Spencer didn’t move.

Not even when the door clicked softly shut behind her.

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

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

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

Safe.

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

Eventually, he cracked one eye open.

Just one.

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

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

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

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

Because he liked it here.
Too much.

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

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

Because this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still his.

She’d kept it.

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

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

But he didn't run.

Not this time.

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

God help him…
He liked being loved.

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

Way, way too much.

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

The rice was burning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t say anything else.

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

Still here.
Still standing.
Still hers.

Violet didn’t flinch. Not at first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And God, it almost came out with a smile.

Almost.

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

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

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

It wasn’t cold.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was just Violet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt like survival.

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

But she didn’t look away.

“It’s not dramatic.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then back up.

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

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

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

“So yeah. Omelet.”

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

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

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

Violet didn’t take the whisk right away.

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

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

She didn’t look up when she said it.

“Frozen green things do taste like sadness.”

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

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

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

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

She paused, then lifted her eyes—just briefly.

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

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

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

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

“But you’re right. About the rest.”

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

“I’m still me.”

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t a declaration.

It was something better.

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

Leighton didn’t move right away.

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

She blinked, once. Then again.

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

Her voice was low. Dry. But not sharp.

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

But it wasn’t.

Because Violet had said we.
And not in passing.

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

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

“But I get it.”

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

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

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

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

A beat.

“We’ve done fake and fine.”

And they had. For years.

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

“So yeah. Let’s burn something else.”

A pause.

“But you’re still chopping the onions.”

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

“I’m allergic to feelings and fumes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t look up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another beat passed.

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

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

It didn’t have to.

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

Together. Real. A little messy.

And still here.

Leighton didn’t respond right away.

She didn’t need to.

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

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

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

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

“Messy’s fine.”

Her voice was quiet. Steady.

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

“Pretty’s overrated anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t fix everything.

But it was real.

And that was enough.

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

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

Leighton’s voice came again—unrushed. Low.

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

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

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

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

A breath. Soft, almost amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need a lecture. I just…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then—without looking up—

“He’s not a mistake, by the way.”

Her voice was soft, but final.

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

A pause.

“Neither are we.”

And that was it.

Not a plea. Not a declaration.

Just truth, served warm with onions.

Violet didn’t sit right away.

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

But she was listening.

She always listened, even when she pretended not to.

Even when she deflected with casseroles and sarcasm.

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

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

She let out a slow breath. Sat down.

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

“I never said he was a mistake.”

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

“I said you weren’t ready.”

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

A breath. Then another.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, without ceremony:

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

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

She looked at Leighton then, really looked.

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

Still hers.

But wholly her own.

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

The silence that followed wasn’t tense.

It was full.

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

Breakfast at night. Messy and real.

Just how they needed it.

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

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

She took a breath.

Then another.

Then she looked up—eyes glassy, but steady.

“I’m not trying to be you.”

It came out gentle. Not defensive. Just honest.

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

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

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

A beat. She pushed her eggs around her plate.

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

She almost smiled.

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

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

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

Another pause. This one longer.

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

Her foot tapped once against the leg of her chair.

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

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

“And for what it’s worth?”

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

“You didn’t ruin me.”

She let that sit. Heavy. Healing.

“You got me here.”

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

Over her shoulder, voice lighter now—

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

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

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

She leaned against the counter.

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

A pause.

“And maybe… have it.”

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

Violet didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

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

It was grace.

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

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

She saw a woman.

And she saw herself.

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

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

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

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

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

“That means more than you’ll ever know.”

She crossed the room then—not fast, not dramatic—just steady. And when she got to Leighton, she didn’t hug her outright.

She just leaned in. Forehead to forehead. Like a tether.

“You’re not me,” she whispered. “And thank God for that.”

She smiled—small and watery.

“You’re better.”

Then, softer still—quiet but fierce:

“And I don’t care if it scares you. If you want more, take it. Build it. Burn the blueprint if you have to.”

She pulled back just enough to meet her daughter’s eyes, steady and sure.

“Because you deserve all of it. Not just the surviving. The soft parts too.”

She looked down at the plate in the sink, then back up again.

“I love you, Leighton. More than survival. Always have.”

And just like that, she stepped back.

Not out of the moment—but into the next one. Into whatever this was becoming.

Because her girl wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was choosing.

And that—that was everything.

Leighton’s breath hitched, just once.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But real.

She gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, grounding herself there, like she could steady the flood just by staying still. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t wipe them. She didn’t look away.

“You didn’t break me.”

Her voice was quiet. But solid.

“You held me together. Even when you didn’t know how. Even when it cost you.”

She let that hang between them—honest, heavy, healing.

“I didn’t get here in spite of you.”
A beat.
“I got here because of you.”

Her throat worked around the next words. They came out softer.

“And yeah, I’m scared. Of how much I care. Of how much I want.”
Another breath.
“But I’m not scared of becoming you.”

Her gaze flicked up then, steady and sure.

“I’d be lucky if I did.”

She stepped in, pressing her forehead gently against Violet’s one last time, like sealing something between them that didn’t need to be spoken again.

“I want the soft parts. I want love that stays. And I want you with me when I find it. Not looking back at your own ghosts—with me. Moving forward.”

She pulled back, eyes glossy but smiling.

“You were never just survival, Mom. You were my safe.”

And then, with a breath of lightness—

“Now please, before I start sobbing into a dish towel—can we go watch something terrible?”
She gave a crooked grin, already heading for the living room.
“I’m thinking shoulder pads, soap opera-level drama, maybe an alien subplot no one ever explains. If Dynasty and Knight Rider had a love child—I’m queuing it.”

Still hers.
Still choosing.
And finally, fully home.

Violet let out a breath that sounded like it had been waiting years to escape.

It wasn’t shaky. Not exactly. But it carried the weight of a thousand silent nights, a thousand held-in things. And now—finally—she didn’t have to hold them alone.

She didn’t try to speak right away. Didn’t chase the moment with a lecture or a lesson. Just let it wash over her, steady and slow, like sun through storm shutters.

Because that’s what Leighton was now.

A storm that softened. A sun that stayed.

She watched her daughter head toward the living room—shoulders looser, jaw unclenched, grief replaced with something lighter. Something earned. And Violet smiled. Full. Fierce. A little in awe.

“Better make room on the couch,” she called after her, voice warm and wry. “And don’t touch the remote—I’m still emotionally recovering from the last time you tried to convince me season three of Roswell was good television.”

She grabbed the dish towel anyway. Not to cry into. Just to hold.

Because she didn’t need to fix anything tonight. Didn’t need to protect or patch or pretend.

Her girl was safe.

They were safe.

She turned off the kitchen light, let the darkness settle in like a closing scene, and walked toward the glow of the TV and the soft sounds of a home still healing, still laughing, still learning.

Still together.

And that was more than enough.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She just sat on the couch, remote in her lap, blanket twisted around her ankles like she hadn’t quite figured out how to be still. The TV glowed in front of her, paused on the title screen—Star Crossed Heatwave, a disaster of a show that already looked like it was going to be someone’s guilty pleasure. Probably hers.

She heard Violet’s footsteps—slow, unhurried—and felt them more than she saw them. A rhythm she knew by heart. One that used to mean be careful. One that now meant I’m here.

When the cushion dipped beside her, she didn’t look over.

She didn’t have to.

She hit play.

Synth music poured out of the speakers like it was daring them to take it seriously. Leighton didn’t laugh, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. The opening scene was awful—dramatic stares, glittery explosions, something about a planet torn apart by forbidden love.

