Violet didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t soften in the way people expected mothers to soften when their daughters held their hand like that—gentle, certain, earned.

No, Violet steadied.

Because that was the thing about her—under the steel, beneath the scar tissue and sharp wit and all the old silence, she was a fortress. A woman who’d taught herself how to be immovable when everything else cracked. And now? Now, she was still that—but with space carved into her walls for moments like this. For her.

She didn’t look away from the screen, but her voice came low and sure, laced with pride that didn’t need frills.

“You’re damn right we didn’t snap.”

She squeezed Leighton’s hand once—firm. Final. Like punctuation.

“And don’t mistake bending for breaking, baby. We bent because we had to. Because we’re built to last. Because I didn’t raise you to shatter every time life showed up wearing teeth.”

The characters on-screen floated dramatically apart, whispering space vows over comms. Violet didn’t bat an eye.

“You’re mine,” she went on, quieter now. “And that means you carry this whole bloodline of stubborn grit and inconvenient feelings and knowing when to stay. You hold it like it’s instinct. Like it’s armor.”

She finally turned her head, just a fraction, just enough to catch the edge of Leighton’s profile lit by the TV glow.

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me? Like you were trying to figure out if I was really still here? I am. And I always will be. Even when you’re wrong. Even when you’re not speaking to me. Even when you cry over wormhole kisses like a damn Hallmark card in space boots.”

Violet didn’t smile. Not exactly.

But something in her eyes gleamed—sharp, maternal, fierce in the way love gets when it’s been tested.

“Because that’s what it means to be your mother. Not perfect. Not poetic. Just present.”

She leaned forward, grabbed the popcorn bowl with her free hand, and dumped half of it dramatically into Leighton’s lap without breaking eye contact.

“You cry, I pass snacks. That’s the deal.”

A beat.

“And if I cry?” Her tone dropped, mock-serious. “You speak of it to no one. Not at holidays. Not at brunch. Not even on my deathbed.”

She leaned back again, shoulder pressing into Leighton’s.

Then, softer—barely a breath—

“But I probably will. Because I see you. And that scares the hell out of me in the best way.”

The show moved on, ridiculous and glowing and deeply unnecessary.

Violet didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Because this?

This was exactly what she stayed for.

Still mother.
Still fortress.
Still holding.

They didn’t say much on the way back.

Didn’t need to.

Not with his hand in hers, not with the quiet buzz of something steady humming between them. Not when every step away from school and toward her house felt like shedding the weight of the day piece by piece.

By the time they pushed through the front door, Leighton was already kicking off her boots, tugging her backpack from her shoulder like it was a reflex. Spencer followed, slower, eyes tracking her every movement like she might disappear if he looked away for even a second.

She didn’t.

She just looked over her shoulder and nodded toward the hallway.

“Come on.”

When they got to her room, she shut the door behind them without ceremony. The soft click of it latching was quieter than a promise—but it still landed like one.

Leighton didn’t bother with the usual small talk. She just shrugged off the rest of her layers—hoodie, bracelets, rings—until she was standing there in nothing but her oversized t-shirt and socks, the kind of comfort only someone who knew she was safe could sink into.

Then she climbed onto the bed.

Not graceful. Not trying to impress.

Just home.

Spencer didn’t say a word. Just pulled off his hoodie, then his jeans, until he was left in his boxers and that look in his eyes—the one that said thank you without needing to say it.

He crawled in beside her, and without hesitation, she reached for the covers.

Pulled them over their heads like they were hiding from the world.

Like they could keep this moment just theirs.

And suddenly—it wasn’t just a bed. It was a blanket fort. A universe. A secret. That scene in Romeo + Juliet they both pretended not to be obsessed with, the one with the soft sheets and hushed laughter and skin lit by sunlight through gauze.

Here, it was cotton instead of gauze. Familiar instead of cinematic.

But it felt the same.

