She didn’t even try to hide the smile this time.

Didn’t try to act unimpressed or toss out a sarcastic quip — not when his voice was in her ear, not when his hand was on her jaw like she was something sacred. Not when he kissed her like that, like he was sure, and slow, and so goddamn here.

Lennon Rae just let herself feel it.

The kiss.
The couch.
The movie she’d made fun of two seconds ago but secretly loved.
The boy she never got to keep — now the man who wouldn’t let go.

She didn’t say anything when he started singing, either. Just closed her eyes for a second, tucked against him, heart doing something traitorous in her chest because of course he knew all the lyrics. Of course he was a little flat on the high notes. Of course he was serious.

And she was gone for him. Totally, completely, no-way-back gone.

Her fingers found his under the blanket, lacing through without thinking, holding tight like she needed something to anchor her to this version of reality — the one where they were actually doing this. Not breaking. Not pretending. Not running.

Just her. Just him.
Just a ridiculous old movie and a future they’d named in a kitchen full of garlic and wine.

“You know this means I’m choosing next time,” she whispered eventually, voice lazy with sleep and smirking all the same. “And I swear to God, if you mock Mamma Mia, I will walk into the sea.”

She didn’t wait for him to promise. Just leaned in, kissed the underside of his jaw, and settled back down against his chest.

Kai couldn’t help it—he laughed. That full-bodied, head-tipped-back kind of laugh that made his chest shake beneath her cheek and gave away exactly how hard he was gone for her too.

“Mamma Mia?” he echoed, looking down at her with mock horror, his thumb still stroking over the back of her hand under the blanket. “Rae, you’re seriously threatening me with ABBA right now? Do you even know what you’ve just unleashed? Because I will commit. I’ll know every harmony, every Pierce Brosnan warble, every dance break. You’re not ready for the chaos.”

Her smirk tilted up against his skin, and God, he’d live on that expression forever if he could. He tightened his arm around her, playful but anchoring, pulling her in like the couch wasn’t big enough to hold them both.

“Honestly?” he went on, grin crooked, voice dropping into that warm, teasing register he knew got her. “You think I’m mocking? I’m about to out-sing you on ‘Voulez-Vous.’ Full falsetto. Shimmies included. Then what?”

She snorted into his shirt, muttering something about him being insufferable, but he caught the way her fingers curled tighter into his, like she didn’t actually want to move even a fraction of an inch away.

“Face it, Rae,” he said, brushing a kiss across her temple before leaning back to catch her eyes, playful but steady underneath. “We’re officially that couple. You know, the obnoxious one who sings showtunes on the couch and scares the neighbors.”

He kissed her again then, quick and soft, but the kind that lingered after it ended. The kind that promised more of this—of garlic and musicals and mornings where she’d still be in his hoodie.

When he pulled back, his grin was easy, boyish, completely undone by her. “So yeah. Queue up your Mamma Mia. Because if I’m stuck with you—and spoiler, I want to be—I’m stuck with ABBA too. Forever.”

Then, quieter, with that signature Mercer spark in his eye:

“And Rae? I like the sound of that.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Mostly because she was busy burying her face in his chest to muffle the laugh that broke out the second he said “full falsetto.” Because of course he would. Of course Kai Mercer would threaten her with jazz hands and a Brando impression one minute and then turn around and promise forever like it was just as casual. Just as easy.

God, he made it feel easy.

She tilted her head back enough to look up at him, eyebrows raised, mouth curved in that barely-contained smirk she got when she was pretending not to be completely, stupidly in love with him.

“You’re unwell,” she said, voice soft but teasing, her thumb brushing lightly over his collarbone. “Truly. Mentally unwell. You just admitted to liking Pierce Brosnan’s singing voice, and I don’t know how I come back from that.”

But her eyes didn’t leave his. Not when his fingers kept tracing hers like muscle memory. Not when he kissed her temple like it was second nature. Not when he said “I’m stuck with you” like it was something he’d picked, not something that just happened.

Her heart thudded harder in her chest, the kind of rhythm she used to write songs about—fast, terrifying, beautiful.

And still, she didn’t run.

She leaned in, pressed her lips to his jaw, right beneath the stubble she liked too much, and said it so quietly it barely counted as teasing anymore:

“Well, Mercer…” Her smile softened, more awe than sarcasm now. “You better learn the choreography to ‘Lay All Your Love on Me,’ because if this is forever…”
She paused, thumb grazing the hollow of his throat.

“I’m not running either.”

