Kai Mercer's Residence
 

Tbe

Kai had always been good at slipping in and out of places unnoticed — hotel lobbies, backstage corridors, even Lennon’s life when he was too young and too cowardly to know better. But this past week, he’d used that skill for something else entirely: sneaking himself into her world, piece by piece, not to disappear but to stay.

The notes had been the first step. Folded squares of his messy handwriting slipped into the corners of her days like secret anchors: one in the book on her nightstand, another tucked into her makeup bag, one taped under her coffee mug. He’d left them the morning after waffles — while she showered, he’d scribbled a few lines on scraps of hotel stationery and slid them into places he knew she’d reach for without thinking. Later, he found other ways — charming a mutual friend into “dropping off a delivery,” sneaking past her assistant at a studio with a grin that used to mean trouble and now only meant her.

Every note said something different — a memory, a reassurance, sometimes just a dumb joke because he knew she rolled her eyes when she smiled. But every single one ended the same way: I’m still here.

And tonight, he wanted to prove it wasn’t just ink on paper.

The pool at his place shimmered under a canopy of string lights he’d strung across the patio, their soft glow mirrored in the water. Floating candles bobbed lazily across the surface, circling the scatter of flower petals he’d tossed in until it looked like the pool had bloomed just for her. A small table sat near the water’s edge, draped in linen and set with two plates, silver cutlery that actually matched, and a bottle of wine sweating gently in the summer air. The scent of jasmine drifted in from the garden, mixing with the faint sweetness of the candles, wrapping the night in something slow and decadent.

He’d gone casual, but not careless — dark trousers, an open-collar shirt in soft navy that made his skin look warmer in the glow, sleeves rolled high enough to keep him from looking like he was playing dress-up. He wanted to look like himself, but better — like the version of himself he wanted her to keep.

For the first time in a long time, he felt nerves humming steady beneath his ribs. This wasn’t a stage, or a photo op, or a headline. This was Lennon Rae. His Lennon. And he was asking her to walk into something different with him tonight — not grand enough to feel like a spectacle, but not small enough to feel like an accident. Something in between. Something real.

He heard her car in the drive before he saw her. Heart picking up, he moved through the low candlelight toward the front door. He paused for half a second, smoothing his shirt down, raking a hand through his hair like it would make a difference. Then he opened it before she could knock.

She stood there in the spill of dusk and porch light, framed like something he might’ve imagined if not for the fact that she smiled — small, cautious, but real.

And Kai, who’d rehearsed a hundred lines in his head while stringing lights and laying petals, found himself leaning on the one thing that had always been instinctive with her.

“You,” he said, dimples flashing as his gaze swept her in with a warmth he didn’t bother to hide. “You look like trouble I’d get caught for twice.”

Lennon blinked at him, her lips twitching before the smile broke free.

“Kai Mercer,” she said, dragging his name out like it was both a warning and a laugh. “Do you hear yourself right now? Because I swear, half the time you sound like a Hallmark movie with dimples.”

She tilted her head, taking him in — the rolled sleeves, the way he’d clearly tried to look casual but better, the faint tug of nerves sitting right under the grin he thought could hide everything. And God help her, it almost did. Almost. The candlelight from inside caught at the edge of his hair, made the navy of his shirt look deeper, warmer. She hated that her first thought was how unfair it was that he’d gotten older like this — sharper, steadier, more deliberate — and how much harder it made it not to stare.

Memories flickered, uninvited. Him leaning against a hotel hallway wall, pretending he wasn’t waiting for her. The way he used to look at her backstage when no one else was paying attention, too young and too cowardly to do anything about it. The last time he’d walked away, and the notes he’d left now, paper crumbs marking a trail back to her. She told herself she was only smiling because of the ridiculous line he’d just dropped — but deep down, she knew better.

Her voice softened without meaning to. “And yet… somehow it works. It always does.”

