter, the blanket slipping down her back as she pressed her lips to his temple and whispered, steady and warm:

“You don’t ever have to apologize for needing me.”

Her fingers moved carefully through his hair, combing through the knots and damp strands like she could smooth the fear right out of him.

“You didn’t ruin anything, Spencer. Not even close.”

She tucked her forehead against his, breathing him in, letting her voice stay low and sure—something he could hold onto if he needed it.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Another slow stroke of her hand down his spine, feeling every tremble he tried to hide.

“I want you here.”

Her heart squeezed tight when he shook in her arms—tiny, involuntary—but she didn’t let him go.

She pressed a soft kiss to the center of his forehead, her lips lingering there longer than necessary, and murmured:

“You’re not bad at this. You’re not broken. You’re trying… and that’s more than enough for me.”

Leighton shifted back slightly just to look at him, her hands cradling either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheeks with infinite care.

“You’re not too much for me, Spence.”

She brushed another kiss into his hair, breathing it into him like a prayer:

“You never were.”

The way he blinked at her then—wrecked, wide-eyed, so afraid and so desperate to believe her—nearly broke her in half.

She smiled, small and real, letting her thumb trace his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore. You get to come here… always.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, barely there, a promise etched soft into his skin.

“No matter what your brain tries to tell you.”

When he made some broken sound between a laugh and a sob, she let out a quiet breath of her own, teasing lightly to pull him closer:

“And for the record? If you think I’m ever calling the cops on you, you’re even dumber than you look.”

She nudged her nose against his with a soft, affectionate bump, feeling his lips twitch the tiniest bit in return.

“I’d leave the window open for you, dumbass.”

Leighton tucked him tighter into her arms, pulling the blanket up over both of them, cocooning him there, safe and warm and real.

She kissed the crown of his head again, softer this time, speaking right against his skin:

“Come here, baby.”

Fingers slid into the back of his hair again, slow and sure, coaxing him to rest fully against her.

When he did—when he sagged into her with all the wrecked weight he didn’t know how to hide anymore—she tightened her arms around him and whispered like it was a vow:

“You’re safe.”

She kissed his temple.
Pressed her forehead lightly to his.

“You’re mine.”

And finally, when she felt him breathing with her, when she felt him trusting her to stay, Leighton let the last words fall from her mouth like a prayer stitched into the dark:

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t care if she had to hold him for hours.
If she had to whisper it a thousand times.

She would.

Because he was home now.
Because she loved him.

Exactly like this.

Always.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t move for a long time.

He just breathed her in—
the soft drag of her fingers through his hair,
the steady beat of her heart under his cheek,
the way her voice wrapped around him like a second skin.

You’re safe.
You’re mine.
I’m not going anywhere.

He’d never needed anything more than he needed that.

And the terrifying thing?

He believed her.

God help him, he actually believed her.

Spencer felt the tightness in his chest start to unravel—
slow, slow, like pulling a thread that had been knotted too long.
The panic didn’t vanish all at once.
It didn’t dissolve into nothing.

But it softened.

It let go.

He sank into her fully, head tucked beneath her chin, arms slipping looser around her waist until he was just there—no walls, no armor, just him.

Breathing her in.

Letting her steady him.

Letting her keep him.

The blanket slid up higher around his shoulders, and Spencer let out a sound—something low and wrecked and so full of relief it cracked in the middle.

He didn’t care if she heard it.

Didn’t care if she knew how goddamn much he needed her.

Especially now.

Especially always.

She kissed his temple again, and Spencer closed his eyes, letting the warmth of it bleed through every shattered place inside him.

No one had ever kissed him like that before.
Like it wasn’t a reward.
Like it wasn’t earned.
Like it was just his—because he existed, because he breathed.

Another breath slipped out of him—shaky but real—and he nudged his nose lightly against her collarbone.

Not asking for more.
Not needing anything else.

Just being.

Just staying.

After a long minute of silence—only broken by the slow rhythm of their breathing—he tilted his head slightly, cheek brushing hers.

Voice raw but steady now, he mumbled against her skin:

"You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

He didn’t mean it to sound so broken.

Didn’t mean for it to hit so hard inside his own chest.

But it was true.

More true than anything he’d ever said out loud.

He shifted just enough to bury his face in her neck again, arms wrapping tighter around her middle, fingers curling into the back of her shirt like he could stitch himself to her if he just held on tight enough.

And then, softer—like it was a secret just for her:

"Even when I’m a mess."

A tiny breath of a laugh—wrecked but real—shook against her skin.

"Especially then."

He felt her smile against his hair, felt her arms lock tighter around him, and something inside him finally, finally went quiet.

The noise in his head.
The fear clawing at his ribs.
The endless second-guessing.

All of it.

Silent.

Just her heartbeat now.
Just her breathing.
Just the two of them, wrapped up so tight the rest of the world couldn’t find him if it tried.

Spencer tugged the blanket higher, snuggling deeper into her chest, letting her arms be the last thing he felt as his body finally gave out into sleep.

No fear.
No panic.

Just the soft, steady knowledge, echoing in every breath he took:

She stayed.

And so did he.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t move.

She barely breathed.

She just stayed wrapped around him—
blanket tucked up high over his shoulders,
his body curled into hers,
his breath hot and ragged against the hollow of her throat.

She felt every part of it.
Every tremble.
Every slow unraveling.
Every tiny piece of him letting go.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever held.

Not perfect.
Not polished.

Just real.

Her hands kept moving—slow, slow—through the messy strands of his hair, tracing the nape of his neck, smoothing down the curve of his back.
Not to calm him.
Not to fix him.

Just to remind him he wasn’t alone anymore.

When he shifted—nudging his nose lightly against her collarbone—Leighton tightened her arms instinctively around his back, holding him closer like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Because it was.

Because there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

When he finally spoke—
voice raw, muffled against her skin, cracking open right there in her arms—

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Leighton’s whole chest ached with how hard she loved him.
How fiercely she wanted to gather up every shattered thing inside him and hold it safe forever.

She felt him bury his face deeper into her neck, clinging tighter, curling his fingers into the back of her shirt like he couldn’t stand the thought of being anywhere but right here.

And when he whispered it softer—

“Even when I’m a mess.”
“Especially then.”

—Leighton let out the tiniest, breathless sound.
Not a sob.
Not a laugh.

Something quieter.
Something full.

She kissed the side of his head again—long and slow—pressing her mouth against the place where his hair curled soft behind his ear.

And she smiled.

Small.
Fierce.
Unshakable.

Because this was love.
Not the easy kind.
Not the storybook kind.

The real kind.

The kind that stayed when everything else cracked and crumbled.
The kind that wrapped arms tighter around wreckage and whispered I’m still here anyway.

She felt the last of his weight finally sink into her—the last defensive twitch, the last shallow, braced breath melting away.

Leighton tucked the blanket higher over his shoulders, burrowing them deeper into the warmth of each other, the world falling away beyond the cocoon of soft sheets and steady breathing.

When his body went still, slack and warm against hers, his breath evening out at last, Leighton closed her eyes.

Held him tighter.

Let her fingers trace small, slow circles against the small of his back, even as his grip on her shirt loosened slightly in sleep.

She stayed awake, holding him through the first real sleep he’d found in too long.

And she kept whispering it—
soft, against his hair, against his skin, over and over like a promise stitched into the dark:

“I’ve got you.”
“I’m not letting go.”
“You’re mine.”

And every time she said it, she meant it even harder than the last.

Because he stayed.

And so did she.

Always.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t dream.

Not the bad kind, anyway.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, the dark didn’t feel like it was clawing at his throat, didn’t feel like it was swallowing him whole.

It just… was.

Warm.

Soft.

Full of the quiet weight of her arms around him, the blanket tucked up high over his shoulders, her fingers still tracing slow, lazy circles into the small of his back like she meant it—like she wasn’t just waiting for him to wake up and ruin it.

Somewhere between awake and asleep, he shifted closer without meaning to, nudging his nose further into the curve of her neck, chasing the heat of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

It pulled a tiny, shaky sigh out of him—barely a sound—just the loose, wrecked kind that said I'm still here.

Still safe.

Still hers.

And then, just before he slipped fully under—
when the last of the tension melted out of his hands, when the world softened completely around the edges—
Spencer heard himself mumble it.

Slurred and broken and so full of weight it barely made it past his lips:

"Love you, Leigh."

Soft.
Fierce.
Raw.

Not planned.
Not polished.
Not said to win anything.

Just real.

Just him.

And even as the words stumbled free, even as sleep finally dragged him under fully, his arms tightened once more around her waist—instinctive, automatic, absolute.

A quiet claim in the dark:

Mine.

And somewhere, deep in the part of him that still knew her touch even in dreams, Spencer felt her arms tighten around him in return.

Felt her breathe it back into him without even needing to say it:

Mine too.

[Leighton Thomas]

The first soft stretch of morning light crept across the edges of the room, brushing pale gold across the floorboards, the walls, the tangled blanket slipping halfway down her back.

Leighton blinked sleepily against it, warmth pressed solid and heavy against her side, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing soaking into her bones.

Spencer.

Still here.
Still wrapped around her like the world hadn’t found a way to pull him away in the night.

Leighton smiled—small and private—the kind of smile you only ever made when you woke up to the thing you loved most still breathing easy in your arms.

She shifted slightly, feeling the way his arms tightened instinctively around her waist, his nose nuzzling a little deeper into the curve of her neck like he knew, even in sleep, that she was trying to move.

God, he was warm.

He smelled like her bedsheets and his soap and something softer she didn’t even have a name for—something that just was him.

Leighton pressed a kiss to the top of his head, her fingers brushing slow and light through the messy strands of his hair.

She had to get up eventually—
the stupid real world waiting outside her bedroom door.

But God, she didn’t want to.

Not yet.

Not when he was breathing so peaceful against her chest, no panic clawing at the edges, no walls up between them.

Not when he looked so soft like this.
So safe.
So his—and somehow hers, too.

She shifted just enough to see his face tucked close against her collarbone, lashes fanned out, mouth slack in the most unfairly endearing way.

Her heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Careful, slow, she brushed her thumb along his jaw—barely a whisper of a touch—tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his ear, the small patch of freckles she always wanted to count when he wasn’t looking.

Leighton tucked the blanket back higher around his shoulders, settling him deeper against her, cocooning him again in the safest, softest pieces of her world.

She nuzzled into his hair and whispered so quietly it barely disturbed the air between them:

“Five more minutes, baby.”

A selfish promise.
A soft one.

One she intended to keep.

She closed her eyes again, arms tightening around his back, anchoring him there with her.

Holding him like he was the dream she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for her whole life.

And for once—
for once—
she let the world spin without her.

Because here, in this bed, in this breath, with this boy wrapped around her like she was the only thing he needed to stay afloat—

nothing else mattered.

Not yet.

Not while he was still breathing her name in his sleep.
Still holding her like a lifeline.

Still choosing to stay.

[Spencer Walker]

This is absolutely beautiful —
you’ve written their morning energy so tender, sleepy, and perfectly earned after everything they survived the night before.

Here’s Spencer’s full POV continuation, keeping him groggy, warm, stubbornly clinging to her, but also lighter —
because waking up with her feels like home.


---

Spencer drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, tucked against her like his body didn’t know how to be anywhere else.

The first thing he felt was warmth.
Soft. Steady.
The press of her arms around his back, her heartbeat thrumming slow and stubborn under his cheek.

Safe.

The second thing he felt was her voice—
a breath more than words, brushing against his hair like something sacred.

“Five more minutes, baby.”

God.

He didn’t know if he dreamed it.
Didn’t care.

He burrowed closer without thinking—nosing into the curve of her neck, arms locking tighter around her waist like she was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

Maybe she was.

A rough sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and he pressed his mouth lazily against her collarbone, too wrecked with sleep to aim properly.

"M'not moving," he mumbled against her skin, voice wrecked from sleep, "You’re stuck with me now."


His words slurred a little, thick and slow and warm like honey.
He didn’t bother trying to be charming.
Didn’t bother pretending he was fully awake.

He just stayed there.
Pressed against her.
Letting himself feel her breathing, feel the way her fingers kept carding soft through his hair like she wasn’t ready to let go either.

Spencer shifted again—slow, lazy, like he weighed a thousand pounds—and threw one leg haphazardly over hers beneath the blanket, tangling them together even more.

Another sleepy, satisfied sound rumbled out of him.

God, he could stay like this forever.

He blinked up at her—barely—just enough to catch a glimpse of her smile in the early morning light.

That soft, private one.

The one he wanted to bottle up and keep for all the bad days he hadn’t had yet.

He grinned a little—slow and crooked and completely unguarded—and slurred:

"You look way too good for someone who didn’t get any sleep babysitting my dumbass."

A weak joke.

But it was the best he could manage with his brain still swimming somewhere between awake and dreaming.

He dragged one hand up from her waist, clumsy and gentle, brushing a messy curl of her hair behind her ear.

Held her there.
Looked at her.

No fear this time.
No walls.

Just hers.

Soft.
Sleepy.
Stupidly in love.

He leaned up the tiniest bit—enough to brush the sloppiest, sleepiest kiss against her jaw—and mumbled:

"Five more years sounds better than five more minutes."

And then he collapsed back into her, arms cinching tight around her ribs like he meant to fuse himself there.

Like letting go wasn’t even a question anymore.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton felt his breath first—
a warm, sleepy brush against her skin,
the kind of weightless exhale that said he trusted her enough to stay.

Her whole heart melted right there in her chest.

She cradled him closer without even thinking, sliding her hand up into the messy tangle of his hair, fingertips tracing slow, featherlight circles against his scalp.

When he mumbled it against her collarbone—so soft, so broken, so stubborn—

“M’not moving. You’re stuck with me now.”

God.

She wanted to cry, it hit her so hard.

Instead, she smiled—small and helpless and aching—and pressed a kiss into his hair like she could fold all of it into him without breaking the quiet between them.

“Good,” she whispered, brushing her mouth against the crown of his head.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”

When he shifted, dragging a heavy leg across hers under the blanket, tangling them even closer, Leighton let out a soft, breathy laugh against his hair.

Not teasing.
Not sharp.

Just full.

Full of the kind of love that stayed even when words felt too big.

Her hands moved slow against his back, smoothing out the tension he didn’t even realize he was still holding, holding him like he was something precious and fragile and hers.

When he blinked up at her—barely awake, that slow, sleepy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—Leighton felt it again.

That ache.

That sweet, unbearable ache of loving someone so much it filled every inch of your ribs.

And when he slurred it, voice thick and fond and a little wrecked—

“You look way too good for someone who didn’t get any sleep babysitting my dumbass.”

Leighton shook her head gently, forehead brushing his as she smiled, slow and soft and endless.

“You’re worth every second, Spence.”

She traced her thumb along the line of his cheekbone, brushing a messy strand of hair away from his forehead, her touch barely more than a whisper.

“Always.”

When he leaned up and pressed that sleepy, sloppy kiss against her jaw—warm and clumsy and so heartbreakingly him—Leighton let out a tiny breath against his hair, smiling so wide it hurt in the best way.

And then he murmured it—half a joke, half a promise—right before he collapsed back against her:

“Five more years sounds better than five more minutes.”

Leighton’s heart squeezed so tight she had to close her eyes for a second just to keep it together.

She curled around him fully then, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped tight around his ribs, cocooning him safe in the softness of them.

She pressed her lips to his temple—slow, steady, full of everything she couldn’t say all at once—and whispered against his skin:

“Forever, baby.”

She felt the way he breathed out against her chest—slow and safe and so real—and she smiled again, softer this time.

Sleep tangled between them, pulling him under, but Leighton stayed awake a little longer.

Just to hold him.
Just to memorize this.

The weight of him curled against her.
The slow beat of his heart against her ribs.
The way he clung to her even in sleep.

Mine, she thought, smiling against his hair.

And she was his, too.

For five more minutes.
For five more years.
For forever.

Exactly like this.

Exactly, exactly like this.

[Spencer Walker]

This is so beautiful —
you've captured them with so much earned softness, like they've fought through hell and now refuse to let go.

Here’s what I truly believe Spencer would do next, staying fully in the sleepy, raw sweetness you’ve built:


---

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

He just melted.

Fully.

Completely.

Sagging heavier into her like gravity didn’t mean anything when she was the one holding him up.

Her arms around him, her hands stroking slow and sure through his hair, the quiet hum of her heartbeat steady against his cheek—
it was all he needed.

More than he ever thought he was allowed to need.

The word forever floated somewhere in the fog of his brain—
sticky and heavy and terrifying—
but it didn’t scare him here.

Not like this.

Not with her arms around him like a promise stitched into skin.

He hummed low in his throat—something content, something his—and tucked himself closer into her side, nuzzling blindly into the soft stretch of her throat like he could disappear there.

"You’re stuck with me,"
he mumbled again, voice slurred with sleep and certainty.
"Hope you like sweaty, clingy nightmares, Leigh. 'Cause that’s the full package."

A soft, broken kind of laugh shook against her skin—half real, half a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

He felt her laugh too.
Felt it rumble low in her chest, felt it in the way her arms squeezed tighter around his back.

He grinned against her throat—lazy, wrecked, so stupidly in love it was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

But not here.

Not with her fingers still threading slow through his hair, not with her breath warm against his temple, not with the blanket wrapped around them like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Spencer let out another slow, hitching breath—
one that didn’t feel like it was clawing its way up from panic anymore.
One that just… was.

He pressed a kiss against her collarbone—barely there, more breath than touch—and whispered, so quiet he wasn’t sure if he even said it out loud:

"Love you."

Again.
For the second time.

But this time he was awake enough to mean it harder.
Mean it with everything in him that hadn’t been able to say it before.

He felt her hand still against his back—just for a second—
then curl tighter around him like she could hold the words there, safe.

He smiled again—sleepy, wrecked, hers.

And somewhere between the feel of her arms and the weight of forever stitched into the space between them, Spencer finally let himself fall.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Just sleep.

Safe.

Home.

Hers.

Always.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton barely breathed.

Barely moved.

She just held him closer—
tighter—
like if she let even an inch slip away, the weight of what he’d just given her might tear through her completely.

He was saying it.
Really saying it.
Not slurred by fear or broken open by panic.

Awake.
Wrecked.
Hers.

When he tucked himself closer, nuzzling into the hollow of her throat like he belonged there—like he had always belonged there—Leighton closed her eyes, squeezing him tighter against her ribs.

When he mumbled it—half-laughing, half-pleading:

“Hope you like sweaty, clingy nightmares, Leigh. ’Cause that’s the full package.”

she let out the softest, breathless laugh against his hair, smiling so wide her whole chest ached.

She tipped her head down, brushed her nose along his hairline, breathing him in slow.

“I’ll take the full package,” she whispered against his skin, voice breaking in the sweetest way.
“Every messy, beautiful piece of it.”

Her hand kept moving slow through his hair—fingers carding through the soft, tangled strands like she could memorize every inch of him by touch alone.

She felt him grin against her throat, felt the way his whole body melted deeper into her—lazy, wrecked, all-in.

And God, she loved him for it.
Loved the way he gave himself to her, clumsy and reckless and unpolished, like he didn’t know how to be anything but real.

When he pressed a kiss to her collarbone—barely there, more breath than touch—and whispered it again:

“Love you.”

Leighton felt it tear straight through her.

Felt it stitch itself into every corner of her chest that had ever been afraid she’d lose him.

She froze for just a second—overwhelmed, overflowing—then curled her arms even tighter around his back, cradling him closer like she could pull the words straight into her bloodstream and never let them go.

She kissed his hair again—slow and steady—her lips moving against the messy curls like a silent promise:

Me too.
Always.
More than you’ll ever know.

She didn’t need to say it back.

Not now.

Not when he was already tucking himself tighter against her side, breathing slower, breathing steadier, trusting her to hold the weight of it all.

Leighton shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher over both of them, wrapping them tighter in the cocoon they’d built together—safe and warm and too sacred for the outside world to touch.

She kissed the top of his head one more time, fingers smoothing down his back in the slowest, softest patterns she could manage.

And when he finally slipped fully under—when she felt the last of the tension bleed out of him, leaving him loose and warm and breathing easy in her arms—Leighton smiled against his hair.

Small.
Full.
Forever.

She tucked her face into the crown of his head, let her hand settle steady over his heart, and whispered so softly it barely brushed the air:

“Always, Spence.”

And she stayed.

Wrapped around him.
Breathing with him.
Loving him in every tiny, quiet way she knew how.

Because he was hers.
Because she was his.
Because they had survived the dark.

And now—
now they had this.

Soft.
Safe.
Forever.

Exactly like this.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer drifted in and out of sleep, warm and heavy and tangled so deep in her he didn’t know where he stopped and she started.

Her heartbeat was steady against his cheek.
Her fingers were slow in his hair.
The blanket was tucked high around them, the world outside the bed still blessedly far away.

He wasn’t ready to leave it.
Not even close.

When the sun started slipping higher against the window, brushing a faint glow over the sheets, he made a soft, grumbling noise low in his chest and buried himself deeper into her neck.

She laughed—quiet and warm—and he felt it ripple through her body.

Felt her arms tighten around him like she wasn’t ready either.

Good.

He sighed against her skin, too tired to smile, but feeling it anyway—small and lazy in his chest.

Tried shifting just enough to hide from the light, but only managed to tangle himself worse in the blanket, in her.

A hand slid under her shirt, palm flattening against the bare skin of her back like he needed to feel her breathing to keep his own heart steady.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t try to move.

Just pressed a soft, clumsy kiss against her collarbone.
A promise without words.

After a long moment—long enough that sleep almost dragged him back under—he blinked up at her through heavy lashes, still half-lost to the warmth of her.

A low, broken mumble escaped him, barely shaped into sound:

"Don't wanna move."

That was it.

That was all he had left.

He tucked his head back under her chin, arms tightening around her ribs, blanket cocooning them in tighter.

If the world wanted him, it was gonna have to pry him out of her arms first.

Because here—
here he was safe.

Here he was home.

Here he was hers.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

She just lay there, curled around him like he was something delicate and priceless, something she was afraid to let go of even in sleep.

The sun crept higher across the sheets, soft and golden, catching in the tangled mess of his curls and the edge of the blanket still cocooned around them.

And still—
he stayed pressed into her chest like the light didn’t matter.

Like the only thing that existed was the curve of her body, the hush of her breath, the way her fingers kept moving slow through his hair without thinking.

When he grumbled low and tucked himself deeper into her neck, Leighton let out a soft laugh—gentle and warm and quiet enough not to scare the moment away.

God, she loved him like this.
Loved this slow, quiet version of him.
Loved that he let her see it.

Her arms tightened automatically around his back, one hand sliding under the blanket to stroke a lazy path along the warm skin of his spine.

She felt his hand slip under her shirt, palm settling flat between her shoulder blades, grounding them both with the soft weight of it.

And then he kissed her collarbone.

Not with heat.
Not with urgency.

Just with something deeper.
Softer.
A promise written in skin instead of words.

Leighton closed her eyes, breathing it in like it might settle somewhere permanent inside her chest.

And when he blinked up at her through heavy lashes—eyes glassy with sleep, mouth soft and slack—and murmured:

“Don’t wanna move.”

She smiled.
Small.
Full.

She dipped her head, kissed the tip of his nose.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the breath between them.
“You don’t have to.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of his jaw, brushing the soft curve of his ear, memorizing the feel of him in the morning light.

“We’ve got nowhere to be.”

She didn’t know if it was true.
Didn’t care.

Because right now, nothing existed outside this bed.

Not when he was still clinging to her like she was his anchor to the earth.
Not when she could feel his breath slow and even against her chest, each exhale syncing with hers like they were the only two people left in the world.

Leighton shifted just enough to bury her nose in his hair, kissed the crown of his head.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, her voice thick with love and sleep.
“You’re home.”

And she meant every word.

Because she’d never felt more still.
More full.
More herself than she did with him wrapped around her like this.

She held him tighter.

Let the morning keep rising.

Let the world wait.

Because if Spencer was going to stay wrapped in her arms for forever—

she wasn’t going anywhere either.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer stirred.

Not because he wanted to.
Not because he was ready.
Just… because his stomach was being an asshole.

It grumbled low and violent against her ribs, loud enough to echo in the stillness between them.

He winced—barely awake—and let out a soft, miserable groan against her collarbone.

Didn’t move.
Didn’t lift his head.
Just mumbled into her skin like the words were too heavy to lift properly.

"M’gonna die.”

Another grumble.
Worse this time.

He pressed his forehead tighter into the hollow of her neck, one arm curling tighter around her waist like if he held on hard enough, maybe he wouldn’t dissolve from starvation on the spot.

"Need food. Something. Anything. Your pillow. I don’t care.”

His voice was low and broken and way too dramatic for someone who’d eaten yesterday, but he meant every word.

Still didn’t move though.

Just lay there, a full-grown man starved half to death by morning, clinging to the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t make me get up, Leigh.”

A pause.
Another long, suffering exhale.

“You’re warm. And I’m weak.”

He tucked his nose back under her jaw with a groggy little sigh, clearly unwilling to lift a single limb to save himself.

If he starved here, so be it.

At least he’d die in her arms.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer at first.

Mostly because she was trying very hard not to laugh directly into his hair.

His forehead was mashed against her collarbone like a man in mourning. His arm tightened dramatically around her waist like he was going to slip into the afterlife if she so much as suggested getting out of bed.

And his stomach—
God.
It growled again, louder this time, like it had something to prove.

Leighton bit down a smile, brushing her fingers slowly through his hair, her other hand dragging soft, lazy circles across his back.

“You’re not gonna die, Spence.”

She kissed the top of his head, lips brushing warm against curls and sleep and soft skin.

Another groan.

She grinned into it, shaking her head slightly.

She tilted her head down, trying to catch a glimpse of his ridiculous face—what little she could see buried under blanket and desperation.

“You want me to feed you breakfast in bed because you’re too weak from fake starvation to move ten feet to the kitchen?”

His only answer was another soft, suffering sigh against her throat.

Leighton laughed then—gentle and quiet, not teasing enough to make him pull away—and let her hand slide up to cradle the back of his neck.

“Okay, you win. I’ll get up and make you something. But only because I don’t want your ghost haunting me about toast.”

She kissed his temple, slow and sweet.

“Give me two minutes to pee and I’ll save your life.”

She felt his arm tighten one last time, his entire body curled stubbornly into hers like letting go might actually kill him.

And God help her—
she wouldn’t have minded staying like this forever.

But he needed pancakes.

Or toast.

Or not to die dramatically against her ribcage.

So she smiled into his hair, breathed him in once more, and whispered:

“Don’t go dying on me in the next sixty seconds, Romeo. I’ll be right back.”

And maybe—just maybe—she kissed him once more than she needed to before slipping out from under the covers.
Because no one ever died from too much love.

But if they did,
he’d probably be the first.

Leighton moved carefully—slow, gentle, like if she pulled away too fast, he might actually wither on the spot.

She kissed his hair one last time, then eased out from beneath the blanket with practiced grace.
His arm made a valiant, half-asleep attempt to hold her hostage, but eventually it slid down to the mattress with a defeated sigh.

She smiled to herself.

“Still alive,” she whispered as she stood, tugging his shirt lower over her hips. “Barely.”

She padded across the room on quiet feet, pausing to grab her phone and duck into the bathroom. Her hair was a mess—soft waves tangled from sleep and Spencer’s constant nuzzling. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes still heavy. But God, she looked like someone who’d been loved well.

And more than that—
someone who loved well.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up loosely, splashed cold water on her face. No rush. Just moving through the rhythm of the morning with him still folded into her memory—arms around her, lips against her skin, that half-smile he wore like a secret just for her.

She could still feel the weight of him everywhere.

And she didn’t want to be gone long.