Then she kissed him — slow and sure, laughter still caught in her breath — and curled closer with the kind of ease you only have when you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.
On this couch.
Watching Guys and Dolls and planning ABBA-themed threats like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

Honestly, she thought she was winning — curled against him, warm from wine and kisses and the sheer ridiculousness of imagining him performing a full dance break in the living room. She was still smiling when she tucked herself tighter beneath his arm, fingers laced with his under the blanket, and let her cheek settle back against his chest.

He felt like safety.

And his heart — steady, rhythmic, that quiet percussion beneath her ear — was the last thing she remembered before the movie drifted into background noise and her lashes fluttered closed without permission.

It wasn’t dramatic. No dreamy sigh or whispered promise. Just the kind of sleep that only happened when she felt completely, utterly safe.

Her breathing evened out. Her body softened into his. And her fingers, once curled so tightly into his hoodie, went loose and trusting over his ribs.

The television flickered on — Brando’s voice still crooning in the distance — but she didn’t stir. Not even when he shifted just slightly to pull the blanket higher over her bare legs. Not when he pressed the softest kiss to the top of her head. Not when he whispered her name — not to wake her, but just to say it aloud, like a prayer he’d finally been allowed to keep.

Lennon Rae was asleep.

In his hoodie.

On his chest.

In his house.

And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel like she was crashing somewhere.

She felt like she was home.

Kai didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not when her breath had settled against his chest, soft and steady, each exhale syncing with the rhythm of his heart like she’d found her place there and finally—finally—let herself rest. He tightened his arm just slightly around her, careful not to wake her, and let his fingers brush lazily through the damp curls at her temple.

God, she was out. And God, she was beautiful like this. No fight. No walls. Just Lennon Rae in his hoodie, asleep against him as if she trusted him to keep the whole world away while she dreamed.

He swallowed, the lump in his throat stubborn.

Because it hit him—hard, deeper than any lyric ever had—that this wasn’t temporary. Not to him. Not anymore. He’d had her in green rooms and hotel hallways, in songs and stolen minutes. But this? Her sleeping on his chest with a churro still sitting half-crushed on the counter and Brando warbling from the TV? This was the forever he wanted. The forever he was building.

He bent his head and pressed another kiss into her hair, slower this time, lingering just enough to breathe her in. “Home,” he whispered into the curls, the word almost catching before it landed. “That’s what you are, Rae.”

The movie droned on, lights from the screen throwing stripes of color across the living room, but he barely noticed. All he saw was her—the way her fingers still rested loosely against his ribs like she’d finally unclenched, the way her mouth curved the faintest bit even in sleep, like she’d carried her smile into her dreams.

His free hand tightened around hers beneath the blanket, thumb brushing over her knuckles on instinct. He let himself picture it, just for a moment: every night like this. Every morning with her hair a mess and her voice grumbling about coffee. Every argument softened by laughter, every silence filled by this kind of ease.

He smiled—soft, crooked, stupidly gone.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and murmured against her hair, voice low and sure:

“Forever’s got nothing on us.”

She didn’t stir. Didn’t open her eyes.

But her body curled instinctively closer, like she’d heard him anyway.

And Kai Mercer? He held her tighter, let his head tip back against the couch, and thought—for the first time in a long, long time—that he didn’t need the stage, or the spotlight, or even the perfect song.

He had her.

And that was enough.

They’d been in a good rhythm lately.

Most days started with music in the kitchen — Kai barefoot, messing with old vinyls or stirring eggs with a pencil tucked behind his ear. His brothers had been around more too, dropping in with guitars and inside jokes, staying late to write or argue about bridges that didn’t need rewriting.

It had been noisy. Full. The kind of busy that didn’t drain her.

She liked watching them together. Liked seeing how easily Kai fell into step with them again — that rare blend of playful and focused, laughing one minute and completely tunnel-visioned the next. She’d curl up on the couch sometimes, pretending to scroll while secretly listening to the way their voices layered over chords and old memories.

It felt like real life.
Not borrowed. Not temporary. Just… steady.

Today, she’d offered to help clean up. A pile of laundry had gathered in the corner of the bedroom — mostly his, a few of hers, all of it familiar. She’d tossed on one of his old sweatshirts, rolled her sleeves, and got to work while the shower ran in the next room.

She wasn’t snooping.

Not really.

She was just moving through the drawers like she always did, folding things that had lost their shape, smoothing out wrinkled tees, tucking away a pair of socks with mismatched logos. Her hands worked on autopilot.

Until the last drawer.

Bottom right. The one that used to stick.

It slid open easily now.

Empty.

Not cluttered. Not messy. Just… clean.

She stared at it.

No receipts. No cables. No random guitar picks or wristbands. Just space.

Space where something could go.

