She couldn’t think.

Not clearly. Not the way she used to when she had to stay three steps ahead or pretend like her heart wasn’t a fucking liability. That version of her—the one who needed armor just to survive—felt a million years away.

Because right now, she was here.

Right now, Kai was worshipping her like she was made of something softer than bone. Something that could be broken open without bleeding.

And God, she was breaking open.

Every touch, every kiss, every breath he dragged across her skin made her feel like maybe she’d been holding herself too tightly all these years. Like maybe this was what it meant to be let go of and held at the same time.

Her hips shifted without asking permission, chasing the slow rhythm of his fingers. But it wasn’t just about pressure or need—it was about feeling known. The way his touch never faltered. The way he paused just long enough to let her gasp. The way his eyes stayed on her, dark and reverent, like he was watching a sunrise he never thought he’d get to see again.

“Kai,” she whispered, voice catching on the edge of his name, like it was too full to hold steady. Her hand reached for him, fingers curling against the side of his neck, thumb brushing just beneath his jaw. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His mouth twitched like it wanted to grin, but he didn’t. Not fully. He just kissed the center of her chest like he understood what she meant. Like maybe he was already ruined too.

But neither of them pulled away.

Instead, she let herself feel it.

The weight of his body, warm and solid against hers. The slow drag of his mouth as it moved from her breast to the curve of her ribs. The way his fingers stilled and started again, unhurried, like he was learning her all over—like she was worth the time it took to remember every piece.

She swallowed hard, breath catching when he hit that spot again, when her thighs clenched without warning, when heat surged low in her belly and her back arched off the mattress. But still—still—she didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, but her voice was thin, trembling, laced with too much everything.

Her fingers moved to his wrist, holding there—not to stop him, not to guide him, but to feel him. To anchor herself.

To say without saying:

This is real.

And when his mouth brushed just below her navel and his fingers started again—slow, perfect, intentional—she knew she wasn’t scared anymore.

Not of loving him.
Not of being known.

Not even of coming undone in his hands.

Not when he was holding her like this.

She said he was going to ruin her.

But she had no idea.

Because Kai wasn’t just touching her — he was memorizing her. With his mouth, his hands, his breath. Every inch of her skin mapped beneath his palms like a language he hadn’t spoken in years but never forgot. A song he’d kept humming long after the silence set in.

And now she was here.

Soft. Bare. Shaking beneath him.

Letting him see her — all of her — without armor or irony, and God, he didn’t know how to move slow enough to deserve it. But he was trying. Every breath, every stroke, every press of his lips to her skin said: I remember you. I see you. I’m still yours, if you’ll still have me.

Her voice cracked on his name, and it made his throat burn.

You’re gonna ruin me.

No.

He was already gone.

Because she’d undone him with the way she opened for him — not just her body, but her trust. Her fear. Her goddamn grace. She was all curve and softness and heat beneath his mouth, and he couldn’t stop kissing her. Her chest. Her ribs. Her belly.

He dragged his tongue just below her navel, slow and warm, feeling the tremble ripple through her. Her hand was at his wrist now, holding — not desperate, not directing, just feeling. Just staying.

He could’ve cried from it.

Instead, he leaned into her body and gave her more.

He moved his fingers again, sliding lower, letting the pads of them slip through the slick heat between her thighs. He didn’t rush. Didn’t press too deep. Just circled, slow and reverent, letting her hips rock up in answer, her thighs twitching like her body was speaking for her now.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed.

He wouldn’t dream of it.

“You feel like a prayer,” he murmured against her stomach, voice hoarse. “Like something I was stupid enough to leave behind and lucky enough to get back.”

She gasped again — not from what he said, but from the way his fingers pressed just right, the pad of his thumb catching her clit in slow, perfect rhythm, drawing tiny, aching sounds from the back of her throat.

Her back arched. Her breath broke. Her thighs fell wider.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Because this wasn’t just about pleasure. This was about all the years he didn’t get to touch her like this. All the time he spent trying to forget what it felt like to have her in his arms and failing spectacularly.

He kissed the inside of her thigh. Then again. Then higher.

Her fingers tightened at his wrist, her whole body trembling now — not in fear, not in hesitation, but in surrender.

He could feel her getting closer, feel the way she was unraveling beneath him, but still holding on. Still watching him like he was the one holy thing left in a world that had cracked them both open.

“Let go,” he whispered, finally meeting her eyes again.

She looked at him like she already had.

And when she came — soft and sudden, hips jerking, mouth falling open with a breathy gasp of his name — Kai felt it everywhere. In his chest. In his bones. In every fucked-up piece of him that used to wonder if he’d ever get a second chance.

He kissed her again — the inside of her knee, her hip, the curve of her belly. Slow. Anchoring.

Then he came up beside her, gathering her into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other curled low around her waist. Her skin was damp and flushed, still shivering slightly as she buried her face in his chest.

He pressed his lips to her hair, closing his eyes.

“You’re not ruined,” he said, voice barely audible. “You’re home.”

And she was.

She always had been.

She didn’t cry.

She thought maybe she would — thought maybe all the pressure in her chest would finally break free — but it didn’t. It settled instead. Low and quiet and warm, like the first deep breath after a storm.

Because he held her like that.
Like calm.
Like shelter.
Like someone who had seen the worst of her and still stayed.

She lay there, still trembling in the crook of his body, face tucked into the place where his shoulder met his throat. His skin was damp with sweat and breath and everything they hadn’t said, and still, he held her. Still, he stayed.

You’re not ruined. You’re home.

God.

He didn’t know what those words did to her.
What they unraveled.
What they rebuilt.

Because for so long, she’d taught herself to survive without softness. Without safety. Without him.

And now she was here — skin against skin, breath against breath — and it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like return.

She pressed her lips to the center of his chest — right over his heart — and let the silence stretch. Not awkward. Not broken. Just full. Full of everything they couldn’t say yet. Full of all the things that mattered more than language.

He didn’t ask for more.

Didn’t rush. Didn’t move.

And that’s how she knew he meant it.

Because love like this didn’t need permission.

It only needed truth.

So she stayed.
Still. Bare. Breathing.

Not ruined.
Not running.

Just home.



[ end ]

The fire crackled low, its glow painting the grass in amber and gold.

They’d been out here for hours — Wren’s idea, of course. A “real campout,” she’d said with that look that made it impossible to say no. So now there was a little green tent pitched crookedly beside the fire pit, half-filled with stuffed animals, coloring books, and one flashlight that had already been used to tell three very dramatic ghost stories.

Lennon sat on the blanket with Wren curled against her, small legs tucked under, the kid’s head resting just below her chin. The blanket was big enough for two but she’d wrapped it around both of them anyway, the soft fabric catching faint sparks of light from the fire.

The night above them was vast and unhurried — stars sharp against the dark, the moon just a thin silver curve. Somewhere behind them, the city hummed faintly, a soft reminder that they were still part of something bigger, but right here, it was just them.

Wren blinked slowly, heavy-lidded but stubborn. “I’m not sleepy,” she mumbled, her voice thick with yawn.

Lennon smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “No? You sure? ‘Cause that sounded like a sleepy sentence.”

“I’m resting my eyes,” Wren said, matter-of-fact, snuggling closer. “So I can see the stars better.”

“Smart plan,” Lennon said, biting back a laugh. “You’re gonna have to teach me that trick.”

Kai was across from them, sitting near the fire, poking at a log with a stick like it was a full-time job. The light caught on the edge of his jaw, his profile soft and unreadable, and for a moment Lennon just watched him — the quiet ease in his shoulders, the faint half-smile he probably didn’t even realize he was wearing.

Wren stirred again, tilting her face up toward the sky. “Look, Lenny,” she murmured, pointing at a cluster of stars. “That one looks like a jellyfish.”

Lennon followed her finger. “A jellyfish, huh? You and your ocean stars.”

“’Cause jellyfish glow,” Wren said, fighting another yawn. “Like the lights.”

Lennon looked up at the fairy lights strung between the trees — the same ones Kai had rigged earlier, claiming they were “necessary for ambiance.” They flickered gently, reflecting in Wren’s sleepy eyes.

“Yeah,” Lennon said softly. “Just like the lights.”

For a long stretch, no one spoke. The only sounds were the fire crackling, the rustle of the trees, and the faint rhythm of Wren’s breathing as her small fingers absently played with the drawstring of Lennon’s hoodie.

Kai leaned back on his palms, glancing toward them. Lennon caught his gaze across the fire — the kind of look that didn’t need words.

She smiled a little, murmuring just loud enough for him to hear, “She’s fighting it.”

He smiled back, eyes warm, firelight catching gold in the dark.

And as Wren pointed out another star, her voice softer now — “That one’s a dragon… and that one’s us” — Lennon felt something quiet settle in her chest.

Not peace. Not certainty. Just this moment — the warmth, the weight of Wren against her, Kai’s eyes steady across the fire — and the sense that maybe this was what home could feel like.

Kai watched the two of them in that soft, golden hush — Lennon and Wren folded into each other, the kind of picture that made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t name.

The stick in his hand had burned down to half its length, the end glowing red before he let it fall into the fire and lean back again, palms pressed to the cool grass. The night smelled like smoke and pine sap, like something old and steady. The kind of scent that reminded him life didn’t have to be loud to mean something.

Wren’s words drifted over the crackle of the fire — that one’s a dragon… and that one’s us.

He looked up, following her small hand as it traced constellations in the air, and for the briefest moment, he let himself believe her. That somewhere up there, past the smoke and sky, there was a version of this burned into the stars. A small kid with a heart too big for her chest. A woman who made the world feel like a song again. And him — just trying to keep the fire lit.

His throat tightened. He didn’t say anything; didn’t trust his voice not to give him away.

Instead, he leaned forward and gently tossed another log into the flames. Sparks spiraled upward, catching in the air like fireflies. Wren’s eyes tracked them sleepily, her hand going slack against Lennon’s hoodie drawstring as the weight of the day finally won out.

Kai smiled to himself, small and quiet. “Told you, kiddo,” he murmured under his breath. “No one beats the campfire.”

He stood slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans, then crossed the few steps around the fire. Lennon looked up at him as he came near, but he just gave a small nod toward the tent — a silent I got her.

He crouched down, arms slipping carefully beneath Wren’s tiny frame. She stirred, mumbled something about jellyfish and dragons, but didn’t wake. Her head dropped against his shoulder, warm and heavy. The faintest smile touched her lips.

Kai carried her to the tent, tucking her into the tangle of blankets and stuffed animals, making sure the flashlight was still within reach even though she’d never use it. He brushed a bit of hair off her cheek, thumb lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

When he turned back, Lennon was still sitting where he’d left her, knees pulled up, watching him through the firelight. He met her eyes — and for a moment, the world was only that. The stars, the fire, and her.

He exhaled, slow and low, like a man trying not to disturb a fragile kind of peace.

Then he crossed back to her, dropped down beside her on the blanket, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither of them spoke. The fire crackled low, the night hummed, and somewhere behind them, Wren’s soft breathing filled the quiet.

Kai let his head tip slightly toward Lennon’s, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t need to say it out loud — this feels right. She’d feel it in the way he stayed, in the way his hand found hers beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for once, it really was.

Lennon watched him through the soft pulse of the firelight — her heart caught somewhere between awe and something even deeper, quieter.

The way Kai moved when he was with Wren always undid her a little. There was no performance in it, no script — just instinct. The kind that came from somewhere honest. She’d seen him command stadiums and silence rooms with a single note, but this? This was his real magic — this small, steady tenderness that never asked for recognition.

She smiled when he glanced back, that silent exchange passing easily between them — the kind that didn’t need words because they’d both learned how to read in looks.

When he came back and settled beside her, the world seemed to realign around it. His shoulder brushed hers; his warmth bled into her side. The night air was cool, but the fire’s glow wrapped them in that gold-orange halo that made everything feel softer, slower.

Wren’s tiny breaths rose and fell inside the tent, rhythmic and sure. Lennon found herself exhaling in time with them, her body finally catching up to the calm her heart had already surrendered to.

She let their fingers link beneath the blanket, and something inside her clicked into place — not dramatically, not in a way that demanded attention, just in that quiet way truth tends to show up.

Her voice came out low, barely louder than the pop of the fire.
“She’s gonna remember this one,” she said, smiling toward the tent. “The stars, the fire, the jellyfish stories — it’s all gonna stick somewhere in her. You gave her that.”

She turned slightly, just enough to catch the outline of him beside her — that soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the reflection of the flames flickering in his eyes.

“I get why she loves you so much,” Lennon added gently. “You make people feel safe… without ever making them feel small. That’s rare.”

The words left her before she could second-guess them. Usually, she’d pull back, lace everything she meant to say in humor or something lighter. But not tonight. Tonight, everything felt too real to dilute.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand still threaded through his.
“This,” she whispered, eyes tracing the sky. “This feels like the part of the movie everyone waits for. Not the ending — the middle. The moment before everything changes, when everything finally makes sense for a second.”

Kai didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. His thumb brushed over her hand, slow and sure, grounding her.

She smiled, soft and complete. “You know… if Wren was right, and that one up there really is us,” she murmured, nodding toward the star she and Wren had claimed earlier, “then I hope it never burns out. Even if it’s small, I hope it just keeps shining like this.”

The night stretched quiet again, only the fire’s breath and the hum of the earth filling the air. Lennon’s head stayed resting against him, her heart calm in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

For once, there was no overthinking, no performing, no pretending. Just the sound of their hands finding each other in the dark and staying there.

And for Lennon — that was everything.

Kai felt the words settle somewhere deep — not sharp, not sudden, just a slow, spreading ache that felt a lot like being seen.

She had that way about her.
The kind of honesty that didn’t need to be loud to hit hard.

