New York City, New York
 

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The clock on the wall still said 2:17 a.m., but it felt like time had lost track of itself somewhere around the third song.

Now the studio was quiet — the kind of quiet that comes only after something big, something that takes the air out of you and leaves behind nothing but pulse and heartbeat and the faint hum of the monitors cooling down.

Lennon sank deeper into the worn leather couch, hair pulled loose from its clip, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Her notebook was open on the coffee table — pages filled, crossed out, rewritten, stained with coffee and adrenaline.

Five songs.
Five.

She counted them again, like maybe she’d imagined it.

Five songs in less than five hours.

That didn’t happen for her. Not anymore. Not since before everything cracked open and she started second-guessing every word that came out of her mouth. She’d forgotten what it felt like to want to write — not because someone asked her to, but because it felt like oxygen again.

And now here she was — voice raw, body humming, heart doing that stupid, light-heavy thing every time she glanced at the man across from her.

Kai sat at the far end of the couch, head tilted back against the cushions, eyes half-closed in that quiet kind of calm that looked like peace but probably wasn’t. His hand rested near hers, close enough that their fingers brushed every time one of them shifted.

She turned toward him, soft disbelief curling through her voice.
“I can’t remember the last time it felt this easy,” she said, almost to herself. “Like it just… showed up. Like the words actually wanted to be here.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached out — slow, unhurried — and slid his pinky against hers until they hooked together. The smallest gesture, but somehow it steadied her more than anything else could’ve.

Lennon huffed out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and let her head fall back against the couch. “Or maybe,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him, “you’ve got some kind of witchcraft I don’t know about.”

That earned her the faintest grin, lazy and content, his eyes still half-closed as he shifted just enough to brush his shoulder against hers.

The movement was simple. Familiar. Them.

Because this wasn’t new anymore. Not exactly.

It had been months now — months of soft mornings and long nights, of shared coffees and half-written demos, of pretending not to notice when his hand brushed hers in public, even though they both always did.

They hadn’t gone public yet. Not because they were hiding, but because it felt good to keep something for themselves. For once, it wasn’t about cameras or noise or anyone else’s version of their story. It was quiet. Intentional. The kind of love that didn’t need an announcement to be real.

Still, lately, she could feel the shift coming — the way people were starting to notice the glances, the lingering touches, the fact that she smiled easier when he was around. It didn’t scare her anymore.

If anything, it felt right.

They’d both changed since the last time the world saw them in the same frame. They were steadier now, older, softer in the ways that mattered. And somewhere in all of it — the traveling, the late-night studio sessions, the quiet dinners at home — Lennon had started to imagine what it would feel like not to have to guard it anymore.

The thought didn’t make her anxious. It made her excited.

Because this time, there was no edge. No fear of falling apart.

Just him.

Kai, who never rushed her. Who didn’t try to fix the broken parts or rewrite them. Who simply stayed — and built something out of the silence.

He brought a kind of quiet happiness she hadn’t let herself believe in for a long time — not loud or glittering or impossible to hold onto, but real. Solid. Safe.

She didn’t have to question it.
Didn’t have to translate it.
Didn’t have to wonder if it would still be there tomorrow.

It just was.

And sitting there — skin still warm from the hours in the booth, throat raw from singing, notebook heavy with new words that actually meant something — Lennon Rae felt that rare kind of peace that comes when you finally stop running from the thing that makes you whole.

She looked at him again, at the faint smile on his face, the soft rhythm of his breathing, and let the words slip out before she could stop them.

“You ruin me in the best way,” she whispered, half-teasing, half-honest.

And when his eyes opened and he looked back at her, slow and steady — she didn’t flinch, didn’t turn away.

She just smiled, that small, quiet kind of smile that felt like a beginning.

Because it was.

She said it like a joke.

All soft and sideways, like it might float past if he didn’t catch it.

But Kai caught it.

Felt every syllable of it settle somewhere in his chest — low and sure, like a chord that hadn’t finished ringing out yet.

You ruin me in the best way.