She didn’t look at her mom when she said it. Just stared at the screen, voice quiet but sure.

“I’m glad you followed me in here.”

The blanket shifted between them. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just shared.

“We don’t have to fix everything tonight.”
A breath.
“But this… this feels like a start.”

She leaned a little closer, just enough to make space where there hadn’t been space before. Where things had once cracked and stayed broken.

Not tonight.

The characters on screen made terrible choices. The lighting was bad. The pacing worse.

Leighton didn’t care.

She reached for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table—half-stale, still warm—and nudged it in Violet’s direction without looking.

“You get emotional during the laser wedding, I’m never letting you live it down.”

Leighton leaned back into the couch, letting her head rest against the cushions like she could finally exhale all the way. The TV cast flashes of blue and purple across the living room—two actors clashing in a glitter-drenched sword fight over “the fate of the solar heart.” Whatever that meant.

It was ridiculous. And kind of perfect.

She didn’t look at Violet. Didn’t need to. Just felt her presence there, steady and real, like the gravity she hadn’t realized she’d been spinning around this whole time.

She reached into the bowl for another handful of popcorn—salty, slightly burnt, the way they always made it. Her fingers brushed Violet’s for a second.

She didn’t pull away.

“You know,” she said, voice low, casual, but heavy in that way her honesty always was, “I used to think we lost this. Not the couch or the blanket or the popcorn… just the quiet.”

She shifted slightly, pulled the blanket higher over her legs.

“I didn’t know if we could get it back without breaking each other open all over again.”

The TV scene cut to a slow zoom on a character crying in front of a space mirror. Leighton snorted.

“I’m still not ruling out someone shapeshifting into their long-lost twin.”

A pause.

Then, softer—realer—

“But I’m glad you’re here. Not hovering. Not fixing. Just… here.”

She tilted her head a little, just enough to catch the edge of her mother’s silhouette in the light.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

And she meant it. Every word.

She popped another piece of popcorn in her mouth. Chewed slowly. The synth music swelled dramatically again.

“I’m giving this show ten more minutes before it completely derails.”
A beat.
“…But if they kiss in zero gravity, I’m watching all five seasons.”

Violet didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

She reached into the popcorn bowl, took a handful, and leaned back without a word—shoulder brushing Leighton’s just enough to count. The couch creaked beneath them like it remembered too. The weight of old arguments, louder silences, the echo of slammed doors. And now? Popcorn. Synth music. The softest kind of truce.

She let the ridiculous show play, eyes half-focused, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as two actors with questionable chemistry floated dramatically toward one another with glowing helmets and tragic backstories.

But she wasn’t watching the screen.

Not really.

She was listening.

To the way Leighton breathed easier now. To the quiet between sentences that didn’t sting anymore. To the way her girl—her woman—sat beside her like she belonged there. Like they both did.

She took another piece of popcorn, tossed it in her mouth, and muttered just loud enough for Leighton to hear—

“If they kiss in zero gravity, I’m sending the writers a fruit basket.”

A beat.

“Full of rotten oranges.”

The corner of her mouth twitched again.

Still fierce. Still Violet.

But here.

And when Leighton shifted slightly and let their arms touch—easy, casual, no flinch—Violet let her eyes close for a heartbeat. Just one.

Because this? This was more than peace.

It was a return.

Not to the way things were, but to something new. Something they’d built together without realizing it—brick by brick, bite by bite, one burned dinner and one late-night show at a time.

“I missed this,” she said finally. Low. Unforced.

Then, dryly:

“I hate how bad this show is.”

She didn’t move away. Didn’t joke her way out of the moment. Just stayed. Present. Real.

And when the next glittery scene cut to a space wedding complete with laser vows and a crying alien priest, she muttered:

“…You’re gonna make me watch all five seasons, aren’t you?”

She said it like a threat. But her voice was soft.

Like home.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She just grinned.

The kind that started at the corner of her mouth and took its time stretching into something real. The kind that only happened when she wasn’t trying to be okay—just was.

She reached back into the bowl, grabbed a few kernels, and tossed one gently at Violet’s arm.

“Don’t act like you’re not emotionally invested,” she said. “I saw the way your face twitched during the space wedding. That was concern.”

Another piece landed on Violet’s lap. Leighton didn’t apologize.

“You’re gonna cry when the comet prince dies in season four. I’m calling it now.”

The show continued to spiral into chaos—slow-motion vows, glowing eyes, some kind of sparkly mist descending like emotional fog—and Leighton leaned back with a contented sigh, shoulder pressed into Violet’s without hesitation now.

It didn’t feel like reclaiming something.

It felt like living in it again.

“I missed this too.”

A pause. Her voice quieter now.

“Not just sitting here. Not just… us. I missed not having to wonder if we’d ever get back to soft again.”

She nudged Violet’s knee with hers, casual.

“Even if it took glowing helmets and alien therapy to get us here.”

Then, drier—

“And yes. We’re watching all five seasons. Don’t fight it. This is your life now.”

The next scene opened with a laser bouquet toss. Leighton snorted, buried a laugh in the blanket, and let it be easy.

Still home.
Still hers.
Still everything that mattered.

Violet caught the popcorn piece against her arm and let it roll into her lap like it didn’t matter—but her mouth twitched. Not a smirk, not a scoff. Something quieter. Something reluctant and warm.

“You throw another kernel at me and I swear I’ll fake-cry just to guilt-trip you.”

She didn’t. Not yet. But she was watching the screen a little too closely for someone who claimed to hate it. She blinked hard during the slow-mo bouquet toss—then immediately reached for more popcorn like the motion might cover it.

“I don’t cry over glow sticks and intergalactic melodrama,” she mumbled. “That was just… dry eyes. Poor lighting. Allergies.”

But the lie had no teeth. Not tonight.

Especially not when Leighton nudged her knee like that—so easy. So familiar. Violet didn’t even pretend to shift away.

Instead, she exhaled softly. A sound that felt like exorcising years of weight in a single breath.

“Well,” she said, reaching into the bowl and grabbing a piece like it meant nothing, “guess we better pace ourselves. Don’t want to blow through the emotional fallout of season three’s shapeshifter arc too fast.”

She popped it in her mouth. Chewed. Then—

“I missed it too, baby.”

No defense. No dodge. Just the truth.

“And I’m not fighting it,” she added. “I’ll take glitter therapy and dumb aliens if it means you keep letting me stay.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of the blanket where it pooled between them, like she was checking if it was really okay to be here.

Leighton didn’t pull away.

Violet leaned back.

And for once, the quiet between them wasn’t loaded or sharp. It was soft. Spacious. The kind of quiet you get to keep when survival finally turns into living.

Still home.
Still them.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—still okay.

Leighton didn’t laugh.

Not right away.

She just looked over—really looked—and let the quiet fill her up for a second. Not the kind that used to hover like smoke between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. This was different. Lighter. Clean. Like they’d cracked a window neither of them had touched in years and let something good drift in.

She didn’t pull the blanket tighter. Didn’t shift away.

Just bumped Violet’s foot with her own again. Soft. On purpose.

“I knew you were getting attached.”
A pause, then—
“You’ve already emotionally adopted the shapeshifter, haven’t you?”

The screen lit up in a mess of sparkles and synth. Someone shouted something like “You’ll never erase our bond!” and Leighton let her head fall back against the cushion with a groan.

“God, this show is terrible.”
A beat.
“I love it.”

Her voice dropped slightly, not heavy—but honest. Like the words had waited a long time to be simple.

“You don’t have to earn staying, you know.”

She turned her head. Not to make a moment of it. Just to make sure it landed.

