Lennon hadn’t meant to wander. Not really.

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

She stepped inside quietly.

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

And there — above the desk — the photos.

She moved closer before she could stop herself.

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

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

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

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

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

The door creaked behind her.

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

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

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

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

Just: “You kept it all.”

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

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

His chest tightened.

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

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

So instead, he crossed the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just… full.

Like a song waiting for its next chord.

She didn’t look away.

Not this time.

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

Because it had.

God, it had.

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

So Kai.

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

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

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

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

Kai blinked, gaze still locked on hers.

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

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

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

“But I couldn’t let it go.”

Her forehead pressed gently to his.

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

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

She had a box.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lennon didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t pull back. Didn’t breathe out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her words were quieter now. Closer.

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

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

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

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

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

Just the quiet promise of something still unwritten.

Still unfolding.

Still theirs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She let the silence settle for a beat.

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

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

And maybe it hadn’t.

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

But this?

This wasn’t pretend.

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

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

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

Just that.

Because it was enough.

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

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

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

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

And then, without warning, she grabbed his hand.

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

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

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

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

Because she knew he would.

Kai didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

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

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

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

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

She could hear him in the kitchen.

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

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

Her palm flattened against the comforter beside her, steadying.

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

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

But still. Still.

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

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

And it terrified her.

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

She swallowed hard. Blinked once.

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

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

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

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

And there he was.

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

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

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

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

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

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

He exhaled.

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

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

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

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

Kai didn’t have to turn around to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, finally, he turned in her arms.

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t pull away.

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

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

All of it.

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

Her breath caught, sharp and silent.

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

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

Her fingers gripped him tighter.

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

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

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

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

A beat. Then softer:

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

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

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

“Don’t let me go, Kai.”

Like she already knew he wouldn’t.

Like this time, she was choosing to believe it.

Kai didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t speak right away.

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

Because God, it was so much.

He was so much.

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

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

And maybe she had. Maybe this time she had.

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was the new one. The one who stayed.

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

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

But because she already knew.

He was home. And so was she.

Kai plated the food like it mattered.

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

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

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

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

For a second, he just looked at her.

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

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

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

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

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

It was just him, just her, just now.

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

She already had.

She didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t, really.

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

Because she was.

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

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Lennon Rae had never tasted anything sweeter.

She ate in slow bites after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t need a fairytale.

But tonight — this — felt close.

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

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

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

Want him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lennon didn’t say anything at first.

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

But now?
Now she just let it be quiet.

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

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

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

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

She felt his breath catch — just slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

Here.
Now.
Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat. Then:

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

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

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

“Please don’t let me mess this up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she meant it. Every word. Every second.

Because this? This was theirs. At last.

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

But then the screen flickered.

A trumpet blared.

And she blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lennon Rae just let herself feel it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Rae? I like the sound of that.”

She didn’t respond right away.

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

God, he made it feel easy.

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

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

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

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

And still, she didn’t run.

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

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

“I’m not running either.”

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

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

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

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

He felt like safety.

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

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

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

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

Lennon Rae was asleep.

In his hoodie.

On his chest.

In his house.

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

She felt like she was home.

Kai didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

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

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

He swallowed, the lump in his throat stubborn.

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

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

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

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

He smiled—soft, crooked, stupidly gone.

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

“Forever’s got nothing on us.”

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

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

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

He had her.

And that was enough.

They’d been in a good rhythm lately.

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

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

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

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

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

She wasn’t snooping.

Not really.

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

Until the last drawer.

Bottom right. The one that used to stick.

It slid open easily now.

Empty.

Not cluttered. Not messy. Just… clean.

She stared at it.

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

Space where something could go.

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

But still.

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

It made her smile.

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

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

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

No pressure. Just curiosity.

The bathroom door creaked open a second later.

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

“This drawer.”

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

For a second, he froze.

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

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

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

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

Something now.

Something hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, quieter, tilting his forehead to hers:

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

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

Because yeah, it was just a drawer.

But to him, it was proof.

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

He was making space for her to stay.

Lennon didn’t answer right away.

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

The drawer was empty.

But the moment wasn’t.

She finally looked up at him, her gaze catching on the smirk he wore like armor. That soft, crooked thing he always used when the truth got too close. And God, it was all over him now. Bare skin, bare words, towel barely staying on — and somehow, still, it was the openness that undid her most.

Her voice came out low. Steady, but quieter than usual. “You cleared it out for me?”

There wasn’t shock in the question. Just… reverence. Like she was still learning how to hold what they were becoming without breaking it.

She let him touch her hand, didn’t pull away. Her pulse skipped a little under his thumb — of course it did — but she didn’t shift.

Instead, she gave a half-smile. Something crooked and real. “You know I’m a mess, right? If I start putting stuff in here, it’s not gonna be some cute, aesthetic display. It’s gonna be receipts and hair ties and probably a half-melted lip balm.”

She tried to laugh, but it caught somewhere softer in her throat. She let it settle.

“I’m not good at this,” she added, barely above a whisper. “At letting people make space for me. I never really… expected anyone to.”

Her eyes flicked down to the drawer again. Still open. Still waiting.

And then back to him.

“But maybe I want to try.” She swallowed, voice steadier now. “Maybe I want to see what it feels like to have a drawer.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And quietly — almost too quietly to be teasing — she added, “You sure you’re ready for the churro crumbs?”

Her thumb pressed lightly into his, grounding. Answering.

Because yeah, she was scared.

But she wasn’t walking away. Not this time.

She didn’t need him to say anything.

Not right now.