The kind of line that would’ve made its way into a song if it hadn’t already wrecked him in real time.

He turned his head to look at her fully then — no filter, no blink, just her. Hair a mess. Hoodie half-fallen. Eyes still shining with leftover lyrics. And God, she was beautiful. Not in the high-gloss, center-stage, headline kind of way — but in this. Right here. Barefaced and burningly real, curled into the corner of a leather couch at 2:17 a.m., breathing like the song hadn’t left her lungs yet.

His thumb brushed against hers without thinking, still linked by that pinky promise neither of them had spoken aloud. Just a hook. A hold. Something constant.

She didn’t even look away.

And something about that—her staying in the gaze, in the moment—made him forget every version of himself he used to be before her.

Because he remembered what it felt like to perform affection. To rehearse intimacy until it looked natural under lights. To smile in photos with people who didn’t know how he took his coffee or what his voice did when he sang something that meant something.

But this?

This was different.

Lennon Rae didn’t care about the polished version. She never asked for it. She showed up in his life like a storm in Converse and liner-smudged resolve, and somehow, she saw the version of him even he hadn’t figured out yet.

And now she was looking at him like he was something good.

Something worth ruining.

He swallowed hard. Let his eyes drift down to her lips, then back up — slow and sure — before speaking. When he did, his voice was rough from hours of being her anchor, but quiet. Honest.

“Funny,” he murmured, “I was gonna say the same thing.”

No theatrics. No follow-up line.

Just that.

He leaned in after a beat, brushing his lips against her temple first — reverent, a breath more than a kiss — then letting his head rest against hers, forehead to temple, like they’d fallen into the same key.

Because they had.

He didn’t need the spotlight on this. Didn’t need the camera crew or the tour backdrop or the press release.

He just needed this.

Her voice scratchy from singing too long. Her legs tucked beneath her like the world could wait. That coffee-stained notebook sitting open like a love letter to the version of herself she hadn’t met until tonight.

“Those songs,” he whispered after a while, eyes closed now. “They wrecked me, Rae.”

A beat.

“But I’d let them do it again. Every single night.”

And he meant it.

Because if this was what ruin felt like — built slow, in a studio after midnight, with soft smiles and unspoken things braided into melodies — then yeah.

He wanted to be ruined.

By her.

Only her.

She didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

Because if she did, she knew she’d lose it — the delicate balance of what was pulsing between them right now. The kind of closeness that didn’t demand to be named out loud, but still filled every inch of the room like heat after rain.

Kai’s words hung there — low, rough, true — and Lennon felt them slip under her skin before her brain could catch up. Funny, I was gonna say the same thing.

He said it so simply. So unflinchingly. Like it wasn’t a confession, just fact. And somehow, that made it worse. Made it better. Made it real.

Her chest tightened in that slow, quiet way she’d almost forgotten — not the sharp panic of falling, but the ache of realizing you’d already landed.

She smiled, small and uneven, because it wasn’t funny. Not even a little. It was everything.

For a long time, she’d convinced herself she didn’t need this kind of peace. She’d told herself it was safer to stay moving, to keep her hands busy, her head down, her heart somewhere no one could reach. But then he had shown up again — not loud, not all at once, just… steady. Patient. The way the tide comes back to shore even when you’ve stopped waiting for it.

And now she was sitting here, tangled in the soft afterglow of what they’d made tonight, realizing she’d missed this version of herself — the one who believed in sparks without bracing for the burn.

She turned a little toward him, her thigh brushing his, and she felt it — that quiet current that always lived between them. It wasn’t about nostalgia anymore. Or guilt. Or the weight of what they used to be. It was lighter now. Truer.

Her voice came out softer than she meant it to, almost a whisper, the words finding her more than she found them.

“I don’t think you ruin me,” she said finally, eyes still fixed on him, unblinking. “I think you remind me what it’s supposed to feel like.”

The corners of her mouth lifted just a little. “All of it. The chaos. The calm. The part where I stop thinking and just… exist.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion small but grounding. “You’ve always had this thing — the way you look at me when I’m in my head too much. Like you can hear it. Like you’re tuning me back into myself.”