She pulled open the bedroom door, stepping into the hush of the hallway, the light brighter now—soft gold spilling over everything. Her house was quiet. Safe. Still.

The kitchen welcomed her like muscle memory.

She flicked on the stove and pulled ingredients from the cabinets like she’d done it a hundred times—but this time with bare legs and Spencer’s shirt hanging loose on her frame, sleeves past her fingertips.

She grabbed a pan, some eggs, a bit of cheese, two slices of bread she could toast.

Nothing fancy.
Nothing that required measuring or thinking.

Just something warm.

Something he could eat curled back into bed, looking at her like she’d just delivered him from the grave.

While the eggs cooked, she leaned back against the counter, watching the yolks bubble as the toast popped up and the scent of something real and familiar filled the room.

Her chest swelled, slow and full.

He was still upstairs.
Still tangled in her sheets.
Still hers.

And she’d be back beside him in less than five minutes—plate in hand, a smug smile ready, and maybe—just maybe—a second cookie tucked into her palm for after.

Because if he was going to survive the morning?

He deserved a reward.

And so did she.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t move.

Not even when the door clicked softly shut behind her.

Her warmth was still in the sheets.
Her smell still on his skin.
The echo of her fingers still ghosting through his hair.

He kept his eyes closed for a minute longer—pretending he didn’t hear the toast pop downstairs, pretending he didn’t feel the ache in his stomach or the worse one behind his ribs.

Just stayed curled up in her bed like something small and private.

Safe.

The kind of safe that scared the shit out of him.

Eventually, he cracked one eye open.

Just one.

Golden light spilled across the room—quiet and soft like her, warming the edge of her desk, the spine of some worn-out book, the band posters peeling just slightly at the corners.

His gaze moved slowly, half-lidded and sleepy, across everything.

A mug with her chipped purple nail polish still wrapped around the handle.
A hoodie draped over the back of her desk chair—probably his.
The book she’d fallen asleep reading a few nights ago, spine cracked wide open, her bookmark a folded receipt with his name scribbled in the corner.

God, it was stupid.
It was so stupid how much it hit him.

Because he liked it here.
Too much.

Liked her room, her bed, her scent on his shirt.
Liked waking up to the shape of her still etched into the mattress beside him.
Liked hearing her laugh against his neck, soft and fond and so stupidly normal.

He stared up at the ceiling, heart beating slow but loud now—like it knew something he didn’t want to say out loud.

Because this?

This quiet.
This safety.
This sweet, terrifying domestic bliss—

It felt like peace.
And peace had never lasted in his life.

He blinked once, jaw clenching faintly as he sat up a little, pushing the blanket down to his hips.
Her pillow still cradled the curve of his shoulder.

He didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to ruin it.

Didn’t want to go downstairs and risk running into Violet, either.

The thought of Leighton’s mom—God.
All he could picture was her smile tight, her questions sharper than they sounded, her eyes already having made up their mind about him.

She didn’t have to say it.
He knew the stories Leigh probably told her.
The worst versions of him, told in whispers and honesty and shaking hands after he left too many times.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes dragging slowly back to her desk, her chair, the sweatshirt slung careless over the edge like she hadn’t even thought twice about it.

Still his.

She’d kept it.

Spencer swallowed hard, laying back again.
Stared at the ceiling.
Let the moment stretch.

Still here.
Still hers.
Still fucking terrified of what that meant.

But he didn't run.

Not this time.

Just pulled her blanket tighter around his waist, eyes fluttering shut again—heart beating too loud, stomach still empty, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

God help him…
He liked being loved.

And he liked her house.
And her room.
And her.

Way, way too much.

[Leighton Thomas]

The kitchen light hummed overhead, low and unsteady, casting a pale yellow tint over the countertops that made everything feel colder than it should’ve. The walls were too clean, too bright—like they were trying to bleach out the history that still clung to the corners. It didn’t work.

The rice was burning.

Leighton smelled it before she saw it—sharp and bitter, curling up into the silence like smoke from something older than tonight. She didn’t step inside right away. Just stood in the doorway, barefoot, one foot tucked behind the other, her arms wrapped around herself like armor that didn’t quite fit anymore. Her sleeves covered her hands. There was a smear of dried paint on one knuckle—blue or green, maybe. She didn’t remember what she’d been painting. Just that she hadn’t wanted to stop.

Violet stood at the stove in pajamas that had seen better years—soft cotton with a faded floral print and a stretched-out collar that hung off one shoulder. Her hair was twisted into a lazy bun, stray curls slipping loose around her neck. She wasn’t crying now. But Leighton could tell she had been. Her posture was too careful. Too held. Like she was afraid that if she moved wrong, she might spill open.

There was no sound but the hiss of the rice and the wind tapping against the screen door.

Leighton watched her mother’s back, and her voice broke the quiet without warning.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. Pretend like everything’s normal.”

Violet froze for half a second. Just one. Then she started stirring again, slower this time.

“I mean, I get it. I fake it too. Smile at tourists, tell them the fish is fresh, act like I sleep through the night.”

Leighton’s voice didn’t shake, but something in her mouth tasted bitter anyway. She shifted her weight, picking at the fraying thread on her sleeve.

“But you don’t have to do that with me.”

She took a step forward. The old floorboard beneath her groaned in protest. The kitchen smelled like lavender soap and burned starch—home and not-home all at once.

“I saw you crying in the laundry room yesterday.”

The words landed like something soft and sharp at the same time. Violet didn’t respond.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. I just—”

Her breath caught in her chest. She let it go slowly, like exhaling wouldn’t hurt as much if she didn’t rush it.

“You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes, Mom. You’re not the only one holding us up anymore.”

Her hands clenched tighter into her sleeves. Her voice dropped.

“I’m not a kid. Not really. Not after… everything.”

The kitchen didn’t flinch at the words. Neither did Violet. But the air changed. Thickened.

The memory pressed in around her—the man they never spoke about. The night Violet found out. The door that slammed. The silence that followed. And the promise her mother made afterward, shaking and sharp-edged: no more men. Not until you graduate. Not again. Never again.

Leighton stepped closer. Not touching her—just beside her. Close enough to feel the heat from the stove. And from her.

“I just don’t want you to forget that I’m still here too.”

She didn’t say anything else.

Because the words weren’t just said. They were offered. Like a hand held out in the dark.

Still here.
Still standing.
Still hers.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t flinch. Not at first.

She kept her back turned, adjusted the heat on the stove like the rice could still be salvaged, like the conversation hadn’t landed squarely in the center of her spine. The spoon scraped the bottom of the pot—too loud in the quiet, too steady for someone who had definitely been crying.

“That’s dramatic,” she said finally, light and low, her voice slipping into that drawl she used when she didn’t want anyone looking too close. “Rice burns. Doesn’t mean the whole damn house is on fire.”

She reached for a dish towel, wiped her hands with more pressure than necessary, and tossed it onto the counter. Didn’t look over.

“People cry, Leighton. It’s not some grand event. You ever gotten shampoo in your eye? Hurts like hell. Doesn’t mean we have to dissect it.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. Just tired. Breezy in that way that meant it wasn’t. The kind of tired that had edges and stories and silence stitched into every syllable.

She finally turned her head, just enough to catch her daughter in the corner of her eye.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “That’s not the job.”

And God, it almost came out with a smile.

Almost.

“But I am glad you care,” she added, like it cost her something to say it. “Even if you say it like I should be enrolling in a support group or something.”

She turned off the burner with a soft click and opened the cabinet like the conversation was finished. Like plates were more important than the way her voice had gone quieter.

“You want to talk, fine. But maybe don’t do it while I’m actively ruining dinner. There’s already enough smoke in this house.”

It wasn’t cold.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was just Violet.

All sideways affection and clipped vulnerability. A woman made of sweet tea and steel, offering comfort in sarcasm because softness felt too close to breaking.

And still—beneath it all—there was something else.

She reached into the fridge and held up a carton without looking back.

“Omelet? Or you wanna pretend we’re healthy and eat those frozen green things I keep buying but never cook?”

Her voice was lighter now. Not because the heaviness was gone. But because this was how she knew to carry it. With a smirk. With distraction. With dinner.

Because loving like that didn’t feel like pretending to her.

It felt like survival.

[Leighton Thomas]

The corner of Leighton’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite not. She stayed where she was, arms crossed, her weight shifting just slightly like the words had knocked something loose in her chest.

But she didn’t look away.

“It’s not dramatic.”

Her voice was even. Not defiant, not emotional. Just… certain. Like she was done tiptoeing around truths they both already knew.

“I didn’t say you needed a therapist. Or a breakdown. Or some big emotional production.”

She shrugged one shoulder, eyes still locked on her mother like she was trying to see past the drawl and the dodge and the half-jokes.

“I just said you didn’t have to fake it with me.”

Her gaze dropped for a second—to the stove, to the dish towel, to the burn mark curling into the bottom of the pot like proof of what they kept trying to laugh off.

Then back up.

“You don’t have to be steel-plated all the time. I know you think that’s what moms are supposed to be, but… you’re not just my mom. You’re you.”

There was a long pause. She didn’t fill it. Just let it stretch between them, raw and real.

“And I see you. Even when you don’t want me to.”

She stepped forward then—not a big movement, just close enough that her voice softened.

“I don’t wanna fix you. I don’t wanna trade places. I just wanna be allowed to be here. Without pretending the fire never happened.”

Another pause.

“Also, those frozen green things taste like sadness.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word—just enough to make it real.

“So yeah. Omelet.”

She opened the drawer behind her, pulled out a whisk, and held it out with a quiet kind of truce written all over her face.

“But you’re chopping the onions. I cried first.”

And there it was—her version of softness. Her version of staying. A girl who’d been taught to run, deciding—for once—not to.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t take the whisk right away.

She stared at it, like it had teeth. Like holding it might mean admitting too much.

Then—without a word—she reached for the cutting board instead. Set it down. Pulled a half onion from the fridge, thunked it on the counter. Her movements were precise. Controlled. Like if she chopped it small enough, diced it fine enough, maybe she wouldn’t feel the way Leighton’s words had landed.

She didn’t look up when she said it.

“Frozen green things do taste like sadness.”

It was quiet. Almost too quiet to catch. But the corner of her mouth curved—just barely. And that was all the proof Leighton needed.

“You’re annoying when you’re right, you know that?” Violet muttered.

The knife moved with practiced ease. Her hair slipped loose again, and she blew it out of her face with a huff that wasn’t quite a sigh.

“I don’t fake it with you,” she added, almost defensively. “I just… filter it. There’s a difference.”

She paused, then lifted her eyes—just briefly.

“I know you see through it. That’s what scares me.”

She looked away again before the moment could hold too long. Chopped a little faster.

“Because if you see it, then it’s real. And if it’s real, then I can’t shove it in a drawer next to the tax returns and the broken tape measure and pretend it’ll fix itself if I just don’t touch it.”

She dropped the knife with a soft clink, resting her hands on either side of the board.

“But you’re right. About the rest.”

Her voice cracked—so slightly it might’ve passed for tired.

“I’m still me.”

She turned then, finally meeting Leighton’s eyes. And for the first time tonight, the drawl dropped. The dodge disappeared. And Violet stood there, raw and wrecked and still trying.

“You look too much like me when you do that,” she said, motioning vaguely toward her daughter’s expression. “All that fierce, stubborn love you don’t know what to do with.”

She took the whisk, finally, and nudged Leighton’s shoulder with it.

“Go get the eggs, sweetheart,” she said. “We’ll burn something else together.”

It wasn’t a declaration.

It was something better.

A promise disguised as routine. A peace offering wrapped in sarcasm. Violet’s love—quiet, crooked, and carved out of survival—finding shape in the way she stayed.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t move right away.

Just stood there, whisk still in her hand, fingers curled tight around the handle like it was anchoring her to the floor. Her chest felt too full and too empty all at once—like something was cracking open inside her, but gently this time. No explosion. Just light slowly spilling in.

She blinked, once. Then again.

“You say that like fierce, stubborn love is a bad thing.”

Her voice was low. Dry. But not sharp.

She set the whisk down on the counter between them and opened the fridge. The light buzzed, catching on the glass shelves and the carton of eggs she reached for like it was any other Tuesday.

But it wasn’t.

Because Violet had said we.
And not in passing.

“You know,” she added, nudging the door shut with her hip, “most people filter their pictures, not their breakdowns.”

She cracked the first egg into the bowl with practiced care. Then a second. Her hands were steadier than she felt.

“But I get it.”

She glanced sideways—just a flick of her eyes. Soft, but sure.

“Scares me too. Letting someone see the mess and not pretending it’s just a little dust.”

She whisked in slow, deliberate circles. The sound was soft. Familiar. Like background music in a memory that hadn’t finished happening yet.

“But I’d rather know it’s real and hard… than fake and fine.”

A beat.

“We’ve done fake and fine.”

And they had. For years.

She set the whisk down, leaned against the counter beside her mother, shoulder brushing against Violet’s just enough to feel it.

“So yeah. Let’s burn something else.”

A pause.

“But you’re still chopping the onions.”

Her smile curved sideways—lopsided and small, but there. Earned.

“I’m allergic to feelings and fumes.”

[Violet Thomas]

Violet’s laugh was soft—surprised out of her, really. The kind that caught in her throat like it didn’t get used often but remembered how. It faded fast, but it lingered in her eyes when she looked over at Leighton.

“God, you are so mine,” she muttered, not unkindly.

She didn’t say thank you. Not directly. Not for the eggs, not for the words. Not for staying.

But she reached out—quietly, like it didn’t mean anything—and brushed a piece of hair behind Leighton’s ear. Her hand lingered just a second longer than necessary before falling away.

Then she turned back to the cutting board and picked up the knife.

“I made you a promise,” she said, tone low but even. Measured. Like she’d practiced the words in her head a thousand times but never said them out loud. “When I found out about you.”

She didn’t look up.

“Swore I’d do whatever it took. That you’d have a roof, and food, and a mom who made it look easy—even when it wasn’t.”

The knife moved through the onion like muscle memory. Clean, even slices. Not too fast. Not too slow.

“Some days I got it right. Some days I didn’t. But fake and fine?” Her mouth twitched. “That was never for you. That was for me. So I didn’t fall apart before breakfast.”

She glanced over again, a quick flash of something unspoken in her eyes.

“It’s hard to turn off survival when it’s the only thing that ever worked.”

She didn’t say I’m sorry. She didn’t say thank you for seeing me. She didn’t say I love you.

She just kept chopping. And when the onion juice hit, she sniffed once and rolled her eyes.

“God. Feelings and fumes. You weren’t kidding.”

She shoved the cutting board toward the skillet like a peace treaty.

“Go on, then. Pour ‘em in. Let’s make a damn omelet.”

Another beat passed.

And then, quieter—almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud—

“We’ll try something real for once. Just don’t expect it to look pretty.”

It didn’t have to.

Because for the first time in a long time, they were in the kitchen.

Together. Real. A little messy.

And still here.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t respond right away.

She didn’t need to.

Because Violet’s words—soft, edged, honest—landed somewhere deep. Not like a knife. Not like they used to. But like roots.

Like something trying to grow in a place that hadn’t known light in a while.

She didn’t flinch when her mother tucked her hair back, didn’t pull away from the way that hand lingered just long enough to mean something. Her chest ached, but in that strange, necessary way—like stretching after you’ve been curled up too tight for too long.

She looked at the onions, then the pan. The skillet hissed faintly, heat curling up from the burner like the air was holding its breath with them.

“Messy’s fine.”

Her voice was quiet. Steady.

She poured the eggs in. They sizzled loud in the silence, scrambled sound filling the kitchen where grief used to sit.

“Pretty’s overrated anyway.”

She nudged the onions in with the side of the spatula, then stood there, shoulder brushing Violet’s again—this time on purpose.

“You know,” she added, a smile ghosting at her lips, “I used to think survival was the goal.”

A pause. The eggs started to firm at the edges.

“But I think it’s more like… the starting point.”

She looked over. Not demanding a response. Just… letting it sit.

“You got me this far. That’s not nothing.”

The scent of onions and eggs filled the room. Warm. Tangy. Alive.

She grabbed two plates from the cabinet without being asked, slid one onto the counter beside her mother with the easy grace of someone who’d learned to take care of things before she ever learned to ask for help.

“Let’s ruin breakfast at night and call it healing.”

And that was it. Not a grand gesture. Not a movie ending.

Just two women, two plates, and a late dinner cooked over old wounds and quiet truths.

It didn’t fix everything.

But it was real.

And that was enough.

Leighton poured the eggs in, and they hissed against the skillet—loud and alive, like something was finally starting. She stirred slow, folding in the onions, letting the rhythm of it settle into her bones.

Violet stood beside her, quiet now. But present.
And that alone made the silence feel different. Less hollow.

Leighton’s voice came again—unrushed. Low.

“I told Spencer once that I don’t really cook.”

The name slipped out before she had time to second-guess it. Before she could measure how much she was giving away.

She didn’t look at Violet. Just kept folding the eggs, pushing the edges in like she knew what she was doing.

“We were walking home from that stupid night market, the one with the lanterns and the overpriced malasadas. He asked what I ate when I was alone and I said ‘popcorn and mood swings.’”

A breath. Soft, almost amused.

“He laughed. But not like I was pathetic. Just… like he got it.”

She finally looked over then, just a glance. Just enough to test the waters.

“I think he sees through people, too. Kind of like me. Or maybe that’s just what I want to believe.”

She scraped the eggs once more, then turned off the heat and reached for the plates. The kitchen smelled like comfort—onions and eggs and something almost like forgiveness.

“It wasn’t supposed to matter.”
She hesitated. “But it did.”

She handed Violet her plate. Quiet. Casual. Like it didn’t mean anything—but it did.

“I don’t need a lecture. I just…”

She paused, thumb brushing the edge of her own plate like she needed the texture.

“You ever feel like someone’s seen the worst of you and still wants to stay?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need one. Not really.

Because Violet’s presence tonight—unfiltered, raw, here—was its own kind of answer.

Leighton sat at the table and nudged the second chair out with her foot.

“Sit. Eat. Pretend you didn’t almost cry over chopped onions and emotional vulnerability.”

She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then—without looking up—

“He’s not a mistake, by the way.”

Her voice was soft, but final.

“Spencer. He’s complicated. But he’s not a mistake.”

A pause.

“Neither are we.”

And that was it.

Not a plea. Not a declaration.

Just truth, served warm with onions.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t sit right away.

She just stood there, one hand on the back of the chair like she needed the anchor, the other still holding her plate. Her jaw tensed—barely. Not like she was angry. Like she was thinking too hard. Like there were words behind her teeth that didn’t know how to come out without breaking something.

But she was listening.

She always listened, even when she pretended not to.

Even when she deflected with casseroles and sarcasm.

And right now? She didn’t pretend. Not with this. Not with Leighton.

Because something in her daughter’s voice had peeled the armor back a layer at a time. Because this wasn’t teenage rebellion or passive-aggressive commentary—this was something deeper. Wiser. Hard-earned.

She let out a slow breath. Sat down.

Forked a piece of egg. Didn’t eat it yet.

“I never said he was a mistake.”

She looked up—not harshly, just directly. Violet-style honesty: bare and a little bruised at the edges.

“I said you weren’t ready.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t ready either. And I had you anyway. But that doesn’t mean I want you to go through it the way I did. Doesn’t mean I don’t want more for you than burning rice and filter-thin survival.”

She took a bite then. Chewed. Swallowed. Set the fork down.

“But I believe you. About him. That he sees you.”

Her eyes didn’t soften so much as sharpen—less defense, more recognition.

“And I know what that feels like. When someone sees the mess and doesn’t blink. Makes you wonder if you’re allowed to be more than damage control.”

A breath. Then another.

“I’m not gonna lie and say I’m not scared,” Violet said, tapping the edge of her plate. “But scared doesn’t mean I don’t trust you. Or him.”

She nudged the salt shaker closer to Leighton without comment. Then added, almost under her breath:

“You don’t say we unless you mean it.”

She forked more eggs. Ate. Chewed slower this time.

“It’s not weakness, you know,” she said finally. “Letting someone matter.”

Then, without ceremony:

“But I’m still gonna run a background check. And don’t look at me like that—fake and fine might be fading, but protective and nosy is hardwired.”

Her mouth curved—half a smirk, half a smile.

She looked at Leighton then, really looked.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t see a girl she had to carry. She saw the girl who’d learned how to stand.

Still hers.

But wholly her own.

“That boy’s got good taste,” Violet said, softer now. “You’re the best kind of complicated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense.

It was full.

Of warmth. Of new space. Of something healing in progress.

Breakfast at night. Messy and real.

Just how they needed it.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She just sat there, one hand resting on the table, the other curled loosely around her fork, like she was grounding herself. Violet’s words weren’t light, weren’t easy—but they landed. Right in that part of Leighton that still sometimes wondered if being loved and being trusted could ever happen at the same time.

She took a breath.

Then another.

Then she looked up—eyes glassy, but steady.

“I’m not trying to be you.”

It came out gentle. Not defensive. Just honest.

“But I learned from you. Every scraped-together dinner, every packed bag, every time you chose to stay anyway.”

Her voice wavered, but she didn’t let it fall.

“I want more. I want soft. I want safe. But I also want real. And I know that doesn’t always look like poetry.”

A beat. She pushed her eggs around her plate.

“Spencer’s not poetry. He’s messy. Guarded. Kinda stupid sometimes.”

She almost smiled.

“But he listens. And he sees me. Even the parts I try to hide under eyeliner and sarcasm.”

She glanced at Violet then. There was no challenge in it—just quiet certainty.

“That kind of thing doesn’t come around often. And I’m not about to throw it away just because it scares me.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“I am scared. Of how much I care. Of what it means. Of how much it could hurt if it goes wrong.”

Her foot tapped once against the leg of her chair.

“But I’d rather be scared and real… than safe and pretending.”

She picked up her water, took a sip like she needed to cool the heat in her throat.

“And for what it’s worth?”

Her eyes found Violet’s again—open, vulnerable, intentional.

“You didn’t ruin me.”

She let that sit. Heavy. Healing.

“You got me here.”

She pushed her chair back and rose from the table, grabbing her plate and Violet’s empty one too. Rinsed them both under the tap, letting the water run just a little longer than necessary.

Over her shoulder, voice lighter now—

“You can run the background check. Just don’t show him baby pictures, I’m begging you.”

She turned around, this time smiling for real—small, crooked, but true.

“Also? You’re way more than filter-thin survival, Mom.”

She leaned against the counter.

“You’re the reason I believe I can want more.”

A pause.

“And maybe… have it.”

Still hers.
Still home.
But finally letting herself belong to something more.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together like she was bracing for something—but what came wasn’t a blow.

It was grace.

And God, she didn’t know what to do with that.

Her throat tightened in that way it hadn’t in years—tight like grief, like pride, like love that had grown too big for the body it was living in. She looked at Leighton—really looked—and for a second, she didn’t see the teenager who used to slam doors or the little girl with scraped knees and big questions.

She saw a woman.

And she saw herself.

Not a mirror. Not a copy. But a continuation.

“You know,” Violet said after a long beat, voice low and slightly hoarse, “I used to lie awake thinking I’d broken you just by trying to hold you together.”

She stood slowly, chair legs scraping against the floor. Her hands were restless—picking up crumbs, adjusting the salt shaker, smoothing a wrinkle from the dish towel. Anything to keep from reaching out when everything in her wanted to.

“But hearing you say that? That I got you here?”

She shook her head once, like she was trying to shake off the emotion. It didn’t work.

“That means more than you’ll ever know.”

She crossed the room then—not fast, not dramatic—just steady. And when she got to Leighton, she didn’t hug her outright.

She just leaned in. Forehead to forehead. Like a tether.

“You’re not me,” she whispered. “And thank God for that.”

She smiled—small and watery.

“You’re better.”

Then, softer still—quiet but fierce:

“And I don’t care if it scares you. If you want more, take it. Build it. Burn the blueprint if you have to.”

She pulled back just enough to meet her daughter’s eyes, steady and sure.

“Because you deserve all of it. Not just the surviving. The soft parts too.”

She looked down at the plate in the sink, then back up again.

“I love you, Leighton. More than survival. Always have.”

And just like that, she stepped back.

Not out of the moment—but into the next one. Into whatever this was becoming.

Because her girl wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was choosing.

And that—that was everything.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton’s breath hitched, just once.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But real.

She gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, grounding herself there, like she could steady the flood just by staying still. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t wipe them. She didn’t look away.

“You didn’t break me.”

Her voice was quiet. But solid.

“You held me together. Even when you didn’t know how. Even when it cost you.”

She let that hang between them—honest, heavy, healing.

“I didn’t get here in spite of you.”
A beat.
“I got here because of you.”

Her throat worked around the next words. They came out softer.

“And yeah, I’m scared. Of how much I care. Of how much I want.”
Another breath.
“But I’m not scared of becoming you.”

Her gaze flicked up then, steady and sure.

“I’d be lucky if I did.”

She stepped in, pressing her forehead gently against Violet’s one last time, like sealing something between them that didn’t need to be spoken again.

“I want the soft parts. I want love that stays. And I want you with me when I find it. Not looking back at your own ghosts—with me. Moving forward.”

She pulled back, eyes glossy but smiling.

“You were never just survival, Mom. You were my safe.”

And then, with a breath of lightness—

“Now please, before I start sobbing into a dish towel—can we go watch something terrible?”
She gave a crooked grin, already heading for the living room.
“I’m thinking shoulder pads, soap opera-level drama, maybe an alien subplot no one ever explains. If Dynasty and Knight Rider had a love child—I’m queuing it.”

Still hers.
Still choosing.
And finally, fully home.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet let out a breath that sounded like it had been waiting years to escape.

It wasn’t shaky. Not exactly. But it carried the weight of a thousand silent nights, a thousand held-in things. And now—finally—she didn’t have to hold them alone.

She didn’t try to speak right away. Didn’t chase the moment with a lecture or a lesson. Just let it wash over her, steady and slow, like sun through storm shutters.

Because that’s what Leighton was now.

A storm that softened. A sun that stayed.

She watched her daughter head toward the living room—shoulders looser, jaw unclenched, grief replaced with something lighter. Something earned. And Violet smiled. Full. Fierce. A little in awe.

“Better make room on the couch,” she called after her, voice warm and wry. “And don’t touch the remote—I’m still emotionally recovering from the last time you tried to convince me season three of Roswell was good television.”

She grabbed the dish towel anyway. Not to cry into. Just to hold.

Because she didn’t need to fix anything tonight. Didn’t need to protect or patch or pretend.

Her girl was safe.

They were safe.

She turned off the kitchen light, let the darkness settle in like a closing scene, and walked toward the glow of the TV and the soft sounds of a home still healing, still laughing, still learning.

Still together.

And that was more than enough.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She just sat on the couch, remote in her lap, blanket twisted around her ankles like she hadn’t quite figured out how to be still. The TV glowed in front of her, paused on the title screen—Star Crossed Heatwave, a disaster of a show that already looked like it was going to be someone’s guilty pleasure. Probably hers.

She heard Violet’s footsteps—slow, unhurried—and felt them more than she saw them. A rhythm she knew by heart. One that used to mean be careful. One that now meant I’m here.

When the cushion dipped beside her, she didn’t look over.

She didn’t have to.

She hit play.

Synth music poured out of the speakers like it was daring them to take it seriously. Leighton didn’t laugh, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. The opening scene was awful—dramatic stares, glittery explosions, something about a planet torn apart by forbidden love.

She didn’t look at her mom when she said it. Just stared at the screen, voice quiet but sure.

“I’m glad you followed me in here.”

The blanket shifted between them. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just shared.

“We don’t have to fix everything tonight.”
A breath.
“But this… this feels like a start.”