He was still standing there — warm and quiet and his — but the words were done for now, and what was left between them didn’t need sound to mean something.

Lennon eased the drawer shut, not with finality, but with something gentler. A promise in pause. Not no — just not yet. Her hand lingered on the wood, fingertips brushing the worn groove in the corner like she was learning the shape of this new version of them, slow and careful.

This wasn’t like before.

They hadn’t had this when they were seventeen, when everything burned fast and wild and unfinished. Back then, they never talked about drawers or what came after the high. They just crashed into each other and called it love. But this — standing in his room with steam clinging to the walls and the ghost of a melody still humming in the air — this felt like a life, not a fire.

She moved toward him before she could think too much, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her forehead against the middle of his chest. Water clung to his skin, damp against her cheek, and she didn’t care.

He didn’t pull her closer — didn’t have to.

She was already there.

Already his.

And maybe that scared her more than anything else.

Because she didn’t believe in permanence. Not really. She believed in almosts and what-ifs and people leaving when they got tired. But he’d cleared out a drawer. He’d left space. And not for memory, not for grief — for her.

That kind of thing left a mark.

She let her eyes close for a second, just breathing him in. No words. No rush. Just the sound of the room, the softness of the moment.

Then she leaned back enough to look up at him.

And without breaking eye contact, without giving herself time to pull back into safety, she pressed a kiss to his collarbone — slow, certain, sealing.

The kind of kiss you didn’t give unless you meant to stay.

She stayed like that for a moment — arms looped around his waist, breath soft against his chest — letting the silence stretch, letting it say what they hadn’t before. Not like this. Not when it counted.

Her fingers curled lightly into the towel at his back, anchoring herself, even as her heart thundered like it might break through her ribs.

She didn’t need grand gestures. She didn’t need a perfect line.

She just needed him to know.

So she tilted her head up, eyes steady on his, voice quiet but unwavering.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a question.

It was a truth.

Simple. Soft. Undeniably hers.

She saw it land in his eyes before he could say anything — the stillness, the flicker of awe, the way he looked at her like she’d just handed him the one thing he’d never ask for but had always wanted anyway.

And then she smiled — small, a little crooked, but full of everything she didn’t know how to put into words. The drawer. The space. The staying.

She meant all of it.

Kai swore he could feel the world tilt.

Not in that dizzy, stage-light way it used to when the crowd roared and his name bounced back at him. No, this was quieter. Slower. A shift so deep it sank straight into his bones.

Because Lennon Rae had just said it.

I love you.

And she wasn’t performing it, wasn’t dressing it up in jokes or song lyrics or some sarcastic shield to soften the blow. She was standing in his hoodie, damp hair curling down her shoulders, arms wrapped tight around his waist like she already knew she belonged there—and she’d handed it to him raw. Real. Hers.

His first instinct was to laugh—not because it was funny, but because his chest hurt with how much it landed. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment and didn’t believe he’d ever get to hear it outside his own head.

Instead, he let the quiet breathe between them for a beat. Let himself look at her—really look—like she’d just rearranged the sky again.

Her lips at his collarbone. Her fingers clutching the towel like he might vanish if she didn’t hold on. The steady fire in her eyes that told him she meant every word.

God.

This woman.

Kai dipped his head, forehead brushing hers, his voice coming out low and steady, laced with that same crooked charm that had gotten him through everything—but softer now. Bare.

“I love you too, Rae.”

No hesitation. No clever line. Just the truth, spoken like it had been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for her to be ready to catch it.

He kissed her then—slow, reverent, lips lingering over hers like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t just promising her tonight, or the drawer, or even this room, but every morning after. Every garlic-burned dinner, every stupid musical marathon, every breath they hadn’t gotten to share before now.

When he pulled back, his hand slid down her arm, fingers tracing over her wrist until he caught her hand again. He lifted it, pressed a kiss to her knuckles like she was something rare, something precious, and then laced their fingers tight together.

“Mess, churro crumbs, bad lip balm and all,” he said with a smirk that didn’t quite hide the awe in his eyes. “That drawer’s yours. This house is yours. Hell—Rae, I’m yours.”

He let the words land, simple and unshaken, then leaned in close again, his lips brushing her temple.

“And I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”

The steam from the bathroom was already fading, but the air between them burned warm, steady. Kai grinned softly against her skin, breathing her in, and thought to himself that if this was what it meant to stay—he was never walking out that door again.

Lennon stayed pressed against him, forehead tucked just under his jaw, not because she didn’t know what to say — but because for once, she didn’t feel like she had to say anything at all.

She just was. With him. In this room. In this body that still carried too many memories and defenses and almosts, but for the first time, felt like it might actually be allowed to want more.

The words hung between them, still soft, still holy.

She felt them sink in like heat after cold — not shocking, just slow and total.

“I love you too, Rae.”

God, she’d never wanted anything to be more true than that.

Her eyes burned. Not because she was overwhelmed, but because he’d said it like it wasn’t fragile. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like he’d already chosen her, long before this moment, and everything after was just a confirmation.

Her grip tightened slightly where her hands rested at his waist, steadying herself with the damp cotton of the towel. She could still feel his heartbeat against her chest — fast, grounded, real.

She tilted her head just enough to look up at him, gaze caught on the way he looked at her like she wasn’t a question mark anymore. Like she was the answer.

And she hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

“I wasn’t trying to make it a moment,” she said finally, her voice low, a little hoarse. “It just… was one.”

Her thumb brushed over his side, slow and thoughtful. “I’ve loved you before tonight. I think you know that. But I wanted it to feel like this when I said it.”