She laughed under her breath, barely there. “It’s kind of annoying, actually.”

But her hand slid across the couch anyway, slow and sure, until her fingers found his and stayed there — not searching, not gripping. Just there.

She let the silence stretch again, long enough to hear the hum of the mixing board, the soft tick of the clock, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with hers.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she admitted, voice steady but quiet, “but it feels like the first thing that hasn’t scared me in a long time.”

Her thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, tracing the beat there like she was learning a new song.

Then she leaned in, head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed. “And if that’s what ruin feels like…”

A pause.

“…I don’t want to be fixed.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t meant to be. They were just true — the way every lyric had been tonight.

Because sitting there, wrapped in the dim hum of their shared quiet, Lennon finally understood: he wasn’t the reason she’d come back to herself.

He was just the reminder that she could.

And that — for her — was everything.

The hum of the room settled into her bones — low, steady, alive in a way she hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t silence, not really. It was the kind of quiet that comes after creation, when everything that needed to be said has already found its way out, and all that’s left is breath and heartbeat.

Lennon’s head stayed against his shoulder, her eyes half open, watching the soft light play across the boards, the cables, the coffee rings. Everything looked softer now. Even the exhaustion sitting in her limbs felt good — earned, like proof she’d done something.

Her throat ached from singing, and her body was humming like she still had verses in her, like she wasn’t ready to come down yet. But under all that, there was this… warmth. A pulse that had nothing to do with adrenaline.

She felt him shift, just enough that his hand brushed her thigh, a quiet, instinctive motion. Familiar. Grounding. It made her chest tighten again, but not in that dangerous, heavy way. Just a kind of weight that said this matters.

She let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “You know what’s weird?” she murmured, not looking up. “I thought I’d forgotten how to feel like this. The whole… alive part.”

Her fingers twisted in the sleeve of her hoodie. “It’s not just the music. It’s this. The air, the way it smells like dust and coffee and you.”

She smiled at that — small, a little crooked.

“It’s stupid. I know. But I missed this part of myself. The one who wasn’t scared to want something.”

For a moment, she just watched her thumb trace invisible circles against her knee. The old Lennon would’ve overanalyzed every inch of what this was — would’ve built a wall out of irony and clever jokes before he could see too much.

But now?

Now she didn’t want to hide.

She tilted her head, just enough to glance up at him. “You’re good for me,” she said quietly. “Not because of what we make together. Because of what I feel like when I’m around you. Like… the static turns into signal again.”

The words hung there, soft and weightless, and she didn’t try to fill the space that followed. She just let them exist. Truth didn’t need decorating.

Lennon reached over and grabbed her notebook off the table, flipping through it absently, past pages filled with half-thoughts, wrong rhymes, and ink smudges. She stopped on the last page — the newest one — still half-covered in lyrics that didn’t quite make sense yet.

She held it in her lap, staring down at the mess of it. “These,” she said, her voice thoughtful now, “feel like the first things I’ve written that aren’t about running away.”

A quiet beat.

“Maybe that’s why they came out so fast.”

Her eyes lifted again, finding him. “Because for once, I don’t want to leave.”

The simplicity of it almost startled her. No grand declarations, no tremor in her voice — just the truth.

And that was the thing about Kai Mercer. He didn’t make her brave. He just made it feel safe to stop pretending she wasn’t.

She leaned into him again, the back of her hand brushing his ribs as she curled closer. Her lips curved faintly, sleep tugging at the edges now.

“I think I finally get it,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It’s not about falling back in love with someone else.”

A soft exhale.

“It’s about remembering how to love being alive.”

The words landed somewhere between a confession and a prayer — quiet, tired, utterly at peace.

And for the first time in a long time, Lennon didn’t feel like she was rebuilding herself.

She felt like she was home.

Kai didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because her words — all of them — were still echoing through him, wrapping around the parts he didn’t let people see. The ones she never asked to fix, only ever held up to the light.

