Kai couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face — the kind that started slow, tugging at the corners of his mouth before it took over completely. He looked at her like she’d just walked straight into his favorite punchline.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, lifting his hands in mock defense, “the Mercer folklore is highly classified information. We don’t share casserole-based prophecies with just anyone. You should feel honored. Next Christmas, I’ll show you the scrolls — they’re written in gravy.”

He let out a laugh, the sound low and warm, before nodding toward the pie. “And second — hey, this ‘slightly lopsided apple pie’ might be the key to the whole dynasty. It’s got rustic charm. My mom’s gonna love that. She’s all about ‘character.’ Which is good, because this thing’s got loads of it.”

When Lennon teased him about turning her panic-baking into a religious experience, he pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Excuse you — Saint Betty Crocker is absolutely in the Mercer Hall of Fame. Right next to Saint Instant Mashed Potatoes and the patron saint of perfectly toasted marshmallows.”

Her laugh filled the kitchen again, and he felt it — the way it warmed everything, softened the space between them until it didn’t feel like a mess anymore. Just… them.

When she started worrying about his mom, though, he could hear the shift in her voice — that old thread of doubt woven through her teasing. So he bumped her shoulder again, gentler this time, the grin still there but softer now.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter. “You forget — I wasn’t exactly the golden child either.”

He leaned back against the counter beside her, gesturing vaguely toward himself. “Middle kid. Total stealth chaos. My brothers broke stuff, got caught, learned lessons. I broke stuff, blamed it on the wind, and somehow got away with it.” He smirked. “Mom says it was the dimples. I say it was strategy.”

He glanced at her then, tone shifting just enough to show the truth beneath the joke. “She’s seen me at my worst, Len. Way before I figured out who I wanted to be. So trust me — if she could survive that version of me, she’s gonna adore you.”

Her brows lifted, and he grinned wider. “I mean, yeah, she might still have teenage you in her head — purple streaks, eyeliner rebellion, calling her ‘dude’ — but honestly?” He shrugged. “She loved you even back then. She just didn’t get to know you yet. Now she will. And she’s gonna see exactly what I see.”

He nudged her again, eyes warm. “You’re the kind of person people just… root for. She’s gonna feel that the second you walk in.”

The pie steamed quietly between them, filling the air with cinnamon and butter and something that felt suspiciously like peace.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And if she doesn’t — which she will, but hypothetically — we’ll just lean into it. You can charm her with your ‘weaponized cinnamon’ and I’ll remind her I’m the middle child. She’ll immediately take pity on both of us.”

He shot her a sideways grin, bumping her shoulder once more. “Face it, Rae. Between the folklore, the dimples, and your dangerously good bribes, we’re unstoppable.”

He looked down at the pie again, then back at her, his tone light but certain. “And hey — if she ends up liking the pie more than you, I’ll handle it. I’ll start an argument about crust thickness, distract her, and casually redirect the praise your way. I’m a professional.”

He paused, his grin turning softer. “But between you and me?” He lowered his voice like he was sharing another Mercer family secret. “She’s gonna love you. Way more than the pie.”

He winked, bumping her shoulder once more for good measure. “Even if that breaks every law of Mercer baking tradition.”

Lennon leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms as she stared him down — or at least tried to, because the grin on his face was making it impossible to stay annoyed.

“Written in gravy,” she repeated, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was even entertaining this. “You’re insufferable. Actual, walking kitchen chaos. You know that, right?”

But the corner of her mouth was already twitching, her voice softening around the edges. “Although, if the scrolls are real, I fully expect a dramatic unveiling ceremony. Candlelight. Gregorian chants. Maybe a choir of potatoes singing in harmony.”

When he called the pie rustic charm, she snorted. “Rustic charm? That’s what we’re calling ‘barely held together but trying its best’ now?” she teased, turning back to glance at it. “Well, I guess that tracks. It’s on brand for both of us.”

She caught his next line and shot him a look, half laughing. “Did you just canonize instant mashed potatoes? I swear to God, Kai, if you actually have a family shrine with a gravy-scented candle, I’m calling a documentary crew.”