He watched the fire chew through another log, sparks bursting and fading like tiny worlds, and thought about what she’d said — you make people feel safe without ever making them feel small. He didn’t know what to do with that kind of compliment. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been built for them.

But he could feel it in the way her head rested against his shoulder, in the weight of her trust. And maybe that said enough.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, voice low and a little rough. “She’ll remember it.”
His thumb moved over her hand again, slow circles against her skin. “Probably the jellyfish part most of all. Kid’s already rewriting constellations.”

Lennon smiled against his arm, and it did something to him — cracked open that quiet place he guarded too much.

He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the same sky Wren had named earlier. It wasn’t perfect — clouds smudged parts of it, and the firelight blurred the rest — but he found the faint glimmer of the star she’d called them. Small, maybe, but steady.
The kind that didn’t fight to be seen, it just was.

“Funny thing about stars,” he said after a long silence. “Even when they burn out, you still see the light for a while. Takes years to fade. So maybe we don’t disappear — maybe we just… keep showing up, even after.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because she made him believe it — that something could last even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it changed shape over time.

The fire shifted, low and soft. Her fingers twitched in his, and he turned his hand over so their palms pressed together. The fit was easy. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense and didn’t have to.

Wren mumbled something from the tent, a sleepy sound that made both of them glance over instinctively. When she went quiet again, Kai exhaled slowly — the kind of breath that let the night sink in.

“This feels like the middle to me too,” he said finally. “The part before the story gets loud again. But I think… I’d be okay if it stayed right here for a while.”

He turned his head just enough to catch the shape of her face in the firelight — eyes half-lidded, a little wind-tousled, and so damn real. The sight of her like that, unguarded and soft, hit him harder than anything on stage ever had.

He brushed his thumb along her knuckles again, a quiet promise threaded in the touch.

“Whatever comes next,” he said, voice barely above the crackle of the fire, “I hope it still feels a little like this.”

The flames popped. The world stayed still.
And with her head on his shoulder and her hand in his, Kai let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — it would.

Lennon’s gaze stayed fixed on the fire — its slow, hypnotic sway — but her chest tightened at his words. Not the grand ones, not even the ones about the stars. It was the last line that hit her: I hope it still feels a little like this.

She smiled faintly, her cheek brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

It came out quiet, but it was the truth — the kind that sat heavy in her ribs, warm and a little terrifying.

The night air cooled around them, pine and smoke curling close, and for a moment she just let the silence breathe. Her fingers stayed laced with his, thumb tracing small, nervous arcs along the back of his hand.

She didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to pull them out of the calm they’d found, but the thought had been hovering at the edges all night — that quiet twinge she couldn’t quite ignore.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she said finally, her voice slow, careful. “It’s probably dumb, but… I keep hoping Isla doesn’t feel weird about any of this.”

Kai shifted slightly beside her, listening, not interrupting — and that alone gave her the courage to keep going.

“I mean—” she let out a small, nervous laugh, “—if Wren goes home talking about the aquarium and the penguins and the tent and all the things we did this week… I just don’t ever want it to sound like I’m trying to take up space that isn’t mine.”

Her throat tightened, and she looked down at their joined hands. The firelight turned his skin gold against hers. “She’s her mom. That’s not something I’d ever try to compete with. I just—” she exhaled, a small shake of her head, “—I love the way Wren looks at the world. I love being part of her excitement. But I never want it to come at the cost of anyone else’s peace. Especially hers.”

Lennon pressed her lips together for a moment, then gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I know you and Isla have your rhythm. Whatever that is, I’d never want to mess with it. I just… hope she knows I’m not trying to be anything. I’m just here. With you both. However I fit.”

The confession hung between them, soft and unguarded. The kind of truth that didn’t ask for reassurance, just understanding.

After a beat, she leaned into him again, her head finding its way back to his shoulder like muscle memory. The tension in her voice eased, replaced by something gentler — acceptance, maybe.

“She’s a good mom,” Lennon murmured, eyes flicking toward the tent where Wren slept. “You can tell. The way Wren talks about her, the stories, the little things — she’s loved the right way. You both did that.”

Her voice broke into a faint laugh. “So if she ever gets home and talks about dragons or rhythm penguins or, God forbid, the Jelly Squad, I hope Isla just smiles and knows it’s all because of you. I’m just… lucky I get to be around for some of it.”

The fire cracked again, and she fell quiet. Her thumb brushed his hand once more, slower this time — less nervous now, more sure.

“I don’t take any of this for granted, Kai,” she said finally. “Not the nights like this. Not you. Not her.”

And when she looked back up at him, there was no hesitation in her eyes — just warmth, steady and open.

“Whatever comes next,” she said softly, echoing his words, “I hope it keeps this feeling too. The kind where everyone gets to shine — no one taking from anyone else. Just… all of us finding a way to fit under the same stars.”

Kai stayed quiet for a long time after she stopped talking.

Not because he didn’t have anything to say — but because he didn’t want to ruin the honesty of what she’d just given him. It wasn’t the kind of thing people said to win points or sound good. It was real. Raw in that quiet, human way that always knocked the wind out of him a little.

The fire cracked again, the sound soft but grounding. He watched the sparks rise and vanish into the night, thinking about Wren asleep in the tent — about how easy she made all of this feel when, really, it shouldn’t be.

He finally exhaled. “You know,” he said, voice low, thoughtful, “I used to think family had to fit a certain shape. Two lines, two sides, neat little boxes.” He gave a small shake of his head, eyes still on the fire. “Turns out, it doesn’t. It just… keeps growing if you let it.”

He glanced down at her hand still in his, tracing his thumb gently over her knuckles. “Isla will always be her mom. Nothing changes that. And I wouldn’t want it to. Wren’s lucky — she gets to grow up surrounded by people who love her in different ways. I think that’s the best kind of childhood there is.”

He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “And you’re part of that, Lennon. You don’t have to try to be anything. You already are. The way you show up — the patience, the laughter, the way you see her… kids feel that stuff. They know when someone really likes being around them. She knows.”

For a moment, he let that hang there, then added softly, “And so do I.”

He turned his head slightly, catching her eyes in the flicker of the firelight — not to make her blush or fluster, but to make sure she saw the truth sitting steady in his. “You make space, not take it. That’s rare too.”

The tent rustled faintly behind them — a sleepy kick, a tiny sigh — and Kai smiled, small and quiet. “She’s gonna wake up tomorrow and tell Isla all about the Jelly Squad,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “And Isla’ll laugh, because she knows Wren’s happy. That’s all either of us ever wanted.”

He let his arm slip around Lennon’s shoulders then, drawing her a little closer until her head fit beneath his chin. The movement wasn’t grand — it just was. Natural. Like muscle memory born out of care instead of impulse.

The night hummed softly around them, the fire burning low, the world finally still.

Kai rested his chin against the top of her head, voice barely more than a whisper. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “All of it. No rush, no pressure. Just… one small, good thing at a time.”

He felt her breathe out, steady and calm, and smiled into her hair.

“Besides,” he added after a moment, quieter, almost to himself, “if she’s got this many stars looking out for her, I think she’s gonna be just fine.”

And for the first time in a long while, he believed it — every word.

Lennon felt something catch in her chest — that quiet, stinging warmth that came when someone saw you clearly and didn’t flinch.
She didn’t look at him right away; she couldn’t. The firelight was too tender, too revealing, and if she met his eyes now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold herself together.

But his words — you make space, not take it — wrapped around her like a blanket she hadn’t realized she’d been cold without.

She swallowed, a small, shaky laugh slipping out. “You always know exactly what to say to undo me, don’t you?”

He smiled, the kind of smile she could hear without needing to see it, and it pulled another breath from her.

“You’re right, though,” she said after a moment, voice soft but sure. “Family doesn’t have to fit a shape. I think I was scared of that for a long time — that there was some right way to belong. That maybe if I stepped wrong, I’d mess it all up.”

Her thumb traced lazy circles against the back of his hand — the same motion he’d done earlier, unthinking, grounding. “But you make it easy to believe there’s room for all of it. For her, for Isla, for me… for whatever this is between us. You make it feel… steady.”

Lennon finally looked up then. His arm was still around her shoulders, his chin resting on her hair like it belonged there. She could feel his heartbeat where her temple met his chest — slow, even, real.

“I don’t need a stage or a perfect moment. I just…” She smiled, her eyes glassy, her thumb brushing against his wrist. “I love you. The dad who keeps the fire going, the man who doesn’t realize he’s the safest place in the room, the one who still believes in dragons and jellyfish and forever — even when it scares him.”

Her voice dipped, softer. “And I know this isn’t simple. I know there’s Isla, and Wren, and a life that existed before me. But I don’t want to take from it. I just want to fit into it — the way you’ve already fit into me.”

The night held its breath for a beat — only the soft crackle of the fire, the whisper of wind moving through the trees.

Then Lennon leaned in, her hand finding his jaw, her lips brushing his like a promise — slow, sure, nothing rushed or uncertain about it.

When she pulled back, she stayed close enough that her next words could only be meant for him.

“I love you,” she whispered again, quieter this time, like it wasn’t a declaration — but the truth she’d finally stopped trying to hide.

For a heartbeat, Kai couldn’t move.

The world seemed to tilt — not in the dizzying, stage-light way he was used to, but in that slow, quiet way that happens when everything finally lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

Her words kept echoing, soft but sharp — the dad who keeps the fire going… the safest place in the room… He didn’t know how to hold that kind of love. Not the loud, chasing kind. The kind that came with stillness.

He felt her thumb still tracing his wrist, small, deliberate, grounding.

He breathed out, the sound shaky around the edges. “You know,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough, “for a long time, I thought love only worked if you earned it — if you kept proving yourself worthy of it.”
His hand found her cheek, his thumb brushing just below her eye where the firelight caught a trace of tears. “But then you came in and didn’t ask me to perform. You just… saw me. Stayed anyway.”

He smiled then, small but real — the kind that crept in slowly and stayed.
“I love you too, Lennon Rae,” he said quietly, the words landing steady and certain. “For every reason you listed… and for all the ones I’ll never find the right words for.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the space between them filled with the crackle of the dying fire and Wren’s soft breaths from the tent.

“This,” he whispered, almost to himself. “This is the kind of forever I want to believe in. Not the one that burns too bright and disappears — the one that stays warm. The one that keeps showing up.”

He kissed her again — slower this time, the kind of kiss that carried more gratitude than urgency, more truth than performance.
When they broke apart, he didn’t move far, his thumb still tracing idle lines along her jaw.

“Wren’s gonna wake up tomorrow,” he said with a faint smile, “and see the ashes and think we fought a dragon.”
His laugh was quiet, breathy. “And maybe she’ll be right. Maybe we just did — all the things that try to scare you out of letting someone in.”

He let the words fade, pulled her a little closer, until the only thing left between them was warmth — firelight fading, the hum of the trees, her heartbeat pressed steady against his.

He exhaled, eyes on the stars she and Wren had claimed earlier.
“Guess it’s our turn to keep shining,” he murmured.

And for the first time in a long time, Kai didn’t doubt that they would.

Lennon felt her whole body still — not from shock, but from the kind of quiet that comes when the moment you’ve been afraid to hope for finally becomes real.

She didn’t even try to blink away the tears this time. They weren’t the heavy kind. They were soft — warm, grateful, human.

When he said I love you too, Lennon Rae, she felt it everywhere. Like the words seeped into her skin, filled every space she’d kept hidden. No music, no audience, no build-up — just truth, whispered into the air between them.

Her fingers curled gently around the fabric of his shirt near his chest, grounding herself in the steady rhythm beneath it. The sound of the fire faded into background noise, like the whole world had dimmed just to let this exist.

“You don’t have to earn it,” she said quietly, her voice a whisper against his collarbone. “You already did — just by being you.”

She lifted her head a little, their foreheads still almost touching. “That’s what I’ve always seen, Kai. Not the headlines or the version of you people think they know. Just… this. The man who shows up. The one who doesn’t realize he’s already everything he was trying so hard to become.”

Her voice softened further, trembling a little with what she’d held in for years.
“You probably already know this,” she said, a small, nervous smile ghosting across her lips, “but if you don’t… I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head at herself. “It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t some teenage phase I was supposed to outgrow. It was you — it’s always been you.”

Her eyes found his, bright in the flickering firelight. “Back then, I used to wish I could’ve loved you properly. The way I wanted to. Not as part of some PR fairytale or Disney Channel contract or whatever story they were selling about us. But even knowing what it was… even knowing what it wasn’t, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one single moment.”

She brushed her thumb over his jaw, slow and certain. “Every version of us — the messy, the public, the almosts — it all got us here. Right here.”

Kai’s smile flickered through the firelight, small and awed, and it pulled one from her too.

When he mentioned Wren waking up and thinking they’d fought a dragon, Lennon let out a soft laugh that caught halfway between amusement and tenderness. “She’ll be the first to draw it,” she said, brushing her thumb over his jaw again. “And she’ll make sure it’s got glitter and wings, just so everyone knows we survived something magical.”

Kai’s quiet laugh against her hair made her heart tighten in the best way. She leaned into it, into him, until her head found that spot on his shoulder that already felt like home.

The stars above them shimmered faintly — the same ones Wren had claimed earlier — and Lennon smiled through the quiet, her words half a murmur.

“Then I guess we better keep shining,” she said, echoing him softly. “Even when it gets dark. Especially then.”

She tilted her face up just enough to meet his eyes again, her voice steady now, threaded with the kind of certainty that only came once in a lifetime.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kai. Not from you. Not from her. Whatever comes next — the chaos, the quiet, the dragons — I’m in. All of it.”

Her hand found his again under the blanket, fingers fitting easily back into place. “You keep the fire going,” she whispered, smiling. “I’ll make sure we don’t run out of stars.”