Another beat of silence passed. His eyes were still on her. She could feel them.

So she gave him the rest of it. Quiet. Undramatic. Just hers.

“It does.”

She exhaled against his collarbone, body relaxing fully for the first time since she’d stepped into this house all those days ago. Her hoodie sleeve was damp where it touched his shoulder. Her hair was curling more now as it dried — wild and soft and untamed, like everything she used to fight about herself but he never tried to tame.

Lennon let her fingers trace up his spine slowly, memorizing him again. Not like she used to when she didn’t know what would happen next — but like she knew.

Like she was learning him as home now.

And maybe that drawer was still technically empty. Maybe she hadn’t put anything in it yet. But her presence — her love — was already filling the spaces he’d made for her.

“Okay,” she whispered, nodding into him as if agreeing to something neither of them had to explain.

And then, finally, she stepped back just enough to grab the edge of the towel and tug him gently toward the bed.

“You’re dripping all over the floor,” she teased, soft again. “Come on. Before we turn the bedroom into a Slip ’N Slide.”

She didn’t say it like it meant everything — but it did.

It meant: I’m staying.

It meant: You’re mine too.

It meant: Tomorrow’s coming, and I’m still gonna be here when it does.

Kai couldn’t help it—he laughed. Low, warm, a little wrecked around the edges, because she’d just said I love you like it was gospel and then immediately followed it up by dragging him toward the bed like he was some overgrown Labrador dripping saltwater everywhere.

God, that was Lennon Rae.

And he loved her so much it hurt.

“Slip ’N Slide, huh?” he said, letting her tug at the towel, playful grin tugging at his mouth as he let her lead. “You know, if you’d said that ten years ago, I would’ve absolutely tried to make it happen. Hose, plastic tarp, bad decisions—I had the whole kit.”

Her eyes flicked up at him, half a glare, half soft, and he swore he’d never seen anything better.

“But now?” He stepped closer, letting the towel trail a little just to prove her point about the floor. “I’m older. Wiser. Definitely hotter.” He dropped his voice, smooth as velvet. “And I know better than to waste water when you could just towel me off yourself.”

Her laugh broke, sharp and real, and he caught it with a kiss—quick, sweet, messy in the way only they could be. When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against hers, his smile softer now.

“You weren’t trying to make it a moment,” he murmured, thumb brushing over her cheekbone, “but, Rae… every time you look at me like that? It is one. I don’t even have to try.”

He let that settle—real, steady—before the grin slipped back in. “And for the record? The drawer’s not waiting on churro crumbs. It’s waiting on you. Lip balm, receipts, whatever chaos you come with—I’ll take it. Happily.”

He tugged her closer by the hoodie hem, still damp against her legs. “So yeah. You’ve officially upgraded from hoodie-thief to co-owner of this mess. Congratulations, Rae. No returns, no exchanges.”

Then, without letting her get a word in, he bent, swept her up off the damp patch of floor with ease, and carried her the last few steps toward the bed.

“Now sit,” he teased, dropping her gently onto the comforter, his smirk playful but his eyes lit with something deeper. “Before you break an ankle trying to domesticate me.”

He grabbed the edge of the towel, half for show, half serious. “And for the record? If anyone’s making puddles in here tonight, it’s not just gonna be me.”

He winked. Playful to the bone.

And God, he’d never meant anything more.

Lennon couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of her, full and incredulous, as he dropped her onto the bed like she weighed nothing and stood there dripping smugness and shower water in equal measure.

God, he was ridiculous.

And hers.

That was the part still short-circuiting her brain — the part where all of this, all of him, wasn’t a memory or a song lyric or something she’d have to rewind later and wonder if it was real.

No, this was now. This was them. And somehow, against every law of reason and every version of herself who used to flinch at the idea of forever, she’d said it.

I love you.

And now he was saying things like “co-owner of this mess” and tossing around the phrase “no returns, no exchanges” like he didn’t even realize how hard she was memorizing it.

Her hoodie was damp. Her heart was louder than it should’ve been. And there he was, half-naked and beautiful and smiling at her like she was both the joke and the punchline — like she’d never once been too much or too late or too anything other than exactly what he wanted.

She leaned back on her elbows, hair curling around her shoulders, one eyebrow arched as she watched him smirk and grab the towel like he hadn’t just said puddles with a wink.

“Wow,” she said, dry as sand, “so that’s where we’re at now, huh?”

Her lips curved slowly. “You say you’re older, wiser, hotter—and then immediately hit me with Slip ’N Slide and innuendo like we’re still seventeen and trying to get kicked out of a community pool.”

She shook her head, amused. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

And she meant it. All of it. The ribbing, the warmth, the way her chest felt way too small for the love pressing at the edges of it.

Because under all the jokes, under all the water and sarcasm and hoodie banter — she was still reeling. Still trying to keep herself from getting too still, in case the weight of what she felt knocked her flat.

She sat up slowly, tucking her legs beneath her, eyes never leaving his.

“And for the record?” Her voice dropped a little, less sharp now. “I was always gonna stay. Even before the drawer. Even before you said it back.”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of the towel now, more nervous than she meant to be.

“I just didn’t want to move in by accident, you know?” she said, softer still. “I wanted it to be a choice. Not just comfort. Not just momentum. You.”

A beat passed. Then another. She looked up at him again — really looked.

“You can have every weird receipt and empty chapstick I’ve got,” she said. “Just… don’t act surprised when I reorganize your kitchen. And your closet. And probably your entire life.”

A pause. Then a crooked smile.

“And yeah, you’re hotter now. Barely.”

