Spencer couldn’t breathe.

Not from panic.
Not from fear.
Not from the hollow, gnawing ache he was used to living with like a second skin.

This was different.

This was weightless and devastating all at once.

Because when she said it—
That's all I ever needed—
when she pressed her hand flat against his chest like she could catch the way it thundered for her and only her—
something inside Spencer broke open in a way he didn’t know how to brace against.

And he didn’t want to.

Not with her.

Not anymore.

Her hands moved over him, slow and steady, carving their way into every bruised, half-healed piece of him, like she wasn’t afraid of the wreckage she found.
Like she loved him because of it.
Through it.
Past it.

And when she kissed him again—softer, slower, without urgency or fear—
Spencer sank into it like a drowning man finally letting the tide pull him home.

He kissed her back this time without hesitation.

Still trembling.
Still scared out of his fucking mind.
But trying.
Trying so hard.

Letting her feel it.
Letting her hold it.
Letting her hold him.

When she whispered it against his mouth—we’ll figure it out together—
Spencer didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the wet heat slip down his cheeks, raw and unstoppable.

He didn’t hide it.

He didn’t run from it.

He just stood there, forehead to forehead, arms locked tight around her like he could anchor himself to her bones, heart hammering against her hand like a confession he couldn’t swallow back down anymore.

And somehow—
somehow—

he found enough breath to rasp it back, voice cracked and low and shaking:

"I want that."
"I want—"
He broke off, swallowing the thick burn in his throat.
"I want you."

It wasn't polished.
It wasn’t pretty.

It was wrecked and real and so fucking true it hurt.

Spencer leaned into her touch harder, breathing her in, breathing through her, feeling her steady heartbeat thread through the places he was still bleeding out.

And for the first time—
maybe ever—

he let himself want.

Want her.
Want this.
Want a future he hadn't believed he could ever have.

He pressed a shaky kiss into her forehead, so soft it was almost nothing, but it felt like everything.

His voice was just a breath when he whispered it next, wrecked and real and completely hers:

"Don't let me fuck this up."

Not begging.
Not apologizing.

Just asking.

Asking her to believe in him when he didn’t know how to believe in himself yet.
Asking her to hold the line when he got lost inside his own head again.

Because he would get lost sometimes.
He knew that.
Knew it deep in his bones.

But he also knew—now, breathing her in, feeling her steady and sure around him—
that he wouldn’t have to find his way back alone.

Not anymore.

Not if she stayed.

Not if she kept loving him like this—
messy and fierce and without conditions.

Spencer didn’t say another word after that.
Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there, wrapped up in her arms, hands buried in her hair, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like salvation.

Holding on.

Staying.

Choosing her.

Just like she was choosing him.

Leighton felt it.

Felt the way he shattered against her in the softest, bravest way yet.
Not like a bomb going off.
Not like a fight.
But like a body giving up the endless war it didn’t need to fight anymore.

His hands gripped tighter in her hair, his whole body sagging harder against her, and the second she heard his voice—
wrecked and raw and more him than anything he could have ever planned—

“I want that.”
“I want you.”

God.

The weight of it nearly buckled her right there.

Not because it scared her.
Not because it was too much.

Because she could feel it.
Feel the way he was handing her pieces of himself no one else had ever even gotten close enough to touch.

The way he wasn’t trying to make it look pretty.
The way he was just giving.

Her fingers slid deeper into his hair, cradling the back of his head like he was something precious and fragile and still strong enough to survive all of this.

When he pressed that trembling kiss to her forehead—so soft it barely even ghosted against her skin—Leighton felt her heart split clean open.

And when he whispered against her, voice breaking over the weight of it—

“Don’t let me fuck this up.”

She didn’t move away.
Didn’t hesitate.

She tightened her hold on him, fitting him closer against her chest like maybe she could rebuild all the broken parts he thought he had to apologize for, just by holding on tighter.