Leighton scooted closer, noses almost touching, breath mingling in the pocket of warmth they made together beneath the comforter. She traced her finger along his jaw, eyes soft.

“Hi,” she whispered, like the world had quieted just for them.

And Spencer—finally—smiled.

For real.

He almost laughed.

Not in a funny way—just in that overwhelmed, are-you-kidding-me kind of way that happened when someone saw you at your absolute worst and still looked at you like that.

Like you weren’t a mess.

Like you were just… theirs.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, eyes flicking down to their hands—hers wrapped around his like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It should’ve scared him.

But it didn’t.

Not when she looked at him like this.

“I’m probably gonna be weird about this,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges but trying not to sound as wrecked as he felt. “Like… annoyingly weird. Emotional-support-granola-bar weird.”

He felt her laugh—just a little—against his shoulder.

That helped.

A bit of the tightness in his chest loosened.

His fingers tightened in hers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, quieter now. “But I want to. With you.”

He met her eyes again, the corners of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach confident, but landed somewhere near real.

“I like the idea of being soft with you.”

A beat.

“That sounded less cringe in my head.”

He swore he felt her roll her eyes—but she was still holding his hand, still looking at him like he was worth the effort, so he took the win.

When she kissed his cheek, he closed his eyes for a second. Let it land.

Let it matter.

And when she pulled back, grinning that grin—the one that always messed him up a little—he tugged her in closer again, just for a second.

Just because he could.

“Okay,” he said, quieter this time. “Blankets. Snacks. Cuddling. Mandatory.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. Looked at her like she was the best damn thing that ever happened to his bad mood.

“I’ll bring the emotional baggage. You bring the good chips.”

And with that?

He followed her. No hesitation. No overthinking.

Just him.

Choosing her.

Leighton didn’t tease him.

Didn’t try to fix the words he stumbled through or smooth over the places where his voice cracked under the weight of wanting something real.

She just… stayed close.

Close enough that her nose brushed his when she smiled, soft and knowing.

“You can be as weird as you want,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Just means I’m gonna match your weird. Granola bars and all.”

Her thumb stroked the back of his hand, slow and steady. Like she was grounding him on purpose. Like she knew how close he’d come to unraveling and was stitching him back together in the quietest way possible.

The cheek kiss?

That wasn’t just affection.

That was reassurance. A vow.

And when he said “I like the idea of being soft with you”—

God.

Her chest clenched in that dizzy, achey, I love this boy so much it physically hurts kind of way.

She didn’t roll her eyes.

Not really.

She pretended to, because he expected it—but her smile gave her away.

That stupid grin that always pulled a laugh out of him when he didn’t want to give one.

When he pulled her in, she went willingly—curling into him under the blanket like it was second nature. Like this was the version of heaven they got.

And when he said the line about emotional baggage and good chips?

She snorted, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whispered—

“Then it’s a good thing I brought the kettle chips and zero judgment.”

Her hand slid up under the hem of his t-shirt, palm resting flat over his heart.

“You don’t have to know how to do any of this, Spence,” she said softly, serious now. “You just have to keep showing up.”

A pause. A beat of breath shared between them.

“And maybe let me love you a little louder next time.”

Then she buried her face in his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because with him?

It was.

Mess and all.

Spencer didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Just let the moment spool out around them—quiet and golden and a little unreal, like the whole damn world had decided to hush just for this.

Just for her.

The way her fingers slipped under his shirt and settled over his chest like she belonged there.

The way she didn’t flinch from the cracked parts. Didn’t ask for a version of him that smiled easier or kissed cleaner or didn’t wake up some mornings feeling like he was still sinking.

She just… stayed.

God, she stayed.

And the air around them felt different now. Softer. Slower. Like even the wind knew not to blow too hard in a moment like this. Like the sky had curled in on itself, tucking them beneath its ribs so they could have this—just this—without interruption.

He exhaled slowly, eyes falling shut as her forehead pressed into the curve of his neck.

