Spencer grinned—too wide, too smug, too her.

Didn’t squirm. Not really.

Just let his gaze follow the path her thumb had taken, the corner of his mouth tugging upward like it wasn’t his fault her lipstick wanted to stick around.

Then, slow as hell and just as deliberate, he tipped his head closer, so their shoulders brushed and his voice could drop low, barely above a whisper.

“She only got through one,” he said, all mock solemn. “The chaise lounge massacre of 2009. Glitter casualties were... extensive.”

A beat passed, just long enough for his eyes to flick toward her lips.

“And yes. I absolutely pictured it.”

He leaned back slightly—cooling it off just enough, but still close enough that she could feel the almost of him. The way his presence never pushed, only pulled. Subtle. Certain. Like he’d already decided she was worth orbiting and never questioned why.

Then he glanced at the vase, at the way her hands were still not-quite-steady, and his voice softened into something real.

Something like awe wrapped in denim and sarcasm.

“You make shit like this hard to walk away from, Leia.”

It wasn’t a line. Wasn’t meant to be clever.

Just honest. Just his.

Then—because he couldn’t let it get too sincere without losing his edge—he nudged her hip with his and muttered, deadpan:

“Also your mom said if I made you cry tonight she’d hide my body in the backyard under the rosemary. Pretty sure she meant it.”

Another glance. Another grin.

And yeah—maybe he was still pretending like this was casual. Like being here, like being hers, didn’t knock the breath out of his chest every damn time.

But the flowers were real.

The effort was real.

And the way he looked at her?

Like she was the best decision he’d ever made?

That wasn’t going anywhere.

Leighton didn’t melt.

Not outwardly, anyway.

But her spine softened just a little. Her shoulders relaxed. And something stupid and warm and far too easy cracked open in her chest when he said her name like that.

Leia.

God. He meant it.

And he was still smirking. Like he hadn’t just rearranged her entire nervous system with a single sentence and a sideways glance.

She rolled her eyes. Loudly. Dramatically. Let her head fall forward with a groan like she was personally offended by the way her boyfriend had managed to turn trauma, charm, and a vague death threat from her mother into a goddamn moment.

But her hand was still on the counter next to his. Close enough their pinkies brushed. Close enough she could feel the heat of him at her side—real, grounded, hers.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze with something dry and sharp and unmistakably Leighton.

“You absolutely pictured it?” she repeated, arching a brow. “That’s what you’re going with?”

A beat.

Then, flatly: “You’re disgusting.”

But her smirk gave her away. And when she leaned in and bumped his shoulder with hers, it wasn’t a shove—it was a thank-you. A don’t move. A please stay in the only language she’d ever really trusted.

She reached for the vase again, adjusted the angle like it mattered, and muttered just loud enough for him to hear, “You know she did bury a fish under that rosemary once. Don’t test her.”

And even though she didn’t look at him, not right away, the corner of her mouth tugged upward—traitorous and fond.

Because yeah.

He’d shown up.

He hadn’t flinched.

And she was dangerously close to falling even harder for the boy who brought her flowers and war stories and called her Leia like it was a promise.

So she just stood there.

Pinkies still touching. Shoulders still brushing.

And let herself want him.

Out loud. In public. In her mom’s goddamn kitchen.

Because he was real.

Because he was here.

And because—despite everything—she hadn’t stopped smiling since.

He was so going to die.

Not because of Violet. (Okay, maybe a little because of Violet.) But mostly because Leighton had just looked at him like that. Said you’re disgusting with a smirk instead of an edge, rolled her eyes like it was a performance and he was the only one allowed a front-row seat. And then she bumped him—shoulder to shoulder, barely a nudge, but it hit like a freight train to the chest.

Because it wasn’t just a tease.

It was a tell.

And God, he wanted to memorize the way her mouth curved when she was trying not to smile. Wanted to frame the moment their pinkies kept touching like it wasn’t killing him in real time. Wanted to carve that soft little laugh into something permanent—something he could take with him when she inevitably pushed him away again, just to see if he’d come back.

(He would.)

Every time.

“I didn’t just picture it,” he said under his breath, smirking like the menace he absolutely was. “I story-boarded it. Whole third act twist. There were dramatic monologues. Maybe even a slow-motion shot.”

Leighton groaned again—louder this time—but she didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

And that was enough to make his whole damn ribcage feel too tight.

Before he could say something else that would definitely get him hexed or stabbed or kissed, Violet’s voice cut through the moment like a warning bell.

“I’m going to the sunroom,” she said crisply, stepping past them with the kind of grace that said I’ve ended stronger men for less. Her eyes narrowed just slightly at Spencer as she passed, and then—coolly, pointedly—“If I hear even a hint of clothing removal or adolescent groaning, I will come back with a hose. And I know where you live, Spencer.”

She disappeared down the hall without another word, but not before Spencer muttered under his breath, “I think I just peed a little.”

Leighton snorted. Actually snorted. And it was the best sound he’d heard all week.

Spencer turned back toward her, bracing his hands lightly on the counter behind him, gaze steady now. Not joking. Not entirely.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve been in a lot of rooms where I didn’t know if I belonged. Where I had to earn my place or bluff my way through.”

He glanced down at their hands—at the pinkies still barely touching—and then back at her.

“This isn’t one of them.”

A beat.

“I don’t need you to say it. I don’t need a speech. But I’m not bluffing, Leia. Not about you. Not about any of this.”

His voice wasn’t perfect. It cracked a little. But it was steady.

And the truth sat heavy in the space between them—open, unguarded, his.

He didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t need to.

Because she hadn’t pulled away.

And that was enough.

Leighton didn’t say much—just shot him a look on her way past, something half-soft, half-knowing, all hers.

“I’ll be back.”

Her shoes were already off. Had been since the second she walked in, abandoned near the mat by the door. She padded down the hallway barefoot, fingers already tugging at the hem of her shirt, the kind of post-shift autopilot she didn’t even have to think about.

Work clung to her skin like sweat and noise, and she needed it off.

She changed fast—pulled her hair into a lazy twist, swapped stiff clothes for soft ones. Cotton shorts. A loose tee. The one that used to be his, worn in all the right places. It smelled like laundry and salt air and the kind of summer that didn’t ask for anything back.

When she came out, the kitchen was dim, empty now. But he’d made himself comfortable—of course he had. Spencer was stretched out across the couch like he belonged there, one arm draped across the back, his legs kicked up like the room didn’t still carry traces of her mom’s suspicion in the air.

She didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just crossed the room and dropped down next to him—close, easy, familiar. Her shoulder brushed his arm, her knee folded up beside his. No theatrics. No hesitation.

Like this was normal.

Like this could be theirs.

She let herself settle into him, just enough. The quiet felt earned tonight.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, played with it absentmindedly, grounding herself in the rhythm of being next to him. She could still feel the tension in her body from the day, from the shift, from everything—but he was here. And that helped.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Because I’m in my favorite shirt, and if you ruin this moment with another glitter joke, I’m telling my mom you cry during Pixar trailers.”

Then—finally—she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. No walls. No bite. Just tired affection and something a little deeper.

“Thanks for showing up.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t smirk, didn’t deflect, didn’t toss back some sarcastic quip about Pixar trailers and glitter-related slander. Not this time.

Because she was in his shirt—hers now, really—and it looked so soft on her, like it remembered the shape of his shoulders but preferred hers. And she was folded into his side like that’s where she was always meant to be. Like this was allowed. Like maybe they could have things that felt easy.

So he just looked at her.

Let himself feel it.

The way her fingers fidgeted with his shirt like she couldn’t help it. The way her hair was still damp from the shower. The way the low light curved around her face, turning every shadow into something warm.

He’d never been good at this part. The stillness. The letting it land. But she made it feel less like a trap and more like a place to rest.

So yeah, he said something. But only just.

Only what mattered.

“Wasn’t gonna miss it.”

His thumb brushed along the side of her knee, slow and absent, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Then, after a beat:

“You look good in my shirt, by the way.”

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Real. Quiet. Stupid with how much he wanted to stay here—wanted this.

“No glitter jokes,” he added, leaning his head back against the cushion, eyes still on her. “Promise.”

He didn’t need to say more than that.

Not when she was here.

Not when he’d shown up, and she’d let him stay.

Leighton didn’t say anything at first.

Just let her body settle into the shape of him—the lazy sprawl of his legs, the warmth of his palm against her knee, the way he’d said wasn’t gonna miss it like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it kind of was.

It always was.

She curled her fingers a little tighter in the hem of the shirt—his shirt—and tilted her head to glance up at him. That crooked smile. Those tired eyes that still somehow looked clearer than they had in weeks.

She felt it in her chest. The click of something real. Something earned.

“You say that like I’m giving it back,” she murmured, teasing just enough to keep the air light.

Her toes nudged his ankle, soft and slow, like she couldn’t help but reach for him in small, unremarkable ways.

But it wasn’t unremarkable. Not even close.

“You’re not slick, Walker,” she added after a beat, a smirk ghosting across her mouth as she tugged the shirt’s collar a little more off her shoulder. “You bring flowers, win over my mom, and then try to emotionally assassinate me on the couch?”

She leaned in, bumping her nose lightly against his jaw.

“Rude.”

But she didn’t move away.

Didn’t stop smiling, either.

Because he was still here.

And she was still his.

Leighton reached for the remote without really looking—fingers brushing across the coffee table in a lazy arc until they found it by muscle memory alone. She didn’t break contact with him, though. Didn’t shift away from the spot she’d melted into, half-wrapped in the curve of his arm, bare legs tucked beneath her like she was staking claim to the couch—and to him, just a little.