She stepped closer, brushing her shoulder against his as she passed, light and deliberate, letting her perfume and her smirk linger in the space between them. He still smelled faintly like smoke and city air, like every late-night version of him she remembered, only steadier now.

“But if you’re planning on getting caught for me tonight, Mercer,” she added, glancing up at him sidelong, “you’d better hope your cooking’s improved since the Great Popcorn Disaster of 2014.” Her grin widened at the flicker of recognition in his face. “Because floating candles or not, I’m not swooning over burned kernels.”

She reached for the edge of the doorframe, fingers brushing the wood as if steadying herself, then looked back at him — playful and a little daring, her eyes catching his like they always had, heat threading through all the years in between.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

Kai couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out of him — low, unbothered, the kind of sound that used to get him out of trouble with teachers and now seemed to be working overtime with her. God, he’d missed that look in her eyes, the one that said she wanted to give him hell but maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t immune either.

“The Great Popcorn Disaster?” he echoed, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense as he shut the door behind her. “You wound me, Rae. That was a one-time thing. Experimental seasoning. Ahead of its time.”

His grin tilted, sharp and sure, but beneath it he could still feel the ghost of nerves buzzing in his chest. Not because he doubted himself, but because she was standing here, brushing his shoulder like it was nothing, smiling like she remembered everything. He wasn’t about to screw this up. Not tonight.

He slid past her, his hand brushing the small of her back as he guided her toward the pool deck, the glow of floating lights spilling across the water. “Lucky for you, I’ve leveled up since then. And by leveled up, I mean… this time I didn’t just Google ‘date night meals that don’t end in takeout.’”

What he didn’t add: the half hour he’d spent earlier that week with his mom on FaceTime, her patient voice walking him through herb crusts and pan temperatures like she was training him for the Olympics. Lennon didn’t need to know that part. Not yet.

He pulled out a chair for her at the candlelit table, the linen napkin folded just so, the wine glasses catching the flicker of firelight. “Dinner’s about five minutes from the oven to the plate,” he said, leaning against the back of her chair for a beat, close enough that the words brushed her ear. “Which means you’ve got just enough time to let me get you a drink.”

His eyes lingered on hers, playful but grounded. “Anything you want. Wine, champagne, bourbon… hell, I’ve got Pellegrino if you’re feeling rebellious.”

The corner of his mouth curved, dimples catching in the light. “But fair warning, Lennon Rae — I’m very confident you’re about to be impressed. And not just by my candle-arranging skills this time.”

Lennon slid into the chair with a little flourish, crossing one leg over the other like she was settling into a test he didn’t know he was about to take. Her eyes tracked the string lights, the petals, the way his shirt clung just so — and then landed right back on him, sharp and amused.

“Experimental seasoning,” she echoed, lips quirking. “Kai, you practically invented chemical warfare in that microwave. I’m still convinced you traumatized the housekeeping staff. And don’t even get me started on the way you swore popcorn was supposed to be… ‘avant-garde smoky.’”

She tilted her head, letting the tease hang there, though her chest was warmer than she wanted to admit. Because God, he was trying. Not the big, reckless kind of trying he used to pull when he thought he could distract her with charm, but the careful kind. The kind that felt like it cost him something.

Her gaze softened briefly before she covered it with a smirk. “Wine,” she decided, tapping the rim of the empty glass like it had been waiting for her all night. “Red. The expensive-looking kind, not the one you bought at 2 a.m. from that gas station in Houston because you thought screw tops meant ‘classy on the go.’”

Her grin widened, teasing but sweet. “And as for being impressed? Please. You had me at Pellegrino. Nothing screams reformed bad boy like carbonated water.”

For a beat, her voice dipped lower, playful but edged with something steadier. “But between us?” Her eyes held his, the kind of look that dared him to flinch. “You don’t need the lights, or the petals, or the candles. Those are pretty. You’re the impressive part.”

She leaned back in the chair, satisfied, one brow raised like she’d just thrown down a gauntlet he wasn’t getting out of.

