The Drift Lab
 

She felt him before she saw him.
That prickling, spine-tingling shift in the air that said someone you shouldn’t miss is standing behind you.

Leighton didn’t turn right away.
She took another drag from the joint being passed around, holding the smoke in her lungs until it burned—until it drowned out the sound of her own heart clawing at her ribs.
She laughed at something one of the guys said, tossed her hair over her shoulder, the sound brittle and bright and nothing like the way she used to laugh when it was just her and Spencer.

Only when the circle broke—only when the boy beside her shifted, clearing a space where there hadn’t been one—did she glance up.

And there he was.

Spencer Walker, looking like every bad decision she’d ever wanted to make twice.

He stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes raking over the scene like he didn’t know whether he wanted to pull her out of it or run from it himself.

Leighton tilted her head, slow and deliberate, smoke curling lazily from her lips.

“Didn’t think this was your scene anymore,” she said, voice smooth as the drag she’d just exhaled.

Spencer didn’t answer.
Not with words.

The look on his face—God, that look—was louder than anything he could’ve said anyway.

Leighton smiled. Sharp. Bright. Mean.

“You lost, Walker?” she asked, cocking her hip just enough to make the point land. “Or just out here collecting ghosts?”

One of the guys beside her chuckled, offering the joint to Spencer with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Before he could reach for it, Leighton lifted a hand—stopping it midair.

“Nah,” she said, flashing Spencer a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s not the type to join. He’s the type to watch. Say nothing. Then disappear for three weeks and call it love.”

The words hit harder than she’d meant them to.
Or maybe she meant them exactly that hard.

It didn’t matter.
She was past pretending.

Leighton stepped closer, just enough that she could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his jaw clenched like he could physically hold himself together if he tried hard enough.

She almost pitied him.

Almost.

“You don’t get to act surprised,” she said, voice lower now, raw around the edges. “You told me to walk away. I’m just following instructions.”

For a second—a breath, a heartbeat, a choice—she thought he might say something.
Might undo it all with a word.

But Spencer stayed silent.

So she did what he couldn’t.
She broke it clean.

“You should go,” she said, softer now, the venom draining out and leaving something quieter behind. “Jess and Sam are around here somewhere. Probably looking for you. Probably still believing in you.”

She smiled again—small this time, sad in a way she didn’t want him to see but knew he would.

“And don’t worry,” she added, stepping back into the circle of boys who didn’t know her name, didn’t know her story, didn’t know how badly she wanted to forget. “I’m not gonna fall apart in your arms this time.”

She tipped her chin toward the group, like a challenge, like armor she didn’t fully believe in.

“I brought backup.”

And then—because looking at him hurt more than any high could fix—
She turned away.
Took the joint back from the boy on her left.
And laughed at something she didn’t hear, letting the smoke and the noise and the heat of strangers swallow her whole.

If Spencer said anything after that, she didn’t hear it.

She didn’t need to.
Not anymore.

Spencer didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.
Didn’t let it show.
Not the way her words carved straight through him like she’d aimed for the places he already bled from.
Not the way every guy in that goddamn circle looked at her like she was something to consume.

He’d heard worse in his own head.
Said worse.
Hell, he’d been worse.

But something about hearing it from her—watching her lean into the performance of not giving a shit—made his jaw ache from how hard he was grinding his teeth.

She was right, wasn’t she?

He had told her to walk away.
And now here she was, wrapped in secondhand smoke and empty laughs, surrounded by assholes who didn’t know a single thing about her—but still stared at her like they’d already decided what parts of her they wanted to ruin.

His hands stayed in the pockets of his hoodie.
His face stayed still.

But inside?

Inside, he was raging.

Not just at her. Not really.
At himself. For making this bed.
At her, for climbing into it with someone else.
At the universe, for putting her here with them.
At everything.

So he stayed exactly where he was, a few feet back, hoodie up, eyes cold. Watching.

The guy on her left leaned in too close, laughing too loud. His eyes lingered in places Spencer knew too well—knew better than he ever should’ve. And the second Leighton passed the joint back with that glass smile of hers, Spencer’s stomach twisted like barbed wire.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

Until one of the guys finally looked up, cocky and curious.

“You got a problem or somethin’?” the guy asked, mouth half-curled, voice lazy in that who the hell is this guy kind of way.

Spencer’s tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
And then he smiled.

That half-smirk that never meant anything good.
The kind of smile people talked about after the fact—after the blood or the damage or the fallout.

He pulled one hand from his hoodie pocket, rolled his shoulders once like it bored him just to be standing there.

Then he sized the dude up, eyes dragging from head to toe like he already knew the outcome.

“Nah,” Spencer said finally, voice low and dry. “Just hate watching girls pretend they’re okay when they’re not.”

The guy laughed, stepping forward like he thought he had something to prove. “You must be her ex.”

Spencer’s head tilted. “You must be a dumbass.”

The dude barely got another word out before Spencer’s fist collided with his jaw.

It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.

The thud of skin against skin, the crack of sudden silence—
That said plenty.

Spencer didn’t wait to see if the guy hit the ground.
Didn’t wait to see if Leighton turned around.

He just stood there, knuckles smarting, teeth clenched, breathing hard and wild and wrecked.

Because this was all he had left.

And hell if he was gonna walk away again.

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t gasp.
Didn’t even move at first.

She just stood there, frozen, the joint halfway to her mouth, fingers slack around it like it had turned to stone in her hand.

Because of course he hit him.
Of course Spencer fucking Walker stormed back into her life like a wildfire just to burn it all down.

The circle broke apart fast—murmurs, a shove, the shuffle of feet and egos trying to figure out if this was a fight or just a warning.
Someone cursed under their breath.
Someone else laughed.

And Leighton—
She just stared at him.

At Spencer.
At the boy she loved.
At the boy who loved her so much he thought breaking her would save her.

God, he looked wrecked.
Chest heaving.
Knuckles split.
Eyes wild and burning like he didn’t care if the whole goddamn place collapsed around them.

And for a second—for a stupid, dangerous second—she wanted to run to him.

Wanted to forgive him.

Wanted to let it be simple again.

But it wasn’t simple.

And he didn’t get to show up like this, fists swinging, and pretend the damage he’d done didn’t count because he was finally willing to bleed for her now.

She dropped the joint, grinding it under the heel of her Converse until it fizzled out.

Then she crossed the distance between them in two steady steps, stopping just shy of touching him—close enough to feel the heat pouring off him, the anger, the heartbreak he wore like a second skin.

Her voice, when it came, was low.
Steady.
Deadly calm.

“You don’t get to hit people because you don’t know how to stay.”

Spencer’s mouth opened like he had something to say—something to fix—but she wasn’t done.

“You don’t get to throw punches like that’s love either,” she added, softer now. “It’s not.”

She shook her head once, slow, feeling the weight of it all in her bones.

“I don’t need you to fight for me, Spencer,” she whispered. “I needed you to stay.”

And she turned away before he could see the way her hands shook.
Before he could ruin her all over again just by standing there.

Before he could make her forgive him for things that should’ve broken her for good.

Spencer didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t crumble.

And that pissed him off more than anything.

Because for one fucking second, Spencer thought she would.
That she’d snap.
That she’d cry.
That she’d do something to make the chaos inside him feel justified. Human. Seen.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there.

Told him what he already knew.
Made him bleed without even touching him.
And then she turned away—
Not gone.
Not storming off into the night like some dramatic ending.

Just… back to the circle.

Back to the noise and the smoke and the boys who didn’t know her.
The ones who didn’t fight for her because they didn’t even know they should.

Spencer stood there, fists curling and uncurling at his sides, chest rising and falling like he was breathing against a war inside himself.

Someone helped the guy he hit up off the ground, laughing it off like it was nothing.
The same guy sat there now, joint between his fingers again, blood at the corner of his mouth, grinning like he didn’t know he was still in a room with a loaded gun.

The circle tightened back up.
Shifts of bodies.
Nervous glances in Spencer’s direction.
But no one said shit.

They knew better now.

They felt it—
That crackling edge in the air that said this isn’t over.
That said you don't want to know what he’ll do if you push.

Spencer’s hands ached.
His chest ached worse.

He hated all of it—the music, the laughter, the sour bite of smoke in the air.
The way everything kept moving like the world hadn’t just ended three feet away.