And when she leaned in to kiss him this time, it wasn’t hesitant or careful. It was sure — the kind of kiss that didn’t need promises because it already was one.

When they finally pulled apart, the fire had burned down to embers, the night wrapped close around them. Lennon glanced toward the tent, then back up at the sky, her head still resting against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she breathed, quiet but certain. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

Kai didn’t answer right away.
He couldn’t.

There were some words that didn’t want an answer — they just wanted to live in the air for a while, to settle in between heartbeats until they became part of you.
And this… this was one of them.

He looked at her — really looked — the way a person does when they’re afraid to blink and lose the moment. The tears in her eyes caught the firelight, soft and glinting, and for a second, it didn’t feel like they were out here in the backyard anymore. It felt bigger than that — like the universe had tilted just a little, just enough to make room for what was finally happening.

Sixteen.
The word hung in his head like a ghost and a prayer all at once.

He let out a shaky laugh, running his thumb along her jaw, tracing the path of her words. “Sixteen, huh?” His voice was barely above a whisper, threaded with disbelief and wonder. “Guess I’m a little late to the party.”

He shook his head, smiling softly. “But if it took all of that — every version, every mess — to get us here, then I wouldn’t change a thing either.”

His thumb lingered against her skin, memorizing the warmth of her there. “You should know something, though. Back then… I always saw you too. Not just the kid with the voice that could stop a room — but the way you laughed when the cameras weren’t on, the way you made everything around you feel lighter without even trying.”

He swallowed, voice softening. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to reach for it. For you.”

Her eyes met his, and the look in them — steady, unflinching — made something in him unclench that he didn’t even realize had been tight for years.

“So yeah,” he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against hers again. “Maybe it was always gonna be us. We just needed a few detours to figure out how to show up right.”

The fire was nearly gone now, reduced to glowing coals and the faint scent of smoke. Wren stirred inside the tent, a soft little sigh before the world went quiet again.

Kai smiled into the dark. “You hear that?” he whispered. “That’s the sound of peace. Might be the rarest thing I’ve ever had.”

Lennon’s hand found his again under the blanket, her fingers threading through his like they’d always belonged there.

He turned his head just enough to kiss her temple — slow, reverent — before letting his voice fall low beside her ear. “We’ll keep the fire going,” he said. “And if it ever goes out, we’ll start another. That’s what we do.”

Her promise — I’ll make sure we don’t run out of stars — echoed in him like music.

He smiled, the kind that lived somewhere deep, where love turns into certainty. “You and me, then,” he whispered. “Dragons, chaos, quiet… all of it.”

She nodded against his shoulder, and he pressed another kiss into her hair, breathing her in — smoke, and sweetness, and something that finally felt like home.

Above them, the sky stretched wide and endless, the faint shimmer of their claimed constellation still burning soft and stubborn.

Kai looked up at it one last time before closing his eyes, his hand still wrapped around hers.
“Yeah,” he murmured, barely more than a breath. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

And for once, he didn’t just hope it.
He knew.

Lennon didn’t speak right away.

She couldn’t.

Because everything he’d just said — the way he said it, quiet but steady, like he’d been carrying the words for years and finally found the courage to let them out — hit her straight in the chest.
She felt it in the softest, most fragile parts of her. The parts that had been waiting for this without ever daring to name it.

Her eyes stayed on him for a long moment — on the way the fading firelight painted his jaw in gold and shadow, on the little crease between his brows when he was trying to keep his heart from showing too much. It was useless. She could see every piece of it.

“Sixteen,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, a small, trembled laugh escaping. “Yeah… you were kind of late to the party.”

She smiled then, a real one — tired and bright all at once. “But I think I liked the detours. Even the hard ones. They made this feel earned.”

She shifted, just enough to turn toward him fully, their knees brushing beneath the blanket. “I saw you back then too, you know. Not the press version or the kid they told you to be. I saw you. The one who was quieter than people realized. The one who wanted to make everything mean something.”

Her fingers lifted to his collar, tracing the edge of it, like she was learning him all over again. “You didn’t have to reach for me,” she whispered. “I was already there. I just didn’t know how to say it without breaking the illusion they built around us.”

Her voice softened, raw but certain. “And even if it was for the cameras — the songs, the PR, the picture-perfect smiles — it still meant something to me. Every bit of it. Because even in the middle of all that noise, I knew it was real somewhere underneath.”

She paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the tent, where Wren’s soft little sigh drifted through the quiet. The sound made her chest ache in the gentlest way. “And now look at us,” she murmured. “Somehow, we made it back here — older, a little bruised maybe, but… right where we’re supposed to be.”

She reached for his hand again beneath the blanket, threading her fingers through his, her thumb brushing slow circles against his skin. “I don’t know what tomorrow looks like,” she admitted, voice faint but sure. “But I do know that I want to keep showing up. For her. For you. For this.”

When he leaned his forehead against hers, she let her eyes fall closed, her words coming out softer — a confession stitched into the space between them.

“I used to think love had to be fireworks or heartbreak to mean something,” she said. “But this… this is the kind that lasts. The kind you build a life around.”

She tilted her head up just enough to kiss him, slow and steady, like punctuation at the end of a truth she’d been writing for years. When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath.

“So, yeah,” she whispered, echoing him with a faint smile. “You and me. Dragons, chaos, quiet — all of it.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “And when the fire burns low, I’ll be right here helping you start another.”

Then she leaned into him again, her head finding that familiar place beneath his chin, her hand still tangled in his. The night wrapped around them like it was listening.

The stars above them shimmered, small and steady — theirs now, undeniably.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t just hope she was right.
She knew it.

Kai didn’t even try to answer at first.
There wasn’t a word big enough for what she’d just said — or small enough to fit in the space between her breaths.

So he just looked at her.

At the way the firelight curled around her features, soft and gold, catching on the damp shimmer of her lashes. At the way her voice still trembled a little when she said things that mattered — and the way she said them anyway.

She’d always been brave like that.
Even when she didn’t think she was.

His throat tightened as he watched her. Sixteen. Detours. Fireworks and quiet. Every word she’d said stitched something back together inside him that he hadn’t even realized was torn.

When she settled against him again — small, certain, home — he let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his chest for years.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low, rough-edged from everything it carried. “We made it back.”

He turned his head slightly, letting his lips brush her hairline as he spoke — not for her to hear every word, but to feel it.

“You know what’s funny?” he whispered. “All those years, I thought peace was gonna come when everything slowed down — when the noise stopped, when the lights faded. But it wasn’t that. It was this. You. Me. Her. The small stuff. The kind of quiet that means something because of who’s in it.”

His fingers tightened lightly around hers, just enough to make sure she knew he was holding on.

“I used to write songs about forever,” he said after a beat. “But I don’t think I ever understood what that word meant until now.”

He smiled against her hair — tired, honest, full. “It’s not the perfect moments. It’s the staying. It’s lighting the fire again when it burns out. It’s… starting over, together.”

The last of the flames folded into embers, the air cooling around them. The world was so still it almost didn’t feel real — like even the stars had stopped moving just to listen.

He looked up at them — the ones Wren had claimed as theirs — and for the first time, he didn’t wish on them. He didn’t have to.

Lennon’s hand shifted slightly in his, the smallest movement, but it grounded him like gravity. He turned back to her, pressing a slow, quiet kiss to her temple.

“Guess we’re both right,” he said softly. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

He pulled the blanket a little tighter around them, the gesture instinctive, protective. Wren murmured something in her sleep — a sleepy, mumbled sound that almost made him laugh.

Kai smiled into the dark, his voice barely more than breath.
“Go on, little dragon,” he whispered, his arm tightening around Lennon. “We’ve got you.”

Then, quieter still, just for the woman in his arms:

“And I’ve got you too.”

The night didn’t answer back — it didn’t have to. The fire’s last glow faded, the stars kept shining, and the three of them — tangled in love and quiet and belonging — stayed exactly where they were.

Home.

Lennon squinted at the chaos in front of her — flour-dusted counters, apple peels curling like confetti, the dough refusing to cooperate. She sighed.

“Okay,” she muttered, pressing her hands to her hips. “So, in case it’s not obvious… this is a cry for help.”

She turned toward Kai, who was leaning against the counter, clearly amused. “You can wipe that look off your face. Some of us are trying to impress your mother, not sabotage her kitchen.”

Her voice softened — just a little. “She’s hosting Thanksgiving. I can’t just show up with store-bought pie. She’ll think you’re dating a fraud.”

A small laugh escaped her as she tried to re-roll the dough. “And before you say it — no, I don’t care that she likes me. This is strategic. I’m cementing my position as ‘the girl who brings dessert and doesn’t burn it.’”

She frowned at the dough again. “Except, apparently, I do burn it. Or at least emotionally damage it.”

When he chuckled under his breath, she shot him a mock glare. “Don’t even start, Mercer. You’re the one who said, ‘It’ll be fun, babe — we’ll bake together!’” She held up the mangled crust like evidence. “This is not fun. This is a domestic disaster in real time.”

He reached for one of her mixing bowls, and she leaned forward, catching his wrist. “Wait — before you fix it and make me look worse, at least let me pretend I’m learning something.”

Her tone lightened, teasing again. “You’re too good at this. It’s infuriating. How do you even slice apples that thin? You’ve got producer hands, not baker hands.”

He said something smart — probably something smug — and she rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “You are so not helping my case with your perfect pie geometry. If your mom sees us together, she’s gonna think I’m the one freeloading off your talent.”

She brushed a bit of flour off her cheek, realizing it only made things worse. “You realize this is how Hallmark movies start, right? The stressed-out overachiever who pretends she’s not terrified to meet the mom — and the guy who pretends not to notice.”

Her words trailed for a second, softer now. “Except… I think yours would actually have a happy ending.”

She reached for the sugar bowl and found it empty. “Wait—did you already use all the sugar? Oh my God.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re out here freelancing as a pastry chef while I’m emotionally unraveling over apple ratios.”

She stopped long enough to glance up at him, her smile pulling gentler. “Still,” she said quietly, “I like this. The trying part. Even if I fail spectacularly.”

Then, after a beat — the kind that carried more honesty than she meant to give away:
“Your mom’s important to you. So I want to get it right.”

Her gaze met his — steady this time, unguarded. “Not perfect. Just right.”

The timer beeped faintly in the background, and Lennon exhaled a shaky laugh, brushing flour off her palms. “Alright,” she murmured, voice slipping back to playful. “Moment of truth. If this pie’s edible, you’re telling her I made it. If it’s not…”

She smirked, sliding the oven mitts on. “We’re blaming Wren.”

She bent to open the oven, heat spilling out like applause, the smell of cinnamon and courage filling the room.

Kai bit back a laugh, hard enough that it came out as a strangled cough instead.
He lifted a hand, feigning innocence. “Hey, I didn’t say anything—” he started, but the look Lennon shot him over her shoulder could’ve burned the crust right off the pie.

He grinned anyway. “Okay, okay, first of all… emotional damage to dough isn’t real. I Googled it once during quarantine, and the internet said it’s not diagnosable. So we’re safe there.”

She shot him another look, and he had to press his lips together to keep from smiling outright. “And second, for the record, I didn’t say it’d be fun because I thought you’d enjoy it. I said it’d be fun because watching you narrate your own baking breakdown like a Food Network hostage situation is objectively hilarious.”

He gestured broadly at the counter — the flour cloud hanging in the air, the dough crime scene, the apple massacre. “This is art. Like performance art. You’re Banksy with a rolling pin.”

When she groaned and pointed her rolling pin at him like a weapon, he lifted both hands. “Alright, truce! But you can’t blame me for being good at this. My mom had me peeling apples before I could spell ‘peeling.’”

He reached around her, grabbing the bowl she’d been trying to rescue, and gave the dough a practiced fold. “See, you just gotta be gentle with it,” he said, keeping his tone serious but eyes teasing. “Talk nice to it. Whisper encouraging things. Maybe hum a ballad. I recommend something mid-tempo, emotional bridge.”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re impossible, and he laughed. “Yeah, but you love it.”

He stole a quick glance at her then — the streak of flour across her cheek, the mess of her hair, the focus in her eyes — and damn if his heart didn’t just do that thing again. That ridiculous, unhelpful, completely traitorous thing where it forgot how to keep rhythm.

When she said your mom’s important to you, it landed softer than anything else in the room. He felt it in his chest — the way she meant it, the way she wanted to get it right. He reached out, brushing a bit of flour off her jaw with his thumb before he could stop himself.

“She’s gonna love you,” he said simply, like it was fact — because to him, it was. “You could show up with a burnt Pop-Tart and she’d still tell everyone her son’s dating a goddess who bakes.”

The timer beeped again, and he straightened with mock ceremony. “Moment of truth,” he declared, stepping back like an announcer clearing the stage. “Will the pie rise to glory, or will the ghost of Julia Child haunt us forever? Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.”

When she pulled open the oven, the smell hit him — cinnamon, butter, sugar, and victory (or at least survivable defeat). The crust was… not perfect, but definitely not a disaster. He tilted his head, squinting in exaggerated critique.

“Okay, okay… I’d give it a solid eight out of ten,” he said, pretending to jot something down on an invisible clipboard. “Bonus points for style. Deduct one for emotional trauma sustained by the dough.”

She gave him that look again — the one that meant she was about to either laugh or throw something — and he couldn’t help it. He leaned in, low and conspiratorial. “You know,” he murmured, “if it really does taste bad, we can always tell my mom Wren made it. Everyone loves Wren. She’s the untouchable brand.”

He smirked. “We’ll just say she freelances in pastry arts when she’s not fighting dragons.”

Then, softer — the humor still there, but threaded with warmth — “But, hey… for what it’s worth? You already got it right.”

He nodded toward the pie, then back to her. “You showed up. That’s the part that counts.”

