Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t do the thing he always did when things got too close—crack a joke, light a fuse, disappear behind a shrug and a wall of smoke.

Because damn if she didn’t just strip him bare with nothing but words.

And the wildest part?

She wasn’t even trying to.

She was just there—no spotlight, no stage, no performance. Just Leighton, sitting in the soft wreckage of his trust, offering hers in return.

And it fucking floored him.

Not because she’d asked to be seen.

But because she didn’t beg for it.

She demanded it. Quietly. Steadily. Like someone who knew her own worth even when she wasn’t sure anyone else did.

That?
That was scarier than anything he’d ever drawn.

He didn’t look away from her. Couldn’t have if he tried.

Instead, he shifted. Turned to face her fully. One leg folded, the other hanging off the mattress like he needed something to ground him.

His voice, when it came, was low. Not a whisper—but close.

“I see you.”

Three words. No preamble. No bullshit.

His gaze dropped for a second, like he needed to collect himself, then found hers again with startling clarity.

“I see the version of you that doesn’t always have it together. The one who keeps her armor in the back pocket of her cutoffs, just in case. The one who flinches a little when someone calls her soft, but still shows up anyway.”

He shrugged a shoulder, but the movement was more breath than bravado.

“I see the way you look at the world like it’s both a battlefield and a blank page. Like maybe you’re not sure which one it’s gonna be until after you speak.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the sketchpad again. Not to take it back—just to feel it there. Like proof this wasn’t a dream.

“And I know you’re not just the girl who stayed. Or the girl who scares me. Or the girl who makes me want to draw until my hands give out.”

He met her eyes again.

“You’re the girl who made it safe to tell the truth.”

A pause. His voice dropped, huskier now.

“And if that’s what I’m letting in? Then fuck it, Leighton. Let it all in.”

He didn’t mean it like surrender.
He meant it like a choice.

Like the first one that ever felt right.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he reached out and took her hand. Twined his fingers through hers like it was instinct.

No fanfare. No grand gesture.

Just a quiet seal on everything they hadn’t needed to say out loud.

The silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t fragile. It was warm. Sturdy.

He let it stretch.

Then—just as the buzz from the joint began to soften at the edges—he nudged her side lightly and offered the faintest grin.

“Wanna see something ridiculous?”

He nodded toward the box shoved halfway under his bed.

“It’s not part of the sketchpad. It’s... other stuff. Doodles. Notes. A shitty mixtape I burned in ninth grade that I’ll only play for you if you promise not to bully me about the Dashboard Confessional phase.”

He ducked his head like he could already hear her teasing him, but the grin lingered.

Because this?
This was him trying.

This was him staying.

And he wasn’t scared of that anymore.

Leighton didn’t smile at first.

Didn’t tease him. Didn’t reach for the joint or roll her eyes at the Dashboard Confessional mention—even though normally, she would’ve. Normally, she’d have something smart-mouthed and sharp to throw at him, just to cut the weight of everything they never said.

But this wasn’t normal.

This was him handing her his everything.

And for once, she didn’t want to make it easier by making it lighter.

So she stayed still.

Just breathed.

Let the moment settle around her like fog in the early morning—quiet, heavy, real.

Her fingers stayed wrapped around his, thumb brushing lightly along the side of his hand like muscle memory. Like she wasn’t even thinking about it, just needed to touch something that tethered her here. Something that proved this was real.

He saw her.

Not the curated version. Not the loud, unapologetic, bite-first-ask-later Leighton she let the world think was the only version.

He saw the girl who sometimes didn’t know if the fire in her chest was anger or fear.

The one who still counted exits when she walked into a room.

The one who made playlists like apologies and reread old texts like they were instructions she must’ve missed the first time.

And he didn’t flinch.

She turned toward him, slow, letting her knee brush his. Her other hand came up and pressed gently against the side of his face—just fingertips at first, then her palm, soft and certain.

She held him there for a second. Just held him. Like he was something worth grounding.

“You really think I’m not gonna bully you?” she said finally, voice low and dry and fond. “Walker. You just admitted to owning a ninth-grade mixtape.”

Her lips curled, but the softness in her eyes didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

“I already know it starts with ‘Vindicated.’ You’re not special.”