“Showin’ up might be all I’m good at,” he mumbled, voice rough but warm, “but I’ll keep doing it if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

His fingers found the edge of her hoodie, tracing a line there just to feel the anchor of her.

“Love me louder, huh?” he added, half a laugh in his throat now. “You’re already neon.”

A beat.

“And I’m the idiot who didn’t see it ‘til now.”

She didn’t answer, not right away. But he felt it—the way her hand curled just slightly, like she was holding his heartbeat in her palm and promising not to let go.

He cracked an eye open. Glanced toward the window where the last bit of afternoon was turning everything soft and amber. Dust floated like snow in the golden light, and for some reason it made his chest hurt a little.

In a good way.

In a real way.

Spencer tilted his head, brushed his lips against her temple, then rested his cheek there.

“I want to be good at this,” he said, quieter now. “Not perfect. Just… good enough to deserve you.”

Another pause.

“I know I already do. You made sure of that.”

His eyes stayed on the ceiling, watching shadows shift like waves across old paint.

“But I still want to earn it anyway.”

The kind of silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was sacred.

And maybe that’s what this was—maybe being soft with her, real with her, was the closest thing to faith he’d ever felt.

So he pulled the blanket up around them, let his thumb drift lazily against her spine, and whispered the only thing that mattered:

“I’m here, Leia. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time?

He meant it.

With everything he had.

Leighton didn’t answer with words.

She didn’t need to.

She just curled in closer, her hand finding his under the blanket, fingers slipping between his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it’d always been meant to fit.

Her nose tucked under his jaw, breath warm against his neck, and Spencer felt it — that slow, steady rhythm of them.

No panic. No storm.

Just calm.

She let her thumb glide gently across the back of his hand, like she was soothing something she couldn’t see. Like she knew it was there anyway.

After a moment, her voice came quiet. Drowsy.

“You don’t have to earn something that’s already yours.”

Spencer didn’t move.

Just felt it.

Let it land.

The room was dim now, the late afternoon sun slipping further down the sky. Shadows stretched long across the floor. Everything smelled like her — coconut shampoo, laundry detergent, the faintest trace of weed from earlier.

Safe.

She nudged his leg under the blanket with hers. “You’re not a project, Spencer,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my person.”

He felt the sting behind his eyes again, but he didn’t let it fall. Not this time.

She shifted so she could look at him, her hand coming up to brush a stray curl away from his eyes.

“You showed up,” she murmured. “You stayed. That’s enough.”

And then, before he could argue — before he could tell her all the reasons she was wrong or that he still didn’t know what he was doing — she leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Soft. Steady.

It wasn’t about heat or urgency.

It was about choosing.

It was about comfort and home and the kind of love that didn’t need fixing.

When they pulled apart, her forehead stayed pressed to his. Her eyes half-lidded, smile soft.

“Now shut up and cuddle me,” she whispered.

He huffed a quiet laugh and pulled her closer.

And this time?

Neither of them said anything else.

They didn’t have to.

The silence between them said it all.

She didn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

Her fingers brushed softly along his jaw, tracing the curve like it mattered. Like he mattered. And when she kissed him again, it wasn’t hesitant or rushed.

It was slow.

Intentional.

Like she wanted him to feel it everywhere.

She kissed the corner of his mouth first — light and lingering — then the other, like she was mapping the parts of him that still didn’t believe in softness.

Then his lips.

Warm, careful, steady.

Spencer melted into it, letting the world narrow down to the way she tasted, the way she breathed, the way her thumb kept tracing slow circles at the base of his neck like she could anchor him there.

And she did.

God, she did.

He didn’t have to think.

Didn’t have to brace.

Just let her lead.

Let her show him what it felt like to be wanted without question, kissed like a promise instead of a mistake.

When she pulled back just enough to breathe, her nose brushed his. Her lips still ghosting against his, soft as a secret.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “You’re mine.”