A beat passed, then his grin returned, crooked and smug. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go hide the evidence of the Great Sugar Shortage of 2025 before Wren finds out and files a grievance with Santa.”

He winked, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands — and maybe, just maybe, brushing it playfully across the flour on her cheek before ducking out of reach.

Lennon stilled, rolling pin in hand, eyes narrowing as she slowly turned to face him.
“Oh, you didn’t say anything,” she said, voice deceptively calm. “But you were absolutely thinking it. Loudly. Like—megaphone-level loudly.”

When he started in on the dough’s emotional damage, she let out an incredulous laugh. “You Googled it? During quarantine?” she repeated, shaking her head as she dusted flour off her hands. “That might actually be worse than me stress-baking right now.”

But when he called her a “Food Network hostage,” she lost it completely — pressing a flour-covered hand to her face to smother a laugh. “You’re the worst. You know that, right? The actual worst.”

Then came Banksy with a rolling pin.
Lennon pointed the rolling pin straight at his chest. “You’re really committed to your own death, huh?” she said, but her lips betrayed her, twitching upward. “And for the record, this is called dedication. Not chaos.”

When he mentioned his mom, she softened a little, setting the pin down. “That’s actually kind of sweet,” she admitted. “So this runs in the family, then — the Mercer men and their weirdly competent domestic skills.”

She glanced sideways as he reached around her, his arm brushing hers, and tried to focus on the dough instead of how warm his hand looked against the bowl. “Gentle, huh?” she said, voice dipping somewhere between teasing and self-conscious. “Okay, but if I start serenading the crust, that’s on you.”

At his yeah, but you love it, Lennon gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk — except it didn’t quite land because she was fighting a smile. “Careful,” she warned. “You’re on thin ice, Mercer. One more line like that and I’m putting your smug ass in charge of cleanup duty.”

When his hand brushed her jaw, her breath caught. Just for a second.
“That’s… that’s not fair,” she said quietly, eyes flicking up to his. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m trying to impress your mother through pastry.”

And then, because the silence that followed was too charged for her own sanity, she grabbed the oven mitt and announced, “Moment of truth,” like it was a line in a movie.

When he gave his mock critique, she huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Eight out of ten? Wow, you really do grade like a producer — never a perfect score, just enough to keep me hungry for approval.”

At the mention of blaming Wren, Lennon laughed for real this time — a small, bright sound that filled the kitchen. “Oh, she’d take full credit,” she said. “She’d be like, ‘Miss Lennon was my sous chef, but I did all the magic parts.’”

But when he got serious — you already got it right — her laughter faltered, replaced by something quieter, steadier.
She met his eyes, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. “You really think so?” she asked. “Because I swear, the last time I saw your mom, I had purple streaks in my hair and called her ‘dude.’ I think I’ve got a little PR work to do.”

He just kept looking at her like she didn’t need to fix a damn thing.
That did something to her.

“Okay,” she said finally, exhaling. “Fine. Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’ll like me even if I burn the crust.” A beat. “But if she doesn’t, I’m blaming you for hyping me up.”

When he made his grand exit with that towel, she gasped, feigning outrage as he swiped it across her cheek. “KAI!” she yelled, laughing so hard she nearly dropped the pie plate. “You did not just—okay, that’s it. I’m making you scrub this counter until it shines.”

She chased him halfway to the sink, still laughing, flour now dusting both of them.
“Fine!” she called, leaning against the counter with a grin she couldn’t fight. “Go ahead, run. But if your mom asks who destroyed your kitchen, I’m telling her it was you.”

Then, softer — mostly to herself as she glanced back at the cooling pie —
“…and that it was worth it.”

Kai froze mid-escape, one hand on the faucet, the other holding the towel like a weapon of mass flour destruction.

He turned slowly — mock-serious, eyes narrowed, lips twitching. “You’re threatening a man in his own kitchen,” he said, voice all low gravitas. “You realize that’s a dangerous move, right? We’ve got a code in the Mercer family.”

He walked back toward her, dusted in flour like a ghost of domestic failure. “See, here’s the thing—” he leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing a generational secret “—the Mercer men only gain their domestic magic once they find their perfect match. It’s genetic. Ancient folklore. Probably written on a casserole dish somewhere.”

He gestured toward the pie cooling on the counter, the crust golden and slightly uneven but undeniably theirs. “So technically, if this thing tastes even half decent, you might’ve just activated my powers.”

He squinted down at the pie with exaggerated intensity. “Can’t confirm until the tasting ceremony, though. Legend says the chosen one has to take the first bite while the other watches dramatically from the shadows.”

Lennon shot him a look over her shoulder — the one that said you’re out of your mind — but he was already grinning, the kind of grin that reached his eyes.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” he said, smirking. “You’re the one who started this whole ‘strategic dessert diplomacy’ plan. I’m just fulfilling my ancient Mercer destiny.”

When she didn’t immediately respond, he reached past her, stole a tiny piece of crust, and popped it into his mouth. He paused theatrically, hand over his heart. “Oh, yeah,” he said after a long beat. “Yep. Magic officially confirmed. You did it, Lennon Rae. You’ve unlocked the domestic gods. My mom’s gonna build a shrine in your honor out of pie tins.”

He leaned against the counter beside her again, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You realize what this means, right?” he asked, his tone a perfect blend of mock-gravity and affection. “You can never leave. Mercer family law states you’re now responsible for all future holiday desserts. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Arbor Day… it’s in the fine print.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, and that soft, reluctant smile broke him a little every time.

He bumped her shoulder gently with his. “Hey,” he said, quieter now, still smiling. “Don’t worry so much, alright? My mom’s gonna love you.”

He tilted his head, eyes softening as he looked at her. “She’ll take one look at you — at us — and she’ll get it. She’s gonna see the way you fit here, the way this fits.”

The teasing edge in his voice faded, replaced by something steadier, something that felt like certainty. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not with her. Not with me.”

The pie steamed gently between them, the kitchen smelling like sugar and warmth and whatever the opposite of chaos was.

Kai’s grin returned then, smaller but still bright. “Besides,” he added lightly, “if she doesn’t love you, I’ll just tell her you’re the reason my domestic magic finally kicked in. She’ll take that as fate.”

He bumped her shoulder again, softer this time. “So yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “We’re good. You’re good.”

And for once, it didn’t sound like reassurance. It sounded like truth.

Lennon blinked at him, a laugh catching somewhere between disbelief and affection. “You’re out of your mind,” she said, turning fully toward him, hands on her hips. “Ancient folklore? On a casserole dish? That’s your big Mercer family legacy?”

She gestured toward the pie with mock solemnity. “Wow. Centuries of domestic greatness, and it all comes down to this slightly lopsided apple pie.”

When he called it a tasting ceremony, she tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You mean to tell me you’ve turned my panic-baking into a religious experience?” she asked. “Should I light a candle? Say a prayer to Saint Betty Crocker before you take your sacred bite?”

But the corner of her mouth twitched when he leaned in like that — all dramatic and smug and too close for her composure. She swatted at him lightly with the oven mitt. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, laughing now, the sound breaking through the warm quiet of the kitchen.

Then he stole a bite of crust, and her jaw dropped. “You did not just—Kai!” she said, reaching to grab the towel from him, but he dodged, grinning around his words. “Unbelievable. You’re supposed to wait for the official presentation!”

Still, when he called it magic, her laugh softened into something smaller, quieter. “Magic, huh?” she said, eyes flicking toward the pie, then back at him. “I think it’s just dumb luck and too much butter.”

But when he started talking about never leaving, about Mercer family law, she just shook her head, smiling to herself. “Oh, right. The fine print,” she said, pretending to sigh. “Guess I should’ve read the terms and conditions before I started dating a Mercer. I didn’t realize ‘mandatory pie duty’ was part of the deal.”

She nudged him with her elbow when he bumped her shoulder, trying not to let how natural it felt show too much. “You know,” she said softly, “you really shouldn’t be this confident about me meeting your mom. I was a teenage disaster the last time she saw me.”

Her tone was teasing, but there was truth there — the old nerves, the memory of their Disney Channel days and all the noise that came with it.

Lennon leaned against the counter beside him, mirroring his stance but letting her voice drop a little. “She always had that look, though. Like she could see straight through the PR version of us. That scared me when I was sixteen.” She smiled faintly. “Now it kinda makes me want to hug her.”

When he said you don’t have to prove anything, she went still for a beat. Her hands stilled on the counter, flour dusting her fingertips.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I still want her to like me. Not because she’s your mom — because she’s your mom. You talk about her like she’s the one who taught you how to love people right. So, yeah… I guess I just want her to see what you see.”

Her throat tightened, and she tried to shake it off, reaching for humor again. “Also, if she doesn’t, I fully plan to bribe her with dessert. I can weaponize cinnamon like nobody’s business.”

The teasing didn’t quite hide the warmth in her expression when she looked back up at him.

He bumped her shoulder again, gentler this time, and she smiled — small, genuine. “You really believe that, don’t you?” she said softly. “That I fit here.”

She exhaled, glancing at the pie between them. “I think I do too.”

Then, lighter — her grin returning — “But just so you know, if your mom ends up liking the pie more than me, I’m holding you personally responsible. That’s also in the fine print.”

Kai couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face — the kind that started slow, tugging at the corners of his mouth before it took over completely. He looked at her like she’d just walked straight into his favorite punchline.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, lifting his hands in mock defense, “the Mercer folklore is highly classified information. We don’t share casserole-based prophecies with just anyone. You should feel honored. Next Christmas, I’ll show you the scrolls — they’re written in gravy.”

He let out a laugh, the sound low and warm, before nodding toward the pie. “And second — hey, this ‘slightly lopsided apple pie’ might be the key to the whole dynasty. It’s got rustic charm. My mom’s gonna love that. She’s all about ‘character.’ Which is good, because this thing’s got loads of it.”

When Lennon teased him about turning her panic-baking into a religious experience, he pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Excuse you — Saint Betty Crocker is absolutely in the Mercer Hall of Fame. Right next to Saint Instant Mashed Potatoes and the patron saint of perfectly toasted marshmallows.”

Her laugh filled the kitchen again, and he felt it — the way it warmed everything, softened the space between them until it didn’t feel like a mess anymore. Just… them.

When she started worrying about his mom, though, he could hear the shift in her voice — that old thread of doubt woven through her teasing. So he bumped her shoulder again, gentler this time, the grin still there but softer now.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter. “You forget — I wasn’t exactly the golden child either.”

He leaned back against the counter beside her, gesturing vaguely toward himself. “Middle kid. Total stealth chaos. My brothers broke stuff, got caught, learned lessons. I broke stuff, blamed it on the wind, and somehow got away with it.” He smirked. “Mom says it was the dimples. I say it was strategy.”

He glanced at her then, tone shifting just enough to show the truth beneath the joke. “She’s seen me at my worst, Len. Way before I figured out who I wanted to be. So trust me — if she could survive that version of me, she’s gonna adore you.”

Her brows lifted, and he grinned wider. “I mean, yeah, she might still have teenage you in her head — purple streaks, eyeliner rebellion, calling her ‘dude’ — but honestly?” He shrugged. “She loved you even back then. She just didn’t get to know you yet. Now she will. And she’s gonna see exactly what I see.”

He nudged her again, eyes warm. “You’re the kind of person people just… root for. She’s gonna feel that the second you walk in.”

The pie steamed quietly between them, filling the air with cinnamon and butter and something that felt suspiciously like peace.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And if she doesn’t — which she will, but hypothetically — we’ll just lean into it. You can charm her with your ‘weaponized cinnamon’ and I’ll remind her I’m the middle child. She’ll immediately take pity on both of us.”

He shot her a sideways grin, bumping her shoulder once more. “Face it, Rae. Between the folklore, the dimples, and your dangerously good bribes, we’re unstoppable.”

He looked down at the pie again, then back at her, his tone light but certain. “And hey — if she ends up liking the pie more than you, I’ll handle it. I’ll start an argument about crust thickness, distract her, and casually redirect the praise your way. I’m a professional.”

He paused, his grin turning softer. “But between you and me?” He lowered his voice like he was sharing another Mercer family secret. “She’s gonna love you. Way more than the pie.”

He winked, bumping her shoulder once more for good measure. “Even if that breaks every law of Mercer baking tradition.”

Lennon leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms as she stared him down — or at least tried to, because the grin on his face was making it impossible to stay annoyed.

“Written in gravy,” she repeated, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was even entertaining this. “You’re insufferable. Actual, walking kitchen chaos. You know that, right?”

But the corner of her mouth was already twitching, her voice softening around the edges. “Although, if the scrolls are real, I fully expect a dramatic unveiling ceremony. Candlelight. Gregorian chants. Maybe a choir of potatoes singing in harmony.”

When he called the pie rustic charm, she snorted. “Rustic charm? That’s what we’re calling ‘barely held together but trying its best’ now?” she teased, turning back to glance at it. “Well, I guess that tracks. It’s on brand for both of us.”

She caught his next line and shot him a look, half laughing. “Did you just canonize instant mashed potatoes? I swear to God, Kai, if you actually have a family shrine with a gravy-scented candle, I’m calling a documentary crew.”

But then he laughed, that real kind — the one that didn’t hide behind anything — and it hit her how long it had been since she’d heard it like that. Unfiltered. Easy.

She looked down for a second, letting the sound settle in her chest.

When he mentioned not being the golden child, her brow arched. “Oh, right, stealth chaos Mercer,” she said, pretending to think. “That checks out. You had that suspiciously calm energy in interviews — like you were secretly setting fires just off camera.”

She laughed when he said dimples but her voice went quieter when he went on, and she glanced up at him, her expression softening. “You really don’t give yourself enough credit,” she said. “Even back then, you were the one holding it all together. You made everyone else look like they knew what they were doing. Including me.”