She reached out, hand curling in the front of his towel, and pulled him in like gravity had already made the decision for her.

“I love you, Kai. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She kissed him then — slow, sealed, no grand crescendo — just something final. Something steady.

Because she wasn’t joking anymore. Not this time.

She was all in.

Kai didn’t need a spotlight, or a crowd, or even the guitar leaning against the wall in the corner.

This? Right here—damp hoodie, towel clutched between them, her eyes soft and wicked all at once—this was the stage he’d been chasing without even realizing it.

He let her pull him in, let her kiss him like she was laying a claim she’d never dared speak before, and when she broke it just enough to breathe, he stayed close. Forehead to hers. Breath mixing with hers.

“You realize what you just signed up for, right?” His grin was easy, teasing, but his voice carried that warmth that only came out when he wasn’t hiding. “I leave socks everywhere. I eat cereal out of the box. And my brothers? They’re gonna treat you like you’ve been living here forever the second they find out you reorganized my kitchen.”

Her smile was still crooked, still impossibly Rae, and God, he couldn’t stop staring at it.

“But…” His thumb brushed across her jaw, slow and reverent. “You want all that? You want me, mess and all?”

He let the pause hang, not because he doubted, but because he wanted her to feel the weight of it. Then, softer, sure:

“Good. Because you’ve already got me. Whole damn thing. Receipts, chapsticks, bad falsetto, and whatever else comes with the Mercer package.”

He bent, kissed her again—deeper this time, but not rushed. Slow, steady, like a vow sealed in the space between their mouths. When he pulled back, his smile was there again, that Joe Jonas kind of boyish charm threaded with something much more permanent.

“I love you, Rae. Every version. Every mess. Every drawer.”

He straightened just enough to peel the towel from his waist, tossing it toward the floor with zero aim. “And if you really want proof?” He gestured at the empty drawer with a mock flourish. “I hereby grant you full jurisdiction over my chaos. Congratulations. You’re officially in charge.”

Then, softer again, he leaned close, nose brushing hers, words dipping into something only she got to hear:

“And yeah… you’re not going anywhere. Not because you can’t. Because you don’t want to. And that’s the part I’m never letting myself forget.”

He eased down beside her on the bed, damp hair dripping into the pillow, hoodie sleeves brushing his arm. He laced their fingers again like it was muscle memory, tugged her hand to rest against his chest where his heartbeat ran steady.

No rush. No fire to put out. Just them.

And as the quiet folded in around them, Kai kissed the top of her head, let his eyes close, and whispered like it was the simplest truth in the world:

“This feels like forever already.”

Lennon didn’t answer right away.

She couldn’t.

Because her throat had gone tight and stupid, and her heart was thudding against her ribs like it was trying to escape, and there he was — God, there he was — saying things like “this feels like forever already” with his fingers wrapped around hers and his stupid, damp hair dripping into the pillow like it didn’t even matter.

Like this was the moment they’d both been orbiting toward, years in the making, and it had finally stopped spinning long enough for them to land.

She exhaled slow.

Tried to hold still.

But his heartbeat was right there under her palm — warm, steady, real — and the way he’d said it, not because you can’t… because you don’t want to — it gutted her.

Because it was true.

She could’ve left. A dozen times. A thousand. She could’ve packed the hoodie and the toothbrush and the part of her heart he didn’t even ask for and disappeared like she used to.

But she hadn’t.

She didn’t want to.

Not now. Not ever.

And somehow he knew that — not like he was clinging to her, not like he needed her to say it again — just knew, in the way his voice went soft and reverent and teasing all at once, in the way his body curved instinctively toward hers like gravity was a decision they both made.

She shifted slightly, head tucked beneath his jaw now, arm sliding across his chest like she was trying to memorize the map of him.

“You really give me a drawer,” she whispered after a while, not teasing — just quietly stunned. “Like… actually?”

Her fingers brushed over his shirt where it had bunched beneath the hoodie.

“Because that’s a big deal, Mercer. I’ve never had one before.”

She didn’t mean the drawer.

Not really.

She meant the space. The invitation. The idea that someone like him — built from music and sun-drenched chaos and brothers who loved hard and loud — had made room for her.

For all the mess she was still trying to believe was worth loving.

“I used to think I wasn’t the drawer type,” she said after another beat, her voice a little raw. “That I was just… temporary. Pretty to visit. Easy to forget.”

She paused. Let herself feel it.

“But you make it feel like… like maybe I get to stay. Like maybe staying doesn’t mean disappearing.”

Her thumb traced along his chest once, slow.

“You sure you want that?” she murmured. “Because I’m warning you now — I organize spices alphabetically and I will put your cereal in matching containers. And if your brothers start calling me Rae-Rae again, I’m not responsible for what happens.”

She smiled into his skin, soft and real.

Then, quieter: “But yeah. I want it. All of it.”

She tilted her head, pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw — feather-light, certain.

“You. This. Whatever version of forever we can build out of hoodies and open drawers and bad falsetto and garlic-burned dinners.”

She didn’t open her eyes.

Not yet.

Not when everything already felt so full — his breath against her forehead, the weight of his arm slung across her back, the slow shift of his chest beneath her hand, rising and falling like the world finally remembered how to be quiet.

But her hand moved.

Slid down, slow and deliberate, skimming the length of his torso — over the soft trail of hair low on his stomach, over the curve of his hip where he’d kicked the towel off without a second thought. He was warm under her fingers, bare and steady, and the contrast of her hoodie against his skin made her throat tighten for reasons she couldn’t name.

She kept going.