The tease came easy—but her hand didn’t move. And when she dropped it, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she followed the line of his gaze to the box under the bed. The one he’d nodded at like it held the next layer. The next scar. The next leap.

She didn’t move toward it.

Didn’t reach for it herself.

Because some things had to be offered—not taken.

And this?

This was sacred.

So instead, she looked back at him. Let herself really look.

At the curve of his jaw in the low light. At the slope of his shoulders, finally not hunched. At the way his fingers still held onto hers like he hadn’t realized yet he didn’t have to.

And something in her chest just… broke open.

Not the way it used to—suddenly, painfully, in silence.

But in the way things break when they’ve been held too tight for too long and finally get to breathe.

“You know what’s ridiculous?” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“This feels more real than anything I’ve said to anyone in months.”

She let that truth settle between them, not dressed up. Not disguised.

And then, quieter still:

“I’m scared shitless, Spence.”

The nickname slipped out without warning, without armor. It didn’t feel like a test this time. It felt like trust.

“I’m scared because this matters. And because I never learned what to do with things that stayed.”

Her fingers curled a little tighter around his.

“But I wanna learn.”

And with that, she leaned forward—just slightly—and nudged her nose against his like a promise. Like a breath. Like a beginning.

Then she sat back, still close, still there, and nodded once toward the box.

“Show me the damage, Walker,” she said, soft but steady. “I can take it.”

And God, she meant it.

Spencer let out a slow breath through his nose. Not shaky. Not held. Just… full.

Because that was the thing about Leighton.

She didn’t just call his bluff—she waited it out.
Let the silence have room to breathe, let the moment be what it was without asking it to hurry up or soften.

And damn, she was right.

It did start with “Vindicated.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, one corner of his mouth pulling up just slightly. But he didn’t answer with a comeback. Didn’t toss the sarcasm back like he usually would.

Instead, he reached under the bed and dragged the box out slow, like it might change its mind.

It was dented in the corner, the lid barely hanging on, Sharpie scribbled across the top like someone had tried and failed to make it look important. Inside was chaos—but a very Spencer Walker brand of chaos. Notebooks with torn covers. Burned CDs with dramatic one-word titles. An old lighter that didn’t work anymore but still smelled like campfires and bad decisions.

He shuffled through the mess until his fingers closed around a cracked jewel case. The tracklist had long since faded, but he didn’t need to see it. He knew exactly what it was.

He pulled it out like a confession, glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and stood to slide it into the ancient stereo on his bookshelf—the kind that only worked when you hit the side a little.

Click. Whir. Play.

A low hum filled the air.
Then—

:music: “Vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong…” :music:

He turned back toward her with both hands up in mock surrender. “Listen, in my defense, it was the Spider-Man 2 soundtrack and I was going through things.”

But even as the words left his mouth, something softer slid behind his eyes.

Because it was ridiculous.

And it also wasn’t.

Not to him. Not back then.

And not now.

He sat beside her again, knee bumping hers, and reached into the box. Pulled out the next thing without ceremony: a wadded-up sketch on the back of a math worksheet. Two people sitting on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling into the sky like they weren’t afraid of the fall. There were no faces. Just silhouettes and stars.

“That’s from the night my mom moved out,” he said. Casual, like he was reading a label. “Drew it in homeroom the next day. Didn’t want to forget what it felt like to breathe again.”

He passed it to her, not looking at her while he did. Just trusting she’d take it.

Then he pulled out a folded receipt with words scrawled all over the back in blocky Sharpie. Lyrics. Half a letter. Maybe both.

He paused.

“This one’s dumb.”

But he handed it to her anyway.

Then a third thing—an old wristband from a concert he never told anyone he went to. A band he used to pretend he didn’t like because they were “too mainstream,” but secretly? They were the only thing that kept him from losing it the week the divorce papers came in the mail.

“This,” he said, holding it up between his fingers like it was both fragile and sacred, “was the first time I realized I could be in a crowd and still feel lonely.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Kind of weird how that’s still comforting.”

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

And there it was again—that sharp ache in his chest that said don’t fuck this up. The one that made him want to kiss her and run away in the same breath. The one that sounded a hell of a lot like home.

She was still holding his hand. Still here. Still her.