When he said she’s gonna adore you, Lennon exhaled slowly, trying to mask how much that landed. She traced her fingertip through a bit of flour on the counter, pretending to focus on that instead of the way her chest had just tightened.

“She always was too kind,” she murmured, smiling a little. “She could’ve told me I was an absolute disaster, but instead she made me cocoa and asked if I missed home.” Lennon laughed softly at the memory. “I think I told her I didn’t have time to miss anything. Which was code for ‘I definitely do but please don’t make me cry about it.’”

She looked over at him again, eyes a little shinier than before. “It’s weird, you know? Back then, everything was so loud. All the cameras and expectations and… versions of us. I don’t think I ever got to just be around you like this.”

Then, because the air felt too honest, she nudged him with her elbow and added lightly, “So yeah, if I can survive that, I can survive your mom.”

When he brought up weaponized cinnamon, she grinned, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m already planning my strategy. I’ll bring cookies as a distraction. Compliment her table settings. Maybe throw in a sob story about how I was orphaned by bad pie recipes.”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “You can handle the dimples and folklore angle. I’ll handle the pastry manipulation. Divide and conquer.”

When he said we’re unstoppable, she looked up at him again — and this time the smile that spread across her face was slow, genuine, and warm. “Unstoppable,” she repeated softly. “That’s… new. I like that.”

Then his last line landed, the one about her mom liking her more than the pie, and Lennon laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You really think you can out-charm your own mother for me?” she asked, her voice dipping lower, playful but tender. “That’s bold, Mercer. Borderline reckless.”

She stepped a little closer, bumping his shoulder back, eyes glinting. “But hey — if you’re wrong, and she ends up loving the pie more…”

Her mouth curved into a grin. “I’ll just tell her it was your recipe. Then we’ll both win.”

She turned back to the counter, brushing a bit of flour from her hands, and added quietly — almost like she didn’t mean for him to hear it —

“Still… I really hope you’re right about her.”

Then she looked up again, that teasing spark returning just in time. “Now are you gonna help me clean this, or do I have to call the flour exorcist to handle the Mercer curse?”

Kai laughed, low and unbothered, because yeah — he probably deserved that one.

“Alright, first of all,” he said, straightening and gesturing broadly toward the mess around them, “you make it sound like I chose to be kitchen chaos incarnate. This is generational. It’s inherited. We can’t all be blessed with pastry serenity, Lennon Rae.”

He paused, tapping his chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Although, the potato choir idea? Noted. I’ll pitch that at the next Mercer family summit. We’ll gather in the sacred kitchen, sing hymns to Saint Crockpot, and close with a gravy benediction.”

When she rolled her eyes, he grinned, but his chest felt lighter — the kind of light that came from watching her laugh here, in this little patch of ordinary life, where nothing needed to be perfect.

And still, when she said rustic charm, he winced dramatically. “You wound me. I’ll have you know ‘barely held together but trying its best’ is the Mercer family motto. It’s right there on the crest, above the spatula and below the passive-aggressive casserole.”

Her laughter pulled one out of him too — the real kind, the one he hadn’t felt stuck behind a microphone or in front of a camera in years.

But when she brought up his mom, the humor softened around the edges. He looked down, brushing some stray flour off the counter, voice dipping low. “Yeah, she’s… kind of the best.”

He smiled at the thought, eyes distant for a second. “Thing is, she’s seen every version of me — the good kid, the stage brat, the middle-child ghost no one was really watching because my brothers were busy breaking bones and winning trophies. I wasn’t bad, exactly… just good at going unnoticed when I wanted to.”

He shrugged, still smiling, but smaller now. “Guess it’s easier to joke about being the problem than admit I was just a kid trying to keep up.”

Then he looked back at Lennon, eyes warm again. “But you don’t have to worry. If my mom loved that version of me, she’s gonna love you. You don’t have to charm her or bribe her or weaponize cinnamon — though, admittedly, that sounds incredible.”

He nudged her gently, his shoulder brushing hers. “She’s got this thing about people who show up as themselves. Always said the world gets loud enough without us pretending to be someone else.”

He smiled faintly. “So, yeah. She’ll like you. Not in spite of who you were at sixteen, but because of who you are now.”

Lennon said something under her breath about hoping he was right, and Kai caught it — didn’t call her out on it, just let his hand drift to rest over hers on the counter for a second. “Trust me,” he murmured. “I’m right.”

Then, before the air could get too heavy, he glanced around the disaster zone of the kitchen and grinned. “Now, as for this flour exorcism you mentioned…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I know a guy. Specializes in hauntings caused by overconfident bakers and middle-child energy.”

He reached for the towel and flicked a puff of flour her way before she could dodge. “But his rates are high, so you might have to pay him in pie.”

Lennon gasped, scandalized, and he laughed — the kind that came from somewhere deep, somewhere happy.

“Relax,” he said, ducking away before she could retaliate. “You summoned me, remember? Domestic magic, folklore, and all that.” He gestured to himself with exaggerated pride. “I’m your flour exorcist and your cleanup crew. Congratulations — you’re officially dating a one-man kitchen cult.”

He reached for the rag again, brushing a streak of flour off her cheek, softer this time. “And for the record,” he said, voice gentler now, “you’re gonna be just fine.”

He gave her that easy grin again — the one that carried both the joke and the truth beneath it — then added, “Now grab a sponge, Saint Lennon. Let’s prove to the ancestors we can clean as well as we conjure.”

Lennon blinked at him, then pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh — and failing spectacularly.

“A one-man kitchen cult,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That’s what you’re going with? Not, like, band frontman, or chart-topping producer, or even just guy with a working oven?” Her mouth curved as she eyed the mess around them. “You’re really locking in on kitchen cult leader as your brand?”

She pointed at the flour explosion coating half the counter. “And for the record, this doesn’t scream inherited magic, Kai. This screams, ‘a ghost sneezed in self-defense.’”

When he mentioned the Mercer family motto, she laughed — soft and genuine, the kind that crinkled her eyes. “Barely held together but trying its best?” she said. “That sounds less like a family crest and more like the title of your memoir.”

But her teasing softened when he talked about his mom. The shift in his tone pulled her in, quieted something in her chest. She leaned a little closer, her voice gentle now. “You weren’t invisible, you know,” she said. “You were just—steady. You had this way of making chaos look like it was supposed to happen.”

Her mouth lifted in a small, crooked smile. “And yeah, you joked your way through most of it, but I don’t think anyone ever missed you. You were the gravity holding the rest of it together.”

When he said his mom would love her, Lennon didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him — the easy way he said it, the quiet certainty that made it sound like fact instead of hope.

She swallowed, glancing down at their hands when his brushed over hers. “That’s a lot of faith for a girl who once set her sleeve on fire making grilled cheese,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “But… thank you.”

Then, because lingering too long in that softness made her nervous, she arched a brow. “Also, for the record, I absolutely plan to weaponize cinnamon. I don’t care if she likes me for me — I’m still stacking the odds.”

When he flicked flour her way, she gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, you did not just—”

He did.

“Alright, that’s it, cult boy,” she said, grabbing a handful of flour and lunging at him, barely missing as he dodged out of reach. “You wanna start a flour war? Fine, but just know I will win.”

The kitchen dissolved into laughter and chaos — streaks of white on countertops and clothes, both of them tripping over their own bad aim until Lennon finally leaned against the counter, out of breath, cheeks flushed.

“Okay,” she said between laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Truce. I don’t think your ancestors would approve of this level of sacrilege.”

When he reached out again, brushing the last bit of flour off her cheek, she stilled — the playfulness easing into something smaller, quieter. “You’re really sure about me meeting her, huh?” she asked softly, eyes searching his.

And when he said you’re gonna be just fine, it landed in that place between her ribs that always seemed to catch when he said things like that — not big declarations, not promises, just truths that felt like home.

She smiled — really smiled this time — and nudged him with her elbow. “Fine, flour exorcist,” she said lightly, though her voice was still a little too warm. “But if we’re summoning the Mercer ancestors, I’m making you do the dishes. They’ll expect a sacrifice.”

Then she grabbed a sponge, bumping his hip on her way past him toward the sink. “And next time,” she tossed over her shoulder, “we’re sticking to cookies. Less holy intervention required.”

Kai grinned, brushing a streak of flour off his forearm and watching her like she was the best kind of chaos—his favorite kind.

“Cookies, huh?” he said, leaning against the counter, pretending to think. “That’s a dangerous downgrade for a cult leader. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You can’t just go from mystical pie summoner to… casual cookie guy. There are rankings to these things.”

She bumped his hip on her way past, and he let out a quiet laugh that melted straight into something softer. Watching her move around the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair a little wild, smile still tugging at the edges of her mouth—yeah. He could live in this kind of mess forever.

When she called him cult boy, he pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “Excuse you. We prefer the term ‘flourship leader.’ Much more dignified.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, and he lost it, laughing hard enough that he had to lean on the counter to catch his breath. “Okay, okay—fine. Cookies next time. But don’t think you’re getting out of doing the ritual chants.”

Lennon shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ridiculous, but there was color in her cheeks, and the sound of her laugh still hung between them.

Kai picked up a sponge from the sink, flicking a bit of suds her way just because he could. “You started this war, you know,” he teased. “I was an innocent bystander until the cinnamon-wielding witch over here declared martial law.”

She threw him that try me look again, and it made something warm tighten in his chest.

“Man,” he said under his breath, mostly to himself, “how did I get this lucky?”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But once it was there, hanging in the air with the smell of apples and sugar, he didn’t take it back.

Because it was true.

All the joking, the folklore, the flour fights—they made it easy to forget the part that scared him most: that someone like her could see him as more than the goofy kid who got lucky, who stumbled into music, into life, into her. But hearing her say he’d been the gravity, that he’d held things together… it made him want to believe it.

He stepped closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers as he reached for the dish towel. “For the record,” he said, quieter now, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m positive you’ll be fine when you meet her. She’ll see you the way I do.”

She glanced up, caught off guard, and he softened the moment with a smirk. “Which means she’ll probably think you’re way too good for me and ask how you’ve survived my culinary crimes this long.”

He turned back to the sink, rinsing off a bowl, but his voice stayed easy, steady. “Still… she’ll get it. Us. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”

When he looked back, Lennon was watching him, that quiet little smile still ghosting on her lips. He couldn’t help returning it, brushing the back of his hand against her arm as he passed her a clean plate.

“Team Mercer, huh?” he said, nodding toward the pie cooling on the counter. “Not bad for a couple of saints and sinners with a rolling pin.”

Then, with a grin that was equal parts challenge and affection, he added, “Next round, though—cookies. I’m bringing the folklore. You bring the fire extinguisher.”

He waited for her laugh—because it always came—and when it did, it was everything.

Lennon let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Flourship leader. You can’t even hear yourself, can you?”

She turned, pointing the towel at him like a gavel. “You say things like that and then expect me to take you seriously when you’re talking about ancient Mercer traditions and pastry rituals. You are one burnt crust away from being banned from your own kitchen.”

He grinned, that half-sheepish, half-smug look that always seemed to undo her, and she groaned dramatically. “God, you really are the same guy who tried to convince a whole film crew that the oven was haunted back in 2011.”

She tossed the towel over her shoulder, a smile tugging despite herself. “Spoiler alert: it was a loose pilot light. Not a vengeful carb spirit.”

But when he laughed—really laughed—it pulled something loose in her chest. It wasn’t loud or showy; it was the kind that rolled low and easy, familiar in the best way.

When he called her the cinnamon-wielding witch, she smirked, leaning back against the counter beside him. “That’s Dr. Cinnamon Witch, thank you very much. I earned my title in battle.”

He flicked suds at her, and she gasped, wide-eyed in mock outrage. “Did you just—?!” She grabbed the nearest thing—a measuring cup—and filled it with water, holding it threateningly above the sink. “You sure you wanna start a second kitchen war, cult boy? I don’t think your ancestors have the emotional stamina for another one.”

But then he said it. That small, unguarded how did I get this lucky—and everything in her stilled.

Her hand lowered, and for a second, she just looked at him. Really looked. The curve of his mouth, the way the light from the window cut through the flour haze and caught the flecks of gold in his eyes.

She smiled softly, the kind that didn’t need to be big to feel real. “You’re lucky?” she said quietly, shaking her head. “You make everything fun, Kai. Even the parts that are supposed to be stressful.”

When he said she’d be fine meeting his mom, she bit her lip, pretending to busy herself with rinsing a bowl, but her heart was somewhere else—caught between his certainty and the warmth in his voice.

“She’ll probably think I’m a menace,” Lennon said, forcing a grin, “or at least deeply unqualified to operate her son’s kitchen equipment. Which, honestly, fair.”

He passed her a plate, and their fingers brushed, a small touch that felt too electric for something so ordinary. She took it, setting it on the drying rack, but her voice came out quieter. “Still. Thanks, Kai. For saying that.”

When he said Team Mercer, she finally looked back at him, eyes soft. “Team Mercer, huh?” she echoed, smirking. “Careful, that sounds dangerously close to commitment. You might have to start printing shirts.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she added, “I get veto power on the slogans, though. I’m not walking around in public wearing Saints and Sinners with a Rolling Pin.”

Her laughter came easily then, bubbling up before she could stop it. “Alright, flourship leader,” she said, leaning one hip against the counter, “cookies next time. But no folklore, no hauntings, and absolutely no summoning rituals. Just… you, me, and maybe something we can actually eat without fear of divine punishment.”

Then, softer, with a small smile that lingered, she added, “Though, between us—this was kind of perfect.”