She held the rolled sweatshirt in her hand a second longer, then lowered it, heart skipping a beat she hadn’t planned on. It wasn’t a big thing. It didn’t mean anything.

But still.

She glanced toward the bathroom door. Steam curled along the frame. His voice was faint now, humming some half-finished verse he’d been workshopping all week — the one his brothers had given him hell for not recording yet.

It made her smile.

She turned back to the drawer and gently touched the edge. Her fingers didn’t shake, but her chest felt warm and tight, like something unnamed had just settled behind her ribs.

When the water shut off, she called out without thinking — casual, light.

“Hey… this drawer,” she said, tapping it once with the side of her hand. “Was it always empty?”

No pressure. Just curiosity.

The bathroom door creaked open a second later.

Kai stepped out, towel low on his hips, hair dripping, steam following him like he’d dragged the shower out into the room. He was still humming, still in that half-dazed, post-songwriting rhythm he got when the melody stuck in his head — until her voice cut through.

“This drawer.”

His eyes flicked toward where she stood, oversized sweatshirt swallowed around her frame, hand resting on the open wood.

For a second, he froze.

Not because she’d found anything — but because she hadn’t.

The bottom drawer. The one that used to catch. The one he’d spent too many late nights filling with scraps he couldn’t let go of. Ticket stubs. Set lists. Photos he didn’t look at but couldn’t throw away. A shoebox full of her handwriting, her songs, pieces of them he’d convinced himself were safer out of sight.

He’d cleared it two weeks ago. Not because he stopped caring — because he finally understood he didn’t need a drawer to prove she wasn’t gone.

And because maybe, just maybe, he wanted space for something better.

Something now.

Something hers.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, towel still dripping onto the hardwood, and let the corner of his mouth tip into that slow, easy smirk she always caught him with when he was trying to play cool but meant it too much.

“Wasn’t always empty,” he admitted, voice low, casual in the way that made her eyes narrow because she could always hear the weight beneath it. “But it is now.”

He let the silence hang just long enough to see her lips part, her hand still resting at the edge like she was afraid to move it.

Then he pushed off the frame, crossed the room barefoot, and stopped just close enough that the damp heat off his skin brushed against her sleeve. He looked down at the drawer, then back at her, and reached out — not to close it, but to slide his fingers over hers where they rested on the wood.

“Figured it was time to make space,” he said softly, thumb brushing over her knuckle. “Didn’t want to keep holding onto the past in a box when…” His eyes found hers, steady, warm, completely unshaken. “When I’ve got the real thing standing in front of me.”

Her breath hitched, and he grinned — softer this time, not cocky, not flippant. Just Kai.

“Drawer’s yours if you want it, Rae. Hoodies. Notebooks. Random churro crumbs. Whatever makes it feel like you.”

Then, quieter, tilting his forehead to hers:

“Guess I’m just hoping you’ll fill it.”

He kissed her temple, damp hair dripping onto her cheek, and didn’t move away. Didn’t soften the truth of it.

Because yeah, it was just a drawer.

But to him, it was proof.

He wasn’t keeping space for the ghost of her anymore.

He was making space for her to stay.

Lennon didn’t answer right away.

Her fingers brushed over the edge of the drawer again, slower this time, like she was trying to feel the weight of everything he’d just said without tipping it over. It wasn’t like her to get quiet, not when things mattered. But for a second, she needed it — needed the hush of it. The honesty.

The drawer was empty.

But the moment wasn’t.

She finally looked up at him, her gaze catching on the smirk he wore like armor. That soft, crooked thing he always used when the truth got too close. And God, it was all over him now. Bare skin, bare words, towel barely staying on — and somehow, still, it was the openness that undid her most.

Her voice came out low. Steady, but quieter than usual. “You cleared it out for me?”

There wasn’t shock in the question. Just… reverence. Like she was still learning how to hold what they were becoming without breaking it.

She let him touch her hand, didn’t pull away. Her pulse skipped a little under his thumb — of course it did — but she didn’t shift.

Instead, she gave a half-smile. Something crooked and real. “You know I’m a mess, right? If I start putting stuff in here, it’s not gonna be some cute, aesthetic display. It’s gonna be receipts and hair ties and probably a half-melted lip balm.”

She tried to laugh, but it caught somewhere softer in her throat. She let it settle.

“I’m not good at this,” she added, barely above a whisper. “At letting people make space for me. I never really… expected anyone to.”

Her eyes flicked down to the drawer again. Still open. Still waiting.

And then back to him.

“But maybe I want to try.” She swallowed, voice steadier now. “Maybe I want to see what it feels like to have a drawer.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And quietly — almost too quietly to be teasing — she added, “You sure you’re ready for the churro crumbs?”