She leaned a little closer, just enough to make space where there hadn’t been space before. Where things had once cracked and stayed broken.

Not tonight.

The characters on screen made terrible choices. The lighting was bad. The pacing worse.

Leighton didn’t care.

She reached for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table—half-stale, still warm—and nudged it in Violet’s direction without looking.

“You get emotional during the laser wedding, I’m never letting you live it down.”

Leighton leaned back into the couch, letting her head rest against the cushions like she could finally exhale all the way. The TV cast flashes of blue and purple across the living room—two actors clashing in a glitter-drenched sword fight over “the fate of the solar heart.” Whatever that meant.

It was ridiculous. And kind of perfect.

She didn’t look at Violet. Didn’t need to. Just felt her presence there, steady and real, like the gravity she hadn’t realized she’d been spinning around this whole time.

She reached into the bowl for another handful of popcorn—salty, slightly burnt, the way they always made it. Her fingers brushed Violet’s for a second.

She didn’t pull away.

“You know,” she said, voice low, casual, but heavy in that way her honesty always was, “I used to think we lost this. Not the couch or the blanket or the popcorn… just the quiet.”

She shifted slightly, pulled the blanket higher over her legs.

“I didn’t know if we could get it back without breaking each other open all over again.”

The TV scene cut to a slow zoom on a character crying in front of a space mirror. Leighton snorted.

“I’m still not ruling out someone shapeshifting into their long-lost twin.”

A pause.

Then, softer—realer—

“But I’m glad you’re here. Not hovering. Not fixing. Just… here.”

She tilted her head a little, just enough to catch the edge of her mother’s silhouette in the light.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

And she meant it. Every word.

She popped another piece of popcorn in her mouth. Chewed slowly. The synth music swelled dramatically again.

“I’m giving this show ten more minutes before it completely derails.”
A beat.
“…But if they kiss in zero gravity, I’m watching all five seasons.”

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

She reached into the popcorn bowl, took a handful, and leaned back without a word—shoulder brushing Leighton’s just enough to count. The couch creaked beneath them like it remembered too. The weight of old arguments, louder silences, the echo of slammed doors. And now? Popcorn. Synth music. The softest kind of truce.

She let the ridiculous show play, eyes half-focused, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as two actors with questionable chemistry floated dramatically toward one another with glowing helmets and tragic backstories.

But she wasn’t watching the screen.

Not really.

She was listening.

To the way Leighton breathed easier now. To the quiet between sentences that didn’t sting anymore. To the way her girl—her woman—sat beside her like she belonged there. Like they both did.

She took another piece of popcorn, tossed it in her mouth, and muttered just loud enough for Leighton to hear—

“If they kiss in zero gravity, I’m sending the writers a fruit basket.”

A beat.

“Full of rotten oranges.”

The corner of her mouth twitched again.

Still fierce. Still Violet.

But here.

And when Leighton shifted slightly and let their arms touch—easy, casual, no flinch—Violet let her eyes close for a heartbeat. Just one.

Because this? This was more than peace.

It was a return.

Not to the way things were, but to something new. Something they’d built together without realizing it—brick by brick, bite by bite, one burned dinner and one late-night show at a time.

“I missed this,” she said finally. Low. Unforced.

Then, dryly:

“I hate how bad this show is.”

She didn’t move away. Didn’t joke her way out of the moment. Just stayed. Present. Real.

And when the next glittery scene cut to a space wedding complete with laser vows and a crying alien priest, she muttered:

“…You’re gonna make me watch all five seasons, aren’t you?”

She said it like a threat. But her voice was soft.

Like home.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She just grinned.

The kind that started at the corner of her mouth and took its time stretching into something real. The kind that only happened when she wasn’t trying to be okay—just was.

She reached back into the bowl, grabbed a few kernels, and tossed one gently at Violet’s arm.

“Don’t act like you’re not emotionally invested,” she said. “I saw the way your face twitched during the space wedding. That was concern.”

Another piece landed on Violet’s lap. Leighton didn’t apologize.

“You’re gonna cry when the comet prince dies in season four. I’m calling it now.”

The show continued to spiral into chaos—slow-motion vows, glowing eyes, some kind of sparkly mist descending like emotional fog—and Leighton leaned back with a contented sigh, shoulder pressed into Violet’s without hesitation now.

It didn’t feel like reclaiming something.

It felt like living in it again.

“I missed this too.”

A pause. Her voice quieter now.

“Not just sitting here. Not just… us. I missed not having to wonder if we’d ever get back to soft again.”

She nudged Violet’s knee with hers, casual.

“Even if it took glowing helmets and alien therapy to get us here.”

Then, drier—

“And yes. We’re watching all five seasons. Don’t fight it. This is your life now.”

The next scene opened with a laser bouquet toss. Leighton snorted, buried a laugh in the blanket, and let it be easy.

Still home.
Still hers.
Still everything that mattered.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet caught the popcorn piece against her arm and let it roll into her lap like it didn’t matter—but her mouth twitched. Not a smirk, not a scoff. Something quieter. Something reluctant and warm.

“You throw another kernel at me and I swear I’ll fake-cry just to guilt-trip you.”

She didn’t. Not yet. But she was watching the screen a little too closely for someone who claimed to hate it. She blinked hard during the slow-mo bouquet toss—then immediately reached for more popcorn like the motion might cover it.

“I don’t cry over glow sticks and intergalactic melodrama,” she mumbled. “That was just… dry eyes. Poor lighting. Allergies.”

But the lie had no teeth. Not tonight.

Especially not when Leighton nudged her knee like that—so easy. So familiar. Violet didn’t even pretend to shift away.

Instead, she exhaled softly. A sound that felt like exorcising years of weight in a single breath.

“Well,” she said, reaching into the bowl and grabbing a piece like it meant nothing, “guess we better pace ourselves. Don’t want to blow through the emotional fallout of season three’s shapeshifter arc too fast.”

She popped it in her mouth. Chewed. Then—

“I missed it too, baby.”

No defense. No dodge. Just the truth.

“And I’m not fighting it,” she added. “I’ll take glitter therapy and dumb aliens if it means you keep letting me stay.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of the blanket where it pooled between them, like she was checking if it was really okay to be here.

Leighton didn’t pull away.

Violet leaned back.

And for once, the quiet between them wasn’t loaded or sharp. It was soft. Spacious. The kind of quiet you get to keep when survival finally turns into living.

Still home.
Still them.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—still okay.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t laugh.

Not right away.

She just looked over—really looked—and let the quiet fill her up for a second. Not the kind that used to hover like smoke between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. This was different. Lighter. Clean. Like they’d cracked a window neither of them had touched in years and let something good drift in.

She didn’t pull the blanket tighter. Didn’t shift away.

Just bumped Violet’s foot with her own again. Soft. On purpose.

“I knew you were getting attached.”
A pause, then—
“You’ve already emotionally adopted the shapeshifter, haven’t you?”

The screen lit up in a mess of sparkles and synth. Someone shouted something like “You’ll never erase our bond!” and Leighton let her head fall back against the cushion with a groan.

“God, this show is terrible.”
A beat.
“I love it.”

Her voice dropped slightly, not heavy—but honest. Like the words had waited a long time to be simple.

“You don’t have to earn staying, you know.”

She turned her head. Not to make a moment of it. Just to make sure it landed.

“You’re already here.”

She reached for more popcorn, grabbed a handful, and didn’t throw any this time. Just ate it slow, one piece at a time, like it was enough to be still. To be beside her mom without a single wall left up.

The characters on screen started a dance sequence that made zero sense. She grinned and nudged Violet again, this time with her shoulder.

“Season three’s gonna ruin us, huh?”

And she didn’t mean it like a joke.

She meant it like a promise.

Still them.
Still choosing.
And finally, finally—still here.

Leighton didn’t say anything else for a bit.

Just let the scene unfold in a blur of neon explosions and wildly overacted dialogue. Someone was monologuing about love and memory loss and a galactic peace treaty. There were wind machines involved. Definitely glitter.

She should’ve made fun of it. Normally, she would’ve.

But her throat was tight in that not-crying kind of way. That full feeling that sat behind her ribs like a secret she wasn’t ready to name yet.

She shifted under the blanket, letting her arm rest against Violet’s more deliberately this time. There was nothing to brace for. No edge to fall off.

“You know,” she said after a long beat, voice quiet but steady, “I used to wonder if we broke something permanent.”

Her eyes stayed on the screen. But her heart was elsewhere.

“After everything that happened. All the moving. All the silences. All the times I didn’t ask, and you didn’t tell.”
A breath.
“I didn’t think we’d ever get back to this.”

She glanced down, picking at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket.

“And now we’re just… here. Watching space soap operas and sharing popcorn like it didn’t take years to get back to breathing in the same room.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to.

“But I’m glad we didn’t give up.”

She popped another piece of popcorn into her mouth. Slowly. Like it gave her something to focus on other than the fact that her chest felt too small for everything she was carrying.

Then she smiled—just a little. Lopsided and real.

“Even if your love language is sarcasm and repressed emotions.”

A beat.

“Which, honestly, is kind of poetic. We’re the only people I know who heal through alien melodrama and bad haircuts.”

The next scene kicked in with a romantic confession delivered mid-space battle. The soundtrack swelled like it had something to prove.

Leighton groaned.

“Okay, if they declare love while free-falling through a wormhole, I’m gonna cry and blame you for it.”

She turned to look at Violet for the first time in a while. Really look. Her expression was soft—unguarded in that way that only came with hard-won peace.

“Thanks for not leaving.”

She didn’t mean the room.

And she didn’t need to explain.

The couch creaked beneath them again. Familiar. Forgiving.

Still hers.
Still Violet.
Still this—whatever they were slowly, gently becoming again.

And maybe for the first time, Leighton believed it was allowed to last.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t speak right away.

She just looked at Leighton—really looked. And for once, she didn’t hide behind a quip or a quick deflection or the practiced rhythm of being fine. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there in a long time. Something open. Wounded. Fierce.

Something that looked a hell of a lot like love without armor.

“I didn’t stay because I always knew how,” she said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “I stayed because walking out would’ve meant giving up the one thing in this world I knew for damn sure I wanted to get right.”

She shifted slightly, so their arms pressed together more firmly beneath the blanket, like maybe that could say the rest.

“And yeah,” she added, with a ghost of a smirk, “my love language might be sarcasm, repressed emotion, and aggressively buttered popcorn—but don’t let it fool you. I feel everything. Especially when it comes to you.”

Her eyes flicked toward the screen just in time to catch the slow-motion wormhole confession. She exhaled through her nose. Shook her head.

“This show is actual garbage,” she muttered.

But she didn’t look away.

Not from the screen. And definitely not from her daughter.

When Leighton said thanks for not leaving, Violet didn’t reply with words.

She just reached over, hand steady, and tucked the blanket more securely around Leighton’s legs like she used to when she was small. Not because she thought she needed it. But because she needed to.

Then she leaned back into the couch, her head tilted slightly toward her daughter, and said—

“We didn’t break. We bent.”

A pause.

“Now we’re growing back stronger.”

It wasn’t meant to be profound. But it landed that way.

She tossed another piece of popcorn into her mouth, chewed slowly, and smirked without looking over.

“And just so we’re clear—if anyone cries over the wormhole love speech, it’s absolutely you. I’ll be emotionally detached and dignified, as always.”

But when the lead characters kissed in the middle of a cosmic storm, Violet blinked a little too fast.

She didn’t say anything about it.

And Leighton didn’t call her on it.

They just sat there—two women, one couch, five questionable seasons ahead of them—and let the quiet hold.

Still them.
Still choosing.
Still here.

And maybe—for the first time—they weren’t just surviving it.

They were belonging to it.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t smile right away.

She just looked at her.

Like really looked—through the smirk, past the sarcasm, straight into the part of Violet that rarely let itself show. And what she saw there didn’t scare her. Not like it might’ve once. Not anymore.

She blinked once. Twice. Slow. Like if she moved too fast, the moment might slip out of her hands.

“You wanted to get it right,” she echoed, voice quieter now. “You did.”

Not perfect. Not easy. But right, in the ways that mattered. In the ways that kept them both breathing.

She didn’t move when their arms pressed closer. Didn’t pull away from the weight of that contact—of what it meant to let someone stay.

Instead, she nodded slightly, like an answer to a question that hadn’t needed to be asked.

“Sarcasm and repressed emotion aside…” she said, mouth twitching like a smile was trying to sneak past her defenses, “you love like a damn tidal wave, Mom. Big. Quiet. Impossible to outrun.”

The wormhole kiss hit just as she said it, and she let out a soft snort.

“God, this show is embarrassing.”

But she didn’t change it.

Didn’t mute it.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t leave.

When Violet tucked the blanket around her, something unspooled in her chest. Not grief. Not even relief. Just recognition.

That this was what care felt like. That this was what it meant to be known.

When Violet said, “We bent,” Leighton’s throat pulled tight.

“We bent,” she repeated.
Then, softer—
“But we didn’t snap.”

She didn’t say thank you again.

She didn’t have to.

She reached out instead, hand slipping gently under Violet’s, fingers curling there without asking for permission. Not clinging. Just holding.

“And if I cry during the wormhole love speech,” she muttered, eyes still on the screen, “you better pass me the damn popcorn and pretend not to notice.”

A beat.

“And if you cry, I won’t say anything. But I will bring it up at your birthday.”

She felt her mother shake with a laugh beside her, and that—that—was everything.

Still love.
Still home.
Still healing, one episode at a time.

And this time, they weren’t patching pieces.

They were building something new. Together.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t soften in the way people expected mothers to soften when their daughters held their hand like that—gentle, certain, earned.

No, Violet steadied.

Because that was the thing about her—under the steel, beneath the scar tissue and sharp wit and all the old silence, she was a fortress. A woman who’d taught herself how to be immovable when everything else cracked. And now? Now, she was still that—but with space carved into her walls for moments like this. For her.

She didn’t look away from the screen, but her voice came low and sure, laced with pride that didn’t need frills.

“You’re damn right we didn’t snap.”

She squeezed Leighton’s hand once—firm. Final. Like punctuation.

“And don’t mistake bending for breaking, baby. We bent because we had to. Because we’re built to last. Because I didn’t raise you to shatter every time life showed up wearing teeth.”

The characters on-screen floated dramatically apart, whispering space vows over comms. Violet didn’t bat an eye.

“You’re mine,” she went on, quieter now. “And that means you carry this whole bloodline of stubborn grit and inconvenient feelings and knowing when to stay. You hold it like it’s instinct. Like it’s armor.”

She finally turned her head, just a fraction, just enough to catch the edge of Leighton’s profile lit by the TV glow.

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me? Like you were trying to figure out if I was really still here? I am. And I always will be. Even when you’re wrong. Even when you’re not speaking to me. Even when you cry over wormhole kisses like a damn Hallmark card in space boots.”

Violet didn’t smile. Not exactly.

But something in her eyes gleamed—sharp, maternal, fierce in the way love gets when it’s been tested.

“Because that’s what it means to be your mother. Not perfect. Not poetic. Just present.”

She leaned forward, grabbed the popcorn bowl with her free hand, and dumped half of it dramatically into Leighton’s lap without breaking eye contact.

“You cry, I pass snacks. That’s the deal.”

A beat.

“And if I cry?” Her tone dropped, mock-serious. “You speak of it to no one. Not at holidays. Not at brunch. Not even on my deathbed.”

She leaned back again, shoulder pressing into Leighton’s.

Then, softer—barely a breath—

“But I probably will. Because I see you. And that scares the hell out of me in the best way.”

The show moved on, ridiculous and glowing and deeply unnecessary.

Violet didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Because this?

This was exactly what she stayed for.

Still mother.
Still fortress.
Still holding.

[Leighton Thomas]

They didn’t say much on the way back.

Didn’t need to.

Not with his hand in hers, not with the quiet buzz of something steady humming between them. Not when every step away from school and toward her house felt like shedding the weight of the day piece by piece.

By the time they pushed through the front door, Leighton was already kicking off her boots, tugging her backpack from her shoulder like it was a reflex. Spencer followed, slower, eyes tracking her every movement like she might disappear if he looked away for even a second.

She didn’t.

She just looked over her shoulder and nodded toward the hallway.

“Come on.”

When they got to her room, she shut the door behind them without ceremony. The soft click of it latching was quieter than a promise—but it still landed like one.

Leighton didn’t bother with the usual small talk. She just shrugged off the rest of her layers—hoodie, bracelets, rings—until she was standing there in nothing but her oversized t-shirt and socks, the kind of comfort only someone who knew she was safe could sink into.

Then she climbed onto the bed.

Not graceful. Not trying to impress.

Just home.

Spencer didn’t say a word. Just pulled off his hoodie, then his jeans, until he was left in his boxers and that look in his eyes—the one that said thank you without needing to say it.

He crawled in beside her, and without hesitation, she reached for the covers.

Pulled them over their heads like they were hiding from the world.

Like they could keep this moment just theirs.

And suddenly—it wasn’t just a bed. It was a blanket fort. A universe. A secret. That scene in Romeo + Juliet they both pretended not to be obsessed with, the one with the soft sheets and hushed laughter and skin lit by sunlight through gauze.

Here, it was cotton instead of gauze. Familiar instead of cinematic.

But it felt the same.

Leighton scooted closer, noses almost touching, breath mingling in the pocket of warmth they made together beneath the comforter. She traced her finger along his jaw, eyes soft.

“Hi,” she whispered, like the world had quieted just for them.

And Spencer—finally—smiled.

For real.

[Spencer Walker]

He almost laughed.

Not in a funny way—just in that overwhelmed, are-you-kidding-me kind of way that happened when someone saw you at your absolute worst and still looked at you like that.

Like you weren’t a mess.

Like you were just… theirs.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, eyes flicking down to their hands—hers wrapped around his like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It should’ve scared him.

But it didn’t.

Not when she looked at him like this.

“I’m probably gonna be weird about this,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges but trying not to sound as wrecked as he felt. “Like… annoyingly weird. Emotional-support-granola-bar weird.”

He felt her laugh—just a little—against his shoulder.

That helped.

A bit of the tightness in his chest loosened.

His fingers tightened in hers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, quieter now. “But I want to. With you.”

He met her eyes again, the corners of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach confident, but landed somewhere near real.

“I like the idea of being soft with you.”

A beat.

“That sounded less cringe in my head.”

He swore he felt her roll her eyes—but she was still holding his hand, still looking at him like he was worth the effort, so he took the win.

When she kissed his cheek, he closed his eyes for a second. Let it land.

Let it matter.

And when she pulled back, grinning that grin—the one that always messed him up a little—he tugged her in closer again, just for a second.

Just because he could.

“Okay,” he said, quieter this time. “Blankets. Snacks. Cuddling. Mandatory.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. Looked at her like she was the best damn thing that ever happened to his bad mood.

“I’ll bring the emotional baggage. You bring the good chips.”

And with that?

He followed her. No hesitation. No overthinking.

Just him.

Choosing her.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t tease him.

Didn’t try to fix the words he stumbled through or smooth over the places where his voice cracked under the weight of wanting something real.

She just… stayed close.

Close enough that her nose brushed his when she smiled, soft and knowing.

“You can be as weird as you want,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Just means I’m gonna match your weird. Granola bars and all.”

Her thumb stroked the back of his hand, slow and steady. Like she was grounding him on purpose. Like she knew how close he’d come to unraveling and was stitching him back together in the quietest way possible.

The cheek kiss?

That wasn’t just affection.

That was reassurance. A vow.

And when he said “I like the idea of being soft with you”—

God.

Her chest clenched in that dizzy, achey, I love this boy so much it physically hurts kind of way.

She didn’t roll her eyes.

Not really.

She pretended to, because he expected it—but her smile gave her away.

That stupid grin that always pulled a laugh out of him when he didn’t want to give one.

When he pulled her in, she went willingly—curling into him under the blanket like it was second nature. Like this was the version of heaven they got.

And when he said the line about emotional baggage and good chips?

She snorted, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whispered—

“Then it’s a good thing I brought the kettle chips and zero judgment.”

Her hand slid up under the hem of his t-shirt, palm resting flat over his heart.

“You don’t have to know how to do any of this, Spence,” she said softly, serious now. “You just have to keep showing up.”

A pause. A beat of breath shared between them.

“And maybe let me love you a little louder next time.”

Then she buried her face in his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because with him?

It was.

Mess and all.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Just let the moment spool out around them—quiet and golden and a little unreal, like the whole damn world had decided to hush just for this.

Just for her.

The way her fingers slipped under his shirt and settled over his chest like she belonged there.

The way she didn’t flinch from the cracked parts. Didn’t ask for a version of him that smiled easier or kissed cleaner or didn’t wake up some mornings feeling like he was still sinking.

She just… stayed.

God, she stayed.

And the air around them felt different now. Softer. Slower. Like even the wind knew not to blow too hard in a moment like this. Like the sky had curled in on itself, tucking them beneath its ribs so they could have this—just this—without interruption.

He exhaled slowly, eyes falling shut as her forehead pressed into the curve of his neck.

“Showin’ up might be all I’m good at,” he mumbled, voice rough but warm, “but I’ll keep doing it if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

His fingers found the edge of her hoodie, tracing a line there just to feel the anchor of her.

“Love me louder, huh?” he added, half a laugh in his throat now. “You’re already neon.”

A beat.

“And I’m the idiot who didn’t see it ‘til now.”

She didn’t answer, not right away. But he felt it—the way her hand curled just slightly, like she was holding his heartbeat in her palm and promising not to let go.

He cracked an eye open. Glanced toward the window where the last bit of afternoon was turning everything soft and amber. Dust floated like snow in the golden light, and for some reason it made his chest hurt a little.

In a good way.

In a real way.

Spencer tilted his head, brushed his lips against her temple, then rested his cheek there.

“I want to be good at this,” he said, quieter now. “Not perfect. Just… good enough to deserve you.”

Another pause.

“I know I already do. You made sure of that.”

His eyes stayed on the ceiling, watching shadows shift like waves across old paint.

“But I still want to earn it anyway.”

The kind of silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was sacred.

And maybe that’s what this was—maybe being soft with her, real with her, was the closest thing to faith he’d ever felt.

So he pulled the blanket up around them, let his thumb drift lazily against her spine, and whispered the only thing that mattered:

“I’m here, Leia. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time?

He meant it.

With everything he had.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer with words.

She didn’t need to.

She just curled in closer, her hand finding his under the blanket, fingers slipping between his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it’d always been meant to fit.

Her nose tucked under his jaw, breath warm against his neck, and Spencer felt it — that slow, steady rhythm of them.

No panic. No storm.

Just calm.

She let her thumb glide gently across the back of his hand, like she was soothing something she couldn’t see. Like she knew it was there anyway.

After a moment, her voice came quiet. Drowsy.

“You don’t have to earn something that’s already yours.”

Spencer didn’t move.

Just felt it.

Let it land.

The room was dim now, the late afternoon sun slipping further down the sky. Shadows stretched long across the floor. Everything smelled like her — coconut shampoo, laundry detergent, the faintest trace of weed from earlier.

Safe.

She nudged his leg under the blanket with hers. “You’re not a project, Spencer,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my person.”

He felt the sting behind his eyes again, but he didn’t let it fall. Not this time.

She shifted so she could look at him, her hand coming up to brush a stray curl away from his eyes.

“You showed up,” she murmured. “You stayed. That’s enough.”

And then, before he could argue — before he could tell her all the reasons she was wrong or that he still didn’t know what he was doing — she leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Soft. Steady.

It wasn’t about heat or urgency.

It was about choosing.

It was about comfort and home and the kind of love that didn’t need fixing.

When they pulled apart, her forehead stayed pressed to his. Her eyes half-lidded, smile soft.

“Now shut up and cuddle me,” she whispered.

He huffed a quiet laugh and pulled her closer.

And this time?

Neither of them said anything else.

They didn’t have to.

The silence between them said it all.

She didn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

Her fingers brushed softly along his jaw, tracing the curve like it mattered. Like he mattered. And when she kissed him again, it wasn’t hesitant or rushed.

It was slow.

Intentional.

Like she wanted him to feel it everywhere.

She kissed the corner of his mouth first — light and lingering — then the other, like she was mapping the parts of him that still didn’t believe in softness.

Then his lips.

Warm, careful, steady.

Spencer melted into it, letting the world narrow down to the way she tasted, the way she breathed, the way her thumb kept tracing slow circles at the base of his neck like she could anchor him there.

And she did.

God, she did.

He didn’t have to think.

Didn’t have to brace.

Just let her lead.

Let her show him what it felt like to be wanted without question, kissed like a promise instead of a mistake.

When she pulled back just enough to breathe, her nose brushed his. Her lips still ghosting against his, soft as a secret.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “You’re mine.”

And then she kissed him again — deeper this time. Not demanding. Not frantic.

Just more.

More of her.

More of this.

More of everything he’d never let himself hope for — wrapped in a kiss that tasted like trust and slow mornings and all the days they hadn’t lived yet.

Spencer let his hand settle at her waist, gentle, grounding.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because she already knew.

And in the quiet between heartbeats, with nothing but blankets and breath and each other, they stayed like that — tangled and close, kissing soft and slow, like maybe love didn’t have to hurt.

Not with her.

Not here.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer hadn’t known silence could feel like this.

Not empty. Not sharp around the edges. Not something he had to fill with jokes or noise or movement.

Just full.

Full of her.

Of them.

Of the way her breath slowed when she was tucked under his chin, of the way her fingers didn’t let go even when she shifted—like her body already knew his would stay. Like it believed in him before he did.

His hand moved without thinking—just a slow glide up her back, a pause between her shoulder blades, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of her shirt like he was memorizing the shape of safety.

Because this was it.

Not the fireworks. Not the chaos.

This.

Blankets. Dim light. Her heartbeat matching his.

And when she kissed him again—God. Spencer forgot how to breathe.

Not because it shocked him.

Because it didn’t.

Because it made sense.

Because he was starting to believe that maybe—maybe—he was allowed to have this. To want this. Not the version of love that tore you up and left you bleeding.

The kind that stayed.

That held you like this.

Her lips were warm and soft and sure, and every press of her mouth against his felt like a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to say out loud. Like she was handing him every reason to believe he wasn’t broken. Just… bruised.

But healing.

With her.

When she pulled back and whispered “You’re safe. You’re mine,” it nearly undid him.

Not because he didn’t believe her.

Because he did.

For the first time in a long time, he believed it. And it scared the shit out of him—but it didn’t make him run.

Didn’t even make him flinch.

He leaned in again instead, kissed her forehead this time, slow and stupidly soft, and let his hand settle at the curve of her waist like it had always been meant to land there.

“I think…” he started, voice quiet, almost shy. “I think I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to feel like this.”

He felt her breath catch against his neck.

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

His grin—small, crooked, real—tugged at his mouth as he shifted just enough to nudge his nose into her hair.

“I’m still gonna mess it up sometimes,” he mumbled, a little sheepish. “But I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me.”

He kissed her temple, barely there.

“Like, all of me. Even the weird parts. Especially the weird parts.”

Another kiss, this time to her cheekbone.

“Now shut up and let me cuddle you.”

And with that, he pulled her impossibly closer—arm wrapped around her middle, blanket tucked higher over their shoulders, his heart not racing but settling.

Because yeah.

This wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

It was theirs.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t tease him for the soft parts or roll her eyes at the weird ones.

She just curled in closer—knee sliding between his, arm draping across his chest like she already belonged there. Like maybe she always had.

Her fingers found the edge of his jaw again, tracing it lightly, and she smiled—not the kind for show, not the kind she used when she didn’t want people to look too close.

This one was quiet.

Private.

Just for him.