Kai was absolutely, one hundred percent, pleased with himself.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with that lazy, crooked grin that meant he knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded and had no intention of stopping. “Can’t hear myself?” he repeated, feigning offense. “Lennon Rae, I’m a flourship leader. We operate exclusively through divine chaos and questionable acoustics.”

She gave him that towel-pointing glare — the one halfway between exasperation and affection — and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Hey, for the record,” he said, “that oven did make noises. You can’t prove it wasn’t haunted. Pilot lights are just how ghosts communicate in the modern age.”

When she called him out on it being a “vengeful carb spirit,” he couldn’t hold it anymore — his laugh came easy, rolling through the flour-thick air, the kind that warmed the room more than any oven could. “Okay, okay, fine. Maybe I embellished a little. But in my defense, the craft services guy looked terrified. I was creating an experience.”

The “Dr. Cinnamon Witch” line just about finished him. He straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh, pardon me,” he said, bowing deeply, hand over his heart. “Dr. Cinnamon Witch, PhD in Confectionery Combat. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of kitchen royalty.”

He barely ducked in time when she raised the measuring cup. “Whoa, whoa, truce! The ancestors can’t handle another uprising,” he said, laughing so hard he had to put a hand on the counter to steady himself.

She was radiant like that — messy, alive, glowing with something that didn’t come from the kitchen light at all. He wanted to bottle the sound of her laugh, the flour in her hair, the easy way she moved through the wreckage like it was some kind of home.

When she said you’re lucky, he didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Oh, I know I am,” he said, voice low but sure, eyes never leaving her. “Seriously. You walk into my life, and suddenly I’ve got folklore, chaos, and a kitchen that smells like a bakery caught in a snowstorm. I’ve never been luckier.”

He meant it — every word — and he didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

When she teased about Team Mercer shirts, he just hummed thoughtfully. “Too late. Already ordered a batch. Front says Saints and Sinners with a Rolling Pin, back says Join the Flourship. Limited edition.” He gave her a mock-serious look. “I’m thinking merch line. We’ll go global.”

Her laugh hit him like gravity — the kind of sound that made the world tilt back into place.

He watched her, utterly content, his chest full in that steady, impossible way that love sneaks up on you — not loud, not dramatic, just there. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “if this is what kitchen chaos looks like with you, I think we might be onto something holy after all.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but he caught the smile she tried to hide.

He pushed off the counter, closing the space between them just enough to brush a bit of flour from her shoulder — an excuse, maybe, but one he’d happily take. “Cookies next time,” he said softly, that amused edge still curling through his voice. “No folklore, no hauntings. Just you, me, and something edible. Deal.”

Then, after a beat, his grin widened. “But if they accidentally turn out perfect, I’m still claiming divine intervention. Can’t risk losing my brand.”

Her laugh came again, easy and bright, and Kai decided right then that he could spend forever trying to earn that sound.

Lennon laughed softly under her breath, shaking her head as she wiped the counter with the corner of a towel. “You realize you’ve completely hijacked this kitchen with your cult of carbs, right?” she said, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and fondness. “We were supposed to be baking, not summoning spirits of the oven.”

When he quipped something back about divine chaos, she let out a mock groan, throwing the towel onto the counter. “Divine chaos, my ass. You’re just allergic to structure. You should’ve come with a warning label—may cause spontaneous messes and excessive laughter.”

His grin widened, and she sighed in fake exasperation, though her voice softened at the edges. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, “but at least you’re entertaining.”

When he teased about the haunted oven, Lennon shot him a look over her shoulder, the kind that could’ve melted the butter left on the counter. “You and your ghost stories. I’m starting to think the real haunting here is your ego.”

He said something back—probably smug—and she rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, quieter this time, her words more instinct than thought. “Otherwise, I’d have thrown this pie at you five minutes ago.”

He countered, teasing again about his divine luck, and Lennon just smiled, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You think you’re charming, don’t you?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

When he reached over and brushed the flour from her sleeve, she froze for a heartbeat. It was such a simple thing—small, easy—but it hit different. Slower. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric, the steadiness of him standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Cookies next time, huh?” she echoed, her voice quieter now, more sincere than teasing. “Fine. But if we burn them, I’m blaming you—and your flourship.”

He said something about divine intervention again, and Lennon smiled, shaking her head as she grabbed a rag to finish cleaning up. “Right. Divine intervention. That’s one way to put it,” she said, glancing at him through the faint haze of flour in the air.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. The laughter, the warmth, the soft hum of the room—it all felt suspended for a second, like the kind of moment that didn’t ask to be named.

She exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the counter.

“Yeah,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “definitely cookies next time.”

And for the first time in a long time, she realized she was already looking forward to it.

Lennon sat cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, surrounded by a half-organized sea of photo prints. Test shots. Outtakes. Possible covers for the new EP.
Some were glossy, some matte — all of them pieces of something she couldn’t quite name yet.

The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, golden and soft, catching on the edges of the scattered photos. A mug of half-finished coffee sat within arm’s reach, cooling fast. Her laptop was open beside her, a half-typed note that just read:
Title ideas:
– something honest
– something that sounds like healing
– something that still hurts a little

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, eyes moving between the prints — the close-ups, the blurred ones, the accidental ones she secretly loved most.

That’s when she heard it — the familiar sound of the front door opening, the muffled laughter that always came before Wren’s voice.

“Lenny! We saw ducks!”

Her head lifted just in time to see Kai and Wren step into the living room — cheeks flushed from the cold, Wren still clutching a stick like it was treasure. Lennon smiled, automatically. “Ducks, huh? You make any friends?”

Wren nodded seriously, shedding her coat with the kind of chaotic precision only kids could manage. “Two ducks and a dog,” she said, climbing up onto the couch. “The dog barked at Daddy but he said it was fine.”

Kai muttered something about overconfident golden retrievers, but Lennon was already laughing.

Wren’s eyes darted to the table, curiosity lighting up her whole face. “What’s this?” she asked, kneeling beside Lennon before she could answer. Little hands started rearranging the photos, turning some upside down, stacking others in neat little piles.

“Pictures,” Lennon said gently. “For my new project. I’m trying to pick which one should go on the cover.”

Wren tilted her head, studying them like she was about to deliver a professional critique. “The one where you’re smiling is pretty,” she said after a moment. “But this one—” she pointed to a shadowy black-and-white frame, “—looks like when a song gets sad before it gets better.”

Lennon blinked. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone’s said about my music,” she murmured, glancing toward Kai with a soft smile.

Then Wren looked up, eyes bright and earnest. “Are you a singer too? Like Daddy?”

The question landed in that small, tender way only kids could manage — simple, curious, unfiltered. Lennon felt her heart tug a little. She brushed a piece of hair behind Wren’s ear and smiled.

“Yeah, kinda like Daddy,” she said quietly. “Except I write songs about messy kitchens and too much coffee instead of dragons and campfires.”

Wren giggled at that, eyes wide. “Can I help you pick?”

Lennon nodded, sliding the photos toward her. “Absolutely. You’ve got good taste, kid. Maybe you should be my manager.”

Wren gasped, delighted by the idea, and Kai’s laughter drifted from behind the couch — low, familiar, grounding.

And as Lennon watched Wren sort through her prints with tiny, serious hands, she realized the afternoon light had changed again — softer now, spilling gold across the photos like the universe was quietly choosing for her.

Maybe the cover didn’t need to be perfect.
Maybe it just needed to feel like this.

Kai paused in the doorway for a second, watching the two of them before saying anything.

The living room looked like a creative battlefield—prints scattered like confetti, coffee cooling in the middle of the chaos, Lennon cross-legged in the middle of it all. Wren had already claimed her usual post beside her, humming something under her breath as she reorganized Lennon’s “artistic vision.”

And, honestly, Kai couldn’t remember the last time something had looked so right.

He set down Wren’s little jacket and the stick she’d named Sir Quackalot (“official duck ambassador,” she’d informed him on the walk home) and leaned a shoulder against the wall, smiling to himself. The whole room glowed the way it only did at this hour—sunlight soft, honey-colored, catching in Lennon’s hair, lighting up Wren’s tiny determined frown as she decided which of the prints belonged in the “good pile.”

He had no business being this content, but here he was.

“You realize,” he said, tone dry but amused, “that my kid has more natural A&R instincts than half the label execs I’ve met, right?”

Wren perked up immediately. “What’s A&R?”

“It’s the people who think they know which songs sound like money,” he said, walking over to crouch beside her. “But I think you’ve got better ears, kid. You’re hired.”

Wren grinned wide, already pointing at another photo. “This one looks like a secret,” she said, showing it to him with both hands.

Kai glanced at the picture—a candid one of Lennon laughing, hair half in her face, the kind of shot that wasn’t trying to be anything. He felt the corner of his mouth lift. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it does.”

He looked over at Lennon, who was watching them with that quiet, amused expression that always made him want to kiss her right where she sat. He didn’t, mostly because Wren was still dramatically curating an album rollout on the floor, but the thought was there—loud and persistent.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching Lennon’s gaze for a beat. “She’s right, you know. About the photos. The ones that don’t try so hard… those are the ones that stick.”

Wren nodded in emphatic agreement. “Messy ones are the best.”

Kai laughed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That’s the family motto at this point.”

He stayed there for a while, kneeling in the golden light with both of them, helping Wren line up photos in straight rows that didn’t stay straight for long. Every so often he’d catch Lennon watching him, that soft look returning—the one that made his heart feel too big for his chest.

It wasn’t loud or cinematic or the kind of moment you wrote songs about. It was better.

Wren held up two final prints for a dramatic tiebreaker. “This one,” she said, “because it’s happy. But this one’s brave.”

Kai looked at Lennon and smiled, quiet but certain. “Then maybe that’s the whole EP right there,” he said. “Happy and brave. Sounds like you.”

Wren beamed at the idea, clearly taking full credit for the discovery, while Kai leaned back on his heels, watching them both framed in light and music and peace.

He couldn’t have planned it if he tried—this strange, beautiful, ordinary perfection—but he didn’t need to. It was happening all on its own.

And for the first time in years, Kai Mercer didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Lennon laughed softly, shaking her head as Wren rearranged another handful of photos like a tiny record exec. “Happy and brave, huh?” she said, smiling. “That’s a pretty good combination. You might’ve just outdone everyone I work with.”

Wren’s grin was immediate, her fingers already tapping one of the prints. “So that’s what it’s called?”

Lennon hesitated, leaning back on her palms. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “I’ve been trying to find something that feels like me. Something that sounds like this.”
She gestured around the room — the scattered prints, the soft afternoon light, Wren humming quietly against her shoulder. “It’s not about perfect anymore. It’s about honest.”

Wren furrowed her brow, thinking hard in that way she did when she took something seriously. Then she looked up, eyes bright. “What about Lenny?”

Lennon blinked, caught off guard. “Lenny?”

Wren nodded, completely sure of herself. “Yeah. ’Cause that’s what I call you,” she said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “It’s your name but smaller. Like… closer.”

The words landed soft and deep — that kind of innocent truth that hits harder because it’s simple. Lennon felt her throat tighten just a little as she smiled. “Lenny,” she repeated, quieter now, tasting it like a lyric. It wasn’t polished or clever, but it was hers. It sounded like everything she’d been trying to write.

“You know what, kid?” she said after a beat, brushing her thumb over Wren’s cheek. “That might be perfect.”

Wren’s whole face lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Lennon said. “You just named my EP.”

“Cool,” Wren said proudly, going right back to stacking the photos. “Can I put that one on the cover?”

Lennon followed her finger to the candid shot — her mid-laugh, hair wild, nothing posed about it. “That one?” she asked softly, smiling to herself. “Yeah. I think you just picked the one.”

Wren grinned, leaning back against her. Lennon slipped an arm around her waist, resting her chin lightly on the little girl’s shoulder as the room fell quiet again, full of sunlight and that unspoken ease she still wasn’t used to feeling.

Across the room, Kai was still leaning against the wall, watching them both — that half-smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that made her chest feel unsteady in the best way.

Lennon met his gaze, her voice low but sure. “Guess it’s official,” she said. “Lenny. Named by the only person who ever gets away with calling me that.”

Wren giggled, twisting to look up at her. “Told you I’m good at naming stuff.”

“Yeah, you are,” Lennon murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Remind me to hire you forever.”

And as Wren turned back to her masterpiece of crooked photo piles, Lennon glanced up once more — Kai’s eyes still on her, that quiet, steady kind of pride written all over him.

It wasn’t loud or perfect or staged. But it was real.
And that, she decided, was exactly what Lenny should sound like.

Kai didn’t move for a long moment — didn’t want to, really.

From where he stood, the scene looked like something the world had no right to interrupt. Lennon, hair loose, sunlight curling through it like gold thread. Wren, tucked against her side, humming off-key and rearranging photos like a professional with a very loose grasp on sequencing. And the word Lenny still hanging in the air, soft but certain, like it had always been waiting for her.

He felt the corner of his mouth lift, that small, uncontainable smile that came when something inside him quietly clicked into place.

It figured that Wren would be the one to name it. The kid had a sixth sense for moments that mattered — maybe inherited from him, but if Kai was honest, she’d refined it all on her own. He just stood there, letting the sight of the two of them fill up the parts of him that used to feel empty.

“Lenny,” he repeated under his breath, testing the word himself. It fit her in a way that Lennon Rae never quite did. Lennon was stage lights and interviews, polished edges. Lenny was this — sunlight, laughter, honest mess, the way she looked at Wren like the world finally made sense again.

He let out a slow breath, still smiling.

She caught his eye then, that small proud smile tugging at her mouth, and something in his chest tightened — that old familiar mix of admiration and affection that had become second nature around her.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s perfect.”

Wren, completely oblivious to the weight in the room, was now giving one of the photos a dramatic pep talk about “being brave enough to go on the album.” Kai bit back a laugh, watching the seriousness on her little face. “You’re running a tight ship, kid,” he said lightly. “Gonna have to start paying you royalties.”