And more than anything, he hated how easy it was for her to sit back down.
To pick up a joint.
To laugh at something she didn’t really hear.

Like he was already a ghost she didn’t believe in anymore.

For a second—

One second—
Spencer shifted.
One step toward her.

An almost. A barely. A breath away from destroying himself completely.

But he stopped.

Mid-step.
Mid-sentence in his own fucking head.

Because what was the point?

He couldn’t be who she needed.
He couldn't protect her from himself.
All he could do was keep the wolves away—and maybe, if he stayed just far enough out of reach, she’d forget he was one of them too.

So he just stood there.

Still.
Unmoving.
Breathing like he was trying to stay alive in a body that wanted to tear itself apart.

And when Leighton laughed again—sharp, too bright, too practiced—
Spencer looked away.

Because he wasn’t going to survive hearing her forget how it felt to mean something to him.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

Leighton didn’t look right away.
Couldn’t.

Her mouth ached from smiling too hard, too fake, too long. Her lungs burned with the effort of pretending it didn’t feel like the whole fucking island was tilting sideways underneath her.

The joint pinched between her fingers felt stupidly light. She didn’t even want it.
Didn’t want any of it.

She just sat there, laughing too loud at something someone said—God, she didn’t even hear what it was—because if she didn’t, the ache in her chest would crack wide open and spill out everywhere.

But even through the smoke, even through the noise, she felt him.

Spencer.

Still there.
Still watching.

And when she risked it—just a glance, just a flicker of her eyes across the circle—she saw it:

The way he hadn’t moved.
The way he stood there like the only thing holding him together was the sheer, brutal force of not reaching for her.
Like touching her would shatter the last thread he had left.

It hit her so hard she almost dropped the joint.

She clenched her teeth instead. Ground down the part of her that wanted to do something reckless and stupid, like walk back to him and apologize for every terrible thing she hadn’t even said yet.

She looked away first.
Because she had to.
Because looking at him too long felt like choosing between oxygen and him—and she wasn’t sure she’d survive picking wrong.

Someone brushed against her shoulder, dragging her half out of the spiral.

She blinked up.

It was the guy.
The one Spencer had flattened without hesitation.
The one who, for some fucking reason, thought a busted lip and a bruised ego were an invitation, not a warning.

He leaned down, all cocky bravado and stale weed breath, and slung an arm casually around her shoulders like they were old friends. Like Spencer wasn’t five feet away breathing fire.

Leighton jerked out of his grip immediately, her voice sharp, flat, too steady for how fast her heart was pounding.
“That’s not a good idea.”

She thought he’d get it—thought maybe the blood still drying at the corner of his mouth would make him smarter.

It didn’t.

He laughed.
Some lazy, drunk chuckle that made her skin crawl.

And he did it again.

Tried to pull her in like she was some consolation prize he’d already won.

Leighton shoved his arm off harder this time, sharp enough that a couple heads turned.

And across the circle—
Past the haze and the bad decisions and the lies she kept telling herself—
She caught Spencer’s eyes again.

Saw the way his whole body went stiller than still.

Like a loaded gun cocked back, just waiting for someone to pull the trigger.

And for the first time all night, Leighton felt something real crack down her spine.

Not anger.
Not bravado.
Not whatever armor she kept throwing up like it could save her.

Fear.

Not of Spencer.
Never of Spencer.

But of what he might do.

And maybe—if she was honest—what she might let him.

Spencer didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move a goddamn inch.

Because if he did—
If he even twitched—
He knew exactly how this night would end.

It would end with blood on his fists and sirens in the distance.
It would end with Leighton looking at him like he was the monster he kept trying to be for her own good.
It would end exactly how he deserved.

But when that guy—that guy—put his hands on her again?

Spencer’s whole body locked up, tight and coiled and ready to explode.

His heart was pounding against his ribs like a war drum. His fists clenched so hard in the pockets of his hoodie that the raw skin on his knuckles protested, splitting a little more.
He wanted to go for him.
Wanted to rip him off her.
Wanted to put him down and keep him there this time.

But she’d made it clear.
With every fake laugh, every step she took back into the circle, every second she acted like he didn’t exist.

She didn’t want saving.
Not from them.
Not from herself.
Not from him.

So Spencer stayed rooted where he was, muscles trembling from the effort it took to keep his boots planted to the fucking ground.

His gaze never wavered.
Not once.

Locked on the guy like he was marking a target, his entire body silent but screaming.
Waiting.
Daring him to cross the line just one inch further.

One more touch.
One more word.
One more fucking reason.

The guy didn’t flinch.

Didn’t back off.

Still standing too close to her, smirking through split lips like he didn’t know what hell was breathing down his neck.

And Spencer—
God, Spencer—
He just stared.

Unblinking.
Unforgiving.
A loaded weapon cocked and ready, held back by nothing but a sliver of cracked self-control and the ghost of Leighton’s voice in his head, still whispering you don't get to call that love.

He wasn’t doing it for her.
Not really.

He was doing it because if he moved, he wouldn’t stop.
Because if he gave himself permission to go off, it wouldn’t just be about the guy anymore.
It would be about everything.
All of it.
All the shit clawing under his skin and no way to bleed it out but through violence.

The world didn’t feel real.
The night felt too big, too loud, too broken.
Nothing made sense except the way his body itched for contact—the crack of bone against bone, the sharp, fleeting clarity that came when fists connected with flesh.

He wanted it.

He fucking craved it.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Just stood there.

Burning.

Daring.

Waiting.

And when the guy didn’t back down—when he dared to stay there, touching the air she breathed—
Spencer’s mouth twisted into a small, mean smile.
The kind that promised nothing good.

His shoulders rolled once, slow, deliberate, predatory.

He didn’t need to say a word.
Didn’t need to lift a finger yet.

The look in his eyes said it all:

You’re living on borrowed time, asshole.

Leighton moved.

Not fast.
Not frantic.
Just enough to slip free of the guy’s orbit without drawing too much attention—without giving Spencer a reason to detonate.

Her chest was tight, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the air between them, like the ground itself was waiting to break apart if she didn’t get it right.

She didn’t dare look right away.

Not until her body was already turning, already carving distance she should’ve carved ten minutes ago.

And then—
Just once—
She let herself glance back.

Spencer was still there.

Still rooted to the spot like if he moved, the world would split open.

Still staring at her like she was both the bullet and the gun.

The ache that curled low in her stomach wasn’t anger.
Wasn’t pride.

It was something worse.
Something heavier.

She held his gaze a second too long—longer than she should have—like an apology she didn’t know how to say out loud.

Come with me.

The words never made it past her lips.
They didn’t have to.

Leighton turned away before it could undo her completely, slipping through the loose knots of the crowd, pretending she didn’t feel Spencer’s eyes burning through every step she took.

Leighton pushed through the door, and this time, no music slammed into her.

The building was quieter than she expected—emptier too.
The low hum of conversation lingered in pockets near the far corners, but no one paid her any attention.
No stage lights.
No booming bass.
Just the faint buzz of an old neon sign and the soft scrape of sneakers against concrete floors.

The air inside felt different.
Thicker.
Like it was holding its breath right along with her.

She moved without thinking, boots scuffing against the worn floorboards as she crossed the room and pulled herself up onto the counter in the back, settling there like she belonged to the emptiness.

The counter was cool against the backs of her thighs.
The dim lights overhead flickered once, then steadied.

Leighton wrapped her fingers around the edge of the wood, grounding herself, trying to pretend her heart wasn’t racing hard enough to crack ribs.

She didn’t turn around.

Didn’t have to.

She felt him the second he crossed the threshold—heavy steps, deliberate, weighted down like he was dragging a war in behind him.

She kept her eyes forward at first, tracking the faint gleam of broken glass on the floor, the abandoned cups on tables, the lazy twirl of a ceiling fan doing nothing to move the thick night air.

The hush closed in tighter when he stopped in front of her.

She finally looked down.

Spencer was standing there, hood pushed back, eyes dark and unreadable, hands jammed deep into his hoodie pockets like that was the only thing keeping him from reaching for her.

He wasn’t breathing right.

Too shallow.
Too sharp.
Like he hadn’t let himself take a full breath since she pulled away from that guy outside.