The remote clicked softly. Some dumb comfort show lit up the screen. She wasn’t even sure which one. Background noise. Something with a laugh track and bad lighting and enough nostalgia to fill the silences they didn’t need to fill tonight.

She didn’t hit play right away.

Instead, she glanced up at him again—soft, sidelong—like maybe she was still trying to figure out how this version of her night had happened. The one where Spencer didn’t flake. Where he made it through dinner and pilaf and Violet’s thinly veiled interrogation. Where he didn’t kiss her like a goodbye or a maybe but like a fact.

And now he was here.

Couch-warm, glitter-traumatized, and hers.

Leighton nudged her shoulder more firmly against his chest and clicked the volume down a few notches. Just enough to keep things quiet. Safe. Still.

Then—almost absentmindedly—she held the remote out toward him without looking.

“You get first pick,” she said, smirking faintly. “But just know if you choose something pretentious, I’m falling asleep on you and claiming the moral high ground.”

Her fingers brushed his thigh as she passed it off, lingering for a second too long. Not by accident.

Because yeah.

She still couldn’t believe he was here either.

But she was done waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For now?

She was letting herself have this. Letting him in.

Letting them be the quiet thing that stayed.

Spencer took the remote without looking at it—eyes still on her, always on her, like she was the first thing he’d seen after being underwater too long.

And maybe he had been.

Maybe this—her in his shirt, curled into his side, smelling like citrus and cheap conditioner and some version of home he didn’t know how to ask for—was what breathing felt like again.

“Not slick,” he echoed under his breath, just loud enough for her to catch. His mouth curved, slow and lopsided, the way it always did when she caught him out. “Brutal.”

He could still hear the echo of Violet’s voice in the back of his skull—sweet as syrup, sharp as a blade. "It’s so nice to see a young man who knows how to sit still and chew with his mouth closed.”

And he had sat still. Had eaten the pilaf, even complimented it. Brought flowers. Answered questions. Even laughed, god help him.

Because she mattered.

Because she was worth all of it—the teasing, the interrogation, the barely-veiled mama bear assessment.

She was worth being brave for.

So he shifted, just a little, so their legs tangled up more deliberately. So his arm around her wasn’t casual anymore—wasn’t just a loose drape, but something that said I’m not going anywhere.

And then, low and easy, he murmured into her hair:

“I think your mom likes me now. Said I had ‘sensible eyes.’ Don’t know what that means. But I think it’s good?”

His thumb traced along the inside of her knee—absent, steady, grounding.

“And I never wanted that shirt back,” he added after a beat, voice gone soft. “It looks better on you.”

A pause.

Then he tilted his head just enough to catch her eyes again, the flicker of TV light dancing in them.

“I’ll try not to emotionally assassinate you again,” he said, teasing laced with quiet truth.

He hit play.

And stayed.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

She just let herself sink into him a little more—let the warmth of his hand on her knee, the quiet hum of the TV, and the weight of his arm settle around her like gravity. Familiar. Steady. Real.

Her fingers toyed with the hem of the shirt she’d stolen ages ago. Stolen and kept. Because it smelled like him. Because it reminded her of the version of Spencer who leaned against her locker and looked at her like she was the only girl on Earth with a secret worth telling.

She tipped her head slightly so her temple rested against his shoulder, the curve of her body finding the shape of his without even trying.

He didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Not when it mattered.

“You don’t have to try,” she said quietly, the words threading into the soft glow of the room. “You already are. Just… showing up. Being here. Letting me be here.”

Her thumb brushed along his wrist—slow, grounding, absentminded—and her voice dipped lower, more certain.

“That’s the part I didn’t think I’d get to have again. The showing up. The staying.”

She tilted her head just enough to glance up at him—only for a second—but the look she gave him was steady.

Not desperate. Not fragile.

Sure.

“I think she likes you too, by the way. Even if she won’t admit it until you’ve survived at least two more dinners and a holiday.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her hand found his again and laced their fingers together, slow and deliberate.

“Just… don’t run when I start panicking over nothing at 2am or cry over cereal commercials, okay?”

She nudged him lightly. Playful. Careful.

Then softer, barely above a whisper:

“I want you to stay.”

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to follow it with a joke or a warning or a self-deprecating remark to dull the edge.

She meant it.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t know how to, really.

Because the thing about being told I want you to stay—not like a challenge, not like a dare, but like a truth—was that it cracked something wide open in his chest. Quietly. Cleanly. Like her voice had found the part of him that still thought love had an expiration date and decided to rewrite it in real time.

He stared at their hands.

Her fingers in his, fitting too easily, like they’d always known how to do that. Like even the messed-up, twisted, half-broken parts of him hadn’t scared hers away.

Not yet.

And God, she wanted him to stay.

Wanted him.

Not the version he performed when he was trying to be fine. Not the easy kind of want, the kind that came with good days and movie kisses. But the kind that saw all the mess underneath and still reached anyway.

That kind undid him.

He swallowed, jaw tight. He looked down at her—bare legs curled beside him, hair a little tangled from the couch, mouth still carrying the shape of those words like she hadn’t just wrecked him with them.

“…You’re not the only one who gets cereal-commercial emotional, Leia,” he muttered finally, voice low and rough with affection. “I teared up at the one with the dad and the grocery list last week. Don’t make me say more.”

He nudged her knee with his, eyes still on their hands.

“I’m not running.”

A beat.

Then softer, like it cost him something but he wanted her to have it anyway:

“I used to think showing up didn’t matter unless you had something to offer. Something fixed. But you… you never needed me fixed.”

He looked at her then—really looked. And everything in his face was open, vulnerable, real.

“You just needed me here.”

He kissed the side of her head.

And stayed.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with that look on his face. Not with those words echoing in her chest like they’d settled into the spaces she usually kept boarded up tight. The spaces even she didn’t like looking at too long.

Because she’d never asked for much. Not really. Just for someone to mean it when they said they’d show up. To stay—not for the perfect days, but for the ones that cracked her at the seams.

And here he was.

Not fixed. Not flashy. Just here.

Her throat ached with it.

The kind of ache that came from being seen and not flinched away from.

So she didn’t try to cover it. Didn’t try to laugh it off.

Instead, she slid one leg across his lap and leaned into him like she was settling into something safe. Like she didn’t have to keep her guard up for once. Her hand came up to his face, fingers threading through his hair as her thumb brushed just behind his ear—gentle, grounding, real.

Then, with her forehead pressed to his:

“I never needed you perfect,” she said, voice low. “I just needed you real.”

A pause. One beat. Two.

Then she kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

Like she wasn’t scared anymore.

Like she didn’t have to be.

She didn’t need to look at him to know he was listening.

Not the distracted kind of listening, either. Not the halfway, nod-along, waiting-for-his-turn kind. But the real kind—the kind that made her feel like every word she gave him was safe now. Heard. Held. Not poked at or picked apart.

And maybe that was what had always scared her the most.

Not being misunderstood.

But being understood too well.

Still, she didn’t stop talking. Couldn’t. Because it felt like if she didn’t say it now—while his heartbeat was steady under her cheek and the light from the TV flickered across their tangled legs—it might never come out the same way again.

“I used to think letting someone in meant giving them a blueprint. Like, here—this is where I break easy, and this is the part I pretend doesn’t hurt, and this is the switch I flip when I think you’re gonna leave.”

She swallowed, eyes tracing the stitching on his shirt like it might anchor her.

“But with you, it’s never been about building something pretty.”

Her voice cracked, but just barely.

“It’s about not hiding when it’s messy.”

Her hand fisted lightly in the fabric, grounding herself in the way he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t try to fix any of it.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” she added, barely more than a whisper. “I just need you to keep showing up.”

She turned her head a little, just enough to catch the side of his jaw, her nose brushing the curve of it like she was afraid the moment might vanish if she moved too fast.

“Because when you do…”

A pause.

“I don’t feel like I’m too much.”

And there it was.

The quietest truth.

The kind that cost her more than any kiss or clever line ever had.

She didn’t say anything else after that. Just breathed him in. Let herself fall into the hush between them—his arm around her, her knees curled under her, the sound of the movie long forgotten.

And for once, she didn’t brace for impact.

Because he was still there.

And she was still allowed.

Spencer couldn’t move.

Wouldn’t, even if he could.

Because she’d just handed him a version of herself he knew not everyone got to see. The version with the sharp edges dulled by trust. The version that didn’t hide behind jokes or jabs or that signature Leighton deflect-and-disarm charm.

This was the real her.

The one who cracked herself open—quietly, carefully—and let him see inside.

And God, he felt it everywhere. In the way she touched him like he was something steady. In the way her voice trembled like a truth finally spoken out loud. In the way her breath hitched against his jaw like she hadn’t meant to say all that, but had to.

He stared at the ceiling for a beat—eyes glassy, chest tight, heartbeat thudding so loud it felt like it echoed in the room.

She didn’t need him to say it back.

Didn’t need a fix.

Didn’t even ask for anything except what she already had.

Him.

And that wrecked him a little. In the softest way possible.

He turned his head slowly, just enough to brush his lips against her hair, and let out a breath that sounded like something breaking and healing at the same time.

Then, still quiet, still him:

“You’re not too much.”

Another pause.

“But if you were…” His fingers found her hand, lacing between hers gently. “I’d still choose you.”

His voice stayed low, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“You think I don’t get it, but I do. I know what it’s like to walk around waiting for the day someone decides loving you is too hard. Too loud. Too complicated. So you pre-warn them. Push first. Hide the blueprint before they can use it against you.”

His thumb brushed along hers.

“I’ve done that my whole damn life.”

He leaned in just enough for their foreheads to meet again. Stayed there.

