The second her mouth crashed against his again, Kai didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think. He didn’t reach for another line or a promise. Words had gotten them nowhere. This—her—was the only language that mattered now.

His hands left the air and found her like they’d been waiting for years to land. One slid to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him, no gaps, no room for shadows. The other tangled in her hair at the nape of her neck, holding her there not as a claim, but as an anchor, as if he needed the weight of her to keep from flying apart.

He kissed her back like every unfinished call, every swallowed lyric, every regret was finally combusting out of him — not polished, not careful, but raw. His hoodie smelled faintly of smoke and city air, and when her thumb pressed harder against his collarbone, he leaned into it instead of shying away. For the first time, he didn’t hide.

The record still spun behind them, his younger voice bleeding out from the speakers, but Kai didn’t care. He wasn’t twenty anymore, bleeding out confessions through a mic because he couldn’t face her. He was here, in the wreckage, kissing her in a record store like the whole damn city could walk in and see. No hiding. No curtain.

When the kiss broke, his breath came harsh, ragged, but he didn’t step back. His forehead pressed to hers, eyes burning, and he let his actions do what words never could. He reached down, grabbed her hand where it still trembled against his chest, and lifted it slowly until he pressed it harder against his heartbeat.

Steady. Real.

He didn’t say see, didn’t whisper believe me. He just held her hand there, grounding her in the proof of him — the rhythm that hadn’t wavered, even when he had.

Then, still breathless, he bent and kissed her again. Softer this time. No fire, no fury, just a vow carried on lips instead of verses.

Not a song. Not a speech. Just him.

Her pulse stuttered beneath her skin, syncing to the beat he pressed her hand against. That steady thrum, warm and insistent under her palm, was louder than the crackle of the record, louder than the ghosts of his younger voice bleeding through the speakers. For years she’d told herself she imagined it — the connection, the pull, the way his music had felt like it was written from her own veins. But this? This was no song. This was proof.

Her eyes stayed closed as his forehead pressed to hers, letting the ragged edges of his breath brush across her mouth. For the first time in years, she didn’t brace for him to step back. Didn’t prepare for silence to swallow her whole once the lights went out.

When he kissed her again, softer this time, it was different. Not a plea. Not a confession disguised as melody. Just Kai, stripped bare, no audience, no stage. And God help her, it was everything she’d spent years both craving and cursing.

Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, holding him like she could pin him to the truth he’d finally chosen to stand in. Her lips lingered against his, trembling not from doubt but from the weight of finally letting herself believe — or at least daring to try.

When she pulled back, her voice came quiet, husked raw. “You feel steady now,” she said, thumb brushing once against the place where his heart hammered beneath her hand. Her eyes opened, sharp but shining, locking on his. “Don’t make me regret believing that.”

Her jaw worked, like she wanted to say more, to guard herself, to twist the knife of all the years lost between them. But instead, she kissed him again. Not because it erased the past, not because it fixed the wreckage — but because for the first time, she could. Because he wasn’t hiding behind a song, and she wasn’t bleeding alone in the silence.

This time, she let herself lean into it.

Kai felt the shift. It wasn’t subtle — it was seismic. The way her fingers curled into his hoodie, the way her lips lingered without pulling back like she always had before, the way her voice trembled not with doubt but with the crack of old armor giving way.

She said he felt steady now. And for once, he believed it too.

He pulled back just far enough to see her face, the sharpness in her eyes softened by something fragile, something he’d thought he’d lost the right to ever see again. And he didn’t flinch from it. He didn’t try to fill the space with apologies or half-measures.

“You won’t regret it,” he said, voice low but firm, like it was a vow already written into his bones. “Not this time. I know what I cost you. I know how many times I let you bleed in silence. But I’m not that man anymore, Lennon. I’ve done enough running, enough hiding. I’m done with it. Done with ghosts. Done with half-truths.”

His thumb brushed along her jaw as he tilted his head closer, confidence rolling off him in a way that wasn’t performance — it was certainty. “You want proof? You’ll get it. In the quiet. In the messy. In every ordinary moment I used to run from. Because I can finally be the man you deserve — and I will.”

He kissed her again then, not tentative, not desperate — but deliberate. The kind of kiss that carried weight, that promised more than verses or promises whispered under neon. A kiss that said I’m here. I’m not leaving.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his grin flickering through, wry but sure. “And if I ever make you doubt that again?” His eyes locked on hers, unwavering. “Then I don’t deserve another chance. But I promise you — you’re not going to need to find out.”

