Walker Residence
 

Damien, Sophia and Spencer.

Leighton hadn’t expected him to let her in like this.

Not just into the house — though even that had felt monumental, the way the front door creaked open like a secret too long kept — but into all of it. The quiet. The clutter. The soft, imperfect corners of his life he usually guarded like they were shameful.

His room was smaller than she’d imagined, and warmer too.

Walls lined with posters — some band, some black-and-white prints of people she didn’t recognize — curling at the edges from old tape. A cracked window propped open with a dog-eared copy of On the Road. A half-drunk can of something citrusy on the desk, next to a cup of murky paint water and a box of charcoal pencils that had clearly been used down to the bone.

Sketches were everywhere. On the floor. Clipped to the lamp. Tucked between books. Some loose, some half-finished, some folded like they’d been shoved in his pocket without a second thought.

There were clothes in a chair. A skateboard by the door. String lights with two bulbs burnt out. A hoodie he always wore when he was sad, draped over the back of his desk like it had been peeled off mid-thought. A stack of records, alphabetized except for the ones he kept pulling out and never putting back.

It was messy. Personal. Raw in a way she didn’t think he knew how to curate.

And she loved it.

God, she loved it.

Because Spencer Walker, the boy who kept so much close to the chest, had let her see the parts of him that didn’t try so hard. The things that didn’t need to be smoothed or explained or made more digestible. This was his. And now it was theirs, for just a little while.

They laid on his bed, on top of a tangle of plaid sheets and a comforter that didn’t match, her head tucked against his shoulder, his thumb brushing slow circles across the inside of her wrist. The low hum of Arctic Monkeys played through a speaker on the floor — something slow and full of static, a song she didn’t know but never wanted to end.

She could feel the beat in her ribs, the warmth of him beneath her cheek, the softness in the air that came with knowing he’d chosen her — not just to kiss or to touch, but to stay.

There was no pretending here.

No performance.

Just the two of them, sunk deep into a bed that smelled like his laundry detergent and late nights, staring up at a ceiling dotted with those faint glow-in-the-dark stars he probably thought no one noticed.

Her fingers curled tighter in his.

And for the first time in a long time, Leighton didn’t feel like she was holding her breath.

This — this quiet, messy, magic little corner of his world — was the kind of peace she didn’t know she’d been chasing.

And now that she had it?

She wasn’t letting go.

Her fingers traced the seam of his shirt absently, like they were trying to memorize the fabric. The song had shifted — slower now, something low and smoky — and the light from the window had gone golden, hitting the curve of his jaw in a way that made her throat catch.

He hadn’t moved in a while.

Hadn’t needed to.

They were just… there. Breathing in sync. Sharing the silence like it was something sacred.

And maybe it was.

Maybe this was what it felt like when the world stopped spinning so fast.

She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just kept her gaze on the ceiling, one thumb brushing his knuckles where their hands were still tangled between them.

“I like it here,” she murmured.

Simple. Unadorned.

But real.

Not just here as in his bed, or his room, or the way his fingers curled instinctively around hers every time she shifted. She meant all of it. The sketchbooks. The cracked windowsill. The honesty of it. The trust.

The softness he didn’t show anyone else.

And maybe he didn’t say anything back — didn’t have to — but she felt the way his grip on her hand tightened just slightly. Like she’d said the exact right thing.

Like he liked her here too.

She finally turned to face him, resting her chin lightly against his chest, hair falling across his shirt in soft waves. And when she looked up, really looked at him, the words she’d already said a hundred ways flickered behind her eyes again.

But she didn’t repeat them.

She didn’t need to.

Because he already knew.

And she was still here.

Spencer didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t need to.
Didn’t want to.

Because she was here.
In his room.
In the place he usually kept sealed off with sarcasm and selective honesty.
Where nothing ever made it past the front door unless it could survive the weight of his silence.

But she had.

Not just made it past the door—but onto his bed, into his mess, through every uncurated corner of his life like she wasn’t even flinching.

And God… that did something to him.

He hadn’t watched her as she looked around, but he felt her taking it all in. Felt the way her fingers traced the seam of his shirt like it meant something. Like he meant something.

She said she liked it here. Just that. Simple.

And it leveled him.

Because she wasn’t talking about the walls or the records or the crumpled hoodie that still smelled like whatever cheap cologne he stole from his dad in tenth grade. She was talking about him.

The him he didn’t clean up first. The one who left charcoal fingerprints on the light switch and forgot to change the sheets for longer than was probably sanitary. The one who didn’t hide behind playlists or wisecracks or the strategic use of deflection.

She saw that guy.

And she still said she liked it here.

Spencer swallowed against the knot in his throat, the kind that crept up when you didn’t know how to say thank you for seeing me and not looking away.

So instead, he let his thumb draw slow circles over her wrist, like maybe that could say it for him.

When she shifted and looked up at him—chin on his chest, hair falling in these sunlit, lazy waves across his shirt—he had to blink a few times just to stay grounded. Because Jesus Christ, she was beautiful like this. Not runway beautiful. Not curated or styled or lit for effect.

But real.

And she was his.

He tipped his head to look down at her, smile lazy and crooked.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice still rough around the edges, “this was supposed to be the part where you get weirded out by the glow-in-the-dark stars, realize I live like a sad art goblin, and bail.”

A pause.

“But you’re still here.” His eyes searched hers, open and unguarded. “Kind of messing up the whole damage-control plan I had ready.”

He meant it like a joke. Mostly.

But there was something honest tucked inside it—because yeah, maybe part of him had been waiting for her to find a reason to go. To see the mess and the softness and the parts of him that didn’t shine, and decide it wasn’t worth it.

But she hadn’t.

She was still tangled in his sheets like she belonged there. Like she chose to.

And that did more to him than any kiss ever could.

So he leaned down, nose brushing the crown of her head, voice soft as static.

“I like you here too, Leight.”

He didn’t say more than that. Didn’t need to.

But his fingers tightened just a little around hers, like a reflex. Like a tether.

And after a long beat, he added, deadpan:

“But for the record… if you ever rat me out for owning three copies of the same Bon Iver record, I’m switching your toothpaste with mayonnaise.”

Then—grinning now, because her laugh was the best kind of background noise—he nudged her onto her back and hovered over her just slightly, forearm braced beside her head, eyes warm.

The music played on. The sun shifted gold to amber. The world stayed soft.

And Spencer Walker, the boy who never used to believe in staying, lowered his head and kissed her like maybe… maybe he was starting to.

Leighton let herself sink into the mattress, into him, into the weight of the moment that felt too real to be anything but permanent.

Her laugh had barely died down from his Bon Iver-slash-mayonnaise threat, but now it curled softer, almost hidden in her throat, as her hands slid up to catch at the hem of his shirt. She held him there—not because he was going anywhere, but because she needed him close, needed him to feel how steady she was in this.

Her voice was quiet when it came, but steady. Certain. “I’m not going anywhere either, Spencer.”

She let her fingertips trace the line of his jaw, slow and thoughtful, like she wanted to commit every detail to memory. The way his grin slanted, the way his lashes caught the light, the way he looked at her like she wasn’t just here, but belonged here. “I see you. The mess, the stars, the three Bon Iver records. All of it. And I like it. I like you. Exactly like this.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away. She wanted him to hear it, to believe it. “You don’t have to hide from me. Not here. Not anymore.”

Her hand slipped to his wrist, thumb brushing over his pulse in a way that was as much promise as it was affection. “You’re not going to scare me off, Spence. I don’t care if your walls are covered in paint fingerprints or if your bed’s a disaster. I’m here because it’s you. And you’re… the only place I want to be.”

For a moment, she just looked at him—really looked—like the glow-in-the-dark stars above weren’t even competing. Then her smile curved, quiet and fond, laced with all the stubborn love she carried for him. “So yeah. Damage control? Officially ruined. You’re stuck with me.”

And before he could say anything back, she pulled him down into another kiss. Slow, grounding, more vow than heat. A kiss that told him she wasn’t bluffing.

When she finally broke it, she stayed close—foreheads pressed together, her breath mingling with his—and whispered, softer than the music playing in the background:

“I like it here more than I ever thought I would.”

Spencer didn’t answer at first.

Couldn’t.

Because Jesus fucking Christ, she’d just said all that like it was nothing. Like it was easy. Like it hadn’t just dismantled every defense he’d ever built, brick by sarcastic brick, over the past seventeen years of keeping his heart exactly where no one could reach it.

And now?

Now she was in it.

Not knocking politely from the outside. Not peeking through the cracks or testing the hinges. She was inside the storm of him—his mess, his noise, his silence—and she wasn’t flinching.

He felt her thumb brush over his pulse again, and it nearly undid him.

Because no one had ever made staying sound like this.

Spencer sucked in a breath through his nose, trying to steady himself, trying to keep from blurting something half-dumb and half-too-much like Goddamn it, I think I’m already yours, or please don’t ever leave, or you’re my favorite version of home and I didn’t even know I was looking for one.

Instead, he just touched her.

Carefully. Reverently.

His fingers slid along her cheek, brushing her hair back so gently it felt more like a question than a motion—like he was still asking if he was allowed to touch something this good and have it mean everything.

And when their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath shared like some secret language only they understood, he finally exhaled the one truth that made it past the riot in his chest.

“You wreck me, Leia.”

It wasn’t a complaint.

It was a confession.

But his voice was steadier than he expected—low, a little ragged, but whole. Because this wreckage? It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t collapse.

It was foundation.

He dipped his head, pressed a slow, aching kiss to her jaw, then her cheek, then her mouth again—like he was trying to map out the coordinates of the moment before it could vanish. Like if he kissed her enough, he could keep the weight of her words with him always.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled back just far enough to look at her. To see her. And even though his mouth was tilted in that half-crooked way, like he was trying not to let her see how much she got to him, his eyes were wide open.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you’re the first person who’s ever made me hope the stars don’t fade.”

He meant the ones on his ceiling.
And the ones in his chest.

And then, just because he couldn’t help himself, he added—voice soft, smile laced with that Spencer brand of mischief and awe:

“So if you’re really staying… you better be ready to help me change those two burnt-out string lights. And maybe reorganize the record stack. Or not. I kinda like the chaos if it means you’re in it.”