Her thumb pressed lightly into his, grounding. Answering.

Because yeah, she was scared.

But she wasn’t walking away. Not this time.

She didn’t need him to say anything.

Not right now.

He was still standing there — warm and quiet and his — but the words were done for now, and what was left between them didn’t need sound to mean something.

Lennon eased the drawer shut, not with finality, but with something gentler. A promise in pause. Not no — just not yet. Her hand lingered on the wood, fingertips brushing the worn groove in the corner like she was learning the shape of this new version of them, slow and careful.

This wasn’t like before.

They hadn’t had this when they were seventeen, when everything burned fast and wild and unfinished. Back then, they never talked about drawers or what came after the high. They just crashed into each other and called it love. But this — standing in his room with steam clinging to the walls and the ghost of a melody still humming in the air — this felt like a life, not a fire.

She moved toward him before she could think too much, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her forehead against the middle of his chest. Water clung to his skin, damp against her cheek, and she didn’t care.

He didn’t pull her closer — didn’t have to.

She was already there.

Already his.

And maybe that scared her more than anything else.

Because she didn’t believe in permanence. Not really. She believed in almosts and what-ifs and people leaving when they got tired. But he’d cleared out a drawer. He’d left space. And not for memory, not for grief — for her.

That kind of thing left a mark.

She let her eyes close for a second, just breathing him in. No words. No rush. Just the sound of the room, the softness of the moment.

Then she leaned back enough to look up at him.

And without breaking eye contact, without giving herself time to pull back into safety, she pressed a kiss to his collarbone — slow, certain, sealing.

The kind of kiss you didn’t give unless you meant to stay.

She stayed like that for a moment — arms looped around his waist, breath soft against his chest — letting the silence stretch, letting it say what they hadn’t before. Not like this. Not when it counted.

Her fingers curled lightly into the towel at his back, anchoring herself, even as her heart thundered like it might break through her ribs.

She didn’t need grand gestures. She didn’t need a perfect line.

She just needed him to know.

So she tilted her head up, eyes steady on his, voice quiet but unwavering.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a question.

It was a truth.

Simple. Soft. Undeniably hers.

She saw it land in his eyes before he could say anything — the stillness, the flicker of awe, the way he looked at her like she’d just handed him the one thing he’d never ask for but had always wanted anyway.

And then she smiled — small, a little crooked, but full of everything she didn’t know how to put into words. The drawer. The space. The staying.

She meant all of it.

Kai swore he could feel the world tilt.

Not in that dizzy, stage-light way it used to when the crowd roared and his name bounced back at him. No, this was quieter. Slower. A shift so deep it sank straight into his bones.

Because Lennon Rae had just said it.

I love you.

And she wasn’t performing it, wasn’t dressing it up in jokes or song lyrics or some sarcastic shield to soften the blow. She was standing in his hoodie, damp hair curling down her shoulders, arms wrapped tight around his waist like she already knew she belonged there—and she’d handed it to him raw. Real. Hers.

His first instinct was to laugh—not because it was funny, but because his chest hurt with how much it landed. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment and didn’t believe he’d ever get to hear it outside his own head.

Instead, he let the quiet breathe between them for a beat. Let himself look at her—really look—like she’d just rearranged the sky again.

Her lips at his collarbone. Her fingers clutching the towel like he might vanish if she didn’t hold on. The steady fire in her eyes that told him she meant every word.

God.

This woman.

Kai dipped his head, forehead brushing hers, his voice coming out low and steady, laced with that same crooked charm that had gotten him through everything—but softer now. Bare.

“I love you too, Rae.”

No hesitation. No clever line. Just the truth, spoken like it had been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for her to be ready to catch it.

He kissed her then—slow, reverent, lips lingering over hers like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t just promising her tonight, or the drawer, or even this room, but every morning after. Every garlic-burned dinner, every stupid musical marathon, every breath they hadn’t gotten to share before now.

When he pulled back, his hand slid down her arm, fingers tracing over her wrist until he caught her hand again. He lifted it, pressed a kiss to her knuckles like she was something rare, something precious, and then laced their fingers tight together.

“Mess, churro crumbs, bad lip balm and all,” he said with a smirk that didn’t quite hide the awe in his eyes. “That drawer’s yours. This house is yours. Hell—Rae, I’m yours.”

He let the words land, simple and unshaken, then leaned in close again, his lips brushing her temple.

“And I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”

The steam from the bathroom was already fading, but the air between them burned warm, steady. Kai grinned softly against her skin, breathing her in, and thought to himself that if this was what it meant to stay—he was never walking out that door again.