Leighton nuzzled against his forehead, breathing him in, letting her touch do what words never could.

And finally—finally—she whispered back, so low it was almost a breath, a promise carved into the shaking air between them:

“You’re not going to lose me.”

She stroked her fingers slow and sure through his hair, the other hand smoothing over the tense muscles between his shoulder blades, grounding him.

“Even when you get scared. Even when you don’t know how to stay.”

Her voice stayed soft but steady, fierce enough to stitch the cracks back together between them.

“I’m not here because you’re perfect, Spencer.”
She pressed her hand flat against his back, feeling the way he trembled against her.
“I’m here because you’re worth it.”

Worth the wreckage.
Worth the fear.
Worth fighting for even when he didn’t know how to fight for himself yet.

She felt his breath hitch again against her collarbone, and she only held tighter, swaying them slightly where they stood like maybe if she moved slow enough, he could feel it—
all of it—
the way he was already loved.
Already home.

Her lips brushed his hairline, soft and steady, anchoring him back into her hands every time he threatened to spin away.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered again, threading it into his skin, into the bones that forgot they were allowed to rest.
“Together.”

And she meant it.

Every word.

Every breath.

Every heartbeat.

Because this wasn’t the kind of love you chose when it was easy.
This was the kind you fought for.

The kind you stayed for.

The kind that wrapped its arms around a boy still learning how to breathe through the ruins—
and whispered
stay anyway.

Leighton stayed exactly where she was, arms locked around him, forehead pressed tight to his, letting the silence hold them like something sacred.

Because there was nothing broken here she wasn’t willing to love.

And there was no version of him she wasn’t willing to choose.

Leighton stayed there with him for another breath.
Another heartbeat.

Then, slowly, gently, she loosened her arms around him—not pulling away, not letting go, just moving carefully like she was handling something fragile.

Because she was.

She brushed her nose lightly against his before she finally slid her hands down his arms, fingers tracing the shape of him, grounding them both in the touch.

And then—softly, wordlessly—she hopped down from the counter, her boots hitting the floor with the lightest thud.

Spencer didn’t move at first.
He just stood there, arms hanging heavy at his sides, chest heaving like the weight of the last hour hadn’t figured out how to leave him yet.

Leighton stepped closer—close enough that the frayed edges of him brushed up against her—and reached for his face with hands so soft it made her own chest ache.

Her fingers skimmed his jaw first, slow and sure, before tilting his chin up just enough that she could really see him.

God.

The tears were still there.
Carving reckless, holy lines down his cheeks.
Proof that he hadn’t run.
Proof that he’d stayed.

She used the pads of her thumbs to brush them away, delicate, reverent.
Like each tear was something sacred.
Something earned.

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

Her touch said it all:

You’re still here. You’re still loved. You’re still enough.

Leighton smiled—small, private, so full of love it almost hurt—and reached into the back pocket of her jeans.

The denim snagged for half a second, but she tugged free a slightly crushed tube and held it up between them.

Her last joint.
Saved for a night that mattered.

Apparently, fate had decided that night was tonight.

She didn’t offer it with a flourish or a joke.
She just caught his hand—still trembling a little—and placed it gently in his palm.

Then she laced their fingers together and tugged him quietly across the nearly empty room, guiding him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They made it to the beanbags—old, battered, comfortable in the way things you grow into tend to be—and she sank down onto one without letting go of him.

Spencer hesitated for a heartbeat.
Only a heartbeat.

Then he followed, sinking down onto the same one with her, his body molding into hers like gravity didn’t know how to let them be apart anymore.

Leighton tucked herself close against his side, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling herself into his warmth like it was the safest place in the world.

No space left between them.

No need for it.

She felt the weight of him lean into her, felt the way his head dipped slightly toward hers like he wasn’t sure he could survive standing on his own anymore.

She didn’t mind.
She didn’t want him to.

She reached for the lighter tucked between them and offered it out to him instead.