“I don’t need a polished version of you, Leighton. I want this one. The real one. The one who tells me when she’s spiraling and doesn’t fake being fine. The one who panics and still chooses to try. The one who wears my shirt like armor and somehow looks braver than I ever have.”

His voice cracked then—just a little.

And he didn’t bother hiding it.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Not this time.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

Then softer, into her hair:

“You’re allowed to be soft with me.”

He kissed the top of her head. Let his arms tighten just a little around her. Just enough to say you’re safe here. With me.

And then?

He stayed.

Not because she asked.

But because he wanted to.

Leighton didn’t rush it.

Didn’t flinch or laugh it off or say something biting to cushion the fall.

She just looked at him.

Really looked—like she was trying to memorize every part of this moment: the crack in his voice, the way his hands held hers like they meant it, the way he stayed even after she gave him every excuse to run.

And maybe it wasn’t fireworks or dramatic music or some perfect romcom confession.

But it was real.

Real enough to make her chest ache in the best kind of way.

So she leaned in—slow and certain—and kissed him.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just honest.

Her mouth met his like a promise. Like a thank you. Like a quiet, steady kind of I’m all in.

And when she pulled back, just far enough to breathe, her forehead rested against his. Her voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you.”

No games. No disclaimers.

Just that.

Just him.

Leighton didn’t let go.

Not right away.

Not even after the kiss broke, not even when the weight of the words settled between them like gravity—like truth. Her fingers stayed knotted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his chest, as if part of her still couldn’t believe she was allowed to touch him like this. To say something that mattered and not have it thrown back in her face.

And God, she’d said it.

I love you.

It hung there, not as a test or a plea, but as fact. Her voice steady, if a little breathless. Her eyes burning—not from fear this time, but from the ridiculous, unbearable hope that maybe he felt it too. That maybe she hadn’t just set fire to everything soft inside her for nothing.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was thick with all the things she’d never said out loud before. Not like this. Not to someone who actually stayed.

She shifted just enough to take him in—really take him in.

The way his lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his mouth parted like he might speak but didn’t, like he was still catching up to the moment.

So she kissed him again.

Quieter this time. Slower. Less like punctuation and more like permission. Less like a rush and more like the answer to a question she’d been asking for years without knowing it.

And when she pulled back again—just an inch, just enough—her voice was smaller, but no less sure.

“You don’t have to say it back.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek, then fell lightly to his jaw, grounding herself in the solidness of him. The realness. The fact that this wasn’t some fantasy built from scraps of almosts and maybes.

“This wasn’t a trick. Or a moment I’ll take back tomorrow.”

A beat passed. Her gaze flicked from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

“I’m not asking for forever. I’m just—”

She exhaled, shaky but certain.

“I’m asking you to let me love you. However long I get to.”

And that was it.

The whole, breakable truth of her—laid bare in the quiet. In his shirt. On the couch. Wrapped around the boy who kept showing up.

And this time?

She didn’t pull away.

Spencer didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when her voice sounded like the soft edge of something sacred. Not when she kissed him like her heart already knew he was hers—and maybe always had been.

She said it.

I love you.

And it didn’t feel like a bomb or a dare or a cliff to jump off.

It felt like gravity.

Like the thing that had been pulling him toward her since the beginning finally had a name.

His chest burned. His throat burned. His eyes burned.

Because no one had ever said it like that before. Not without strings. Not without expectation. Not with that kind of steady, stupid courage.

And when she said “I’m asking you to let me love you. However long I get to,”—

He was done for.

He dropped his forehead back to hers, jaw tight, eyes closed like he was trying to trap the moment in amber.

“You already do,” he whispered.

A breath. Barely a breath.

Then, rougher—warmer—like something breaking open:

“Every time I look at you and forget how to lie to myself.”

His hands cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing just beneath her eyes like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Every time you call me out, pull me back, let me in.”

He swallowed hard.

“You’ve been loving me this whole time, Leia.”

A pause. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, and he almost smiled—almost—but couldn’t quite pull it off through the ache in his chest.

“I just didn’t know how to let myself believe it.”

And then—softly, finally, like the only truth that had ever mattered:

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was a match struck in the dark.

And Spencer?

Spencer didn’t pull away either.

He kissed her like it was a vow.

And meant every second of it.

Leighton didn’t cry.

Not really.

But her eyes burned and her throat ached and her hands curled into his shirt like she was holding onto something holy. Because she’d said it—terrified, bare, trembling with truth—and he hadn’t run. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t joked his way around it.

He’d met her in the moment.

Matched it.

Matched her.

And now he was saying it back, not like a reflex or a rescue, but like something he’d been holding inside his ribs for longer than he knew how to name. Like every time he looked at her, he had to remind himself it was real—that she was.

She wasn’t sure when her breath caught.

Maybe when his voice cracked.

Maybe when he touched her like she was something precious and real, not delicate, not breakable—but worthy. Like she was worth staying for. Worth choosing. Worth loving.

And then he kissed her.

God, he kissed her.

And it didn’t feel like the kind of kiss that ends a night.

It felt like the kind that begins everything.

So she kissed him back.

Slow. Certain. Honest. The kind of kiss you only give when you’ve stopped hiding. When you’ve already said the hardest thing out loud and the sky didn’t fall.

When you know—finally know—that you’re not the only one feeling it.

Her fingers slipped into his hair. His arms wrapped fully around her like they’d always belonged there. And everything else—the movie, the pillows, the world—faded into nothing.

Because this?

This was everything.

When they finally broke apart, still close, still tangled, still wrapped in the warmth of something terrifying and true, she pressed her forehead to his and smiled.

Small. Quiet. Stupidly full of hope.

“You better not bail during the dog reunion commercial now,” she whispered.

And then, softer still—just for him:

“Because I’m not letting you go either.”

She didn’t move right away.

Just stayed right there, forehead against his, like maybe if she kept still enough, time would slow down and let her live inside the moment a little longer.

But eventually—when her heart stopped trying to beat its way out of her chest and the world steadied around the sound of his breathing—Leighton leaned in.

Tucked herself against his side like muscle memory.

Her legs folded up beneath her, knees bent and pressed gently into his thigh, toes curling under the blanket they’d kicked half off the couch hours ago. One hand still tangled loosely in his shirt, the other resting along the slope of his ribs, like she needed to feel him breathe to believe it was real.

Because she was so far gone.

Like—floating, dumb-grin, I-might-actually-be-glowing gone.

The kind of cloud-nine she used to roll her eyes at in other people. The kind she didn’t think she’d ever get. Not really. Not for her.

But here she was.

Wrapped in the arms of the boy who’d said I love you like it was a fact, not a gamble. Who kissed her like he meant it. Who stayed.

She tilted her head to glance at the TV—half a second, maybe less.

Couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t even pretend to care about whatever early-2000s rom-com was mumbling in the background, because all she could think about was the way his fingers were still drawing slow, absent circles into her arm. The way he shifted just slightly to make more space for her like it wasn’t even a question.

Like they fit.

Like this fit.

Her voice was barely a whisper when it came, more thought than sound.

“I can’t feel my face.”

And then—because she knew he’d be smug about it, and because she couldn’t stop herself—she turned just enough to meet his eyes, cheeks still pink, mouth fighting back a crooked, dazed grin.

“Don’t say it.”

But he didn’t have to.

Not when he was already smiling too. Not when she was still pressed against him like she never planned on moving again. Not when the air around them was thick with everything they hadn’t been brave enough to say until now.

She looked back at the TV.

And stayed curled against his side.

Totally useless for the rest of the night.

Utterly, stupidly, happily doomed.

Spencer couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the full-blown kind. Not the sharp, performative one he used to wear like armor.

This one was quieter. Warmer. Barely there—just a twitch of his mouth, a crinkle at the corner of his eye. Like something had settled in his chest and decided to stay.

Because she said it.

Because he said it.

Because they didn’t combust.

He watched her tuck into him like she’d always belonged there, all cotton softness and ridiculous, devastating gravity, and he didn’t even pretend not to notice the way her fingers curled into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. Like he was.

And maybe he was.

Because God, he felt weightless and heavy all at once. Like the world was still spinning but he’d finally found something to hold on to.

She murmured it—“I can’t feel my face”—and his grin deepened before she even looked up.

Then came the warning: “Don’t say it.”

Too late.

Because the smirk was already there, lazily blooming across his face as he dropped his gaze to hers, eyes soft, voice even softer.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

Beat.

“Was definitely thinking it, though.”

He didn’t say anything else right away.

Just let the moment stretch.

Let his hand drift to the back of her neck, fingertips brushing the curve of it like he couldn’t quite believe he got to touch her like this—without the fear of shattering it.

Without pretending it was temporary.

She felt like always.

“Leia…” he said, voice low, like it was a secret just for her. Like the name itself meant something more now—something sacred.

He tilted his head until their foreheads touched again, breath mingling in the space between words.

“I meant it,” he murmured. “All of it.”

And then, quieter still:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever made staying feel easy.”

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, reverent.

No rush. No pressure.

Just presence.

She wasn’t the only one floating.

Because Spencer Walker—messy, guarded, sarcastic Spencer—was so gone for this girl.

And for once?

He wasn’t scared of it.

Leighton didn’t pull back right away.

She just stayed there, forehead resting against his, breathing him in. Letting the moment settle around them like a blanket—quiet, warm, undeserved in the way all good things feel when you’ve spent your whole life bracing for the fall.

And maybe she was still bracing.

But not from him.

Not tonight.

Her fingers traced the hem of his shirt like she was memorizing it—like if she could just get the texture right, maybe the rest wouldn’t feel so impossible. His heartbeat thrummed beneath her palm, steady and solid and here, and she closed her eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Then she kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Fuller.

Not a promise, but something close. A thank you she didn’t know how to say out loud. An I love you, again, without needing the words.