“You’re already here.”

She reached for more popcorn, grabbed a handful, and didn’t throw any this time. Just ate it slow, one piece at a time, like it was enough to be still. To be beside her mom without a single wall left up.

The characters on screen started a dance sequence that made zero sense. She grinned and nudged Violet again, this time with her shoulder.

“Season three’s gonna ruin us, huh?”

And she didn’t mean it like a joke.

She meant it like a promise.

Still them.
Still choosing.
And finally, finally—still here.

Leighton didn’t say anything else for a bit.

Just let the scene unfold in a blur of neon explosions and wildly overacted dialogue. Someone was monologuing about love and memory loss and a galactic peace treaty. There were wind machines involved. Definitely glitter.

She should’ve made fun of it. Normally, she would’ve.

But her throat was tight in that not-crying kind of way. That full feeling that sat behind her ribs like a secret she wasn’t ready to name yet.

She shifted under the blanket, letting her arm rest against Violet’s more deliberately this time. There was nothing to brace for. No edge to fall off.

“You know,” she said after a long beat, voice quiet but steady, “I used to wonder if we broke something permanent.”

Her eyes stayed on the screen. But her heart was elsewhere.

“After everything that happened. All the moving. All the silences. All the times I didn’t ask, and you didn’t tell.”
A breath.
“I didn’t think we’d ever get back to this.”

She glanced down, picking at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket.

“And now we’re just… here. Watching space soap operas and sharing popcorn like it didn’t take years to get back to breathing in the same room.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to.

“But I’m glad we didn’t give up.”

She popped another piece of popcorn into her mouth. Slowly. Like it gave her something to focus on other than the fact that her chest felt too small for everything she was carrying.

Then she smiled—just a little. Lopsided and real.

“Even if your love language is sarcasm and repressed emotions.”

A beat.

“Which, honestly, is kind of poetic. We’re the only people I know who heal through alien melodrama and bad haircuts.”

The next scene kicked in with a romantic confession delivered mid-space battle. The soundtrack swelled like it had something to prove.

Leighton groaned.

“Okay, if they declare love while free-falling through a wormhole, I’m gonna cry and blame you for it.”

She turned to look at Violet for the first time in a while. Really look. Her expression was soft—unguarded in that way that only came with hard-won peace.

“Thanks for not leaving.”

She didn’t mean the room.

And she didn’t need to explain.

The couch creaked beneath them again. Familiar. Forgiving.

Still hers.
Still Violet.
Still this—whatever they were slowly, gently becoming again.

And maybe for the first time, Leighton believed it was allowed to last.

Violet didn’t speak right away.

She just looked at Leighton—really looked. And for once, she didn’t hide behind a quip or a quick deflection or the practiced rhythm of being fine. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there in a long time. Something open. Wounded. Fierce.

Something that looked a hell of a lot like love without armor.

“I didn’t stay because I always knew how,” she said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “I stayed because walking out would’ve meant giving up the one thing in this world I knew for damn sure I wanted to get right.”

She shifted slightly, so their arms pressed together more firmly beneath the blanket, like maybe that could say the rest.

“And yeah,” she added, with a ghost of a smirk, “my love language might be sarcasm, repressed emotion, and aggressively buttered popcorn—but don’t let it fool you. I feel everything. Especially when it comes to you.”

Her eyes flicked toward the screen just in time to catch the slow-motion wormhole confession. She exhaled through her nose. Shook her head.

“This show is actual garbage,” she muttered.

But she didn’t look away.

Not from the screen. And definitely not from her daughter.

When Leighton said thanks for not leaving, Violet didn’t reply with words.

She just reached over, hand steady, and tucked the blanket more securely around Leighton’s legs like she used to when she was small. Not because she thought she needed it. But because she needed to.

Then she leaned back into the couch, her head tilted slightly toward her daughter, and said—

“We didn’t break. We bent.”

A pause.

“Now we’re growing back stronger.”

It wasn’t meant to be profound. But it landed that way.

She tossed another piece of popcorn into her mouth, chewed slowly, and smirked without looking over.

“And just so we’re clear—if anyone cries over the wormhole love speech, it’s absolutely you. I’ll be emotionally detached and dignified, as always.”

But when the lead characters kissed in the middle of a cosmic storm, Violet blinked a little too fast.

She didn’t say anything about it.

And Leighton didn’t call her on it.

They just sat there—two women, one couch, five questionable seasons ahead of them—and let the quiet hold.

Still them.
Still choosing.
Still here.

And maybe—for the first time—they weren’t just surviving it.

They were belonging to it.

Leighton didn’t smile right away.

She just looked at her.

Like really looked—through the smirk, past the sarcasm, straight into the part of Violet that rarely let itself show. And what she saw there didn’t scare her. Not like it might’ve once. Not anymore.

She blinked once. Twice. Slow. Like if she moved too fast, the moment might slip out of her hands.

“You wanted to get it right,” she echoed, voice quieter now. “You did.”

Not perfect. Not easy. But right, in the ways that mattered. In the ways that kept them both breathing.

She didn’t move when their arms pressed closer. Didn’t pull away from the weight of that contact—of what it meant to let someone stay.

Instead, she nodded slightly, like an answer to a question that hadn’t needed to be asked.

“Sarcasm and repressed emotion aside…” she said, mouth twitching like a smile was trying to sneak past her defenses, “you love like a damn tidal wave, Mom. Big. Quiet. Impossible to outrun.”

The wormhole kiss hit just as she said it, and she let out a soft snort.

“God, this show is embarrassing.”

But she didn’t change it.

Didn’t mute it.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t leave.

When Violet tucked the blanket around her, something unspooled in her chest. Not grief. Not even relief. Just recognition.

That this was what care felt like. That this was what it meant to be known.

When Violet said, “We bent,” Leighton’s throat pulled tight.

“We bent,” she repeated.
Then, softer—
“But we didn’t snap.”

She didn’t say thank you again.

She didn’t have to.

She reached out instead, hand slipping gently under Violet’s, fingers curling there without asking for permission. Not clinging. Just holding.

“And if I cry during the wormhole love speech,” she muttered, eyes still on the screen, “you better pass me the damn popcorn and pretend not to notice.”

A beat.

“And if you cry, I won’t say anything. But I will bring it up at your birthday.”

She felt her mother shake with a laugh beside her, and that—that—was everything.

Still love.
Still home.
Still healing, one episode at a time.

And this time, they weren’t patching pieces.

They were building something new. Together.

Violet didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t soften in the way people expected mothers to soften when their daughters held their hand like that—gentle, certain, earned.

No, Violet steadied.

Because that was the thing about her—under the steel, beneath the scar tissue and sharp wit and all the old silence, she was a fortress. A woman who’d taught herself how to be immovable when everything else cracked. And now? Now, she was still that—but with space carved into her walls for moments like this. For her.

She didn’t look away from the screen, but her voice came low and sure, laced with pride that didn’t need frills.

“You’re damn right we didn’t snap.”

She squeezed Leighton’s hand once—firm. Final. Like punctuation.

“And don’t mistake bending for breaking, baby. We bent because we had to. Because we’re built to last. Because I didn’t raise you to shatter every time life showed up wearing teeth.”

The characters on-screen floated dramatically apart, whispering space vows over comms. Violet didn’t bat an eye.

“You’re mine,” she went on, quieter now. “And that means you carry this whole bloodline of stubborn grit and inconvenient feelings and knowing when to stay. You hold it like it’s instinct. Like it’s armor.”

She finally turned her head, just a fraction, just enough to catch the edge of Leighton’s profile lit by the TV glow.