He stared at the space where her fingers had touched his wrist, like the imprint of her still lived there. It probably did. She was like that — never loud, never forceful, but somehow unforgettable. Her presence stayed. Even in silence. Especially in silence.

She didn’t know it, but she’d just rewritten every love song he’d ever believed in.

And maybe that’s what wrecked him most.

Not the kiss they hadn’t shared. Not the lean of her body into his. Not even the whisper of I don’t want to leave that had landed in his chest like a slow-sinking stone.

It was this version of her — open, steady, so painfully alive again — that leveled him.

Because Kai had known Lennon Rae before the world cracked her wide open. He remembered the girl who laughed too loud at her own jokes, who danced barefoot in studio hallways, who couldn’t get through a lyric without arguing with herself three times and then nailing it on take four like it had been effortless all along.

And then… he’d watched that girl disappear.

Bit by bit. Song by song. Until she’d folded into herself like a note never sent, leaving only smoke and echoes behind.

But tonight?

Tonight she was back.

Not the same. Not exactly. But real. Present. Glowing in that way that had nothing to do with spotlight and everything to do with soul.

He felt her tuck closer to him, her head finding its place against his ribs. Her voice, soft and half-spoken, curled around his heart like it already belonged there.

It’s not about falling back in love with someone else.

It’s about remembering how to love being alive.

Kai exhaled, slow and quiet.

God.

He tilted his head until it rested gently on hers, nose buried in her hair — that mix of studio air, lavender shampoo, and the faintest trace of cinnamon gum she always forgot she was chewing. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.”

It came out low, raw, more breath than voice — the kind of reverence you saved for mountaintops and miracles.

She shifted slightly, maybe surprised by the words, but she didn’t pull away. She only curled closer.

“You gave yourself back tonight,” he continued, voice steadier now but still soft. “Not just to the music. To you.”

His fingers brushed hers again, light and unassuming. A question, not a demand.

“You don’t have to be afraid of losing it again,” he said. “It’s yours. It always was.”

A beat passed. Two.

Then — quieter — “But if you do… I’ll remind you. Every time.”

His thumb traced the inside of her wrist like he was tuning her heartbeat to his.

“I’ll be the static if you need it. The noise that pulls you back. The guy in the rhinestone jacket who makes an idiot of himself just to make you laugh. Whatever it takes.”

That earned the tiniest smile from her, barely there — but God, he felt it like sunrise.

“I don’t need this to be defined,” he added after a while, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, lips lingering there like a vow. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow.”

His voice dropped, almost inaudible now. “I just need you.”

And not the stage version. Not the polished product. Just her — tangled hair, tired eyes, lyric-stained fingers, and all.

Lennon Rae, in her quietest, truest form.

He looked down at her, at the way she was finally resting like she meant it — not tense, not braced, just being.

For the first time in years, Kai didn’t feel like a man chasing a hit or waiting for a tour or holding his breath for the next storm.

He just felt here.

With her.

And if this was what it felt like to be ruined — quiet and golden and absolutely undone by love — then yeah.

He’d take it.

Again and again and again.

For a long time, she didn’t say anything either.
Just stayed there — breathing in the space he’d made safe again.

The words hung between them, soft and heavy and holy.
“I’m so fucking proud of you.”

They’d cracked something open in her — not in the breaking way, but in the kind that lets the light back in.

Lennon tilted her head slightly, her temple brushing against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat — steady, unhurried, the rhythm she used to write around without even realizing it. It was so familiar it hurt. Like the universe reminding her that some things never stopped echoing, even after the silence.

“I think…” she started, voice small but sure, the words careful, almost reverent, “I think I’ve been waiting to hear that since we were kids.”

Kai looked down, but she kept her eyes on the dark horizon of the room — the outline of a guitar against the wall, the soft red glow from the power light on the mixing board, the faint pulse of the studio clock ticking somewhere behind them. All the ghosts of the songs they’d made, still hanging in the air like dust and melody.