But then he laughed, that real kind — the one that didn’t hide behind anything — and it hit her how long it had been since she’d heard it like that. Unfiltered. Easy.

She looked down for a second, letting the sound settle in her chest.

When he mentioned not being the golden child, her brow arched. “Oh, right, stealth chaos Mercer,” she said, pretending to think. “That checks out. You had that suspiciously calm energy in interviews — like you were secretly setting fires just off camera.”

She laughed when he said dimples but her voice went quieter when he went on, and she glanced up at him, her expression softening. “You really don’t give yourself enough credit,” she said. “Even back then, you were the one holding it all together. You made everyone else look like they knew what they were doing. Including me.”

When he said she’s gonna adore you, Lennon exhaled slowly, trying to mask how much that landed. She traced her fingertip through a bit of flour on the counter, pretending to focus on that instead of the way her chest had just tightened.

“She always was too kind,” she murmured, smiling a little. “She could’ve told me I was an absolute disaster, but instead she made me cocoa and asked if I missed home.” Lennon laughed softly at the memory. “I think I told her I didn’t have time to miss anything. Which was code for ‘I definitely do but please don’t make me cry about it.’”

She looked over at him again, eyes a little shinier than before. “It’s weird, you know? Back then, everything was so loud. All the cameras and expectations and… versions of us. I don’t think I ever got to just be around you like this.”

Then, because the air felt too honest, she nudged him with her elbow and added lightly, “So yeah, if I can survive that, I can survive your mom.”

When he brought up weaponized cinnamon, she grinned, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m already planning my strategy. I’ll bring cookies as a distraction. Compliment her table settings. Maybe throw in a sob story about how I was orphaned by bad pie recipes.”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “You can handle the dimples and folklore angle. I’ll handle the pastry manipulation. Divide and conquer.”

When he said we’re unstoppable, she looked up at him again — and this time the smile that spread across her face was slow, genuine, and warm. “Unstoppable,” she repeated softly. “That’s… new. I like that.”

Then his last line landed, the one about her mom liking her more than the pie, and Lennon laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You really think you can out-charm your own mother for me?” she asked, her voice dipping lower, playful but tender. “That’s bold, Mercer. Borderline reckless.”

She stepped a little closer, bumping his shoulder back, eyes glinting. “But hey — if you’re wrong, and she ends up loving the pie more…”

Her mouth curved into a grin. “I’ll just tell her it was your recipe. Then we’ll both win.”

She turned back to the counter, brushing a bit of flour from her hands, and added quietly — almost like she didn’t mean for him to hear it —

“Still… I really hope you’re right about her.”

Then she looked up again, that teasing spark returning just in time. “Now are you gonna help me clean this, or do I have to call the flour exorcist to handle the Mercer curse?”

Kai laughed, low and unbothered, because yeah — he probably deserved that one.

“Alright, first of all,” he said, straightening and gesturing broadly toward the mess around them, “you make it sound like I chose to be kitchen chaos incarnate. This is generational. It’s inherited. We can’t all be blessed with pastry serenity, Lennon Rae.”

He paused, tapping his chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Although, the potato choir idea? Noted. I’ll pitch that at the next Mercer family summit. We’ll gather in the sacred kitchen, sing hymns to Saint Crockpot, and close with a gravy benediction.”

When she rolled her eyes, he grinned, but his chest felt lighter — the kind of light that came from watching her laugh here, in this little patch of ordinary life, where nothing needed to be perfect.

And still, when she said rustic charm, he winced dramatically. “You wound me. I’ll have you know ‘barely held together but trying its best’ is the Mercer family motto. It’s right there on the crest, above the spatula and below the passive-aggressive casserole.”

Her laughter pulled one out of him too — the real kind, the one he hadn’t felt stuck behind a microphone or in front of a camera in years.

But when she brought up his mom, the humor softened around the edges. He looked down, brushing some stray flour off the counter, voice dipping low. “Yeah, she’s… kind of the best.”

He smiled at the thought, eyes distant for a second. “Thing is, she’s seen every version of me — the good kid, the stage brat, the middle-child ghost no one was really watching because my brothers were busy breaking bones and winning trophies. I wasn’t bad, exactly… just good at going unnoticed when I wanted to.”