He pressed her hand harder against his chest again, letting her feel the steady rhythm beneath. “This is yours. Always has been. And now, for as long as you’ll let me prove it — it always will be.”

The shop around them blurred into background hum — posters on the walls, the scratch of sleeves being flipped in another aisle, the faint smell of wax and cardboard. Ordinary. Unremarkable. And for the first time, Kai felt the weight of exactly what she’d asked for: proof in the quiet. Proof in the now. Proof that he was still standing right here.

Lennon didn’t answer him right away. She just breathed him in, felt the heat of his forehead against hers, the steady pound of his heart under her palm, the weight of a promise she’d begged for and never thought she’d actually hear. And maybe for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she was standing on a fault line waiting for the ground to give out.

Her thumb brushed once more over his chest before she let her hand fall. Not because she didn’t believe him, but because she finally did — and that was scarier than all the years she’d spent not trusting him. Her mouth curved into something small, tired, but real. “You better mean it,” she said quietly, her voice carrying more steel than softness. “Because I’m not bleeding for you again.”

The words should have sounded like a warning, but her own chest ached at how much they felt like surrender. Not the kind that cost her pieces, but the kind that let her set something down she’d been carrying far too long. She kissed him once more, quick this time, a punctuation instead of a plea — and in the way he kissed her back, steady and sure, she felt the ghost of every jagged edge between them start to dull.

When she stepped back, she didn’t armor herself again. She let herself look at him — really look at him — and what she saw wasn’t the boy who left her bleeding behind a curtain of noise. It was the man who hadn’t flinched from her fury, who hadn’t run when she demanded the truth, who had pressed her hand against his heart like it belonged there. For the first time, she believed maybe it did.

Her chest tightened with something she didn’t want to name yet — relief, maybe, or the sharp, dangerous spark of hope — and it felt dizzying, disarming, to let it exist without crushing it under cynicism. She found herself thinking, absurdly, about the curve of his grin when he let it slip, the way his thumb had lingered at her jaw like he wasn’t afraid of her sharpness anymore, the weight of his breath mixing with hers as if he was finally willing to share the same air without hiding.

She tugged at the sleeve of his hoodie like she was reeling him in and turned toward the rows of records. The world tilted back into focus — wax sleeves, the faint hum of speakers, the smell of cardboard and dust — but it didn’t feel the same. It felt lighter. Less haunted.

Her fingers skimmed the spines out of habit, muscle memory pulling her straight toward the section she always found herself in. Without looking back, she slipped her hand into his, her grip firm, unhesitant. The act was ordinary, almost casual, but inside her chest it landed like a vow: I’m letting you in again.

“Come on,” she said, throwing a glance over her shoulder at him, eyes still sharp but glinting with something warmer than before. “I want to add to my Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks collection.”

She squeezed his hand once, holding on tighter than she meant to, and a smirk tugged at her mouth — softer this time, closer to the girl she used to be when she believed in him without hesitation. “And you’re going to fund it.”

Kai felt her hand slip into his, firm and sure, and for a second it knocked the breath out of him more than any kiss had. Not because it was grand, not because it was dramatic — but because it was ordinary. The exact thing she’d told him she needed, the exact thing he’d promised to give. Her grip wasn’t tentative. It was a quiet dare, a test, and a gift all in one.

When she told him what she wanted — Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Nicks — and tossed the smirk over her shoulder, something in his chest cracked wide open. Not from guilt this time, not from regret. From relief. From the simple, dizzying fact that she was letting him walk beside her again, even if it was only through vinyl bins and cardboard sleeves.

He followed her lead without hesitation, his fingers tightening around hers as he let her tug him into the aisle. “Done,” he said easily, no hesitation in his voice. “Every Stevie record in this place? Yours. Every Fleetwood Mac reissue, deluxe cut, bootleg pressing? Consider it penance.”

She shot him a look, sharp but softened at the edges, and he let himself grin — not the cocky stage grin, not the camera-ready smile. The real one. The one that crept out only when he wasn’t thinking too hard.

“You think I’m joking,” he added, leaning close enough that his voice brushed warm against her ear, playful but steady. “But I’ll buy the whole damn section if that’s what it takes. Happy to pay for every record you point at. Hell, I’ll carry them all back to your place myself.”

He let go of her hand only long enough to pull the first sleeve she paused over — Rumours, worn but intact — and without asking, he tucked it under his arm. “Starting here. Call it installment number one of however many it takes.”

He wasn’t apologizing anymore. Not with words. Not with speeches. Just with action. With his wallet, his hands, his presence at her side. With the grin that said he’d do it every day from here forward, not because it was punishment, but because it meant she was letting him close enough to try.