And something about that steadied him in a way nothing else ever had.

He glanced toward the stereo as the second track started—something moodier, something less on-the-nose but still very 2009 heartbreak-core—and gave a sheepish shrug.

“There’s, uh… fifteen more where that came from. The last one’s just me singing into my laptop mic like I thought I was Bon Iver.”

A pause.

Then, soft but deadpan:

“I was not Bon Iver.”

He nudged her shoulder gently. Not trying to break the moment. Just marking it.

Then, quieter:

“I don’t really know how to do this part, Leighton.”

His thumb brushed over hers again.

“The showing up. The letting someone see the mess and not trying to sweep it before they look.”

Another pause.

“But if I’m gonna figure it out with anyone…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

The CD spun. The room held its breath.

And Spencer Walker, the boy who’d spent most of his life trying not to be too much or too broken or too visible, finally let himself be.

Right there, with the music playing, the box open, and her hand still in his.

He didn’t let go.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just traced the edge of the CD case with her thumb like it might tell her something he hadn’t already said.

“Better Off.”

God, the titles he gave things. Like he wanted the world to think he was already past it, already fine, already unbothered—but then kept the proof anyway. Kept the songs and the sketches and the almost-letters in a box under his bed like maybe he wasn’t better off. Not really.

Leighton set the CD down gently, then turned back toward him, legs folded and heart doing that quiet ache thing again.

“You know what’s actually dumb?” she said, her voice low, like it didn’t want to scare the moment away. “I used to think people like you didn’t feel stuff like this.”

She didn’t mean it as an insult. Just truth.

“You came into homeroom that first week with your headphones in and that chipped skateboard and this face like you’d seen everything and didn’t give a shit anymore.”

She gave a small shrug, half a smirk at the edge of it.

“And I was the idiot sitting three rows behind you with a color-coded binder and an entire list of reasons not to get too close to anyone ever again.”

Her voice softened.

“But you noticed things. Like, actually noticed. When I changed my part. When I started wearing my sleeves a little longer. When I snapped my pen in half during group projects and pretended it wasn’t on purpose.”

She tilted her head, studying him now. Not judging. Just… holding it.

“You were already showing up. You just didn’t know it yet.”

Her fingers tightened around his, just barely.

“And now you do.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:
“I see you too, y’know.”

She let that land.

Not with pressure. Not with weight. Just truth, simple and steady.

She glanced toward the stereo, now humming through a track that probably meant way more to him than he’d ever admit, and said, “You’re allowed to be ridiculous. And messy. And moody and soft and weirdly into Bon Iver.”

A beat.

“You’re allowed to be all of it. And I’m not gonna flinch.”

Her gaze dropped to their hands again—twined like they’d always known how to fit—and she smiled, small but real.

“I don’t know how to do this part either, Spencer.”

Her voice almost broke on his name. Not because she was scared.

Because it felt safe.

“But I think this is how it starts.”

She leaned back against the wall, shoulder brushing his again.

Still holding on.

Still here.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t have to.

Because the moment she looked at him like that—shoulder against his, fingers still wrapped up in his like they belonged there—something inside him went quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with holding your breath.
The kind that came when you finally exhaled.

The stereo kept humming in the background, that same second track threading through the silence—raw and unpolished, with vocals that cracked in all the places he used to think needed fixing.

But now?

Now it just sounded honest.

She’d called him out. Gently. Completely.

Not just on the music or the bullshit titles or the mask he’d worn into homeroom that first week like it could protect him from caring too much again.

She’d seen past all of it.

And stayed.

He turned to face her fully, slow and careful, like the moment might run if he moved too fast. His knee brushed hers again. His hand—still holding hers—shifted slightly so he could thread their fingers tighter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had someone say all that and not make me wanna crawl out of my skin,” he said, voice low and rough at the edges. “But you…”

He trailed off.

Shook his head, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite get there.

“You make it feel like I’m not faking it just by trying.”

The song swelled behind them. A low harmony kicked in—off-key, imperfect, his.

And maybe that’s what finally tipped him forward.

Not recklessly.
Not impulsively.
Just… honestly.

He leaned in—slow, steady, like gravity was a decision this time.

And when he kissed her?