He didn’t move, didn’t rush it. Just let her have the space, the closeness, the ache. His hands stayed steady—one on her hip, the other cupping the side of her neck like she might vanish if he wasn’t careful.

She broke the kiss on a breath. Stayed close. Let her nose brush his.

“I don’t do this,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “The whole—stay and feel and let it be real thing. I don’t let people mean this much.”

Her hand slipped up to his chest, curling into the fabric there like she needed to anchor herself. Like the contact might keep her from unraveling.

“But you do. You mean something. And I don’t know what to do with that except try not to screw it up.”

Her voice shook just enough to make her bite the inside of her cheek.

“I want to be good at this. With you.”

Her thumb moved absently along his collarbone, grounding herself in the smallest movements.

“I don’t need you to fix anything. I just—can we stay right here? Just for a little while?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

She just leaned in again, softer this time. Mouth brushing his like a secret she wasn’t ready to share out loud.

And then?

She stayed. Tucked into his side, legs folded up, heart thudding like it finally had permission to want.

Not forever. Not yet.

Just this.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Spencer didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, really—not until she tucked herself in again like it was instinct, like her body already knew exactly how to fit next to his. Like they’d done this a thousand times in other lives, other timelines, and now the universe had finally caught up.

His chest felt too full.

Of what, he wasn’t even sure.

Her, maybe.

Hope.

The bone-deep kind of want that didn’t scream or burn—it glowed. Quiet and steady, like the light under a bedroom door that never went out.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and tilted his head just enough to rest his cheek against her hair. His arm wrapped tighter around her, like he was trying to memorize the weight of her leaning on him.

And when he spoke?

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t careful. It was Spencer, stripped back to his softest setting.

“You are good at this,” he said, voice low, right into the crown of her head. “I know you don’t think you are, but, Leia…”

He smiled—small, private, entirely hers.

“You make me want to be good at it too.”

He let the quiet sit with them for a second before continuing, his thumb drawing slow circles into her side beneath the hem of her shirt.

“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight. We don’t have to pretend we’re some perfect couple who eats matching yogurt or—whatever healthy people do.”

A pause. His grin widened just a little.

“We just have to keep showing up. Keep being real. And if real means cereal commercials and late-night spiral naps and you stealing every one of my shirts, I’m in.”

He kissed the top of her head—soft and full of the kind of affection he never thought he’d be allowed to give out loud—and leaned back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t have to do anything special to be worth staying for, okay?”

His eyes softened. His fingers brushed her jaw.

“You’re already it.”

He didn’t say “I love you” again.

He didn’t need to.

Not when he was already looking at her like it was the only language he’d ever learned fluently.

Not when she was curled against him like maybe—just maybe—this was what safe felt like.

So he pulled the blanket up over her legs, shifted just enough to settle deeper into the couch with her weight against his, and reached for the remote with his free hand.

“Movie’s probably garbage,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into her hair. “But I’m not watching it anyway.”

Then, quieter:

“I’ve got better things to look at.”

And he did.

She was right there. Still.

And that?

That was everything.

Leighton’s breath hitched a little as she nestled back into him, the weight of everything they’d just said still buzzing under her skin like static electricity. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t have to be. But it was there. Crackling in her chest. Blooming behind her ribs.

She could still taste him on her lips. Still feel the way his hand hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t stopped grounding her, like maybe he needed it just as much as she did.

Because this wasn’t just a moment.

It was a shift.

And maybe it wasn’t flashy or dramatic or dressed up in perfect timing. Maybe it was just two kids on a secondhand couch, clinging to a feeling they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

But it felt like everything.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her legs, tucking them up beneath her as her body folded easily into his. One of her arms slipped under his, wrapping around his middle. And with her face pressed to his chest, she could hear it—his heartbeat, still fast, still real.

Still there.

“I used to think…” she started, voice quiet, vulnerable in the way she hated letting herself be, “that I had to do something big to be enough. Like if I wasn’t impressive or useful or ‘the strong one,’ I’d lose people.”

She felt him tense slightly under her, like the weight of those words hit somewhere familiar.

“But with you? I don’t feel like I have to earn it.”

She tilted her chin up just enough to glance at him, her lips quirking into a tired, honest smile.

“I just get to be. And that scares the shit out of me.”

She let out a shaky laugh. Not bitter—just real.

“But I want to keep choosing it. Even when it’s scary. Especially when it is.”

Then she kissed him again—shorter this time, but just as full of that quiet, heart-splitting affection. The kind that made her brave enough to stay soft.

Her voice was barely more than a breath against his collarbone when she spoke again.

“So, yeah… I guess we’re just two disaster people with commitment issues and questionable coping mechanisms—”

She looked up at him again, eyes shining.

“—who maybe just fell in love for real on a Thursday.”

Her grin turned crooked. Her thumb traced slow, lazy lines against his chest.

“Pretty solid date night, if you ask me.”

And then she rested her head back down like she’d finally found the spot that fit her best.

Because she had.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t trust himself to—not when his chest was doing that weird, tight, achey thing like his whole ribcage was trying to hold in the fact that she just cracked him wide open.

He stared down at her, heart pounding loud enough he was pretty sure she could hear it, and let her words settle into all the hollow places he’d spent most of his life pretending didn’t exist.

I don’t have to earn it.

That one hit different.

Because he’d spent years believing the opposite. That love was transactional. That you had to be charming enough or funny enough or broken in the right way to make someone stay. And now she was curled into him like she knew him—like she wanted to know him—and he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could stop performing.

Just be.

“I hate how much I love that you called us disaster people,” he said after a beat, voice low and just a little rough at the edges. “Like—accurate. Deeply rude. But accurate.”

His hand found the back of her head, threading into her hair, thumb brushing lightly behind her ear. A quiet thank-you. A silent me too.

“You scare the shit out of me too, Leia,” he added, soft and real and just for her. “But in the good way. Like rollercoaster panic. Like almost-miss-the-turn-but-make-it-anyway kind of terrifying.”

And then, before she could call him out for being sappy—

“You should know I’m blaming you for this permanent softboy rebrand. I had a whole bad boy image going.”

She snorted quietly against his chest.

And then—

“Just grabbing my water,” Violet’s voice called as she passed through the room like she wasn’t absolutely doing recon.

Spencer stiffened slightly, instinct kicking in before his brain could stop it. But Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t untangle herself from him like it was something to hide.

So neither did he.

He just offered Violet a small nod as she passed the threshold, eyes warm, hand still tangled in Leighton’s hair.

And if her mother narrowed her eyes just slightly?

Well.

He’d survived pilaf night.

He could survive this.

When the kitchen door finally swung closed behind her, he let out a breath and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Leighton’s head.

Then—

“Might need a five-year plan just to earn your mom’s neutral expression,” he muttered against her hair. “But honestly? Worth it.”

A pause.

Then he tilted her chin gently, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Disaster person or not, I’m in. And if we keep having Thursday nights like this?”

His grin went soft. Boyish.

“I’ll take the whole damn week.”

Leighton didn’t lift her head when Violet passed through. She heard the cabinet open, the faint clink of glass, the beat of deliberate silence that said I’m not looking—but I’m definitely looking.

And for the first time in forever, she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t scramble to sit up or throw some sarcastic line into the air like armor.

Because Spencer’s arm was still around her. His hand was still in her hair. And she didn’t want to pretend this was anything less than what it was.

So she just murmured, quiet and steady:

“She already knows.”

A pause. Then, because it was Violet:

“And she’ll pretend she doesn’t until she finds a way to weaponize it. Probably over breakfast.”

Spencer huffed a laugh against her crown, and she smiled, lazy and small, her fingers curling a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt.

She finally tilted her face to look up at him, eyes still a little dazed, a little too full.

“Neutral expression’s basically her love language,” she said, mock solemn. “If she gives you a full smile before Halloween, we’ll have to call the Vatican.”

But her voice softened at the edges then—serious without losing the warmth.

“I think she likes that I’m softer with you.”

A beat.

“God knows she’s been trying to get me to drop the ‘I’m fine’ act since middle school.”

She reached up, traced the side of his jaw with her knuckles. Light. Thoughtful. Still stunned by how easy it felt to touch him like this and not pull away.

“Sorry about the softboy rebrand, by the way,” she teased gently, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Kind of a hazard of dating someone who cries during golden retriever ads.”

Then she kissed him again—slow and close-mouthed and not trying to prove anything.

Just because she could.

Because he was still here.

And because she meant it.

When she pulled back, her voice was soft and a little sleepy.

“I’m in too. For Thursday nights. For weird mid-week feelings. For you.”

She didn’t say forever.

But it felt like it.

And that was enough.

Spencer didn’t smile right away.

He just looked at her.

Took in the curve of her mouth, the warmth behind her sarcasm, the way she didn’t flinch when Violet passed through—how she stayed tucked in like this was normal. Like he was.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But it did.

Because Spencer Walker had never really been the guy who got to stay.

He’d been the one people liked in theory. The one who made good first impressions, who texted at 2AM, who kissed like he meant it and disappeared like he didn’t. Not because he wanted to. But because leaving always felt safer than staying long enough to disappoint someone.

But Leighton?

She wasn’t blinking.

Wasn’t moving.

Wasn’t pulling back to say this was a one-time thing, okay, don’t get weird about it.

She was there.

Wrapped up in him and still joking, still teasing, still brushing her fingers across his jaw like she wasn’t afraid of what came next.

He tucked a hand behind her knee and pulled her just a little closer—like if he held her tighter, it might finally click that this wasn’t a dream. That he hadn’t imagined her choosing him back.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” he muttered, voice low and warm as his thumb brushed her temple. “Like. Actually cry. Real, snotty, embarrassing tears. In front of your mom.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead like she was the last safe place on earth, and sighed into her hair.