When she glanced back at him again, her smirk daring him to keep up, Kai squeezed her hand once more, confident and unshaken. “Keep pointing, Rae,” he said, steady and sure. “I’ve got forever to pay this tab.”

Lennon let him talk, let the words wash over her while her thumb brushed absently against the seam of the first record she’d picked up. She didn’t look at him at first. Couldn’t. Because if she did, she might betray just how much the weight of his hand in hers was undoing her.

Ordinary. That was the word that stuck, the one she’d always been terrified he couldn’t give her. She didn’t need stadiums, didn’t need songs etched into vinyl, didn’t need penance dressed up in melody. She just needed this—his hand tight in hers, his voice low and steady like it belonged next to her ear instead of ricocheting off arena walls.

When he promised every Stevie record, every Fleetwood reissue, she almost rolled her eyes. Almost. But the truth was, she caught the flicker of something different in his grin, and it stalled her cynicism for a beat too long. It wasn’t stage-bright. It wasn’t for show. It was the one she used to catch in stolen moments—after shows, before the chaos, when it was just them and he thought no one was watching.

And damn him, she’d missed that.

Her chest ached with it, but she covered it with a smirk, sharp enough to keep him on his toes. “Careful,” she muttered, sliding another record out and checking the sleeve, “you start throwing promises like that around and I’ll hold you to them. Every last overpriced pressing in here. No refunds.”

He leaned in closer, voice brushing over her ear, and she hated how easily it threaded under her skin. It was too easy to picture this being normal—his shoulder brushing hers as they flipped through bins, his voice steady instead of scattered, his presence not a storm but an anchor. It made something fragile and furious in her chest threaten to crack.

She didn’t let it. Not fully. But when he tugged Rumours out without asking and tucked it under his arm, her lips curved despite herself. She shook her head, a quiet laugh slipping out before she could bite it back. “You’re insufferable,” she told him, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her. “But fine. Consider that installment one.”

Her eyes flicked to him then, catching the steadiness in his expression, the way he wasn’t overplaying it this time. Not charming. Not apologizing. Just there. And for the first time, she let herself think maybe this wasn’t another stage trick. Maybe he meant it.

She gave his hand a squeeze, grounding herself as much as him, before turning back to the bin. “Alright, Mercer,” she said, voice low but certain, “you wanna prove you’re here? Then keep up. I’ve got a whole wish list to burn through.”

And softer, barely audible under the scratch of vinyl and the hum of the speakers, words she wasn’t ready to hand him outright but couldn’t quite swallow down either:

“I missed this.”

She flipped another sleeve, the faint smell of dust and old cardboard rising as she slid it free. Tusk. Her favorite and he knew it. She didn’t hand it to him, though. Not yet. She just tapped the cover with her thumb and shot him a sidelong glance.

“You even know this one?” she asked, testing him, her tone caught somewhere between a dare and a tease. “Or are you just going to keep smiling like you’ve got a clue?”

He started to open his mouth, but she cut him off with a shake of her head, smirk tugging at her lips. “Don’t even try it. I’ll know if you’re faking. Half my childhood was me screaming lyrics into a hairbrush, so unless you’ve got the same catalog buried in your veins, stay humble, Mercer.”

Still, she passed the record to him anyway, watching the way he cradled it like something worth holding onto. And God help her, that tiny gesture almost undid her.

She pulled another sleeve, then another, stacking them against her hip. The bin was thinning fast under her fingers, and she realized she wasn’t stalling anymore. She was letting him move with her, shoulder to shoulder, like it hadn’t been years of silence and bruised edges.

It was ordinary. Maddeningly ordinary. And she could feel it soaking into her bones, loosening knots she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

“You know what’s wild?” she said suddenly, glancing at him with something softer flickering through her eyes. “This. You. Not running your mouth to charm your way out of trouble. Not selling me another track I didn’t ask for. Just…” She gestured between them, her stack of vinyl, his steady hand still tangled with hers. “This. The boring part.”

Her laugh came low, almost shy. “Turns out, it’s the only part I wanted all along.”

She squeezed his hand again before she could lose her nerve, thumb brushing over his knuckles. Then, with a smirk sharp enough to keep the moment from tipping too sentimental, she added, “Now keep hauling, Mercer. Because if I don’t leave here with half this store, I’m going to start doubting your commitment.”

And she turned back to the bins, but not before letting her shoulder lean into his for just a second longer than she meant to.