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t some firework moment he’d spent years dreaming about.

It was quiet.

Soft.

The kind of kiss that didn’t need to ask for permission because the answer had been in every breath between them all night.

His hand slid up to cradle her jaw, thumb grazing just under her ear like he was trying to memorize the way she felt when she wasn’t trying to be anyone but herself.

And God, she was everything.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to see her, to really see her—his forehead rested against hers, breath warm between them, music still spilling softly into the corners of the room.

“I’m still scared shitless,” he whispered, a half-laugh tucked into it now. “But if this is how it starts…”

He squeezed her hand.

“Then I don’t wanna miss it.”

The stereo clicked gently into the next track.

And Spencer Walker let it play.

Leighton didn’t rush to answer.

She just let the quiet hold — not in hesitation, but in understanding. Like maybe she knew the weight of what he’d just said, what it cost him to hand it over without flinching. And maybe she didn’t want to trample that by speaking too soon.

So she stayed close. Fingers still laced with his. Shoulder brushing his. Eyes steady.

When she did speak, her voice was softer than he was used to hearing from her. Not because she was pulling back — but because she wasn’t performing now. No armor. No bite. Just her.

“Hey,” she said gently, like a thread stitching the moment together. “You don’t have to explain it all. I get it.”

Her thumb moved slowly across the back of his hand. Back and forth. Over and over. Like maybe if she kept that rhythm going, he’d believe it — that he was safe here. That this moment wasn’t going to break him.

“I know what it’s like to want to run before someone can see too much,” she whispered. “To flinch when something feels too good — too real. Like maybe if you let yourself want it, you’ll wreck it.”

She looked at him then, really looked — all the way in.

“But you haven’t wrecked anything, Spencer. Not even close.”

She shifted a little closer, her knee pressing gently into his, her voice barely more than a breath now.

“You don’t have to earn being seen. You don’t have to apologize for needing to go slow, or not having all the words, or being scared. I’m scared too. But I’m still here.”

A small, quiet smile found her lips.

“And I’m not going anywhere just because you’re figuring it out as you go.”

She tilted her forehead to his, brushing their noses together like a promise without needing to say one.

“You’re not too much. You’re not not enough. You’re just… you. And that’s what I want.”

Her hand moved to his face, cradling his cheek gently, her thumb brushing beneath his eye.

“So you can stop holding your breath now,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to be okay here.”

And she meant it.
Every word.

Not because he needed saving.
But because he finally let her see him.

And she’d never once thought about leaving.

Spencer let out a slow breath.

Not shaky. Not heavy.

Just full.

Because that? That was a lot.

Too much, maybe, for someone who used to joke his way out of feelings and skate past anything that looked like actual connection.

And yet—here she was.

Still here. Still looking at him like he wasn’t a half-finished draft she was gonna scrap when she saw the edits. Like he didn’t have to sell her on the version of himself with clean lines and no smudges.

His throat felt tight, but not the bad kind. Just… the kind that came from hearing something you weren’t sure you’d ever get to hear.

He leaned back a little, just enough to see her clearly, her thumb still brushing the back of his hand like it had a job to do.

“You sure?” he asked, tone deliberately light but eyes still serious. “Because this—” he gestured between them with their joined hands, “—comes with a lifetime supply of self-deprecating jokes, a raging superiority complex about indie playlists, and a deeply concerning attachment to hoodies with thumb holes.”

A beat.

“And I once cried during a Pixar short, so.”

He watched the corners of her mouth twitch. Not quite a full laugh, but getting there—and God, did that feel good.

Spencer stretched his legs out in front of him with a soft exhale, their knees still touching, his head leaning back against the wall.

The room was quiet again, the mix still playing in the background—soft guitar, a voice that cracked in all the places his had earlier.

He turned to her, this time more relaxed, letting the vulnerability settle into something easier to hold.

“Y’know,” he said, shifting just enough to nudge her shoulder with his, “you’re kinda terrifying when you’re nice.”

He raised an eyebrow, mock-serious. “Like, should I be worried? Is this how it starts? You lure me in with kindness and then steal my CDs?”

A pause.

“…Actually, fair warning—there’s an old Taking Back Sunday bootleg in that box. If that goes missing, I will call the authorities.”