Let her fingertips drift lower, to the inside of his thigh — that smooth, sensitive place just shy of a promise. She traced it lightly. Feather-soft. Barely there.

Not to push. Not to pull.

Just to be.

To touch him the way he touched her — like he already knew every part of her and loved her more for it.

Her mouth followed. Kisses like breath. Like something sacred.

First his jaw, then his cheekbone, then the place beneath his ear where his stubble caught against her lips in the best kind of way. A little rough, a little real. Like the version of him no stage ever got to see. The version that only existed here — tangled in bedsheets, heartbeat under her palm, skin flushed from the shower and whatever came next.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

This was the answer.

To every quiet what-if. To every unspoken fear. To every version of her that had once flinched at being wanted this much.

She wanted him, too.

The whole of him. Loud and quiet, clean and messy, body and soul.

Her fingers curled slightly against the inside of his thigh, slow and certain now, anchoring her there.

And when she kissed the hollow beneath his jaw, slow and reverent, she let herself breathe it:

He’s not going anywhere.

And neither was she.

Kai swore he felt it before he even processed it.
The way her hand slid down, tentative but sure. The whisper of her hoodie brushing his skin. The trail of kisses—jaw, cheek, that soft spot beneath his ear—that stripped him of anything clever he could’ve said.

For once, he didn’t try to fill the silence.
Didn’t joke. Didn’t throw a line to deflect.

He just let it happen.

Because Lennon Rae was touching him like he wasn’t some passing thing. Like he wasn’t a firework that burned bright and fast and fizzled out. She was touching him like permanence. Like maybe she’d finally decided the map of his body was worth learning in full.

His breath stuttered when her fingers brushed the inside of his thigh, a sharp inhale that wasn’t just want but awe. Because she wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t pushing. She was just being. Showing him in the quietest, fiercest way possible that she’d chosen to stay.

And God, he felt wrecked by it.

His hand slid up under her hoodie, palm flat against the curve of her spine, warm and steady, grounding them both. His thumb traced lazy circles there, mirroring the way she’d done on his chest earlier, and he lowered his mouth to her hair.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with sincerity. “Every word. Drawer’s yours. Kitchen’s yours. Hell, Rae, I’m yours.”

He tilted his head, pressing a slow kiss to her temple, lingering there like he wanted to etch the moment into his bones. “And I’m not scared of your receipts or your spice alphabetizing. I’ve been waiting for it. For you.”

Her hand tightened just slightly against his thigh, and he groaned—quiet, helpless—but still didn’t rush. He kept the rhythm slow, sweet, deliberate, his fingers sweeping up and down her back. “You don’t have to prove you’re staying. I already know.”

Kai shifted then, rolling just enough to angle her onto her back so he could see her. So he could memorize the flush in her cheeks, the damp curl of her hair against the pillow, the softness in her eyes she only ever gave him.

He braced one arm beside her head, leaned down, and kissed her—slow and deep, a kiss that felt like an oath. His other hand slid down to tangle with hers again, pulling it from his thigh and pressing their joined palms flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Feel that?” he whispered against her lips. “That’s yours too.”

He kissed her again before she could answer, gentler this time, as if sealing it. “I love you, Rae. Not just the part that laughs at my bad falsetto or steals my churros. All of it. Every piece you thought no one could make space for.”

He pulled back just enough to grin, softer now, that Joe-Jonas-boyish tilt she knew too well. “So yeah. You’re not temporary. You’re not visiting. You’re home. And I’m not letting you forget it.”

Then, with a mischievous glint cutting through the reverence, his free hand brushed deliberately up the inside of her thigh—mirroring her earlier touch, slow, certain, teasing—until his grin broke wider.

“Besides,” he added, voice dropping to a playful murmur, “I can’t exactly let you get away with starting the overtime game without me, can I?”

Lennon didn’t know how he did it.

How he said things like that’s yours too without flinching, how he kissed her like he already knew all the broken pieces she didn’t talk about and loved them anyway. How he held her hand to his chest like he was offering it up — not just the heartbeat, not just the skin and breath and warmth, but the whole goddamn history of him.

She didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

Not when he was hovering over her like this, all golden skin and dripping curls and that stupid boy-band grin that still managed to wreck her on sight. Not when his words still echoed through her, quiet and earthshaking all at once.

You’re home.

God.

It unraveled her.

She smiled — not big, not cocky, just soft. Sure. A little wrecked. The kind of smile that only existed in moments like this, where her guard was down and her heart was loud and she couldn’t remember how to pretend she didn’t want every inch of this man.

Her fingers tightened in his.

“Careful,” she whispered, voice a little raw, a little dangerous. “You keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start believing you actually mean it.”

She didn’t need his answer. She saw it in the way his eyes softened. In the way his body didn’t press, didn’t push, just waited — reverent and steady and entirely hers.

So she kissed him.

Harder this time. Deeper. Like she was finally, finally done asking for permission to want him this much.

And when his hand traced up her thigh again — slow and maddening — she arched into it, breath hitching at the contact. Her hoodie rode higher, the hem bunching at her waist now, bare legs tangled with his, skin on skin, and still she couldn’t get close enough.

“You wanna talk about overtime,” she murmured against his mouth, one hand slipping up to tangle in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, “then don’t get cocky, Mercer. You might’ve played the first half, but I’m still winning.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower — stubble rough against her lips, familiar and addictive. Her fingers drifted from his hair to his shoulders, over the muscles that tensed beneath her touch, steady and sure.

No more hesitation.

No more maybes.

Just her and him and this bed and the truth still humming between their ribs like a secret they didn’t have to keep anymore.

