She didn’t pull away.

Not when his lips left hers. Not when the heat of the stove kissed the back of her legs. Not even when her throat went tight with everything she couldn’t say fast enough.

Instead, she stood there — arms still wound around him, hoodie sleeves slipping, bare toes curling against the tile — and let herself feel it.

All of it.

The way his hands knew exactly where to settle.
The way his voice slipped beneath her skin like it had never stopped living there.
The way he said stay like it wasn’t a question, like it had always been a truth just waiting to be spoken out loud.

Her breath caught, sharp and silent.

“I used to think,” she said finally, voice quiet against the shell of his collarbone, “that maybe I’d get parts of this. Little pieces. A night here. A memory there. Something to look back on when it all fell apart again.”

She swallowed. “But not like this. Not garlic on the stove and your hands on mine and you turning around like I’ve always been yours.”

Her fingers gripped him tighter.

“I never let myself imagine that I’d get to have this with you. Not after everything. Not when we burned like we did.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes rimmed pink, mouth parted like she was still catching up to her own heartbeat. “But I think I’m done pretending I don’t want the whole damn thing.”

Her voice cracked — not with weakness, but with awe.

“You say I’m staying,” she whispered, her thumb brushing beneath his jaw. “And for once, I believe you.”

A beat. Then softer:

“And maybe for the first time in my life…I want to stay, too.”

She rose up just slightly, kissed the corner of his mouth — not fiery, not tentative, but certain. A promise pressed into skin.

And when she settled against him again — breath slowing, fingers hooked in the hem of his t-shirt like she’d anchor there forever — her voice came one last time, small and real and clear as glass:

“Don’t let me go, Kai.”

Like she already knew he wouldn’t.

Like this time, she was choosing to believe it.

Kai didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t try to outdo her words or lace them with a joke to keep things easy. He just stood there with her pressed against him — damp hair, oversized hoodie, bare feet curled against his tile — and let the weight of what she’d just given him settle.

Because it was a gift.
Maybe the biggest one she’d ever handed him.

He tilted his head just enough to press his lips against her temple, lingering there like he could breathe the doubt right out of her, like he could kiss every old fracture smooth again. His arms tightened around her waist, not crushing, but steady. Unmoving.

“Lennon Rae,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges but warm, “I couldn’t let you go if I tried.”

He eased back only enough to meet her eyes, his hand sliding up her spine until it rested between her shoulder blades. His thumb moved in slow circles there, grounding, sure. “And believe me, I tried. I tried to move on. To play it cool. To pretend like I didn’t see you in every damn song I wrote. But I never stopped wanting all of it. The loud nights, the quiet mornings. The sugar, the salt. Even the burn.”

His smile tugged crooked, soft but certain. “Especially the burn. Because that’s us. And I don’t want half of it. Not pieces. Not scraps. I want the whole thing.”

He kissed her then — slow, reverent, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, didn’t rush. It just was. A kiss that promised permanence without needing to say the word.

When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to hers, his voice low and sure. “You don’t have to imagine it anymore. You’re here. You’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.”

Then, with that familiar Mercer grin sliding through — not to undercut, but to remind her of the joy in it — he brushed his nose against hers and added, “Now… either let me finish this garlic before it burns, or you’re taking over dinner. And fair warning, Rae — if you think I’m letting you eat takeout again tonight, you’ve got another thing coming.”

His tone was playful, but his arms didn’t ease their hold. He wasn’t moving. Not until she believed, all the way through, that he meant it.

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t trust her voice. Didn’t trust the weight of the air between them not to crush her if she tried to shape it into sound.

Because God, it was so much.

He was so much.

And this — this was more than she’d ever let herself picture. Not a fantasy. Not a daydream she could run from. But real. Solid. Here.

Her fingers clenched a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him in — just to feel it again. To feel him. Warm, steady, still holding her like she was the anchor. Like she was the one who’d made his world stop spinning.

And maybe she had. Maybe this time she had.