His tone was teasing, but underneath it all, it was clear:
He was staying in this moment.
Not running.
Not hiding.

He glanced down at their hands again.

“I’m not good at this part,” he admitted. “But I want to try.”

Then, because the silence was starting to stretch again—and because he could only take so much softness before his brain short-circuited—he added with a crooked smile:

“And if I spiral and send you a 2 a.m. playlist called ‘Songs to Cry and Also Pretend You’re in a Music Video To’... just, like… go with it.”

He bumped her knee again.

“Still not gonna scare you off, huh?”

God, part of him almost hoped she’d say no.
But the bigger part?

Already knew the answer.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Just tilted her head, watching him with that look—the one that always made him feel a little exposed, like she could see every messy corner he’d spent years trying to wallpaper over.

But there was no judgment in her eyes. Just this maddening, grounding calm.

Then—finally—she spoke, voice low and warm, like the part of the night that doesn’t try to be anything but still.

“I’m sure.”

No hesitation. No flinch.

Her thumb kept brushing his hand, slow and steady, like maybe it had become instinct now. Like she knew he needed something to hold onto, and she wasn’t planning to let go.

“And just so we’re clear,” she added, lips curving, “the superiority complex is earned. Your playlists are weirdly good. I hate that for me.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly into his, matching his energy, keeping the air easy without letting go of the weight underneath it.

“And the thumb-hole hoodie thing? That’s not a red flag. That’s just childhood trauma in cotton form. Welcome to the club.”

She glanced down at their hands and then back up again, her expression softening.

“As for crying during a Pixar short…” She paused, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean—unless it was the lava one, in which case I am judging you a little—but otherwise? That just makes you human.”

A beat passed.

Then, quieter now, like it mattered more than the rest:
“I like that you’re human with me.”

She didn’t try to dress it up with a joke. Didn’t pivot or pull back.

She just said it.

And then, because she could feel the tension still lingering in his posture—the part of him that was bracing for her to leave even as she sat right in front of him—she leaned in.

Rested her temple against his shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this part,” she murmured. “You’re just supposed to try. And you are.”

Her hand squeezed his, firm but gentle.

“And for the record, I expect that playlist. And I will absolutely cry to it. And then overanalyze the track order like it’s a coded message about your emotional growth.”

She smiled into his sleeve, dry and a little crooked.

“So no. You haven’t scared me off.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him again, her voice still quiet but clear:

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

And maybe that was the moment—the shift.

Not fireworks. Not some grand declaration.

Just this.

Two kids sitting on a bedroom floor, knees touching, hearts cracked open in the softest kind of way.

Still trying.
Still staying.
Still enough.

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

He couldn’t.

Not with her looking at him like that.
Like he wasn’t something broken to fix, but something she’d already decided to keep.

So he did the only thing that made sense in that moment—
He reached.

Not for her hand this time.
Not for the joint, or the lighter, or another joke to wrap around his ribs like armor.

He reached for the sketchbook.

The one she hadn’t opened.
The one he hadn’t let anyone open. Not really.

And for a second, he just held it in his lap, fingers resting lightly on the worn edge of the cover. Like if he gave it a second longer, maybe he’d change his mind.

He didn’t.

Instead, he glanced sideways—caught her watching him, still quiet, still there—and then flipped the cover open.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “You asked.”

The first pages were messy.

Like, messy.

Pencil lines dug in too deep. Smudged corners. Scribbles that didn’t mean anything except get it out, get it out, get it out.

Dark stuff.

The kind of sketches you don’t post.
The kind you don’t even look at again once they’re out of your head.
Except he had. Over and over.
Because that’s who he was before her—someone who looped the hard parts, trying to make sense of them with graphite and shame.

Shadows of people with their faces erased.
Hands reaching for something they’d never catch.
A cracked ribcage with a lock where the heart should be.

He let the pages speak for themselves.

Didn’t narrate. Didn’t explain.

Just turned each one slowly, steady hands even when his heart wanted to bail.

Then—finally—he paused.

Looked at her again, eyes catching hers in the low, quiet space between songs. The CD kept spinning in the background, soft chords filling the air like breath.

“This was before,” he said simply. “Before I let anyone close enough to tell me I didn’t have to bleed for it to mean something.”