Wren gasped. “Like… money?”

“Or cookies,” he amended quickly. “Depends on the label budget.”

That earned him the bright, unrestrained laugh he’d been hoping for, the kind that made Lennon shake her head in mock exasperation — but she was smiling, too, that quiet, unguarded smile that he couldn’t seem to stop memorizing.

Kai pushed off the wall and crossed the room, crouching down beside them, careful not to disturb the sea of prints. Wren immediately grabbed his hand, tugging him closer so he could “help” choose the final pile. He let her, pretending to study the options seriously even though he already knew which one was right.

The candid one. The one that looked like her.

He looked up at Lennon, catching her watching him. Her eyes were soft, bright in the fading light, and for a second, the noise of the world outside felt miles away.

“This one’s it,” he said quietly, nodding toward the photo Wren had picked — the one with her laugh caught mid-breath. “It already sounds like music.”

Lennon smiled, that warm, knowing kind of smile that didn’t need to say thank you out loud.

Wren clapped once, satisfied with herself. “See? Told you I’m good at this.”

Kai laughed, ruffling her hair. “Remind me never to argue with my best producer.”

And as Wren went back to rearranging her “tracklist,” Kai glanced at Lennon again — the way she fit into this quiet, golden afternoon like she’d always belonged in it.

It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t perfect. It was everything.

And as far as Kai was concerned, Lenny already sounded exactly like home.

Lennon smiled faintly, still sitting cross-legged between the couch and coffee table, her fingertips tracing the edges of a few scattered photos. “Best producer, huh?” she murmured, glancing at Wren, who was now giving one of the prints an encouraging thumbs-up. “You realize she’s never going to let either of us forget that.”

Wren perked up at the sound of her name. “That’s because I’m right!” she announced, rearranging the same three pictures for the fifth time. “And I like this one. It feels happy.”

“Happy’s good,” Lennon said softly, her smile warming. “Happy’s kind of the point.”

Her gaze lifted to Kai then, catching him watching her the way he always did when he thought she wouldn’t notice—quiet, steady, that mix of pride and something she didn’t have a word for yet. It made her chest ache in the best possible way.

She nodded toward the photo he’d picked, the one of her mid-laugh. “You’re both right,” she said. “That one already sounds like something.”

Wren leaned back against her, satisfied. “Like Lenny,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she’d just named the stars themselves.

Lennon brushed a strand of hair from Wren’s face, her voice dipping to a whisper. “Like Lenny,” she echoed. “Yeah, I think it does.”

Wren yawned then, small and sudden, her body going limp against Lennon’s side. Within moments, her little hums faded, her breathing slowed, and she’d fallen asleep right there in Lennon’s lap — her curls tangled against Lennon’s arm, fingers still clutching the corner of a photo.

Lennon froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled — soft, instinctive, a kind of tenderness that came from somewhere deep. With a careful motion, she slid one arm under Wren’s knees, the other beneath her shoulders, and stood in one smooth motion that surprised even herself. The little girl barely stirred, just murmured something incoherent and nuzzled closer.

Kai was already there before she could say anything, meeting her halfway. Their eyes met over Wren’s sleeping form — quiet, wordless understanding passing between them — and Lennon gently transferred her into his arms. He took her like he’d done it a thousand times, tucking Wren’s head against his shoulder, whispering something only she could hear as he carried her down the hall.

When he disappeared around the corner, the room felt softer somehow. Still humming with warmth, but quieter. Lennon stood there for a moment, then looked down at the creative chaos spread across the rug — her life in still frames.

She crouched to gather them, stacking prints into neat piles, brushing her thumb over the glossy edges. A few had smudges now, fingerprints she didn’t bother wiping away. Somehow, they felt right — a reminder of what this afternoon had been.

She moved slowly, grounding herself in the motion — photo after photo, laughter still echoing faintly from moments before.

By the time Kai came back, she’d made some kind of order out of the mess. He stopped in the doorway again, watching her as she crouched over the last stack, hair falling forward, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

She glanced up at him, the quiet stretching between them again — easy, familiar. “She’s out?”

He nodded, and Lennon’s smile grew just a little. “Knew it,” she said softly. “The kid runs on pure sugar and stubbornness. Crashes like a rock.”

Her eyes drifted back to the photos spread between them. “Guess Wren was right.”

Lennon picked up the last photo, the one with her laugh caught mid-breath, and set it gently on top of the stack. “Happy and brave,” she murmured. “I think that’s enough.”

And as the last of the light dipped lower through the window, she smiled — not the one for cameras or crowds, but the quiet kind. The kind that stayed.

Kai lingered for a second at Wren’s doorway, just long enough to watch her roll onto her side and curl into the blankets. She always did that—folded herself small like she was tucking the whole world in with her.

He brushed his hand lightly over her hair. “Night, bug,” he whispered. She murmured something in reply, still half in dreamland, and he smiled. “You named a record today. Big day.”

He eased the door almost closed, leaving the usual sliver of hallway light peeking through, then turned back toward the living room.

Lennon was still there, on the rug, the late sun painting everything gold and quiet. She’d made order out of the chaos—of course she had—but there was still a scatter of color and shine around her, like the room had decided to keep a little of the mess on purpose.

Kai stopped in the doorway again, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a moment he just watched her. There was something about seeing her like this—barefoot, cross-legged, lost in thought—that knocked the air right out of him every time.

He could still feel the weight of Wren against him, that easy trust, that small hum of warmth that didn’t ask for anything. And maybe that was what hit him hardest—the way Lennon had fit so naturally into that moment, like it wasn’t something new, but something they’d all been moving toward without realizing it.

She looked up at him then, and he couldn’t help the smile that found him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, answering the question she’d asked a minute ago. “She’s out cold. Didn’t even make it to the pillow before declaring victory over ducks and photo curation.”

Lennon laughed under her breath, that soft little sound that always did something to his chest.

He walked over, crouching beside her, his hands brushing the carpet as he helped gather a few stray prints she’d missed. “You’ve got fingerprints all over these,” he said, pretending to examine one like a critic. “The collectors’ edition. Limited run, chaos included.”

She smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Kai stacked the last photo—the laughing one—on top and let out a quiet breath. “She was right, though,” he said. “About happy and brave. About this.”

He looked over at her, the golden light catching on the edge of her cheek. “That’s the thing about Wren. She’s got this radar for truth. She doesn’t overthink it. Just points and says, ‘That one.’” He smiled faintly. “You and I could take notes.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, but she didn’t say anything, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. It was the good kind—comfortable, solid, the kind that meant you were right where you were supposed to be.

He glanced back at the photos, at the shot she’d picked for the cover—the one Wren had called happy. Brave. Honest. “You know,” he murmured, “I think that’s what people are gonna hear when they listen. Not the polish. Not the production. Just you. The part that laughs in the middle of everything.”

He let his gaze settle on her again, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “That’s the part they’re gonna fall in love with.”

She looked up at him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Kai smiled again, soft and content, the kind that lived somewhere deep. “Here,” he said, nodding toward the empty space beside her on the floor. “Scoot over.”

When she did, he sat down beside her, shoulder brushing hers, close enough to feel the soft rhythm of her breathing. The quiet wrapped around them again, threaded with the hum of the fridge and the fading sound of the city outside.

He leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting across the photos spread between them. “You ever notice how everything looks better like this?” he asked. “Right before the light goes. Like it’s all just holding on a little longer.”

She didn’t answer, just smiled, and that was enough.

He nudged one of the photos with his thumb. “You know, I could get used to this,” he said, teasing but sincere. “Creative chaos, caffeine, you on the floor surrounded by ideas. Might have to make it a recurring event.”

Her laugh came quiet, easy, and Kai’s grin widened. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I think Wren’s already planning her next A&R session. Probably gonna start charging us snack royalties.”

Lennon shook her head, smiling, and Kai watched her again—really watched her, the way he always did when the world slowed down just enough to let him catch up to it.

The light was fading, but he didn’t reach for the switch. He liked it this way—dim and golden, all edges softened, like the universe had decided to give them a little extra time before the night settled in.

And for once, Kai wasn’t thinking about endings at all.

The front door flew open before Lennon could even get her keys back into her bag.

“Daddy! LOOK!”

Wren shot inside like a glitter-powered comet, half skipping, half sprinting, her little boots clicking dramatically against the hardwood. She skidded to a stop in the middle of the living room and threw her arms out like she was presenting the final number of a world tour.

Lennon stepped in behind her, juggling far too many bags from far too many stores, a pair of sunglasses sliding slowly down her nose. “I swear she started the day with normal human energy,” she said, breathless and amused as she nudged the door shut with her hip. “Somewhere between the glitter bar and the juice stop, she ascended.”

Wren twirled — a full, committed spin — her new outfit sparkling in the afternoon light. Purple tulle skirt. Star-pattern leggings. A sweatshirt with a sequined unicorn whose mane changed color when she swiped it. And a tiny purse shaped like a donut, worn proudly across her chest.

She paused mid-twirl, panting dramatically, hands pressed to her hips. “Lenny said I look iconic.”

Lennon set down three bags, then another two, then one that exhaled tissue paper like it was relieved to be freed. “In my defense,” she said, raising a hand, “I only said it because it’s true. She saw herself in the mirror and said—direct quote—‘I look like a girl with a plan.’ I couldn’t argue with that.”

Wren ran back to Lennon to grab the remaining bags — or at least attempt to — before deciding she preferred being the star of the moment and darted right back into the center of the living room.

She posed again, this time one leg kicked out behind her. “And LOOK!” she announced, reaching up to tap the purple streak now clipped into her hair. “We matched!”

Lennon laughed, tucking a loose strand of her own hair behind her ear where a thin lavender clip glimmered. “Temporarily,” she said under her breath. “She tried to talk me into glitter eyeliner, too. I negotiated my way out with soft serve.”

The bags rustled as she kicked them into a neat pile near the couch. “We might’ve done a little damage,” she admitted, eyeing the shopping haul with a mixture of pride and apology. “But in our defense, she was very persuasive. And very cute.”

Wren marched up to Kai, smoothing the front of her sweatshirt with both hands, chin tipped up with dramatic importance.

“She said I needed an outfit for our girls day,” Wren announced proudly. “And she said girls days need fashion.”

Lennon lifted a brow playfully as she leaned against the entryway wall, arms crossed, watching Wren beam. “She also said girls days need french fries, but I’m guessing she’ll save that part for later,” she added under her breath with a small grin.

Wren took one more breath — preparing clearly for the grand finale — and spread her arms again.

“AND NOW I LOOK AMAZING!”

She waited there, beaming up at him, waiting for him to take it all in.

Lennon just smiled, soft and warm, watching her with that familiar tug in her chest — the one she always felt when Wren shined this bright.

A girls day well spent.

A moment worth coming home to.

Kai had been staring at spreadsheets for so long his brain had started silently begging for mercy.

Budget notes. Draft emails. A scheduling doc that was somehow twelve tabs long even though he’d only opened five. Every once in a while he’d reach for his coffee, realize it was cold, sigh dramatically, then keep typing like the responsible adult he never wanted to become.

He was mid-sentence—Requesting clarification on the third… whatever… blah blah corporate nonsense…—when the front door exploded open.

“Daddy! LOOK!”

Kai barely had time to blink before Wren came blasting across the living room like someone had fed her pure sunshine and glitter for lunch. She was all purple tulle and starry leggings and unicorn sequins, moving like she wanted the world to see every single spark at once.

He never even tried to hide the way his face lit up.

“Whoa—” he exhaled, already closing his laptop, “—whoa. Somebody looks like she had a day.”

Then Lennon stepped in behind her, looking like the battle-worn survivor of a very adorable war. Too many bags. Too much glitter. Sunglasses hanging on for dear life. He couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.

Yeah. This was definitely better than spreadsheets.

Wren spun again, her donut purse bouncing against her hip like backup choreography. “Lenny said I look iconic!”

Of course she did. Because she did.

Kai pushed off the couch and knelt down immediately—right to Wren’s level, always, because she deserved to feel the center of every room she walked into. Especially when she came home looking like a disco ball with opinions.

He rested his hands on his thighs, giving her his full, undivided attention.

“Iconic?” he echoed, eyes going wide with dramatic seriousness. “Kid… ‘iconic’ doesn’t even cover it.”

Wren beamed so hard he thought she might actually levitate.

“I mean—” he gestured in a slow up-and-down sweep “—the skirt alone? Powerful. The unicorn? Life-changing. The donut purse? Honestly? Revolutionary.”

Wren giggled so hard she swayed.

“And the hair?” Kai leaned in, squinting playfully at her purple streak before flicking his gaze to Lennon’s matching one. “Matching with Lenny? That’s… wow. That’s elite. Fashion duo energy.”

He said it lightly, but something warm tightened in his chest.

Because they matched.

Because they got along.

Because Lennon looked at his kid like she was magic, and Wren looked at her like she was already part of the constellation.

It did things to him. Quiet, dangerous things.

Wren tugged his sleeve. “We had a girls day, Daddy.”

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling as he reached out to fix the edge of her unicorn sweatshirt. “Looks like you two crushed it.”

He glanced up at Lennon then—taking in the lavender hair clip, the faint glitter smudge on her cheek she probably didn’t know she had, the soft, tired, happy expression warming her whole face.

“Definitely matching,” he said softly, playful but sincere. “I like it.”

Lennon looked down at the pile of shopping bags like she’d been caught red-handed by the fashion police. He smirked, shaking his head.

“You two are trouble,” he said, standing up from his kneel but keeping a hand lightly on Wren’s shoulder. “The very cute kind, but still trouble.”

