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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Even if it’s working.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lennon didn’t speak.

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

Kai didn’t move.

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

Her fingers drifted up to his jaw.

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

But he wore them like stories.

Like proof.

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

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

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t joke or deflect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he leaned into it. Into her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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