“You think I don’t love the weird parts?” she whispered, her voice muffled slightly against his skin. “Spencer, please. I’ve been in love with the weird parts since sophomore year. You trying to explain how the moon’s fake? Peak romance.”

She felt him laugh—felt it low and quiet in his chest—and smiled harder because yeah, that was hers too.

He was hers.

And he was trying.

Trying so damn hard to believe in the kind of love that didn’t leave bruises. The kind that let them be young and stupid and messy and still worth it.

She kissed his shoulder, slow and soft, and then again, higher this time. A trail of affection leading back to the curve of his neck where she tucked her nose in close and breathed him in.

“I’ve got you too, y’know,” she murmured. “Even when you’re annoying. Even when you hog the blanket or make fun of my playlists.”

A beat.

Then quieter, more serious:

“Especially when it’s hard.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she needed to ground herself too.

“I’m not going anywhere either. So if you’re waiting for me to get tired of this… of you… it’s not gonna happen.”

She tilted her head to look at him again, eyes soft and steady.

“You’ve got me, Han. All the way.”

And then?

She kissed him again.

Not rushed.

Not fiery.

Just real.

A kiss that said I see you. I still choose you. And I always will.

Because yeah—

This wasn’t the easy kind of love.

But it was theirs. And that made it everything.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Because God—that smile. That kiss. The way she said his name like it wasn’t something broken but something brave. Like he was.

Like the fucked-up, try-hard, emotionally-backlogged mess of him was enough.

She said she’d been in love with the weird parts since sophomore year, and all he could think about was that day in chemistry class when he went on a ten-minute rant about the moon landing and she just grinned at him—this wild, wicked little smile like he’d just told her the best story she’d ever heard.

Back then he thought she was just humoring him.

Now?

Now he knew better.

Because her hand was on his chest, grounding him. Her laugh was tucked into his neck. Her words weren’t some script to make him feel better—they were real. The kind of real that didn’t come with conditions.

He let his hand drift down her back, slow and careful, like he was still learning what it meant to hold something that didn’t come with an expiration date. And when she kissed him again—fuck—his whole body tilted toward it like gravity.

Like it needed her.

Because it did.

Spencer kissed her back—warm, lingering, hand sliding to her waist and gripping just a little tighter. Not rough. Just anchored.

Just here.

“You really gonna hold it down for me even when I go full blanket burrito and start ranting about aliens at 2am?” he muttered against her mouth, voice low and grinning.

She huffed a laugh that warmed his ribs from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to see her face—hair messy against the pillow, lips kiss-bitten, eyes soft as hell—and shook his head like he still couldn’t believe she was his.

And he meant it when he said—

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Leia.”

No performance. No filter.

Just him.

Just truth.

His thumb brushed under her jaw like he needed to memorize this version of her—close and chaotic and calm all at once.

“And I’m gonna keep choosing you,” he added, voice low and sure. “Loudly. Clearly. Every damn time.”

His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. Not with panic.

With peace.

He kissed her again, slow and open, like he had time now. Like they did.

Because this wasn’t the kind of love that burned hot and vanished.

This was the kind that stayed.

The kind that built something, mess and all.

And as her fingers curled tighter into his shirt and her body pressed impossibly close, Spencer knew it with every uneven breath in his chest:

He wasn’t just trying to believe in forever anymore.

He already did.

Because she was the reason. And the answer.

And the home.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t stop smiling—not really—even as her fingers tangled deeper in his hair, lazily fluffing it in a way that was both tender and borderline disrespectful.

Because this?
This was her favorite version of him.
All soft-spoken chaos and blanket-wrapped vulnerability, looking at her like she’d invented gravity.

“God, you’re dangerous when you get sincere,” she muttered, thumb brushing just behind his ear like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. “You hit me with ‘I choose you’ and I’m supposed to what, Spencer? Not melt into a human puddle?”

She kissed him again—brief, dizzying, full of affection—and pulled back just enough to level him with a look.

“Seriously. You keep talking like that and I’m gonna knit us matching sweaters and start packing you lunch with passive-aggressive love notes.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Eat your grapes or I’ll cry,” she said dramatically, clearly workshopping the idea already.

Another kiss. To the tip of his nose this time.

“I’m in, okay? All the way in. Blanket burrito rants and all.”

She paused.

Then, with a completely straight face:

“But if you ever try to convince me again that the moon is a hologram projected by capitalist lizard people, I will unplug your WiFi.”

Her fingers curled gently around the back of his neck, grounding him.

“I love you. I love this,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Then softer, into the curve of his smile:

“Even if your hair looks like it lost a fight with a leaf blower.”

Still playing with it. Still hers.

Always.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t even pretend to be offended.

He just grinned—wide and wrecked and hers—eyes going all soft at the edges like her words had undone something he hadn’t realized was still wound tight inside him.

Because God, this girl.

This whip-smart, sharp-tongued, emotionally fearless hurricane of a girl who said “I love you” like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a leap. Like he wasn’t a risk.

“Okay,” he murmured, eyes locked to hers, voice thick with that stupid, smitten affection that only she ever got from him, “but I’m not eating the grapes unless they’re peeled. Like, Roman emperor vibes. Get on my level.”

She shoved at his shoulder, laughing, but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t ever pull away.

Instead, she curled in closer, forehead bumping his with a familiarity that made his ribs ache in the best way.

“You realize this means I’m gonna have to one-up your sweater game now,” he added, tone mock-serious. “Like. I’ll be forced to commission us matching beanies that say ‘Emotional Mess’ and ‘Emotional Enabler.’”

A pause.

Then, quieter. Realer.

“I love you too, Leia.”

His fingers curled lightly around her wrist, just over where her pulse thudded steady and sure beneath her skin. He didn’t press, didn’t hold tight. Just touched, like she was something holy.

Because she was.

She really, really was.

“And for the record…” he leaned in, kissed her slow—gentle, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t need a punchline. The kind that said thank you without the words. Then, barely above a breath:

“…I’d lose every WiFi signal on earth if it meant keeping you.”

And he meant it.

Because in this little corner of the world—wrapped in blankets, bad jokes, and that electric pull that never seemed to fade—Spencer Walker had everything he’d never dared to ask for.

And he was never letting go.

[Leighton Thomas]

She didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Just stared at him with that look—wide-eyed and wild and a little undone—like the world had gone quiet everywhere but here. But him.

Because Spencer Walker, her Spencer Walker, had just said “I love you too.”

And it wasn’t in a panic or a fight or some messy, middle-of-the-night confession.

It was soft.

Real.

Wrapped in bad jokes and warm hands and the kind of kiss that made her bones hum.

So yeah—she didn’t say anything.

Not until he pulled back just a little, that crooked almost-smile starting to form, like he didn’t know what he’d just done to her.

Then she breathed, just once, and mumbled through a grin:

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

She leaned in, kissed him again—shorter this time, but firmer. A little greedy. A little bold.

“You think you can just say that,” she said, fingers slipping into his hair, “and not expect me to immediately start planning our matching Halloween costumes?”

A pause.

A smirk.

“Spencer, I will make you wear a glitter cape.”

But her voice softened again, even as her fingers kept twisting slowly through his hair. Calmer. Lower. Closer.

“I loved you when you were weird about the moon landing. I loved you when you hated yourself for things no one else even noticed. I loved you before you said it, and I’ll love you after. Even when you’re a pain in my ass.”

Another kiss—one to the tip of his nose.

And then, a whisper, like it was for them and no one else:

“You don’t have to earn it, babe. You already did.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. Her forehead rested against his.

And she whispered, like a promise:

“I’m not letting go either.”

She could feel his breath catch.

Could feel it in the way his fingers tightened—just a little—at her side. In the way his forehead leaned into hers like maybe, just maybe, he finally believed her.

And if he didn’t?

That was okay.

Because she’d keep saying it. Keep showing it. Until the last cracked piece of him stopped bracing for her to leave.

Leighton smiled—soft, sure, hers—and ran her fingers through his hair again, slower now. More deliberate.

“Do you even know how hard it is not to love you?” she whispered, brushing the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got that whole haunted-but-soft-hearted thing going on. It’s like a romcom trap.”

A breath of a laugh escaped her—light and real and home.

Then, quieter, almost like it was for the space between their ribs and nowhere else:

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Spence. Not your worth. Not your heart. You just have to let me be here.”

She kissed his temple, slow and steady, like she was sealing the words in.

Then the corner of her mouth tugged up, and she added with a grin:

“But if you did wanna prove something… I could be convinced with movie snacks. Like… five of them. Minimum. I’m just saying.”

Another beat. Another smile.

Then she curled into him again, arm draped across his stomach, blanket tugged higher, and whispered into the curve of his throat:

“You’re stuck with me, blanket burrito and all.”

And she meant it. Every word.

Because no matter how messy it got—no matter how weird, or quiet, or late-night-too-honest—it was them.

And that was everything.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer let out the quietest, most defeated little groan—more of a sigh-laugh-surrender than anything else—and dropped his head back against the pillow like he’d just accepted his fate at the hands of a tiny, glitter-obsessed tyrant.

Which, to be fair, he had.

Because of course she went straight for Halloween.
Of course there was a glitter cape involved.
And of course she said I love you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

God, he was so screwed.

His hand found her waist again, lazy and warm beneath the blanket, thumb slipping beneath the hem of her shirt just enough to feel the skin there—just enough to ground him.

“Glitter,” he mumbled into the curve of her hair, deadpan but wrecked in that affectionate way only she could drag out of him. “Like I haven’t suffered enough.”

He felt her grin against his neck and groaned again, softer this time.

“I’m already dreading it. Just so we’re clear.”

But he tightened his arm around her anyway. Didn’t let her go.

Wouldn’t.

Not now. Not ever.

Because yeah, he’d wear the damn cape.

He’d match her in whatever chaotic, love-drunk, snack-fueled adventure she planned next. He’d sit through five movies and survive ten Halloween parties and probably get roped into another couples costume by Christmas.

Because it was her.

Because it was them.

And that was worth everything.

Even glitter.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton tried—really tried—not to laugh.
But the second he groaned like the universe had personally betrayed him via rhinestone accessories and festive cape requirements?

She lost it.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just that soft, breathless laugh that tumbled out of her against his chest, warming the space between them like the glow of fairy lights.

Her fingers drifted over his ribs, drawing lazy patterns beneath the blanket as she smirked into his collarbone.

“You say that now,” she murmured, voice muffled and teasing, “but you’re gonna look stupid hot in that cape. Like tragic, misunderstood vampire prince hot. People are gonna write poetry about you. Probably in gel pen.”

She felt his chest shake beneath her, barely-there laughter, and kissed the spot just over his heartbeat like punctuation.

“And for the record?” she added, tilting her head just enough to meet his sleepy, doomed expression in the low light. “I only glitter-curse people I really love.”

A beat.

Then, with the most serious face she could muster:

“It’s a sacred honor. You should feel chosen.”

Her fingers curled lightly at his side again, tracing the edge of his shirt. “Besides, we both know you’re gonna wear it. Complain the whole time. Steal all my candy. And still end up slow-dancing with me in someone’s kitchen while we pretend we’re too cool to care.”

She pressed another kiss to his jaw, softer this time. Slower.

“I do love you, you know.”

Another beat.

Then—

“Even when you act like glitter is a war crime.”

Her smile turned gentler, quieter, full of that warmth she only ever saved for him.

“Especially then.”

Leighton didn’t even pretend to feel bad. Not when he groaned like that. Not when he threw his head back all dramatic, like agreeing to wear a glitter cape was the emotional equivalent of going to war.

She just grinned into his neck—big, smug, delighted—and muttered, “You say that now, but wait till you see the boots.”

A beat. Then, with mock-seriousness:

“They light up, Spencer.”

She felt his entire body do that defeated-limp-flop thing and nearly lost it right there. Couldn’t help the tiny snort-laugh that escaped.

“Oh, come on,” she teased, lifting her head enough to catch the edge of his sulky expression. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t absolutely slay as a bedazzled vampire-slash-space-cowboy hybrid? Be serious.”

Her fingers were already creeping up to play with the hem of his boxers again, just casually enough to be distracting. Just softly enough to be sweet.

“Besides,” she added with a kiss to his jaw, “you owe me. I’ve tolerated your conspiracy theory podcast voice at 2 a.m. on multiple occasions.”

Another kiss. Higher this time. Right under his cheekbone.

“And that time you made me pause a movie to explain how pigeons are government spies? Yeah. Glitter boots are the least I deserve.”

She was trying to be ridiculous, truly. Keep it light. Keep him light. But underneath all the teasing, her voice was warm. Steady. Like her hands. Like her heartbeat against his chest.

She didn’t say I love you again.

Didn’t have to.

Not when she was curled into him like this, already mapping out matching costumes and future inside jokes and a million tiny ways to say you’re safe here.

With me.

Always.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t open his eyes.

Didn’t have to.

Just let his head roll back on the pillow like he’d been personally victimized by sequins and love, a hand dragged dramatically over his face like maybe if he suffered hard enough, she’d show mercy.

She wouldn’t.
And he knew it.
God, he loved her for it.

“Light-up boots,” he croaked, voice hoarse and low, like he was halfway between sleep and soul-crushing resignation. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

He cracked one eye open, caught the glint of pure joy in hers, and let out a long, theatrical exhale. The kind that belonged in a coming-of-age indie movie. Or a tragic period drama.

Or, apparently, a bedroom in the middle of nowhere with a girl who wanted him to cosplay as a disco vampire.

“Just bury me in the cape now,” he muttered. “Tell the boys I went down brave.”

A beat.

Then quieter. Almost deadpan. Almost sincere.

“…Tell Jess not to wear my beanie.”

He could feel her smiling against his throat, feel the way her hand slid just a little higher under his shirt, and yeah—okay.

He was doomed.

Totally. Completely. Glitterfully doomed.

And he’d do it. He’d wear the stupid cape. And the boots. And probably eyeliner if she asked real nice.

Because she asked.

Because she was herself.

Because her head was tucked against his chest and her mouth was writing poems into his skin without a single word, and his ribs didn’t ache when she was near—not the way they used to.

Not in that heavy, hollow way.

“Don’t let me trip over anything,” he said after a long pause, softer this time, like he didn’t want to break the hush between them. “If I eat shit in rhinestones, I’m never recovering.”

But his hand was already sliding up her back—slow, absent, fond.

And when he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, barely there, he didn’t groan.

Didn’t sigh.

Didn’t play it off like a joke.

He just let it mean what it meant.

Because she glitter-cursed him, and it felt a lot like being chosen. Like maybe he’d finally been haunted into happiness.

And maybe that wasn’t so bad.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton grinned, wide and wicked, without lifting her head from where it was tucked beneath his chin.

God, he was dramatic.

But he was hers.

And if she was a glitter curse, then he’d damn well better get used to sequins in his sheets and rhinestones on his socks, because she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Light-up boots are non-negotiable,” she mumbled against his collarbone, voice all lazy affection. “You’ll thank me when we’re the hottest couple at the Halloween dance and someone asks for our autograph.”

She shifted slightly, just enough to glance up at him—his eyes still half-lidded, hair all rumpled from the pillow, lips curved in that tragic-hero smirk like he was moments from delivering a Shakespearean monologue about his impending glitter-related death.

God, she loved him.

And yeah, maybe he was doomed. But not the way he thought.

He was doomed in the way you are when someone falls for you all the way—unapologetic, ridiculous, soft.

Leighton reached up and threaded her fingers into his hair, lazy and slow, like she had all the time in the world to memorize the way it curled between her knuckles. She scratched lightly at his scalp, because she knew he liked it and also because she was a menace.

“Jess wouldn’t dare steal your beanie,” she whispered dramatically. “I already called dibs. You die? I get it.”

She paused. Then added, with a grin in her voice:

“Also your Spotify login. And the backup hoodie you think I don’t know about.”

Her thumb traced a little arc near his temple.

She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her, steady now. Not frantic. Not heavy. Just there. With her.

And that? That felt like a miracle all by itself.

“Y’know,” she murmured, lips brushing his jaw, “you’re real cute when you surrender.”

Another pause. Softer now. Sincere.

“I like you better like this. All warm and grumpy and wrapped up in blankets you pretend not to need.”

She kissed his cheek, then buried her face back in the crook of his neck like it was home.

Because it was.

Because he was.

And she wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

Even if he tripped in rhinestones. Even if she had to drag his dramatic ass to every school dance for the rest of the year.

He was hers.

Glitter and all.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh—equal parts suffering and stupidly in love—as he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle his nose into her hair.

God, this girl.

She was a fever dream wrapped in chaos and glitter glue, and he was done for.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her in until there wasn’t a sliver of space left between them. Not that he wanted any. Not when she was warm and soft and pressed to his chest like she belonged there. Like they belonged there.

And she did.

Even if she was planning his rhinestone-induced downfall.

“Light-up boots,” he muttered like it physically hurt him. “What kind of hell have I agreed to?”

But he didn’t stop smiling.

Couldn’t.

Not when her fingers were in his hair like that, lazy and possessive and smug as hell. Not when her lips brushed his jaw like a secret. Not when she tucked herself against him like he was the one she needed and not the other way around.

Which he absolutely did.

Every day.

More than he’d ever admit out loud.

He kissed the crown of her head, slow and unhurried, like punctuation on a promise. Then another, just beneath her ear. Then lower, trailing down to the edge of her jaw where he lingered—hot breath and warm mouth and nothing but affection.

“You get the beanie,” he murmured. “But I’m haunting your Spotify. You play that one playlist with the sad girl piano songs again, and I’m pulling a full poltergeist.”

His hand found the curve of her hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the hem of her sleep shirt.

She was his.

And glitter curse or not?

He’d wear every damn sequin she threw at him.

Because being hers meant Sunday mornings like this. Meant teasing and tangled sheets and soft confessions disguised as insults. Meant being the safe place she curled into and the reason her voice dropped to a whisper when she said I like you better like this.

He closed his eyes, pressed one last kiss beneath her ear, and whispered back—

“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got me.”

Forever.

[Leighton Thomas]

The front door creaked open with the kind of protest that matched her mood—tired, impatient, vaguely annoyed. Her shift had dragged. Her shoes were unforgiving. Her phone was dead. And all she wanted was a grilled cheese, a shower, and the remote.

She hadn’t even looked up yet, already mentally composing the text she was going to send Spencer later. Something snarky. Something half-joking about how it was very cool of him to no-show after her mom made rice pilaf from scratch like it was 2003 and they still had dinner parties.

But then she heard it.

Laughter.

Not her mom’s solo mutter-laugh at one of her audiobooks. Not the TV. Real laughter—shared laughter—from the kitchen.

Her brows pinched. She kicked off her shoes with more force than necessary and padded down the hall, steps slowing the closer she got.

And there he was.

Spencer Fucking Walker.

Barefoot, grinning, sleeves rolled up as he leaned against the counter like he’d been here a hundred times. Like he belonged. A plate of something half-eaten in front of him, and her mom mid-story with a glass of wine in hand, smiling in that rare, real way that only showed up when she wasn’t trying to keep it together for Leighton’s sake.

She blinked.

Once. Twice.

Spencer noticed her first. Of course he did. That twitch of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting to be caught.

Leighton didn’t say anything.

She just crossed the kitchen, eyebrows still arched in disbelief, and kissed him. Just a peck. Quick. Light. Real.

Then she pulled back and glanced at the plate.

“You ate the pilaf?” she said, pretending she wasn’t entirely thrown off balance. “Brave.”

Her mom snorted. Spencer tried not to look too pleased with himself.

And Leighton?

She leaned against the fridge, arms folded, pretending her heart wasn’t doing that ridiculous, fluttery thing it always did when the people she loved surprised her by getting along.

Maybe he wasn’t going to flake this time.

Maybe—just maybe—he was trying.

And damn it, that mattered.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer had shown up twenty minutes early.

Not on purpose. Not exactly.
He’d just needed the walk. The quiet. The clarity.
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to prove something.

Not in the look how boyfriend-coded I can be kind of way. More like I know what matters to you, so it matters to me too.

He’d stopped at that overpriced flower shop near the corner, the one with the dusty window display and faintly judgmental owner. Bought two bouquets—one small and wild-looking, all daisies and lavender and messy charm. The other more polished. Cream roses. Clean edges. A thank-you in bloom.

He didn’t flinch when Violet opened the door.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t shrink.

Just offered the nicer bouquet with that crooked half-smile of his and said, “Figured it might help me survive the pilaf.”

She’d raised an eyebrow, took the flowers with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and replied, “Well, aren’t you a charming little distraction.”

But she let him in.

She let him stay.

And she even—God help them all—let him sit at the counter while she finished cooking. Quizzed him like it was casual. Like she didn’t already have a private investigator’s worth of knowledge about his grades and his absences and the time he punched a guy in tenth grade for saying something about Leighton’s laugh.

He didn’t dodge.

Didn’t charm his way out of it either.

Just answered her questions. Ate the pilaf. Complimented it. Meant it.

And when she finally softened enough to tell him a story about Leighton as a toddler—something about glitter glue and a ruined chaise lounge—he laughed. Real and quiet and too fond by half.

So yeah.

He was still recovering from the sheer emotional pilaf of it all when she walked in.

And when he saw her—tired, sharp around the edges, still somehow the most magnetic thing in the room—Spencer couldn’t stop the grin. Didn’t even try.

The kiss? Short. Surprising. Stupidly grounding.

And when she pulled back, already teasing, already pretending not to be thrown?

Spencer leaned one elbow on the counter, tipped his head, and gave her that special kind of look. The one that said I see you. I always do.

“Wasn’t gonna flake,” he said, voice low, easy. “Not when there was the promise of early-2000s carbs and death stares from your mom.”

He held up the second bouquet—the one meant for her. A little beat-up from the walk, but still good. Still hers.

“Got these too. Thought you might wanna throw ‘em at me later. Y’know. Options.”

He handed them over, fingers brushing hers just a second longer than they had to.

And yeah, maybe he was pretending to be cool.

But the way he looked at her?

That wasn’t pretend at all.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton blinked.

Once. Twice.

Because her brain was still catching up to the fact that Spencer Walker—who routinely flaked on lunch plans and forgot his own backpack three times last semester—was currently leaning against her mother’s kitchen counter, fully fed and lightly smirking, with a bouquet in his hand and no visible signs of chaos trailing behind him.

What the actual hell.

And God, the way he looked at her. Like she was gravity. Like she was safe. Like she was the punchline to a joke he never wanted to stop laughing at.

She could’ve cried. Or punched him. Or both.

Instead, she took the flowers.

They were scraggly. A little crushed. Half-charming, half-mess.

Like him.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The press of her mouth to his was quick, casual, deliberately unceremonious. But her fingers stayed on his for just a second too long, like she needed to make sure he was actually here. Real. Breathing her air.

He was.

And apparently? Surviving pilaf night with Violet Thomas.

Her mother, who was currently watching them both from the stove with an expression that could’ve meant “I tolerate this” or “I’m deciding where to hide the body.”

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Just turned toward the counter like she wasn’t rattled to her core by how normal this all felt. Like she wasn’t spiraling internally about the fact that Spencer showed up early and brought flowers and smiled at her like she was worth showing up for.

She grabbed a vase from under the sink.

Her hands weren’t shaking. Not really.

Okay—maybe a little.

But whatever. She was allowed to be soft about it.

Without looking at him, she set the flowers down, turned just enough to clock the faint lipstick smear on his cheek, and smirked as she wiped it away with her thumb.

Then—because she had to say something or she’d combust—she leaned in just slightly, voice pitched low enough to keep it between them.

“So,” she murmured, keeping her expression neutral, “exactly how many glitter glue horror stories did she tell you before I got here?”

She didn’t expect an answer. Not right away.

She just wanted to watch him squirm.

Because even if he was winning tonight—boyfriend points stacked stupidly high—she was still Leighton Thomas.

And he was never getting out of this unscathed.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer grinned—too wide, too smug, too her.

Didn’t squirm. Not really.

Just let his gaze follow the path her thumb had taken, the corner of his mouth tugging upward like it wasn’t his fault her lipstick wanted to stick around.

Then, slow as hell and just as deliberate, he tipped his head closer, so their shoulders brushed and his voice could drop low, barely above a whisper.

“She only got through one,” he said, all mock solemn. “The chaise lounge massacre of 2009. Glitter casualties were... extensive.”

A beat passed, just long enough for his eyes to flick toward her lips.

“And yes. I absolutely pictured it.”

He leaned back slightly—cooling it off just enough, but still close enough that she could feel the almost of him. The way his presence never pushed, only pulled. Subtle. Certain. Like he’d already decided she was worth orbiting and never questioned why.

Then he glanced at the vase, at the way her hands were still not-quite-steady, and his voice softened into something real.

Something like awe wrapped in denim and sarcasm.

“You make shit like this hard to walk away from, Leia.”

It wasn’t a line. Wasn’t meant to be clever.

Just honest. Just his.

Then—because he couldn’t let it get too sincere without losing his edge—he nudged her hip with his and muttered, deadpan:

“Also your mom said if I made you cry tonight she’d hide my body in the backyard under the rosemary. Pretty sure she meant it.”

Another glance. Another grin.

And yeah—maybe he was still pretending like this was casual. Like being here, like being hers, didn’t knock the breath out of his chest every damn time.

But the flowers were real.

The effort was real.

And the way he looked at her?

Like she was the best decision he’d ever made?

That wasn’t going anywhere.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t melt.

Not outwardly, anyway.

But her spine softened just a little. Her shoulders relaxed. And something stupid and warm and far too easy cracked open in her chest when he said her name like that.

Leia.

God. He meant it.

And he was still smirking. Like he hadn’t just rearranged her entire nervous system with a single sentence and a sideways glance.

She rolled her eyes. Loudly. Dramatically. Let her head fall forward with a groan like she was personally offended by the way her boyfriend had managed to turn trauma, charm, and a vague death threat from her mother into a goddamn moment.

But her hand was still on the counter next to his. Close enough their pinkies brushed. Close enough she could feel the heat of him at her side—real, grounded, hers.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze with something dry and sharp and unmistakably Leighton.

“You absolutely pictured it?” she repeated, arching a brow. “That’s what you’re going with?”

A beat.

Then, flatly: “You’re disgusting.”

But her smirk gave her away. And when she leaned in and bumped his shoulder with hers, it wasn’t a shove—it was a thank-you. A don’t move. A please stay in the only language she’d ever really trusted.

She reached for the vase again, adjusted the angle like it mattered, and muttered just loud enough for him to hear, “You know she did bury a fish under that rosemary once. Don’t test her.”

And even though she didn’t look at him, not right away, the corner of her mouth tugged upward—traitorous and fond.

Because yeah.

He’d shown up.

He hadn’t flinched.

And she was dangerously close to falling even harder for the boy who brought her flowers and war stories and called her Leia like it was a promise.

So she just stood there.

Pinkies still touching. Shoulders still brushing.

And let herself want him.

Out loud. In public. In her mom’s goddamn kitchen.

Because he was real.

Because he was here.

And because—despite everything—she hadn’t stopped smiling since.

[Spencer Walker]

He was so going to die.

Not because of Violet. (Okay, maybe a little because of Violet.) But mostly because Leighton had just looked at him like that. Said you’re disgusting with a smirk instead of an edge, rolled her eyes like it was a performance and he was the only one allowed a front-row seat. And then she bumped him—shoulder to shoulder, barely a nudge, but it hit like a freight train to the chest.

Because it wasn’t just a tease.

It was a tell.

And God, he wanted to memorize the way her mouth curved when she was trying not to smile. Wanted to frame the moment their pinkies kept touching like it wasn’t killing him in real time. Wanted to carve that soft little laugh into something permanent—something he could take with him when she inevitably pushed him away again, just to see if he’d come back.

(He would.)

Every time.