Leighton shifted slightly on the counter, her knees bumping forward instinctively—an invitation she didn’t know how to rescind.

The space between them felt like a thread pulled taut.
One wrong word.
One wrong move.
And it would snap.

She let her boots swing a little, toes ghosting close to brushing against his thigh but not quite touching.
The movement wasn’t calculated.
It was survival.

Because if she stayed still too long, she might shatter.

The world outside—the party, the circle, the noise—felt a thousand miles away now.

It was just this.
Just him.
Just the dangerous quiet stretching wide and heavy between them.

If he spoke, she didn’t know if she’d survive it.
If she spoke, she didn’t know if she’d mean it enough to survive herself.

So she didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

They just stood there—Leighton perched above it all, Spencer anchored to the ground—and for the first time in longer than she wanted to admit, she didn’t feel like she was falling alone.

Spencer couldn’t breathe right.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do a damn thing except stand there, staring at her like she was some kind of gravity he hadn’t figured out how to fight.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at him like she hated him either.

And that—
That fucked him up worse than anything.

Because he could survive her anger.
He could survive her leaving.

But this?

This quiet.
This aching.

It gutted him.

His fists stayed buried deep in his hoodie pockets, nails biting into raw knuckles, teeth grinding so hard he tasted blood again.

He felt her foot swing—just barely, just enough to skim the air between them—and it almost undid him.

He could feel the thread stretched between them, thin and trembling, like the universe was holding its breath to see which one of them would snap first.

And God help him—
He wanted to reach for her.
Wanted to bury his face against her knee and just breathe until his lungs stopped feeling like they were collapsing.
Wanted to pull her off that counter and crush her against him so tight she’d never doubt he was still hers, no matter how broken he was.

But he didn’t.

Instead—

Spencer shifted his weight slightly, pulling one hand free of his pocket.

Slow.
Shaky.

And without looking up, without trusting himself to even try to meet her eyes, he reached out—

And curled his fingers lightly, clumsily, around the scuffed toe of her boot.

Just a touch.
Just the tiniest anchor.

Like if he held onto that much—
If he could just feel something real under his hand—
Maybe he wouldn’t fall apart right there at her feet.

His thumb ghosted a rough circle over the worn leather once—absent, thoughtless—and then stilled.

Still no words.
Still no breathing.
Still nothing but the fragile, violent, desperate way he stayed rooted there, touching the only thing he still had the guts to reach for.

It wasn’t an apology.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
It wasn’t enough.

But it was something.

And it was Spencer’s way of saying:

I’m still here.
I never wanted to leave.
Please, don’t make me go.

Without breaking the silence.
Without breaking himself.
Not yet.

Leighton watched him.

Watched the way he barely held himself together, the way his body stayed too tight, too closed off, like he didn’t know how to exist without bracing for impact.

She didn’t flinch when he finally moved—slow, shaky, like every part of him was screaming not to.
Didn’t move when he tugged his hand from his pocket and reached out, not for her skin, not for her hand—

But for the toe of her boot.

Fingers brushing against worn leather like it was the only thing he trusted not to break.

The breath caught somewhere high in her chest, painful and soft all at once.
God, he was trying.
In the only way he knew how.
Small. Careful. Raw.

Her heart cracked right down the middle, but not in anger.
Not even in sadness.

In something gentler.
Something deeper.
The kind of hurt that still wanted to reach out and shelter him anyway.

She could have demanded words.
Could have asked him why he was shutting down, why he kept slipping into a space where she couldn’t always reach him.
Could have made him say it out loud—the fear, the anger, the ache he didn’t know how to bleed out.

But Leighton knew better.

Knew him better.

Sometimes you didn’t yank a drowning man back to shore.
Sometimes you just got close enough for him to grab onto if he decided he could.

So she didn’t speak.
Didn’t push.

She only slid her hand forward—slow, steady—and wrapped her fingers around his.

Not just the toe of her boot.
Not the leather between them.
Him.

Her hand was small against his rough, battered one.
But steady.
Warm.

She tugged, not hard, but enough—enough to tell him it was okay.
Enough to pull him closer without asking him to cross the distance all on his own.

Spencer stumbled a little into the space between her knees, shoulders hunching automatically like he was still expecting to be pushed away.
He wasn’t looking at her.
Not yet.

But he was there.

Close enough that she could feel the way his breathing shook.
Close enough that the thread between them finally stopped trembling and just settled—fragile but whole.

Leighton leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and rested her forehead lightly against his chest.

Not demanding.
Not suffocating.

Just there.

Just offering him a place to land if he wanted it.

Her hands stayed loose around his, letting him be the one to decide if he needed more.
Letting him breathe without asking him for pieces he didn’t know how to give.

Because she wasn’t mad.
Not at the way he broke sometimes.
Not at the way he didn’t have words for the storm inside him.

She understood.

She didn’t always know how to fix it.
Didn’t always know how to fix herself either.

But she understood that sometimes the only thing you could offer was a hand to hold and the quiet certainty that you weren’t alone.

And Spencer—

God, Spencer—

He needed someone to stay.
To stand in the ruins with him, even when he didn’t know how to ask.

Leighton closed her eyes and breathed him in—sweat, salt, leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood he hadn’t wiped clean.

She didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.

Just held on.

Because this was love, too.
The quiet kind.
The steady kind.
The kind that didn’t need to be shouted or proven in scars and bruises.

The kind that stayed.

Even when it hurt.

Especially then.

Spencer felt her hand before he even realized what she was doing.

Small. Warm.
Wrapping around his busted knuckles like she wasn't scared of the damage stitched into him.
Like she was reaching for him, not just the piece of him he was willing to give.

He froze.

For one cracked, splintering second, every instinct screamed at him to pull away.

Not because he didn’t want it.
God, he wanted it so bad it hollowed him out from the inside.

But because he didn’t know how to take it without breaking it.
Without breaking her.

And then—
she tugged.

Just a little.
Just enough.

And Spencer moved.

He stumbled a half-step closer, heart slamming so loud in his ears it drowned out everything else.
His body went tight, coiled into itself like he was expecting the hit, the recoil, the rejection that always came after he let someone too close.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she leaned in.

Soft. Deliberate.
Resting her forehead against his chest like she already knew the war going on underneath it.

Spencer stared over her head, breathing like a man trying not to drown.
His hands shook where she still held them, barely tethered by her steady grip.

He didn’t know what the hell to do with it.
Didn’t know what to do with the way it felt like his ribs were splintering one by one just from the weight of being wanted like this.

No screaming.
No accusations.
No demands for more than he could give.

Just—
Stay.

Just—
Let me hold the broken parts without trying to fix them.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until the sharp metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth again.

He didn’t deserve this.
Didn’t deserve her.

He wanted to tell her that.
Wanted to ruin it the way he ruined everything, rip it apart before she realized he wasn’t worth the goddamn effort.

But he couldn’t.
Not with her touching him like that.
Not with her heartbeat bleeding steady against his ribs.

So he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

He just leaned his forehead down against the top of her head, his whole body curling inward, folding into the small space she made for him like it was the only thing left tethering him to the earth.

And in a voice so low and raw he barely recognized it as his own, Spencer whispered into the silence between them:

"Don’t go."

The words cracked open his chest as they left him.

Not a demand.
Not a command.
Just a plea.

Small. Wrecked.
Real.

Because for all the ways he'd tried to drive her away,
for all the ways he told himself she deserved better—
he didn’t know how to survive losing her again.

Not when she was the only thing in his whole fucked-up world that ever felt like home.

Leighton felt it—the second his forehead dropped against hers.

Heavy. Hesitant.
Like every part of him was still learning how to stay.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t tighten her grip to trap him.
Didn’t whisper anything to break the moment open too wide.

Just stayed there.
Breathing against his chest.
Holding his shaking hands in hers.

It wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t fixed.

But it was real.
And that counted for more than she could say.

She felt the slight tremor ripple through him before she heard it—the quiet, broken scrape of his voice barely threading into the space between them.

“Don’t go.”

Her breath caught, a sharp, aching thing lodged high in her throat.

God.

If he only knew.

If he knew how many nights she’d already chosen him without him even asking.
How many times she’d stood still while he tried to tear down the only bridge still standing between them.