He shrugged, still smiling, but smaller now. “Guess it’s easier to joke about being the problem than admit I was just a kid trying to keep up.”

Then he looked back at Lennon, eyes warm again. “But you don’t have to worry. If my mom loved that version of me, she’s gonna love you. You don’t have to charm her or bribe her or weaponize cinnamon — though, admittedly, that sounds incredible.”

He nudged her gently, his shoulder brushing hers. “She’s got this thing about people who show up as themselves. Always said the world gets loud enough without us pretending to be someone else.”

He smiled faintly. “So, yeah. She’ll like you. Not in spite of who you were at sixteen, but because of who you are now.”

Lennon said something under her breath about hoping he was right, and Kai caught it — didn’t call her out on it, just let his hand drift to rest over hers on the counter for a second. “Trust me,” he murmured. “I’m right.”

Then, before the air could get too heavy, he glanced around the disaster zone of the kitchen and grinned. “Now, as for this flour exorcism you mentioned…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I know a guy. Specializes in hauntings caused by overconfident bakers and middle-child energy.”

He reached for the towel and flicked a puff of flour her way before she could dodge. “But his rates are high, so you might have to pay him in pie.”

Lennon gasped, scandalized, and he laughed — the kind that came from somewhere deep, somewhere happy.

“Relax,” he said, ducking away before she could retaliate. “You summoned me, remember? Domestic magic, folklore, and all that.” He gestured to himself with exaggerated pride. “I’m your flour exorcist and your cleanup crew. Congratulations — you’re officially dating a one-man kitchen cult.”

He reached for the rag again, brushing a streak of flour off her cheek, softer this time. “And for the record,” he said, voice gentler now, “you’re gonna be just fine.”

He gave her that easy grin again — the one that carried both the joke and the truth beneath it — then added, “Now grab a sponge, Saint Lennon. Let’s prove to the ancestors we can clean as well as we conjure.”

Lennon blinked at him, then pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh — and failing spectacularly.

“A one-man kitchen cult,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That’s what you’re going with? Not, like, band frontman, or chart-topping producer, or even just guy with a working oven?” Her mouth curved as she eyed the mess around them. “You’re really locking in on kitchen cult leader as your brand?”

She pointed at the flour explosion coating half the counter. “And for the record, this doesn’t scream inherited magic, Kai. This screams, ‘a ghost sneezed in self-defense.’”

When he mentioned the Mercer family motto, she laughed — soft and genuine, the kind that crinkled her eyes. “Barely held together but trying its best?” she said. “That sounds less like a family crest and more like the title of your memoir.”

But her teasing softened when he talked about his mom. The shift in his tone pulled her in, quieted something in her chest. She leaned a little closer, her voice gentle now. “You weren’t invisible, you know,” she said. “You were just—steady. You had this way of making chaos look like it was supposed to happen.”

Her mouth lifted in a small, crooked smile. “And yeah, you joked your way through most of it, but I don’t think anyone ever missed you. You were the gravity holding the rest of it together.”

When he said his mom would love her, Lennon didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him — the easy way he said it, the quiet certainty that made it sound like fact instead of hope.

She swallowed, glancing down at their hands when his brushed over hers. “That’s a lot of faith for a girl who once set her sleeve on fire making grilled cheese,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “But… thank you.”

Then, because lingering too long in that softness made her nervous, she arched a brow. “Also, for the record, I absolutely plan to weaponize cinnamon. I don’t care if she likes me for me — I’m still stacking the odds.”

When he flicked flour her way, she gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, you did not just—”

He did.

“Alright, that’s it, cult boy,” she said, grabbing a handful of flour and lunging at him, barely missing as he dodged out of reach. “You wanna start a flour war? Fine, but just know I will win.”

The kitchen dissolved into laughter and chaos — streaks of white on countertops and clothes, both of them tripping over their own bad aim until Lennon finally leaned against the counter, out of breath, cheeks flushed.

“Okay,” she said between laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Truce. I don’t think your ancestors would approve of this level of sacrilege.”