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me? Like you were trying to figure out if I was really still here? I am. And I always will be. Even when you’re wrong. Even when you’re not speaking to me. Even when you cry over wormhole kisses like a damn Hallmark card in space boots.”

Violet didn’t smile. Not exactly.

But something in her eyes gleamed—sharp, maternal, fierce in the way love gets when it’s been tested.

“Because that’s what it means to be your mother. Not perfect. Not poetic. Just present.”

She leaned forward, grabbed the popcorn bowl with her free hand, and dumped half of it dramatically into Leighton’s lap without breaking eye contact.

“You cry, I pass snacks. That’s the deal.”

A beat.

“And if I cry?” Her tone dropped, mock-serious. “You speak of it to no one. Not at holidays. Not at brunch. Not even on my deathbed.”

She leaned back again, shoulder pressing into Leighton’s.

Then, softer—barely a breath—

“But I probably will. Because I see you. And that scares the hell out of me in the best way.”

The show moved on, ridiculous and glowing and deeply unnecessary.

Violet didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Because this?

This was exactly what she stayed for.

Still mother.
Still fortress.
Still holding.

They didn’t say much on the way back.

Didn’t need to.

Not with his hand in hers, not with the quiet buzz of something steady humming between them. Not when every step away from school and toward her house felt like shedding the weight of the day piece by piece.

By the time they pushed through the front door, Leighton was already kicking off her boots, tugging her backpack from her shoulder like it was a reflex. Spencer followed, slower, eyes tracking her every movement like she might disappear if he looked away for even a second.

She didn’t.

She just looked over her shoulder and nodded toward the hallway.

“Come on.”

When they got to her room, she shut the door behind them without ceremony. The soft click of it latching was quieter than a promise—but it still landed like one.

Leighton didn’t bother with the usual small talk. She just shrugged off the rest of her layers—hoodie, bracelets, rings—until she was standing there in nothing but her oversized t-shirt and socks, the kind of comfort only someone who knew she was safe could sink into.

Then she climbed onto the bed.

Not graceful. Not trying to impress.

Just home.

Spencer didn’t say a word. Just pulled off his hoodie, then his jeans, until he was left in his boxers and that look in his eyes—the one that said thank you without needing to say it.

He crawled in beside her, and without hesitation, she reached for the covers.

Pulled them over their heads like they were hiding from the world.

Like they could keep this moment just theirs.

And suddenly—it wasn’t just a bed. It was a blanket fort. A universe. A secret. That scene in Romeo + Juliet they both pretended not to be obsessed with, the one with the soft sheets and hushed laughter and skin lit by sunlight through gauze.

Here, it was cotton instead of gauze. Familiar instead of cinematic.

But it felt the same.

Leighton scooted closer, noses almost touching, breath mingling in the pocket of warmth they made together beneath the comforter. She traced her finger along his jaw, eyes soft.

“Hi,” she whispered, like the world had quieted just for them.

And Spencer—finally—smiled.

For real.

He almost laughed.

Not in a funny way—just in that overwhelmed, are-you-kidding-me kind of way that happened when someone saw you at your absolute worst and still looked at you like that.

Like you weren’t a mess.

Like you were just… theirs.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, eyes flicking down to their hands—hers wrapped around his like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It should’ve scared him.

But it didn’t.

Not when she looked at him like this.

“I’m probably gonna be weird about this,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges but trying not to sound as wrecked as he felt. “Like… annoyingly weird. Emotional-support-granola-bar weird.”

He felt her laugh—just a little—against his shoulder.

That helped.

A bit of the tightness in his chest loosened.

His fingers tightened in hers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, quieter now. “But I want to. With you.”

He met her eyes again, the corners of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach confident, but landed somewhere near real.

“I like the idea of being soft with you.”

A beat.

“That sounded less cringe in my head.”

He swore he felt her roll her eyes—but she was still holding his hand, still looking at him like he was worth the effort, so he took the win.

When she kissed his cheek, he closed his eyes for a second. Let it land.

Let it matter.

And when she pulled back, grinning that grin—the one that always messed him up a little—he tugged her in closer again, just for a second.

Just because he could.

“Okay,” he said, quieter this time. “Blankets. Snacks. Cuddling. Mandatory.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. Looked at her like she was the best damn thing that ever happened to his bad mood.

“I’ll bring the emotional baggage. You bring the good chips.”

And with that?

He followed her. No hesitation. No overthinking.

Just him.

Choosing her.

Leighton didn’t tease him.

Didn’t try to fix the words he stumbled through or smooth over the places where his voice cracked under the weight of wanting something real.

She just… stayed close.

Close enough that her nose brushed his when she smiled, soft and knowing.

“You can be as weird as you want,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Just means I’m gonna match your weird. Granola bars and all.”

Her thumb stroked the back of his hand, slow and steady. Like she was grounding him on purpose. Like she knew how close he’d come to unraveling and was stitching him back together in the quietest way possible.

The cheek kiss?

That wasn’t just affection.

That was reassurance. A vow.

And when he said “I like the idea of being soft with you”—

God.

Her chest clenched in that dizzy, achey, I love this boy so much it physically hurts kind of way.

She didn’t roll her eyes.

Not really.

She pretended to, because he expected it—but her smile gave her away.

That stupid grin that always pulled a laugh out of him when he didn’t want to give one.

When he pulled her in, she went willingly—curling into him under the blanket like it was second nature. Like this was the version of heaven they got.

And when he said the line about emotional baggage and good chips?

She snorted, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whispered—

“Then it’s a good thing I brought the kettle chips and zero judgment.”

Her hand slid up under the hem of his t-shirt, palm resting flat over his heart.

“You don’t have to know how to do any of this, Spence,” she said softly, serious now. “You just have to keep showing up.”

A pause. A beat of breath shared between them.

“And maybe let me love you a little louder next time.”

Then she buried her face in his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because with him?

It was.

Mess and all.

Spencer didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Just let the moment spool out around them—quiet and golden and a little unreal, like the whole damn world had decided to hush just for this.

Just for her.

The way her fingers slipped under his shirt and settled over his chest like she belonged there.

The way she didn’t flinch from the cracked parts. Didn’t ask for a version of him that smiled easier or kissed cleaner or didn’t wake up some mornings feeling like he was still sinking.

She just… stayed.

God, she stayed.

And the air around them felt different now. Softer. Slower. Like even the wind knew not to blow too hard in a moment like this. Like the sky had curled in on itself, tucking them beneath its ribs so they could have this—just this—without interruption.

He exhaled slowly, eyes falling shut as her forehead pressed into the curve of his neck.

“Showin’ up might be all I’m good at,” he mumbled, voice rough but warm, “but I’ll keep doing it if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

His fingers found the edge of her hoodie, tracing a line there just to feel the anchor of her.

“Love me louder, huh?” he added, half a laugh in his throat now. “You’re already neon.”

A beat.

“And I’m the idiot who didn’t see it ‘til now.”

She didn’t answer, not right away. But he felt it—the way her hand curled just slightly, like she was holding his heartbeat in her palm and promising not to let go.

He cracked an eye open. Glanced toward the window where the last bit of afternoon was turning everything soft and amber. Dust floated like snow in the golden light, and for some reason it made his chest hurt a little.

In a good way.

In a real way.

Spencer tilted his head, brushed his lips against her temple, then rested his cheek there.

“I want to be good at this,” he said, quieter now. “Not perfect. Just… good enough to deserve you.”

Another pause.

“I know I already do. You made sure of that.”

His eyes stayed on the ceiling, watching shadows shift like waves across old paint.