Kai didn’t even try to hide the grin tugging at his mouth when she leaned into him, not stage-bright, not a smirk meant for cameras — just the kind of grin that belonged only to her. That single second of her shoulder against his was louder than every arena he’d ever played, louder than any chorus he’d ever written.

Insufferable? Yeah. He’d wear that if it meant she was laughing again. If it meant she was stacking records against her hip and trusting him enough to carry the weight.

He tucked Tusk under his arm like it was holy, his thumb brushing the edge of the sleeve before glancing back at her with that same easy steadiness. “Do I know it?” he echoed, tilting his head with just enough swagger to make it clear he wasn’t bluffing. “Rae, half the reason I learned guitar was because I wanted to nail those riffs. You think I was gonna survive a Mercer house without Fleetwood Mac on repeat? Please. I’ve got the catalog buried in my bones — same as you.”

Her eyes narrowed like she wanted to call his bluff, but he didn’t give her room. Instead, he reached over, plucked the stack she’d been balancing against her hip, and slid it into his own arms without asking. His grin crooked into something softer as he held them tight against his chest.

“Keep hauling?” he repeated, giving her hand a squeeze. “Babe, I’ll haul every damn bin in this store if that’s what it takes. And I’ll do it with a smile.”

The word slipped out — babe — casual, unforced, but it landed heavy between them. Not as a line, not as a performance. Just the truth in his mouth, the way it had always fit when no one else was listening.

He didn’t apologize for it. He didn’t rush to explain. He just leaned a little closer, voice low but sure. “If this is the boring part? Then you’re right. It’s the only part I want too.”

Her thumb brushed over his knuckles again, and he tightened his grip in response, steady, unshaken. “So go ahead. Burn through your wish list. Test me. Make me prove it one overpriced pressing at a time. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

And with that, he shifted the weight of her vinyl in his arms, balancing it easily, his grin flickering wider. “Lead the way, Rae. I’ve got forever to carry this tab.”

She should’ve called him on it. Should’ve cut him down with some sharp line about arrogance and riffs and the way he always managed to sound like he was auditioning for sainthood. That was the part she knew how to play. But standing there, his grin crooked and unguarded, her records held against his chest like they actually mattered to him — she couldn’t bring herself to.

“Careful, Mercer,” she said, her voice low, but the bite didn’t quite land the way it used to. “You toss around babe in public and people might start thinking you mean it.”

Her smirk wavered before she could reel it back, softening into something smaller, more dangerous. Because the truth was, she liked the way it sounded again — how it fell out of him like second nature, not a stunt for the cameras. Her chest tugged with the memory of a hundred nights when it had been just them, no lights, no noise, no headlines — just that word, said like it was hers alone.

She didn’t stop him when he took the stack from her hip. Didn’t fight for control the way she always had. Letting him carry it felt like admitting something bigger, something she wasn’t ready to name yet. Still, her fingers slipped tighter through his, grounding herself in the steady press of his palm. Testing. Daring him to falter.

But he didn’t. He just held on, steady, sure — and God help her, she felt herself wanting to believe it.

“You think forever’s cheap?” she asked, tilting her chin up at him, brows arched. “Because that tab’s going to cost you more than vinyl, Mercer.”

But the edge in her words dulled under the warmth of her gaze. She couldn’t look at him — not at that grin, not at the ease that wasn’t staged — without something inside her unraveling.

She tugged him toward the next row, her shoulder brushing his again, deliberate this time. “The Beatles first,” she said, her mouth curving wider despite herself. “Then the Wings. And if you survive that without complaining once, maybe — maybe — I’ll let you take me to dinner.”

Her thumb swept slow across his knuckles, a touch she let linger longer than she should have, her voice dipping quieter as she added, “Don’t make me regret letting you carry the weight, Mercer.”

And for the first time in too long, she wasn’t bracing for him to disappear when she said it.

Kai couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out — low, warm, threaded with that edge of disbelief that she was actually letting him walk this close, actually letting him carry her weight without clawing it back. Babe in public. She didn’t cut him down for it. She didn’t pull her hand away. She let it stay, and damn if that didn’t feel like more than any encore he’d ever earned.

“Careful, Rae,” he shot back, his grin tugging wider as he tilted his head down to catch her eyes. “You keep holding on like that in public and people might start thinking you mean it.”

The smirk was pure Kai, but the steadiness in his hand wasn’t for show. He gave her fingers a slow squeeze, grounding, deliberate, as if to answer the dare she was testing him with: no falter, no slip.