“I didn’t know it back then,” she went on, “but that’s what I was always trying to prove — that I mattered to you. Not because I could sing. Or write. Or make the crowd feel something. But just because I was… me.”

Her throat tightened as the truth caught up with her. “And if it took over a decade to hear it — to really hear it — then it was worth it.”

She finally looked up at him, a faint smile threading through her exhaustion. Her eyes glimmered — not with tears this time, but something softer, steadier. “Because you don’t get words like that twice in a lifetime.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was full. Warm. Lived-in. The kind of quiet that only exists between two people who’ve seen each other fall apart and still choose to stay.

After a moment, she exhaled through a laugh — quiet, but real. “God, listen to us. We sound like two washed-up songwriters trying to turn trauma into poetry.”

Kai’s mouth curved, and that did her in — that smile, that flicker of light she hadn’t seen since before everything got so loud.

“Maybe we are,” she said softly, eyes glinting. “Maybe that’s the whole point.”

She shifted up a little, enough to meet his gaze without losing the calm they’d built. Her hand stayed on his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath her palm — proof that he was still there, still real. “You remember when we used to stay in that tiny Silver Lake studio until sunrise? You’d swear we were just ‘testing mixes,’ but really we were just avoiding the world.”

He nodded, that half-smile deepening, and she could almost see it — the memory unspooling between them: the cracked window letting in city noise, the candle burned halfway down on the console, her half-asleep on the floor tangled in a blanket while he tweaked the same reverb setting for an hour.

“Yeah,” she said, a wistful note in her tone. “Those nights? They’re the ones that made me fall in love with all of this. The chaos, the late takes, the burnt coffee… even the part of me that got lost in it.”

Her voice gentled, almost a whisper. “I want that back. Not the fame part — the feeling part. The real part.”

A pause — long enough for him to lift his gaze, long enough for her to feel it hit her like a wave.

“Do you ever think we could get there again?” she asked quietly. “Not as the people the world expects — but as us?”

Her tone wasn’t pleading. It was steady. Hopeful. Like she wasn’t asking for a promise, just an honesty they’d both earned the hard way.

She smiled faintly then, fingers tracing the soft fabric of his sleeve. “Because I don’t miss the interviews or the tours or the noise… I miss laughing with you at 3 a.m. over a song that made no sense until it suddenly did. I miss feeling like we were building something sacred out of nothing.”

She leaned in closer again, the space between them gone to air and memory. “And maybe,” she added, voice barely a breath, “that’s still what we’re doing — even now. Just building it slower. Quieter. The way it’s meant to last this time.”

Her eyes lifted to his once more — steady, unguarded. “Tell me you still believe in that. In us.”

He didn’t look away when she asked it.

Didn’t need to.

Because even after everything—the missed years, the noise, the times he’d been an ass and hadn’t known how to say what he meant—her voice still hit him right where it always had. Right in that space between heartbeat and breath.

Kai let out a slow exhale, the kind that carried a decade’s worth of unsaid things. The studio lights hummed in the corner, soft and red and steady, like they were keeping time for him.

“Lennon,” he said finally, his voice low but clear, “I never stopped believing in us.”

It came out easy, unforced. The truth always did when she was this close.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, looking down at their joined hands—her thumb tracing slow, invisible circles against his skin like she was still writing lyrics there.

“Even when I was being an idiot. Especially then.”
A breath. Then quieter: “You think I didn’t know I was screwing it up? That every time I tried to play it cool, I wasn’t actually trying not to feel too much?”

He smiled a little—crooked, self-aware, honest.
“I wasn’t built for pretending, Rae. I just didn’t know how to stay real in the middle of all that noise. Not like you did.”

He sat back then, turning to face her fully. The soft studio glow hit her cheekbones, and he felt that familiar ache in his chest—the one that always came from seeing her exactly as she was.

“But that’s what you’ve always been for me,” he said. “The reminder that there is a real part. Under the lights, under the hype, under the bullshit. You make me remember it’s supposed to mean something.”