How many pieces of herself she’d quietly stitched together just so she could keep offering him something he didn’t have to be scared to touch.

She squeezed his hands gently—just once—enough to tell him she heard him.
Enough to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

Leighton let her eyes fall shut, the rough fabric of his hoodie scratching soft against her forehead, his scent wrapping around her like something old and familiar and earned.

She shifted her grip without thinking—sliding her fingers up to his wrists, feeling the pulse there hammering frantic and alive—and tugged a little more firmly this time.

Guiding, not dragging.

An invitation, not a demand.

And when he finally, finally let himself fold into her fully—body slotting into the space between her knees like he was scared he might break it by moving too fast—Leighton wrapped her arms around him.

Tight. Steady.
Careful where he needed careful, firm where he needed anchoring.

She pressed her cheek against the side of his head, closed her eyes against the burn in them, and just held him.

Like he wasn’t too much.
Like he wasn’t failing.
Like he was still worth fighting for even when he didn’t know how to ask.

Her hands moved slow over the trembling line of his back, not trying to fix, not trying to fill the silence with promises she couldn’t make.

Just there.

Just breathing with him.
For him, if that’s what it took.

Leighton wasn’t naive.
She knew this wouldn’t heal everything.

Knew there would be nights worse than this one.
Days when the weight of it would get too heavy for even both of them to carry without sagging at the knees.

But right now?

Right now, she could be the place he collapsed into.
She could be the proof that not every time he reached out ended in ruin.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough for tonight.

She shifted slightly, her mouth brushing against his hair without meaning to—soft, almost a ghost of a kiss—and she let the thought settle between them:

You don’t have to be perfect.
You just have to let me love you anyway.

She didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t need to.

He was still holding on.

And she was still there.

Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he let himself be held.

Not like this.

Not like he deserved it.

The second her arms wrapped around him—steady, sure, heartbreakingly real—he felt something deep inside him buck against it.
Fight it.
Want to run from it.

Because it was too much.

It was too good.

And he didn’t know how to hold something that didn’t want to break him.

He stayed stiff at first, breathing shallow against her, like if he moved even a little she’d realize what she was holding wasn’t worth the effort.

But then her hands—God, her hands—moved slow against his back.
Grounding him.
Not demanding.
Not fixing.

Just there.

Like she wasn’t scared of the wreckage he’d tried so hard to warn her about.

And something inside Spencer cracked—
Not the violent kind of crack he was used to.
Not the kind that shattered everything in the room.

It was quieter.
Smaller.
More dangerous.

The kind that let hope bleed through the cracks without asking permission.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, forehead pressing harder against her shoulder now, hiding his face there like maybe if he stayed still enough, she wouldn’t notice how fucking close he was to falling apart.

She wasn’t saying anything.
Wasn’t trying to tell him it was okay.
Wasn’t trying to save him.

She was just breathing.
Just holding.

Like he didn’t have to be anything but broken in her arms.

Spencer’s fingers curled instinctively into the fabric at her sides, desperate for something to anchor him, clutching like he could tether himself to her and keep from spinning out into the void he’d lived in so long he forgot it wasn’t normal.

His mouth opened once against her hoodie, against the warm fabric near her collarbone—like he wanted to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

No apologies.
No explanations.
No promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Just a shallow, wrecked inhale that said please in a language only she could hear.

He tightened his arms around her without thinking—awkward, too rough at first like he forgot how to be gentle—but he didn’t let go.

Didn’t run.
Didn’t crumble.
Didn’t destroy.

Not this time.

He just held on, shaking and silent, letting her heartbeat drum steady against his ribs like a reminder:

You’re still here.
She’s still here.
You’re not alone this time.

And somewhere, deep in the wreckage of him, Spencer Walker let himself believe—just for tonight—that maybe staying wasn’t the worst thing he could do after all.

Leighton felt it the second his body shifted against hers.
Not all at once.
Not in some grand, sweeping way.

Just a slow, aching give—
Like a fortress crumbling stone by stubborn stone.

He sagged into her, forehead pressing harder against her shoulder, clutching the fabric at her sides like he didn’t trust himself not to fall without it.

Her heart cracked wider.
Not from sadness.
Not from pity.

From love.
That raw, unpolished, undemanding kind of love—the kind that didn’t need him to be anything but exactly what he was right now.

She kept one arm wrapped tight around him, steady, anchoring, while her other hand moved up, slow and careful.

She found the edge of his hood, fingers brushing over the worn cotton, and gently—gently—pulled it down.

Spencer flinched so faintly she almost missed it.
Almost.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide.

So she kept going, slow and patient, threading her fingers into his hair—soft, messy, damp at the temples like he’d been burning alive inside his own skin.

She carded her fingers through it again and again, each pass meant to remind him:
I’m here.
You’re not too much.
You’re not scaring me away.

His breathing stayed uneven, catching on every shallow inhale, but he pressed closer like he needed more and didn’t know how to ask for it.

Leighton shifted her hold just slightly—tilting her head, angling herself toward him—and without thinking, without planning it, she pressed her lips softly against his temple.

Barely there.
Just a whisper of a kiss.

A promise in the shape of a breath.

She stayed there, mouth hovering against his skin, feeling the heat of him, the tremble he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

And then, so quiet it barely shaped itself into sound, she whispered it:

“I love you,” she breathed, the words spilling into the charged space between them, fragile and fierce at the same time.
“Even when your brain makes you believe you don’t deserve it.”

Her throat burned around it.
Her heart hammered like it was trying to break free of her ribs.
But she meant it.
God, she meant every broken syllable.

She didn’t know if he could hear it yet.
If he could let himself believe it yet.

But that didn’t change a damn thing.

She would say it anyway.
She would mean it anyway.

Because love wasn’t just the easy parts—the laughter, the golden afternoons, the nights where everything felt possible.

It was this too.

It was standing still when the storm hit.
It was holding tight when everything inside him said to run.

It was staying.
Even when it hurt.
Especially then.

Leighton stayed exactly where she was—arms around him, forehead tucked against his, breathing for both of them if she had to—and let the weight of the moment be enough.

Because loving Spencer Walker had never been about saving him.

It had always been about reminding him he didn’t have to save himself alone.

Spencer felt it the second her hand brushed the edge of his hood.

Gentle. Careful.
Like she wasn’t trying to fix him, just trying to see him.

He flinched.
Couldn’t help it.

Every instinct wired into his bones told him to pull back, to armor up, to not let her touch the parts of him that still shook from old wars he didn’t know how to explain.

But she didn’t yank.
Didn’t demand.
Didn’t push.

She just stayed.
Patient. Steady.

So he stayed too.

Let her pull the hood down, let her thread her fingers into his hair, let her card them through like she wasn’t afraid of the wreckage underneath.

Spencer shuddered.
Once.
Violent and involuntary.

But still he stayed.

Because somehow—against every ugly thing he'd ever believed about himself—she wasn’t pulling away.

When her mouth brushed against his temple, soft as breathing, he thought he might actually come undone.

And when she spoke—
When she whispered it—

> “I love you. Even when your brain makes you believe you don’t deserve it.”



Spencer broke.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.

He just sagged harder into her—into her arms, into her breath, into the space she made without asking anything in return.

His hands fisted tighter in her sides, like if he let go, the whole world would splinter apart and take her with it.

And then, almost against his will, a sound clawed up his throat—
Half-sob, half-laugh, sharp and wrecked and raw.

He buried his face against her neck, against the worn fabric of her shirt, and shook with the force of it.

Tried to swallow it down.
Tried to hold it back.

But it kept tearing out of him in short, broken gasps—
the sound of a boy who never thought anyone would stay long enough to say it,
and a boy who didn’t know how to hold love without bracing for it to be ripped away.

She just kept her arms around him.
Kept breathing against his hair.
Kept grounding him like he wasn’t something dangerous she needed to protect herself from.

Spencer didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

The words lodged somewhere behind his teeth, too sharp, too fragile, too big to force out.

But his body said it.
In the way he clung to her.
In the way he finally let his weight sag fully into her.
In the way he let himself be held without fighting it.

And if she could hear the frantic pounding of his heart against hers, he didn’t care anymore.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—
Spencer wasn’t surviving.

He was letting himself be loved.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the bravest thing he’d ever done.