When she tossed her warning about the tab costing more than vinyl, he shifted the stack in his arms with mock ease, arching a brow. “Good. Let it cost me more. I’m not here for cheap.” His tone held no cracks, no apology — just confidence, the kind that wasn’t bravado but bone-deep certainty.

She tugged him toward the next row, shoulder brushing his, and he leaned into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Beatles, Wings, dinner. She made it sound like a gauntlet, like he’d have to earn every inch — and God, he was more than ready.

“Dinner?” he echoed, voice dipping lower, playful but sure. “Rae, I’ll survive Beatles, Wings, and every deep cut in this store without a single complaint if it gets me that.” He adjusted the records against his chest with one arm so he could lace his fingers tighter with hers, knuckles brushing, a quiet vow in the grip.

Her thumb swept across his hand again, slow, lingering. He felt the weight of her words when she warned him not to make her regret it, and instead of answering with another line, he angled down and pressed a quick, firm kiss to her temple. Not for show. Not for drama. Just proof.

“Not this time,” he murmured against her hair, steady as his pulse under her palm. “Not ever again.”

Then he leaned back with that crooked grin that had undone her a thousand times before — but this time it wasn’t a mask, wasn’t staged. It was the look of a man who knew he could carry every damn record in the shop, every weight she handed him, and still ask for more.

He nudged her shoulder lightly, eyes glinting. “So go ahead, Rae. Stack me up. Test me. I’ll carry it all — and I’ll still have a hand free for you.”

Lennon should’ve cut him down for it. That was the reflex — the armor she’d sharpened after years of late-night calls that ended in silence and headlines she had to swallow whole. Babe in public? She should’ve rolled her eyes, should’ve let go, should’ve reminded him that people were always watching.

But she didn’t.

Her fingers stayed tangled with his, tighter than she meant them to. And when he laughed like that — low, warm, too certain for her comfort — she felt it ripple straight through her ribs. Damn him. He always did know how to find the cracks.

She tilted her chin, trying to muster that smirk she was famous for, the one that said you don’t get to rattle me, Mercier. But when he warned her about people thinking she meant it, something traitorous tugged at the corners of her mouth. Because the truth was, she did mean it — more than she had words for, more than she was ready to say out loud in the middle of a record store.

And then he had the audacity to say it — not here for cheap. Lennon bit the inside of her cheek, because God, she wanted to scoff. Wanted to tell him he was full of it. Except his voice didn’t leave her anywhere to go. No cracks. No wiggle room. Just bone-deep certainty that landed heavier than any song lyric ever could.

By the time he pressed that kiss against her temple, steady and unshaken, she swore her knees almost buckled. She held herself up by pure force of will, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her undone. But inside? Inside she was buzzing, wrecked, unraveling in a way she hadn’t felt since the very beginning.

Her laugh came out sharper than she meant, a little too quick, but the edges softened as she glanced up at him. “You make it sound easy,” she muttered, voice low enough that only he could catch it. Her thumb traced lazy circles over the back of his hand, betraying the casual shrug she tried to pair it with. “Like carrying me doesn’t weigh a damn ton.”

Still, she didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Even as her heart thrashed against her ribs, even as her brain screamed at her to be careful, to pull back before she fell all the way in, she held on tighter. Because for the first time in too long, it didn’t feel like he was asking her to. It felt like he was saying I’ve already got you.

And Lennon Rae, against every defense she’d built, wasn’t sure she wanted to fight that anymore.

Lennon tipped her head just enough to catch his grin, that crooked thing he thought could get him out of anything. Normally, she would’ve skewered it with a comeback, something sharp enough to keep him on his toes.

But her chest was still tight from that kiss against her temple, and her hand was still locked in his like it belonged there. So instead, her voice slipped out low, unsteady in a way she almost didn’t recognize.

“You really don’t quit, do you?” she said, half a laugh tangled in the words. “Every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you go and… ruin me all over again.”

Her thumb traced another slow arc over his knuckles, grounding herself in the simple press of his hand against hers. She swallowed, shook her head, tried for flippant but couldn’t pull it off.

“You talk about carrying it all, Kai, and for the first time I actually believe you. Which is terrifying, by the way. Because if you’re serious—” her eyes lifted to his, sharp and shining, “—then I don’t get to hide behind excuses anymore. Not with you.”

The admission sat between them, raw and unvarnished. No cover, no claws. Just truth.

Her smirk came late, softer than usual, touched with something she couldn’t quite keep down. “Guess that makes us both reckless, baby. Because I’m holding you to every damn word.”

And this time, she knew he’d meant it.