Then, dryly:
“She definitely has a knife named after me in the drawer.”

A beat passed, then his smile curled up lazy and real.

“Worth it, though.”

Because it was. All of it.

The weird mid-week feelings. The softboy slander. The cartoonishly intimidating mom. The glitter jokes. The fact that he’d never get his shirt back.

He glanced down at her again, fingers tracing a slow line along her thigh like he was still trying to memorize this—every inch of her folded into him, every sarcastic one-liner turned love note.

“You ever think maybe we’re not actually disasters?” he asked after a long pause, voice soft, quieter than usual. “Like maybe… we’re just figuring it out. Late bloomers. Or emotionally constipated overachievers.”

He smiled to himself, then added, under his breath:

“Still wouldn’t change it.”

Then he kissed her again.

Not like punctuation. Not like a thank you.

Like a beginning.

And when they broke apart, the glow of the TV flickering against both of them, Spencer rested his chin lightly on top of her head, arms wound around her like he didn’t plan to move anytime soon.

“Next Thursday,” he murmured, lips brushing her hair, “I’m bringing dessert. Like, an actual one. Not gas station Oreos.”

Then, with a grin she could feel more than see:

“Unless that’s your love language. In which case—I got you. Double Stuf. All in.”

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she could feel it—him—in every inch of her. In the way his arms stayed locked around her like gravity finally had a purpose. In the way his heartbeat thudded steady against her cheek. In the way her whole chest cracked open a little more every time he said something stupidly sincere and followed it up with gas station snacks and soft sarcasm.

She wasn’t used to being held like this. Not without it turning sharp or conditional. Not without someone keeping score.

But he wasn’t keeping score.

He was staying.

Even with Violet’s knife drawer. Even with her mess. Even when she couldn’t always find the words for what this was.

So instead, she moved—slid her leg a little higher over his, curled deeper into the curve of his side, like she could burrow straight into the truth of it. The warmth. The weight. The way he kissed her like she was something holy and real.

And when she spoke, it was soft. Barely above a whisper.

“You’re ridiculous.”

A pause.

Then, even softer:

“And yeah. I’d take the Oreos.”

She tilted her chin, pressed another kiss just beneath his jaw—quick and warm and annoyingly full of everything.

“And the emotional constipation. And the forehead kisses. And the part where you keep showing up even when it scares you.”

Her hand found his again, fingers lacing tight, anchored.

“I’d take all of it. Every Thursday. Every disaster version of us. Every messy, slow, kind of beautiful inch of whatever the hell this is turning into.”

A long pause, her eyes fluttering closed as she rested against him again.

Then, muffled against his shirt:

“But if you bring coconut anything, I’m breaking up with you.”

Stillness.

Then a snort-laugh from him, breath huffed straight into her hair.

“Non-negotiable,” she added, smirking now. “That’s a red flag.”

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Because Spencer Walker was still there. And so was she.

And this? This felt like everything she hadn’t known how to ask for.

So she stayed. Warm and wound around him like a promise she was finally ready to believe in.

And next Thursday?

She’d be right here.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Just let out a low breath—one of those full-body exhales that slipped past his lips like relief, like Jesus Christ, this girl is gonna ruin me in the softest, most sacred way.

Because she was curled into him like a comma instead of a period.

Because she was taking him. All of him. Emotional constipation, bad snack choices, forehead kisses and all.

And somehow, she made it feel like he was enough.

“Coconut’s dead to me,” he murmured finally, voice rumbling against the crown of her head. “Wasn’t even invited to the group chat.”

His fingers kept moving—absent and reverent—sliding up and down the curve of her spine like he was learning her by feel alone. No rush. No plan. Just her. Just here.

And it didn’t scare him like it used to.

Didn’t make him want to self-sabotage or slip out the door before the moment could get too loud.

Because this wasn’t loud.

It was good.

It was Leighton, wrapped around him, threatening to break up over a Mounds bar with all the conviction of someone falling in love and not hiding it anymore.

He smiled into her hair.

“I think we’re the kind of mess that works,” he said quietly. “Like, not the kind people warn you about. The kind that sticks. That builds slow. That doesn’t fall apart every time someone says the wrong thing.”

A pause. Then, a little lower:

“I wanna be good at this too. With you.”

He didn’t pull back when he said it. Didn’t look at her for confirmation or shove a joke in there to soften the blow.

He just said it and meant it.

And when she squeezed his hand tighter, he knew she’d heard him.

Knew she felt it.

Another beat passed before he shifted just enough to kiss the top of her head. Once. Twice. Then again, just because he could. Because he wanted to. Because nothing in his chest was trying to run anymore.

Eventually, his voice came again—sleepier, looser, but no less sure:

“So… what I’m hearing is Oreos, emotional growth, and light knife-based intimidation every Thursday.”

A beat.

“I can work with that.”

And just like that, Spencer Walker settled deeper into the couch, arms wound around the girl who wasn’t going anywhere.

No finish line. No fireworks.

Just warmth. Just laughter. Just something real.

And next Thursday?

He’d bring the Oreos.

Double Stuf. No coconut.

Leighton didn’t move right away.

Didn’t need to—not when his presence settled around her like a weighted blanket, all low warmth and stupid honesty that made her ribs ache in the best way.

She just smiled.

One of those quiet, crooked, you’re such a goner for me and I know it smiles. The kind that bloomed slow, from somewhere deep in her chest, where the armor used to live.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

Because she didn’t feel like she had to protect herself anymore. Not when he held her like that. Not when his thumb traced lazy circles into the small of her back like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he tried.

She murmured something under her breath—half sarcasm, half truth—about sobbing over shelter dogs and flipping the board during Uno. Then let herself melt into him a little more, breathing in the familiar scent of him: salt, smoke, comfort.

Her hand started moving, almost absentmindedly.

Down his chest.

Lower.

Then right into the front pocket of his jeans like it was the most casual thing in the world. No fanfare. No guilt. Just a girl claiming what she knew was there.

She fished through the contents like it was a game—fingertips brushing keys, maybe gum, definitely a crumpled receipt—before finally finding what she was looking for.

She pulled the joint free with a triumphant little glint in her eye.

Held it up. Smirked.

Then, with all the mock-innocence of someone who absolutely knew what she was doing, tucked it behind her ear like a victory crown.

“For medicinal reasons,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Then curled into him again, smug and soft and absolutely infuriating in the way only she could be.

But she didn’t stay there long.

She shifted, stretched—arms up, shirt rising with her—and uncurled from his lap like she was made of syrup and sin.

Then stood.

Turned.

Held out her hand.

No explanation.

No request.

Just come with me.

And when he hesitated, even for a second, she grabbed his hand and pulled him up herself—bare feet padding across the floor as she led them through the quiet house.

Past the TV. Past the kitchen. Past the lingering ghosts of every goodbye she used to brace for.

She opened the front door without looking back.

The night air spilled in—thick and sweet, the scent of plumeria and salt hanging heavy in the summer dark.

Leighton stepped out first.

Onto the porch. Onto the warm, creaking wood that remembered every teenage night they used to waste pretending they weren’t already halfway in love.

And then—just before he caught up—she glanced over her shoulder, lips curved, eyes gleaming.

No words.

Just that look.

Like: You coming, or what?

And of course—he was.

Spencer followed like he didn’t have a choice.

Because he didn’t.

Not really.

Not when she looked at him like that—like trouble and tenderness wrapped in one slow-smiling hurricane. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew he’d follow.

(He always would.)

The front door clicked soft behind him. The screen door groaned just a little as it swung shut, the porch light flickering above them like even it couldn’t believe the moment was real.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, mostly out of habit. Mostly to stop himself from reaching for her again too soon.

But she was already waiting—barefoot and smug, arms crossed over that stolen shirt, joint tucked behind her ear like a secret only he was allowed to know.

And God, she looked like every version of home he never knew how to ask for.

So he stepped up beside her. Close enough to bump her shoulder with his. Close enough to feel the static between them crackle back to life in the humid night air.

“Pretty sure that’s theft,” he murmured, nodding toward the joint. “I could press charges.”

But his voice was too soft to be serious.

Too gone.

She didn’t answer. Just gave him that little tilt of her head, all challenge and charm, before walking barefoot down the steps like the whole damn island belonged to her.

Spencer followed. Again.

The yard was dark, just patches of moonlight cutting through the trees. Everything smelled like hibiscus and midnight and something just about to happen.

She led him around the side of the house—toward the old hammock strung between two palms. The one they used to dare each other into flipping out of back when everything still felt like maybe.

And then she stopped.

Turned.

Waited for him to catch up.

Spencer didn’t say anything this time. Just reached out, tugged her gently toward him by the hem of his shirt (still hers), and pressed a kiss to the center of her forehead.

Quick. Fierce. Ridiculous.

Like he couldn’t not.

When he pulled back, his eyes found hers in the dark. Warm. Honest. A little dumb with affection.

“I’m already yours, Leia,” he said, voice low and sure. “You don’t have to steal my stuff to prove it.”

Then he smiled. Crooked. Soft. Helpless.

And let her pull him into the hammock like two kids who had all the time in the world.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him.

Like she was trying to commit the whole damn thing to memory—his stupid soft smile, his dumb gorgeous eyes, the way he always said her name like it was a prayer and a punchline all at once. Like he couldn’t believe he got to say it out loud.

And maybe she couldn’t either.

She reached up, slow and sure, plucked the joint from behind her ear, and held it out between two fingers like evidence.

“You really gonna complain,” she said, voice light, “when I’m out here improving your closet and your street cred?”

The smirk was playful. But the look in her eyes?