And then she kissed him again — deeper this time. Not demanding. Not frantic.

Just more.

More of her.

More of this.

More of everything he’d never let himself hope for — wrapped in a kiss that tasted like trust and slow mornings and all the days they hadn’t lived yet.

Spencer let his hand settle at her waist, gentle, grounding.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because she already knew.

And in the quiet between heartbeats, with nothing but blankets and breath and each other, they stayed like that — tangled and close, kissing soft and slow, like maybe love didn’t have to hurt.

Not with her.

Not here.

Spencer hadn’t known silence could feel like this.

Not empty. Not sharp around the edges. Not something he had to fill with jokes or noise or movement.

Just full.

Full of her.

Of them.

Of the way her breath slowed when she was tucked under his chin, of the way her fingers didn’t let go even when she shifted—like her body already knew his would stay. Like it believed in him before he did.

His hand moved without thinking—just a slow glide up her back, a pause between her shoulder blades, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of her shirt like he was memorizing the shape of safety.

Because this was it.

Not the fireworks. Not the chaos.

This.

Blankets. Dim light. Her heartbeat matching his.

And when she kissed him again—God. Spencer forgot how to breathe.

Not because it shocked him.

Because it didn’t.

Because it made sense.

Because he was starting to believe that maybe—maybe—he was allowed to have this. To want this. Not the version of love that tore you up and left you bleeding.

The kind that stayed.

That held you like this.

Her lips were warm and soft and sure, and every press of her mouth against his felt like a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to say out loud. Like she was handing him every reason to believe he wasn’t broken. Just… bruised.

But healing.

With her.

When she pulled back and whispered “You’re safe. You’re mine,” it nearly undid him.

Not because he didn’t believe her.

Because he did.

For the first time in a long time, he believed it. And it scared the shit out of him—but it didn’t make him run.

Didn’t even make him flinch.

He leaned in again instead, kissed her forehead this time, slow and stupidly soft, and let his hand settle at the curve of her waist like it had always been meant to land there.

“I think…” he started, voice quiet, almost shy. “I think I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to feel like this.”

He felt her breath catch against his neck.

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

His grin—small, crooked, real—tugged at his mouth as he shifted just enough to nudge his nose into her hair.

“I’m still gonna mess it up sometimes,” he mumbled, a little sheepish. “But I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me.”

He kissed her temple, barely there.

“Like, all of me. Even the weird parts. Especially the weird parts.”

Another kiss, this time to her cheekbone.

“Now shut up and let me cuddle you.”

And with that, he pulled her impossibly closer—arm wrapped around her middle, blanket tucked higher over their shoulders, his heart not racing but settling.

Because yeah.

This wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

It was theirs.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t tease him for the soft parts or roll her eyes at the weird ones.

She just curled in closer—knee sliding between his, arm draping across his chest like she already belonged there. Like maybe she always had.

Her fingers found the edge of his jaw again, tracing it lightly, and she smiled—not the kind for show, not the kind she used when she didn’t want people to look too close.

This one was quiet.

Private.

Just for him.

“You think I don’t love the weird parts?” she whispered, her voice muffled slightly against his skin. “Spencer, please. I’ve been in love with the weird parts since sophomore year. You trying to explain how the moon’s fake? Peak romance.”

She felt him laugh—felt it low and quiet in his chest—and smiled harder because yeah, that was hers too.

He was hers.

And he was trying.

Trying so damn hard to believe in the kind of love that didn’t leave bruises. The kind that let them be young and stupid and messy and still worth it.

She kissed his shoulder, slow and soft, and then again, higher this time. A trail of affection leading back to the curve of his neck where she tucked her nose in close and breathed him in.

“I’ve got you too, y’know,” she murmured. “Even when you’re annoying. Even when you hog the blanket or make fun of my playlists.”

A beat.

Then quieter, more serious:

“Especially when it’s hard.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she needed to ground herself too.