“But I still want to earn it anyway.”

The kind of silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was sacred.

And maybe that’s what this was—maybe being soft with her, real with her, was the closest thing to faith he’d ever felt.

So he pulled the blanket up around them, let his thumb drift lazily against her spine, and whispered the only thing that mattered:

“I’m here, Leia. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time?

He meant it.

With everything he had.

Leighton didn’t answer with words.

She didn’t need to.

She just curled in closer, her hand finding his under the blanket, fingers slipping between his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it’d always been meant to fit.

Her nose tucked under his jaw, breath warm against his neck, and Spencer felt it — that slow, steady rhythm of them.

No panic. No storm.

Just calm.

She let her thumb glide gently across the back of his hand, like she was soothing something she couldn’t see. Like she knew it was there anyway.

After a moment, her voice came quiet. Drowsy.

“You don’t have to earn something that’s already yours.”

Spencer didn’t move.

Just felt it.

Let it land.

The room was dim now, the late afternoon sun slipping further down the sky. Shadows stretched long across the floor. Everything smelled like her — coconut shampoo, laundry detergent, the faintest trace of weed from earlier.

Safe.

She nudged his leg under the blanket with hers. “You’re not a project, Spencer,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my person.”

He felt the sting behind his eyes again, but he didn’t let it fall. Not this time.

She shifted so she could look at him, her hand coming up to brush a stray curl away from his eyes.

“You showed up,” she murmured. “You stayed. That’s enough.”

And then, before he could argue — before he could tell her all the reasons she was wrong or that he still didn’t know what he was doing — she leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Soft. Steady.

It wasn’t about heat or urgency.

It was about choosing.

It was about comfort and home and the kind of love that didn’t need fixing.

When they pulled apart, her forehead stayed pressed to his. Her eyes half-lidded, smile soft.

“Now shut up and cuddle me,” she whispered.

He huffed a quiet laugh and pulled her closer.

And this time?

Neither of them said anything else.

They didn’t have to.

The silence between them said it all.

She didn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

Her fingers brushed softly along his jaw, tracing the curve like it mattered. Like he mattered. And when she kissed him again, it wasn’t hesitant or rushed.

It was slow.

Intentional.

Like she wanted him to feel it everywhere.

She kissed the corner of his mouth first — light and lingering — then the other, like she was mapping the parts of him that still didn’t believe in softness.

Then his lips.

Warm, careful, steady.

Spencer melted into it, letting the world narrow down to the way she tasted, the way she breathed, the way her thumb kept tracing slow circles at the base of his neck like she could anchor him there.

And she did.

God, she did.

He didn’t have to think.

Didn’t have to brace.

Just let her lead.

Let her show him what it felt like to be wanted without question, kissed like a promise instead of a mistake.

When she pulled back just enough to breathe, her nose brushed his. Her lips still ghosting against his, soft as a secret.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “You’re mine.”

And then she kissed him again — deeper this time. Not demanding. Not frantic.

Just more.

More of her.

More of this.

More of everything he’d never let himself hope for — wrapped in a kiss that tasted like trust and slow mornings and all the days they hadn’t lived yet.

Spencer let his hand settle at her waist, gentle, grounding.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because she already knew.

And in the quiet between heartbeats, with nothing but blankets and breath and each other, they stayed like that — tangled and close, kissing soft and slow, like maybe love didn’t have to hurt.

Not with her.

Not here.

Spencer hadn’t known silence could feel like this.

Not empty. Not sharp around the edges. Not something he had to fill with jokes or noise or movement.

Just full.

Full of her.

Of them.

Of the way her breath slowed when she was tucked under his chin, of the way her fingers didn’t let go even when she shifted—like her body already knew his would stay. Like it believed in him before he did.

His hand moved without thinking—just a slow glide up her back, a pause between her shoulder blades, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of her shirt like he was memorizing the shape of safety.

Because this was it.

Not the fireworks. Not the chaos.

This.

Blankets. Dim light. Her heartbeat matching his.

And when she kissed him again—God. Spencer forgot how to breathe.

Not because it shocked him.

Because it didn’t.

Because it made sense.

Because he was starting to believe that maybe—maybe—he was allowed to have this. To want this. Not the version of love that tore you up and left you bleeding.

The kind that stayed.

That held you like this.

Her lips were warm and soft and sure, and every press of her mouth against his felt like a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to say out loud. Like she was handing him every reason to believe he wasn’t broken. Just… bruised.

But healing.

With her.

When she pulled back and whispered “You’re safe. You’re mine,” it nearly undid him.

Not because he didn’t believe her.

Because he did.

For the first time in a long time, he believed it. And it scared the shit out of him—but it didn’t make him run.

Didn’t even make him flinch.

He leaned in again instead, kissed her forehead this time, slow and stupidly soft, and let his hand settle at the curve of her waist like it had always been meant to land there.

“I think…” he started, voice quiet, almost shy. “I think I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to feel like this.”

He felt her breath catch against his neck.

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

His grin—small, crooked, real—tugged at his mouth as he shifted just enough to nudge his nose into her hair.

“I’m still gonna mess it up sometimes,” he mumbled, a little sheepish. “But I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me.”

He kissed her temple, barely there.

“Like, all of me. Even the weird parts. Especially the weird parts.”

Another kiss, this time to her cheekbone.

“Now shut up and let me cuddle you.”

And with that, he pulled her impossibly closer—arm wrapped around her middle, blanket tucked higher over their shoulders, his heart not racing but settling.

Because yeah.

This wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

It was theirs.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t tease him for the soft parts or roll her eyes at the weird ones.

She just curled in closer—knee sliding between his, arm draping across his chest like she already belonged there. Like maybe she always had.

Her fingers found the edge of his jaw again, tracing it lightly, and she smiled—not the kind for show, not the kind she used when she didn’t want people to look too close.

This one was quiet.

Private.

Just for him.

“You think I don’t love the weird parts?” she whispered, her voice muffled slightly against his skin. “Spencer, please. I’ve been in love with the weird parts since sophomore year. You trying to explain how the moon’s fake? Peak romance.”

She felt him laugh—felt it low and quiet in his chest—and smiled harder because yeah, that was hers too.

He was hers.

And he was trying.

Trying so damn hard to believe in the kind of love that didn’t leave bruises. The kind that let them be young and stupid and messy and still worth it.

She kissed his shoulder, slow and soft, and then again, higher this time. A trail of affection leading back to the curve of his neck where she tucked her nose in close and breathed him in.

“I’ve got you too, y’know,” she murmured. “Even when you’re annoying. Even when you hog the blanket or make fun of my playlists.”

A beat.

Then quieter, more serious:

“Especially when it’s hard.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she needed to ground herself too.

“I’m not going anywhere either. So if you’re waiting for me to get tired of this… of you… it’s not gonna happen.”

She tilted her head to look at him again, eyes soft and steady.

“You’ve got me, Han. All the way.”

And then?

She kissed him again.

Not rushed.

Not fiery.

Just real.

A kiss that said I see you. I still choose you. And I always will.

Because yeah—

This wasn’t the easy kind of love.

But it was theirs. And that made it everything.

Spencer didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Because God—that smile. That kiss. The way she said his name like it wasn’t something broken but something brave. Like he was.

Like the fucked-up, try-hard, emotionally-backlogged mess of him was enough.

She said she’d been in love with the weird parts since sophomore year, and all he could think about was that day in chemistry class when he went on a ten-minute rant about the moon landing and she just grinned at him—this wild, wicked little smile like he’d just told her the best story she’d ever heard.