That was something else.

She leaned back into the hammock with him, knees folding, limbs tangling, head resting on his chest like it had been there a hundred times before. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath her cheek. Her fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt again, casual but unshakable, like the touch grounded her.

The joint dangled loosely from her other hand, forgotten for a second.

Then she grinned—slow and smug and devastatingly happy.

“Okay, yes,” she added. “Maybe I do steal your shirts to make a point.”

She paused dramatically.

“But mostly? It’s just fun.”

And then she laughed—really laughed—the kind that cracked her wide open and made her eyes scrunch and her whole body shake a little against his.

Because God, this didn’t have to be serious all the time.

It could be this. Light. Easy. Moonlight and stolen joints and teasing each other under the stars like maybe love wasn’t a loaded word—it was just another kind of dare they were both finally ready to take.

She passed him the joint, still laughing a little, and tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

“I know I don’t have to steal your stuff to keep you,” she said, quieter now. “But I’m still gonna do it.”

She nudged him with her knee.

“Fair warning.”

Then she took the joint back, lit it with a flick of the lighter, and took a slow drag before passing it to him again with a grin that didn’t try to hide a damn thing.

Not the peace.
Not the giddiness.
Not the maybe-this-is-it feeling swelling in her chest.

“You’re stuck with me, Walker,” she said, soft and sure. “And I’m not even sorry about it.”

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she was curled into him like that—laugh-wrecked and glowing, smirking up at him like she’d just won something. Like she knew she had. And maybe she had. Maybe she always would.

Because yeah, he was hers.

Has been. Will be.

And if this was what being stuck looked like? Hell, he’d take it.

He took the joint without looking down—just felt her fingers brush his, warm and easy—and brought it to his mouth, still watching her like she was the whole sky.

“Wouldn’t even try to escape,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked in that sleepy, smitten kind of way that only she ever pulled out of him. “You’re terrifying.”

A pause.

Then he added, totally serious:

“And hot.”

He passed the joint back. Let his fingers linger against her wrist for a second longer than necessary—just to make a point.

Just to feel it.

The realness. The ridiculousness. The way her laugh was still echoing in his chest like some kind of miracle.

She shifted against him—settling deeper, like they were one of those perfect fits you didn’t realize existed outside of rom-coms and dreams you don’t say out loud.

And he kissed her hair.

Didn’t even think about it.

Just did it.

Then whispered against the crown of her head, barely audible beneath the buzz of the night:

“You can have every shirt I own, Leia.”

He felt her smile without even looking.

“Hell, take the dresser too. Closet’s yours. Top drawer. Whole thing.”

He paused again, arm tightening around her like instinct.

“But if you steal my hoodies, I’m gonna need visitation rights.”

And just like that, the smile cracked across his face again—lazy and full of something dangerously close to joy.

Because this?

This was the best kind of ruin.

This was the quiet version of forever.

And he was all in.

Leighton didn’t laugh right away—not out loud, anyway.

She just let it bloom behind her lips, slow and bright and helpless, like something she couldn’t quite hold back. Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that.

She tapped ash from the joint with her free hand, then passed it back without a word, her fingers grazing his deliberately this time—because she could. Because he was hers and she wanted to feel it everywhere.

Then she shifted, not away but closer, tucking herself tighter into the curve of him like maybe she could memorize it. Like maybe she already had.

“You’re such a sap,” she murmured, soft enough it didn’t undo anything. “A hot one, but still.”

Her grin curved lazily as she tilted her face toward his collarbone, nose brushing the neckline of his shirt—her shirt now, obviously.

“So I guess that means I’ll just keep rotating through yours until you start locking your closet.”

A beat. Then quieter, closer to something real:

“But I’m not giving the hoodies back.”

She felt him breathe in like he was trying not to let that ruin him.

Good.

Because she was ruined too.

And maybe this was it. Not perfect. Not planned. But real.

Fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw, she leaned in—kissed him slow. Familiar. A little reckless. Like he was the last good thing on earth and she wasn’t about to let it slip.

When she pulled back, she stayed close. Smirking.

“You can have visitation rights,” she whispered. “But only if you ask nicely.”

Then she stole one more kiss—quick this time, stupid and sweet—before leaning her head back against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

She didn’t need to say anything else.

He already knew.

Spencer let the joint hang loose between his fingers, forgotten now.

Because yeah—she was tucked into him, saying shit like that, kissing him like that, and expecting him to stay normal?

Not a chance in hell.

His heart stuttered behind his ribs, loud enough he was half-convinced she could hear it. Feel it. Probably could, with the way she was curled into his chest like it was hers—and, honestly, it kind of was.

She’d claimed everything else.

His shirts. His hoodies. His sanity.

Might as well take the heart too.

“I don’t do ‘nicely,’” he mumbled, voice rough at the edges. “But I make exceptions.”

Then he looked down at her. Really looked.

The smirk. The lashes. The way her fingers still traced his jaw like they were spelling something only she could read.

God, he was so far gone.

“Only hoodie I’m not giving up is the blue one,” he added after a beat, like it mattered. “You take that, and I’m showing up at your door with a slideshow presentation and a hostage negotiation plan.”

He felt her laugh more than he heard it—right there in his chest, wrecking him slow.

And he didn’t care. Not even a little.

He kissed the top of her head. Let his hand settle at her waist, fingers drawing lazy shapes against her hip like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he wanted to.

Then, quieter:

“I already know you’re not giving anything back.”

He paused. Let it hang there.

“Pretty sure you never planned to.”

And he didn’t sound mad about it. Not even close.

Because she could have it all.

The shirts. The hoodies. The heart.

Hell, she already did.

So he kissed her temple once, soft and dumb and probably too much, and leaned his head back against the hammock, pulling her with him like she belonged there.

Because she did.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Leighton didn’t respond right away. Not with words, anyway.

Just this slow, dizzy kind of smile that curled at the corner of her mouth like it had nowhere better to be. Her fingers paused against his jaw, then slipped down to his collarbone—dragging light, lazy lines like she was memorizing him by touch.

She tilted her face up, chin tucked into his chest, lips parted like a secret might fall out if she breathed too hard. Her voice, when it came, was low and teasing and wrecked at the edges.

“I knew the blue one was sacred,” she murmured, smirking against his skin. “That’s why I’m stealing it last.”

Then—before he could fire back—she pushed up onto one elbow and kissed him again.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Hungry.

Confident.

Like she’d already decided he belonged to her and was just letting him catch up.

And then she pulled back, lips brushing his, eyes still half-lidded and glowing with that familiar fire.

“You’re real dumb for me, you know that?”

Her tone made it sound like affection. Like awe. Like a little bit of disbelief tangled up in the truth of it all.

Then she dropped back against him, dragging him with her until they both hit the hammock in a messy sprawl—her head landing right over his heart again, her fingers tugging the hem of his shirt down like she was tucking them in for the night.

And she didn’t say anything else after that.

Didn’t need to.

Because the weight of her against him, the smile still tugging at her lips, the way she fit without trying?

That said it all.

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She just lay there—head cradled in the crook of his arm, eyes fixed on the stars like they might offer up some kind of permission. Like maybe if she stared long enough, the past would keep its distance.

But it didn’t.

It never really did.

“I’ve lived in a lot of places,” she said quietly. “Not in the fun, postcard kind of way. In the throw-everything-you-own-in-a-trunk-and-pray-we-make-it-through-the-week kind of way.”

Her voice stayed even, but her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his ribs.

“There were stretches where it was just me and my mom, bouncing between couches and motels. Sometimes we’d sleep in the car. She always called it ‘car camping’—like it was some big adventure. Like we were choosing it.”

She exhaled, sharp and soft at once.

“But we weren’t. We were just… surviving. And half the time, barely.”

She turned her face toward him—not all the way, just enough that her cheek brushed his shoulder. She didn’t look for a reaction. Didn’t need one.

“She stole a lot,” Leighton said, voice flatter now. “Food. Clothes. Gas. I used to stand lookout like it was some kind of game. She’d wink at me, tell me I had good instincts. That I was smart. Brave.”

A pause. Her jaw tightened slightly.

“I was just scared.”

Another beat.

“There’s a lot I wish I didn’t remember. And even more I wish I hadn’t been part of. But I was. Because I didn’t have a choice. Because when someone you love tells you it’s the two of you against the world, you believe them.”

She went quiet again, staring up at the stars like maybe they’d understand what it meant to love someone flawed. Someone messy. Someone who hurt you and protected you in the same breath.

And then—softly, like the truth might break if she said it too loud:

“I never felt safe. Not really. Not until now.”

Her fingers slid into his, tighter this time. Not like she was grounding herself—but like she was choosing him.

“For all the places I’ve been, all the cities I’ve seen… this hammock, this house, this island?” She breathed out a small laugh. “You.”

She squeezed his hand once, thumb brushing along the back of it.

“This is my favorite place. Because it’s the first one that feels like mine. Like I’m not just passing through, waiting for the next crash. Like I can just… be.”

Then quieter:

“And I don’t want to run anymore.”

She didn’t say she was scared of messing it up, though she was. She didn’t say she wasn’t sure she deserved it, though the thought gnawed at her sometimes.

She just held onto him a little tighter, and for once, didn’t try to outrun the silence.

Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with his throat tight and his chest cracked wide open like she’d reached in and peeled something raw and real out of him just by trusting him with it.

Because that’s what it was.

Not just a confession. Not just a story.

It was trust.

And it leveled him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t say he was sorry, even though God, part of him wanted to. For all the shitty years she never should’ve had to carry. For every scared kid moment she’d buried in sarcasm and sharpness.

But he knew better.

Knew what it cost her to say any of that.

So instead, he kissed her hand. Quiet. Steady. Right where his thumb brushed hers.