Wren gasped. “We’re not trouble. We’re FASHION.”

Kai barked a laugh, warm and loud.

“Sorry—my mistake,” he corrected quickly. “You are absolutely fashion.”

He lifted her donut purse, placing it gently so it didn’t tangle. “And you look amazing. Like… stupidly amazing. Like… every duck in the park is going to start a fan club.”

That did it. Wren lit up like a sparkler.

She launched herself into his chest, and Kai scooped her up automatically—one arm under her legs, the other bracing her back as she squealed into his neck.

Lennon watched them with that soft little smile she tried to hide.

Kai glanced at her over Wren’s shoulder—hair messy, arms full of bags, eyes tired but glowing—and something inside him settled.

Yeah.

Yeah, this was the good stuff.

He shifted Wren to his hip and nodded toward the mountain of rainbow bags Lennon's brought in.

“So…” he said, grinning crookedly, “how much damage are we talking here? Like… fun damage? Or ‘Kai needs to sell a kidney’ damage?”

Wren gasped again, outraged on principle.
“DADDY—fashion is IMPORTANT.”

Kai shot Lennon a helpless, deeply amused look.

“Oh, trust me,” he murmured, brushing a loose bit of tulle off Wren’s skirt. “I can tell.”

Lennon could barely get her shoes off before the sight in front of her hit her right in the chest.

Wren, legs wrapped around Kai’s waist, donut purse bouncing against his side, cheeks flushed from excitement, looking like the personification of a confetti cannon. And Kai — laughing, bright, the kind of soft she only ever saw reserved for moments like this.

God.
If she wasn’t careful, she was going to melt straight into the hardwood.

She leaned her shoulder against the entryway wall, trying — failing — to hide the smile tugging at her mouth. Her sunglasses slid down her nose again, and she didn’t even bother pushing them back up. She just let herself look.

Wren beaming up at him.
Kai smoothing down her tulle.
The two of them taking up the whole room like they were meant to.

It was stupidly, stupidly sweet.

“Fun damage,” Lennon said dryly, finally stepping forward to offload a few bags onto the couch. “Definitely fun damage. Zero kidney involvement.”

Wren whipped around over Kai’s shoulder, scandalized and proud all at once. Lennon tapped the donut purse lightly. “In our defense, someone found her ultimate fashion destiny at the third boutique,” she said, lifting her brows. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

Wren preened instantly, smoothing her skirt with both hands. Lennon watched her do it — that tiny, confident gesture — and felt something warm and achy uncurl in her chest.

She had no business feeling this full, this settled, this… included.
But here it was anyway.

She reached out and fixed the purple clip in Wren’s hair — the same one she’d insisted they match with. “And she earned every bit of that outfit,” Lennon added softly. “She walked an actual runway. In a juice store. Twice.”

Wren nodded enthusiastically, confirming this important detail.

Lennon laughed under her breath, pushing a stray glitter smudge off her own cheek with the back of her wrist. “We also had fries, painted nails, built a family of stuffed ducks, and she taught an entire Sephora aisle how to do a ‘fashion spin.’ So… yeah. I’d say it was a solid girls day.”

She looked up then — accidentally catching Kai’s eyes over Wren’s shoulder.

And something in the room shifted, quiet and undeniable.

Because he was still watching her.
Really watching her.
Like the lavender clip and glitter smudge mattered as much as the kid in his arms.

Lennon blinked once, slow, and smiled before she could stop herself.

“Anyway,” she said gently, stepping closer to lightly run her hand down Wren’s arm, “your girl is officially the most stylish person in Malibu.”

Wren gasped and immediately straightened up like she’d just been knighted.

“And,” Lennon added, tapping her nose, “my co-captain of fashion.”

Wren giggled — loud and delighted — and tucked her head into Kai’s neck, the kind of trust that made Lennon’s heart squeeze.

Then Lennon picked up one of the lighter bags and raised a brow playfully.

“Come on, superstar,” she said to Wren with a grin. “Let’s show Daddy all your treasures. He should probably sit down for this part. You know… emotional impact.”

Wren squealed, wriggling excitedly. Lennon laughed again, warm and bright.

Yeah.

Yeah, this felt like home in all the ways she didn’t see coming.

Kai wished he could freeze this exact second.

Not the dramatic ones, not the stage ones, not the moments people yelled about online.
This.
His kid buzzing with cosmic-level joy.
Lennon trying (and failing) to pretend she wasn’t melting.
The living room looking like two planets just collided and landed in a pile of glittery shopping bags.

Hell, he’d take this over a sold-out arena any day.

Wren still clung to him, donut purse smacking lightly against his ribs with every excited wiggle, and he just held her closer, one arm wrapped under her legs, the other bracing her back like it was muscle memory.

“Girls day, huh?” he murmured into her hair, already grinning. “Must’ve been next-level.”

She nodded into his neck so enthusiastically he almost lost his balance.
Yeah. Next-level.

He peeked over her shoulder—Lennon with glitter on her cheek, her shirt a little wrinkled from carrying bags, sunglasses crooked, smiling in that soft way she tried to hide when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And something inside him settled.
Like… yeah.
This was the good stuff.
The stuff he never quite believed he’d get to have.

Some days he still felt like a teenager faking his way into adulthood, hoping nobody noticed he was guessing his way through fatherhood and love and everything in between.
But moments like this—Lennon laughing with her whole face, Wren shimmering like she’d swallowed a disco ball—made him feel like maybe he actually had learned something.
Like maybe he wasn’t winging it.
Maybe he was… doing okay.

Lennon lifted one of the shopping bags with a grin that said brace yourself. “He should probably sit down for this part. Emotional impact,” she’d said.

Wren lifted her head from his shoulder and gasped dramatically at the reminder.
“DADDY. WE BOUGHT SO MANY THINGS.”

Kai laughed, a low warm thing in his chest. “Oh, I figured.”

He stepped away from the couch and gently set Wren back on her feet. She immediately grabbed two bags twice her size and dragged them like they were sacred artifacts.

Kai crouched—just for a moment—to be eye-level with her as she tugged at a stubborn handle.
“Hey,” he said softly, brushing a purple hair clip back into place before she could lose it again. “I’m proud of you, superstar. You had a big day.”

Wren nodded, bouncing with importance. “A HUGE day.”

He tapped her nose. “I can tell.”

She giggled and ran to Lennon, nearly tripping over her tulle in the process. Lennon steadied her with an easy hand, slipping right into that space beside her like she’d been doing it forever.

God.

Some part of Kai’s chest tightened—soft, warm, dangerous.
Because they were adorable.
And unstoppable.
And his.
Both of them.
In ways that mattered deep.

Lennon spread the bags out like she was unveiling a limited-edition, world-saving treasure haul. The floor became a clutter of sequins, stickers, duck plushies, and tiny glitter nail files.

Kai leaned a shoulder against the couch, crossed his arms, and watched.
Watched Wren beam.
Watched Lennon guide her through her “presentation” with the same patience and spark she used in the studio.
Watched them fall into step without ever having to try.

He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
The feeling said it for him.

Yeah.
This felt right.
Real.
Easy.
Like home.

And as Wren pulled out a neon frog hat that somehow existed and proudly announced, “THIS IS FOR FRIDAYS,” Kai let out a soft laugh, eyes drifting back to Lennon.

“Well,” he murmured, warmth blooming through him, “sounds like I really did miss an iconic girls day.”

Wren nodded so fast her unicorn almost slipped off.
Lennon shook her head, smiling, cheeks warm.

And Kai—shoulder against the couch, heart stupidly full—thought, not for the first time:
Yeah.
He could do this.
He could do all of this.

Lennon couldn’t stop smiling — not even with both hands full of shopping bags and glitter still stuck to the side of her cheek. The living room looked like a rainbow tornado had detonated, but Wren was vibrating with joy and Kai was watching them like they’d just walked in carrying the moon.

Lennon set one of the bags down, caught her breath, and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. “Okay,” she announced, trying for serious and failing miserably, “before the fashion presentation begins, I need everyone here to emotionally prepare themselves.”

Wren gasped immediately, clutching her donut purse. “Daddy, she means it. This is SERIOUS.”

Lennon nodded solemnly. “Very serious. We had a mission today.”

Wren threw both hands up. “WE DID FASHION.”

Lennon laughed, ruffling Wren’s sparkly headband. “We did so much fashion.”

Wren spun in a slow, dramatic circle, tulle skirt swishing. “Lenny said I’m a style legend.”

“I did,” Lennon confirmed with a nod. “I stand by that statement. History will remember you.”

Wren beamed. “I got sunglasses! And the frog hat! And the tiny glitter lip gloss that tastes like watermelon but you can’t eat it, even though I wanted to.”

Lennon shot Kai a helpless little shrug. “It was a whole conversation.”

Wren gasped again, remembering something crucial, and rummaged through one of the bags until she triumphantly produced something sparkly and chaotic.

“LOOK, Daddy!” she squealed. “These are matching clips for ME and LENNY.”

Lennon leaned in conspiratorially. “She made sure we matched in every mirror within a three-mile radius.”

Wren bounced on her toes. “Because we’re a GIRLS TEAM.”

“Obviously,” Lennon said, bumping her shoulder gently.

Wren swung the frog hat in the air like a victory flag. “And THIS is for Fridays. Because Fridays need frogs. Everybody knows that.”

Lennon bit back a laugh, shaking her head. “You tell him, babe. He needs to stay informed.”

Wren leaned closer to Kai, whispering loudly, “Lenny also said you’re gonna freak out in a good way.”

Lennon groaned dramatically. “Traitor.”

Wren giggled, not remotely sorry.

Lennon turned back to Kai then, softer now, her expression warming in a way she didn’t bother hiding. She nudged one of the bags with her foot. “We might’ve, um… gone a little overboard. But she was so happy, Kai. She owned every store we walked into.”

Wren nodded proudly. “I told Lenny we should buy sparkles because sparkles are IMPORTANT.”

“And who am I to argue with that logic?” Lennon said, shrugging with an innocent smile.

Wren planted her hands on her hips. “Daddy, we’re fashion geniuses.”

Lennon laughed softly, eyes drifting back to Kai — a little teasing, a little shy, a whole lot fond.

“She’s right, you know,” she said. “We’re unstoppable.”

Wren grabbed Lennon’s hand and tugged her closer. “Can we show him the shoes? The sparkly ones? The ones that Lenny said are ‘dangerously powerful’?”

Lennon nodded with theatrical seriousness. “Yes. It’s time.”

Wren clapped with both hands, glitter flying. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER.”

Lennon looked at Kai one more time — warm, bright, a touch breathless — and smiled.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It really has been.”

Kai had absolutely no business standing there grinning like an idiot, but there he was — arms crossed, leaning against the back of the couch, watching the two of them like they were performing a Broadway show written exclusively for his soul.

Wren was vibrating.
Lennon was glowing.
And the living room looked like Claire’s Boutique had detonated.

He could’ve cried from happiness, but instead he went with the much safer option: sarcasm.

Wren whipped out the frog hat at full velocity, nearly smacking him in the face as she declared it sacred Friday attire.

Kai nodded gravely. “Obviously. How have I survived thirty years without Friday frog culture? Truly, I walk among legends.”

Wren puffed her chest like she’d just been promoted.

Lennon tried and failed to hide her laugh, glancing at him in that soft, warm way that made his knees do something suspiciously wobbly.

Wren dove into another bag and pulled out something that sparkled aggressively enough to blind a small crowd. She held it straight up to Kai’s face.

“DADDY LOOK. CLIPS. FOR ME. AND LENNY.”

Kai did a dramatic gasp. “Hold on. Hold on. Lenny got MATCHING ACCESSORIES?”

Wren nodded so fast the purple streak clipped into her hair trembled like a betrayed chihuahua.

Kai turned to Lennon, eyebrows raised. “Matching clips? Wow. That’s commitment. That’s, like… girlband level commitment.”

Lennon shot him a look that said don’t be cute, except she was already smiling like she didn’t mean it at all.

Kai crouched down next to Wren’s bag-dug mountain of merchandise. “Alright, superstar. Show me what else you two unleashed on the economy today.”

Wren, accepting her role as head of the fashion department, cleared her throat dramatically and lifted a shoebox above her head as if presenting Simba on Pride Rock.

“THESE,” she declared, “ARE DANGEROUSLY POWERFUL.”

Kai held up both hands. “Should I be wearing safety goggles?”

Wren gasped. “YES.”

She flung the lid off the box, and inside sat shoes so sparkly they looked like they were auditioning to be their own constellation.

Kai’s whole face went soft at the edges. “Oh man. Kid… those are sick.”

Wren squealed and launched into a high-speed explanation of how she chose them — something involving a dance test, a mirror twirl, and “Lenny saying I looked like a superhero.”

Lennon snorted under her breath. Wren beamed.

Kai couldn’t decide which one was cuter, so he let himself get hit by both.

“Alright,” he said, standing up and stretching his back with a small groan. “We need a full fashion haul debrief. Shoes, clips, sunglasses, lipstick that is NOT food…” He gave Wren a teasing look. “And any and all frog-related declarations.”

Wren hopped once — literally hopped — because she’d already committed to the frog bit.

Kai reached out and smoothed her tulle again, fingers gentle. “You look amazing, baby. I’m serious.”

She lit up like a lantern.

“And Lenny?” Kai said, glancing at her with that warm, unguarded softness he didn’t even bother trying to hide. “You made her whole week. I can tell.”

Lennon looked down at her hands, smile widening, but said nothing.

Wren began her next dramatic presentation, and Kai crossed his arms, completely content.

Let spreadsheets wait. Let adulthood be confusing later.

Right now?
His kid was happy.
His girl was laughing.
And his living room was a fashion battlefield.

Yeah.
If this was winging it, he hoped he never stopped.