He kissed her one more time—slower now, more certain—and then let the silence stretch, warm and earned.

Because yeah.
They weren’t performing anymore.
They were home.

Leighton didn’t rush to answer.

Didn’t fill the silence with some throwaway joke or a deflection. Not this time. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when his hand was still warm around hers, thumb tracing circles into her skin like it meant something.

Because it did.

Because he meant it.

And because she could feel the truth of it in the steady beat under her cheek—the one thing about him that never lied.

Her throat tightened, but not with fear. With something quieter. Something heavier. Something that felt a lot like relief.

She shifted just a little, her fingers sliding higher along his wrist until they were tangled, until she could feel the bones of his hand beneath her own. Then she tipped her chin up, hair falling across his chest, and caught his eyes.

“You don’t even know, do you?” she whispered, voice low and certain. “You think you’re this… mess. All sarcasm and storms and busted records. But that’s never scared me. Not once.”

Her thumb brushed along his jaw, catching on the faint smear of charcoal he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. “I’ve loved you through worse than this—through slammed doors and all the ways you tried to push me out. And I’m still here. Because you’re worth staying for.”

She smiled then—crooked, stubborn, a little shy. “So get used to it, Starboy. You’re stuck with me.”

The nickname slipped out easy, softer than she expected, more like a truth than a tease. It lingered in the space between them, and she could see the way it landed—how his mouth twitched, how his eyes warmed like she’d just handed him something he didn’t know he wanted.

She leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him like she finally could. Like she’d finally won the fight they’d both been waging against themselves.

When she pulled back, she stayed close, forehead brushing his, her smile still there but gentler now. “I like it here,” she murmured. “All of it. The mess, the music, even your dumb triple Bon Iver obsession. But mostly…” her voice dipped, quiet, certain, “I like you.”

She let herself sink back against his chest, the glow-in-the-dark stars overhead flickering faintly, the record spinning soft in the corner, his arm anchoring her where she wanted to be.

“My favorite place,” she added, almost too softly to hear, “is wherever you are.”

Spencer didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, really.

Because damn.

She’d always been good at that—dropping truth like a match into the middle of him and watching it burn through every wall he’d ever built. Only this time, she wasn’t doing it to watch him fall apart.

She was doing it to stay.

The nickname Starboy echoed in his head, soft and low, a punch disguised as a pillow. Something only she could make sound like affection instead of mockery. Something that settled into his ribs like it had been waiting for a home.

And then she said it—my favorite place is wherever you are—like it didn’t wreck him in the quietest, most irreversible way.

He swallowed hard. Once. Twice. Then exhaled slow, like if he let the breath out too fast, it’d knock him over.

His voice, when it came, was scratchy and low.

“I don’t think I’ve ever let anyone see this much of me,” he admitted, words curling out between them like smoke, “and somehow you still want to be here. With the half-empty soda cans and the sad string lights and my deeply concerning Bon Iver collection.”

He felt her smile against his chest, and it made his mouth tilt too.

“I keep waiting for the moment you change your mind.” He turned his head just enough to press a kiss into her hair, quiet and reverent. “But then you say shit like that and I start to think… maybe you don’t scare easy.”

His fingers slipped through hers again, anchoring.

“And maybe that means I don’t have to either.”

A beat.

Then, softer:

“You’re my favorite place too, y’know.”

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t need to.

Because it wasn’t a declaration. It was a knowing.

And as the record crackled and the stars overhead glowed faint and faithful, Spencer just held her tighter—like maybe, just this once, he didn’t have to brace for the fallout.

Because she was the storm.

And she’d chosen to stay.

Leighton felt the words land before she even let herself breathe them in.
Not a line. Not some half-assed joke to dodge how he really felt. Just him. Just Spencer, stripped back and raw in the way he only ever let her see.

Her chest ached, but not the way it used to when she thought of leaving, or of her mom, or of every place she’d packed up and abandoned before the roots could take. This was different. This ache felt like it wanted to settle in, make itself at home, curl up in the corners of her ribs and stay there.

She shifted against him, tucking herself in closer, letting her head rest on his chest where his heartbeat drummed steady beneath her ear. She could feel him breathing, uneven but sure, every rise and fall reminding her he was here, that he wasn’t pulling away. Her fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his shirt, tracing idle shapes like she couldn’t help needing some small tether to keep her there.

“Of course I still want to be here,” she said, voice soft but certain. “You think glow-in-the-dark stars are gonna scare me off? Please. I’ve slept in stranger places with way worse ceilings.”

His chest moved with the quiet laugh that escaped her, and she smiled into it, the sound vibrating warm under her cheek. This wasn’t the sharp, defensive kind of laugh she used to throw up like a shield. This one was easy. Weightless.

Leighton tilted her face just enough so she could look up at him. “I didn’t fight to get back to you just to bail because of some messy room or too many Bon Iver records. I’m here because I want all of it. The music, the charcoal fingerprints, the damage-control plans you’re never gonna need with me. You.”

She said the last word like it was the only one that mattered, and maybe it was.

Her hand lifted to brush through his hair, soft and unhurried, and she caught the way his eyes gave him away—wide open, wrecked in a way that made her want to hold him tighter. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, then let her forehead fall back against his chest, listening to the way his heartbeat stuttered under her.

“You don’t have to figure it all out,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t have to be anything but this. But you’ve gotta deal with the fact that I’m not going anywhere. So… sorry about your t-shirt collection in advance.”

Her grin curved against his shirt at the thought, but beneath it was something steadier, deeper, something that didn’t shake.

Because for once, she didn’t feel like she was on borrowed time.

For once, staying didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like choosing.

And she was choosing him.

Always.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t have to.

Because God, she knew.

She knew exactly how to say the things he’d spent years trying to draw around the edges of—always sketching, never filling in. Always almost ready, but not quite. But then she was here. In his room. In his arms. In his everything. And there wasn’t a single part of him she flinched from.

Not the mess.
Not the noise.
Not even the ache.

Just him.

His fingers slid through her hair as her forehead pressed against his chest, slow and reverent, like he was trying to commit the shape of her to muscle memory. Like maybe if he memorized it well enough, he’d never forget what this felt like—being wanted without disclaimers.

Being chosen.

“I was scared,” he said finally, voice quiet and scraped raw at the edges. “Not just of losing you, but of what it would mean if you stayed.”

His hand moved to the small of her back, holding her in place like gravity wasn’t good enough.

“Because that means this is real. That you saw it all—the half-done sketches and the dumb records and the cracked window—and still said you wanted it. Wanted me.”

He tipped his head down, catching the edge of her jaw with his mouth in a kiss so soft it almost didn’t happen. Just a brush. A breath. Something sacred.

“And I don’t know if I deserve it,” he murmured against her skin, “but I’m not letting go.”

The words were a promise. Not loud. Not flashy. Just true.

A beat passed before he added, deadpan, “Even if it means kissing goodbye to every t-shirt I own. Which, by the way, is emotional terrorism and I hope you know that.”

Her laugh cracked the moment wide open again, and his smile followed, helpless and boyish and absolutely ruined.

“You’re my favorite decision, Leia,” he whispered. “And I’m done pretending I don’t know it.”

Outside, the afternoon light stretched long across the floorboards, dust dancing in its wake. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and a car rolled past too fast.

But in here, in this room, in this moment—everything was still.

Because for once, the future could wait.

This was now.
And now was enough.

Leighton lifted her head from his chest, slow, steady, because she had to look at him. Had to see the face behind words like that. And when she did, it hit her—how bare he was letting himself be. How different this was from every half-shielded smirk, every joke he’d used to keep the world out.

Her hand found his jaw, thumb brushing over his skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice was soft, but certain. “The mess, the records, the half-done sketches… that’s the you I love. Not the cleaned-up version you think you’re supposed to be.”

She leaned closer, eyes searching his. “You’ve spent so long trying to hide the parts you think are broken, but Spence—those are the parts that make you real. The parts that make me feel like I’m not alone in mine.”

Her mouth tilted into the faintest smile, crooked, full of quiet affection. “You don’t have to earn this. You don’t have to deserve it. You just have to let me be here.”

She kissed him then—slow, unhurried, like she wanted him to feel every second of it sink in. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his. Her smile grew, warm and teasing, but her voice stayed low, steady.

“You’re my favorite too, Starboy.”

A beat. Then, with that flash of dry humor he always drew out of her, she added, “And yeah, the t-shirts are already mine. No negotiations.”

She settled back against him, head on his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns against his ribs. The record crackled. The light shifted. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was waiting for something to fall apart.

She felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Leighton let the quiet stretch for a while, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thrum beneath her ear. It was grounding. Maddening, too, in the way it made her feel like maybe she could get addicted to this kind of closeness.

Her finger traced over the seam of his shirt, slow and absent, before she spoke again.

“You know…” she started, voice softer now, “you’ve let me see a lot in here already. More than you think.” Her eyes flicked toward the corner of the room where a sketchpad leaned against the wall, paper edges curled from use. “But you’re still holding out on me.”

Spencer’s chest rose under her as he inhaled, silent. She tilted her chin just enough to look up at him, daring a grin.

“Don’t even try it, Walker. I see you. And I saw those smudges on your hands earlier. You’ve been drawing.”

A pause, teasing now, almost sing-song.

“So what’s it gonna take to get a look? Bribery? Blackmail? Emotional extortion?” She shifted, propping herself halfway onto her elbow, eyebrow arched. “Because, full disclosure—I brought the weed. And I’m not above trading.”

The corner of her mouth curled as she watched him, eyes narrowing playfully, but beneath it was something sharper—something real.

“Show me what you see when it’s just you and the page,” she said, quieter. “I want to know that part of you too.”

Spencer’s pulse kicked under her cheek, louder now. Not from the kiss, not even from the way she said his name like it meant something holy.

From that.

From her looking straight through him—through the charm, through the jokes, through the detours and delay tactics—and asking.

Asking to see the part he hadn’t shown anyone.

Not even her.