Lennon stayed pressed against him, forehead tucked just under his jaw, not because she didn’t know what to say — but because for once, she didn’t feel like she had to say anything at all.

She just was. With him. In this room. In this body that still carried too many memories and defenses and almosts, but for the first time, felt like it might actually be allowed to want more.

The words hung between them, still soft, still holy.

She felt them sink in like heat after cold — not shocking, just slow and total.

“I love you too, Rae.”

God, she’d never wanted anything to be more true than that.

Her eyes burned. Not because she was overwhelmed, but because he’d said it like it wasn’t fragile. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like he’d already chosen her, long before this moment, and everything after was just a confirmation.

Her grip tightened slightly where her hands rested at his waist, steadying herself with the damp cotton of the towel. She could still feel his heartbeat against her chest — fast, grounded, real.

She tilted her head just enough to look up at him, gaze caught on the way he looked at her like she wasn’t a question mark anymore. Like she was the answer.

And she hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

“I wasn’t trying to make it a moment,” she said finally, her voice low, a little hoarse. “It just… was one.”

Her thumb brushed over his side, slow and thoughtful. “I’ve loved you before tonight. I think you know that. But I wanted it to feel like this when I said it.”

Another beat of silence passed. His eyes were still on her. She could feel them.

So she gave him the rest of it. Quiet. Undramatic. Just hers.

“It does.”

She exhaled against his collarbone, body relaxing fully for the first time since she’d stepped into this house all those days ago. Her hoodie sleeve was damp where it touched his shoulder. Her hair was curling more now as it dried — wild and soft and untamed, like everything she used to fight about herself but he never tried to tame.

Lennon let her fingers trace up his spine slowly, memorizing him again. Not like she used to when she didn’t know what would happen next — but like she knew.

Like she was learning him as home now.

And maybe that drawer was still technically empty. Maybe she hadn’t put anything in it yet. But her presence — her love — was already filling the spaces he’d made for her.

“Okay,” she whispered, nodding into him as if agreeing to something neither of them had to explain.

And then, finally, she stepped back just enough to grab the edge of the towel and tug him gently toward the bed.

“You’re dripping all over the floor,” she teased, soft again. “Come on. Before we turn the bedroom into a Slip ’N Slide.”

She didn’t say it like it meant everything — but it did.

It meant: I’m staying.

It meant: You’re mine too.

It meant: Tomorrow’s coming, and I’m still gonna be here when it does.

Kai couldn’t help it—he laughed. Low, warm, a little wrecked around the edges, because she’d just said I love you like it was gospel and then immediately followed it up by dragging him toward the bed like he was some overgrown Labrador dripping saltwater everywhere.

God, that was Lennon Rae.

And he loved her so much it hurt.

“Slip ’N Slide, huh?” he said, letting her tug at the towel, playful grin tugging at his mouth as he let her lead. “You know, if you’d said that ten years ago, I would’ve absolutely tried to make it happen. Hose, plastic tarp, bad decisions—I had the whole kit.”

Her eyes flicked up at him, half a glare, half soft, and he swore he’d never seen anything better.

“But now?” He stepped closer, letting the towel trail a little just to prove her point about the floor. “I’m older. Wiser. Definitely hotter.” He dropped his voice, smooth as velvet. “And I know better than to waste water when you could just towel me off yourself.”

Her laugh broke, sharp and real, and he caught it with a kiss—quick, sweet, messy in the way only they could be. When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against hers, his smile softer now.

“You weren’t trying to make it a moment,” he murmured, thumb brushing over her cheekbone, “but, Rae… every time you look at me like that? It is one. I don’t even have to try.”

He let that settle—real, steady—before the grin slipped back in. “And for the record? The drawer’s not waiting on churro crumbs. It’s waiting on you. Lip balm, receipts, whatever chaos you come with—I’ll take it. Happily.”

He tugged her closer by the hoodie hem, still damp against her legs. “So yeah. You’ve officially upgraded from hoodie-thief to co-owner of this mess. Congratulations, Rae. No returns, no exchanges.”

Then, without letting her get a word in, he bent, swept her up off the damp patch of floor with ease, and carried her the last few steps toward the bed.

“Now sit,” he teased, dropping her gently onto the comforter, his smirk playful but his eyes lit with something deeper. “Before you break an ankle trying to domesticate me.”

He grabbed the edge of the towel, half for show, half serious. “And for the record? If anyone’s making puddles in here tonight, it’s not just gonna be me.”

He winked. Playful to the bone.

And God, he’d never meant anything more.