She blinked slowly, letting her forehead rest against his. Letting her breath catch up with itself as his words settled around her, low and steady, no place for doubt to hide in them.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this with you,” she whispered finally, almost like a confession. “Not like this. Not when we were kids trying to pretend we knew how to love without breaking each other. Not when I watched you get married and thought… okay, that’s it. That’s the last time I get to be yours.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t let the tears win. Not tonight. She wanted to feel this. All of this.

“You waited,” she said softly, like it was just hitting her. Like the truth of it had finally landed where it could stay. “And I came back. And we’re here. And I think that’s the craziest part. That this… garlic-burning, hoodie-stealing, wine-on-the-counter version of us? It’s the best one. And we had to live a thousand different lives to get to it.”

Her voice broke a little then — but it didn’t sound like fear.

It sounded like peace.

She leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth — not deep, not urgent, just grateful — and then took a step back, still holding his hand.

“Okay, Mercer. Finish the garlic,” she said, brushing the pad of her thumb over his knuckles. “I’ll set the table.”

And with that, she moved — barefoot across the tile, hoodie swishing just above her thighs, hair still damp from the shower. She pulled down plates from his cabinet without asking where they were, grabbed two mismatched glasses from the shelf she’d helped reorganize three nights ago.

She poured the wine like she’d done it a hundred times, even though this was only the third. Laughed quietly when she had to rinse dust out of one of the glasses first.

And when she looked back at him — skillet in hand, still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked — she smiled.

Not the old Lennon. Not the one who ran, or burned, or begged the stars for do-overs.

This was the new one. The one who stayed.

“Let’s eat,” she said, voice light but full of something deeper. “Before we end up calling for takeout again and destroy your entire credibility.”

Then she slid into one of the chairs, legs tucked up under her, fingers curled around her glass — and waited for him to join her. Not because she needed proof.

But because she already knew.

He was home. And so was she.

Kai plated the food like it mattered.

Not like it was a test, not like he was trying to impress her with some five-star trick — but like every scoop, every turn of the wrist, was proof. A kind of ritual. The garlic had nearly gone too far (he’d never admit how close), but the butter and basil balanced it, steam curling up like something holy. He dished out the pasta, set the skillet down, and turned just in time to catch her sliding into the chair like she belonged there.

Bare legs tucked up under the hem of his hoodie. Fingers curled around her wine glass. Hair damp, cheeks still flushed from earlier. She didn’t even know how devastating she looked — how domestic, how undone, how herself. And God, it wrecked him.

Because Lennon Rae wasn’t a guest in his kitchen anymore. She wasn’t a ghost from the past he’d boxed up with ticket stubs and old lyrics. She was here. Sitting across from him at his table like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Like she planned to do it again tomorrow. And the day after that.

He set her plate in front of her first. Then his own. Then sat down across from her, elbows leaning casual on the table even though his heart was doing double-time against his ribs.

For a second, he just looked at her.

Then, with that Mercer grin that came out when things got too big and too real, he lifted his glass.

“To garlic that almost burned, wine that definitely isn’t vintage, and the fact that you’re still sitting here anyway.” His tone was light, but his eyes weren’t. His eyes said the rest. The important part. To us.

He clinked his glass gently against hers, then twirled his fork and nodded toward her plate. “Go on. Before I lose all credibility and you make me order pizza.”

And when she took that first bite, when her eyes softened like she was tasting more than just dinner — he leaned back in his chair, glass cradled in his hand, and let the warmth of it settle in his chest.

This wasn’t a stage. It wasn’t a stunt.

It was just him, just her, just now.

And for once, Kai Mercer didn’t feel like he had to say anything to make her stay.

She already had.

She didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t, really.

Not when the steam was curling up between them like a promise. Not when her plate hit the table first like it was instinct — like he didn’t have to think twice about taking care of her. Not when he looked at her like this was everything. The garlic. The wine. The hoodie. The way her legs were curled up like she was staying.

Because she was.

And that was still breaking her a little, in the softest, sharpest way.

She let her eyes meet his across the table, her fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass, warmth pressed into her palms and her chest and somewhere even deeper than that. Somewhere that used to ache every time she pictured this and had to swallow the knowing that it wasn’t hers.

But now?