His jaw tightened slightly beneath her hand. Not in rejection. Just in fear. The kind that came when your body wanted to run, but your heart already knew it was staying put.

Because she wasn’t wrong.
And she wasn’t letting it go.

Of course she noticed the smudges. The new sketchpad. The way he kept glancing at the corner of the room like the truth might bite him if he looked too long.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his eyes drift toward the window—then back to her. Still there. Still watching. Still him.

And damn it all, he wanted to show her.

He just didn’t know if he could survive her seeing it.

Not without a buffer.

“…We’re gonna have to smoke first,” he muttered, almost to himself. It wasn’t a stall. It was survival. “Like… definitely. Before you see any of that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, raking it back until his fingers caught at the roots. Then he exhaled, long and slow, like maybe letting her see the cracks wouldn’t break him after all.

Just shake him up a little.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe that was what trust actually looked like.

His eyes met hers again, steadier now. “After that,” he said, voice low but sincere, “I’ll show you everything.”

Leighton shifted just enough to see him, her cheek still against his chest, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt like she was holding him in place. His heart was a drum under her ear—steady, but too loud to pretend he wasn’t shaken.

“Smoke if you need to,” she said, her tone level, a little wry, “but don’t act like I can’t handle what’s in that corner. You’ve already left it all over the room anyway.”

Her eyes flicked to the smudges on his hand, the faint streak of graphite near his wrist, the stack of sketchpads he kept pretending not to care about. Then back to him. Always back to him.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” she asked softly. “The way you look at your notebooks like they might bite you? Or how you keep glancing at your desk like it’s a crime scene you don’t want me investigating?”

She reached up, tracing the edge of his jaw with her thumb. “You don’t have to perform for me, Spencer. Not with jokes, not with excuses, not with a joint to soften the edges. I already know where your edges are.”

Her mouth curved, not into a smirk, but into something quieter. “And I still want to see what you’ve been hiding.”

She let the silence hang, let it land between them like a challenge and a promise all at once. Then, leaning closer, her voice dropped to a near whisper.

“So here’s the deal, Starboy. You show me. When you’re ready. No masks, no smoke, no stalling. Just you. Because I’m not afraid of what’s in that sketchpad—and you shouldn’t be either.”

Spencer didn’t speak at first. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t even look at the sketchpad.

He just stared at her. At the girl curled against his chest, spine straight despite the softness in her voice, fingers still anchoring him like she knew he’d try to bolt if she let go.

Because yeah, she was right.

Those sketchpads weren’t just drawings. They were everything he didn’t say. Everything he couldn’t.

Anger that never found a voice.
Grief he never let rot long enough to bury.
Fear that had kept him frozen, fists balled behind every smile.

And then there were the new ones. The quieter ones. The ones that made his chest ache for entirely different reasons. The ones with light. With curve and color and softness he hadn’t been able to touch in years—until her.

And that was what scared him most.

Not that she’d hate what she saw.

But that she’d understand it.

He finally breathed out through his nose, rough and uneven. One hand came up to cover hers, still at the hem of his shirt, still grounding him like she always did even when she didn’t mean to.

“You say that now,” he muttered, thumb brushing her knuckles, “but they’re not all soft edges and poetic metaphors, Leia. Some of that shit is… heavy. Ugly.”

A beat passed.

“And yeah, maybe I leave it all over the room like a walking red flag. But opening that pad?” His voice dipped, quieter now. “That’s different. That’s me letting you read the stuff I never figured out how to say out loud. That’s every version of me I wasn’t ready to be seen as.”

His fingers squeezed hers gently.

“But you’re the only reason I’m even thinking about it. The only reason those last few pages aren’t just pitch black.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and added—barely audible:

“I’ll show you. Tonight. Just… not yet.”

Then, softer, more certain:

“I want you to see. I just need a minute.”

And even though it wasn’t right now, it was still a beginning.

It was a door. One he’d just opened—for her, and only her.

Leighton didn’t push.

She could’ve—God knows she had that streak in her, the one that shoved at locked doors just to prove they weren’t as sturdy as people thought. But this? This wasn’t a lock. It was a crack. And she wasn’t about to slam herself through and risk shattering the frame.

So instead, she shifted closer, cheek sliding higher up his chest until she could hear the uneven rhythm under his ribs. She let her hand stay caught under his, thumb pressing gently against the pulse that gave him away.

“You think I don’t know heavy?” she said finally, her voice low, steady. “You think ugly scares me?”

Her head tilted enough for her eyes to catch his, brown meeting blue with a stubbornness that wasn’t sharp this time—just sure. “I lived out of plastic bags in the back of a car for half a year, Spence. I watched my mom disappear into people she had no business chasing. I learned how to smile when my stomach was empty, and I figured out how to lie about bruises I didn’t earn. I’ve seen ugly. Up close. Personal.”

Her fingers flexed beneath his, not to pull away—never that—but to tangle tighter. “And none of it makes me want to run from you.”

She let that sink in. The record still spun, some low ache of Arctic Monkeys filling the air, but her words were louder. Heavier.

“Whatever’s in there,” she nodded faintly toward the sketchpad without looking away from him, “it’s yours. And if you’re offering me even a piece of it? That’s not ugly. That’s you trusting me. And I don’t take that lightly.”

Her mouth curved then, not into a grin, but something small and devastatingly soft. She leaned up, brushed her lips against his jaw, and whispered, “Take your minute, Starboy. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

She settled back against his chest after that, like the conversation hadn’t cracked him wide open, like it hadn’t just rearranged something in her too. But her hand stayed locked with his, proof she wasn’t letting go.

Spencer didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t joke. Didn’t run.

He just exhaled, quiet and raw, like her words had cracked something open in his chest and now the air was moving through places it hadn’t touched in years.

Then—slow, deliberate—he shifted.

Carefully untangled his fingers from hers, but only long enough to lean over and crack the window open. The cool night slipped in immediately, brushing against the heat of the moment like a breath of something clean. Something real.

He reached for the joint she’d mentioned earlier—like it had been waiting this whole time—and lit it in two steady flicks. Didn’t speak while he inhaled. Didn’t speak while he held it in.

Only when he exhaled, the smoke curling out into the dark and disappearing like it was never there, did he glance down at her again.

His hand found hers without thought this time. Thumb brushing across her knuckles like maybe if he kept tracing that same rhythm, he wouldn’t lose the nerve.

“You scare the hell out of me, you know that?” he said, voice quiet but low enough to scrape. “Not in the bad way. Not like that. It’s just—”

He dragged in another breath, not from the joint this time. Just air. Just her.

“—no one’s ever stayed long enough to see past the punchlines. No one’s ever wanted to.”

The words burned, but not from the smoke. From honesty. From the weight of what it meant to say it out loud.

He looked at the sketchpad. Then back at her.

“I meant it. I’ll show you.” His voice dropped to something lower. Something vulnerable.

Then softer, with the edge of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes yet:
“But you’re not allowed to look at me like that after. Like I’m some open wound you’re scared to touch.”

He passed her the joint like an offering. Like proof he wasn’t going anywhere either.

And maybe he wasn’t ready to pull the sketchpad open yet.

But he’d already handed her the key.

Leighton didn’t take her eyes off him.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t soften it.

She just sat up beside him—knees drawn up, bare feet tucked beneath her—and let the weight of what he’d said settle into the quiet like something sacred. Like maybe if she moved too fast, she’d shatter it. Him.

When he passed her the joint, she took it without a word, fingers brushing his, light but deliberate. She didn’t inhale right away. Just looked down at the glow of it in her hand and then back up at him.

And smiled. Not pitying. Not afraid.

Just real.

“I’m not scared of you, Spencer.”

Her voice came out low. Measured. Like every syllable had been sifted through the part of her that didn’t do performative comfort. The part of her that knew what it meant to be looked at like a problem someone didn’t want to solve.

“Hell, I’m probably the only one who’s never been.”

She flicked ash out the cracked window, then finally took a slow hit. Let it burn a little. Let it feel like something tangible. When she exhaled, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. Just quiet. Easy.

Like honesty could be that too.

“You think no one’s stayed because of who you are.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “But I think maybe it’s because you’ve never let anyone close enough to want to.”

She let that hang. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just true.

“And yeah, maybe you’re a mess. Maybe you hide behind jokes and sarcasm and that whole too-cool-to-care bullshit because it’s easier than hoping someone might actually care back.”

She passed the joint back to him, her hand still warm from his.

“But I do. I care.” A beat. “And not in a savior complex kind of way. Not in some ‘I can fix you’ fantasy. I care because I see you. I see the way you flinch when people get too close. The way you downplay everything so no one expects more than you’re ready to give.”

Her voice dropped, softer now.

“And I don’t need your sketchpad to understand you. I already do.”

She nudged her shoulder against his like punctuation. Not a question. A promise.

“I’m not gonna look at you like an open wound, Spencer. I’m gonna look at you like a boy who bleeds in color. And maybe that’s the kind of mess I want inked all over me.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, watching the smoke curl past the window like the night was carrying it somewhere they didn’t have to be brave. Not yet.

“Whenever you’re ready… I’m still here.”

And this time, she didn’t need to say again.

He already knew.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t trust his voice.
Didn’t trust the way it felt like she’d just cut him open and stitched him back together in the same breath.

Instead, he took the joint from her fingers—slower than he needed to—like the warmth of her hand might stay with him a second longer if he moved gently enough.

He brought it to his lips, inhaled deep, let the smoke coat his lungs in something sharp and grounding. It didn’t chase the feeling away. Just made it easier to hold.

His head tipped back against the wall with a quiet thunk.

Outside the window, the night stretched wide and indifferent. But in here, in this tiny room where the air felt too full of her voice and not full enough of oxygen, he could breathe. Maybe for the first time in weeks.

She was still leaning on his shoulder. Still warm. Still here.

And fuck, that scared him more than anything.
Not because he didn’t want it—
But because he did.
So much it ached.

The joint hovered between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling like it knew better than to linger too long.

“She used to say that,” he murmured finally, voice raspy. “My mom. When I was a kid. That I bled in color.”