A silent gesture.
A silent honor.

You first.

Leighton watched him with soft eyes—patient, present—as he took it, fingers brushing hers.

And while he sparked the flame, while he bent over the joint with the same shaky care he gave everything he was scared to break, she leaned in—

And pressed another kiss to his temple.

Soft.
Certain.
Home.

She didn’t say anything.

Just stayed tucked against his side, arm draped over his ribs, breathing with him.

Letting him feel it.

Letting him know that tonight, tomorrow, whenever he forgot—

She would still be right here.

Still choosing him.

Still loving him exactly as he was.

Spencer didn’t know how to move without breaking something.

Not after all that.
Not after her hands, her mouth, her promises pressed into all the broken parts of him like she wasn’t afraid they'd cut her.

He stayed frozen at first, blinking hard, watching her like she might vanish if he looked away for even a second.

But she didn’t.

She just slipped that crumpled joint into his hand like it was a secret, like it was something sacred, like he was something sacred—and Spencer felt the weight of it more than he felt the cheap paper and weed.

It wasn’t about the joint.

It was about her.

It was about her fingers lacing through his.
It was about the way she tugged him across the room without ever once making him feel like he was being dragged.
It was about the way she chose to sit so close, so open, like she wasn't trying to build walls he had to climb over just to touch her.

He sank down beside her—close, closer than he thought he was allowed to be—and when her arm slid around his waist, when she tucked herself against him like they were already stitched together, Spencer’s chest cracked wide open all over again.

Not with panic.

With something heavier.
Something better.
Something terrifying.

Hope.

He could feel it everywhere—the quiet way she leaned into him, the way her breath brushed his collarbone, the way her fingers tapped lightly against his ribs like she was counting the seconds he stayed.

And when she held the lighter out to him—silent, patient, offering him the first flame—
Spencer took it with hands still trembling slightly, still learning how not to flinch when someone trusted him to light the way.

He bent over the joint carefully, shielding it with his hand, and flicked the lighter until the flame caught.
It sparked, crackled, burned soft against the paper.

And just as he pulled back, her lips brushed his temple again—
that same soft, certain, wreck-you-right-down-to-the-bone kiss that had already undone him once tonight.

He closed his eyes, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

God.

She stayed.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, smoke curling from his lips as he passed the joint back to her, hands brushing hers longer than necessary because he still wasn’t ready to let her go.
Maybe wouldn’t ever be.

He stayed tucked into her side, head dropping lightly against hers, too scared to trust his mouth not to say something wrecked if he opened it.

But then—

then he realized he didn’t need words.

Not right now.

Not with her.

The silence was thick, but not heavy.
It was soft.
Safe.

So Spencer just sat there—heart hammering against his ribs, her arm around him like a tether—and breathed.

Breathed her in.

Breathed with her.

And when she tucked her face closer to his shoulder, curling in like maybe she needed him as much as he needed her, Spencer let himself believe—really believe—for the first time in a long, long time:

Maybe he wasn’t too much to stay for after all.

Maybe this—
this battered, bruised, breathless thing between them—
wasn't something he had to run from.

Maybe it was home.

Spencer turned his face slightly, pressing his nose into her hair, breathing her in like a prayer.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

Because when she stayed tucked against his side, when her fingers slipped slow and sure over his ribs like a heartbeat he didn’t have to be afraid of—

Spencer knew.

She wasn't going anywhere.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Maybe not ever.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he had to apologize for wanting her to stay.

He just let her.

He just let himself stay, too.

Leighton felt him melt into her.

Slow at first. Hesitant. Like he didn’t quite trust that he was allowed to. Like part of him still expected her to pull away if he leaned too hard.

But she didn’t.

She tucked him closer, tightening her arm around his shoulders, shifting just enough to make room for the weight of him against her body. She pressed her cheek against the side of his head, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something warmer underneath, something that was just him.