Then he looked at her.

All of her.

Hair a mess. Eyes still half guarded. Mouth still pink from where she’d kissed him like she meant it.

And he smiled.

Not wide. Not showy.

Just sure.

“Then don’t.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges like it had been scraped clean.

“Don’t run. Don’t look for the next crash. Don’t pretend like this isn’t yours too.”

His thumb kept moving across the back of her hand. Absent. Certain.

“You’re not just passing through, Leia. You’re the damn reason this place feels like home now.”

And maybe it was too much. Maybe he should’ve played it cooler. Laughed it off. Said something stupid about how she could take the blue hoodie if she promised not to ghost him for coconut ice cream.

But she’d given him her real.

So he gave it back.

“I don’t care what came before me,” he said softly. “I don’t care how many motels or couches or half-assed promises you had to survive to get here.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers.

“You’re here now. With me. And I swear, Leighton… I’m not letting you go.”

He paused.

Then added, a little quieter:

“Even if you do steal the hoodie.”

And there it was again—that tug in his chest that felt a hell of a lot like forever.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

But his arms tightened around her, pulling her in like gravity had finally picked a side.

And maybe it had.

Because this?
This was the part where she stayed.
And he did too.

Leighton stayed quiet for a long time after.

Not because she didn’t have more to say—but because saying it meant naming something she’d been trying not to look at too closely. Not out loud. Not even in her own head most days.

Her head rested against his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat grounding her more than she wanted to admit. One hand still tucked beneath his shirt like maybe skin-to-skin could keep her steady. Like maybe it’d hold her in place long enough to say this without unraveling.

Then, low—so low it barely stirred the air between them:

“I think sometimes I’m just… waiting for the part where I turn into her.”

She didn’t explain who.

She didn’t have to.

“She always bailed when things got too hard. Called it instinct. Survival. Whatever made it sound noble.”

Her fingers moved against his side, slow and restless, tracing the stitching in his shirt like a map she couldn’t stop following. Something familiar. Something that couldn’t leave.

“I used to think I’d be different. That I’d build something real and stay in it. But I catch myself watching her when we’re out… seeing the way she clocks exits, the way she flinches at quiet. Like she’s already planning the next out.”

The words got heavier the longer they stayed in the air.

“She told me she wouldn’t date until after graduation. Said we’d stay here. Just us. That I could finish school somewhere that didn’t smell like cigarettes and desperation.”

A pause. The kind that felt like it cracked something open.

“I want to believe her,” she said. “I really do.”

She swallowed hard. The moonlight caught on the edge of her profile, silvering her lashes as her voice dropped.

“But the guy from the bar’s been real friendly. Keeps asking if she needs help with the car. Told her there’s live music this weekend. Offered her a ride home the other night after we ran into him at the gas station.”

She let out a breath through her nose—sharp, dry. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

“She smiled back.”

That part stayed soft. Like it hurt to admit.

“If she leaves, I have to go. That’s the deal. Doesn’t matter what I’ve built here. Doesn’t matter that this—” she nudged her shoulder gently into his, still not looking up, “—finally feels safe.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick. Honest.

“Sometimes I wonder if I already missed the chance to learn how to stay,” she said finally. “Like there’s this whole version of me I’ve been trying to grow into, but the old one keeps dragging her heels. Still half-packed. Still waiting for the knock on the door that says it’s time to go.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly, at the very end. But she didn’t hide from it.

Didn’t apologize.

Just stayed there. Still. Soft. Real.

Held together by the hammock. By the night. By him.

Spencer didn’t move for a long moment.

Didn’t rush in with comfort or fix-it words. Didn’t try to wrap her sadness in something easier to carry.

He just breathed.

Felt the weight of her against him—the way her fingers curled into his side like she was trying to stay tethered, like maybe if she held on tight enough, the rest wouldn’t break loose.

And then, slowly, he reached for her hand under his shirt. Twined their fingers together, palm to palm, skin to skin.

He squeezed once.

Not a promise. Not a plan.

Just I hear you.

Just I’m not going anywhere.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Barely more than a thread. But steady. Unshaking.

“You’re not her.”

A pause. Then again, firmer.

“You’re not her, Leighton.”

He didn’t mean it like a rejection of who raised her. He meant it like a declaration. Like a fact he knew down to his bones.

“You flinch at quiet because quiet’s been dangerous. You clock exits because people taught you not to trust safety when it showed up.”

He turned his head slightly, lips brushing the crown of hers as he spoke.

“But you’re not the one smiling back at guys like it’s your next escape plan. You’re not the one leaving. You’re the one staying, even when it scares you.”

His thumb brushed along the back of her hand again.

“You stayed when I got too close. When I said too much. When I brought you to that busted-ass diner at the edge of the island and let you see all my soft underbelly bullshit.”

A breath of a laugh.

“You’re already doing it, Leia. You just don’t know it yet.”

He shifted then—tilted his head enough to glance at her profile, moonlight catching the strands of her hair.

“She might leave,” he said quietly. “And if she does, I know that’s gonna feel like the end of something. But it doesn’t have to be the end of you here.”

His hand squeezed hers again.

“You’ve got people now. Me. Sam. That weird old guy at the surf shop who calls you kiddo. You’ve got Thursday night movie marathons and your own toothbrush in my bathroom and a stake in this place that you built.”

Then, even softer:

“And if she leaves and you do have to go? I’ll help you pack.”

He turned to press his lips to her temple, gentle.

“And I’ll go with you.”

Because he meant it.

Because she didn’t have to do any of it alone anymore. Not the staying. Not the leaving. Not the loving.

Not if she didn’t want to.

And maybe it wouldn’t change the ache in her chest. Maybe it wouldn’t undo the part of her that still believed in expiration dates.

But he’d still say it.

“I don’t care where you are, Leighton. I’m yours.”

A beat.

Then a crooked half-smile tugged at his mouth, because he couldn’t help it:

“And not just ‘cause your planning to steal my favorite hoodie.”

His arm curled tighter around her as he tipped his head back toward the stars.

“And yeah… maybe I don’t have it all figured out either. Maybe I still panic when I feel too much or love too hard. But if you’re still trying?”

He kissed her hand.

“Then so am I.”

And they stayed like that.

Held together by the hammock.
By the night.
By each other.

Leighton exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that felt like it had years behind it.

Like maybe it’d been waiting to be let out her whole damn life.

“My mom was seventeen when she had me,” she said quietly. “Seventeen. I used to think that meant I was lucky. That we were close because we were more like sisters than anything else. That we got each other.”

She paused, eyes on the stars, voice steady even if her throat wasn’t.

“But the truth is… we just kind of grew up together. Clumsily. Desperately. She didn’t know how to be a mom any more than I knew how to be a kid. And when you’re raised by someone who’s still figuring out how to raise herself…”

Her voice trailed off for a second.

“Sometimes I didn’t know where she ended and I started. She’d cry in front of me, tell me things no kid should hear. About the guys. About how tired she was. How scared. And I’d nod and listen and pretend I understood. Because I thought that was love. Carrying her weight for her. Being her person, even if I was just a kid too.”

Leighton’s fingers tightened slightly in Spencer’s.

“I learned how to lie for us before I learned how to ride a bike. How to cover for the bills we couldn’t pay. How to talk fast when someone asked too many questions. I got good at pretending like it didn’t bother me. Like sleeping in borrowed rooms and making friends I wouldn’t keep wasn’t chipping away at something I couldn’t name.”

Her voice dipped lower.

“She did what she could, I guess. But I can’t forget the times she didn’t. The times she left me at the laundromat with a bag of quarters and said she’d be right back and didn’t come for hours. The times she let people in who scared me. The times she asked me to smile and say thank you to men who didn’t deserve it.”

Her eyes closed for a beat.

“I know she tried. I know she didn’t have much. And I don’t hate her—I don’t. But sometimes, I hate that I didn’t get to just be a kid. That I was always the one holding everything together while she unraveled.”

She looked back at him then, her voice thick but sure.

“So yeah. I’m scared of becoming her. Of making the same mistakes. Of being so wrapped up in surviving that I forget how to live. That I hurt the people I love because I never learned how not to.”

A breath. Then, softer:

“But with you… it’s different. You slow everything down. Make space where there wasn’t any. And for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to hold the world up alone.”

She let her head fall back against his shoulder.

“And I don’t know what that means yet. Or how to stop flinching when it’s quiet. But I’m here. I’m trying.”

A beat passed.

“And I’m not gonna run.”

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Just let the quiet stretch between them, not as a void—but as a kind of reverence. Like the space between breaths in a song. Like silence that knew how to listen.

His arm tightened around her, gentle but unshakable. Like if she needed the world to stop spinning, he’d figure out how.

She could feel his pulse under her cheek again—strong, steady, real. Like he meant it just by existing. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

His voice, when it came, was rough around the edges. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because the truth always sat heavy in his throat when it was about her.

“You were a kid,” he said finally. “And you deserved to be one.”

No fix-it. No silver lining.

Just the truth, laid bare.

He reached for her hand again—threading their fingers together with a kind of quiet urgency, like he wanted her to feel it in her bones.

“You shouldn’t’ve had to be her anchor,” he murmured. “But you were. And somehow you still turned into someone who gives a damn. Someone who shows up. Someone who tries.”

His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow.

“I don’t think you’re anything like her.”

A beat.

“But even if you were—even if you were—you’d still be here. With me. Saying the things that scare you and staying anyway. And that’s more than she ever did.”

He tipped his head down, brushing his lips to the top of hers like punctuation. Like prayer.

“You don’t have to know what it means yet,” he said. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to stay.”

A pause, softer now.

“And you already are.”

He tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars with her like maybe they owed her something. Like maybe they were listening too.

“I know how heavy it gets,” he added after a moment. “Trying to be the one who holds it all together. Trying not to drop anything. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word. But he didn’t flinch from it.

“I’ve got you, Leia. Mess and all.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“And if we fuck it up sometimes? We’ll clean it up together.”

He looked down at her, eyes soft and lit from the inside.

“I’m not afraid of your past. I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Then—after a beat—his mouth tugged into a small, lopsided grin.

“And for the record?” he murmured. “You’re way too stubborn to turn into anyone but you.”

He kissed her temple.

“Thank God for that.”

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t think she could.

Because her throat felt tight and her chest felt full and the sky felt way too close—like if she looked too long it’d swallow her whole.

So instead, she pressed her forehead against his collarbone. Let her fingers tighten around his. Let herself feel him. The warmth. The weight. The way he didn’t let go even when her words got ugly. Even when she offered him all the parts of her that had never been soft.

She’d never had that before. Not really.

And it was terrifying.

But also—it was everything.

“I don’t even know who ‘me’ is supposed to be,” she whispered eventually, voice small and raw. “Like… I spent so long being whoever she needed. The peacekeeper. The grown-up. The reason we didn’t get kicked out again. And now that I’m here, in this, I—I don’t know what to do with it.”

Her voice cracked around the edges, sharp and quiet all at once.

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to shift. For you to wake up one day and decide I’m too much or not enough or exactly what you don’t want anymore.”

She paused.

Then added, lower:

“Because that’s what people always did. They saw the cracks and called them warning signs.”

Her thumb swept over his knuckle.

“But you don’t. You just… stay. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

And that?

That messed her up more than anything.

Because she wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe she was allowed this. That she didn’t have to bleed for it or beg for it or be someone else to deserve it.

She pulled back just far enough to look up at him, eyes shining but fierce.

“I don’t wanna be scared all the time,” she said, barely louder than a breath. “I don’t wanna keep flinching every time it feels too good. I wanna choose this. You. Even when I’m messy. Even when I’m loud and mean and not the easiest person to love.”

Her voice hitched.

“But you make it feel… safe. Like maybe I can mess up and still be wanted. Still be mine.”

She rested her forehead to his again, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

“So yeah. I’ll stay. I am staying. And if I get it wrong, if I screw something up, I’ll still keep showing up. For you. For me. For us.”

A shaky breath.

Then softer:

“You don’t have to fix me. You never did. I just needed someone who didn’t leave.”

She smiled, small and wrecked and honest.

“And yeah, I am way too stubborn to be anybody but me.”

Her eyes closed as she leaned in, kissing him slow—like it was a vow she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet, but meant with everything she had.

“Thank God you see her.”

The porch was quiet except for the scribble of her pen and the lazy hum of late summer. Leighton sat cross-legged on the old bench, journal balanced against her thigh, toes tapping out a rhythm against the chipped wood. The air smelled like salt and overripe mangoes from the neighbor’s tree, sweet and heavy. Familiar.

She’d been out here for a while. Long enough for the sun to dip lower, for the pages to start curling a little from the breeze. Long enough to stop thinking about what she was writing and just… write.

The screen door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t look up.

She knew the sound. The pace. The quiet way her mom moved when she didn’t want to interrupt but couldn’t help coming closer anyway.

One of the chairs shifted. The porch groaned under the weight.

Still, no words.

Just presence.

Leighton paused mid-sentence. Tapped her pen twice against the edge of the journal before slipping it closed and resting it in her lap.

Then she looked up.

Not defensive. Not braced.

Just open, in that tentative way she was still learning how to be.

Her voice was soft when it came, but steady.

“…Yes?”

She didn’t ask what her mom was doing there.

She already knew.

The silence had changed shape.

And Leighton was ready to hear whatever came next.

Violet didn’t look at her right away.

She sat back in the old rocker, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, her eyes scanning the yard like she was waiting for something to move. But nothing did. Just the breeze, the buzz of a cicada too stubborn to shut up, and the slow thud of her own heart reminding her that these moments didn’t come with do-overs.

So when she spoke, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t careless.

It was intentional.

“What does he call you?” she asked, voice low but direct. “Like… when he’s not being dumb. When it’s just you and him.”

She didn’t turn her head, but her hand moved—subtle—plucking a leaf from the porch railing like it had said something worth correcting.

“I just want to make sure it’s not something like ‘baby girl’ or ‘shawty,’” she added, dry. “Because then we have a different conversation to have.”

She finally looked over then, and though the line hung there like a joke, her eyes were sharp. Not suspicious. Not accusatory. Sharp like she was taking inventory.

Of Leighton.

Of this moment.

Of whatever boy had wandered into her daughter's orbit and stuck around long enough to matter.

She wasn’t asking for details. She didn’t want the whole story.

She wanted one thing: truth.

Not the kind Leighton offered to the world, all layered in cleverness and eye rolls.

The kind she offered when she knew she was safe.

Violet leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, head tilted slightly, watching her daughter like she was something luminous and unpredictable and hers.

“I just…” she said, a little quieter now, “wanna know how he sees you. Not what he says in front of people. Not what he texts when he’s trying to be slick. What he calls you when there’s no one to impress.”

She paused.

Then, with just the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—

“Because that’ll tell me more than anything else.”

Her tone was light, but the weight of it settled between them like sun-warmed stone.

Violet wasn’t asking as a test.

She was asking as a mother who’d fought tooth and nail for softness in a world that didn’t offer it freely. A mother who wanted to know that her daughter was being held gently—even when no one else could see.

She flicked the leaf away and let her voice drop just slightly.

“He doesn’t have to call you poetry. But if he calls you anything less than something that makes you feel seen, I want his full name and a running start.”

Then she folded her hands in her lap.

Ready.
Waiting.
Listening.

Because this wasn’t about control.

It was about care.

Leighton didn’t look away.

Not right away, anyway.

She just traced the edge of her journal with her thumb, heartbeat slow and steady, like the moment mattered but didn’t scare her. Not this time.

She heard the question for what it was—not a joke, not a test. A check-in. A quiet offer of space. And she didn’t want to waste it.

So she answered.

“Leia.”

Her voice wasn’t defensive. If anything, it was soft. A little breathy around the edges, like the name still caught her off guard in a good way.

“He calls me Leia.”

A beat passed.

And then, quieter—

“Like Star Wars, yeah. But not in a stupid way. I mean… I knew what he meant before he even explained it.”

She let the ghost of a smile tug at her mouth. Not sarcastic. Just real.

“He said it the first time like it just slipped out. Like it had always been there. And I didn’t correct him, because…”

She shrugged, looking down at her lap.

“I liked it. I really liked it.”

Another beat.

“He didn’t say it because he thought it’d be cute. He said it because he sees me that way. Brave. A little reckless. Trying to lead with her heart even when it’s hard.”

She blinked once, slow.

“And it wasn’t a line. I think that’s what got me. It wasn’t performative. It was just him. Just honest.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the journal again.

“I didn’t say anything when he first said it. Just smiled like an idiot and hoped he wouldn’t take it back.”

Then she glanced toward Violet—shoulder angled, head tilted just slightly.

“And I didn’t make fun of it. Not even a little. I think it was the first time someone called me something that didn’t make me feel small.”

A pause.

“Just… seen.”

And then, because some habits die hard—

“If you bring this up during dinner, I’m switching all your playlists to trap remixes of meditation sounds.”

But she was smiling now. Not hiding. Just… soft.

Because Leia wasn’t a nickname.

It was a promise.

And she wanted her mom to know that.

Violet exhaled through her nose—quiet, sharp, not quite a laugh. The kind of sound she made when something hit a little deeper than she was ready to admit, but she respected the hell out of it anyway.

“Leia,” she repeated, letting the name roll over her tongue like she was test-driving it.

It passed inspection.

Then she leaned back in the chair, one arm draped lazily over the side like she hadn’t just been handed something sacred. But her eyes—those told the truth. Still. Still and shining.

“Well,” she said, tone dry but proud, “as far as nicknames go, that’s not bad.”

A beat.

“It’s earned. And it’s smart. Girl was a rebel leader, a war strategist, and managed to look iconic with space buns and zero patience for men who underestimated her. Honestly, you could do worse.”

She paused just long enough for Leighton to feel the shift.

“But if he’s saying it just to try and get you into a slave-girl bikini, I will end him.”

She turned her head then. Not joking. Not smiling.

Just fierce.

“If he sees you as power in heels and grit in lip gloss? Good. Great. I’m glad. But if I catch even a whiff of him treating that name like it’s permission to fetishize you or dress you up for his fantasy—he’s done.”

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

There was steel in her spine and a fire under her calm.

Because Violet had spent too many years earning her own dignity in the silence between being overlooked and being desired—and her daughter? Her daughter deserved better than either.

She watched Leighton for a moment longer. Took in the way she sat—not armored, not guarded. Just there. Soft and steady, letting herself be known.

And Violet nodded once, firm. Like sealing something.

“I like it,” she said finally, voice softer now. “Because it means he sees your strength and your heart. The parts that don’t always fit cleanly together. The ones most people miss.”

She reached out then—just a touch. Just enough to tug gently at the edge of Leighton’s journal, fingers brushing over hers for the briefest second.

“He better keep seeing that. All of it.”

A beat.

“And if he doesn’t—he won’t need a lightsaber to feel pain.”

She smirked.

Then leaned back again, casual as anything, eyes on the sky now like she hadn’t just drawn a line in the sand with a mother’s love and a woman’s fire.

“Also, just for the record? You’ve always been more Leia than you know.”

Still Violet.
Still razor-sharp.
Still the safest place her daughter had ever known.