When he reached out again, brushing the last bit of flour off her cheek, she stilled — the playfulness easing into something smaller, quieter. “You’re really sure about me meeting her, huh?” she asked softly, eyes searching his.

And when he said you’re gonna be just fine, it landed in that place between her ribs that always seemed to catch when he said things like that — not big declarations, not promises, just truths that felt like home.

She smiled — really smiled this time — and nudged him with her elbow. “Fine, flour exorcist,” she said lightly, though her voice was still a little too warm. “But if we’re summoning the Mercer ancestors, I’m making you do the dishes. They’ll expect a sacrifice.”

Then she grabbed a sponge, bumping his hip on her way past him toward the sink. “And next time,” she tossed over her shoulder, “we’re sticking to cookies. Less holy intervention required.”

Kai grinned, brushing a streak of flour off his forearm and watching her like she was the best kind of chaos—his favorite kind.

“Cookies, huh?” he said, leaning against the counter, pretending to think. “That’s a dangerous downgrade for a cult leader. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You can’t just go from mystical pie summoner to… casual cookie guy. There are rankings to these things.”

She bumped his hip on her way past, and he let out a quiet laugh that melted straight into something softer. Watching her move around the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair a little wild, smile still tugging at the edges of her mouth—yeah. He could live in this kind of mess forever.

When she called him cult boy, he pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “Excuse you. We prefer the term ‘flourship leader.’ Much more dignified.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, and he lost it, laughing hard enough that he had to lean on the counter to catch his breath. “Okay, okay—fine. Cookies next time. But don’t think you’re getting out of doing the ritual chants.”

Lennon shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ridiculous, but there was color in her cheeks, and the sound of her laugh still hung between them.

Kai picked up a sponge from the sink, flicking a bit of suds her way just because he could. “You started this war, you know,” he teased. “I was an innocent bystander until the cinnamon-wielding witch over here declared martial law.”

She threw him that try me look again, and it made something warm tighten in his chest.

“Man,” he said under his breath, mostly to himself, “how did I get this lucky?”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But once it was there, hanging in the air with the smell of apples and sugar, he didn’t take it back.

Because it was true.

All the joking, the folklore, the flour fights—they made it easy to forget the part that scared him most: that someone like her could see him as more than the goofy kid who got lucky, who stumbled into music, into life, into her. But hearing her say he’d been the gravity, that he’d held things together… it made him want to believe it.

He stepped closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers as he reached for the dish towel. “For the record,” he said, quieter now, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m positive you’ll be fine when you meet her. She’ll see you the way I do.”

She glanced up, caught off guard, and he softened the moment with a smirk. “Which means she’ll probably think you’re way too good for me and ask how you’ve survived my culinary crimes this long.”

He turned back to the sink, rinsing off a bowl, but his voice stayed easy, steady. “Still… she’ll get it. Us. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”

When he looked back, Lennon was watching him, that quiet little smile still ghosting on her lips. He couldn’t help returning it, brushing the back of his hand against her arm as he passed her a clean plate.

“Team Mercer, huh?” he said, nodding toward the pie cooling on the counter. “Not bad for a couple of saints and sinners with a rolling pin.”

Then, with a grin that was equal parts challenge and affection, he added, “Next round, though—cookies. I’m bringing the folklore. You bring the fire extinguisher.”

He waited for her laugh—because it always came—and when it did, it was everything.

Lennon let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Flourship leader. You can’t even hear yourself, can you?”

She turned, pointing the towel at him like a gavel. “You say things like that and then expect me to take you seriously when you’re talking about ancient Mercer traditions and pastry rituals. You are one burnt crust away from being banned from your own kitchen.”

He grinned, that half-sheepish, half-smug look that always seemed to undo her, and she groaned dramatically. “God, you really are the same guy who tried to convince a whole film crew that the oven was haunted back in 2011.”

She tossed the towel over her shoulder, a smile tugging despite herself. “Spoiler alert: it was a loose pilot light. Not a vengeful carb spirit.”

But when he laughed—really laughed—it pulled something loose in her chest. It wasn’t loud or showy; it was the kind that rolled low and easy, familiar in the best way.