Leighton felt it the second he broke.

Not with fists.
Not with fury.

But with something quieter.
Something infinitely more devastating.

The way his body sagged heavier into hers, the way his breath hitched sharp and jagged against her neck, the way his hands fisted so tightly in her sides like letting go would rip the ground out from under him.

She tightened her arms around him without hesitation, anchoring him harder against her chest, hands splaying wide across his back like she could shield him from the weight he was finally letting crash down.

He buried his face against her shoulder, whole body trembling under the strain of it, and she just… held on.

Didn’t flinch when the first broken sound clawed up from his throat.
Didn’t freeze when it hit again, raw and helpless.

She let him fall apart.
Because he needed to.
Because he deserved to.
Because God, if there was one thing he had earned a hundred times over, it was the right to feel it without fear of being abandoned for it.

Her fingers moved slow through his hair, combing lightly, steady as a heartbeat.

No shushing.
No smoothing it away like it was something to be embarrassed about.

Just—
I’m here.
You’re safe.

Leighton turned her head slightly, breathing him in, letting her lips brush softly against the side of his forehead.

Then, voice low and even, just loud enough for him to catch against the thundering noise inside his own head, she whispered:

“You’re safe with me, Spencer. You can let it out if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words bled into his skin, into the worn cotton between them, into the spaces he kept bolted shut against the world.

She didn’t know if he believed her yet.
Didn’t know if he could.

But she meant it.

Every word.
Every breath.

She didn’t loosen her hold even when his shoulders shook harder.
Didn’t look around to see if anyone noticed.

The world outside didn’t exist right now.
There was no embarrassment.
No shame.

Just him.

Just her.

And the tiny, broken pieces of him she would hold as long as he needed—without trying to rearrange them, without trying to fix what wasn’t broken, just battered and bruised from fighting too long alone.

Her hands slid up to cup the back of his neck, thumbs brushing slow circles into the tense muscles there, a silent reassurance with every stroke:

You don’t have to hide here.
Not from me.
Not ever.

Leighton closed her eyes and stayed with him, heart beating steady against the frantic, wrecked rhythm of his, anchoring him with nothing but love and the certainty he could fall apart in her arms—and still be whole.

Still be wanted.

Still be hers.

Spencer wanted to disappear.

Not from her.
Not from this.

From the parts of himself that didn’t know how to breathe without bracing for the blow.
From the way it felt to be seen like this—with nothing left between them but everything he never knew how to say.

Her hands moved steady against the back of his neck, warm and patient, grounding him like she wasn’t afraid of the pieces splintering loose under her palms.

And when she whispered it—
soft, steady, safe—

“You’re safe with me, Spencer. You can let it out if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

Something inside him shattered so quietly it almost didn’t hurt.

Almost.

He pressed his forehead harder against her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut like he could trap the flood inside him just a little longer.

But he couldn’t.
Not anymore.

His fingers dug into her sides, trembling, desperate.
Not pulling.
Not pushing.

Just holding.

The sound that left him wasn’t a word.
Wasn’t even a sob.
It was just breath breaking apart in real time.

Spencer didn’t know how long he stayed there.
Didn’t know how many minutes passed while he shook against her, while her heartbeat stitched something steady back into the ruins of him.

He just knew that when he finally managed to pull his face from the crook of her neck,
when he finally forced himself to lift his head—

he still couldn’t look her in the eye.

Couldn’t risk seeing everything he’d ruined written across her face.

Instead, he kept his forehead pressed lightly against hers, their breaths tangling, the space between them too sacred to break.

His voice, when it finally scraped out of him, was so low it barely existed.

"You're gonna hate me someday," Spencer rasped, raw and wrecked, words shaking loose like gravel in his throat.
"You're gonna realize I'm just... this."

He squeezed his hands where they clutched her shirt, like maybe he could anchor the truth between them.

"Too fucked up. Too much. Too—" He broke off, biting down hard before he could say something even uglier.

He tried to pull back then.
Tried to give her the out he was sure she'd want someday.

But her hands stayed steady.
Her touch didn’t falter.

And something about that—
something about being wanted anyway—
stole the last of his defenses.

So he said it.
Choked on it.

Half-sobbed it against the space where their foreheads still touched:

"I love you."

Raw.
Broken.
No armor left.

"I love you so fucking much it scares the hell outta me."

A cracked laugh hitched out of him, bitter and helpless.

"I don’t know how to be good at this. I don’t know how to stay."

He dragged in a shaking breath, clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him from dissolving entirely.

"But I’m trying, Leigh. God, I’m trying."

He finally forced himself to lift his gaze—bloodshot, wild, terrified—
and let her see every wrecked, trembling, desperate piece of him.

Because if she was going to love him—
if she was going to stay—

then she deserved to know exactly what she was holding onto.

And he would give her that.
Even if it broke him wide open.

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Not when his breath broke apart against her skin.
Not when his hands clutched at her like he was drowning and she was the last thing left to hold.
Not even when his voice—wrecked and wild and scared—cracked the space between them open wider than it had ever been.

She stayed.

She let him break against her without trying to stop it.
Let him spill the ugliest parts out between them like shattered glass on the floor.

And when he said it—
when he rasped out the thing he was so sure would drive her away—
I love you.

God.

She felt it hit her chest like a second heartbeat, pounding and fierce and so achingly real it almost knocked her breathless.

Not pretty.
Not polished.
Not the kind of love you wrote songs about.

The kind you fought for.
The kind you stayed for.
The kind you chose even when it scared the hell out of you.

She kept her forehead pressed against his as he spoke, every broken word spilling out of him like it had been dammed up for years, each one carving deeper into the spaces she’d already carved out just for him.

And when he finally looked up—
when he finally let her see all of it—

Leighton’s chest ached so hard she thought it might split her wide open too.

Because he wasn’t just giving her the good parts.
Wasn’t just handing her the pieces he thought she wanted.

He was giving her the wreckage.
The war.
The parts no one else ever stayed long enough to hold.

And he was begging her to understand without even realizing it.

Leighton didn’t hesitate.

She reached up, slow and sure, framing his face between her palms, thumbs brushing against the wet heat at the corners of his eyes.

Not wiping it away.
Not pretending it wasn’t there.

Just… touching him.
Seeing him.

Loving him anyway.

She shifted closer, knees tightening around his hips where he still stood pressed between them, her voice so low it barely made it past the breathless thundering of her own heart.

“You’re not too much for me, Spencer,” she whispered, steady and fierce, like she could anchor the words into his bones if she said them soft enough.
“You’ve never been too much.”

Her thumbs swept over his cheekbones again, slow and sure.

“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”

She pressed her forehead to his again, feeling the way his whole body shuddered under the weight of being seen, of being known, of not being pushed away.

“You just have to let me love you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

Leighton pulled back just enough to meet his shattered, terrified gaze head-on, her chest rising and falling with the force of everything she couldn’t fit into words.

She smiled then—small, raw, beautiful in the way only real things could be—and whispered against his trembling mouth:

“You can't scare me off.”

And then, without giving him time to argue, without giving him time to armor back up—

She kissed him.

Soft.
Certain.
Breaking through all the noise between them like it had never stood a chance.

She kissed him like she wasn’t afraid of the wreckage.
Like she wasn’t going anywhere even if he tried to shove her out.
Like loving him wasn’t a battle—it was a choice she was making every single second she got to breathe the same air as him.

And she would keep making it.
Over and over.
For as long as he let her.

Because love wasn’t safe.
Wasn’t easy.

It was this.

It was staying.
It was choosing.
It was him.

Every broken, beautiful, breathing part of him.

Spencer didn’t move at first.

Couldn’t.

The second her mouth touched his, everything inside him stopped.

Not like the world stopped spinning in some romantic, movie-ending way.
No—this was messier.
Rougher.

It stopped like a body hitting cold water.
Like the air getting punched out of your lungs.
Like being ripped raw and clean open in the exact same second.

Her lips were soft against his—steady, certain—kissing him like he was something chosen, not tolerated.
Like he was someone worth staying for.

And Spencer—
Spencer didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

His whole body locked up, hands still fisted in the fabric at her sides, shoulders shaking like he was holding in an earthquake.
He didn't kiss her back.

Not right away.