Her leg stretched more firmly across his lap, claiming him without apology, without fear.

He stayed.

And God, that meant more than anything either of them could say right now.

She felt the tremor in him when he passed the joint back, the way his fingers brushed hers longer than they needed to. Not out of accident. Not out of anything calculated. Just… need.

Leighton took it gently, careful not to jostle the quiet that had settled between them like something sacred.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that made her chest ache or her fingers twitch with the need to fix something.
It wasn’t the kind that made her brain race ahead, counting down the minutes until it all cracked apart.

It was still.

It was safe.

It was theirs.

She didn’t need to say anything.
Didn’t need to ask if he was okay.
Didn’t need to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere.

She already was telling him.

In the way her thumb traced slow, careful circles against his shoulder.
In the way her other hand found the curve of his knee and just held.
In the way she leaned her body around his, like she could shield him from all the ugly, broken parts of the world just by being close enough.

She felt him breathe against her chest—shaky at first, like he was still waiting for the catch, the shove, the cold air where her arms used to be.

But when she didn’t move—

When she stayed, easy and steady and whole around him—
his breathing smoothed out.
Matched hers.
Settled.

Leighton closed her eyes, tightening her hold around his shoulders, pressing another kiss into his hair—soft, slow, like a promise written into skin instead of words.

She didn’t need a speech.
She didn’t need a vow.

This was enough.

Him, breathing into her.
Her, steadying him without asking anything in return.
The two of them, stitched together in the kind of silence that healed more than it hurt.

She stayed.

And when his hand found her knee again, squeezing lightly like he was trying to say thank you without actually breaking the peace, Leighton smiled against his hair—small, secret, hers alone.

He didn’t know it yet.
Maybe he never would.

But she’d already made up her mind.

She would stay as long as he needed.
As long as he wanted.

No running.

No pulling away.

Just this.

Always.

Spencer didn’t know how to be held without apologizing for it.

Didn’t know how to breathe without waiting for the moment she’d realize—
realize he was too much,
too broken,
too him.

But she didn’t move.
Didn’t loosen her arms.
Didn’t flinch when he pressed closer, tucking himself tighter into the curve of her body like he could hide there if he tried hard enough.

Her hands kept tracing slow circles—on his shoulder, on his knee, on his back—quiet, steady little anchors pulling him back into himself.

Spencer breathed her in—
smoke and soap and skin and something warmer he didn’t have a name for.
Something that smelled like a place he hadn’t dared to believe he could belong.

When she kissed his hair again, slow and deliberate, something deep inside him cracked in a way that wasn’t violent this time.

It was gentle.
It was saving.

He squeezed her knee lightly, just once, not even thinking about it—
not needing her to move, not needing her to answer.
Just needing something to tether him to the moment.

His hand stayed there—loose, trembling, real—
like he wasn’t sure if he was holding onto her or if she was holding onto him.

Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

Spencer let his forehead drift lower, burrowing against the soft fabric at her collarbone, breathing in the steady beat of her heart, the way it didn’t stutter or falter when he got closer.

It stayed.

She stayed.

He could feel her fingers sliding slow through his hair again, smoothing over the places that still felt too jagged to touch.
Not fixing.
Not forcing.
Just loving.

And for a long time, Spencer didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have anything.

Just breathing.
Just staying.
Just surviving her softness.

But eventually—
somewhere between the rise and fall of her chest, somewhere between the way she shifted closer like she didn’t mind carrying some of his weight—
the words slipped out of him.

Quiet. Cracked. Wrecked.

"I don’t know what to do when it doesn’t hurt."

His voice was so raw he barely recognized it.

He didn’t pull back after he said it.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t take it back.

He just stayed pressed against her chest, fingers tightening slightly where they rested on her leg, as if saying the truth out loud might split the world open and he needed to hang on when it did.

But the world didn’t split open.

She just stayed.