When he called her the cinnamon-wielding witch, she smirked, leaning back against the counter beside him. “That’s Dr. Cinnamon Witch, thank you very much. I earned my title in battle.”

He flicked suds at her, and she gasped, wide-eyed in mock outrage. “Did you just—?!” She grabbed the nearest thing—a measuring cup—and filled it with water, holding it threateningly above the sink. “You sure you wanna start a second kitchen war, cult boy? I don’t think your ancestors have the emotional stamina for another one.”

But then he said it. That small, unguarded how did I get this lucky—and everything in her stilled.

Her hand lowered, and for a second, she just looked at him. Really looked. The curve of his mouth, the way the light from the window cut through the flour haze and caught the flecks of gold in his eyes.

She smiled softly, the kind that didn’t need to be big to feel real. “You’re lucky?” she said quietly, shaking her head. “You make everything fun, Kai. Even the parts that are supposed to be stressful.”

When he said she’d be fine meeting his mom, she bit her lip, pretending to busy herself with rinsing a bowl, but her heart was somewhere else—caught between his certainty and the warmth in his voice.

“She’ll probably think I’m a menace,” Lennon said, forcing a grin, “or at least deeply unqualified to operate her son’s kitchen equipment. Which, honestly, fair.”

He passed her a plate, and their fingers brushed, a small touch that felt too electric for something so ordinary. She took it, setting it on the drying rack, but her voice came out quieter. “Still. Thanks, Kai. For saying that.”

When he said Team Mercer, she finally looked back at him, eyes soft. “Team Mercer, huh?” she echoed, smirking. “Careful, that sounds dangerously close to commitment. You might have to start printing shirts.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she added, “I get veto power on the slogans, though. I’m not walking around in public wearing Saints and Sinners with a Rolling Pin.”

Her laughter came easily then, bubbling up before she could stop it. “Alright, flourship leader,” she said, leaning one hip against the counter, “cookies next time. But no folklore, no hauntings, and absolutely no summoning rituals. Just… you, me, and maybe something we can actually eat without fear of divine punishment.”

Then, softer, with a small smile that lingered, she added, “Though, between us—this was kind of perfect.”

Kai was absolutely, one hundred percent, pleased with himself.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with that lazy, crooked grin that meant he knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded and had no intention of stopping. “Can’t hear myself?” he repeated, feigning offense. “Lennon Rae, I’m a flourship leader. We operate exclusively through divine chaos and questionable acoustics.”

She gave him that towel-pointing glare — the one halfway between exasperation and affection — and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Hey, for the record,” he said, “that oven did make noises. You can’t prove it wasn’t haunted. Pilot lights are just how ghosts communicate in the modern age.”

When she called him out on it being a “vengeful carb spirit,” he couldn’t hold it anymore — his laugh came easy, rolling through the flour-thick air, the kind that warmed the room more than any oven could. “Okay, okay, fine. Maybe I embellished a little. But in my defense, the craft services guy looked terrified. I was creating an experience.”

The “Dr. Cinnamon Witch” line just about finished him. He straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh, pardon me,” he said, bowing deeply, hand over his heart. “Dr. Cinnamon Witch, PhD in Confectionery Combat. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of kitchen royalty.”

He barely ducked in time when she raised the measuring cup. “Whoa, whoa, truce! The ancestors can’t handle another uprising,” he said, laughing so hard he had to put a hand on the counter to steady himself.

She was radiant like that — messy, alive, glowing with something that didn’t come from the kitchen light at all. He wanted to bottle the sound of her laugh, the flour in her hair, the easy way she moved through the wreckage like it was some kind of home.

When she said you’re lucky, he didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Oh, I know I am,” he said, voice low but sure, eyes never leaving her. “Seriously. You walk into my life, and suddenly I’ve got folklore, chaos, and a kitchen that smells like a bakery caught in a snowstorm. I’ve never been luckier.”

He meant it — every word — and he didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

When she teased about Team Mercer shirts, he just hummed thoughtfully. “Too late. Already ordered a batch. Front says Saints and Sinners with a Rolling Pin, back says Join the Flourship. Limited edition.” He gave her a mock-serious look. “I’m thinking merch line. We’ll go global.”