He turned the page.

And there she was.

Not a portrait. Not exactly.

But the shift was obvious. The change.

Sketches that had light in them now.

Lines that lifted, even when they didn’t make sense.
A rooftop. A pair of boots on a railing. A streak of blue sky in the corner of a storm.
Hands again—but this time, held.

And then, one page he hadn’t meant to flip to—
A quick study of her asleep on the couch, hoodie half off her shoulder, mouth slightly open like she was mid-dream.

He froze.

“Okay, that one’s embarrassing,” he muttered, going to turn the page—
But her hand landed gently on his.

Not to stop him.
Just to say don’t run.

So he left it.

Didn’t look at her right away—just stared at the lines and shading like maybe he could hide there a little longer.

“This is what happened when you showed up,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “When you kicked in the door and sat on the floor and started telling me I wasn’t as scary as I thought.”

A beat.

“I didn’t get better, Leighton. I just… stopped pretending it wasn’t worth trying.”

He glanced over.

Saw the way her eyes had gone soft again, but not watery. Not pitying.

Just present.

Spencer exhaled a little—half-laugh, half-relief.

“I swear to God, if you start crying, I’m gonna have to play ‘Mr. Brightside’ just to survive.”

He reached for the CD case like a lifeline, grinning crookedly now, trying to ease the tension without letting it go.

“Anyway,” he added, nudging her knee with his, “this is the part where you admit you’re my muse now and try to act like you’re not secretly flattered.”

But even with the sarcasm back, even with the shield half-up again—
His knee stayed pressed to hers.

And the sketchbook?

Still open between them.

Because he didn’t want to hide it anymore.

Didn’t want to hide himself anymore.

Not from her.

Not now.

Not ever again.

Leighton didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t interrupt the silence he left hanging.
Didn’t reach for the sketchbook again.

She just watched.

Watched him hold the weight of his own history in his lap and choose to hand it over. Page by page. Wound by wound. Shadow by shadow.

She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t soften.
Didn’t look away.

Because none of it scared her.

Not the darkness.
Not the sharp edges.
Not even the page with her on it.

And when he muttered that he was going to play Mr. Brightside as an emotional emergency exit, she let out a breath of a laugh—quiet and cracked, but real.

Then she looked at him.

Like really looked. The way you do when you’ve already decided someone is home before they know it themselves.

“Spencer,” she said softly, like it was both an anchor and an invitation.

Her fingers moved—light at first—then settled on top of his, still resting near the spine of the sketchbook. She didn’t squeeze. Didn’t push. Just covered his hand with hers like it had always belonged there.

“You don’t have to get better for me,” she said. “You don’t even have to be good at this. You just have to keep showing up.”

A pause.

Then she nodded toward the page still open between them—the one of her asleep, hoodie sliding off her shoulder, drawn like someone who didn’t know she was being remembered.

“I don’t care if it’s embarrassing,” she murmured. “You saw me. You kept me. You made space for me in a place you didn’t even think had room left.”

Her thumb brushed along his knuckles now, slow and grounding.

“You think I don’t see you the same way?”

A beat.

She turned slightly, folding her legs beneath her, their knees still pressed together, her voice dipping lower.

“I’ve seen the worst of you. You let me. And it didn’t scare me off.”

Her eyes flicked to the sketchbook.

“It made me stay.”

She leaned forward then—careful, like she wasn’t trying to prove a point but feel one. And when her forehead rested lightly against his, she breathed him in for a second. Let the weight of everything he’d just given her settle right between them.

“You’re not broken,” she whispered. “You’re brave. And maybe that’s messy, and maybe it’s not always pretty—but it’s real.”

She smiled then, close enough for him to feel it.

“And yeah. I’m your muse now. Obviously. I mean, you drew me with my mouth open—deeply unflattering. That’s devotion.”

A pause.

Then, lightly, “And you will be hearing from my lawyer about the hoodie neckline slander.”

Still forehead to forehead.

Still holding on.

Then quieter.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She opened her eyes, met his again.

“Not even if you play Mr. Brightside.”

And just like that, she stayed with him. In the light. In the dark. In the space between one page and the next.

Sketchbook still open.
Hands still joined.
No more pretending.