“Now pour the wine, Mercer, before I start grading you on presentation.”

Kai moved in close, bracing a hand lightly against the back of her chair as he leaned down, close enough that the candlelight kissed the angle of his jaw and the faint spice of her perfume threaded into his lungs. His voice dropped, softer than the grin on his mouth suggested.

“I know I didn’t need to do all this,” he murmured, letting his breath brush the crown of her head. “But I wanted to. Because you deserve to be spoiled, Rae. Every last bit of it.”

Before she could come back with another quip, he bent and pressed a quick, warm kiss to the top of her head — not performative, not teasing, just real. A quiet claim on the moment before he straightened.

He let his hand skim once across the back of her chair, reluctant to leave but already turning toward the kitchen. “Sit tight. Wine’s coming up. And, if you’re lucky, so is dinner.”


Inside, the glow from the pool bled faintly into the kitchen windows, but Kai’s focus was on the oven. He tugged the mitts on, pulled the door open, and the scent hit him — roasted rosemary and garlic, lemon butter sharp in the air, the salmon’s crust golden exactly the way his mom swore it should be.

Not bad, Mercer, he thought, setting the trays on the counter to cool. His pulse eased, just a fraction. This wasn’t 2014. He wasn’t some kid winging it on charm and half-burned snacks. He’d practiced. He’d paid attention. Hell, he’d FaceTimed his mom twice just to get the sauce right — not that Lennon would ever, ever hear that part.

The wine rack gleamed in the corner. He went straight for the heavy bottle he’d been saving, a deep Bordeaux that looked like it belonged in one of those black-and-white movies she loved to reference when she wanted to make him squirm. He popped the cork with more confidence than he felt, poured two glasses, and let the aroma breathe as if he hadn’t just Googled how long should wine sit before serving last week.

Balancing both glasses in one hand, he grabbed the bottle with the other and headed back out, the low thrum in his chest equal parts nerves and something sharper — anticipation.


He stepped back onto the deck, the firelight catching at the rim of the wine. Setting the bottle down with deliberate ease, he slid one glass toward her, his grin tugging wider.

“Expensive-looking enough for you?” he teased, though his tone was more velvet than sharp, as if he knew the answer already.

Lennon arched a brow at the glass he slid toward her, fingers curling around the stem with mock suspicion. She lifted it just enough for the firelight to catch, giving it an exaggerated once-over before meeting his gaze.

“Expensive-looking, sure,” she said, her lips curving slow, teasing. “But you forget—I’ve seen your idea of classy before, Mercer. You once poured boxed wine into a decanter and tried to convince me it was vintage.”

Her smirk widened as she tipped the glass toward her mouth, letting the wine just graze her lips before she set it down again, untouched. “So forgive me if I need more than candlelight and a fancy cork to be convinced this isn’t just another one of your magic tricks.”

Still, her eyes lingered on him longer than they should’ve, taking in the way the firelight traced over his jaw, the steady confidence in the way he leaned there like the whole night was already unfolding in his favor. She hated how good he looked like this—how familiar it felt, how easy it was to forget the years stacked between them.

“Don’t get cocky,” she added, softer now, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest smile. “Dinner hasn’t even hit the table yet. Impress me first, then we’ll talk about whether you get points for presentation.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, deliberately casual. But when she finally picked the glass back up and took a sip, she let the taste linger, slow, like she was giving him the win anyway.

Her eyes flicked back to his, glinting. “Not bad, Mercer. Not bad at all.”

Lennon let the wine roll on her tongue before she set the glass back down, tapping one finger against the rim like she was weighing whether to call him out or let him keep his little victory.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and playful. “So…” she drawled, tilting her head just enough to catch him in the corner of her eye, “are we just gonna skip past the part where you snuck in a head kiss like you’re some kind of saint?”

She leaned forward on her elbows, smile tugging wicked now. “I mean, bold move, Mercer. Subtle. Sweet. Almost makes me think you’re going soft on me.”