Now he was sitting across from her, dishing pasta with basil and butter and care. Watching her like she was the song. Like she was the memory he got to keep this time.

She let the toast land — let the warmth of it slide under her skin — then clinked her glass back against his, eyes catching on the glint of the overhead light in his.

“To the burn,” she said softly, echoing him from earlier. Her voice didn’t break, but it came close. “To the thousand wrong turns that still got us here. To this.”

Then she took a sip, set her glass down, and picked up her fork.

And when she took that first bite — garlic and butter and whatever else he’d done to make it taste like safety — she couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. Not big. Not loud. But real.

“Okay,” she said, chewing slowly, dragging it out just enough to make him lean in like he was bracing for a punchline. “I’ll give you this one. It’s good.”

She stabbed another bite, nudged her foot against his under the table.

“But just so we’re clear… if you ever come near the edge of burning garlic again, I will revoke all culinary privileges and you’ll be relegated to toast duty for a month.”

Her tone was light — but her eyes weren’t. Her eyes stayed steady on his, warm and quiet and home.

Because this wasn’t pretend. Wasn’t a glimpse.

This was them — real, grown, choosing each other on a Tuesday night in a house with bad lighting and good wine.

And Lennon Rae had never tasted anything sweeter.

She ate in slow bites after that.

Not because the food wasn’t good — it was, obnoxiously so — but because she was trying to make it last. The moment. The quiet. The way the chair felt under her thigh, the hoodie sleeves pushed past her wrists, the curl of her toes against the rung of the stool. This wasn’t some dream she’d wake up from. It was real. Tuesday. Dinner. Them.

And maybe it was the wine. Or the way he kept glancing at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there. But something in her eased. The knot at the base of her ribs loosened. Her shoulders dropped an inch. She let her body lean toward comfort — the kind that wasn’t just physical but stitched into the way he’d set the table without asking, how he hadn’t flinched when she’d wrapped herself around him earlier, wet hair and all.

She carried her plate to the sink when they finished, rinsing it like she’d done it a hundred times before. Like this kitchen was hers too. Like she already knew where the dish towel hung, because she did. She wiped her hands dry, turned, and found him still sitting there — glass in one hand, content in the other.

The sight of him like that — relaxed and golden under the kitchen light — made her want to bottle it. Or paint it. Or maybe just stay.

She walked back over slowly, hips swaying a little from comfort not performance, and pressed her hand gently to the center of his chest as she passed. Just a pause, just a touch. Then she dropped onto the couch, legs folded under her, hair damp and frizzing at the ends against the cushion.

“You know what I want?” she said aloud, mostly to the room, maybe to herself. “Something stupid. Familiar. Like a movie we’ve both seen too many times.”

Her voice was lazy now, sleepy with safety. She didn’t look over to check his reaction — she didn’t have to. She already knew he’d follow. That he’d settle in next to her, maybe let his knee bump hers, maybe not move away.

She grabbed the remote, thumb hovering. “No war dramas. No heavy plots. Nothing that’ll make me cry in your hoodie.”

She smirked a little to herself. Tossed a look over her shoulder.

“Something easy. Something where they end up together.”

She didn’t need a fairytale.

But tonight — this — felt close.

Kai leaned back in his chair, glass of wine still in hand, and let himself just…watch her.

Not the polished version the world thought they knew. Not the girl under stage lights, all armor and angles. This Lennon Rae was hoodie-drowned, damp-haired, barefoot on his couch like it was hers. And hell if it didn’t make his chest feel like it was about to crack open.

He could read her even when she didn’t try to hide. The way her shoulders had finally dropped, the way she moved in his kitchen like she’d always known where the plates lived, the way she’d said something easy, something where they end up together with that lazy little smirk—he could see it all. The fear still tucked at the edges, sure, but also the part of her that was finally letting herself want this.

Want him.

So he didn’t tease, not this time. Didn’t ruin the softness with a quip about her picky movie rules. Instead, he pushed himself up from the table, crossed the kitchen in easy strides, and dropped onto the couch beside her without asking. His knee brushed hers, deliberate, and when she didn’t move away, he let his arm fall across the back of the cushions, close enough that the scent of her shampoo rose up when she leaned.