“I didn’t just picture it,” he said under his breath, smirking like the menace he absolutely was. “I story-boarded it. Whole third act twist. There were dramatic monologues. Maybe even a slow-motion shot.”

Leighton groaned again—louder this time—but she didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

And that was enough to make his whole damn ribcage feel too tight.

Before he could say something else that would definitely get him hexed or stabbed or kissed, Violet’s voice cut through the moment like a warning bell.

“I’m going to the sunroom,” she said crisply, stepping past them with the kind of grace that said I’ve ended stronger men for less. Her eyes narrowed just slightly at Spencer as she passed, and then—coolly, pointedly—“If I hear even a hint of clothing removal or adolescent groaning, I will come back with a hose. And I know where you live, Spencer.”

She disappeared down the hall without another word, but not before Spencer muttered under his breath, “I think I just peed a little.”

Leighton snorted. Actually snorted. And it was the best sound he’d heard all week.

Spencer turned back toward her, bracing his hands lightly on the counter behind him, gaze steady now. Not joking. Not entirely.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve been in a lot of rooms where I didn’t know if I belonged. Where I had to earn my place or bluff my way through.”

He glanced down at their hands—at the pinkies still barely touching—and then back at her.

“This isn’t one of them.”

A beat.

“I don’t need you to say it. I don’t need a speech. But I’m not bluffing, Leia. Not about you. Not about any of this.”

His voice wasn’t perfect. It cracked a little. But it was steady.

And the truth sat heavy in the space between them—open, unguarded, his.

He didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t need to.

Because she hadn’t pulled away.

And that was enough.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t say much—just shot him a look on her way past, something half-soft, half-knowing, all hers.

“I’ll be back.”

Her shoes were already off. Had been since the second she walked in, abandoned near the mat by the door. She padded down the hallway barefoot, fingers already tugging at the hem of her shirt, the kind of post-shift autopilot she didn’t even have to think about.

Work clung to her skin like sweat and noise, and she needed it off.

She changed fast—pulled her hair into a lazy twist, swapped stiff clothes for soft ones. Cotton shorts. A loose tee. The one that used to be his, worn in all the right places. It smelled like laundry and salt air and the kind of summer that didn’t ask for anything back.

When she came out, the kitchen was dim, empty now. But he’d made himself comfortable—of course he had. Spencer was stretched out across the couch like he belonged there, one arm draped across the back, his legs kicked up like the room didn’t still carry traces of her mom’s suspicion in the air.

She didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just crossed the room and dropped down next to him—close, easy, familiar. Her shoulder brushed his arm, her knee folded up beside his. No theatrics. No hesitation.

Like this was normal.

Like this could be theirs.

She let herself settle into him, just enough. The quiet felt earned tonight.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, played with it absentmindedly, grounding herself in the rhythm of being next to him. She could still feel the tension in her body from the day, from the shift, from everything—but he was here. And that helped.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Because I’m in my favorite shirt, and if you ruin this moment with another glitter joke, I’m telling my mom you cry during Pixar trailers.”

Then—finally—she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. No walls. No bite. Just tired affection and something a little deeper.

“Thanks for showing up.”

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t smirk, didn’t deflect, didn’t toss back some sarcastic quip about Pixar trailers and glitter-related slander. Not this time.

Because she was in his shirt—hers now, really—and it looked so soft on her, like it remembered the shape of his shoulders but preferred hers. And she was folded into his side like that’s where she was always meant to be. Like this was allowed. Like maybe they could have things that felt easy.

So he just looked at her.

Let himself feel it.

The way her fingers fidgeted with his shirt like she couldn’t help it. The way her hair was still damp from the shower. The way the low light curved around her face, turning every shadow into something warm.

He’d never been good at this part. The stillness. The letting it land. But she made it feel less like a trap and more like a place to rest.

So yeah, he said something. But only just.

Only what mattered.

“Wasn’t gonna miss it.”

His thumb brushed along the side of her knee, slow and absent, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Then, after a beat:

“You look good in my shirt, by the way.”

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Real. Quiet. Stupid with how much he wanted to stay here—wanted this.

“No glitter jokes,” he added, leaning his head back against the cushion, eyes still on her. “Promise.”

He didn’t need to say more than that.

Not when she was here.

Not when he’d shown up, and she’d let him stay.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t say anything at first.

Just let her body settle into the shape of him—the lazy sprawl of his legs, the warmth of his palm against her knee, the way he’d said wasn’t gonna miss it like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it kind of was.

It always was.

She curled her fingers a little tighter in the hem of the shirt—his shirt—and tilted her head to glance up at him. That crooked smile. Those tired eyes that still somehow looked clearer than they had in weeks.

She felt it in her chest. The click of something real. Something earned.

“You say that like I’m giving it back,” she murmured, teasing just enough to keep the air light.

Her toes nudged his ankle, soft and slow, like she couldn’t help but reach for him in small, unremarkable ways.

But it wasn’t unremarkable. Not even close.

“You’re not slick, Walker,” she added after a beat, a smirk ghosting across her mouth as she tugged the shirt’s collar a little more off her shoulder. “You bring flowers, win over my mom, and then try to emotionally assassinate me on the couch?”

She leaned in, bumping her nose lightly against his jaw.

“Rude.”

But she didn’t move away.

Didn’t stop smiling, either.

Because he was still here.

And she was still his.

Leighton reached for the remote without really looking—fingers brushing across the coffee table in a lazy arc until they found it by muscle memory alone. She didn’t break contact with him, though. Didn’t shift away from the spot she’d melted into, half-wrapped in the curve of his arm, bare legs tucked beneath her like she was staking claim to the couch—and to him, just a little.

The remote clicked softly. Some dumb comfort show lit up the screen. She wasn’t even sure which one. Background noise. Something with a laugh track and bad lighting and enough nostalgia to fill the silences they didn’t need to fill tonight.

She didn’t hit play right away.

Instead, she glanced up at him again—soft, sidelong—like maybe she was still trying to figure out how this version of her night had happened. The one where Spencer didn’t flake. Where he made it through dinner and pilaf and Violet’s thinly veiled interrogation. Where he didn’t kiss her like a goodbye or a maybe but like a fact.

And now he was here.

Couch-warm, glitter-traumatized, and hers.

Leighton nudged her shoulder more firmly against his chest and clicked the volume down a few notches. Just enough to keep things quiet. Safe. Still.

Then—almost absentmindedly—she held the remote out toward him without looking.

“You get first pick,” she said, smirking faintly. “But just know if you choose something pretentious, I’m falling asleep on you and claiming the moral high ground.”

Her fingers brushed his thigh as she passed it off, lingering for a second too long. Not by accident.

Because yeah.

She still couldn’t believe he was here either.

But she was done waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For now?

She was letting herself have this. Letting him in.

Letting them be the quiet thing that stayed.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer took the remote without looking at it—eyes still on her, always on her, like she was the first thing he’d seen after being underwater too long.

And maybe he had been.

Maybe this—her in his shirt, curled into his side, smelling like citrus and cheap conditioner and some version of home he didn’t know how to ask for—was what breathing felt like again.

“Not slick,” he echoed under his breath, just loud enough for her to catch. His mouth curved, slow and lopsided, the way it always did when she caught him out. “Brutal.”

He could still hear the echo of Violet’s voice in the back of his skull—sweet as syrup, sharp as a blade. "It’s so nice to see a young man who knows how to sit still and chew with his mouth closed.”

And he had sat still. Had eaten the pilaf, even complimented it. Brought flowers. Answered questions. Even laughed, god help him.

Because she mattered.

Because she was worth all of it—the teasing, the interrogation, the barely-veiled mama bear assessment.

She was worth being brave for.

So he shifted, just a little, so their legs tangled up more deliberately. So his arm around her wasn’t casual anymore—wasn’t just a loose drape, but something that said I’m not going anywhere.

And then, low and easy, he murmured into her hair:

“I think your mom likes me now. Said I had ‘sensible eyes.’ Don’t know what that means. But I think it’s good?”

His thumb traced along the inside of her knee—absent, steady, grounding.

“And I never wanted that shirt back,” he added after a beat, voice gone soft. “It looks better on you.”

A pause.

Then he tilted his head just enough to catch her eyes again, the flicker of TV light dancing in them.

“I’ll try not to emotionally assassinate you again,” he said, teasing laced with quiet truth.

He hit play.

And stayed.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She just let herself sink into him a little more—let the warmth of his hand on her knee, the quiet hum of the TV, and the weight of his arm settle around her like gravity. Familiar. Steady. Real.

Her fingers toyed with the hem of the shirt she’d stolen ages ago. Stolen and kept. Because it smelled like him. Because it reminded her of the version of Spencer who leaned against her locker and looked at her like she was the only girl on Earth with a secret worth telling.

She tipped her head slightly so her temple rested against his shoulder, the curve of her body finding the shape of his without even trying.

He didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Not when it mattered.

“You don’t have to try,” she said quietly, the words threading into the soft glow of the room. “You already are. Just… showing up. Being here. Letting me be here.”

Her thumb brushed along his wrist—slow, grounding, absentminded—and her voice dipped lower, more certain.

“That’s the part I didn’t think I’d get to have again. The showing up. The staying.”

She tilted her head just enough to glance up at him—only for a second—but the look she gave him was steady.

Not desperate. Not fragile.

Sure.

“I think she likes you too, by the way. Even if she won’t admit it until you’ve survived at least two more dinners and a holiday.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her hand found his again and laced their fingers together, slow and deliberate.

“Just… don’t run when I start panicking over nothing at 2am or cry over cereal commercials, okay?”

She nudged him lightly. Playful. Careful.

Then softer, barely above a whisper:

“I want you to stay.”

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to follow it with a joke or a warning or a self-deprecating remark to dull the edge.

She meant it.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t know how to, really.

Because the thing about being told I want you to stay—not like a challenge, not like a dare, but like a truth—was that it cracked something wide open in his chest. Quietly. Cleanly. Like her voice had found the part of him that still thought love had an expiration date and decided to rewrite it in real time.

He stared at their hands.

Her fingers in his, fitting too easily, like they’d always known how to do that. Like even the messed-up, twisted, half-broken parts of him hadn’t scared hers away.

Not yet.

And God, she wanted him to stay.

Wanted him.

Not the version he performed when he was trying to be fine. Not the easy kind of want, the kind that came with good days and movie kisses. But the kind that saw all the mess underneath and still reached anyway.

That kind undid him.

He swallowed, jaw tight. He looked down at her—bare legs curled beside him, hair a little tangled from the couch, mouth still carrying the shape of those words like she hadn’t just wrecked him with them.

“…You’re not the only one who gets cereal-commercial emotional, Leia,” he muttered finally, voice low and rough with affection. “I teared up at the one with the dad and the grocery list last week. Don’t make me say more.”

He nudged her knee with his, eyes still on their hands.

“I’m not running.”

A beat.

Then softer, like it cost him something but he wanted her to have it anyway:

“I used to think showing up didn’t matter unless you had something to offer. Something fixed. But you… you never needed me fixed.”

He looked at her then—really looked. And everything in his face was open, vulnerable, real.

“You just needed me here.”

He kissed the side of her head.

And stayed.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with that look on his face. Not with those words echoing in her chest like they’d settled into the spaces she usually kept boarded up tight. The spaces even she didn’t like looking at too long.

Because she’d never asked for much. Not really. Just for someone to mean it when they said they’d show up. To stay—not for the perfect days, but for the ones that cracked her at the seams.

And here he was.

Not fixed. Not flashy. Just here.

Her throat ached with it.

The kind of ache that came from being seen and not flinched away from.

So she didn’t try to cover it. Didn’t try to laugh it off.

Instead, she slid one leg across his lap and leaned into him like she was settling into something safe. Like she didn’t have to keep her guard up for once. Her hand came up to his face, fingers threading through his hair as her thumb brushed just behind his ear—gentle, grounding, real.

Then, with her forehead pressed to his:

“I never needed you perfect,” she said, voice low. “I just needed you real.”

A pause. One beat. Two.

Then she kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

Like she wasn’t scared anymore.

Like she didn’t have to be.

She didn’t need to look at him to know he was listening.

Not the distracted kind of listening, either. Not the halfway, nod-along, waiting-for-his-turn kind. But the real kind—the kind that made her feel like every word she gave him was safe now. Heard. Held. Not poked at or picked apart.

And maybe that was what had always scared her the most.

Not being misunderstood.

But being understood too well.

Still, she didn’t stop talking. Couldn’t. Because it felt like if she didn’t say it now—while his heartbeat was steady under her cheek and the light from the TV flickered across their tangled legs—it might never come out the same way again.

“I used to think letting someone in meant giving them a blueprint. Like, here—this is where I break easy, and this is the part I pretend doesn’t hurt, and this is the switch I flip when I think you’re gonna leave.”

She swallowed, eyes tracing the stitching on his shirt like it might anchor her.

“But with you, it’s never been about building something pretty.”

Her voice cracked, but just barely.

“It’s about not hiding when it’s messy.”

Her hand fisted lightly in the fabric, grounding herself in the way he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t try to fix any of it.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” she added, barely more than a whisper. “I just need you to keep showing up.”

She turned her head a little, just enough to catch the side of his jaw, her nose brushing the curve of it like she was afraid the moment might vanish if she moved too fast.

“Because when you do…”

A pause.

“I don’t feel like I’m too much.”

And there it was.

The quietest truth.

The kind that cost her more than any kiss or clever line ever had.

She didn’t say anything else after that. Just breathed him in. Let herself fall into the hush between them—his arm around her, her knees curled under her, the sound of the movie long forgotten.

And for once, she didn’t brace for impact.

Because he was still there.

And she was still allowed.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer couldn’t move.

Wouldn’t, even if he could.

Because she’d just handed him a version of herself he knew not everyone got to see. The version with the sharp edges dulled by trust. The version that didn’t hide behind jokes or jabs or that signature Leighton deflect-and-disarm charm.

This was the real her.

The one who cracked herself open—quietly, carefully—and let him see inside.

And God, he felt it everywhere. In the way she touched him like he was something steady. In the way her voice trembled like a truth finally spoken out loud. In the way her breath hitched against his jaw like she hadn’t meant to say all that, but had to.

He stared at the ceiling for a beat—eyes glassy, chest tight, heartbeat thudding so loud it felt like it echoed in the room.

She didn’t need him to say it back.

Didn’t need a fix.

Didn’t even ask for anything except what she already had.

Him.

And that wrecked him a little. In the softest way possible.

He turned his head slowly, just enough to brush his lips against her hair, and let out a breath that sounded like something breaking and healing at the same time.

Then, still quiet, still him:

“You’re not too much.”

Another pause.

“But if you were…” His fingers found her hand, lacing between hers gently. “I’d still choose you.”

His voice stayed low, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“You think I don’t get it, but I do. I know what it’s like to walk around waiting for the day someone decides loving you is too hard. Too loud. Too complicated. So you pre-warn them. Push first. Hide the blueprint before they can use it against you.”

His thumb brushed along hers.

“I’ve done that my whole damn life.”

He leaned in just enough for their foreheads to meet again. Stayed there.

“I don’t need a polished version of you, Leighton. I want this one. The real one. The one who tells me when she’s spiraling and doesn’t fake being fine. The one who panics and still chooses to try. The one who wears my shirt like armor and somehow looks braver than I ever have.”

His voice cracked then—just a little.

And he didn’t bother hiding it.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Not this time.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

Then softer, into her hair:

“You’re allowed to be soft with me.”

He kissed the top of her head. Let his arms tighten just a little around her. Just enough to say you’re safe here. With me.

And then?

He stayed.

Not because she asked.

But because he wanted to.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t rush it.

Didn’t flinch or laugh it off or say something biting to cushion the fall.

She just looked at him.

Really looked—like she was trying to memorize every part of this moment: the crack in his voice, the way his hands held hers like they meant it, the way he stayed even after she gave him every excuse to run.

And maybe it wasn’t fireworks or dramatic music or some perfect romcom confession.

But it was real.

Real enough to make her chest ache in the best kind of way.

So she leaned in—slow and certain—and kissed him.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just honest.

Her mouth met his like a promise. Like a thank you. Like a quiet, steady kind of I’m all in.

And when she pulled back, just far enough to breathe, her forehead rested against his. Her voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you.”

No games. No disclaimers.

Just that.

Just him.

Leighton didn’t let go.

Not right away.

Not even after the kiss broke, not even when the weight of the words settled between them like gravity—like truth. Her fingers stayed knotted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his chest, as if part of her still couldn’t believe she was allowed to touch him like this. To say something that mattered and not have it thrown back in her face.

And God, she’d said it.

I love you.

It hung there, not as a test or a plea, but as fact. Her voice steady, if a little breathless. Her eyes burning—not from fear this time, but from the ridiculous, unbearable hope that maybe he felt it too. That maybe she hadn’t just set fire to everything soft inside her for nothing.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was thick with all the things she’d never said out loud before. Not like this. Not to someone who actually stayed.

She shifted just enough to take him in—really take him in.

The way his lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his mouth parted like he might speak but didn’t, like he was still catching up to the moment.

So she kissed him again.

Quieter this time. Slower. Less like punctuation and more like permission. Less like a rush and more like the answer to a question she’d been asking for years without knowing it.

And when she pulled back again—just an inch, just enough—her voice was smaller, but no less sure.

“You don’t have to say it back.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek, then fell lightly to his jaw, grounding herself in the solidness of him. The realness. The fact that this wasn’t some fantasy built from scraps of almosts and maybes.

“This wasn’t a trick. Or a moment I’ll take back tomorrow.”

A beat passed. Her gaze flicked from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

“I’m not asking for forever. I’m just—”

She exhaled, shaky but certain.

“I’m asking you to let me love you. However long I get to.”

And that was it.

The whole, breakable truth of her—laid bare in the quiet. In his shirt. On the couch. Wrapped around the boy who kept showing up.

And this time?

She didn’t pull away.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when her voice sounded like the soft edge of something sacred. Not when she kissed him like her heart already knew he was hers—and maybe always had been.

She said it.

I love you.

And it didn’t feel like a bomb or a dare or a cliff to jump off.

It felt like gravity.

Like the thing that had been pulling him toward her since the beginning finally had a name.

His chest burned. His throat burned. His eyes burned.

Because no one had ever said it like that before. Not without strings. Not without expectation. Not with that kind of steady, stupid courage.

And when she said “I’m asking you to let me love you. However long I get to,”—

He was done for.

He dropped his forehead back to hers, jaw tight, eyes closed like he was trying to trap the moment in amber.

“You already do,” he whispered.

A breath. Barely a breath.

Then, rougher—warmer—like something breaking open:

“Every time I look at you and forget how to lie to myself.”

His hands cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing just beneath her eyes like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Every time you call me out, pull me back, let me in.”

He swallowed hard.

“You’ve been loving me this whole time, Leia.”

A pause. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, and he almost smiled—almost—but couldn’t quite pull it off through the ache in his chest.

“I just didn’t know how to let myself believe it.”

And then—softly, finally, like the only truth that had ever mattered:

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was a match struck in the dark.

And Spencer?

Spencer didn’t pull away either.

He kissed her like it was a vow.

And meant every second of it.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t cry.

Not really.

But her eyes burned and her throat ached and her hands curled into his shirt like she was holding onto something holy. Because she’d said it—terrified, bare, trembling with truth—and he hadn’t run. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t joked his way around it.

He’d met her in the moment.

Matched it.

Matched her.

And now he was saying it back, not like a reflex or a rescue, but like something he’d been holding inside his ribs for longer than he knew how to name. Like every time he looked at her, he had to remind himself it was real—that she was.

She wasn’t sure when her breath caught.

Maybe when his voice cracked.

Maybe when he touched her like she was something precious and real, not delicate, not breakable—but worthy. Like she was worth staying for. Worth choosing. Worth loving.

And then he kissed her.

God, he kissed her.

And it didn’t feel like the kind of kiss that ends a night.

It felt like the kind that begins everything.

So she kissed him back.

Slow. Certain. Honest. The kind of kiss you only give when you’ve stopped hiding. When you’ve already said the hardest thing out loud and the sky didn’t fall.

When you know—finally know—that you’re not the only one feeling it.

Her fingers slipped into his hair. His arms wrapped fully around her like they’d always belonged there. And everything else—the movie, the pillows, the world—faded into nothing.

Because this?

This was everything.

When they finally broke apart, still close, still tangled, still wrapped in the warmth of something terrifying and true, she pressed her forehead to his and smiled.

Small. Quiet. Stupidly full of hope.

“You better not bail during the dog reunion commercial now,” she whispered.

And then, softer still—just for him:

“Because I’m not letting you go either.”

She didn’t move right away.

Just stayed right there, forehead against his, like maybe if she kept still enough, time would slow down and let her live inside the moment a little longer.

But eventually—when her heart stopped trying to beat its way out of her chest and the world steadied around the sound of his breathing—Leighton leaned in.

Tucked herself against his side like muscle memory.

Her legs folded up beneath her, knees bent and pressed gently into his thigh, toes curling under the blanket they’d kicked half off the couch hours ago. One hand still tangled loosely in his shirt, the other resting along the slope of his ribs, like she needed to feel him breathe to believe it was real.

Because she was so far gone.

Like—floating, dumb-grin, I-might-actually-be-glowing gone.

The kind of cloud-nine she used to roll her eyes at in other people. The kind she didn’t think she’d ever get. Not really. Not for her.

But here she was.

Wrapped in the arms of the boy who’d said I love you like it was a fact, not a gamble. Who kissed her like he meant it. Who stayed.

She tilted her head to glance at the TV—half a second, maybe less.

Couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t even pretend to care about whatever early-2000s rom-com was mumbling in the background, because all she could think about was the way his fingers were still drawing slow, absent circles into her arm. The way he shifted just slightly to make more space for her like it wasn’t even a question.

Like they fit.

Like this fit.

Her voice was barely a whisper when it came, more thought than sound.

“I can’t feel my face.”

And then—because she knew he’d be smug about it, and because she couldn’t stop herself—she turned just enough to meet his eyes, cheeks still pink, mouth fighting back a crooked, dazed grin.

“Don’t say it.”

But he didn’t have to.

Not when he was already smiling too. Not when she was still pressed against him like she never planned on moving again. Not when the air around them was thick with everything they hadn’t been brave enough to say until now.

She looked back at the TV.

And stayed curled against his side.

Totally useless for the rest of the night.

Utterly, stupidly, happily doomed.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the full-blown kind. Not the sharp, performative one he used to wear like armor.

This one was quieter. Warmer. Barely there—just a twitch of his mouth, a crinkle at the corner of his eye. Like something had settled in his chest and decided to stay.

Because she said it.

Because he said it.

Because they didn’t combust.

He watched her tuck into him like she’d always belonged there, all cotton softness and ridiculous, devastating gravity, and he didn’t even pretend not to notice the way her fingers curled into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. Like he was.

And maybe he was.

Because God, he felt weightless and heavy all at once. Like the world was still spinning but he’d finally found something to hold on to.

She murmured it—“I can’t feel my face”—and his grin deepened before she even looked up.

Then came the warning: “Don’t say it.”

Too late.

Because the smirk was already there, lazily blooming across his face as he dropped his gaze to hers, eyes soft, voice even softer.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

Beat.

“Was definitely thinking it, though.”

He didn’t say anything else right away.

Just let the moment stretch.

Let his hand drift to the back of her neck, fingertips brushing the curve of it like he couldn’t quite believe he got to touch her like this—without the fear of shattering it.

Without pretending it was temporary.

She felt like always.

“Leia…” he said, voice low, like it was a secret just for her. Like the name itself meant something more now—something sacred.

He tilted his head until their foreheads touched again, breath mingling in the space between words.

“I meant it,” he murmured. “All of it.”

And then, quieter still:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever made staying feel easy.”

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, reverent.

No rush. No pressure.

Just presence.

She wasn’t the only one floating.

Because Spencer Walker—messy, guarded, sarcastic Spencer—was so gone for this girl.

And for once?

He wasn’t scared of it.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t pull back right away.

She just stayed there, forehead resting against his, breathing him in. Letting the moment settle around them like a blanket—quiet, warm, undeserved in the way all good things feel when you’ve spent your whole life bracing for the fall.

And maybe she was still bracing.

But not from him.

Not tonight.

Her fingers traced the hem of his shirt like she was memorizing it—like if she could just get the texture right, maybe the rest wouldn’t feel so impossible. His heartbeat thrummed beneath her palm, steady and solid and here, and she closed her eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Then she kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Fuller.

Not a promise, but something close. A thank you she didn’t know how to say out loud. An I love you, again, without needing the words.

He didn’t move, didn’t rush it. Just let her have the space, the closeness, the ache. His hands stayed steady—one on her hip, the other cupping the side of her neck like she might vanish if he wasn’t careful.

She broke the kiss on a breath. Stayed close. Let her nose brush his.

“I don’t do this,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “The whole—stay and feel and let it be real thing. I don’t let people mean this much.”

Her hand slipped up to his chest, curling into the fabric there like she needed to anchor herself. Like the contact might keep her from unraveling.

“But you do. You mean something. And I don’t know what to do with that except try not to screw it up.”

Her voice shook just enough to make her bite the inside of her cheek.

“I want to be good at this. With you.”

Her thumb moved absently along his collarbone, grounding herself in the smallest movements.

“I don’t need you to fix anything. I just—can we stay right here? Just for a little while?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

She just leaned in again, softer this time. Mouth brushing his like a secret she wasn’t ready to share out loud.

And then?

She stayed. Tucked into his side, legs folded up, heart thudding like it finally had permission to want.

Not forever. Not yet.

Just this.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, really—not until she tucked herself in again like it was instinct, like her body already knew exactly how to fit next to his. Like they’d done this a thousand times in other lives, other timelines, and now the universe had finally caught up.

His chest felt too full.

Of what, he wasn’t even sure.

Her, maybe.

Hope.

The bone-deep kind of want that didn’t scream or burn—it glowed. Quiet and steady, like the light under a bedroom door that never went out.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and tilted his head just enough to rest his cheek against her hair. His arm wrapped tighter around her, like he was trying to memorize the weight of her leaning on him.

And when he spoke?

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t careful. It was Spencer, stripped back to his softest setting.

“You are good at this,” he said, voice low, right into the crown of her head. “I know you don’t think you are, but, Leia…”

He smiled—small, private, entirely hers.

“You make me want to be good at it too.”

He let the quiet sit with them for a second before continuing, his thumb drawing slow circles into her side beneath the hem of her shirt.

“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight. We don’t have to pretend we’re some perfect couple who eats matching yogurt or—whatever healthy people do.”

A pause. His grin widened just a little.

“We just have to keep showing up. Keep being real. And if real means cereal commercials and late-night spiral naps and you stealing every one of my shirts, I’m in.”

He kissed the top of her head—soft and full of the kind of affection he never thought he’d be allowed to give out loud—and leaned back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t have to do anything special to be worth staying for, okay?”

His eyes softened. His fingers brushed her jaw.

“You’re already it.”

He didn’t say “I love you” again.

He didn’t need to.

Not when he was already looking at her like it was the only language he’d ever learned fluently.

Not when she was curled against him like maybe—just maybe—this was what safe felt like.

So he pulled the blanket up over her legs, shifted just enough to settle deeper into the couch with her weight against his, and reached for the remote with his free hand.

“Movie’s probably garbage,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into her hair. “But I’m not watching it anyway.”

Then, quieter:

“I’ve got better things to look at.”

And he did.

She was right there. Still.

And that?

That was everything.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton’s breath hitched a little as she nestled back into him, the weight of everything they’d just said still buzzing under her skin like static electricity. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t have to be. But it was there. Crackling in her chest. Blooming behind her ribs.

She could still taste him on her lips. Still feel the way his hand hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t stopped grounding her, like maybe he needed it just as much as she did.