He wasn’t sure why it came out.
Maybe because it was the truth.
Maybe because Leighton had looked at him like he was more than just a punchline or a ticking bomb.

“She meant it literally back then. I’d come home from school with ink all over my arms—markers, pens, whatever I could get my hands on. I’d draw on myself like skin was just paper waiting to be used.”

He took another slow drag, not rushed. Not shaky. Just enough to feel it hum through him. Then he reached out, flicked the ash out the window, and passed the joint back to her without looking.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

“She stopped saying it when the drawings got darker.”

A breath. Then another.

“She didn’t know what to do with that version of me. The one who didn’t want to smile anymore. The one who was angry all the time and couldn’t explain why.”

He glanced at Leighton then, just enough to catch the edge of her profile in the low light.

“She wasn’t wrong to be scared,” he said, quieter now. “But you’re right—I never gave anyone a reason to stay, either. I made it real easy to leave.”

The smoke danced between them.

Spencer leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was almost lost in the quiet.

“You’re the only one who’s ever made me want to let someone in.”

And it wasn’t a confession meant to break her. It was one meant to hold her.

He didn’t move when he said it. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to.

He just reached down, grabbed the sketchpad off the floor without ceremony, and dropped it in her lap.

Still closed. Still worn at the edges. Still a little bit haunted.

“I’m not ready to explain them,” he said, voice hoarse. “And you don’t have to say anything after. But I meant what I said.”

A pause. A heartbeat. A choice.

“You get to see me now.”

And he leaned back, hands braced behind him, letting the silence stretch again.

Letting her be the one to turn the page.

Leighton didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.
Didn’t look at the sketchpad in her lap.

She just sat there, her fingertips brushing lightly over the edge of the cover, like if she pressed too hard it might vanish. Like maybe he might.

Because what he’d just given her?
It wasn’t a drawing.

It was a door.

And she could feel her pulse in her throat at the thought of stepping through it.

So when she finally spoke, her voice came out quieter than she meant it to. But steady. Honest.

“Okay,” she said, eyes still on the sketchpad. “But if I get to see you now—”

She looked up. Met his gaze.

“Then you don’t get to disappear after.”

Not a threat.
Not a plea.

Just a line drawn in soft chalk. One that said: I’ll stay if you do.

She shifted slightly, knees brushing his. Let the silence sit with them a second longer, full of things she wasn’t ready to name but wasn’t scared of anymore.

Then, softer—like it wasn’t meant for him at all:

“People look at me like I’m unbreakable. Like if I’m still standing, nothing could’ve hurt that bad.”

Her thumb traced the edge of the cover again.

“But you just handed me something you’ve been trying to outrun your whole life. And I’m not gonna pretend that’s not a big deal.”

A beat. Her voice dropped lower.

“So no—I’m not opening it yet.”

She let that sit. Honest. Sharp. Steady.

“But I’m not leaving, either.”

Then, after a second, her mouth tilted into something half like a smile.

“You said I scare the hell out of you?”
She passed the joint back with a small shrug.

“Yeah, well… right back at you.”

Spencer didn’t breathe right away.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just watched her.

Watched her thumb the edge of that sketchpad like it held a detonator. Like she knew exactly what it was—who it was—and still wasn’t flinching.

That shouldn’t have undone him.

But it did.

Because he’d been waiting.
For the crack.
For the recoil.
For that flicker in her eyes that always came right before people backed away.

But it didn’t come.

Not from her.

Instead, she passed the joint back like it hadn’t just followed a gut-punch of a confession. Like it was normal. Like they were normal.

He took it—grateful for something to do with his hands—and let the smoke coat his lungs again. Less for the high now, more for the shape it gave his breath.

She scared the hell out of him?

Yeah. She did.

Not because she was loud. Not because she pushed. But because she didn’t.

Because she saw through all of it—him—and stayed anyway.

That kind of steady?
That kind of soft that didn’t demand a thing?

It wrecked him.

He flicked ash out the window and exhaled slow, letting the smoke spiral and vanish before he trusted himself to speak.

“I’m not good at being looked at like that,” he said finally. “Like I’m worth the effort.”

His voice was low. Worn. But not brittle.

“I spent so long being someone people could bail on, I stopped asking them to stay.”

His gaze dropped to her hands again. Still resting on the sketchpad. Still gentle.

“And I sure as hell didn’t think someone like you would be the one to mean it.”

He reached out then, slow and cautious, like the moment might spook if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed her knee—just a graze, just enough—and stayed.

“And I’m not disappearing.”

The words came out like a vow. Not loud. Not flowery. But real.

“Not from you.”

He looked at her again, and this time there was no mask. No smirk. No sarcasm to hide behind.

Just Spencer.

Raw edges and all.

“If you can hold the weight of this,” he nodded slightly at the sketchpad, “then I’ll try to hold the fact that you want to.”

A beat passed between them, the kind that could only exist in rooms where silence was safe.

Then, softer—half-laugh, half-admission:

“Shit, Leia… I think you might be the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He passed her the joint with a look that said thank you without needing the word.

Then leaned back again, shoulder brushing hers like punctuation.

Not a question. Not a test.

Just the start of something he didn’t know how to name yet.

But for once, he didn’t need to.

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Not when he touched her knee.
Not when he said her name like that—soft, reverent, like it meant more in his mouth than it ever had in hers.

She just sat there, thumb still brushing the corner of the sketchpad like her hands hadn’t started shaking the second he said not from you.

Because what the hell was she supposed to do with that?

With a boy like him, who was always ready to run but just promised he wouldn’t?
Who’d peeled himself open and let her look—not at the polished lines or pretty punchlines—but the parts that bled?

What the hell was she supposed to do with that kind of tenderness?

The kind that didn’t ask for a spotlight, didn’t ask to be praised—just asked to be held without being turned into a project.

So when he leaned back and said she was the scariest thing that ever happened to him?

She blinked once, slow.

Then smirked.

“Yeah,” she said, finally looking over at him. “You said that already.”

But it didn’t come out sharp this time. Didn’t come out like armor.

It came out like relief.

Like maybe she needed to hear it twice just to believe it the first time.

She took the joint from his fingers again, her touch casual, but her pulse nowhere near it.

And after one long drag—one that scraped the bottom of her lungs and came out soft between her teeth—she exhaled toward the window without looking away from him.

“You know the worst part?” she said, voice lower now. Not bitter. Not dramatic. Just honest in the way she always made sound dangerous.

“I used to think that being chosen was the whole point. That if someone saw me—really saw me—and stayed, then maybe I’d finally be worth something.”

She looked down then. At the sketchpad. At the way it felt heavier now that it wasn’t about art anymore, but trust.

“But that was before you,” she said quietly. “Before you handed me something that didn’t ask for praise. Didn’t ask to be fixed. Just… existed.”

She traced her finger along the spine. Didn’t open it. Didn’t rush.

“I’m not gonna say thank you for this yet. That feels too easy.”

Her gaze flicked back to his.

“But I am gonna remember that you said it. That you meant it.”

And she smiled then. Small. Crooked. Real.

“Besides, someone’s gotta keep you honest.”

She tapped the edge of the sketchpad like a secret between them.

“So… yeah. You don’t get to disappear. And I don’t get to pretend I don’t care.”

She didn’t say anything right away after that.

Didn’t feel like she had to.

There was a kind of hush sitting between them now—not awkward, not heavy. Just… earned. The kind of quiet you don’t get with most people. The kind that only exists when all the masks are off and nobody’s trying to fill the silence with something clever or performative.

Her fingers brushed over the sketchpad again.

Slower this time.

More like reverence than hesitation.

Because she knew what this was. What it meant to be handed the thing someone never shares. Not the highlight reel, not the curated grief—the raw, unedited version. The one with teeth.

And it didn’t scare her.

If anything, it made her spine sit straighter. Like she’d just been trusted with something sacred.

She didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because this moment wasn’t about what was inside.

It was about the fact that he gave it to her.

That he let her see him in a way no one else had.

So instead, she reached for the ashtray on the windowsill, tapped out the joint with steady fingers, and slid it aside. Like she was clearing the stage. Making room.

Then she turned toward him, legs folding under her, and studied him in the low light. Really looked.

Spencer, without the armor. Spencer, without the noise.

Just a boy sitting in front of her with his chest cracked open and no promise it wouldn’t hurt.

“Okay,” she said, finally. Quiet, but not small.

“You let me in.”

Her voice didn’t shake.

“But if we’re doing this—if you’re gonna give me the real stuff—then you have to let me be real, too. Not the version of me that says the right thing. Not the version that knows how to make people laugh or stay quiet when it counts.”

She leaned in just a little. Not close enough to overwhelm. Just enough that he’d feel the weight of it.

“I want to see you, Spencer. But I need you to see me, too. Not just the cool girl who doesn’t scare easy. Not just the girl who stayed.”

A pause.

Then, with soft defiance:

“I want you to know what you’re letting in.”

She didn’t say she was messy. Or broken. Or hard to love.

He’d figure that out eventually.

She just wanted him to choose her anyway.

And tonight?

This moment?

It was the closest she’d ever come to asking for that out loud.

Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t do the thing he always did when things got too close—crack a joke, light a fuse, disappear behind a shrug and a wall of smoke.

Because damn if she didn’t just strip him bare with nothing but words.

And the wildest part?

She wasn’t even trying to.

She was just there—no spotlight, no stage, no performance. Just Leighton, sitting in the soft wreckage of his trust, offering hers in return.

And it fucking floored him.

Not because she’d asked to be seen.

But because she didn’t beg for it.

She demanded it. Quietly. Steadily. Like someone who knew her own worth even when she wasn’t sure anyone else did.

That?
That was scarier than anything he’d ever drawn.

He didn’t look away from her. Couldn’t have if he tried.

Instead, he shifted. Turned to face her fully. One leg folded, the other hanging off the mattress like he needed something to ground him.

His voice, when it came, was low. Not a whisper—but close.

“I see you.”

Three words. No preamble. No bullshit.

His gaze dropped for a second, like he needed to collect himself, then found hers again with startling clarity.