“Something easy,” he echoed, voice low, warm, like he was filing the request under done. He tipped his glass toward her, lips quirking just enough to let the charm bleed through without drowning the moment. “Guess that makes us a rom-com then, Rae. Two idiots who took the long way back just to end up on this couch anyway.”

She gave him that look—the one that said he was ridiculous, but also maybe right—and he let it land, let it hang there between them. Then, softer, truer, he added:

“And for the record? This is my favorite version of you. Hoodie, damp hair, outlawing war dramas. This one.” His eyes stayed steady on hers, no smirk now. Just him. “The one who doesn’t run.”

He reached over, plucked the remote gently from her hand, and scrolled until some half-forgotten classic flickered across the screen—something light, something safe, something that ended the way she’d asked.

Then he set the remote down, stretched out, and tugged her effortlessly against him until her head found his chest and his hoodie swallowed her whole. His hand rubbed idle circles into her hip, grounding her in the kind of touch that wasn’t a demand—just a reminder. Here. With me. Stay.

“Let’s watch,” he murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head before settling back, voice dropping lower, smoother. “We’ll end up together anyway. Might as well get the spoiler out early.”

And then he just held her. Warmth, wine, the hum of the TV filling the silence while the steadiness of his heart did the rest.

Lennon didn’t say anything at first.

Not because she didn’t have a thousand things running through her — she did. The kind that tumbled through her chest and caught behind her ribs, the kind she used to scribble in notebooks or sing into empty green rooms or shove down deep enough that even Kai Mercer couldn’t get to them.

But now?
Now she just let it be quiet.

Because she was wrapped in his hoodie and his arms and his stupid, steady warmth, and there was something reverent about the way he held her. Not possessive. Not performative. Just sure. Like he knew, bone-deep, that she was meant to be there.

And maybe for the first time, she believed it too.

She let her fingers play absently with the hem of his t-shirt, brushing the warm skin underneath. She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek, the steady drum of his heartbeat syncing with hers. God, how many times had she imagined this? Not the shows, not the crowds — but this. The ordinary magic of movie night and garlic and no one needing to leave.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “I used to think wanting this made me weak.”

She felt his breath catch — just slightly.

“I thought… if I slowed down, if I stopped running, everything would catch up to me. Every headline, every mistake. You.” Her thumb traced an idle path over his ribs. “But the truth is, I wasn’t scared of losing myself.”

She tilted her head up just enough to look at him — not performing, not hiding, just her. “I was scared I’d get it. All of it. The thing I wanted most and didn’t think I deserved.”

The way he looked at her right then — steady, unshaken, like she was the thing he’d been chasing — made her throat tighten.

“So yeah,” she whispered, tucking herself back into his chest. “Let’s get the spoiler out early. We end up together. Because I’m done rewriting this ending.”

And then she reached for his hand and laced their fingers without hesitation. No rush, no rescue, just them.

Here.
Now.
Finally.

She didn’t need to look at him again to know what was in his eyes.

She knew that look. Knew how it wrapped around her like a second skin, how it burned a little going down — not because it hurt, but because it was real. Because it meant something. Because it saw her. Not the version she sold. Not the girl they all thought had it figured out. Just her.

And somehow, even now, that still undid her a little.

Lennon let their joined hands rest on her stomach, his thumb brushing rhythmically across her knuckles. Her body had fully relaxed into his — like it had been waiting for this exact gravity. Waiting for the quiet after. After the running. After the push and pull. After the doubt.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice half-wrapped in sleep and the other half in something older, something truer, “we were never going to get this when we were kids.”

She felt him shift, the smallest inhale — not disagreement, just recognition.

“I mean—” a breath of a laugh left her, soft and self-aware, “we tried. God, we really did. But it was always fireworks and fallout. And back then, I thought that was love. Thought it had to hurt to matter.”

She turned her face into his chest a little more, inhaling the scent of him — warm cotton, salt, something citrus-soft. Home.

“But this?” she whispered. “This is the part I didn’t believe we’d ever get to. Where nothing’s on fire. Where you’re not walking away. Where I’m not… running first.”