She looked up at him again, eyes darker now, heat threaded through the softness.

“I want all of it,” she said, quieter now. “The cereal, the drawer, your chaos, your brothers, your kid’s drawings on the fridge—you.”

She held his gaze, steady as ever.

“And I don’t care what anyone thinks. Not your ex, not the label, not the world. If you want me here, I’m here. And I’m not afraid of being seen.”

A beat. Then, with a crooked, reverent smile:

“Now shut up and let me ruin you.”

And this time, she moved first.

Lennon didn’t wait.

She didn’t need to.

Because his eyes told her everything — wide and reverent, drinking her in like she was both the storm and the calm that followed. And maybe she was. Maybe that was the whole damn point.

She shifted beneath him, just slightly at first — hips angling, thighs bracing — then rolled them cleanly with a practiced twist of her body, pinning him to the mattress with her breath still caught in her chest.

He let her.

Of course he did.

And when she settled on top of him — knees on either side of his waist, hair falling loose around her shoulders — she didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Her eyes roamed over him slowly, hungry and awed all at once, like she couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour.

Maybe both.

She sat back just enough to grab the hem of the hoodie still clinging damp to her skin — the one that smelled like him, that she’d stolen a hundred times before and would steal again — and in one smooth pull, she dragged it up and over her head, letting it fall somewhere behind her without a sound.

Cool air kissed her skin.

But it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze.

She leaned down again, palms flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide like she was claiming the whole map of him. Her hair fell around them, dark curtain and cocoon, and her mouth hovered just above his.

Then lower.

A kiss — slow, deep, deliberate.

Not frantic. Not rushed.

Just her. Owning it.

Letting him feel what it meant when she didn’t run. When she chose him. When she climbed into his bed and let herself stay — not out of fear, not out of habit, but because she wanted to.

Her lips moved against his with a rhythm that wasn’t hurried but hungry in its own way — the kind of hunger that came from missing something you didn’t know you needed until it was already yours.

She shifted her hips against his, just enough to draw a reaction, then kissed the corner of his mouth, then lower — jawline, throat, collarbone — each kiss softer than the last, but never tentative.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again, breath warm against his skin.

“I love you,” she said, because she did. Because she needed him to feel it, not just hear it. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Then she kissed him again, deeper now.

Like a vow sealed in skin.

Like gravity wasn’t pulling them down — she was.

She kissed him again—slow, sure, the kind of kiss that spoke more than any whisper ever could—and then she shifted, her body moving with a quiet confidence that surprised even her.

Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and without breaking eye contact, she rolled them gently, guiding him onto his back.

There was no hesitation.

She moved with intention, straddling his waist, knees braced on either side of his hips. The hem of the borrowed hoodie slipped higher with the motion, but she didn’t rush it. She just looked down at him, at the man who kept handing her softness like it wasn’t something dangerous. Like she hadn’t spent years convincing herself she didn’t need it.

And then—slowly, deliberately—she peeled the hoodie over her head and let it drop to the side.

His hands stayed exactly where she’d left them.

Her hair tumbled over one shoulder as she leaned down again, brushing a kiss to his lips—soft, reverent. Then his jaw. Then lower.

One hand splayed over his ribs, fingers spreading as if to hold him steady while her mouth found the curve of his collarbone. The center of his chest. The faint line where his breath hitched beneath her.

She kissed him down the length of his sternum, warm and unhurried, like she was trying to memorize him in pieces. Like every inch of skin deserved its own moment. Like permanence could be stitched together in touch and silence and the way her lips lingered just a beat longer each time.

Because maybe it could.

Maybe this was how it started.
Not with fireworks. Not with fear.
But with a girl who stayed. And a boy who let her.

And a kiss that didn’t ask for anything—only promised everything.

Kai thought he knew what it meant to be wanted.
The stage had taught him that—screaming crowds, hands reaching, a hundred voices chanting his name. He’d learned how to take it, how to soak it in, how to smile like he deserved it.

But this?

This was different.

This was Lennon Rae, stripped down to nothing but skin and certainty, kissing him like permanence wasn’t a curse but a promise. Kissing him like every scar, every song, every bad choice had somehow led here. To this bed. To this moment. To her.

His chest rose hard under her hand, breath stuttering every time her lips found a new place to claim. Jaw. Collarbone. Sternum. Each kiss unhurried, reverent, leaving a heat that wasn’t just physical but something deeper, something that made him feel cracked open and whole all at once.

She was staying.

She’d said it, but more than that, she was showing him. Every kiss, every touch, every steady look that pinned him to the mattress like gravity itself had made a decision.

His hands twitched at his sides, aching to move, to grab, to flip her back under him. But he didn’t—not yet. He let her take, let her own, let her remind him that love wasn’t always about leading. Sometimes it was about surrender.

And he’d never surrendered like this before.

His fingers finally lifted, brushing along her thighs where they bracketed his hips, slow and gentle at first, then firmer, sliding up until his palms fit around her waist. He held her there, not to guide, not to stop—just to ground himself in the reality of her.

“Rae,” he rasped, voice caught somewhere between wrecked and worshipful. His grin tried to break through, boyish and helpless, even as his eyes went dark with everything else. “You’re killing me.”

But God, he didn’t want her to stop.

When she leaned down again, kissing his chest like she was writing scripture, Kai let his head fall back against the pillow, a low groan slipping free. His hands pressed her closer, thumbs stroking circles into her skin, desperate and soft at once.

And then, when her mouth found the hollow just above his stomach, he lifted his head, caught her gaze with his, and let the grin finally show. Not smug. Not cocky. Just his—the one he only gave her.