He couldn’t.
He was too fucking scared.

Scared if he touched her wrong, she’d realize he wasn’t worth the weight she was willing to carry.
Scared if he kissed her back, really kissed her, it would rip open something inside him so deep he wouldn’t know how to survive it.

But she didn’t pull away.

She stayed.

Breathing against him.
Waiting for him.
Choosing him.

And slowly—God, so achingly slow—Spencer let himself believe it might be real.

He shifted, just barely, the broken edges of him tilting forward into her like a man surrendering ground he never thought he could give up.

His lips moved against hers—clumsy at first, shaky—like he was still half-expecting to break her by accident.

But she didn’t shatter.

She only tightened her hold around his ribs, pulling him closer, anchoring him harder, breathing into the hollowed-out spaces he didn’t know were still bleeding.

Spencer kissed her back fully then.

Desperately.
Reverently.

Like he could pour every apology, every I’m sorry I left, every I never stopped loving you into her mouth and trust she could carry it better than he ever could alone.

His hands finally moved—sliding up, threading into her hair, holding her face like she was something holy, something breakable and his and still here anyway.

The kiss wasn’t perfect.
It was messy.
It was broken.
It was real.

It was him.

When they finally broke apart—just a breath, just a heartbeat—Spencer stayed close.
Forehead pressed against hers.
Breathing her in.
Clutching at her like if he let go, the whole goddamn universe would collapse and he wouldn’t even blame it.

He dragged in a shaking breath, chest trembling against hers, and when he finally spoke—

his voice was wrecked.

Frayed at every edge.

"I don’t know how to do this right," he whispered, the words falling between them like confession and prayer all at once.

He squeezed her waist gently, grounding himself.

"But I swear to God..."
His breath hitched, a broken sound.
"...I'm not gonna stop trying."

Not for her.
Not for them.
Not for the piece of himself he barely knew how to protect but still wanted to give her anyway.

Spencer stayed there, arms wrapped around her like armor he didn’t deserve, eyes squeezed shut, forehead still pressed to hers—

and for the first time since he could remember,
he let himself believe:

Maybe he was allowed to have something good.
Maybe he was allowed to stay.

Maybe he was allowed to be loved.

Even when he was scared.
Especially then.

Leighton didn’t move when he froze under her mouth.
Didn’t pull away when he stayed locked up so tight it felt like breathing might break him.
Didn’t panic when he didn’t kiss her back right away.

She just stayed.
Steady.
Certain.

Letting him feel it.
Letting him know—without a single word—that she wasn’t going anywhere.

She could feel it happening, slow and devastating—
The moment he started to believe it might be real.
The moment he tipped forward, tiny and broken and brave.

When his lips moved against hers, hesitant and trembling, Leighton pressed back just enough to tell him she felt it.
Felt him.
All of him.

Not the pieces he thought he had to glue together before he could be loved.
Not the mask he wore when he was scared he wasn’t enough.

Just… him.

And when he finally kissed her fully—desperately, reverently, like he was trying to pour his whole heart into her hands—
Leighton met him with every ounce of the love she had.

She let him be messy.
Let him be broken.
Let him be real.

Her hands slid up from his sides, one threading into his hair again, the other resting against the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing slow over the corner of his mouth like she could memorize every single tremor, every single wrecked, beautiful piece of him.

The kiss wasn’t perfect.
Wasn’t smooth.

It cracked and caught and stuttered with every breath between them.

And Leighton thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever felt.

When they finally broke apart—forehead to forehead, breath to breath, world still trembling around them—she didn’t open her eyes at first.

Just stayed there.
Breathing him in.

Letting the closeness stitch something deeper into the spaces between them.

And when he spoke—
When his voice, raw and trembling and so impossibly human, scraped the words out between them—

“I don’t know how to do this right.”

Leighton’s heart clenched so hard it hurt.
But not because she was scared.
Not because she doubted.

Because she understood.

God, she understood.

She felt the soft squeeze at her waist, the way he tried to tether himself to her like he was afraid he might float away if he didn’t hold tight enough.

“But I swear to God… I’m not gonna stop trying.”

Leighton finally opened her eyes then—heavy with tears she didn’t dare let fall yet—and looked at him.

Really looked.

At the wreckage.
At the fight.
At the boy who never stopped trying, even when he didn’t think he deserved to.

And she smiled.

Small.
Soft.
Real.

The kind of smile that wasn’t about promises or futures or all the ways they might screw it up someday.

It was about this.

About now.

She brushed her thumb slow along his cheekbone, catching the broken edges of him like they were precious, and whispered back against his trembling mouth:

“That’s all I ever needed.”

She shifted her hand, pressing her palm flat over his chest where his heart thundered wild against her skin.

“Not perfect.”
Her voice was a breath.
“Not easy.”
She leaned in closer, forehead still resting against his.
“Just you.”

Leighton let her hands roam slow over his back, his arms, everywhere she could reach—steady, grounding, like she could etch the truth into his skin:

You don’t have to be better.
You don’t have to be fixed.
You’re enough, exactly as you are.

She could feel him shaking still—small tremors he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore—and she loved him even harder for it.

Loved him for the way he stayed even when it terrified him.

Loved him for the way he was still fighting to believe he was worth the love he’d already earned a hundred times over.

She kissed him again—soft this time, slow and certain—like she wasn’t trying to consume him or save him.

Just stay.

Just love.

And when she pulled back, she whispered it against his lips, the words threading into the air like a promise she wasn’t afraid to make:

“We’ll figure it out together.”

Because that’s what love was.

Not perfect.
Not polished.

Just together.

Even when it hurt.
Especially then.

Spencer couldn’t breathe.

Not from panic.
Not from fear.
Not from the hollow, gnawing ache he was used to living with like a second skin.

This was different.

This was weightless and devastating all at once.

Because when she said it—
That's all I ever needed—
when she pressed her hand flat against his chest like she could catch the way it thundered for her and only her—
something inside Spencer broke open in a way he didn’t know how to brace against.

And he didn’t want to.

Not with her.

Not anymore.

Her hands moved over him, slow and steady, carving their way into every bruised, half-healed piece of him, like she wasn’t afraid of the wreckage she found.
Like she loved him because of it.
Through it.
Past it.

And when she kissed him again—softer, slower, without urgency or fear—
Spencer sank into it like a drowning man finally letting the tide pull him home.

He kissed her back this time without hesitation.

Still trembling.
Still scared out of his fucking mind.
But trying.
Trying so hard.

Letting her feel it.
Letting her hold it.
Letting her hold him.

When she whispered it against his mouth—we’ll figure it out together—
Spencer didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the wet heat slip down his cheeks, raw and unstoppable.

He didn’t hide it.

He didn’t run from it.

He just stood there, forehead to forehead, arms locked tight around her like he could anchor himself to her bones, heart hammering against her hand like a confession he couldn’t swallow back down anymore.

And somehow—
somehow—

he found enough breath to rasp it back, voice cracked and low and shaking:

"I want that."
"I want—"
He broke off, swallowing the thick burn in his throat.
"I want you."

It wasn't polished.
It wasn’t pretty.

It was wrecked and real and so fucking true it hurt.

Spencer leaned into her touch harder, breathing her in, breathing through her, feeling her steady heartbeat thread through the places he was still bleeding out.

And for the first time—
maybe ever—

he let himself want.

Want her.
Want this.
Want a future he hadn't believed he could ever have.

He pressed a shaky kiss into her forehead, so soft it was almost nothing, but it felt like everything.

His voice was just a breath when he whispered it next, wrecked and real and completely hers:

"Don't let me fuck this up."

Not begging.
Not apologizing.

Just asking.

Asking her to believe in him when he didn’t know how to believe in himself yet.
Asking her to hold the line when he got lost inside his own head again.

Because he would get lost sometimes.
He knew that.
Knew it deep in his bones.

But he also knew—now, breathing her in, feeling her steady and sure around him—
that he wouldn’t have to find his way back alone.

Not anymore.

Not if she stayed.

Not if she kept loving him like this—
messy and fierce and without conditions.

Spencer didn’t say another word after that.
Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there, wrapped up in her arms, hands buried in her hair, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like salvation.

Holding on.

Staying.

Choosing her.

Just like she was choosing him.