A beat. Then:

“I don’t want to miss this because I’m still flinching at shadows.”

The TV flickered in front of them, painting the walls with gentle color, but she didn’t look. Didn’t move. Just stayed wrapped around the kind of stillness that felt earned.

And quieter, so quiet it almost wasn’t meant to be heard:

“Please don’t let me mess this up.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a test.

It was a prayer. One she’d never said out loud before.

But if she was going to believe in anything again — in them, in this version of love that didn’t come with bloodshed — it was going to start here. In his arms. In his hoodie. With garlic on her breath and her whole heart on the line.

Kai tightened his arm around her without even thinking, like his body knew before his mind did what she needed.

The words landed heavy — not because they scared him, but because they were hers. Because she’d finally handed him the rawest, most unguarded piece of herself, and all he wanted was to catch it. Hold it. Never let it hit the ground.

He let the silence breathe for a moment, not rushing in with reassurance she wasn’t ready to hear. Just letting his thumb keep tracing that slow rhythm across her knuckles, steady, grounding. Letting her feel the truth in his touch before he even shaped it into sound.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Certain. “You’re not messing this up, Rae. Not this time. Not when we’ve already lived through every wrong version and still ended up here.”

His hand shifted from hers just long enough to brush damp curls back from her cheek, fingers lingering there, gentle. “You think I don’t know what scared feels like? You think I haven’t replayed every time I walked away, every time I let you believe I couldn’t choose you? I know those shadows too. I just don’t live in them anymore. Not when I’ve got this right in front of me.”

He pressed his lips to her temple, slow, deliberate. Stayed there a beat longer than he had to. “I don’t need fireworks. I don’t need chaos. I don’t need the version of us that made good songs and bad nights. I need this. Garlic and wine and you in my hoodie, stealing the blanket and making me watch bad movies.”

Kai leaned back just enough to look at her, to make sure she saw it — not charm, not performance, just the weight of everything he meant. “I waited because I knew we weren’t finished. And if you think I’d let fear or shadows or old versions of us screw that up now?” His mouth curved, soft but steady. “Not a chance. You’re mine. And I’m yours. That’s the story now.”

He laced their fingers again, firmer this time, anchoring both their hands against her stomach like he was staking his claim not with possession, but with permanence. Then he kissed her knuckles, slow and reverent, like a seal.

“Sleep if you want,” he murmured against her skin, eyes still locked on hers. “Or stay awake and make fun of my movie taste. Doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

And then he tucked her closer, hoodie and all, letting the movie flicker across the room while his hand kept that same rhythm over hers — a steady beat that said, without words: You can stop running. I’ve got you.

Her breath hitched — not loud, not dramatic — just enough to crack something open inside her.

Because she did believe him. Not in the fairytale way. Not in the way she used to believe in songs and second chances and boys who promised forever with crossed fingers. This was different. Realer. He wasn’t reaching for the perfect lyric — he was just here. Warm and solid and unshaken, even as she unraveled in his arms.

And God, she wanted to be held like that. Not just physically. But like her mess didn’t scare him. Like he’d already seen the worst and chosen her anyway.

She didn’t say anything at first. Couldn’t. Just let her fingers tighten in his like she was afraid he’d slip through if she didn’t hang on tight enough. Her forehead rested against the line of his jaw, and for a long stretch of seconds, she just breathed. Counted the beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Let it settle something wild in her ribs.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I think I always knew we’d circle back.”

Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand. “Didn’t know it’d feel like this, though. Like… like I could actually stay.”

She shifted just enough to look up at him, eyes still shining, lashes damp from all the words she hadn’t said. “You know I was scared, right? That this would fall apart the second I stopped running? That I’d finally have you and somehow still lose everything?”

She smiled, small and real and devastatingly soft. “But I’m here. Hoodie and all.”

Then, with a flicker of that familiar Rae defiance, she leaned up, kissed the corner of his mouth — slow, sweet, and certain. “So you better be serious about the bad movies, Mercer. Because I’ve got a whole list.”