Her laugh hit him like gravity — the kind of sound that made the world tilt back into place.

He watched her, utterly content, his chest full in that steady, impossible way that love sneaks up on you — not loud, not dramatic, just there. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “if this is what kitchen chaos looks like with you, I think we might be onto something holy after all.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but he caught the smile she tried to hide.

He pushed off the counter, closing the space between them just enough to brush a bit of flour from her shoulder — an excuse, maybe, but one he’d happily take. “Cookies next time,” he said softly, that amused edge still curling through his voice. “No folklore, no hauntings. Just you, me, and something edible. Deal.”

Then, after a beat, his grin widened. “But if they accidentally turn out perfect, I’m still claiming divine intervention. Can’t risk losing my brand.”

Her laugh came again, easy and bright, and Kai decided right then that he could spend forever trying to earn that sound.

Lennon laughed softly under her breath, shaking her head as she wiped the counter with the corner of a towel. “You realize you’ve completely hijacked this kitchen with your cult of carbs, right?” she said, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and fondness. “We were supposed to be baking, not summoning spirits of the oven.”

When he quipped something back about divine chaos, she let out a mock groan, throwing the towel onto the counter. “Divine chaos, my ass. You’re just allergic to structure. You should’ve come with a warning label—may cause spontaneous messes and excessive laughter.”

His grin widened, and she sighed in fake exasperation, though her voice softened at the edges. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, “but at least you’re entertaining.”

When he teased about the haunted oven, Lennon shot him a look over her shoulder, the kind that could’ve melted the butter left on the counter. “You and your ghost stories. I’m starting to think the real haunting here is your ego.”

He said something back—probably smug—and she rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, quieter this time, her words more instinct than thought. “Otherwise, I’d have thrown this pie at you five minutes ago.”

He countered, teasing again about his divine luck, and Lennon just smiled, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You think you’re charming, don’t you?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

When he reached over and brushed the flour from her sleeve, she froze for a heartbeat. It was such a simple thing—small, easy—but it hit different. Slower. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric, the steadiness of him standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Cookies next time, huh?” she echoed, her voice quieter now, more sincere than teasing. “Fine. But if we burn them, I’m blaming you—and your flourship.”

He said something about divine intervention again, and Lennon smiled, shaking her head as she grabbed a rag to finish cleaning up. “Right. Divine intervention. That’s one way to put it,” she said, glancing at him through the faint haze of flour in the air.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. The laughter, the warmth, the soft hum of the room—it all felt suspended for a second, like the kind of moment that didn’t ask to be named.

She exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the counter.

“Yeah,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “definitely cookies next time.”

And for the first time in a long time, she realized she was already looking forward to it.

Lennon sat cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, surrounded by a half-organized sea of photo prints. Test shots. Outtakes. Possible covers for the new EP.
Some were glossy, some matte — all of them pieces of something she couldn’t quite name yet.

The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, golden and soft, catching on the edges of the scattered photos. A mug of half-finished coffee sat within arm’s reach, cooling fast. Her laptop was open beside her, a half-typed note that just read:
Title ideas:
– something honest
– something that sounds like healing
– something that still hurts a little

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, eyes moving between the prints — the close-ups, the blurred ones, the accidental ones she secretly loved most.

That’s when she heard it — the familiar sound of the front door opening, the muffled laughter that always came before Wren’s voice.

“Lenny! We saw ducks!”

Her head lifted just in time to see Kai and Wren step into the living room — cheeks flushed from the cold, Wren still clutching a stick like it was treasure. Lennon smiled, automatically. “Ducks, huh? You make any friends?”

Wren nodded seriously, shedding her coat with the kind of chaotic precision only kids could manage. “Two ducks and a dog,” she said, climbing up onto the couch. “The dog barked at Daddy but he said it was fine.”

Kai muttered something about overconfident golden retrievers, but Lennon was already laughing.

Wren’s eyes darted to the table, curiosity lighting up her whole face. “What’s this?” she asked, kneeling beside Lennon before she could answer. Little hands started rearranging the photos, turning some upside down, stacking others in neat little piles.

“Pictures,” Lennon said gently. “For my new project. I’m trying to pick which one should go on the cover.”