“I love you too,” he said, steady, no hesitation, no armor. “So much it’s stupid.”

His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her back up to him. He kissed her then—long and slow, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could. The kind that anchored. The kind that stayed.

And when he pulled back, breath mingling with hers, he whispered against her lips, “Forever, Rae. You hear me? Drawer crumbs, bad falsetto, reorganized spice rack—whatever you bring, I want it. All of it.”

His grin tilted again, playful through the reverence. “Even if it ruins me.”

Then his hands moved—one at her waist, the other sliding up her back—rolling them easily until she was under him again, his mouth trailing her jaw, her throat, the edge of her shoulder.

Because she’d made her vow in kisses, and now it was his turn to answer in kind.

Lennon couldn’t speak at first.

Not with his mouth on her neck, not with his hands reverent and grounding, not with every breath from him unraveling some thread inside her she hadn’t realized was still knotted.

She had waited years for this. For him.
And not just the version of him the world saw — the stage-lit swagger, the heartbeat behind a mic. She wanted this version. The one whispering forever like it wasn’t terrifying. The one who said whatever you bring, I want it and meant it.

God, he meant it.

Her fingers curled against his back, just below his shoulder blades. She didn’t drag. She didn’t clutch. She just held. Anchored. The way he’d done to her a hundred different ways she hadn’t had words for until now.

His words were still echoing through her chest — drawer crumbs, falsetto, ruined spice rack — and somehow they hit harder than poetry. Because they weren’t grand. They were real.

He wanted her reality. Not her polish. Not her playlist. Her.

And she didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

“Kai,” she breathed, voice barely there, more reverent than she meant to be. But she didn’t backpedal. Didn’t soften it with a joke or a smirk. Not this time.

Because she could feel it. The shift.

This was no longer the reunion of two people fumbling through what used to be. This wasn’t nostalgia, or chemistry, or even just hunger. This was something else. Something rooted. Grown.

Her hands slid to his face, thumbs brushing along his jaw, the familiar scratch of stubble grounding her even more. She pulled him closer, nose brushing his, and whispered it before she could stop herself.

Not a confession. Not a reveal. Just the truth, finally spoken aloud.

“I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.”

It came out like an exhale. Like a secret finally set free. And the way his eyes met hers—wide and undone and his—made her feel like maybe she’d just rewritten the rules of gravity.

She could’ve cried. She didn’t.

Instead, she kissed him again.

Slow. Deep. Deciding.

And when his hands gripped her tighter, when he moved to deepen it, she let him. Not because she was giving in — but because she’d already chosen.

Because this time, she wasn’t running.
Because she was his.
Because he was hers.

And she wanted to memorize every inch of him until there were no pieces left unknown.

He didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.

Not when her voice hit him like that — soft and certain, reverent in a way that shattered him more than screaming ever could.

I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.

The words didn’t just settle into his chest. They detonated. Quiet and cataclysmic.

Because he remembered her at sixteen.
God, did he remember.

Back then, she was music before lyrics, wildfire in denim, all edge and heart and eyes that made him forget his own name. She’d kissed him once in a parking lot with slush in her boots and defiance in her smile, and he’d been wrecked ever since. He just hadn’t known how to stay wrecked — not then.

But now?

Now, he didn’t want anything else.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath uneven, eyes searching like he needed to memorize her all over again. Maybe he did. Not just her body, not just her laugh. The whole of her. The girl who’d kissed him in secret and the woman who just told him the truth like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Sixteen?” he whispered, voice rough and stupidly full. “Fuck, Rae.”

His hand slid to her jaw, thumb brushing along her cheekbone like she might disappear if he blinked. But she didn’t. She held. Just like always.

And suddenly it wasn’t about sex or tension or even the kiss still ghosting between them.

It was about the timeline.

The fucking timeline of her.

Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Every almost. Every maybe. Every version of her he’d watched walk away or walk toward him or walk right past while he pretended it didn’t level him.

“I should’ve said it then,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers now. “I should’ve—God, I should’ve told you every damn year after that.”

His eyes closed for a breath.

Then opened again.

“I love you,” he said — not louder, just firmer, steadier, like he needed her to feel it echo. “Not just now. Not just this version of you in my bed. I love the girl who gave me her hoodie in the rain and told me I was a coward in front of the vending machines and made me believe music could mean something.”

He swallowed.

“I love the girl who left. I love the one who came back. I love the one who organized my entire bathroom like a psychopath and still calls me Mercer when she’s mad.”

His fingers curled at her waist now, pulling her impossibly closer.

“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life learning every version of you I missed. Okay? Every single one.”

There was no oxygen left in the room. Just her. Just them.

Still tangled in sheets, still skin-to-skin, but everything about the moment had changed — deepened, steadied, cracked wide open.

He didn’t move yet. Didn’t rush it.

He just kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. Gentle. Devout.

Like he finally understood what it meant to have her.

She couldn’t breathe.

Not in the way that meant panic — not in the way she used to feel before every show or after every fight or when the door had closed behind her the night she left.

This was different.

This was breathless like awe. Like standing in front of something holy and knowing it had nothing to do with God and everything to do with him.

Because Kai Mercer didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

And he was saying this.

He was saying every version of her was loved — even the ones she thought no one could stomach. Even the girl who left. The one who ran. The one who didn’t know how to stay. The one who still sometimes doubted her own enoughness in the quiet hours when the world got too loud.

He saw all of her.

And he didn’t flinch.

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She just looked at him — at the boy who used to chase her up fire escapes and pull focus with a smirk, now looking at her like she was the whole goddamn sky. The boy who used to leave every door open but never ask her to walk through.