“I see the version of you that doesn’t always have it together. The one who keeps her armor in the back pocket of her cutoffs, just in case. The one who flinches a little when someone calls her soft, but still shows up anyway.”

He shrugged a shoulder, but the movement was more breath than bravado.

“I see the way you look at the world like it’s both a battlefield and a blank page. Like maybe you’re not sure which one it’s gonna be until after you speak.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the sketchpad again. Not to take it back—just to feel it there. Like proof this wasn’t a dream.

“And I know you’re not just the girl who stayed. Or the girl who scares me. Or the girl who makes me want to draw until my hands give out.”

He met her eyes again.

“You’re the girl who made it safe to tell the truth.”

A pause. His voice dropped, huskier now.

“And if that’s what I’m letting in? Then fuck it, Leighton. Let it all in.”

He didn’t mean it like surrender.
He meant it like a choice.

Like the first one that ever felt right.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he reached out and took her hand. Twined his fingers through hers like it was instinct.

No fanfare. No grand gesture.

Just a quiet seal on everything they hadn’t needed to say out loud.

The silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t fragile. It was warm. Sturdy.

He let it stretch.

Then—just as the buzz from the joint began to soften at the edges—he nudged her side lightly and offered the faintest grin.

“Wanna see something ridiculous?”

He nodded toward the box shoved halfway under his bed.

“It’s not part of the sketchpad. It’s... other stuff. Doodles. Notes. A shitty mixtape I burned in ninth grade that I’ll only play for you if you promise not to bully me about the Dashboard Confessional phase.”

He ducked his head like he could already hear her teasing him, but the grin lingered.

Because this?
This was him trying.

This was him staying.

And he wasn’t scared of that anymore.

Leighton didn’t smile at first.

Didn’t tease him. Didn’t reach for the joint or roll her eyes at the Dashboard Confessional mention—even though normally, she would’ve. Normally, she’d have something smart-mouthed and sharp to throw at him, just to cut the weight of everything they never said.

But this wasn’t normal.

This was him handing her his everything.

And for once, she didn’t want to make it easier by making it lighter.

So she stayed still.

Just breathed.

Let the moment settle around her like fog in the early morning—quiet, heavy, real.

Her fingers stayed wrapped around his, thumb brushing lightly along the side of his hand like muscle memory. Like she wasn’t even thinking about it, just needed to touch something that tethered her here. Something that proved this was real.

He saw her.

Not the curated version. Not the loud, unapologetic, bite-first-ask-later Leighton she let the world think was the only version.

He saw the girl who sometimes didn’t know if the fire in her chest was anger or fear.

The one who still counted exits when she walked into a room.

The one who made playlists like apologies and reread old texts like they were instructions she must’ve missed the first time.

And he didn’t flinch.

She turned toward him, slow, letting her knee brush his. Her other hand came up and pressed gently against the side of his face—just fingertips at first, then her palm, soft and certain.

She held him there for a second. Just held him. Like he was something worth grounding.

“You really think I’m not gonna bully you?” she said finally, voice low and dry and fond. “Walker. You just admitted to owning a ninth-grade mixtape.”

Her lips curled, but the softness in her eyes didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

“I already know it starts with ‘Vindicated.’ You’re not special.”

The tease came easy—but her hand didn’t move. And when she dropped it, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she followed the line of his gaze to the box under the bed. The one he’d nodded at like it held the next layer. The next scar. The next leap.

She didn’t move toward it.

Didn’t reach for it herself.

Because some things had to be offered—not taken.

And this?

This was sacred.

So instead, she looked back at him. Let herself really look.

At the curve of his jaw in the low light. At the slope of his shoulders, finally not hunched. At the way his fingers still held onto hers like he hadn’t realized yet he didn’t have to.

And something in her chest just… broke open.

Not the way it used to—suddenly, painfully, in silence.

But in the way things break when they’ve been held too tight for too long and finally get to breathe.

“You know what’s ridiculous?” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“This feels more real than anything I’ve said to anyone in months.”

She let that truth settle between them, not dressed up. Not disguised.

And then, quieter still:

“I’m scared shitless, Spence.”

The nickname slipped out without warning, without armor. It didn’t feel like a test this time. It felt like trust.

“I’m scared because this matters. And because I never learned what to do with things that stayed.”

Her fingers curled a little tighter around his.

“But I wanna learn.”

And with that, she leaned forward—just slightly—and nudged her nose against his like a promise. Like a breath. Like a beginning.

Then she sat back, still close, still there, and nodded once toward the box.

“Show me the damage, Walker,” she said, soft but steady. “I can take it.”

And God, she meant it.

Spencer let out a slow breath through his nose. Not shaky. Not held. Just… full.

Because that was the thing about Leighton.

She didn’t just call his bluff—she waited it out.
Let the silence have room to breathe, let the moment be what it was without asking it to hurry up or soften.

And damn, she was right.

It did start with “Vindicated.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, one corner of his mouth pulling up just slightly. But he didn’t answer with a comeback. Didn’t toss the sarcasm back like he usually would.

Instead, he reached under the bed and dragged the box out slow, like it might change its mind.

It was dented in the corner, the lid barely hanging on, Sharpie scribbled across the top like someone had tried and failed to make it look important. Inside was chaos—but a very Spencer Walker brand of chaos. Notebooks with torn covers. Burned CDs with dramatic one-word titles. An old lighter that didn’t work anymore but still smelled like campfires and bad decisions.

He shuffled through the mess until his fingers closed around a cracked jewel case. The tracklist had long since faded, but he didn’t need to see it. He knew exactly what it was.

He pulled it out like a confession, glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and stood to slide it into the ancient stereo on his bookshelf—the kind that only worked when you hit the side a little.

Click. Whir. Play.

A low hum filled the air.
Then—

:music: “Vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong…” :music:

He turned back toward her with both hands up in mock surrender. “Listen, in my defense, it was the Spider-Man 2 soundtrack and I was going through things.”

But even as the words left his mouth, something softer slid behind his eyes.

Because it was ridiculous.

And it also wasn’t.

Not to him. Not back then.

And not now.

He sat beside her again, knee bumping hers, and reached into the box. Pulled out the next thing without ceremony: a wadded-up sketch on the back of a math worksheet. Two people sitting on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling into the sky like they weren’t afraid of the fall. There were no faces. Just silhouettes and stars.

“That’s from the night my mom moved out,” he said. Casual, like he was reading a label. “Drew it in homeroom the next day. Didn’t want to forget what it felt like to breathe again.”

He passed it to her, not looking at her while he did. Just trusting she’d take it.

Then he pulled out a folded receipt with words scrawled all over the back in blocky Sharpie. Lyrics. Half a letter. Maybe both.

He paused.

“This one’s dumb.”

But he handed it to her anyway.

Then a third thing—an old wristband from a concert he never told anyone he went to. A band he used to pretend he didn’t like because they were “too mainstream,” but secretly? They were the only thing that kept him from losing it the week the divorce papers came in the mail.

“This,” he said, holding it up between his fingers like it was both fragile and sacred, “was the first time I realized I could be in a crowd and still feel lonely.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Kind of weird how that’s still comforting.”

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

And there it was again—that sharp ache in his chest that said don’t fuck this up. The one that made him want to kiss her and run away in the same breath. The one that sounded a hell of a lot like home.

She was still holding his hand. Still here. Still her.

And something about that steadied him in a way nothing else ever had.

He glanced toward the stereo as the second track started—something moodier, something less on-the-nose but still very 2009 heartbreak-core—and gave a sheepish shrug.

“There’s, uh… fifteen more where that came from. The last one’s just me singing into my laptop mic like I thought I was Bon Iver.”

A pause.

Then, soft but deadpan:

“I was not Bon Iver.”

He nudged her shoulder gently. Not trying to break the moment. Just marking it.

Then, quieter:

“I don’t really know how to do this part, Leighton.”

His thumb brushed over hers again.

“The showing up. The letting someone see the mess and not trying to sweep it before they look.”

Another pause.

“But if I’m gonna figure it out with anyone…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

The CD spun. The room held its breath.

And Spencer Walker, the boy who’d spent most of his life trying not to be too much or too broken or too visible, finally let himself be.

Right there, with the music playing, the box open, and her hand still in his.

He didn’t let go.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just traced the edge of the CD case with her thumb like it might tell her something he hadn’t already said.

“Better Off.”

God, the titles he gave things. Like he wanted the world to think he was already past it, already fine, already unbothered—but then kept the proof anyway. Kept the songs and the sketches and the almost-letters in a box under his bed like maybe he wasn’t better off. Not really.

Leighton set the CD down gently, then turned back toward him, legs folded and heart doing that quiet ache thing again.

“You know what’s actually dumb?” she said, her voice low, like it didn’t want to scare the moment away. “I used to think people like you didn’t feel stuff like this.”

She didn’t mean it as an insult. Just truth.

“You came into homeroom that first week with your headphones in and that chipped skateboard and this face like you’d seen everything and didn’t give a shit anymore.”

She gave a small shrug, half a smirk at the edge of it.

“And I was the idiot sitting three rows behind you with a color-coded binder and an entire list of reasons not to get too close to anyone ever again.”

Her voice softened.

“But you noticed things. Like, actually noticed. When I changed my part. When I started wearing my sleeves a little longer. When I snapped my pen in half during group projects and pretended it wasn’t on purpose.”

She tilted her head, studying him now. Not judging. Just… holding it.

“You were already showing up. You just didn’t know it yet.”

Her fingers tightened around his, just barely.

“And now you do.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:
“I see you too, y’know.”

She let that land.

Not with pressure. Not with weight. Just truth, simple and steady.

She glanced toward the stereo, now humming through a track that probably meant way more to him than he’d ever admit, and said, “You’re allowed to be ridiculous. And messy. And moody and soft and weirdly into Bon Iver.”

A beat.

“You’re allowed to be all of it. And I’m not gonna flinch.”

Her gaze dropped to their hands again—twined like they’d always known how to fit—and she smiled, small but real.

“I don’t know how to do this part either, Spencer.”

Her voice almost broke on his name. Not because she was scared.

Because it felt safe.