Holding him tighter.
Breathing with him.
Letting the silence swallow the brokenness without needing to fix it.

Spencer closed his eyes and let his hand slide higher on her leg, slow and tentative, resting just above her knee.
Not possessive.
Not desperate.

Just there.
Just connected.

Her fingers brushed through his hair again, slower this time, like she heard what he couldn’t say yet—
like she knew what he was still too scared to believe:

That he was allowed to have this.
That love didn’t always have to hurt.
That sometimes it could just be soft.

Spencer buried his face deeper against her collarbone, breathing her in until his heart finally started to slow, until his body stopped expecting the ground to fall out from under him.

Until he started to believe—
maybe—
he didn’t have to be broken to be held.

Not by her.
Not here.
Not anymore.

Leighton felt it in the way he clung tighter.

Not desperate.
Not panicked.
Just—raw.

Like somewhere deep down, he was still bracing for the fall that wasn’t coming.

His breathing was still rough against her chest, catching in tiny stutters that broke her heart more than anything else could have.

She didn’t rush him.
Didn’t whisper promises he wasn’t ready to hear.
Didn’t ask him to be anything but exactly what he was.

Instead, she shifted slightly under him, pulling him closer, letting his weight settle heavier into her lap like she was built to hold him.

Her fingers moved without thinking—gentle, steady, grounding.
They traced the rough line of his jaw, slow and careful, like memorizing it with reverence.
Skimmed up along the shell of his ear, featherlight and patient, letting him know without a single word that she was still there.
Still breathing for him when he couldn’t.
Still loving him even when he didn’t know how to take it.

She could feel the tightness in him start to unravel in the smallest ways—
the way his fingers flexed softer against her thigh,
the way his forehead pressed a little deeper into the worn fabric at her collarbone,
the way his breathing, still shaky, began to match the slow rhythm of hers.

Leighton’s hand slid into his hair again, stroking through the messy strands with a tenderness she didn’t bother trying to hide.

She knew.
Knew what this was.
Knew the kind of fear he carried—the kind planted in him by years of love being something conditional, something weaponized.

She wasn’t here to lecture him out of it.
She wasn’t here to tell him he was wrong for feeling like the sky could still collapse at any second.

She was here to show him.

Quietly.
Patiently.

Show him that some hands stayed soft even when the storm hit.

That some arms tightened instead of letting go.

That some loves—
hers—
didn’t come with expiration dates or escape plans.

She kept touching him in slow, careful loops, tracing the edge of his jaw, his cheekbone, the slope of his ear, every stroke telling him without sound:

You’re safe.
You’re wanted.
You’re loved.

Time blurred.

It didn’t matter.

There was only him pressed into her, still trembling but starting to find something steadier underneath all the fear.

Eventually—slowly, like he was learning how to move through a different kind of gravity—Spencer shifted.

Lifted his head.

And when he looked up at her—

God.

His eyes were wrecked and wild and still swimming in all the things he didn’t know how to say.
But there was trust there too.
Small. Trembling.
Real.

Leighton didn’t think.
Didn’t plan.

She just leaned in and kissed him.

Soft at first—barely a brush of mouths, barely more than breathing the same air.

But something in her broke loose when he leaned back into it.

Something deep and fierce and infinite.

She kissed him deeper without meaning to, without thinking twice—like something ancient inside her recognized the shape of this boy, this broken, beautiful boy, and wanted to live in the spaces he still thought were unlovable.

Their legs tangled naturally, like they didn’t know how to be separate anymore.

And when Spencer shuddered—still caught halfway between fear and need—Leighton wrapped her arms tighter around him.

Pulled him closer.

Closer than close.

Pressed every line of herself against every shaking, surviving inch of him like she could rewrite the way he understood being held.

No space left between them now.
No need for it.

Only this.

Only them.

Breathing into each other’s broken places.

Teaching each other, piece by slow, shattered piece,
what it meant to stay.