Wren tilted her head, studying them like she was about to deliver a professional critique. “The one where you’re smiling is pretty,” she said after a moment. “But this one—” she pointed to a shadowy black-and-white frame, “—looks like when a song gets sad before it gets better.”

Lennon blinked. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone’s said about my music,” she murmured, glancing toward Kai with a soft smile.

Then Wren looked up, eyes bright and earnest. “Are you a singer too? Like Daddy?”

The question landed in that small, tender way only kids could manage — simple, curious, unfiltered. Lennon felt her heart tug a little. She brushed a piece of hair behind Wren’s ear and smiled.

“Yeah, kinda like Daddy,” she said quietly. “Except I write songs about messy kitchens and too much coffee instead of dragons and campfires.”

Wren giggled at that, eyes wide. “Can I help you pick?”

Lennon nodded, sliding the photos toward her. “Absolutely. You’ve got good taste, kid. Maybe you should be my manager.”

Wren gasped, delighted by the idea, and Kai’s laughter drifted from behind the couch — low, familiar, grounding.

And as Lennon watched Wren sort through her prints with tiny, serious hands, she realized the afternoon light had changed again — softer now, spilling gold across the photos like the universe was quietly choosing for her.

Maybe the cover didn’t need to be perfect.
Maybe it just needed to feel like this.

Kai paused in the doorway for a second, watching the two of them before saying anything.

The living room looked like a creative battlefield—prints scattered like confetti, coffee cooling in the middle of the chaos, Lennon cross-legged in the middle of it all. Wren had already claimed her usual post beside her, humming something under her breath as she reorganized Lennon’s “artistic vision.”

And, honestly, Kai couldn’t remember the last time something had looked so right.

He set down Wren’s little jacket and the stick she’d named Sir Quackalot (“official duck ambassador,” she’d informed him on the walk home) and leaned a shoulder against the wall, smiling to himself. The whole room glowed the way it only did at this hour—sunlight soft, honey-colored, catching in Lennon’s hair, lighting up Wren’s tiny determined frown as she decided which of the prints belonged in the “good pile.”

He had no business being this content, but here he was.

“You realize,” he said, tone dry but amused, “that my kid has more natural A&R instincts than half the label execs I’ve met, right?”

Wren perked up immediately. “What’s A&R?”

“It’s the people who think they know which songs sound like money,” he said, walking over to crouch beside her. “But I think you’ve got better ears, kid. You’re hired.”

Wren grinned wide, already pointing at another photo. “This one looks like a secret,” she said, showing it to him with both hands.

Kai glanced at the picture—a candid one of Lennon laughing, hair half in her face, the kind of shot that wasn’t trying to be anything. He felt the corner of his mouth lift. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it does.”

He looked over at Lennon, who was watching them with that quiet, amused expression that always made him want to kiss her right where she sat. He didn’t, mostly because Wren was still dramatically curating an album rollout on the floor, but the thought was there—loud and persistent.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching Lennon’s gaze for a beat. “She’s right, you know. About the photos. The ones that don’t try so hard… those are the ones that stick.”

Wren nodded in emphatic agreement. “Messy ones are the best.”

Kai laughed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That’s the family motto at this point.”

He stayed there for a while, kneeling in the golden light with both of them, helping Wren line up photos in straight rows that didn’t stay straight for long. Every so often he’d catch Lennon watching him, that soft look returning—the one that made his heart feel too big for his chest.

It wasn’t loud or cinematic or the kind of moment you wrote songs about. It was better.

Wren held up two final prints for a dramatic tiebreaker. “This one,” she said, “because it’s happy. But this one’s brave.”

Kai looked at Lennon and smiled, quiet but certain. “Then maybe that’s the whole EP right there,” he said. “Happy and brave. Sounds like you.”

Wren beamed at the idea, clearly taking full credit for the discovery, while Kai leaned back on his heels, watching them both framed in light and music and peace.

He couldn’t have planned it if he tried—this strange, beautiful, ordinary perfection—but he didn’t need to. It was happening all on its own.

And for the first time in years, Kai Mercer didn’t want to be anywhere else.