Leighton felt it.

Felt the way he shattered against her in the softest, bravest way yet.
Not like a bomb going off.
Not like a fight.
But like a body giving up the endless war it didn’t need to fight anymore.

His hands gripped tighter in her hair, his whole body sagging harder against her, and the second she heard his voice—
wrecked and raw and more him than anything he could have ever planned—

“I want that.”
“I want you.”

God.

The weight of it nearly buckled her right there.

Not because it scared her.
Not because it was too much.

Because she could feel it.
Feel the way he was handing her pieces of himself no one else had ever even gotten close enough to touch.

The way he wasn’t trying to make it look pretty.
The way he was just giving.

Her fingers slid deeper into his hair, cradling the back of his head like he was something precious and fragile and still strong enough to survive all of this.

When he pressed that trembling kiss to her forehead—so soft it barely even ghosted against her skin—Leighton felt her heart split clean open.

And when he whispered against her, voice breaking over the weight of it—

“Don’t let me fuck this up.”

She didn’t move away.
Didn’t hesitate.

She tightened her hold on him, fitting him closer against her chest like maybe she could rebuild all the broken parts he thought he had to apologize for, just by holding on tighter.

Leighton nuzzled against his forehead, breathing him in, letting her touch do what words never could.

And finally—finally—she whispered back, so low it was almost a breath, a promise carved into the shaking air between them:

“You’re not going to lose me.”

She stroked her fingers slow and sure through his hair, the other hand smoothing over the tense muscles between his shoulder blades, grounding him.

“Even when you get scared. Even when you don’t know how to stay.”

Her voice stayed soft but steady, fierce enough to stitch the cracks back together between them.

“I’m not here because you’re perfect, Spencer.”
She pressed her hand flat against his back, feeling the way he trembled against her.
“I’m here because you’re worth it.”

Worth the wreckage.
Worth the fear.
Worth fighting for even when he didn’t know how to fight for himself yet.

She felt his breath hitch again against her collarbone, and she only held tighter, swaying them slightly where they stood like maybe if she moved slow enough, he could feel it—
all of it—
the way he was already loved.
Already home.

Her lips brushed his hairline, soft and steady, anchoring him back into her hands every time he threatened to spin away.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered again, threading it into his skin, into the bones that forgot they were allowed to rest.
“Together.”

And she meant it.

Every word.

Every breath.

Every heartbeat.

Because this wasn’t the kind of love you chose when it was easy.
This was the kind you fought for.

The kind you stayed for.

The kind that wrapped its arms around a boy still learning how to breathe through the ruins—
and whispered
stay anyway.

Leighton stayed exactly where she was, arms locked around him, forehead pressed tight to his, letting the silence hold them like something sacred.

Because there was nothing broken here she wasn’t willing to love.

And there was no version of him she wasn’t willing to choose.

Leighton stayed there with him for another breath.
Another heartbeat.

Then, slowly, gently, she loosened her arms around him—not pulling away, not letting go, just moving carefully like she was handling something fragile.

Because she was.

She brushed her nose lightly against his before she finally slid her hands down his arms, fingers tracing the shape of him, grounding them both in the touch.

And then—softly, wordlessly—she hopped down from the counter, her boots hitting the floor with the lightest thud.

Spencer didn’t move at first.
He just stood there, arms hanging heavy at his sides, chest heaving like the weight of the last hour hadn’t figured out how to leave him yet.

Leighton stepped closer—close enough that the frayed edges of him brushed up against her—and reached for his face with hands so soft it made her own chest ache.

Her fingers skimmed his jaw first, slow and sure, before tilting his chin up just enough that she could really see him.

God.

The tears were still there.
Carving reckless, holy lines down his cheeks.
Proof that he hadn’t run.
Proof that he’d stayed.

She used the pads of her thumbs to brush them away, delicate, reverent.
Like each tear was something sacred.
Something earned.

She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.

Her touch said it all:

You’re still here. You’re still loved. You’re still enough.

Leighton smiled—small, private, so full of love it almost hurt—and reached into the back pocket of her jeans.

The denim snagged for half a second, but she tugged free a slightly crushed tube and held it up between them.

Her last joint.
Saved for a night that mattered.

Apparently, fate had decided that night was tonight.

She didn’t offer it with a flourish or a joke.
She just caught his hand—still trembling a little—and placed it gently in his palm.

Then she laced their fingers together and tugged him quietly across the nearly empty room, guiding him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They made it to the beanbags—old, battered, comfortable in the way things you grow into tend to be—and she sank down onto one without letting go of him.

Spencer hesitated for a heartbeat.
Only a heartbeat.

Then he followed, sinking down onto the same one with her, his body molding into hers like gravity didn’t know how to let them be apart anymore.

Leighton tucked herself close against his side, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling herself into his warmth like it was the safest place in the world.

No space left between them.

No need for it.

She felt the weight of him lean into her, felt the way his head dipped slightly toward hers like he wasn’t sure he could survive standing on his own anymore.

She didn’t mind.
She didn’t want him to.

She reached for the lighter tucked between them and offered it out to him instead.

A silent gesture.
A silent honor.

You first.

Leighton watched him with soft eyes—patient, present—as he took it, fingers brushing hers.

And while he sparked the flame, while he bent over the joint with the same shaky care he gave everything he was scared to break, she leaned in—

And pressed another kiss to his temple.

Soft.
Certain.
Home.

She didn’t say anything.

Just stayed tucked against his side, arm draped over his ribs, breathing with him.

Letting him feel it.

Letting him know that tonight, tomorrow, whenever he forgot—

She would still be right here.

Still choosing him.

Still loving him exactly as he was.

Spencer didn’t know how to move without breaking something.

Not after all that.
Not after her hands, her mouth, her promises pressed into all the broken parts of him like she wasn’t afraid they'd cut her.

He stayed frozen at first, blinking hard, watching her like she might vanish if he looked away for even a second.

But she didn’t.

She just slipped that crumpled joint into his hand like it was a secret, like it was something sacred, like he was something sacred—and Spencer felt the weight of it more than he felt the cheap paper and weed.

It wasn’t about the joint.

It was about her.

It was about her fingers lacing through his.
It was about the way she tugged him across the room without ever once making him feel like he was being dragged.
It was about the way she chose to sit so close, so open, like she wasn't trying to build walls he had to climb over just to touch her.

He sank down beside her—close, closer than he thought he was allowed to be—and when her arm slid around his waist, when she tucked herself against him like they were already stitched together, Spencer’s chest cracked wide open all over again.

Not with panic.

With something heavier.
Something better.
Something terrifying.

Hope.

He could feel it everywhere—the quiet way she leaned into him, the way her breath brushed his collarbone, the way her fingers tapped lightly against his ribs like she was counting the seconds he stayed.

And when she held the lighter out to him—silent, patient, offering him the first flame—
Spencer took it with hands still trembling slightly, still learning how not to flinch when someone trusted him to light the way.

He bent over the joint carefully, shielding it with his hand, and flicked the lighter until the flame caught.
It sparked, crackled, burned soft against the paper.

And just as he pulled back, her lips brushed his temple again—
that same soft, certain, wreck-you-right-down-to-the-bone kiss that had already undone him once tonight.

He closed his eyes, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

God.

She stayed.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, smoke curling from his lips as he passed the joint back to her, hands brushing hers longer than necessary because he still wasn’t ready to let her go.
Maybe wouldn’t ever be.

He stayed tucked into her side, head dropping lightly against hers, too scared to trust his mouth not to say something wrecked if he opened it.

But then—

then he realized he didn’t need words.

Not right now.

Not with her.

The silence was thick, but not heavy.
It was soft.
Safe.

So Spencer just sat there—heart hammering against his ribs, her arm around him like a tether—and breathed.

Breathed her in.

Breathed with her.

And when she tucked her face closer to his shoulder, curling in like maybe she needed him as much as he needed her, Spencer let himself believe—really believe—for the first time in a long, long time:

Maybe he wasn’t too much to stay for after all.

Maybe this—
this battered, bruised, breathless thing between them—
wasn't something he had to run from.

Maybe it was home.

Spencer turned his face slightly, pressing his nose into her hair, breathing her in like a prayer.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

Because when she stayed tucked against his side, when her fingers slipped slow and sure over his ribs like a heartbeat he didn’t have to be afraid of—

Spencer knew.

