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.