Back then he thought she was just humoring him.

Now?

Now he knew better.

Because her hand was on his chest, grounding him. Her laugh was tucked into his neck. Her words weren’t some script to make him feel better—they were real. The kind of real that didn’t come with conditions.

He let his hand drift down her back, slow and careful, like he was still learning what it meant to hold something that didn’t come with an expiration date. And when she kissed him again—fuck—his whole body tilted toward it like gravity.

Like it needed her.

Because it did.

Spencer kissed her back—warm, lingering, hand sliding to her waist and gripping just a little tighter. Not rough. Just anchored.

Just here.

“You really gonna hold it down for me even when I go full blanket burrito and start ranting about aliens at 2am?” he muttered against her mouth, voice low and grinning.

She huffed a laugh that warmed his ribs from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to see her face—hair messy against the pillow, lips kiss-bitten, eyes soft as hell—and shook his head like he still couldn’t believe she was his.

And he meant it when he said—

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

No performance. No filter.

Just him.

Just truth.

His thumb brushed under her jaw like he needed to memorize this version of her—close and chaotic and calm all at once.

“And I’m gonna keep choosing you,” he added, voice low and sure. “Loudly. Clearly. Every damn time.”

His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. Not with panic.

With peace.

He kissed her again, slow and open, like he had time now. Like they did.

Because this wasn’t the kind of love that burned hot and vanished.

This was the kind that stayed.

The kind that built something, mess and all.

And as her fingers curled tighter into his shirt and her body pressed impossibly close, Spencer knew it with every uneven breath in his chest:

He wasn’t just trying to believe in forever anymore.

He already did.

Because she was the reason. And the answer.

And the home.

Leighton didn’t stop smiling—not really—even as her fingers tangled deeper in his hair, lazily fluffing it in a way that was both tender and borderline disrespectful.

Because this?
This was her favorite version of him.
All soft-spoken chaos and blanket-wrapped vulnerability, looking at her like she’d invented gravity.

“God, you’re dangerous when you get sincere,” she muttered, thumb brushing just behind his ear like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. “You hit me with ‘I choose you’ and I’m supposed to what, Spencer? Not melt into a human puddle?”

She kissed him again—brief, dizzying, full of affection—and pulled back just enough to level him with a look.

“Seriously. You keep talking like that and I’m gonna knit us matching sweaters and start packing you lunch with passive-aggressive love notes.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Eat your grapes or I’ll cry,” she said dramatically, clearly workshopping the idea already.

Another kiss. To the tip of his nose this time.

“I’m in, okay? All the way in. Blanket burrito rants and all.”

She paused.

Then, with a completely straight face:

“But if you ever try to convince me again that the moon is a hologram projected by capitalist lizard people, I will unplug your WiFi.”

Her fingers curled gently around the back of his neck, grounding him.

“I love you. I love this,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Then softer, into the curve of his smile:

“Even if your hair looks like it lost a fight with a leaf blower.”

Still playing with it. Still hers.

Always.

Spencer didn’t even pretend to be offended.

He just grinned—wide and wrecked and hers—eyes going all soft at the edges like her words had undone something he hadn’t realized was still wound tight inside him.

Because God, this girl.

This whip-smart, sharp-tongued, emotionally fearless hurricane of a girl who said “I love you” like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a leap. Like he wasn’t a risk.

“Okay,” he murmured, eyes locked to hers, voice thick with that stupid, smitten affection that only she ever got from him, “but I’m not eating the grapes unless they’re peeled. Like, Roman emperor vibes. Get on my level.”

She shoved at his shoulder, laughing, but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t ever pull away.

Instead, she curled in closer, forehead bumping his with a familiarity that made his ribs ache in the best way.

“You realize this means I’m gonna have to one-up your sweater game now,” he added, tone mock-serious. “Like. I’ll be forced to commission us matching beanies that say ‘Emotional Mess’ and ‘Emotional Enabler.’”

A pause.

Then, quieter. Realer.

“I love you too, Leia.”

His fingers curled lightly around her wrist, just over where her pulse thudded steady and sure beneath her skin. He didn’t press, didn’t hold tight. Just touched, like she was something holy.

Because she was.

She really, really was.

“And for the record…” he leaned in, kissed her slow—gentle, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t need a punchline. The kind that said thank you without the words. Then, barely above a breath:

“…I’d lose every WiFi signal on earth if it meant keeping you.”

And he meant it.

Because in this little corner of the world—wrapped in blankets, bad jokes, and that electric pull that never seemed to fade—Spencer Walker had everything he’d never dared to ask for.

And he was never letting go.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Just stared at him with that look—wide-eyed and wild and a little undone—like the world had gone quiet everywhere but here. But him.

Because Spencer Walker, her Spencer Walker, had just said “I love you too.”

And it wasn’t in a panic or a fight or some messy, middle-of-the-night confession.

It was soft.

Real.

Wrapped in bad jokes and warm hands and the kind of kiss that made her bones hum.

So yeah—she didn’t say anything.

Not until he pulled back just a little, that crooked almost-smile starting to form, like he didn’t know what he’d just done to her.

Then she breathed, just once, and mumbled through a grin:

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

She leaned in, kissed him again—shorter this time, but firmer. A little greedy. A little bold.

“You think you can just say that,” she said, fingers slipping into his hair, “and not expect me to immediately start planning our matching Halloween costumes?”

A pause.

A smirk.

“Spencer, I will make you wear a glitter cape.”

But her voice softened again, even as her fingers kept twisting slowly through his hair. Calmer. Lower. Closer.

“I loved you when you were weird about the moon landing. I loved you when you hated yourself for things no one else even noticed. I loved you before you said it, and I’ll love you after. Even when you’re a pain in my ass.”

Another kiss—one to the tip of his nose.

And then, a whisper, like it was for them and no one else:

“You don’t have to earn it, babe. You already did.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. Her forehead rested against his.

And she whispered, like a promise:

“I’m not letting go either.”

She could feel his breath catch.

Could feel it in the way his fingers tightened—just a little—at her side. In the way his forehead leaned into hers like maybe, just maybe, he finally believed her.

And if he didn’t?

That was okay.

Because she’d keep saying it. Keep showing it. Until the last cracked piece of him stopped bracing for her to leave.

Leighton smiled—soft, sure, hers—and ran her fingers through his hair again, slower now. More deliberate.

“Do you even know how hard it is not to love you?” she whispered, brushing the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got that whole haunted-but-soft-hearted thing going on. It’s like a romcom trap.”

A breath of a laugh escaped her—light and real and home.

Then, quieter, almost like it was for the space between their ribs and nowhere else:

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Spence. Not your worth. Not your heart. You just have to let me be here.”

She kissed his temple, slow and steady, like she was sealing the words in.

Then the corner of her mouth tugged up, and she added with a grin:

“But if you did wanna prove something… I could be convinced with movie snacks. Like… five of them. Minimum. I’m just saying.”

Another beat. Another smile.

Then she curled into him again, arm draped across his stomach, blanket tugged higher, and whispered into the curve of his throat:

“You’re stuck with me, blanket burrito and all.”

And she meant it. Every word.

Because no matter how messy it got—no matter how weird, or quiet, or late-night-too-honest—it was them.

And that was everything.

Spencer let out the quietest, most defeated little groan—more of a sigh-laugh-surrender than anything else—and dropped his head back against the pillow like he’d just accepted his fate at the hands of a tiny, glitter-obsessed tyrant.

Which, to be fair, he had.

Because of course she went straight for Halloween.
Of course there was a glitter cape involved.
And of course she said I love you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

God, he was so screwed.