She wasn't going anywhere.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Maybe not ever.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he had to apologize for wanting her to stay.

He just let her.

He just let himself stay, too.

Leighton felt him melt into her.

Slow at first. Hesitant. Like he didn’t quite trust that he was allowed to. Like part of him still expected her to pull away if he leaned too hard.

But she didn’t.

She tucked him closer, tightening her arm around his shoulders, shifting just enough to make room for the weight of him against her body. She pressed her cheek against the side of his head, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something warmer underneath, something that was just him.

Her leg stretched more firmly across his lap, claiming him without apology, without fear.

He stayed.

And God, that meant more than anything either of them could say right now.

She felt the tremor in him when he passed the joint back, the way his fingers brushed hers longer than they needed to. Not out of accident. Not out of anything calculated. Just… need.

Leighton took it gently, careful not to jostle the quiet that had settled between them like something sacred.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that made her chest ache or her fingers twitch with the need to fix something.
It wasn’t the kind that made her brain race ahead, counting down the minutes until it all cracked apart.

It was still.

It was safe.

It was theirs.

She didn’t need to say anything.
Didn’t need to ask if he was okay.
Didn’t need to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere.

She already was telling him.

In the way her thumb traced slow, careful circles against his shoulder.
In the way her other hand found the curve of his knee and just held.
In the way she leaned her body around his, like she could shield him from all the ugly, broken parts of the world just by being close enough.

She felt him breathe against her chest—shaky at first, like he was still waiting for the catch, the shove, the cold air where her arms used to be.

But when she didn’t move—

When she stayed, easy and steady and whole around him—
his breathing smoothed out.
Matched hers.
Settled.

Leighton closed her eyes, tightening her hold around his shoulders, pressing another kiss into his hair—soft, slow, like a promise written into skin instead of words.

She didn’t need a speech.
She didn’t need a vow.

This was enough.

Him, breathing into her.
Her, steadying him without asking anything in return.
The two of them, stitched together in the kind of silence that healed more than it hurt.

She stayed.

And when his hand found her knee again, squeezing lightly like he was trying to say thank you without actually breaking the peace, Leighton smiled against his hair—small, secret, hers alone.

He didn’t know it yet.
Maybe he never would.

But she’d already made up her mind.

She would stay as long as he needed.
As long as he wanted.

No running.

No pulling away.

Just this.

Always.

Spencer didn’t know how to be held without apologizing for it.

Didn’t know how to breathe without waiting for the moment she’d realize—
realize he was too much,
too broken,
too him.

But she didn’t move.
Didn’t loosen her arms.
Didn’t flinch when he pressed closer, tucking himself tighter into the curve of her body like he could hide there if he tried hard enough.

Her hands kept tracing slow circles—on his shoulder, on his knee, on his back—quiet, steady little anchors pulling him back into himself.

Spencer breathed her in—
smoke and soap and skin and something warmer he didn’t have a name for.
Something that smelled like a place he hadn’t dared to believe he could belong.

When she kissed his hair again, slow and deliberate, something deep inside him cracked in a way that wasn’t violent this time.

It was gentle.
It was saving.

He squeezed her knee lightly, just once, not even thinking about it—
not needing her to move, not needing her to answer.
Just needing something to tether him to the moment.

His hand stayed there—loose, trembling, real—
like he wasn’t sure if he was holding onto her or if she was holding onto him.

Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

Spencer let his forehead drift lower, burrowing against the soft fabric at her collarbone, breathing in the steady beat of her heart, the way it didn’t stutter or falter when he got closer.

It stayed.

She stayed.

He could feel her fingers sliding slow through his hair again, smoothing over the places that still felt too jagged to touch.
Not fixing.
Not forcing.
Just loving.

And for a long time, Spencer didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have anything.

Just breathing.
Just staying.
Just surviving her softness.

But eventually—
somewhere between the rise and fall of her chest, somewhere between the way she shifted closer like she didn’t mind carrying some of his weight—
the words slipped out of him.

Quiet. Cracked. Wrecked.

"I don’t know what to do when it doesn’t hurt."

His voice was so raw he barely recognized it.

He didn’t pull back after he said it.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t take it back.

He just stayed pressed against her chest, fingers tightening slightly where they rested on her leg, as if saying the truth out loud might split the world open and he needed to hang on when it did.

But the world didn’t split open.

She just stayed.

Holding him tighter.
Breathing with him.
Letting the silence swallow the brokenness without needing to fix it.

Spencer closed his eyes and let his hand slide higher on her leg, slow and tentative, resting just above her knee.
Not possessive.
Not desperate.

Just there.
Just connected.

Her fingers brushed through his hair again, slower this time, like she heard what he couldn’t say yet—
like she knew what he was still too scared to believe:

That he was allowed to have this.
That love didn’t always have to hurt.
That sometimes it could just be soft.

Spencer buried his face deeper against her collarbone, breathing her in until his heart finally started to slow, until his body stopped expecting the ground to fall out from under him.

Until he started to believe—
maybe—
he didn’t have to be broken to be held.

Not by her.
Not here.
Not anymore.

Leighton felt it in the way he clung tighter.

Not desperate.
Not panicked.
Just—raw.

Like somewhere deep down, he was still bracing for the fall that wasn’t coming.

His breathing was still rough against her chest, catching in tiny stutters that broke her heart more than anything else could have.

She didn’t rush him.
Didn’t whisper promises he wasn’t ready to hear.
Didn’t ask him to be anything but exactly what he was.

Instead, she shifted slightly under him, pulling him closer, letting his weight settle heavier into her lap like she was built to hold him.

Her fingers moved without thinking—gentle, steady, grounding.
They traced the rough line of his jaw, slow and careful, like memorizing it with reverence.
Skimmed up along the shell of his ear, featherlight and patient, letting him know without a single word that she was still there.
Still breathing for him when he couldn’t.
Still loving him even when he didn’t know how to take it.

She could feel the tightness in him start to unravel in the smallest ways—
the way his fingers flexed softer against her thigh,
the way his forehead pressed a little deeper into the worn fabric at her collarbone,
the way his breathing, still shaky, began to match the slow rhythm of hers.

Leighton’s hand slid into his hair again, stroking through the messy strands with a tenderness she didn’t bother trying to hide.

She knew.
Knew what this was.
Knew the kind of fear he carried—the kind planted in him by years of love being something conditional, something weaponized.

She wasn’t here to lecture him out of it.
She wasn’t here to tell him he was wrong for feeling like the sky could still collapse at any second.

She was here to show him.

Quietly.
Patiently.

Show him that some hands stayed soft even when the storm hit.

That some arms tightened instead of letting go.

That some loves—
hers—
didn’t come with expiration dates or escape plans.

She kept touching him in slow, careful loops, tracing the edge of his jaw, his cheekbone, the slope of his ear, every stroke telling him without sound:

You’re safe.
You’re wanted.
You’re loved.

Time blurred.

It didn’t matter.

There was only him pressed into her, still trembling but starting to find something steadier underneath all the fear.

Eventually—slowly, like he was learning how to move through a different kind of gravity—Spencer shifted.

Lifted his head.

And when he looked up at her—

God.

His eyes were wrecked and wild and still swimming in all the things he didn’t know how to say.
But there was trust there too.
Small. Trembling.
Real.

Leighton didn’t think.
Didn’t plan.

She just leaned in and kissed him.

Soft at first—barely a brush of mouths, barely more than breathing the same air.

But something in her broke loose when he leaned back into it.

Something deep and fierce and infinite.

She kissed him deeper without meaning to, without thinking twice—like something ancient inside her recognized the shape of this boy, this broken, beautiful boy, and wanted to live in the spaces he still thought were unlovable.

Their legs tangled naturally, like they didn’t know how to be separate anymore.

And when Spencer shuddered—still caught halfway between fear and need—Leighton wrapped her arms tighter around him.

Pulled him closer.

Closer than close.

Pressed every line of herself against every shaking, surviving inch of him like she could rewrite the way he understood being held.

No space left between them now.
No need for it.

Only this.

Only them.

Breathing into each other’s broken places.

Teaching each other, piece by slow, shattered piece,
what it meant to stay.