Because this wasn’t just a moment.

It was a shift.

And maybe it wasn’t flashy or dramatic or dressed up in perfect timing. Maybe it was just two kids on a secondhand couch, clinging to a feeling they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

But it felt like everything.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her legs, tucking them up beneath her as her body folded easily into his. One of her arms slipped under his, wrapping around his middle. And with her face pressed to his chest, she could hear it—his heartbeat, still fast, still real.

Still there.

“I used to think…” she started, voice quiet, vulnerable in the way she hated letting herself be, “that I had to do something big to be enough. Like if I wasn’t impressive or useful or ‘the strong one,’ I’d lose people.”

She felt him tense slightly under her, like the weight of those words hit somewhere familiar.

“But with you? I don’t feel like I have to earn it.”

She tilted her chin up just enough to glance at him, her lips quirking into a tired, honest smile.

“I just get to be. And that scares the shit out of me.”

She let out a shaky laugh. Not bitter—just real.

“But I want to keep choosing it. Even when it’s scary. Especially when it is.”

Then she kissed him again—shorter this time, but just as full of that quiet, heart-splitting affection. The kind that made her brave enough to stay soft.

Her voice was barely more than a breath against his collarbone when she spoke again.

“So, yeah… I guess we’re just two disaster people with commitment issues and questionable coping mechanisms—”

She looked up at him again, eyes shining.

“—who maybe just fell in love for real on a Thursday.”

Her grin turned crooked. Her thumb traced slow, lazy lines against his chest.

“Pretty solid date night, if you ask me.”

And then she rested her head back down like she’d finally found the spot that fit her best.

Because she had.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t trust himself to—not when his chest was doing that weird, tight, achey thing like his whole ribcage was trying to hold in the fact that she just cracked him wide open.

He stared down at her, heart pounding loud enough he was pretty sure she could hear it, and let her words settle into all the hollow places he’d spent most of his life pretending didn’t exist.

I don’t have to earn it.

That one hit different.

Because he’d spent years believing the opposite. That love was transactional. That you had to be charming enough or funny enough or broken in the right way to make someone stay. And now she was curled into him like she knew him—like she wanted to know him—and he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could stop performing.

Just be.

“I hate how much I love that you called us disaster people,” he said after a beat, voice low and just a little rough at the edges. “Like—accurate. Deeply rude. But accurate.”

His hand found the back of her head, threading into her hair, thumb brushing lightly behind her ear. A quiet thank-you. A silent me too.

“You scare the shit out of me too, Leia,” he added, soft and real and just for her. “But in the good way. Like rollercoaster panic. Like almost-miss-the-turn-but-make-it-anyway kind of terrifying.”

And then, before she could call him out for being sappy—

“You should know I’m blaming you for this permanent softboy rebrand. I had a whole bad boy image going.”

She snorted quietly against his chest.

And then—

“Just grabbing my water,” Violet’s voice called as she passed through the room like she wasn’t absolutely doing recon.

Spencer stiffened slightly, instinct kicking in before his brain could stop it. But Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t untangle herself from him like it was something to hide.

So neither did he.

He just offered Violet a small nod as she passed the threshold, eyes warm, hand still tangled in Leighton’s hair.

And if her mother narrowed her eyes just slightly?

Well.

He’d survived pilaf night.

He could survive this.

When the kitchen door finally swung closed behind her, he let out a breath and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Leighton’s head.

Then—

“Might need a five-year plan just to earn your mom’s neutral expression,” he muttered against her hair. “But honestly? Worth it.”

A pause.

Then he tilted her chin gently, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Disaster person or not, I’m in. And if we keep having Thursday nights like this?”

His grin went soft. Boyish.

“I’ll take the whole damn week.”

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t lift her head when Violet passed through. She heard the cabinet open, the faint clink of glass, the beat of deliberate silence that said I’m not looking—but I’m definitely looking.

And for the first time in forever, she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t scramble to sit up or throw some sarcastic line into the air like armor.

Because Spencer’s arm was still around her. His hand was still in her hair. And she didn’t want to pretend this was anything less than what it was.

So she just murmured, quiet and steady:

“She already knows.”

A pause. Then, because it was Violet:

“And she’ll pretend she doesn’t until she finds a way to weaponize it. Probably over breakfast.”

Spencer huffed a laugh against her crown, and she smiled, lazy and small, her fingers curling a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt.

She finally tilted her face to look up at him, eyes still a little dazed, a little too full.

“Neutral expression’s basically her love language,” she said, mock solemn. “If she gives you a full smile before Halloween, we’ll have to call the Vatican.”

But her voice softened at the edges then—serious without losing the warmth.

“I think she likes that I’m softer with you.”

A beat.

“God knows she’s been trying to get me to drop the ‘I’m fine’ act since middle school.”

She reached up, traced the side of his jaw with her knuckles. Light. Thoughtful. Still stunned by how easy it felt to touch him like this and not pull away.

“Sorry about the softboy rebrand, by the way,” she teased gently, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Kind of a hazard of dating someone who cries during golden retriever ads.”

Then she kissed him again—slow and close-mouthed and not trying to prove anything.

Just because she could.

Because he was still here.

And because she meant it.

When she pulled back, her voice was soft and a little sleepy.

“I’m in too. For Thursday nights. For weird mid-week feelings. For you.”

She didn’t say forever.

But it felt like it.

And that was enough.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t smile right away.

He just looked at her.

Took in the curve of her mouth, the warmth behind her sarcasm, the way she didn’t flinch when Violet passed through—how she stayed tucked in like this was normal. Like he was.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But it did.

Because Spencer Walker had never really been the guy who got to stay.

He’d been the one people liked in theory. The one who made good first impressions, who texted at 2AM, who kissed like he meant it and disappeared like he didn’t. Not because he wanted to. But because leaving always felt safer than staying long enough to disappoint someone.

But Leighton?

She wasn’t blinking.

Wasn’t moving.

Wasn’t pulling back to say this was a one-time thing, okay, don’t get weird about it.

She was there.

Wrapped up in him and still joking, still teasing, still brushing her fingers across his jaw like she wasn’t afraid of what came next.

He tucked a hand behind her knee and pulled her just a little closer—like if he held her tighter, it might finally click that this wasn’t a dream. That he hadn’t imagined her choosing him back.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” he muttered, voice low and warm as his thumb brushed her temple. “Like. Actually cry. Real, snotty, embarrassing tears. In front of your mom.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead like she was the last safe place on earth, and sighed into her hair.

Then, dryly:
“She definitely has a knife named after me in the drawer.”

A beat passed, then his smile curled up lazy and real.

“Worth it, though.”

Because it was. All of it.

The weird mid-week feelings. The softboy slander. The cartoonishly intimidating mom. The glitter jokes. The fact that he’d never get his shirt back.

He glanced down at her again, fingers tracing a slow line along her thigh like he was still trying to memorize this—every inch of her folded into him, every sarcastic one-liner turned love note.

“You ever think maybe we’re not actually disasters?” he asked after a long pause, voice soft, quieter than usual. “Like maybe… we’re just figuring it out. Late bloomers. Or emotionally constipated overachievers.”

He smiled to himself, then added, under his breath:

“Still wouldn’t change it.”

Then he kissed her again.

Not like punctuation. Not like a thank you.

Like a beginning.

And when they broke apart, the glow of the TV flickering against both of them, Spencer rested his chin lightly on top of her head, arms wound around her like he didn’t plan to move anytime soon.

“Next Thursday,” he murmured, lips brushing her hair, “I’m bringing dessert. Like, an actual one. Not gas station Oreos.”

Then, with a grin she could feel more than see:

“Unless that’s your love language. In which case—I got you. Double Stuf. All in.”

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she could feel it—him—in every inch of her. In the way his arms stayed locked around her like gravity finally had a purpose. In the way his heartbeat thudded steady against her cheek. In the way her whole chest cracked open a little more every time he said something stupidly sincere and followed it up with gas station snacks and soft sarcasm.

She wasn’t used to being held like this. Not without it turning sharp or conditional. Not without someone keeping score.

But he wasn’t keeping score.

He was staying.

Even with Violet’s knife drawer. Even with her mess. Even when she couldn’t always find the words for what this was.

So instead, she moved—slid her leg a little higher over his, curled deeper into the curve of his side, like she could burrow straight into the truth of it. The warmth. The weight. The way he kissed her like she was something holy and real.

And when she spoke, it was soft. Barely above a whisper.

“You’re ridiculous.”

A pause.

Then, even softer:

“And yeah. I’d take the Oreos.”

She tilted her chin, pressed another kiss just beneath his jaw—quick and warm and annoyingly full of everything.

“And the emotional constipation. And the forehead kisses. And the part where you keep showing up even when it scares you.”

Her hand found his again, fingers lacing tight, anchored.

“I’d take all of it. Every Thursday. Every disaster version of us. Every messy, slow, kind of beautiful inch of whatever the hell this is turning into.”

A long pause, her eyes fluttering closed as she rested against him again.

Then, muffled against his shirt:

“But if you bring coconut anything, I’m breaking up with you.”

Stillness.

Then a snort-laugh from him, breath huffed straight into her hair.

“Non-negotiable,” she added, smirking now. “That’s a red flag.”

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Because Spencer Walker was still there. And so was she.

And this? This felt like everything she hadn’t known how to ask for.

So she stayed. Warm and wound around him like a promise she was finally ready to believe in.

And next Thursday?

She’d be right here.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Just let out a low breath—one of those full-body exhales that slipped past his lips like relief, like Jesus Christ, this girl is gonna ruin me in the softest, most sacred way.

Because she was curled into him like a comma instead of a period.

Because she was taking him. All of him. Emotional constipation, bad snack choices, forehead kisses and all.

And somehow, she made it feel like he was enough.

“Coconut’s dead to me,” he murmured finally, voice rumbling against the crown of her head. “Wasn’t even invited to the group chat.”

His fingers kept moving—absent and reverent—sliding up and down the curve of her spine like he was learning her by feel alone. No rush. No plan. Just her. Just here.

And it didn’t scare him like it used to.

Didn’t make him want to self-sabotage or slip out the door before the moment could get too loud.

Because this wasn’t loud.

It was good.

It was Leighton, wrapped around him, threatening to break up over a Mounds bar with all the conviction of someone falling in love and not hiding it anymore.

He smiled into her hair.

“I think we’re the kind of mess that works,” he said quietly. “Like, not the kind people warn you about. The kind that sticks. That builds slow. That doesn’t fall apart every time someone says the wrong thing.”

A pause. Then, a little lower:

“I wanna be good at this too. With you.”

He didn’t pull back when he said it. Didn’t look at her for confirmation or shove a joke in there to soften the blow.

He just said it and meant it.

And when she squeezed his hand tighter, he knew she’d heard him.

Knew she felt it.

Another beat passed before he shifted just enough to kiss the top of her head. Once. Twice. Then again, just because he could. Because he wanted to. Because nothing in his chest was trying to run anymore.

Eventually, his voice came again—sleepier, looser, but no less sure:

“So… what I’m hearing is Oreos, emotional growth, and light knife-based intimidation every Thursday.”

A beat.

“I can work with that.”

And just like that, Spencer Walker settled deeper into the couch, arms wound around the girl who wasn’t going anywhere.

No finish line. No fireworks.

Just warmth. Just laughter. Just something real.

And next Thursday?

He’d bring the Oreos.

Double Stuf. No coconut.

[Spencer Walker]

Leighton didn’t move right away.

Didn’t need to—not when his presence settled around her like a weighted blanket, all low warmth and stupid honesty that made her ribs ache in the best way.

She just smiled.

One of those quiet, crooked, you’re such a goner for me and I know it smiles. The kind that bloomed slow, from somewhere deep in her chest, where the armor used to live.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

Because she didn’t feel like she had to protect herself anymore. Not when he held her like that. Not when his thumb traced lazy circles into the small of her back like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he tried.

She murmured something under her breath—half sarcasm, half truth—about sobbing over shelter dogs and flipping the board during Uno. Then let herself melt into him a little more, breathing in the familiar scent of him: salt, smoke, comfort.

Her hand started moving, almost absentmindedly.

Down his chest.

Lower.

Then right into the front pocket of his jeans like it was the most casual thing in the world. No fanfare. No guilt. Just a girl claiming what she knew was there.

She fished through the contents like it was a game—fingertips brushing keys, maybe gum, definitely a crumpled receipt—before finally finding what she was looking for.

She pulled the joint free with a triumphant little glint in her eye.

Held it up. Smirked.

Then, with all the mock-innocence of someone who absolutely knew what she was doing, tucked it behind her ear like a victory crown.

“For medicinal reasons,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Then curled into him again, smug and soft and absolutely infuriating in the way only she could be.

But she didn’t stay there long.

She shifted, stretched—arms up, shirt rising with her—and uncurled from his lap like she was made of syrup and sin.

Then stood.

Turned.

Held out her hand.

No explanation.

No request.

Just come with me.

And when he hesitated, even for a second, she grabbed his hand and pulled him up herself—bare feet padding across the floor as she led them through the quiet house.

Past the TV. Past the kitchen. Past the lingering ghosts of every goodbye she used to brace for.

She opened the front door without looking back.

The night air spilled in—thick and sweet, the scent of plumeria and salt hanging heavy in the summer dark.

Leighton stepped out first.

Onto the porch. Onto the warm, creaking wood that remembered every teenage night they used to waste pretending they weren’t already halfway in love.

And then—just before he caught up—she glanced over her shoulder, lips curved, eyes gleaming.

No words.

Just that look.

Like: You coming, or what?

And of course—he was.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer followed like he didn’t have a choice.

Because he didn’t.

Not really.

Not when she looked at him like that—like trouble and tenderness wrapped in one slow-smiling hurricane. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew he’d follow.

(He always would.)

The front door clicked soft behind him. The screen door groaned just a little as it swung shut, the porch light flickering above them like even it couldn’t believe the moment was real.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, mostly out of habit. Mostly to stop himself from reaching for her again too soon.

But she was already waiting—barefoot and smug, arms crossed over that stolen shirt, joint tucked behind her ear like a secret only he was allowed to know.

And God, she looked like every version of home he never knew how to ask for.

So he stepped up beside her. Close enough to bump her shoulder with his. Close enough to feel the static between them crackle back to life in the humid night air.

“Pretty sure that’s theft,” he murmured, nodding toward the joint. “I could press charges.”

But his voice was too soft to be serious.

Too gone.

She didn’t answer. Just gave him that little tilt of her head, all challenge and charm, before walking barefoot down the steps like the whole damn island belonged to her.

Spencer followed. Again.

The yard was dark, just patches of moonlight cutting through the trees. Everything smelled like hibiscus and midnight and something just about to happen.

She led him around the side of the house—toward the old hammock strung between two palms. The one they used to dare each other into flipping out of back when everything still felt like maybe.

And then she stopped.

Turned.

Waited for him to catch up.

Spencer didn’t say anything this time. Just reached out, tugged her gently toward him by the hem of his shirt (still hers), and pressed a kiss to the center of her forehead.

Quick. Fierce. Ridiculous.

Like he couldn’t not.

When he pulled back, his eyes found hers in the dark. Warm. Honest. A little dumb with affection.

“I’m already yours, Leia,” he said, voice low and sure. “You don’t have to steal my stuff to prove it.”

Then he smiled. Crooked. Soft. Helpless.

And let her pull him into the hammock like two kids who had all the time in the world.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him.

Like she was trying to commit the whole damn thing to memory—his stupid soft smile, his dumb gorgeous eyes, the way he always said her name like it was a prayer and a punchline all at once. Like he couldn’t believe he got to say it out loud.

And maybe she couldn’t either.

She reached up, slow and sure, plucked the joint from behind her ear, and held it out between two fingers like evidence.

“You really gonna complain,” she said, voice light, “when I’m out here improving your closet and your street cred?”

The smirk was playful. But the look in her eyes?

That was something else.

She leaned back into the hammock with him, knees folding, limbs tangling, head resting on his chest like it had been there a hundred times before. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath her cheek. Her fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt again, casual but unshakable, like the touch grounded her.

The joint dangled loosely from her other hand, forgotten for a second.

Then she grinned—slow and smug and devastatingly happy.

“Okay, yes,” she added. “Maybe I do steal your shirts to make a point.”

She paused dramatically.

“But mostly? It’s just fun.”

And then she laughed—really laughed—the kind that cracked her wide open and made her eyes scrunch and her whole body shake a little against his.

Because God, this didn’t have to be serious all the time.

It could be this. Light. Easy. Moonlight and stolen joints and teasing each other under the stars like maybe love wasn’t a loaded word—it was just another kind of dare they were both finally ready to take.

She passed him the joint, still laughing a little, and tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

“I know I don’t have to steal your stuff to keep you,” she said, quieter now. “But I’m still gonna do it.”

She nudged him with her knee.

“Fair warning.”

Then she took the joint back, lit it with a flick of the lighter, and took a slow drag before passing it to him again with a grin that didn’t try to hide a damn thing.

Not the peace.
Not the giddiness.
Not the maybe-this-is-it feeling swelling in her chest.

“You’re stuck with me, Walker,” she said, soft and sure. “And I’m not even sorry about it.”

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she was curled into him like that—laugh-wrecked and glowing, smirking up at him like she’d just won something. Like she knew she had. And maybe she had. Maybe she always would.

Because yeah, he was hers.

Has been. Will be.

And if this was what being stuck looked like? Hell, he’d take it.

He took the joint without looking down—just felt her fingers brush his, warm and easy—and brought it to his mouth, still watching her like she was the whole sky.

“Wouldn’t even try to escape,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked in that sleepy, smitten kind of way that only she ever pulled out of him. “You’re terrifying.”

A pause.

Then he added, totally serious:

“And hot.”

He passed the joint back. Let his fingers linger against her wrist for a second longer than necessary—just to make a point.

Just to feel it.

The realness. The ridiculousness. The way her laugh was still echoing in his chest like some kind of miracle.

She shifted against him—settling deeper, like they were one of those perfect fits you didn’t realize existed outside of rom-coms and dreams you don’t say out loud.

And he kissed her hair.

Didn’t even think about it.

Just did it.

Then whispered against the crown of her head, barely audible beneath the buzz of the night:

“You can have every shirt I own, Leia.”

He felt her smile without even looking.

“Hell, take the dresser too. Closet’s yours. Top drawer. Whole thing.”

He paused again, arm tightening around her like instinct.

“But if you steal my hoodies, I’m gonna need visitation rights.”

And just like that, the smile cracked across his face again—lazy and full of something dangerously close to joy.

Because this?

This was the best kind of ruin.

This was the quiet version of forever.

And he was all in.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t laugh right away—not out loud, anyway.

She just let it bloom behind her lips, slow and bright and helpless, like something she couldn’t quite hold back. Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that.

She tapped ash from the joint with her free hand, then passed it back without a word, her fingers grazing his deliberately this time—because she could. Because he was hers and she wanted to feel it everywhere.

Then she shifted, not away but closer, tucking herself tighter into the curve of him like maybe she could memorize it. Like maybe she already had.

“You’re such a sap,” she murmured, soft enough it didn’t undo anything. “A hot one, but still.”

Her grin curved lazily as she tilted her face toward his collarbone, nose brushing the neckline of his shirt—her shirt now, obviously.

“So I guess that means I’ll just keep rotating through yours until you start locking your closet.”

A beat. Then quieter, closer to something real:

“But I’m not giving the hoodies back.”

She felt him breathe in like he was trying not to let that ruin him.

Good.

Because she was ruined too.

And maybe this was it. Not perfect. Not planned. But real.

Fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw, she leaned in—kissed him slow. Familiar. A little reckless. Like he was the last good thing on earth and she wasn’t about to let it slip.

When she pulled back, she stayed close. Smirking.

“You can have visitation rights,” she whispered. “But only if you ask nicely.”

Then she stole one more kiss—quick this time, stupid and sweet—before leaning her head back against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

She didn’t need to say anything else.

He already knew.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer let the joint hang loose between his fingers, forgotten now.

Because yeah—she was tucked into him, saying shit like that, kissing him like that, and expecting him to stay normal?

Not a chance in hell.

His heart stuttered behind his ribs, loud enough he was half-convinced she could hear it. Feel it. Probably could, with the way she was curled into his chest like it was hers—and, honestly, it kind of was.

She’d claimed everything else.

His shirts. His hoodies. His sanity.

Might as well take the heart too.

“I don’t do ‘nicely,’” he mumbled, voice rough at the edges. “But I make exceptions.”

Then he looked down at her. Really looked.

The smirk. The lashes. The way her fingers still traced his jaw like they were spelling something only she could read.

God, he was so far gone.

“Only hoodie I’m not giving up is the blue one,” he added after a beat, like it mattered. “You take that, and I’m showing up at your door with a slideshow presentation and a hostage negotiation plan.”

He felt her laugh more than he heard it—right there in his chest, wrecking him slow.

And he didn’t care. Not even a little.

He kissed the top of her head. Let his hand settle at her waist, fingers drawing lazy shapes against her hip like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he wanted to.

Then, quieter:

“I already know you’re not giving anything back.”

He paused. Let it hang there.

“Pretty sure you never planned to.”

And he didn’t sound mad about it. Not even close.

Because she could have it all.

The shirts. The hoodies. The heart.

Hell, she already did.

So he kissed her temple once, soft and dumb and probably too much, and leaned his head back against the hammock, pulling her with him like she belonged there.

Because she did.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t respond right away. Not with words, anyway.

Just this slow, dizzy kind of smile that curled at the corner of her mouth like it had nowhere better to be. Her fingers paused against his jaw, then slipped down to his collarbone—dragging light, lazy lines like she was memorizing him by touch.

She tilted her face up, chin tucked into his chest, lips parted like a secret might fall out if she breathed too hard. Her voice, when it came, was low and teasing and wrecked at the edges.

“I knew the blue one was sacred,” she murmured, smirking against his skin. “That’s why I’m stealing it last.”

Then—before he could fire back—she pushed up onto one elbow and kissed him again.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Hungry.

Confident.

Like she’d already decided he belonged to her and was just letting him catch up.

And then she pulled back, lips brushing his, eyes still half-lidded and glowing with that familiar fire.

“You’re real dumb for me, you know that?”

Her tone made it sound like affection. Like awe. Like a little bit of disbelief tangled up in the truth of it all.

Then she dropped back against him, dragging him with her until they both hit the hammock in a messy sprawl—her head landing right over his heart again, her fingers tugging the hem of his shirt down like she was tucking them in for the night.

And she didn’t say anything else after that.

Didn’t need to.

Because the weight of her against him, the smile still tugging at her lips, the way she fit without trying?

That said it all.

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She just lay there—head cradled in the crook of his arm, eyes fixed on the stars like they might offer up some kind of permission. Like maybe if she stared long enough, the past would keep its distance.

But it didn’t.

It never really did.

“I’ve lived in a lot of places,” she said quietly. “Not in the fun, postcard kind of way. In the throw-everything-you-own-in-a-trunk-and-pray-we-make-it-through-the-week kind of way.”

Her voice stayed even, but her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his ribs.

“There were stretches where it was just me and my mom, bouncing between couches and motels. Sometimes we’d sleep in the car. She always called it ‘car camping’—like it was some big adventure. Like we were choosing it.”

She exhaled, sharp and soft at once.

“But we weren’t. We were just… surviving. And half the time, barely.”

She turned her face toward him—not all the way, just enough that her cheek brushed his shoulder. She didn’t look for a reaction. Didn’t need one.

“She stole a lot,” Leighton said, voice flatter now. “Food. Clothes. Gas. I used to stand lookout like it was some kind of game. She’d wink at me, tell me I had good instincts. That I was smart. Brave.”

A pause. Her jaw tightened slightly.

“I was just scared.”

Another beat.

“There’s a lot I wish I didn’t remember. And even more I wish I hadn’t been part of. But I was. Because I didn’t have a choice. Because when someone you love tells you it’s the two of you against the world, you believe them.”

She went quiet again, staring up at the stars like maybe they’d understand what it meant to love someone flawed. Someone messy. Someone who hurt you and protected you in the same breath.

And then—softly, like the truth might break if she said it too loud:

“I never felt safe. Not really. Not until now.”

Her fingers slid into his, tighter this time. Not like she was grounding herself—but like she was choosing him.

“For all the places I’ve been, all the cities I’ve seen… this hammock, this house, this island?” She breathed out a small laugh. “You.”

She squeezed his hand once, thumb brushing along the back of it.

“This is my favorite place. Because it’s the first one that feels like mine. Like I’m not just passing through, waiting for the next crash. Like I can just… be.”

Then quieter:

“And I don’t want to run anymore.”

She didn’t say she was scared of messing it up, though she was. She didn’t say she wasn’t sure she deserved it, though the thought gnawed at her sometimes.

She just held onto him a little tighter, and for once, didn’t try to outrun the silence.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with his throat tight and his chest cracked wide open like she’d reached in and peeled something raw and real out of him just by trusting him with it.

Because that’s what it was.

Not just a confession. Not just a story.

It was trust.

And it leveled him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t say he was sorry, even though God, part of him wanted to. For all the shitty years she never should’ve had to carry. For every scared kid moment she’d buried in sarcasm and sharpness.

But he knew better.

Knew what it cost her to say any of that.

So instead, he kissed her hand. Quiet. Steady. Right where his thumb brushed hers.

Then he looked at her.

All of her.

Hair a mess. Eyes still half guarded. Mouth still pink from where she’d kissed him like she meant it.

And he smiled.

Not wide. Not showy.

Just sure.

“Then don’t.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges like it had been scraped clean.

“Don’t run. Don’t look for the next crash. Don’t pretend like this isn’t yours too.”

His thumb kept moving across the back of her hand. Absent. Certain.

“You’re not just passing through, Leia. You’re the damn reason this place feels like home now.”

And maybe it was too much. Maybe he should’ve played it cooler. Laughed it off. Said something stupid about how she could take the blue hoodie if she promised not to ghost him for coconut ice cream.

But she’d given him her real.

So he gave it back.

“I don’t care what came before me,” he said softly. “I don’t care how many motels or couches or half-assed promises you had to survive to get here.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers.

“You’re here now. With me. And I swear, Leighton… I’m not letting you go.”

He paused.

Then added, a little quieter:

“Even if you do steal the hoodie.”

And there it was again—that tug in his chest that felt a hell of a lot like forever.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

But his arms tightened around her, pulling her in like gravity had finally picked a side.

And maybe it had.

Because this?
This was the part where she stayed.
And he did too.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton stayed quiet for a long time after.

Not because she didn’t have more to say—but because saying it meant naming something she’d been trying not to look at too closely. Not out loud. Not even in her own head most days.

Her head rested against his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat grounding her more than she wanted to admit. One hand still tucked beneath his shirt like maybe skin-to-skin could keep her steady. Like maybe it’d hold her in place long enough to say this without unraveling.

Then, low—so low it barely stirred the air between them:

“I think sometimes I’m just… waiting for the part where I turn into her.”

She didn’t explain who.

She didn’t have to.

“She always bailed when things got too hard. Called it instinct. Survival. Whatever made it sound noble.”

Her fingers moved against his side, slow and restless, tracing the stitching in his shirt like a map she couldn’t stop following. Something familiar. Something that couldn’t leave.

“I used to think I’d be different. That I’d build something real and stay in it. But I catch myself watching her when we’re out… seeing the way she clocks exits, the way she flinches at quiet. Like she’s already planning the next out.”

The words got heavier the longer they stayed in the air.

“She told me she wouldn’t date until after graduation. Said we’d stay here. Just us. That I could finish school somewhere that didn’t smell like cigarettes and desperation.”

A pause. The kind that felt like it cracked something open.

“I want to believe her,” she said. “I really do.”