Now he was asking.

Now he was here.

And her heart couldn’t take it. Not in the devastating way. In the real way. The finally way. The kind of way that made all the chaos make sense.

She kissed him.

Not rushed. Not wrecked. Not claiming or coy.

Just home.

Soft and slow and sure.

Because no one had ever kissed her like that before — the way he had when he said forever. And she wanted him to know she meant it too.

When her mouth finally left his, she didn’t pull far. Just enough to rest her forehead against his again, their noses brushing. Their bodies still tangled. Their past finally still.

“You do,” she whispered, voice thin with everything she didn’t know how to say. “You love all of me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was wonder.

Then, quieter: “I think that might be the scariest and safest thing I’ve ever felt.”

Her fingers found his again, threading through, holding like she finally believed they could. Like she wouldn’t have to let go this time.

And maybe that was the most radical thing of all.

She was still here.

And this time, she wasn’t afraid of being loved. Not by him.

Not anymore.

Her thumb traced the inside of his wrist, slow and steady, like she needed to memorize the shape of him all over again. The moment felt too full to move, too reverent to break — but she didn’t want to break it.

She wanted to deepen it.

To step fully into it.

So she kissed him again.

Not tentative this time. Not shy.

It was a yes.

A kiss that said I hear you. That said I want this. That said Keep going.

Her hand slid from his, fingertips ghosting down his side, pausing at his hip before curling around his back. She held him there, anchoring herself in the feel of him — the muscle, the heat, the way his skin rose beneath her touch like he was waiting for her to decide.

And she had.

She pulled back just enough to look at him again. The way he was watching her — open, reverent, already ruined — made her breath catch all over again.

But this time she didn’t stall.

She shifted beneath him, her legs parting slightly as her hands moved lower. Her fingers found the waistband of the boxers she still wore — his, soft and worn and clinging low on her hips now. Her eyes didn’t leave his as she started to push them down.

Inches at first.

Then further, slow and deliberate, easing the fabric over the curve of her hips, her thighs. She could feel his breath stutter against her cheek, feel the way his body tensed above hers — not in restraint, but in reverence.

She paused once the boxers reached mid-thigh, gaze still steady, still holding his.

And then she whispered, “Okay.”

That was all he needed.

His hand slid over hers, warm and certain, helping guide the rest down — over her knees, past her ankles, until they were gone. Until there was nothing between them but the heat they’d been circling for years.

She let out a shaky breath.

Not nervous. Not unsure.

Just overwhelmed by the truth of it — the nakedness, the trust, the fact that she wasn’t hiding anymore.

And when his eyes met hers again — wide open, full of everything he hadn’t said yet — she didn’t look away.

She just whispered, “I’m yours, Kai.”

Then pulled him down to her like a vow.

He didn’t even try to speak.

Not when she said I’m yours like it was something sacred.

Not when her body moved beneath him, lush and open and waiting — like she’d already made the decision and was daring him to catch up.

She was bare now. All of her. Her skin warm and flushed and real beneath his palms, her curves lit by the faint gold of the bedside lamp, casting her in soft light like she was something divine. The way her chest rose and fell, the way her thighs shifted just slightly to welcome him in — it was too much and not enough, all at once.

And God, she was beautiful.

Not just stunning — though she was that too. But devastating in her reality. In the way she let him see her. In the way she wasn’t hiding anymore.

He dragged in a breath like he needed it to stay grounded, even as his world narrowed to the way her eyes stayed locked on his. Steady. Trusting. Like he hadn’t already ruined himself for anyone else.

He kissed her again — deep and slow — because he couldn’t not. Because every inch of him wanted to taste that vow she’d just given him. Her lips parted for him, mouth warm and sure, and the softest sound caught at the back of her throat when his fingers slid along the curve of her waist.

He followed the line of her hip with reverence, let his hand sweep over the softness of her belly, then upward — palms wide, touch firm but unhurried — until he was cupping her breast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She arched into him instinctively, no hesitation, just heat and want and yes. Her breath hitched when his thumb brushed over her, slow and circular, and he felt her hands curl into the muscles of his back, urging him closer.

Christ.

He’d touched her before. Many times.

But never like this.

Never with this weight behind it.

This wasn’t about getting lost. This was about being found.

He let his mouth trail along her collarbone, then lower, stubble grazing soft skin, tongue soothing over the spot just below her breast until she trembled — hips rising, chest heaving, her legs slipping wider beneath him. Inviting. Anchoring. Offering him everything.

His hand drifted lower again, fingers finding the tender inside of her thigh — and still he didn’t rush. He explored her like a song he already knew but never wanted to stop learning. Like every note mattered. Like her body had become his favorite language.

She gasped, hips twitching when he finally slid his fingers over her, just once — a teasing press, reverent and deliberate.

She was soaked.

And he was wrecked.

“Kai…” she breathed, head tilting back into the pillow, the line of her throat exposed, flushed and waiting.

He kissed the hollow of it.

“I know,” he said softly — not a promise, not a plea, just a fact.

Then he pressed into her again.

Deeper now.

Gentle but certain.

The way her body responded made his restraint fracture.

Her thighs framed him, curved and perfect and warm, pulling him in like gravity, like fate. Her hands clutched at his shoulders now, nails digging in with every slow thrust of his fingers — and he matched it with his mouth on her breast, his breath ragged against her skin.

Still, he didn’t let her fall apart.

Not yet.

Because this was more than just release.

This was a worship.

A claiming.

A homecoming.

And he was going to make sure she felt every goddamn second of it.