“But I think this is how it starts.”

She leaned back against the wall, shoulder brushing his again.

Still holding on.

Still here.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t have to.

Because the moment she looked at him like that—shoulder against his, fingers still wrapped up in his like they belonged there—something inside him went quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with holding your breath.
The kind that came when you finally exhaled.

The stereo kept humming in the background, that same second track threading through the silence—raw and unpolished, with vocals that cracked in all the places he used to think needed fixing.

But now?

Now it just sounded honest.

She’d called him out. Gently. Completely.

Not just on the music or the bullshit titles or the mask he’d worn into homeroom that first week like it could protect him from caring too much again.

She’d seen past all of it.

And stayed.

He turned to face her fully, slow and careful, like the moment might run if he moved too fast. His knee brushed hers again. His hand—still holding hers—shifted slightly so he could thread their fingers tighter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had someone say all that and not make me wanna crawl out of my skin,” he said, voice low and rough at the edges. “But you…”

He trailed off.

Shook his head, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite get there.

“You make it feel like I’m not faking it just by trying.”

The song swelled behind them. A low harmony kicked in—off-key, imperfect, his.

And maybe that’s what finally tipped him forward.

Not recklessly.
Not impulsively.
Just… honestly.

He leaned in—slow, steady, like gravity was a decision this time.

And when he kissed her?

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t some firework moment he’d spent years dreaming about.

It was quiet.

Soft.

The kind of kiss that didn’t need to ask for permission because the answer had been in every breath between them all night.

His hand slid up to cradle her jaw, thumb grazing just under her ear like he was trying to memorize the way she felt when she wasn’t trying to be anyone but herself.

And God, she was everything.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to see her, to really see her—his forehead rested against hers, breath warm between them, music still spilling softly into the corners of the room.

“I’m still scared shitless,” he whispered, a half-laugh tucked into it now. “But if this is how it starts…”

He squeezed her hand.

“Then I don’t wanna miss it.”

The stereo clicked gently into the next track.

And Spencer Walker let it play.

Leighton didn’t rush to answer.

She just let the quiet hold — not in hesitation, but in understanding. Like maybe she knew the weight of what he’d just said, what it cost him to hand it over without flinching. And maybe she didn’t want to trample that by speaking too soon.

So she stayed close. Fingers still laced with his. Shoulder brushing his. Eyes steady.

When she did speak, her voice was softer than he was used to hearing from her. Not because she was pulling back — but because she wasn’t performing now. No armor. No bite. Just her.

“Hey,” she said gently, like a thread stitching the moment together. “You don’t have to explain it all. I get it.”

Her thumb moved slowly across the back of his hand. Back and forth. Over and over. Like maybe if she kept that rhythm going, he’d believe it — that he was safe here. That this moment wasn’t going to break him.

“I know what it’s like to want to run before someone can see too much,” she whispered. “To flinch when something feels too good — too real. Like maybe if you let yourself want it, you’ll wreck it.”

She looked at him then, really looked — all the way in.

“But you haven’t wrecked anything, Spencer. Not even close.”

She shifted a little closer, her knee pressing gently into his, her voice barely more than a breath now.

“You don’t have to earn being seen. You don’t have to apologize for needing to go slow, or not having all the words, or being scared. I’m scared too. But I’m still here.”

A small, quiet smile found her lips.

“And I’m not going anywhere just because you’re figuring it out as you go.”

She tilted her forehead to his, brushing their noses together like a promise without needing to say one.

“You’re not too much. You’re not not enough. You’re just… you. And that’s what I want.”

Her hand moved to his face, cradling his cheek gently, her thumb brushing beneath his eye.

“So you can stop holding your breath now,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to be okay here.”

And she meant it.
Every word.

Not because he needed saving.
But because he finally let her see him.

And she’d never once thought about leaving.

Spencer let out a slow breath.

Not shaky. Not heavy.

Just full.

Because that? That was a lot.

Too much, maybe, for someone who used to joke his way out of feelings and skate past anything that looked like actual connection.

And yet—here she was.

Still here. Still looking at him like he wasn’t a half-finished draft she was gonna scrap when she saw the edits. Like he didn’t have to sell her on the version of himself with clean lines and no smudges.

His throat felt tight, but not the bad kind. Just… the kind that came from hearing something you weren’t sure you’d ever get to hear.

He leaned back a little, just enough to see her clearly, her thumb still brushing the back of his hand like it had a job to do.

“You sure?” he asked, tone deliberately light but eyes still serious. “Because this—” he gestured between them with their joined hands, “—comes with a lifetime supply of self-deprecating jokes, a raging superiority complex about indie playlists, and a deeply concerning attachment to hoodies with thumb holes.”

A beat.

“And I once cried during a Pixar short, so.”

He watched the corners of her mouth twitch. Not quite a full laugh, but getting there—and God, did that feel good.

Spencer stretched his legs out in front of him with a soft exhale, their knees still touching, his head leaning back against the wall.

The room was quiet again, the mix still playing in the background—soft guitar, a voice that cracked in all the places his had earlier.

He turned to her, this time more relaxed, letting the vulnerability settle into something easier to hold.

“Y’know,” he said, shifting just enough to nudge her shoulder with his, “you’re kinda terrifying when you’re nice.”

He raised an eyebrow, mock-serious. “Like, should I be worried? Is this how it starts? You lure me in with kindness and then steal my CDs?”

A pause.

“…Actually, fair warning—there’s an old Taking Back Sunday bootleg in that box. If that goes missing, I will call the authorities.”

His tone was teasing, but underneath it all, it was clear:
He was staying in this moment.
Not running.
Not hiding.

He glanced down at their hands again.

“I’m not good at this part,” he admitted. “But I want to try.”

Then, because the silence was starting to stretch again—and because he could only take so much softness before his brain short-circuited—he added with a crooked smile:

“And if I spiral and send you a 2 a.m. playlist called ‘Songs to Cry and Also Pretend You’re in a Music Video To’... just, like… go with it.”

He bumped her knee again.

“Still not gonna scare you off, huh?”

God, part of him almost hoped she’d say no.
But the bigger part?

Already knew the answer.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Just tilted her head, watching him with that look—the one that always made him feel a little exposed, like she could see every messy corner he’d spent years trying to wallpaper over.

But there was no judgment in her eyes. Just this maddening, grounding calm.

Then—finally—she spoke, voice low and warm, like the part of the night that doesn’t try to be anything but still.

“I’m sure.”

No hesitation. No flinch.

Her thumb kept brushing his hand, slow and steady, like maybe it had become instinct now. Like she knew he needed something to hold onto, and she wasn’t planning to let go.

“And just so we’re clear,” she added, lips curving, “the superiority complex is earned. Your playlists are weirdly good. I hate that for me.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly into his, matching his energy, keeping the air easy without letting go of the weight underneath it.

“And the thumb-hole hoodie thing? That’s not a red flag. That’s just childhood trauma in cotton form. Welcome to the club.”

She glanced down at their hands and then back up again, her expression softening.

“As for crying during a Pixar short…” She paused, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean—unless it was the lava one, in which case I am judging you a little—but otherwise? That just makes you human.”

A beat passed.

Then, quieter now, like it mattered more than the rest:
“I like that you’re human with me.”

She didn’t try to dress it up with a joke. Didn’t pivot or pull back.

She just said it.

And then, because she could feel the tension still lingering in his posture—the part of him that was bracing for her to leave even as she sat right in front of him—she leaned in.

Rested her temple against his shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this part,” she murmured. “You’re just supposed to try. And you are.”

Her hand squeezed his, firm but gentle.

“And for the record, I expect that playlist. And I will absolutely cry to it. And then overanalyze the track order like it’s a coded message about your emotional growth.”

She smiled into his sleeve, dry and a little crooked.

“So no. You haven’t scared me off.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him again, her voice still quiet but clear:

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

And maybe that was the moment—the shift.

Not fireworks. Not some grand declaration.

Just this.

Two kids sitting on a bedroom floor, knees touching, hearts cracked open in the softest kind of way.

Still trying.
Still staying.
Still enough.

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

He couldn’t.

Not with her looking at him like that.
Like he wasn’t something broken to fix, but something she’d already decided to keep.

So he did the only thing that made sense in that moment—
He reached.

Not for her hand this time.
Not for the joint, or the lighter, or another joke to wrap around his ribs like armor.

He reached for the sketchbook.

The one she hadn’t opened.
The one he hadn’t let anyone open. Not really.

And for a second, he just held it in his lap, fingers resting lightly on the worn edge of the cover. Like if he gave it a second longer, maybe he’d change his mind.

He didn’t.

Instead, he glanced sideways—caught her watching him, still quiet, still there—and then flipped the cover open.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “You asked.”

The first pages were messy.

Like, messy.

Pencil lines dug in too deep. Smudged corners. Scribbles that didn’t mean anything except get it out, get it out, get it out.

Dark stuff.

The kind of sketches you don’t post.
The kind you don’t even look at again once they’re out of your head.
Except he had. Over and over.
Because that’s who he was before her—someone who looped the hard parts, trying to make sense of them with graphite and shame.

Shadows of people with their faces erased.
Hands reaching for something they’d never catch.
A cracked ribcage with a lock where the heart should be.

He let the pages speak for themselves.

Didn’t narrate. Didn’t explain.

Just turned each one slowly, steady hands even when his heart wanted to bail.

Then—finally—he paused.

Looked at her again, eyes catching hers in the low, quiet space between songs. The CD kept spinning in the background, soft chords filling the air like breath.

“This was before,” he said simply. “Before I let anyone close enough to tell me I didn’t have to bleed for it to mean something.”

He turned the page.

And there she was.

Not a portrait. Not exactly.

But the shift was obvious. The change.

Sketches that had light in them now.

Lines that lifted, even when they didn’t make sense.
A rooftop. A pair of boots on a railing. A streak of blue sky in the corner of a storm.
Hands again—but this time, held.

And then, one page he hadn’t meant to flip to—
A quick study of her asleep on the couch, hoodie half off her shoulder, mouth slightly open like she was mid-dream.

He froze.