She swallowed hard. The moonlight caught on the edge of her profile, silvering her lashes as her voice dropped.

“But the guy from the bar’s been real friendly. Keeps asking if she needs help with the car. Told her there’s live music this weekend. Offered her a ride home the other night after we ran into him at the gas station.”

She let out a breath through her nose—sharp, dry. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

“She smiled back.”

That part stayed soft. Like it hurt to admit.

“If she leaves, I have to go. That’s the deal. Doesn’t matter what I’ve built here. Doesn’t matter that this—” she nudged her shoulder gently into his, still not looking up, “—finally feels safe.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick. Honest.

“Sometimes I wonder if I already missed the chance to learn how to stay,” she said finally. “Like there’s this whole version of me I’ve been trying to grow into, but the old one keeps dragging her heels. Still half-packed. Still waiting for the knock on the door that says it’s time to go.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly, at the very end. But she didn’t hide from it.

Didn’t apologize.

Just stayed there. Still. Soft. Real.

Held together by the hammock. By the night. By him.

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t move for a long moment.

Didn’t rush in with comfort or fix-it words. Didn’t try to wrap her sadness in something easier to carry.

He just breathed.

Felt the weight of her against him—the way her fingers curled into his side like she was trying to stay tethered, like maybe if she held on tight enough, the rest wouldn’t break loose.

And then, slowly, he reached for her hand under his shirt. Twined their fingers together, palm to palm, skin to skin.

He squeezed once.

Not a promise. Not a plan.

Just I hear you.

Just I’m not going anywhere.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Barely more than a thread. But steady. Unshaking.

“You’re not her.”

A pause. Then again, firmer.

“You’re not her, Leighton.”

He didn’t mean it like a rejection of who raised her. He meant it like a declaration. Like a fact he knew down to his bones.

“You flinch at quiet because quiet’s been dangerous. You clock exits because people taught you not to trust safety when it showed up.”

He turned his head slightly, lips brushing the crown of hers as he spoke.

“But you’re not the one smiling back at guys like it’s your next escape plan. You’re not the one leaving. You’re the one staying, even when it scares you.”

His thumb brushed along the back of her hand again.

“You stayed when I got too close. When I said too much. When I brought you to that busted-ass diner at the edge of the island and let you see all my soft underbelly bullshit.”

A breath of a laugh.

“You’re already doing it, Leia. You just don’t know it yet.”

He shifted then—tilted his head enough to glance at her profile, moonlight catching the strands of her hair.

“She might leave,” he said quietly. “And if she does, I know that’s gonna feel like the end of something. But it doesn’t have to be the end of you here.”

His hand squeezed hers again.

“You’ve got people now. Me. Sam. That weird old guy at the surf shop who calls you kiddo. You’ve got Thursday night movie marathons and your own toothbrush in my bathroom and a stake in this place that you built.”

Then, even softer:

“And if she leaves and you do have to go? I’ll help you pack.”

He turned to press his lips to her temple, gentle.

“And I’ll go with you.”

Because he meant it.

Because she didn’t have to do any of it alone anymore. Not the staying. Not the leaving. Not the loving.

Not if she didn’t want to.

And maybe it wouldn’t change the ache in her chest. Maybe it wouldn’t undo the part of her that still believed in expiration dates.

But he’d still say it.

“I don’t care where you are, Leighton. I’m yours.”

A beat.

Then a crooked half-smile tugged at his mouth, because he couldn’t help it:

“And not just ‘cause your planning to steal my favorite hoodie.”

His arm curled tighter around her as he tipped his head back toward the stars.

“And yeah… maybe I don’t have it all figured out either. Maybe I still panic when I feel too much or love too hard. But if you’re still trying?”

He kissed her hand.

“Then so am I.”

And they stayed like that.

Held together by the hammock.
By the night.
By each other.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that felt like it had years behind it.

Like maybe it’d been waiting to be let out her whole damn life.

“My mom was seventeen when she had me,” she said quietly. “Seventeen. I used to think that meant I was lucky. That we were close because we were more like sisters than anything else. That we got each other.”

She paused, eyes on the stars, voice steady even if her throat wasn’t.

“But the truth is… we just kind of grew up together. Clumsily. Desperately. She didn’t know how to be a mom any more than I knew how to be a kid. And when you’re raised by someone who’s still figuring out how to raise herself…”

Her voice trailed off for a second.

“Sometimes I didn’t know where she ended and I started. She’d cry in front of me, tell me things no kid should hear. About the guys. About how tired she was. How scared. And I’d nod and listen and pretend I understood. Because I thought that was love. Carrying her weight for her. Being her person, even if I was just a kid too.”

Leighton’s fingers tightened slightly in Spencer’s.

“I learned how to lie for us before I learned how to ride a bike. How to cover for the bills we couldn’t pay. How to talk fast when someone asked too many questions. I got good at pretending like it didn’t bother me. Like sleeping in borrowed rooms and making friends I wouldn’t keep wasn’t chipping away at something I couldn’t name.”

Her voice dipped lower.

“She did what she could, I guess. But I can’t forget the times she didn’t. The times she left me at the laundromat with a bag of quarters and said she’d be right back and didn’t come for hours. The times she let people in who scared me. The times she asked me to smile and say thank you to men who didn’t deserve it.”

Her eyes closed for a beat.

“I know she tried. I know she didn’t have much. And I don’t hate her—I don’t. But sometimes, I hate that I didn’t get to just be a kid. That I was always the one holding everything together while she unraveled.”

She looked back at him then, her voice thick but sure.

“So yeah. I’m scared of becoming her. Of making the same mistakes. Of being so wrapped up in surviving that I forget how to live. That I hurt the people I love because I never learned how not to.”

A breath. Then, softer:

“But with you… it’s different. You slow everything down. Make space where there wasn’t any. And for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to hold the world up alone.”

She let her head fall back against his shoulder.

“And I don’t know what that means yet. Or how to stop flinching when it’s quiet. But I’m here. I’m trying.”

A beat passed.

“And I’m not gonna run.”

[Spencer Walker]

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Just let the quiet stretch between them, not as a void—but as a kind of reverence. Like the space between breaths in a song. Like silence that knew how to listen.

His arm tightened around her, gentle but unshakable. Like if she needed the world to stop spinning, he’d figure out how.

She could feel his pulse under her cheek again—strong, steady, real. Like he meant it just by existing. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

His voice, when it came, was rough around the edges. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because the truth always sat heavy in his throat when it was about her.

“You were a kid,” he said finally. “And you deserved to be one.”

No fix-it. No silver lining.

Just the truth, laid bare.

He reached for her hand again—threading their fingers together with a kind of quiet urgency, like he wanted her to feel it in her bones.

“You shouldn’t’ve had to be her anchor,” he murmured. “But you were. And somehow you still turned into someone who gives a damn. Someone who shows up. Someone who tries.”

His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow.

“I don’t think you’re anything like her.”

A beat.

“But even if you were—even if you were—you’d still be here. With me. Saying the things that scare you and staying anyway. And that’s more than she ever did.”

He tipped his head down, brushing his lips to the top of hers like punctuation. Like prayer.

“You don’t have to know what it means yet,” he said. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to stay.”

A pause, softer now.

“And you already are.”

He tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars with her like maybe they owed her something. Like maybe they were listening too.

“I know how heavy it gets,” he added after a moment. “Trying to be the one who holds it all together. Trying not to drop anything. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word. But he didn’t flinch from it.

“I’ve got you, Leia. Mess and all.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“And if we fuck it up sometimes? We’ll clean it up together.”

He looked down at her, eyes soft and lit from the inside.

“I’m not afraid of your past. I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Then—after a beat—his mouth tugged into a small, lopsided grin.

“And for the record?” he murmured. “You’re way too stubborn to turn into anyone but you.”

He kissed her temple.

“Thank God for that.”

[Leighton Thomas]

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t think she could.

Because her throat felt tight and her chest felt full and the sky felt way too close—like if she looked too long it’d swallow her whole.

So instead, she pressed her forehead against his collarbone. Let her fingers tighten around his. Let herself feel him. The warmth. The weight. The way he didn’t let go even when her words got ugly. Even when she offered him all the parts of her that had never been soft.

She’d never had that before. Not really.

And it was terrifying.

But also—it was everything.

“I don’t even know who ‘me’ is supposed to be,” she whispered eventually, voice small and raw. “Like… I spent so long being whoever she needed. The peacekeeper. The grown-up. The reason we didn’t get kicked out again. And now that I’m here, in this, I—I don’t know what to do with it.”

Her voice cracked around the edges, sharp and quiet all at once.

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to shift. For you to wake up one day and decide I’m too much or not enough or exactly what you don’t want anymore.”

She paused.

Then added, lower:

“Because that’s what people always did. They saw the cracks and called them warning signs.”

Her thumb swept over his knuckle.

“But you don’t. You just… stay. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

And that?

That messed her up more than anything.

Because she wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe she was allowed this. That she didn’t have to bleed for it or beg for it or be someone else to deserve it.

She pulled back just far enough to look up at him, eyes shining but fierce.

“I don’t wanna be scared all the time,” she said, barely louder than a breath. “I don’t wanna keep flinching every time it feels too good. I wanna choose this. You. Even when I’m messy. Even when I’m loud and mean and not the easiest person to love.”

Her voice hitched.

“But you make it feel… safe. Like maybe I can mess up and still be wanted. Still be mine.”

She rested her forehead to his again, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

“So yeah. I’ll stay. I am staying. And if I get it wrong, if I screw something up, I’ll still keep showing up. For you. For me. For us.”

A shaky breath.

Then softer:

“You don’t have to fix me. You never did. I just needed someone who didn’t leave.”

She smiled, small and wrecked and honest.

“And yeah, I am way too stubborn to be anybody but me.”

Her eyes closed as she leaned in, kissing him slow—like it was a vow she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet, but meant with everything she had.

“Thank God you see her.”

[Leighton Thomas]

The porch was quiet except for the scribble of her pen and the lazy hum of late summer. Leighton sat cross-legged on the old bench, journal balanced against her thigh, toes tapping out a rhythm against the chipped wood. The air smelled like salt and overripe mangoes from the neighbor’s tree, sweet and heavy. Familiar.

She’d been out here for a while. Long enough for the sun to dip lower, for the pages to start curling a little from the breeze. Long enough to stop thinking about what she was writing and just… write.

The screen door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t look up.

She knew the sound. The pace. The quiet way her mom moved when she didn’t want to interrupt but couldn’t help coming closer anyway.

One of the chairs shifted. The porch groaned under the weight.

Still, no words.

Just presence.

Leighton paused mid-sentence. Tapped her pen twice against the edge of the journal before slipping it closed and resting it in her lap.

Then she looked up.

Not defensive. Not braced.

Just open, in that tentative way she was still learning how to be.

Her voice was soft when it came, but steady.

“…Yes?”

She didn’t ask what her mom was doing there.

She already knew.

The silence had changed shape.

And Leighton was ready to hear whatever came next.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t look at her right away.

She sat back in the old rocker, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, her eyes scanning the yard like she was waiting for something to move. But nothing did. Just the breeze, the buzz of a cicada too stubborn to shut up, and the slow thud of her own heart reminding her that these moments didn’t come with do-overs.

So when she spoke, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t careless.

It was intentional.

“What does he call you?” she asked, voice low but direct. “Like… when he’s not being dumb. When it’s just you and him.”

She didn’t turn her head, but her hand moved—subtle—plucking a leaf from the porch railing like it had said something worth correcting.

“I just want to make sure it’s not something like ‘baby girl’ or ‘shawty,’” she added, dry. “Because then we have a different conversation to have.”

She finally looked over then, and though the line hung there like a joke, her eyes were sharp. Not suspicious. Not accusatory. Sharp like she was taking inventory.

Of Leighton.

Of this moment.

Of whatever boy had wandered into her daughter's orbit and stuck around long enough to matter.

She wasn’t asking for details. She didn’t want the whole story.

She wanted one thing: truth.

Not the kind Leighton offered to the world, all layered in cleverness and eye rolls.

The kind she offered when she knew she was safe.

Violet leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, head tilted slightly, watching her daughter like she was something luminous and unpredictable and hers.

“I just…” she said, a little quieter now, “wanna know how he sees you. Not what he says in front of people. Not what he texts when he’s trying to be slick. What he calls you when there’s no one to impress.”

She paused.

Then, with just the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—

“Because that’ll tell me more than anything else.”

Her tone was light, but the weight of it settled between them like sun-warmed stone.

Violet wasn’t asking as a test.

She was asking as a mother who’d fought tooth and nail for softness in a world that didn’t offer it freely. A mother who wanted to know that her daughter was being held gently—even when no one else could see.

She flicked the leaf away and let her voice drop just slightly.

“He doesn’t have to call you poetry. But if he calls you anything less than something that makes you feel seen, I want his full name and a running start.”

Then she folded her hands in her lap.

Ready.
Waiting.
Listening.

Because this wasn’t about control.

It was about care.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t look away.

Not right away, anyway.

She just traced the edge of her journal with her thumb, heartbeat slow and steady, like the moment mattered but didn’t scare her. Not this time.

She heard the question for what it was—not a joke, not a test. A check-in. A quiet offer of space. And she didn’t want to waste it.

So she answered.

“Leia.”

Her voice wasn’t defensive. If anything, it was soft. A little breathy around the edges, like the name still caught her off guard in a good way.

“He calls me Leia.”

A beat passed.

And then, quieter—

“Like Star Wars, yeah. But not in a stupid way. I mean… I knew what he meant before he even explained it.”

She let the ghost of a smile tug at her mouth. Not sarcastic. Just real.

“He said it the first time like it just slipped out. Like it had always been there. And I didn’t correct him, because…”

She shrugged, looking down at her lap.

“I liked it. I really liked it.”

Another beat.

“He didn’t say it because he thought it’d be cute. He said it because he sees me that way. Brave. A little reckless. Trying to lead with her heart even when it’s hard.”

She blinked once, slow.

“And it wasn’t a line. I think that’s what got me. It wasn’t performative. It was just him. Just honest.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the journal again.

“I didn’t say anything when he first said it. Just smiled like an idiot and hoped he wouldn’t take it back.”

Then she glanced toward Violet—shoulder angled, head tilted just slightly.

“And I didn’t make fun of it. Not even a little. I think it was the first time someone called me something that didn’t make me feel small.”

A pause.

“Just… seen.”

And then, because some habits die hard—

“If you bring this up during dinner, I’m switching all your playlists to trap remixes of meditation sounds.”

But she was smiling now. Not hiding. Just… soft.

Because Leia wasn’t a nickname.

It was a promise.

And she wanted her mom to know that.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet exhaled through her nose—quiet, sharp, not quite a laugh. The kind of sound she made when something hit a little deeper than she was ready to admit, but she respected the hell out of it anyway.

“Leia,” she repeated, letting the name roll over her tongue like she was test-driving it.

It passed inspection.

Then she leaned back in the chair, one arm draped lazily over the side like she hadn’t just been handed something sacred. But her eyes—those told the truth. Still. Still and shining.

“Well,” she said, tone dry but proud, “as far as nicknames go, that’s not bad.”

A beat.

“It’s earned. And it’s smart. Girl was a rebel leader, a war strategist, and managed to look iconic with space buns and zero patience for men who underestimated her. Honestly, you could do worse.”

She paused just long enough for Leighton to feel the shift.

“But if he’s saying it just to try and get you into a slave-girl bikini, I will end him.”

She turned her head then. Not joking. Not smiling.

Just fierce.

“If he sees you as power in heels and grit in lip gloss? Good. Great. I’m glad. But if I catch even a whiff of him treating that name like it’s permission to fetishize you or dress you up for his fantasy—he’s done.”

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

There was steel in her spine and a fire under her calm.

Because Violet had spent too many years earning her own dignity in the silence between being overlooked and being desired—and her daughter? Her daughter deserved better than either.

She watched Leighton for a moment longer. Took in the way she sat—not armored, not guarded. Just there. Soft and steady, letting herself be known.

And Violet nodded once, firm. Like sealing something.

“I like it,” she said finally, voice softer now. “Because it means he sees your strength and your heart. The parts that don’t always fit cleanly together. The ones most people miss.”

She reached out then—just a touch. Just enough to tug gently at the edge of Leighton’s journal, fingers brushing over hers for the briefest second.

“He better keep seeing that. All of it.”

A beat.

“And if he doesn’t—he won’t need a lightsaber to feel pain.”

She smirked.

Then leaned back again, casual as anything, eyes on the sky now like she hadn’t just drawn a line in the sand with a mother’s love and a woman’s fire.

“Also, just for the record? You’ve always been more Leia than you know.”

Still Violet.
Still razor-sharp.
Still the safest place her daughter had ever known.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She let the moment sit, weighted and warm, like the last sliver of sunlight before it dipped below the edge of the ocean. Violet’s words lingered—not sharp, not scolding, but sacred. A mother’s protection wrapped in dry humor and hard-won wisdom.

Her hand stayed where it was—resting under Violet’s touch, fingers grazing the edge of her journal, the heartbeat of everything she never said aloud.

Then, softly—almost like the breeze had to carry it the rest of the way—

“He calls me Leigh most days. It’s easy. Feels like home. But ‘Leia’… he saves that for the moments that matter.”

She looked up, steady now. No defense. Just truth.

“When I’m spiraling, when I’m too proud to say I’m scared, when I’m trying so hard not to crack—he calls me Leia. Like it’s this… reminder. That I’ve made it through worse. That I still shine.”

A pause.

“I think he sees me the way I’ve always wanted to be seen. Brave, stubborn, a little reckless, yeah—but still good. Still worth staying for.”

She glanced down at their hands. At Violet’s touch. At everything it meant without saying a word.

“And yeah,” she added, a quiet grin tugging at her mouth, “if he ever says it to be slick or creepy or like… slave Leia territory? You won’t even have to reach for the lightsaber.”

Her gaze cut back to Violet, fierce and soft all at once.

“I’ll handle it.”

Then—gentler. The kind of gentle you reserve for people who’ve seen you shattered.

“But you don’t have to worry, Mama. Not about this.”

A breath.

“Because no matter how many people see me… you’re the only one who ever really made sure I stayed seen.”

Her voice dropped, like she wasn’t sure she had the right words but knew she had to try.

“I don’t always say it right. Or enough. But I love you. And I’m proud I came from you.”

She leaned her shoulder into Violet’s, quiet but firm.

“You raised Leia. That means you’re the real legend.”

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t move at first.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t fidget. Just let those words wash over her—you raised Leia—and settle into her bones like they belonged there. Like maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t screwed it all up after all.

Her eyes stayed on the horizon, but her mouth twitched, slow and certain, into the kind of smile that didn’t need to be big to mean everything.

“Well,” she said finally, voice low and threaded with that signature Violet steel, “damn right I did.”

She tilted her head slightly, shoulder bumping back into Leighton’s like it was instinct, like she’d been waiting her whole life for her daughter to say exactly that without ever expecting it.

“You know,” she continued, drawing the words out, careful, confident, “it took me a lot longer to figure out how to deal with boys and their stupid, shiny words. I didn’t grow up with a manual. I was the cautionary tale. The girl who learned things the hard way—then doubled back to make sure you didn’t have to.”

She looked down at their hands for a moment, then tapped a finger gently against the edge of the journal.

“But you?” Her voice dropped just a little, rich with pride. “You’ve got instincts. You don’t just survive them—you see through them. All of them. The sweet talkers. The ones who smile too wide. The ones who think calling you ‘Leia’ means they’ve earned you.”

She raised a brow—pointed, protective, unshakable.

“And I believe you when you say you’ll handle it. I do.”

A pause.

“But just know this, Leigh—brave, brilliant, zero-bullshit Leia—you will always have me in your corner. Backup, bat in the trunk, full alibi if it comes to it.”

She said it dry as dust, deadly serious underneath. Then smirked.

“And if he breaks your heart, I’m not saying I’ll key his car… but I’ve got a set of heels sharp enough to leave a message.”

Violet leaned back then, breathing in the heavy sweetness of mango trees and ocean breeze, letting herself just exist in the moment—her daughter beside her, whole and still hers.

“You’re the best damn thing I’ve ever done,” she said simply. “And if he sees you even half as clearly as I do… then maybe he’s not entirely hopeless.”

Another beat.

Then, with a sideways glance and a soft snort—

“Still not watching any of those movies though. Laser swords and breathing problems? I’ll take my drama with bourbon and better costumes.”

But her hand stayed right where it was, resting steady beneath Leighton’s, grounding them both in everything they’d weathered and everything they’d become.

Still hers.
Still here.
Still legendary.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She just stared out at the yard, blinking slow—like if she looked too fast, she might shatter whatever this moment was made of. Whatever it was, it felt rare. Solid. The kind of thing you didn’t get twice.

And then—softly, almost shyly—she laughed under her breath.

“You realize you just compared yourself to a bat-wielding Jedi in stilettos, right?” she murmured, eyes still on the sky. “Pretty sure that makes you cooler than all of them.”

A beat passed. Then another.

And when she looked over—really looked—her voice dropped into something quieter. Less armored.

“He calls me Leigh, mostly. But when it’s just us… when I’m spiraling or scared or saying dumb shit I don’t mean—he calls me Leia.”

She paused. Swallowed.

“Like he’s reminding me I’m still that girl. Still strong. Still soft. Still in charge of my own ending.”

She shook her head once. Smiled like it hurt a little.

“And I don’t know what happens down the line. I don’t know if he’s forever. But I know he sees me right now. And he says it like it matters. Like I matter.”

Then—quiet. Steady.

“But no matter what… you’re still my mama.”

She reached across the space between them—fingers brushing Violet’s wrist like she was anchoring herself to something ancient and true.

“You always will be.”

Her voice caught just slightly, but she didn’t hide it.

“And maybe I didn’t say it enough growing up. Or maybe I said it all wrong. But I know who raised me. And I know what she taught me. And I know I’m strong because you were strong first.”

A breath.

“And honestly? If Spencer ever does mess up… I won’t need you to key his car.”

She grinned now. Sharp. Familiar.

“I’ll do it myself. With glitter nail polish and a Star Wars sticker.”

And just like that, the weight in her chest eased.

Still hers.

Still home.

Still seen.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet let out a slow breath through her nose—the kind that wasn’t about exasperation or control or the thousand emotions she kept welded beneath her ribs. This one was different.

This one was pride.

She didn’t smile right away. Not the kind people could see, anyway. But something in her settled. Like hearing those words was enough to calm every version of her that had ever doubted she was getting it right.

“I don’t need to be cooler than the Jedi,” she said after a moment, voice low, lilting with that Violet drawl that always made the truth sound effortless. “I just need you to remember who taught them how to fight in heels.”

Her hand turned palm-up beneath Leighton’s, not clutching—just there. A steady offering. A reminder.

“I’ve watched you grow into this force of nature—sharp, stubborn, soft in all the right places—and baby, if you think for one second I’m not proud of every inch of who you’ve become…”

She turned then, just enough for Leighton to see her eyes. They weren’t misty. Violet didn’t do misty. But they burned with something just as deep.

“I’m proud of you, Leigh. Not just because you’re strong. Not because you can throw a line like I taught you or threaten a man with rhinestones and vengeance. But because you lead with your heart, even when it’s scared. Because you see people. Because you let yourself be seen.”

A pause. Her voice didn’t waver—but it softened.

“You love loud. You forgive harder. And you still somehow know when to draw a line in glitter and call it war.”

She gave a short laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

“I swear, you came out of me already knowing how to run the damn galaxy.”

She leaned back into the chair, her fingers still resting lightly over Leighton’s, like she couldn’t quite bring herself to let go just yet.

“You don’t have to say it right. Or enough. I see it. I’ve always seen it.”

Another beat.

“And just so we’re clear—if you ever do vandalize something over a boy, I better be the first call. Not to bail you out. To rate the execution.”

Her smirk turned into something gentler. Something earned.

“Because if you’re gonna raise Leia… you sure as hell show up for her when the stars get messy.”

The breeze rolled soft across the porch, brushing over mango trees and memory and everything they’d finally managed to say out loud.

Still hers.
Still home.
Still so, so proud.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t laugh. Not really. But the breath she let out sounded close enough—like it had just barely missed being tears instead.

She looked down at their hands for a second. At the way Violet’s had turned palm-up beneath hers. No pressure. No weight. Just an open anchor.

Her fingers curled into it gently.

Then she said, quiet but certain, “You make it sound so epic.”

She looked up, eyes catching the sky and then her mother’s face like it was some kind of constellation she knew by heart.

“But most days I’m just trying not to fall apart in the grocery store,” she added with a dry smirk. “Or cry over a love song. Or spiral because he looks at me like I’m worth something soft.”

A pause.

Then softer: “And I think that’s why he calls me ‘Leia.’ Not ‘cause I’m untouchable. But ‘cause I’m trying so hard to be brave even when I’m not.”

She glanced over at Violet again, chin tilted, voice low.

“And I know you see that. Even when I don’t.”

Her thumb brushed once across Violet’s wrist. Not by accident.

“You didn’t make me hard. You just didn’t let the world break me before I could figure out who I was.”

A beat. She exhaled slow.

“And if I ever do vandalize something over a boy… I want you in the passenger seat. Critiquing my technique. Holding the flashlight. Judging my choice of spray paint.”

Her mouth twitched—more feeling than smile. Then she leaned back, letting her shoulder settle lightly against her mama’s.

Not saying thank you.

Not saying I love you.

Just saying here I am.

Still hers.
Still trying.
Still the daughter of a woman who taught her how to fight in heels—and feel everything anyway.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet smiled.

Not big. Not wide. But real—and that was rarer than most people ever got from her. It curled slow at the corners of her mouth, tugged something behind her eyes that looked like memory and mercy all tangled up in one.

She didn’t look at Leighton right away. Just tilted her face to the sky like it had answers she wasn’t ready to say out loud. The stars hadn’t come out yet, but the light was fading—soft and gold and forgiving.

“I do make it sound epic,” she said finally, voice low and laced with that wry Southern charm that had always been more armor than accent. “'Cause sometimes making it prettier is the only way you survive it.”

She reached up, tucked a piece of Leighton’s hair behind her ear with a mother’s precision. Let her fingers rest there for half a second longer than necessary.

“But don’t let the gloss fool you, baby. I see you.” A pause. “I see how strong you are. Even when you’re folding in on yourself in aisle seven because someone left Adele on.”

Her voice dipped. Gentle now. Intentional.

“You don’t have to be untouchable to be tough. Hell, I spent years thinking I had to be bulletproof to count for something, and it turns out softness is the part that stays when the rest falls apart.”

She let out a quiet, almost-laugh.

“And you? You’ve got both. The steel and the heart. That’s rare. That’s magic.”

Then, after a beat, with just enough edge to remind the world who raised this girl—

“And if it ever comes to crimes of the emotional or mildly illegal variety…” she said, brushing invisible lint off her jeans with faux innocence, “I do own gloves. And I’m disturbingly good at wiping down surfaces.”

She didn’t look at Leighton as she said it. Just sipped the moment like sweet tea and let the silence hold the weight of all the things she didn’t need to say aloud.

Because Violet had survived more than most. Had buried truths in charm, had turned pain into lipstick and pep talks—but her love for her daughter?

That never needed polishing.

She nudged Leighton’s shoulder with hers, light but solid.

“You’re doing better than you think,” she said softly. “You always have been.”

And that was it.

No grand declarations.

Just backup, built-in.
Just pride, without performance.
Just Violet.

Still hers.
Still dangerous.
Still exactly the kind of woman you’d want in your corner—with a flashlight, a plan, and a can of spray paint that matches the shoes.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer at first.

She couldn’t.