She settled back against his chest, limbs tangled with his, the flicker of the screen casting quiet light across both their faces. And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she had to protect herself. Didn’t feel like she had to be anything other than exactly what she was: scared, messy, wildly in love — and safe.

“I’m yours too,” she whispered finally, eyes slipping closed. “For real this time.”

And she meant it. Every word. Every second.

Because this? This was theirs. At last.

Lennon stayed there for another breath, maybe two, her body curled into his like a song she’d finally stopped trying to rewrite. His heartbeat was steady under her cheek, and his hoodie still smelled like the dryer sheet he always overused — warm, nostalgic, stupidly comforting.

But then the screen flickered.

A trumpet blared.

And she blinked.

Slowly, suspiciously, she lifted her head just enough to catch the opening credits rolling across the screen — bright serif font, jazz in full swing, a montage of old New York skylines in pastel tones. Her brow furrowed. She tilted her face toward his, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh.

“Wait.” A beat. “Did you seriously put on Guys and Dolls?”

Her voice wasn’t accusing — not really — more…utterly baffled. Equal parts disbelief and amusement. She sat up slightly now, bracing herself with one hand on his chest, eyes narrowing like she couldn’t decide if he was messing with her or just had deeply questionable taste.

“You, Kai Mercer, willingly chose a technicolor musical? With synchronized sewer-dancing gangsters and Brando pretending to sing?” She poked a finger gently into his ribs. “Is this penance for something? Did I miss a bet? Are we being haunted by a Broadway ghost?”

And then she laughed — really laughed — the kind that made her eyes crinkle and her whole body shake for a second. She sank back against him with a groan, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Oh my God, you’re serious,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “You actually like this movie. I am in physical pain.”

But her arm curled tighter around his middle, and when she looked up again, her smile was softer. Teasing, yes — but laced with affection so full it nearly glowed.

“Okay. Fine. You get a pass. But only if you sing along to ‘Luck Be a Lady.’ And I will be judging your falsetto.”

She nestled in again, letting the film play, letting the weird joy of it wrap around them both.

And under her breath, so quiet he almost missed it:

“This is ridiculous.”
A pause.
“I love it.”

Kai bit back a grin, the kind that tugged dimples deep and gave him away no matter how hard he tried.

Of course she’d catch it. Of course she’d call him out. That was Lennon Rae—sharp as a tack, funny as hell, and just reckless enough to make him feel like home wasn’t a place but a person pressed against his side in a hoodie two sizes too big.

He slid a hand over hers where it rested on his chest, thumb brushing lazy circles against her knuckles. “First of all,” he said, his voice dropping into that mock-serious tone he used when he wanted to disarm her, “Guys and Dolls is a classic. Sinatra, Brando, the whole neon gangster thing—it’s cinematic history, Rae.”

Her finger poked him in the ribs again and he winced, laughing, letting the sound roll low in his chest where her ear rested. He tilted his head just enough to kiss the crown of her damp hair, breathing her in between sentences. “Second of all, yes. I am one hundred percent serious. And third?” His mouth curved closer to her ear, warm and teasing. “You’re mine, you’re staying, and that means you’re stuck watching musicals with me. Forever.”

He leaned back to catch her expression, catching the way her eyes narrowed like she might throw her wine glass just to make a point. God, she was beautiful—messy hair, bare legs, cinnamon still clinging faintly to her skin. More beautiful than any memory he’d ever pinned to a corkboard.

“So yeah,” he added, softer now, his voice brushing steady against the noise of trumpets and pastel skylines, “I’ll sing ‘Luck Be a Lady.’ I’ll even dance, if you’re lucky. Because this—” his hand lifted, gently brushing the edge of her jaw, steady and reverent, “—this is the stupid, ridiculous life I want with you. Garlic, musicals, churros, all of it. I’m not letting go.”

He kissed her again then, slow and deliberate, before settling back into the couch with her curled against him.

And when Sinatra’s voice filled the room, Kai did exactly what she dared him to do—sang quietly under his breath, just for her, low and slightly off-key but unshaken. Because if forever meant being ridiculous with Lennon Rae, he’d sign up twice.