Her lashes lowered, voice dropping half a note as she added, “Almost.”

Then, like she couldn’t help herself, she let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “God, you really haven’t changed, have you? Still pulling stunts that should annoy me and somehow… don’t.”

She reached for her glass again, lifting it toward him in a mock toast. “To you, Mercer. King of candlelight, surprise salmon, and unapproved head kisses.”

She clinked her glass lightly against his, her smirk curving wider. “Don’t get used to it.”

Kai let the clink of her glass linger in the air, the sound sharper than it had any right to feel in his chest. He stayed leaned against the table’s edge for a beat, watching her sip, watching her smirk, and something in him settled.

Not because she teased him — she’d always done that, always would — but because she was still here. She could’ve laughed this whole thing off, rolled her eyes, walked out before the oven timer even thought about ringing. Instead, she was sipping Bordeaux under his lights, daring him to prove her wrong.

He bent closer again, letting his elbow rest on the back of her chair, his voice pitched low. “That head kiss wasn’t a stunt, Rae. None of this is. I’m not here to con you with smoke and mirrors anymore. I meant it. And I’ll mean it tomorrow, and the day after, and however long it takes until you start telling stories about this instead of all the other times I screwed it up.”

For a second, the air between them went still, only the faint pop of the fire cutting through. He didn’t flinch from it this time. Didn’t try to cover it with a joke. He just let it sit there, steady as his hand on the stem of his glass.

Then, softer, the grin tugged back at his mouth. “But if you want to call me out for being bold—” he tilted his head, a glint sliding back into his eyes, “—you’re not wrong. Head kisses are just the start. I’ve got a whole repertoire lined up you don’t even know about yet.”

He tapped his glass gently against hers again before straightening, giving her a wink like he hadn’t just dropped something raw in her lap. “Now, excuse me before the salmon goes from ‘impressive’ to ‘merely edible.’”

Back in the kitchen, Kai slipped the mitts back on and pulled the pans from where they’d been cooling. The rosemary-garlic steam rose up and hit him square, grounding him again. This isn’t a show. Don’t make it one. Just feed her. Just mean it.

He plated carefully — roasted salmon with lemon butter, wild rice pilaf, charred asparagus — the kind of meal he knew was clean, elegant, quietly confident. No stunts. Just him proving with action what words would never be enough for.

Carrying the plates back out, he set hers gently in front of her, then slid into his seat across the table, lifting his glass again with a quieter, realer smile.

“Alright, Rae. Moment of truth.”

Lennon blinked at him, glass still warm in her hand, the words he’d just dropped hanging heavier than the wine. Her first instinct was to fire something back, to tease him for getting sentimental or to roll her eyes so she didn’t have to admit how her stomach had just tied itself in a knot. But God — the way he said it. No joke. No shield. Just… him.

She tilted her head, eyes catching his as if to test whether he’d look away. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Mercer never had trouble locking in when he meant something, and that was the problem — she could always tell when he meant it.

The corner of her mouth lifted, soft and crooked. “Careful, Kai. You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you’ve actually grown up on me.” She let it hang there like a tease, but her voice betrayed her — warmer than she wanted, quieter than she meant.

When he leaned in about the head kisses, though, her laugh broke the tension, low and unguarded. She shook her head, biting at her lip as her brows arched. “A whole repertoire, huh? God help me, I don’t even want to know what counts as a Kai Mercer ‘move’ these days. But I’ll give you this — bold suits you better than pretending not to care ever did.”

She clinked her glass against his again, softer this time, a little smile tugging out of her despite herself.

And when he disappeared back to the kitchen, she let herself watch him go. Really watch him — the easy way he moved now, not all restless angles and boyish bravado. The version of him that wasn’t trying to be anybody’s frontman, just… hers, if she let him.

When he came back out, plates in hand, she actually sat up straighter. The smell alone was enough to make her laugh under her breath, half impressed, half caught off guard by how good it really looked. She picked up her fork, dragging it through the sauce before she even realized she was leaning closer to inhale.