His hand found her waist again, lazy and warm beneath the blanket, thumb slipping beneath the hem of her shirt just enough to feel the skin there—just enough to ground him.

“Glitter,” he mumbled into the curve of her hair, deadpan but wrecked in that affectionate way only she could drag out of him. “Like I haven’t suffered enough.”

He felt her grin against his neck and groaned again, softer this time.

“I’m already dreading it. Just so we’re clear.”

But he tightened his arm around her anyway. Didn’t let her go.

Wouldn’t.

Not now. Not ever.

Because yeah, he’d wear the damn cape.

He’d match her in whatever chaotic, love-drunk, snack-fueled adventure she planned next. He’d sit through five movies and survive ten Halloween parties and probably get roped into another couples costume by Christmas.

Because it was her.

Because it was them.

And that was worth everything.

Even glitter.

Leighton tried—really tried—not to laugh.
But the second he groaned like the universe had personally betrayed him via rhinestone accessories and festive cape requirements?

She lost it.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just that soft, breathless laugh that tumbled out of her against his chest, warming the space between them like the glow of fairy lights.

Her fingers drifted over his ribs, drawing lazy patterns beneath the blanket as she smirked into his collarbone.

“You say that now,” she murmured, voice muffled and teasing, “but you’re gonna look stupid hot in that cape. Like tragic, misunderstood vampire prince hot. People are gonna write poetry about you. Probably in gel pen.”

She felt his chest shake beneath her, barely-there laughter, and kissed the spot just over his heartbeat like punctuation.

“And for the record?” she added, tilting her head just enough to meet his sleepy, doomed expression in the low light. “I only glitter-curse people I really love.”

A beat.

Then, with the most serious face she could muster:

“It’s a sacred honor. You should feel chosen.”

Her fingers curled lightly at his side again, tracing the edge of his shirt. “Besides, we both know you’re gonna wear it. Complain the whole time. Steal all my candy. And still end up slow-dancing with me in someone’s kitchen while we pretend we’re too cool to care.”

She pressed another kiss to his jaw, softer this time. Slower.

“I do love you, you know.”

Another beat.

Then—

“Even when you act like glitter is a war crime.”

Her smile turned gentler, quieter, full of that warmth she only ever saved for him.

“Especially then.”

Leighton didn’t even pretend to feel bad. Not when he groaned like that. Not when he threw his head back all dramatic, like agreeing to wear a glitter cape was the emotional equivalent of going to war.

She just grinned into his neck—big, smug, delighted—and muttered, “You say that now, but wait till you see the boots.”

A beat. Then, with mock-seriousness:

“They light up, Spencer.”

She felt his entire body do that defeated-limp-flop thing and nearly lost it right there. Couldn’t help the tiny snort-laugh that escaped.

“Oh, come on,” she teased, lifting her head enough to catch the edge of his sulky expression. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t absolutely slay as a bedazzled vampire-slash-space-cowboy hybrid? Be serious.”

Her fingers were already creeping up to play with the hem of his boxers again, just casually enough to be distracting. Just softly enough to be sweet.

“Besides,” she added with a kiss to his jaw, “you owe me. I’ve tolerated your conspiracy theory podcast voice at 2 a.m. on multiple occasions.”

Another kiss. Higher this time. Right under his cheekbone.

“And that time you made me pause a movie to explain how pigeons are government spies? Yeah. Glitter boots are the least I deserve.”

She was trying to be ridiculous, truly. Keep it light. Keep him light. But underneath all the teasing, her voice was warm. Steady. Like her hands. Like her heartbeat against his chest.

She didn’t say I love you again.

Didn’t have to.

Not when she was curled into him like this, already mapping out matching costumes and future inside jokes and a million tiny ways to say you’re safe here.

With me.

Always.

Spencer didn’t open his eyes.

Didn’t have to.

Just let his head roll back on the pillow like he’d been personally victimized by sequins and love, a hand dragged dramatically over his face like maybe if he suffered hard enough, she’d show mercy.

She wouldn’t.
And he knew it.
God, he loved her for it.

“Light-up boots,” he croaked, voice hoarse and low, like he was halfway between sleep and soul-crushing resignation. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

He cracked one eye open, caught the glint of pure joy in hers, and let out a long, theatrical exhale. The kind that belonged in a coming-of-age indie movie. Or a tragic period drama.

Or, apparently, a bedroom in the middle of nowhere with a girl who wanted him to cosplay as a disco vampire.

“Just bury me in the cape now,” he muttered. “Tell the boys I went down brave.”

A beat.

Then quieter. Almost deadpan. Almost sincere.

“…Tell Jess not to wear my beanie.”

He could feel her smiling against his throat, feel the way her hand slid just a little higher under his shirt, and yeah—okay.

He was doomed.

Totally. Completely. Glitterfully doomed.

And he’d do it. He’d wear the stupid cape. And the boots. And probably eyeliner if she asked real nice.

Because she asked.

Because she was herself.

Because her head was tucked against his chest and her mouth was writing poems into his skin without a single word, and his ribs didn’t ache when she was near—not the way they used to.

Not in that heavy, hollow way.

“Don’t let me trip over anything,” he said after a long pause, softer this time, like he didn’t want to break the hush between them. “If I eat shit in rhinestones, I’m never recovering.”

But his hand was already sliding up her back—slow, absent, fond.

And when he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, barely there, he didn’t groan.

Didn’t sigh.

Didn’t play it off like a joke.

He just let it mean what it meant.

Because she glitter-cursed him, and it felt a lot like being chosen. Like maybe he’d finally been haunted into happiness.

And maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Leighton grinned, wide and wicked, without lifting her head from where it was tucked beneath his chin.

God, he was dramatic.

But he was hers.

And if she was a glitter curse, then he’d damn well better get used to sequins in his sheets and rhinestones on his socks, because she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Light-up boots are non-negotiable,” she mumbled against his collarbone, voice all lazy affection. “You’ll thank me when we’re the hottest couple at the Halloween dance and someone asks for our autograph.”

She shifted slightly, just enough to glance up at him—his eyes still half-lidded, hair all rumpled from the pillow, lips curved in that tragic-hero smirk like he was moments from delivering a Shakespearean monologue about his impending glitter-related death.

God, she loved him.

And yeah, maybe he was doomed. But not the way he thought.

He was doomed in the way you are when someone falls for you all the way—unapologetic, ridiculous, soft.

Leighton reached up and threaded her fingers into his hair, lazy and slow, like she had all the time in the world to memorize the way it curled between her knuckles. She scratched lightly at his scalp, because she knew he liked it and also because she was a menace.

“Jess wouldn’t dare steal your beanie,” she whispered dramatically. “I already called dibs. You die? I get it.”

She paused. Then added, with a grin in her voice:

“Also your Spotify login. And the backup hoodie you think I don’t know about.”

Her thumb traced a little arc near his temple.

She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her, steady now. Not frantic. Not heavy. Just there. With her.

And that? That felt like a miracle all by itself.

“Y’know,” she murmured, lips brushing his jaw, “you’re real cute when you surrender.”

Another pause. Softer now. Sincere.

“I like you better like this. All warm and grumpy and wrapped up in blankets you pretend not to need.”

She kissed his cheek, then buried her face back in the crook of his neck like it was home.

Because it was.

Because he was.

And she wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

Even if he tripped in rhinestones. Even if she had to drag his dramatic ass to every school dance for the rest of the year.

He was hers.

Glitter and all.

Spencer let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh—equal parts suffering and stupidly in love—as he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle his nose into her hair.