There was too much in her chest—too much weight and warmth and wonder at how her mama always knew. Always said the thing that cut through the noise without slicing her open. Just enough to make room for truth. For breath.

She blinked hard once, then let her head tip sideways—resting it lightly against Violet’s shoulder, like she had when she was little. Like the porch swing might as well have been a starship and this was the only anchor in the galaxy that had ever made her feel safe.

For a second, she just stayed there.

Quiet. Held.

Then, voice soft and low and a little wobbly, she murmured, “You’re really gonna make me cry in front of the mango trees, huh?”

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide the quiver in her lip or the way her fingers curled tighter around her knees like they were bracing for something that never came. Because Violet didn’t come at her with pity. Never had. Just this kind of fierce, unflinching love that felt like armor she didn’t have to earn.

“You always say I’m doing better than I think,” she said, gaze fixed on the dusky light bleeding across the yard. “Even when I feel like I’m one breath away from shattering.”

A pause. Her voice dropped even softer.

“And I don’t know if it’s true every time, but I believe you when you say it. That counts for something.”

She twisted a blade of grass between her fingers. Thought about aisle seven. Thought about how easy it would’ve been to crumble, to let herself disappear in all that heartbreak and memory—but she hadn’t. Not really.

Because Violet had built her from more than glitter and grit.

She looked up finally, just enough to catch the edge of that real, rare smile on her mama’s face. And something inside her steadied.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, mouth tugging upward. “If I ever snap and go full felony, I’ll bring the wipes and let you pick the playlist.”

Her eyes gleamed—not with tears now, but something fiercer.

Something inherited.

“I’ve got the heart,” she said. “Because you gave it to me. But I’ve got the fight because I watched you walk through hell and still come out swinging with eyeliner sharp enough to kill.”

Then, quieter:
“And if I’m doing better than I think… it’s only ‘cause I’ve had the best damn blueprint.”

She let the words hang there like porch light in the dark.

Soft. Bright. Homegrown.

Still Violet’s.

Still hers.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just let her daughter’s head rest against her shoulder, felt the weight of that trust—the kind of weight she’d carry a thousand times over if it meant Leighton never had to feel it alone. The breeze tugged at the trees, warm and thick with summer, but on the porch, it was still.

Sacred.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and smooth, like molasses and warning signs.

“Well,” she murmured, “if we’re crying in front of mango trees, we might as well make it cinematic.”

Her hand came up slow, threading gently through Leighton’s hair—careful, practiced, like she remembered exactly how to do this from every scraped knee, every nightlight left on too long, every whispered promise she’d made through the cracks in her own voice.

“You ever wonder how I know what to say?” she asked, eyes on the horizon. “It’s not magic. And it’s not because I’ve got it all figured out.”

She let out a small huff of air, not quite a laugh.

“It’s ‘cause I’ve felt it. Every version of what you just said.”

A pause.

“The almost-shattering. The breathing through glass. The smile you wear even when your ribs ache from holding it together.”

Her fingers stilled, just resting at the crown of Leighton’s head now.

“I know what it costs to keep going when your heart wants to pull the fire alarm. And I know what it looks like to fight soft. To choose not to go numb, even when it’d be easier.”

She turned just enough to press her cheek lightly against Leighton’s hair, and for a second, Violet didn’t sound like someone offering comfort.

She sounded like someone who meant it.

“You’re not doing better than you think ‘cause I’m trying to cheer you up,” she said, voice like flint wrapped in velvet. “You’re doing better than you think because you showed up. Because you let yourself feel every bit of it and didn’t let it turn you cruel.”

Another beat.

“And baby, that’s not survival. That’s strength.”

She leaned back, giving Leighton the space to breathe again, but left her hand where it was. Light. Steady.

“You’ve got my fire,” she said. “But you’ve got your own damn glow.”

Then—smirking, but not teasing—

“And if we do ever go full felony, I expect mood lighting, tasteful destruction, and at least one power ballad. Preferably from the ‘80s.”

She nudged her shoulder into Leighton’s just enough to make it a promise, not a joke.

And in the quiet that followed, Violet looked at her daughter—really looked. Brave and breakable. Fighting and feeling. So much more than fine.

She nodded once.

Like recognition.

Like pride.

“You’re not just mine,” she said softly. “You’re you. And baby, that’s more than enough.”

Still hers.
Still wild.
Still full of every beautiful, unstoppable thing she never dared dream out loud.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget—just let the words soak in. Let them settle into the hollow spaces she never quite knew how to fill. The ones that came from loving too much and losing too hard and never really knowing where to put all that ache.

But Violet knew.

Of course she did.

And somehow, the way she said it—low and solid, soft without losing bite—it didn’t just feel like comfort.

It felt like truth.

Leighton turned her head slightly, cheek still pressed to Violet’s shoulder, eyes blinking slow like she was memorizing the way the light felt against the porch floorboards. Like if she looked too fast, it might disappear.

Then, with a voice so small it almost didn’t sound like hers, she said, “You always make it easier to breathe.”

A beat passed. Her fingers toyed with the frayed edge of her journal, the one she hadn’t even realized was still in her lap. She closed it now. Not because the moment needed to be wrapped up, but because it felt safe enough to be quiet.

Safe enough to be still.

“I didn’t get it when I was younger,” she said, voice steadier now, though still hushed. “I thought strength meant not crying in public. Not needing help. Not letting anybody see the cracks.”

She glanced up just a little, eyes finding Violet’s—not sharp, not searching. Just open.

“But you always let me have both. The glitter and the mess. The softness and the fire.”

Her throat tightened again, but this time she didn’t look away.

“You never asked me to be small to be safe.”

She reached over and laced their fingers together—palm to palm, knuckles lined up like always. Familiar. Fierce.

“And you never let me forget who I came from.”

A hint of a smile tugged at her lips—crooked, stubborn, and undeniably hers.

“So if we’re going full felony,” she added, a little lighter now, “I vote Total Eclipse of the Heart and red lipstick with names like Vengeance or Midnight Promise.”

Her smile widened just a little, but the shimmer in her eyes didn’t fade.

It was all still there—the grief, the fight, the love that hurt a little when it was this big.

But it felt held.

It felt hers.

“Thanks for not asking me to be okay before I was ready,” she said. “And for loving me loud even when I didn’t say a word.”

Another pause. Then—

“I’m not just yours, mama. But I’ll always be part you.”

Still Leighton.
Still wild.
Still wrapped in the kind of love that didn’t flinch when it got messy.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet didn’t answer at first.

She just sat there, jaw tight in that way it got when emotions came too close to the surface. The kind of closeness that wasn’t sharp or dangerous—it was honest. Unfiltered. And Violet had never been all that good with unfiltered, not when it came wrapped in things like love and stillness and her daughter whispering truths that cracked something tender inside her chest.

She let out a slow breath through her nose. Not because she didn’t feel it. But because she did.

Leighton’s words had hit dead center.

You never asked me to be small to be safe.

God. If that wasn’t the thing she’d fought her whole damn life to give her.

Violet blinked once. Twice. Sharp, subtle. A move that might pass for indifference to anyone else, but Leighton would know better.

“Okay,” she said, voice lower now, warm but a little too quick, a little too light. “Well. Before you get me cryin’ like I’m auditioning for a damn Hallmark movie on this porch…”

She cleared her throat. Reached up to wipe under one eye like it was just some stray smudge of mascara, not the burn of being seen this clearly.

“We’re doin’ something. Anything.”

She leaned forward, untangling their hands only so she could stand, stretching out her back like it gave her something to do with all the feelings buzzing under her skin.

“Movie. Firepit. Kitchen disaster. Midnight drive with too-loud music and judgmental stares from the neighbors—I don’t care. You pick.”

A beat.

“But we’re not sittin’ out here while the stars come out and you keep saying things that make my chest feel like it’s holdin’ a hundred bees. That’s too much rawness for one Southern woman to endure without wine and a distraction.”

Her smirk was back now—familiar, dry, and laced with relief. Like she’d taken the heaviness and bent it into something lighter. Like she was proud, so proud, but needed to shift gears before she started confessing things she’d locked up for decades.

She looked down at Leighton—really looked. And that pride was still there, humming under her skin like a secret engine.

“I meant it all,” she said, softer now. “Every word. But I’m gonna lose my damn cool if I stay still another minute.”

She reached out a hand, wiggled her fingers.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s do somethin’ dumb and borderline illegal. Or at least mildly reckless. I’ve got a full tank and a mean craving for gas station nachos.”

A pause.

“And you know I keep red lipstick in the glove compartment. Just in case.”

Still Violet.
Still messy.
Still loving her girl in the only way she knew how: fiercely, fully, and with a change of plans before the porch got too quiet again.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

She just sat there, letting the air settle around them, thick with the kind of love that never needed explaining. Her eyes tracked the way Violet blinked—sharp, careful, like she could stare down emotion if she timed it right. Like maybe if she stood fast enough, the ache wouldn’t catch her.

And god, Leighton knew that look.

Knew what it meant when her mom wiped at her eye like it was dust instead of a feeling. Knew what came next. The motion. The cover-up. The offer to do something else—anything to outrun the quiet.

Leighton stood too.

Stretched out her spine, brushed her palms down the thighs of her jeans, and looked up at the stars like they might spill the words for her.

Then she let out a short breath, half a laugh, half a release.

“You’re so full of shit,” she said softly, affection threading through every syllable.

Her voice wasn’t angry. It was warm. Familiar. The kind of tease that tasted like home.

“You cry at dog food commercials and that one scene in Fried Green Tomatoes—don’t act brand new.”

She smiled, just a little, watching Violet move with that restless kind of grace she’d spent her whole life orbiting.

“I meant what I said,” she added, quieter now. “And I know you heard me. So we don’t have to do the whole runaway thing unless you want to.”

A pause.

Then she tilted her head, crooked smile returning, laced with all the mischief and love and survival that lived in her bones.

“But… if you are gonna drag me into a midnight felony spree, I get aux.”

She nudged her shoulder against Violet’s on the way to the car.

“And I’m pickin’ the gas station snacks, too. No weird protein bars this time. I want the neon cheese that stains your soul and clogs at least one artery.”

Another beat. She opened the passenger side door, glanced down at the glove compartment, and cracked a grin when the familiar tube rolled into view.

“Jesus,” she muttered fondly. “You really do keep red lipstick in here.”

Then louder—teasing, but true:

“Y’know, for someone who pretends she’s not the soft one… you plan like a woman who expects good lighting during the apocalypse.”

She climbed in, pulled her seatbelt on, and shot Violet a look that held everything the words didn’t say.

Pride.

Forgiveness.

That unspoken I-love-you they’d been trading in gestures since Leighton was old enough to understand what love looked like with edges.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m not cryin’ either.”

Then she rolled down the window, cranked the stereo, and let the wind tangle in her hair as they pulled away from the porch.

Still hers.
Still Violet.
Still home.

[Violet Thomas]

Violet slid behind the wheel with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of needing to move before she felt too much. Her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel—not tight, not nervous, just… anchored. She watched Leighton from the corner of her eye, let the girl talk her shit, didn’t say a word when the aux and snack privileges were claimed like sacred ground.

She didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Because even under the smirk, even with the lipstick rolling out of the glove box like some cosmic joke about who she really was underneath all that polish and posture—Violet felt it. Still humming low in her chest like a second heartbeat.

She heard me.
She sees me.
She’s okay.

She took a breath, let her fingers tap once against the leather, and glanced at Leighton just as the wind started to stir the edges of her hair.

“You think I keep the lipstick for me?” she muttered, eyes on the dark stretch of road ahead. “Please. I’ve been preparing for your dramatic-ass mugshot since you learned how to lie without blinking.”

But her voice wasn’t sharp.

It was velvet and gravel, threaded through with something soft she couldn’t name without choking on it. Something like pride. Something like awe. Something like grief, too—the good kind. The kind that comes when you realize you raised someone strong enough to survive without you… and gentle enough to still choose you anyway.

She didn’t look over when she added, more to herself than anyone else, “Damn kid grew up while I was busy watching for landmines.”

A beat.

Then louder, firmer, more Violet:

“And I don’t cry at dog food commercials,” she added, flipping on the headlights. “That was one time. And that damn golden retriever had a limp.”

She shifted the car into reverse, checked the mirror, and eased down the drive like she wasn’t just holding a thousand unspoken feelings behind her ribs like a corset laced too tight.

But as they hit the road, as the stereo came to life and Leighton rolled the window down like she was claiming her space in the world again, Violet let herself smile.

Real this time. Crooked. Honest.

Because Leighton was hers.

Messy. Beautiful. Brave as hell.

And Violet? She’d built her from fire and softness and glitter and grace, and God, what a thing it was to see her shine.

Still hers.
Still standing.
Still driving toward something better—together.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton (https://i.ibb.co/vxxgFkRR/96-AC64-F1-3308-4072-8712-63156-E1-F9746.png) didn’t stumble across the box.
She found it on purpose.

Tugged it from beneath her bed with slow, deliberate fingers, like unearthing something sacred — or dangerous. She sat cross-legged on the floor, shoebox in her lap, lid already loose. Her fingers trembled once before she pressed them flat against the cardboard, steadying herself. Then she lifted it open.

The air felt heavier instantly.

Inside: layers of a life she didn’t let many people see. Polaroids curled at the edges. Old receipts. Torn paper hearts. A hospital bracelet she didn’t remember keeping. Pages from a spiral notebook ripped messily down the spine — some blank, some not.

And the letter.

She stared at it for a second too long.
Her throat tightened.

You showed me yours, she thought.
This is mine.
Only the beginning.

She didn’t say it out loud, but she looked up at him — already seated across from her, knees close, watching but not asking — and passed the box forward. Not to hand it off. To invite him in.

“Pick one,” she said. “I’ll tell you the story.”

Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. But she didn’t take it back.

He reached for the first thing — one of the photos, a school picture of her in the third grade. Leighton with uneven bangs and an oversized hoodie she hadn’t taken off for weeks. She remembered crying in the bathroom that morning because her mom forgot it was picture day. Again.

There were other pictures. Some from shelters. A blurry one in front of a motel sign with a sun-faded “VACANCY.” One from a birthday where she held up a cupcake with a single candle and fake smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. She was eleven in that one — the year her mom said they were moving to Hawaii “for a fresh start,” but it took three more years and five different addresses before they actually did.

There were diary entries too.
Scrawled, unfiltered, angry.
“I hate her.”
“She said I was being dramatic again.”
“She let him stay the night.”

She didn’t flinch when he reached for them. Not this time.

Because she wasn’t ashamed of the girl who wrote those things. Just hurt for her. Hurt for how long she’d thought it was normal — the silence, the screaming, the pretending. The way her mom called her her “little firefly” one day and ignored her the next. The way she always acted more like a friend than a parent, right up until she wasn’t either.

She leaned back on her palms, breathing in the weight of the moment.
Then whispered, more to herself than him:

“She always said I had too many feelings.”

And maybe she did.
But tonight, she wasn’t hiding them.

Not from him.
Not anymore.

[Spencer Walker]

He didn’t reach for the photo right away.

Just looked at her — really looked — like maybe his heart had taken one full step out of his chest and hadn’t figured out how to come back yet.

Because this?

This was Leighton unzipped.
Not the girl with comebacks sharp enough to keep people out. Not the curated version she carried around like armor. But the kid she used to be. The one nobody took care of. The one who somehow survived it anyway.

He picked up the school photo because it was on top — but the truth was, it could’ve been anything in that box. A ticket stub. A candy wrapper. One of those torn, angry pages that still smelled like an old notebook and a cry she never got to finish. It didn’t matter.

Because whatever she gave him, he’d hold it like gold.

Like proof.

Like truth.

“Third grade, huh?” he said softly, thumb brushing over the glossy edge of the photo. He glanced up. “The bangs are kinda killing me, not gonna lie.”

A breath of a smile tugged at his mouth — not to make light of it, but to give her a thread back to now. To this moment. To him.

Leighton didn’t laugh, but she didn’t look away either.

So he kept going.

“You look like you were planning your villain origin story. Hoodie and all.”

She huffed, barely, and he counted it as a win.

But then his eyes dropped back to the box. To everything it held. And the smile faded.

He didn’t say I’m sorry — because it didn’t feel big enough, not for this. Not for a childhood turned into a patchwork of shelters and disappointments and feelings that had nowhere safe to land.

Instead, he reached for one of the diary pages — the one with jagged black ink bleeding all the way to the edges. He didn’t read it out loud. Just let his thumb trace the way her handwriting slanted harder near the bottom, like she’d been gripping the pen too tight.

“She was wrong, you know,” he said quietly.

Leighton tilted her head, not following.

“Your mom,” Spencer clarified. “You don’t have too many feelings. You just had no one who knew what to do with them.”

He looked up again, and this time he meant it — voice like velvet over glass.

“I do.”

And maybe that should’ve felt like too much. Too soon. Too weighty for the kind of night that started with a walk and ended in memory excavation on her bedroom floor.

But Spencer didn’t care.

Because if she was brave enough to lay herself bare like this, then he sure as hell could be brave enough to stay.

He set the photo down. Not on top of the pile, but beside it — like he’d just started his own collection of her. Like this was chapter one, and he didn’t plan on skipping a page.

Then, a beat later — gentler, lighter:

“Can I see the cupcake one next?”

Leighton blinked at him.

He shrugged. “Feels important. Like a milestone. Also, I bet that fake smile was tragic.”

And when she reached into the box with fingers that didn’t tremble this time — when she passed it over without flinching — Spencer smiled, too.

Not the crooked, guarded kind.

But the kind that said I’m still here.

And I’m not going anywhere.

[Leighton Thomas]

Leighton didn’t say anything at first.

Just watched him hold the photo like it was made of glass. Like she was. And maybe that’s what finally made her speak.

“That was taken in Fresno,” she said, voice low but steady. “Outside a Rite Aid. Violet had just cut my bangs with sewing scissors and said I looked like the lead singer of a punk band, which — no. I looked like I lost a fight with a lawnmower.”

She didn’t smile, but her voice had that edge. The one that made it easier to talk.

“She was sixteen when she had me. Sixteen. I used to think that explained everything, like there was a manual called How to Raise a Kid While Still Being One, and she never got a copy.”

Her eyes flicked to the box.

“She tried, I think. Or… sometimes she tried. Other times she forgot. Forgot to pick me up, forgot to call, forgot we had rent due. More than once, it was the car. Back seat for sleeping, front seat for arguing, glove box for birthday candles and loose change. I turned nine in a Walmart parking lot. She cried because she couldn’t afford a cake, so I told her I hated cake.”

Her voice cracked on that last part — just a little.

“That picture? I kept it because it was the one day we didn’t fight. I had a vending machine cupcake, and she lit one of those candles from the glove box, and for like six minutes, it felt like maybe we were okay. Like maybe we were normal.”

She reached for another photo — the “cupcake one” — and passed it to him gently.

“I know it looks dumb. The smile’s fake. You can practically hear me gritting my teeth through it. But I needed something. Proof I existed.”

Then, quieter:

“Most days back then, I didn’t feel real. I felt like someone she made up.”

Leighton sat back, curling her fingers in the hem of her sweatshirt.

“We used to feel more like sisters than anything else. Or like… she was the hot older girl who made terrible decisions and I was the annoying little tagalong with a backpack full of granola bars and fake maturity. She’d tell me about boys and jobs and whatever wild plan she had that week, and I’d nod like I got it — like I wasn’t just a kid hoping this time, it wouldn’t fall apart.”

She glanced at him — brief, honest.

“It always did.”

Another breath. Then softer:

“But she’s different now. She’s trying. Actually trying. She doesn’t lie to me anymore, and she doesn’t let guys come around. That was one of the rules — no dating until I graduate. We made it together. And she kept it. For once.”

Her voice trembled, but didn’t break.

“Hawaii was the best decision she ever made. We left everything — the debt, the drama, the whole damn mess. And I think… I think we’re finally building something that might not fall apart.”

Leighton looked down at the box — at all the versions of her still curled up in it, waiting.

“I used to be scared someone would see this and run. That they’d think I was damaged or dramatic or too much. But you didn’t. You just stayed.”

She met his eyes.

“And I don’t think I can explain what that means. Not yet. But I needed you to know.”

She leaned her head on her knees again, quiet now. Still open.

Not waiting for him to fix it.

Just waiting for him to stay.

[Spencer Walker]

He didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t fill the space like he usually might, didn’t toss out some quip or try to soften the sharp edges of everything she’d just laid bare.

He just sat there, the cupcake photo warm in his palm and the ache in his chest blooming slow — not jagged, not overwhelming. Just... deep. Like it had roots now. Like she had roots now.

Because this?
This was her story. And she trusted him with it.

And he wasn’t gonna fumble that.

He let his thumb run lightly across the glossy print. Her smile — tight, forced, fiercely bright like it might shatter if you looked at it too long. But God, she was still so her. Even at eleven. Even holding a vending machine cupcake like it was something sacred.

“You didn’t look dumb,” he said eventually, voice low. “You looked like a kid doing her best to believe in six minutes of okay.”

His throat tightened, and he had to glance down, blinking slow.

“And if that’s not the most badass thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not really. But it gave her the out, if she wanted it. The breath. The thread of humor in the middle of the storm.

But when she didn’t reach for it — when she just looked at him, knees hugged to her chest and soul still in the open air — he leaned in closer. Not to fix. Just to be there.

He placed the photo gently back into the box like it was glass again. Or like it was holy.

And maybe it was.

Maybe all of it was — the motel signs and the torn notebook pages and the half-lit birthdays. Not because they were easy or beautiful, but because she made it through.

“Leigh,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough now. “You were real before anyone deserved you. You were real when she forgot. When she left. When she broke promises. You were real every damn second.”

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that sounded too big for his lungs.

“And I hate that she didn’t always see that. I hate that no one made you feel like enough back then. But you’re not invisible now. Not to me.”

A pause. Then:

“I see every part of you. All of them. The one with the busted bangs and the cupcake and the fake smile. The one with the granola bars and the too-much-heart. The one sitting right here, still trying to hold the pieces like maybe it’s her job to make sure they don’t break again.”

He reached out then — slow, not assuming — and brushed his fingers lightly over hers where they clutched the hem of her sweatshirt.

“They don’t scare me,” he said simply. “None of them do.”

Another beat passed, thick with meaning.

“You don’t scare me.”

And maybe that was the closest he’d ever come to saying I love you without the words.
Not yet.
Not tonight.

But it was there.
In every look.
Every breath.
Every choice to stay.

He didn’t ask her to explain it.
Didn’t ask for anything at all.

He just shifted a little closer — enough that their knees touched now — and rested his forehead gently against hers. Quiet. Grounded. Present.

Because she wasn’t asking for rescue.
She was asking for witness.

And he was right here.

[Leighton Thomas]

She should’ve looked away.

Should’ve cracked a joke or rolled her eyes or done anything to shift the weight of what he’d just handed her — not some platitude or fix-it fantasy, but something real. Something honest.

You don’t scare me.

God.

It was a simple sentence. Soft and steady. But it landed like a damn earthquake.

Because her whole life, she’d been told — directly, indirectly, passively, loudly — that she was too much. Too angry. Too tender. Too loud. Too messy. Too needy. Too everything.

And now this boy — this soft-eyed, anxious, too-smart-for-his-own-good boy — had just looked her dead in the soul and said I’m not afraid.

Not of her past.

Not of her feelings.

Not of the way she still flinched when the lights were too bright or the quiet too sharp.

Not of the fact that she hadn’t always been lovable.

She felt it hit her ribcage like a bell. Low and echoing.

Not invisible now. Not to me.

Leighton blinked hard, her throat tightening. Not because she was about to cry — not exactly — but because something else was rising. Something she hadn’t let herself name before.

Hope.

It didn’t roar. Didn’t demand. It just flickered — low and warm, like maybe, maybe, she didn’t have to survive alone anymore.

“You know,” she said quietly, thumb dragging across the edge of the sweatshirt sleeve she’d been picking at, “I used to dream up what I’d say if someone ever asked. Like, really asked. Not in that guidance counselor ‘are you safe at home?’ checkbox way. But actually wanted to know.”

She glanced at him, her voice softening.

“But no one ever did.”

A breath.

“And then you showed me yours — your version of this. Your shoebox. And something just… clicked. Like, I don’t know, maybe we’re the same brand of messed-up.”

Her eyes dropped back to the box between them.

“I didn’t bring it out tonight to get some gold star for trauma. I brought it out because I trust you. And I don’t really do that. Like, ever.”

She paused, then let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“Also, you’re right — the cupcake smile was tragic.”

Her hand found his, and this time, she didn’t hesitate.

Not because she needed anchoring.

But because she wanted the contact. Wanted him.

“This stuff?” she added, nodding toward the torn pages, the pictures, the pieces of her life she used to keep zipped inside like they might explode — “It doesn’t own me anymore. But it is part of me. And if you’re gonna keep sticking around, you should probably know what came before the girl in your t-shirts and smudged eyeliner.”

She looked up at him, eyes steady now.

“No more armor. No more faking. Just me.”

Another pause, then:

“You still in?”

But the truth was, she already knew the answer.

Because he hadn’t let go.

Not of the photo.

Not of her hand.

Not of any of it.

And in that moment, under the soft hum of a half-dead lamp and the weight of every secret they’d traded tonight, Leighton let herself believe — really believe — that maybe this was the start of something real.

Not perfect.

Not shiny.

But true.

And for the first time in her life?

That felt like enough.

[Spencer Walker]

He should’ve said something.

Something smooth. Reassuring.
Maybe made her laugh. Maybe said “hell yes, I’m in,” with the kind of confidence that didn’t shake at the edges.

But the truth was?

He couldn’t speak.

Not right away. Not with her looking at him like that — like she already knew. Like she could see the answer in the way he still hadn’t let go of her hand, in the way he was holding that photo like it might bruise if he wasn’t careful.

Spencer’s throat felt tight. Not like he was choking up. More like… something had caught in his chest. Something small and wild and sacred.

Because God, what do you do when the girl who’s spent her whole life bracing for impact finally lets herself soften?

When she takes off the armor and says I trust you with nothing but quiet and eyes that don't flinch?

You don't run.

You stay.

Even if you’re scared.
Even if your heart’s beating like it’s trying to outpace the moment.
Even if you’ve never seen something so real up close before and you're terrified you’ll mess it up.

He lifted their joined hands — slow, like reverence — and turned it over so his palm cradled hers.

“Leigh…” he started, then stopped, then tried again. “I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this. Not from anyone. Definitely not from you.”

Not that she wasn’t capable of it.
But because she'd been made to believe no one wanted what she had to give.

And that made him angry in a quiet, permanent kind of way — the kind that doesn’t burn fast, but etches itself in.

“I know I’m not always good with words in the moment,” he added, eyes flicking down. “Like, I feel them, but they get stuck on the way out. Or I overthink and panic and say something weird about, like… raccoons or something.”

She gave him a soft really? look.

“Raccoons are excellent metaphors for emotional sabotage,” he deadpanned, then shrugged one shoulder. “Anyway. My point is — I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked up then, and this time, he didn’t falter.

“I’m in. Whatever this is. However messy or complicated or ‘cupcake-smile tragic’ it gets, I’m in. You, your shoebox, your past, your realness — all of it.”

He shifted slightly, still holding her hand, and leaned in like he was telling her a secret.

“You don’t scare me, Leighton. You undo me. But that’s different.”

And there it was again — the flicker of something between them that felt bigger than either of them knew how to name yet.

He didn’t try to kiss her. Didn’t rush the moment.

He just sat there, forehead nearly brushing hers, like he had nowhere better to be.

Because he didn’t.

She was it.

Not the highlight reel. Not the tough-girl act. Not the polished version she thought she had to be.

Just her.

And damn if that wasn’t the most incredible thing he’d ever been lucky enough to witness.