“Okay,” she said, eyes flicking up to his, equal parts mock-serious and shining with something else. “If this tastes as good as it smells, you might have officially ruined every sad takeout night I have from here on out. So for my sake, Mercer, I hope it’s terrible.”

But the grin pulling across her mouth said the opposite — that she already knew she was about to be impressed, and that part of her hated just how much she wanted to be.

Lennon twirled the fork once, stalling — half because she wanted to make him wait, half because she was suddenly nervous about proving him right. Finally, she cut a clean bite of salmon, dragging it through the lemon butter, and lifted it to her lips with exaggerated ceremony.

She hummed before it even hit her tongue, just to make him sweat — but then the flavor hit, and her brows shot up despite every intention to keep her cool. Garlic, rosemary, the sharp brightness of lemon — it wasn’t just good. It was perfect.

She chewed, slow, letting her gaze flick up to him over the rim of her fork. He was watching her like the whole night hinged on this one bite, like he’d actually stop breathing if she didn’t say something soon. Which, of course, made her draw it out.

Finally, she set the fork down with a little clink against the plate and leaned back in her chair, arms crossing as if she were about to deliver a verdict. Her lips twitched. “Alright, Mercer,” she said, deliberately slow, voice curling smug. “I hate to admit it, but this is… kind of ridiculous. Like, annoyingly good. Which means either you suddenly discovered a secret talent or…” she tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion, “you kidnapped an actual chef and have them hiding in the kitchen.”

The smirk softened just enough for warmth to bleed through. “Either way, I’m impressed. And pissed about it.”

She lifted her glass again, tipping it toward him before taking another sip, hiding the way her mouth wanted to curve into something too genuine. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. One decent salmon doesn’t erase a decade of takeout cartons and tragic microwave popcorn attempts.”

But her foot brushed against his under the table, just once, light and unthinking — a slip she didn’t bother to take back.

Kai didn’t even try to play it cool — not with her chewing like she was deciding his fate in real time. He leaned his elbow on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes locked on her like she was center stage. Hell, like she was the whole damn show.

And yeah, maybe it was ridiculous, the way his pulse actually ticked up over a bite of salmon. But watching Lennon drag out the moment — humming before the fork even touched her lips, raising her brows when it finally did — it felt like more than food. It was the test. The quiet one. The one she didn’t know she was giving him.

Come on, Rae. Just this once, let me get it right.

When her verdict finally came down, all mock suspicion and smug little smirk, his mouth curved before he could stop it. That slow grin he used to use on stage when he knew the crowd was already his — except this time it wasn’t a show. It was her. Just her.

He tapped a finger against the stem of his glass, leaning back in his chair. “Full disclosure,” he said, voice smooth but edged with that boyish mischief he could never quite shake, “I might’ve had some… assistance. Don’t get too comfortable thinking I can whip this up on a Tuesday without setting off the smoke alarm.”

His grin crooked wider as he gestured to her plate. “But hey — if you’re impressed enough to let me try again, I’ll happily make a fool of myself in your kitchen. Can’t guarantee it’ll taste like this every time, but—” he shrugged, easy, cool, though his eyes stayed locked on hers, steady and unblinking, “I’ll try. That part I can promise.”

He lifted his glass in her direction, clinking softly against hers with just enough of a flourish to make it playful. “And honestly? I’ll take you being ‘pissed’ and impressed over you rolling your eyes at me any night of the week.”

Her foot brushed against his under the table, quick and light, but he felt it like a spark. Like something shifted — small, but real. He didn’t call her on it, didn’t let the grin tip into anything cocky. He just let his shoe stay there, a quiet press back, like an unspoken answer.

Inside, though? He was a mess. Half of him wanted to pump a fist in the air like an idiot. The other half just wanted to memorize this exact second — her glass tilted in her hand, her lips trying not to give away too much, her eyes glinting across the firelight.

No stunt. No trick. Just us. And I’ll take this version every time.