“Okay, that one’s embarrassing,” he muttered, going to turn the page—
But her hand landed gently on his.

Not to stop him.
Just to say don’t run.

So he left it.

Didn’t look at her right away—just stared at the lines and shading like maybe he could hide there a little longer.

“This is what happened when you showed up,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “When you kicked in the door and sat on the floor and started telling me I wasn’t as scary as I thought.”

A beat.

“I didn’t get better, Leighton. I just… stopped pretending it wasn’t worth trying.”

He glanced over.

Saw the way her eyes had gone soft again, but not watery. Not pitying.

Just present.

Spencer exhaled a little—half-laugh, half-relief.

“I swear to God, if you start crying, I’m gonna have to play ‘Mr. Brightside’ just to survive.”

He reached for the CD case like a lifeline, grinning crookedly now, trying to ease the tension without letting it go.

“Anyway,” he added, nudging her knee with his, “this is the part where you admit you’re my muse now and try to act like you’re not secretly flattered.”

But even with the sarcasm back, even with the shield half-up again—
His knee stayed pressed to hers.

And the sketchbook?

Still open between them.

Because he didn’t want to hide it anymore.

Didn’t want to hide himself anymore.

Not from her.

Not now.

Not ever again.

Leighton didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t interrupt the silence he left hanging.
Didn’t reach for the sketchbook again.

She just watched.

Watched him hold the weight of his own history in his lap and choose to hand it over. Page by page. Wound by wound. Shadow by shadow.

She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t soften.
Didn’t look away.

Because none of it scared her.

Not the darkness.
Not the sharp edges.
Not even the page with her on it.

And when he muttered that he was going to play Mr. Brightside as an emotional emergency exit, she let out a breath of a laugh—quiet and cracked, but real.

Then she looked at him.

Like really looked. The way you do when you’ve already decided someone is home before they know it themselves.

“Spencer,” she said softly, like it was both an anchor and an invitation.

Her fingers moved—light at first—then settled on top of his, still resting near the spine of the sketchbook. She didn’t squeeze. Didn’t push. Just covered his hand with hers like it had always belonged there.

“You don’t have to get better for me,” she said. “You don’t even have to be good at this. You just have to keep showing up.”

A pause.

Then she nodded toward the page still open between them—the one of her asleep, hoodie sliding off her shoulder, drawn like someone who didn’t know she was being remembered.

“I don’t care if it’s embarrassing,” she murmured. “You saw me. You kept me. You made space for me in a place you didn’t even think had room left.”

Her thumb brushed along his knuckles now, slow and grounding.

“You think I don’t see you the same way?”

A beat.

She turned slightly, folding her legs beneath her, their knees still pressed together, her voice dipping lower.

“I’ve seen the worst of you. You let me. And it didn’t scare me off.”

Her eyes flicked to the sketchbook.

“It made me stay.”

She leaned forward then—careful, like she wasn’t trying to prove a point but feel one. And when her forehead rested lightly against his, she breathed him in for a second. Let the weight of everything he’d just given her settle right between them.

“You’re not broken,” she whispered. “You’re brave. And maybe that’s messy, and maybe it’s not always pretty—but it’s real.”

She smiled then, close enough for him to feel it.

“And yeah. I’m your muse now. Obviously. I mean, you drew me with my mouth open—deeply unflattering. That’s devotion.”

A pause.

Then, lightly, “And you will be hearing from my lawyer about the hoodie neckline slander.”

Still forehead to forehead.

Still holding on.

Then quieter.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She opened her eyes, met his again.

“Not even if you play Mr. Brightside.”

And just like that, she stayed with him. In the light. In the dark. In the space between one page and the next.

Sketchbook still open.
Hands still joined.
No more pretending.

Spencer didn’t breathe right for a second.

Because what the hell do you do when the girl who terrifies you—in all the best ways—leans in like that? When she calls you brave instead of broken and says she’s not going anywhere, not even if you throw The Killers at her like a smoke bomb?

His first instinct, the one wired into him, was to deflect. To crack some joke about her future lawyer being underpaid, or how that drawing was definitely artistic choice and not him being a creep with a pencil. To make it lighter. Safer.

But she was right there.
Forehead pressed to his.
Thumb still brushing his knuckles like she’d figured out the one way to keep his pulse from breaking out of his chest.

And he realized—slow and horrible and holy all at once—that she’d already seen through all the jokes anyway.

So instead of running, he let himself stay.

His voice came out rougher than he meant, softer too.
“You say you’re not scared of me, but… you should be. I snore like a chainsaw and I eat cereal out of mugs because I keep breaking bowls.”

Her laugh—quiet, close—knocked something loose in him. He grinned into it, crooked and small, and let his free hand slide up to the back of her neck. Not to pull her in, not to trap her, just to keep her close enough he could believe this wasn’t going to vanish if he blinked.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Leia,” he admitted, his forehead still resting against hers. “But if you’re really not going anywhere… I’ll figure it out. With you.”

The CD spun on, some scratchy guitar filling the silence in the corners of the room, and for once he didn’t feel like he had to fill it with words. He just breathed her in, held her hand tighter, and let himself be wrecked in the way she promised.

Eventually, though, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Smirked, because he couldn’t help himself.
“Also—for the record? That sketch of you drooling on the couch? That’s definitely going in the retrospective someday. Front and center. Title card: Muse, Being Gross.”

He braced for her swat, grinning before she even moved. But beneath the joke, his grip on her hand never loosened.

Because she’d said she wasn’t going anywhere.
And for the first time in his life—
He believed it.

Leighton didn’t disappoint him.

She swatted him hard across the shoulder — the kind of hit that made a satisfying sound and just enough impact to say you earned that, without letting it get sentimental.

“Muse, Being Gross?” she repeated, flat. “You’re lucky I don’t punch you.”

But her hand was still in his, thumb still brushing over the back of it, like she hadn’t just assaulted him in perfect rhythm to the beat of his terrible humor. Her expression cracked, lips twitching with a smile she tried to fight and absolutely failed to contain.

“You really kept that one?” she said. “That’s what made the cut? Not one of the, I don’t know, vaguely mysterious ones with me looking tortured and poetic?”

She leaned in just a little, voice lower now. Not soft — pointed.

“I will sue for emotional damages if anyone ever sees that sketch.”

But then she looked at him again, really looked, and whatever joke she’d been about to add died somewhere between her breath and his.

“You don’t have to figure anything out,” she said quietly. “You already did the part that mattered.”

She didn’t explain what that meant. She didn’t have to.
He’d feel it.
Right there in the way her fingers stayed curled around his like they’d been holding on all along.

And when he didn’t flinch, didn’t run, didn’t bury it all under another smirk — she let herself believe it, too.

Then, just to ruin the moment:

“But if you do draw me drooling again,” she said, dry as sandpaper, “you better make it surrealist. I want melting clocks and a ghost dog in the background. Full chaos. Lean in.”

She bumped his knee, just once.

“Don’t make it pretty. Make it true.”

And then she said nothing else.

Because nothing else needed to be said.

Spencer would’ve kissed her for that.
Not the drool lawsuit part—though, okay, that was peak Leighton Thomas litigation—but for the “don’t make it pretty, make it true.” Because Jesus, she said things like that and had no idea how bad they wrecked him.

He opened his mouth—half to argue, half to tell her she was the only thing he’d ever gotten right—

—and the floor creaked in the hallway.

“Spence?”

His whole body snapped tight like he’d been caught stealing again. His dad’s voice. Low, gravelly, too close.

Damien Walker. Master of timing.

Spencer scrambled upright faster than he meant to, one hand shooting out to nudge the sketchbook closed like it was contraband. Leighton’s hand stayed in his even as he did it, her grip stubborn, grounding, like she was daring him not to drop her too.

“Uh—yeah?” Spencer called, voice cracking just enough to betray him. He cleared his throat, forced casual. “What’s up?”

The door didn’t open, thank God. Just Damien’s voice through the wood, weary and clipped.
“Keep the music down, will you? Got work in the morning.”

Spencer glanced toward the stereo, which was humming at the lowest possible volume a human ear could register. He rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered back, already tugging the knob with one foot to nudge the volume down a hair.

There was a pause. Heavy, like maybe his dad was about to say more. Like maybe he was going to ask who Spencer was talking to, or why his voice sounded different, or—

—but then footsteps retreated down the hall.

Silence again.

Spencer exhaled all at once, shoulders dropping. He looked at Leighton, a little sheepish, a little apologetic, like see? welcome to the circus.

“Damien Walker, everybody,” he deadpanned, voice low. “Father of the year, breaker of vibes. Try the veal.”

Leighton smirked, because of course she did, and he couldn’t help it—he laughed, shaky but real, pressing the heel of his free hand over his face.

When he dropped it, his grin was crooked, tired, wrecked in that way she always teased him about.

“Sorry. He, uh…” Spencer shrugged, the sketchbook heavy against his thigh even closed. “He doesn’t really… get it. Any of it.”

He turned his palm under hers, lacing their fingers again like he needed to prove it hadn’t shaken him loose. Like maybe it had—but she was still there to knot him back together.

And softer, so soft it barely made it out:
“But you do.”

The song still played, slow and steady. And Spencer let himself lean into it—into her—like his dad’s shadow hadn’t just crossed the door.

Like maybe, in this room at least, he was allowed to stay.

Leighton didn’t say anything at first.

Just let their hands stay tangled, even when he moved. Even when his voice cracked and his back went stiff and the entire air in the room shifted like gravity had suddenly remembered it had other plans.

She’d felt it before — that full-body lock-up, the way a single sound from the hallway could turn a boy into a warning.

So she didn’t joke.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed.

She just stayed still and held on.

When he muttered “Damien Walker, breaker of vibes,” she let the smirk come back — small, sharp, but more for him than herself. She watched the way he laughed behind his hand, like maybe if he pushed hard enough on his own face, the moment would reset.

It didn’t.

So when he dropped his hand and looked at her like see? this is the part you didn’t sign up for,
she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.

Just said, quiet but steady:
“Yeah. He doesn’t get it.”

Her thumb moved slow against the inside of his wrist now, not brushing, not soothing — just present.