“I’m not going anywhere either. So if you’re waiting for me to get tired of this… of you… it’s not gonna happen.”

She tilted her head to look at him again, eyes soft and steady.

“You’ve got me, Han. All the way.”

And then?

She kissed him again.

Not rushed.

Not fiery.

Just real.

A kiss that said I see you. I still choose you. And I always will.

Because yeah—

This wasn’t the easy kind of love.

But it was theirs. And that made it everything.

Spencer didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Because God—that smile. That kiss. The way she said his name like it wasn’t something broken but something brave. Like he was.

Like the fucked-up, try-hard, emotionally-backlogged mess of him was enough.

She said she’d been in love with the weird parts since sophomore year, and all he could think about was that day in chemistry class when he went on a ten-minute rant about the moon landing and she just grinned at him—this wild, wicked little smile like he’d just told her the best story she’d ever heard.

Back then he thought she was just humoring him.

Now?

Now he knew better.

Because her hand was on his chest, grounding him. Her laugh was tucked into his neck. Her words weren’t some script to make him feel better—they were real. The kind of real that didn’t come with conditions.

He let his hand drift down her back, slow and careful, like he was still learning what it meant to hold something that didn’t come with an expiration date. And when she kissed him again—fuck—his whole body tilted toward it like gravity.

Like it needed her.

Because it did.

Spencer kissed her back—warm, lingering, hand sliding to her waist and gripping just a little tighter. Not rough. Just anchored.

Just here.

“You really gonna hold it down for me even when I go full blanket burrito and start ranting about aliens at 2am?” he muttered against her mouth, voice low and grinning.

She huffed a laugh that warmed his ribs from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to see her face—hair messy against the pillow, lips kiss-bitten, eyes soft as hell—and shook his head like he still couldn’t believe she was his.

And he meant it when he said—

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Leia.”

No performance. No filter.

Just him.

Just truth.

His thumb brushed under her jaw like he needed to memorize this version of her—close and chaotic and calm all at once.

“And I’m gonna keep choosing you,” he added, voice low and sure. “Loudly. Clearly. Every damn time.”

His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. Not with panic.

With peace.

He kissed her again, slow and open, like he had time now. Like they did.

Because this wasn’t the kind of love that burned hot and vanished.

This was the kind that stayed.

The kind that built something, mess and all.

And as her fingers curled tighter into his shirt and her body pressed impossibly close, Spencer knew it with every uneven breath in his chest:

He wasn’t just trying to believe in forever anymore.

He already did.

Because she was the reason. And the answer.

And the home.

Leighton didn’t stop smiling—not really—even as her fingers tangled deeper in his hair, lazily fluffing it in a way that was both tender and borderline disrespectful.

Because this?
This was her favorite version of him.
All soft-spoken chaos and blanket-wrapped vulnerability, looking at her like she’d invented gravity.

“God, you’re dangerous when you get sincere,” she muttered, thumb brushing just behind his ear like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. “You hit me with ‘I choose you’ and I’m supposed to what, Spencer? Not melt into a human puddle?”

She kissed him again—brief, dizzying, full of affection—and pulled back just enough to level him with a look.

“Seriously. You keep talking like that and I’m gonna knit us matching sweaters and start packing you lunch with passive-aggressive love notes.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Eat your grapes or I’ll cry,” she said dramatically, clearly workshopping the idea already.

Another kiss. To the tip of his nose this time.

“I’m in, okay? All the way in. Blanket burrito rants and all.”

She paused.

Then, with a completely straight face:

“But if you ever try to convince me again that the moon is a hologram projected by capitalist lizard people, I will unplug your WiFi.”

Her fingers curled gently around the back of his neck, grounding him.

“I love you. I love this,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Then softer, into the curve of his smile:

“Even if your hair looks like it lost a fight with a leaf blower.”

Still playing with it. Still hers.

Always.