God, this girl.

She was a fever dream wrapped in chaos and glitter glue, and he was done for.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her in until there wasn’t a sliver of space left between them. Not that he wanted any. Not when she was warm and soft and pressed to his chest like she belonged there. Like they belonged there.

And she did.

Even if she was planning his rhinestone-induced downfall.

“Light-up boots,” he muttered like it physically hurt him. “What kind of hell have I agreed to?”

But he didn’t stop smiling.

Couldn’t.

Not when her fingers were in his hair like that, lazy and possessive and smug as hell. Not when her lips brushed his jaw like a secret. Not when she tucked herself against him like he was the one she needed and not the other way around.

Which he absolutely did.

Every day.

More than he’d ever admit out loud.

He kissed the crown of her head, slow and unhurried, like punctuation on a promise. Then another, just beneath her ear. Then lower, trailing down to the edge of her jaw where he lingered—hot breath and warm mouth and nothing but affection.

“You get the beanie,” he murmured. “But I’m haunting your Spotify. You play that one playlist with the sad girl piano songs again, and I’m pulling a full poltergeist.”

His hand found the curve of her hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the hem of her sleep shirt.

She was his.

And glitter curse or not?

He’d wear every damn sequin she threw at him.

Because being hers meant Sunday mornings like this. Meant teasing and tangled sheets and soft confessions disguised as insults. Meant being the safe place she curled into and the reason her voice dropped to a whisper when she said I like you better like this.

He closed his eyes, pressed one last kiss beneath her ear, and whispered back—

“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got me.”

Forever.

The front door creaked open with the kind of protest that matched her mood—tired, impatient, vaguely annoyed. Her shift had dragged. Her shoes were unforgiving. Her phone was dead. And all she wanted was a grilled cheese, a shower, and the remote.

She hadn’t even looked up yet, already mentally composing the text she was going to send Spencer later. Something snarky. Something half-joking about how it was very cool of him to no-show after her mom made rice pilaf from scratch like it was 2003 and they still had dinner parties.

But then she heard it.

Laughter.

Not her mom’s solo mutter-laugh at one of her audiobooks. Not the TV. Real laughter—shared laughter—from the kitchen.

Her brows pinched. She kicked off her shoes with more force than necessary and padded down the hall, steps slowing the closer she got.

And there he was.

Spencer Fucking Walker.

Barefoot, grinning, sleeves rolled up as he leaned against the counter like he’d been here a hundred times. Like he belonged. A plate of something half-eaten in front of him, and her mom mid-story with a glass of wine in hand, smiling in that rare, real way that only showed up when she wasn’t trying to keep it together for Leighton’s sake.

She blinked.

Once. Twice.

Spencer noticed her first. Of course he did. That twitch of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting to be caught.

Leighton didn’t say anything.

She just crossed the kitchen, eyebrows still arched in disbelief, and kissed him. Just a peck. Quick. Light. Real.

Then she pulled back and glanced at the plate.

“You ate the pilaf?” she said, pretending she wasn’t entirely thrown off balance. “Brave.”

Her mom snorted. Spencer tried not to look too pleased with himself.

And Leighton?

She leaned against the fridge, arms folded, pretending her heart wasn’t doing that ridiculous, fluttery thing it always did when the people she loved surprised her by getting along.

Maybe he wasn’t going to flake this time.

Maybe—just maybe—he was trying.

And damn it, that mattered.

Spencer had shown up twenty minutes early.

Not on purpose. Not exactly.
He’d just needed the walk. The quiet. The clarity.
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to prove something.

Not in the look how boyfriend-coded I can be kind of way. More like I know what matters to you, so it matters to me too.

He’d stopped at that overpriced flower shop near the corner, the one with the dusty window display and faintly judgmental owner. Bought two bouquets—one small and wild-looking, all daisies and lavender and messy charm. The other more polished. Cream roses. Clean edges. A thank-you in bloom.

He didn’t flinch when Violet opened the door.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t shrink.

Just offered the nicer bouquet with that crooked half-smile of his and said, “Figured it might help me survive the pilaf.”

She’d raised an eyebrow, took the flowers with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and replied, “Well, aren’t you a charming little distraction.”

But she let him in.

She let him stay.

And she even—God help them all—let him sit at the counter while she finished cooking. Quizzed him like it was casual. Like she didn’t already have a private investigator’s worth of knowledge about his grades and his absences and the time he punched a guy in tenth grade for saying something about Leighton’s laugh.

He didn’t dodge.

Didn’t charm his way out of it either.

Just answered her questions. Ate the pilaf. Complimented it. Meant it.

And when she finally softened enough to tell him a story about Leighton as a toddler—something about glitter glue and a ruined chaise lounge—he laughed. Real and quiet and too fond by half.

So yeah.

He was still recovering from the sheer emotional pilaf of it all when she walked in.

And when he saw her—tired, sharp around the edges, still somehow the most magnetic thing in the room—Spencer couldn’t stop the grin. Didn’t even try.

The kiss? Short. Surprising. Stupidly grounding.

And when she pulled back, already teasing, already pretending not to be thrown?

Spencer leaned one elbow on the counter, tipped his head, and gave her that special kind of look. The one that said I see you. I always do.

“Wasn’t gonna flake,” he said, voice low, easy. “Not when there was the promise of early-2000s carbs and death stares from your mom.”

He held up the second bouquet—the one meant for her. A little beat-up from the walk, but still good. Still hers.

“Got these too. Thought you might wanna throw ‘em at me later. Y’know. Options.”

He handed them over, fingers brushing hers just a second longer than they had to.

And yeah, maybe he was pretending to be cool.

But the way he looked at her?

That wasn’t pretend at all.

Leighton blinked.

Once. Twice.

Because her brain was still catching up to the fact that Spencer Walker—who routinely flaked on lunch plans and forgot his own backpack three times last semester—was currently leaning against her mother’s kitchen counter, fully fed and lightly smirking, with a bouquet in his hand and no visible signs of chaos trailing behind him.

What the actual hell.

And God, the way he looked at her. Like she was gravity. Like she was safe. Like she was the punchline to a joke he never wanted to stop laughing at.

She could’ve cried. Or punched him. Or both.

Instead, she took the flowers.

They were scraggly. A little crushed. Half-charming, half-mess.

Like him.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The press of her mouth to his was quick, casual, deliberately unceremonious. But her fingers stayed on his for just a second too long, like she needed to make sure he was actually here. Real. Breathing her air.

He was.

And apparently? Surviving pilaf night with Violet Thomas.

Her mother, who was currently watching them both from the stove with an expression that could’ve meant “I tolerate this” or “I’m deciding where to hide the body.”

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Just turned toward the counter like she wasn’t rattled to her core by how normal this all felt. Like she wasn’t spiraling internally about the fact that Spencer showed up early and brought flowers and smiled at her like she was worth showing up for.

She grabbed a vase from under the sink.

Her hands weren’t shaking. Not really.

Okay—maybe a little.

But whatever. She was allowed to be soft about it.

Without looking at him, she set the flowers down, turned just enough to clock the faint lipstick smear on his cheek, and smirked as she wiped it away with her thumb.

Then—because she had to say something or she’d combust—she leaned in just slightly, voice pitched low enough to keep it between them.

“So,” she murmured, keeping her expression neutral, “exactly how many glitter glue horror stories did she tell you before I got here?”

She didn’t expect an answer. Not right away.

She just wanted to watch him squirm.

Because even if he was winning tonight—boyfriend points stacked stupidly high—she was still Leighton Thomas.

And he was never getting out of this unscathed.