“But I do.”

She didn’t say it like a rescue.
Didn’t wrap it in softness or lace it with pity.
It was just the truth. Full stop.

And when he laced their fingers again, like he needed to double-check the connection was still there — she let him.

Not because he needed her to stay.
Because she’d never let go.

Leighton leaned in just enough that her temple brushed his. Her voice didn’t rise with the music or try to fill the space.

She just said, low and even:

“He doesn’t get it. But he doesn’t have to.”

Then — after a pause, with the hint of a smile in her voice —
“And also? The volume was fine. You’re, like, a single decibel above whisper-core. The man needs a hobby.”

Her knee knocked into his, just once.
Real. Solid.

Then nothing else.

No big comfort speech. No dramatic rebound.
Just her.

Still here.
Still real.

And for the first time all night —
she didn’t feel like a guest in the moment.

She felt like she fit.

Leighton didn’t pull away right away.

She let the quiet settle again, their hands still tangled, her knee still brushing his. The weight of what almost got said hanging in the air between them like smoke from a fire that hadn’t gone out yet.

But then she glanced toward the door. Not startled. Not rattled. Just… aware.

And when she looked back at him, something in her expression had shifted — not colder, not distant, just clear.

“I should go.”

She said it evenly, not as a question. Not as a test.

She didn’t let go of his hand yet, though.

“I’m not running,” she added, softer now. “And I’m not freaked out. I just—”

She paused. Took a breath.

“—don’t wanna crowd whatever that just was.”

Another pause. Briefer this time.

“And I know myself. If I stay too long, I won’t wanna leave.”

She gave his hand a final squeeze. Not goodbye — just okay.

Then she gently untangled their fingers, brushing her thumb along the side of his hand once more before letting go.

Her tone, when she spoke again, was back to that dry, grounded Leighton cadence he knew too well:

“And besides. I have to go home and file a formal complaint with the International Muse Association. My rights have been violated.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth as she stood, brushing off her knees. She didn’t rush. Didn’t make it dramatic.

Just reached for her bag, glanced once toward the stereo, and then back at him — eyes steady, still locked on his like she’d never once looked away.

“You gonna walk me out, or do I have to call an Uber and dramatically disappear into the fog like an indie film protagonist with trust issues?”

She was already teasing him again.

But this wasn’t a retreat.
It was a choice.

And she wanted him to see that.

Spencer felt the space empty when she untangled her hand from his.
Like he’d been holding onto something with both fists and someone just told him to loosen his grip.

And yeah, maybe it stung.
But the way she said it—I’m not running—landed harder than the sting ever could.

So he didn’t beg. Didn’t throw some half-assed joke to keep her sitting cross-legged on his floor. He just sat there, back pressed to the wall, and watched her stand. Watched her brush herself off like she hadn’t just been holding the heaviest parts of him without dropping them.

God, she was terrifying.

Not because she was leaving.
Because she made leaving feel like it wasn’t an ending.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tried to laugh off the knot in his chest. “Yeah, okay, International Muse Association. Pretty sure my membership card expired around the time I started sketching in math class instead of, you know, doing math.”

His voice cracked on math, which was rude of it, but Leighton’s mouth curved, and that was enough to make the air feel less sharp.

He pushed himself up, joints protesting like he was eighty, and grabbed his hoodie off the chair on instinct. Tossed it over his shoulder as he crossed the room toward her.

“You’re not allowed to Uber dramatically into the fog,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets once he was close enough. “Indie film rules say that’s how the sad boy gets left alone with nothing but acoustic guitar and unresolved feelings. Which, like… accurate, but still cruel.”

Her bag was slung over her shoulder now. She was still looking at him the same way she had when she said I’m not running. Like she meant it. Like she wasn’t scared of the mess.

And maybe that was why he finally moved.

Spencer reached out, fingers brushing hers once before catching, squeezing—not enough to keep her, just enough to remind her he was still here too.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, softer this time. Almost steady.

Then, with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth: “But if you ghost me into the fog anyway, I’m putting Mr. Brightside on loop and sending you passive-aggressive playlists until you cave.”

He let her roll her eyes at that. Let her laugh, even if it was just a huff of breath through her nose.

Because underneath the joke, he hoped she heard it:
He wasn’t letting her disappear.

Not tonight.
Not after this.

Leighton shifted her weight just enough to face him. Still by the door, still with her bag slung over one shoulder, but now fully turned toward him — like she was giving all of it back. All the air he’d just let out. All the pieces he didn’t even try to hide.

“Your membership card’s still valid,” she said first, mouth tugging sideways. “Maybe even platinum. You’ve got the tortured sketchbook pages to prove it.”

Her voice was soft, but not careful. Not tiptoeing. She wasn’t scared to name what was true.

“And for the record,” she added, stepping closer, “you were always better at drawing than math.”

She let that land — the smallest nudge of sincerity beneath the tease — before continuing.

“I’m not ghosting you, Spencer,” she said, plain and clean. “Not now, not ever.”

Then, as her eyes dropped to the floor for half a second — a breath, a memory — she looked up again and echoed, “And I’m definitely not UBERing dramatically into the fog. Even if I did have a tragic indie montage soundtrack queued up.”

There was a beat, then a pause that wasn’t quite silence — just space.

“You don’t have to walk me out,” she said, but reached for his hand anyway. Laced their fingers together like it had always made sense. “You could just come with me.”

The way she said it wasn’t casual.

Not heavy either. Just… real.

“I mean—” her smile flickered, dry and warm, “—this way, you don’t have to sit here listening to acoustic guitars and spiraling through your emo phase again. I’m doing us both a favor.”

And then, quieter — enough that it nearly disappeared into the space between them:

“I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

Another pause. Then she nudged his arm gently with her shoulder.

“You can even bring Mr. Brightside if you’re that emotionally attached.”

And just like that — no pressure, no performance — she turned toward the door, still holding his hand.

But this time, she didn’t let go.

Spencer felt his throat go tight.
Not in the bad way. Not like it used to, when words piled up and he didn’t trust himself not to choke on them.

This was different.

Because she’d just said the one thing he’d been praying for without even realizing he was praying. Not now, not ever. And then she’d gone and slipped her hand into his like it belonged there—like she hadn’t seen all the jagged edges stuffed under his bed an hour ago.

He squeezed back before he could think better of it. Let his thumb brush over her knuckles once, quick, like muscle memory.

“You’re seriously underestimating how attached I am to my emo phase,” he muttered, half a laugh sneaking out. “Like, if I could legally marry Mr. Brightside, we’d already have kids in middle school.”

She rolled her eyes, exactly like he wanted her to, but didn’t let go. And God, that part undid him worse than anything else.

Spencer grabbed his hoodie from the chair, slung it over his free arm, and let her pull him toward the door. The floorboards creaked like they were in on the secret, the whole house holding its breath while he followed her out.

“Also,” he added as they hit the hall, his voice softer now, the joke fading at the edges, “just so we’re clear—if I come with you, you’re officially responsible for preventing me from singing I Write Sins Not Tragedies at full volume past midnight.”

She smirked over her shoulder, and he let himself grin back, even if his chest still felt like it was breaking in the best possible way.

Because she didn’t want to leave him alone tonight.
And for the first time, he realized—

He didn’t want to be alone, either.

Leighton didn’t look back right away. She just kept walking, his hand still wrapped in hers like it was the most natural thing in the world — like reaching for him hadn’t been a decision but a reflex.

But God, she felt it. Every quiet piece of him trailing her down the hallway. The weight of the laugh he didn’t mean to let out. The soft thread in his voice when the jokes started slipping into something real. The way the air behind her wasn’t heavy anymore — just full.

When he caught up, she didn’t slow her pace. Just tilted her head toward him with a sideways glance and the smallest roll of her eyes. “If you start singing Panic at midnight, I’m kicking you off the futon,” she murmured. “I mean it. I’ll make you sleep on the floor like a tragic little ghost of Hot Topic past.”

But her thumb pressed into his again — warm, certain.

And when they reached the front door, she finally stopped. Turned to face him with something just shy of a smile, but steadier than any grin.

“I don’t need you to be okay tonight,” she said quietly. “I just need you with me.”

She pushed the door open without waiting for a response, stepping out into the night like it belonged to them now. Not because everything was fixed. Not because either of them knew what came next.

But because this — him walking beside her — was enough for now.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t scared of the quiet.

Because he was in it too.

Spencer didn’t let go.

Not when she turned toward the door, not when the night air crept in through the crack she’d opened. His grip stayed tight, almost stubborn, like if he loosened even a little she’d vanish into the fog she kept joking about.

But she didn’t.

She was still there—bag slung over her shoulder, teasing him about playlists and Panic! and futons, still looking at him like she wasn’t waiting for him to turn into every other mistake in her past.

And it did something to him.

Something he wasn’t ready to name, not out loud, but he felt it anyway.

“Okay, but for the record,” he said, voice low, a little ragged from everything they hadn’t said tonight, “if you make me sleep on the floor, I’m taking all the good snacks with me. You’re getting stuck with stale pretzels and mystery-brand soda.”

He let the corner of his mouth twitch up—small, crooked, not enough to erase the weight in his chest but enough to cut through it. Enough to give her back some of that ease she kept giving him.

And then he stepped forward. Closed the gap she’d left at the door until their shoulders brushed again.

“I’ll come with you,” he murmured, softer now, serious slipping back in around the edges. His thumb pressed into hers, steady, certain. “Not because I think you need me there. But because I want to be.”

He leaned into the doorframe with his free hand, stealing one last look around the room—the sketches scattered on the desk, the stereo still humming faintly, the stars above his bed that never quite glowed enough. All the pieces he’d shown her. All the pieces she hadn’t run from.

Then he looked back at her.

And for once, he didn’t joke.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t wanna be alone tonight either.”

So he pulled the door all the way open, stepped out into the dark beside her, and didn’t let go.

Didn’t even think about it.

Because maybe this was it—the part where staying wasn’t some impossible weight anymore. The part where he didn’t have to say he was terrified just to prove he was still here.

He just was.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, that felt like enough.