His hand came up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, knuckles grazing her jaw.
“We may never get back to who we were in that old studio,” he admitted. “But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe this version—older, scarred, honest—is better. Because now we know how to build it without breaking ourselves to fit inside it.”

A pause, small and reverent.

“We’ll help each other keep it true,” he said. “In the fame, in the quiet. You pull me back when I get lost in the noise, I’ll do the same when the world tries to rewrite your story.”

He smiled again then—gentler now. “You know what I think? We’re still building something sacred out of nothing. We just finally stopped pretending it’s for anyone else.”

Her eyes shone, reflecting back every version of them that had led here, and he reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing along her skin like a punctuation mark.

“I still believe in us,” he said. “Always have. I just didn’t know how to say it before.”

And then, because words could only go so far, Kai leaned in and kissed her—slow, certain, all the way through.

The kind of kiss that felt like remembering.
The kind that said this time, we’re staying.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breath mingling with hers, heartbeat steady against her chest.

“We’ll make it again,” he whispered. “The feeling. The fire. The late nights. Just us—no cameras, no expectations. The real thing.”

He smiled against her mouth, soft and wrecked and absolutely sure.

“Because, Lennon Rae,” he murmured, “you’ve always been my real thing.”

For a second, she couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t even move.

The room was still except for the low hum of the console and the rhythm of their breathing — tangled, unhurried, the kind of quiet that held its own gravity. His words hadn’t just landed; they’d settled inside her. Like they’d finally found the place they’d been trying to reach all along.

Her fingers stayed laced with his, thumb grazing the edge of his knuckle in small, absent circles. She didn’t pull back. Didn’t tease. Didn’t deflect. For once, she let it sink in.

“You don’t know how many times I told myself I imagined it,” she said finally, her voice hushed but steady. “The way you looked at me. The way it felt when it was just us in a room like this. I’d convince myself it wasn’t real — that I’d made it bigger in my head. Because it was easier than believing I’d lost something that true.”

She swallowed, eyes fixed somewhere near his collarbone — like if she looked up, she’d fall apart. “And I did lose it. For a long time. I lost me, too. I thought if I could just work harder, be sharper, sing cleaner — I’d earn it back. I’d earn you back.”

A small, almost embarrassed laugh slipped out. “It sounds so pathetic, saying it out loud. But I think I measured every version of myself against the one you believed in first.”

Her voice softened, the edges raw but not breaking. “And hearing you say that now — that you still believe in us — it’s like every part of me that went quiet just… woke up again.”

She leaned into him a little more, her temple brushing his jaw, grounding herself in the solid warmth of him. “You were my real thing, too, Kai. You still are. Even when I didn’t want you to be.”

The admission came out like a confession, not of weakness, but of truth. “It terrified me,” she murmured. “Because I could lose control of everything else — the music, the tours, the press — but not this. Not you. You were the one thing I couldn’t rewrite.”

Her thumb drifted up to trace the side of his hand, slow and thoughtful. “You know what’s funny?” she whispered. “For years, I thought love had to burn to mean something. That it had to wreck me to be real. But this…” she gestured faintly between them, to the stillness, the safety, the way his heartbeat pressed steady against her shoulder, “this feels like something I could actually live inside.”

She shifted slightly, curling closer, until her leg brushed against his and her head found its place under his chin. “And maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all this time — not the rush, not the noise, just this. Something that doesn’t need to prove itself.”

Her voice grew quieter, almost drowsy, but still laced with emotion. “You said we’ll make it again — the fire, the feeling. But maybe we already have. Maybe it never left. Maybe it just needed to grow up with us.”

She smiled then, small and real, eyes closed as she let her body melt into his. “I’m tired of writing songs about what we lost,” she whispered. “I want to write one about what we still have.”

Her hand found his again, fingers threading through his like a quiet vow. “Because I’m here now. Not running. Not pretending. Just here.”

A pause. A breath. Then, even softer:
“And if this is what staying feels like… I’m not going anywhere.

Kai didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t.

Because there were some moments that weren’t meant to be filled — only felt. And this one? This one landed in his chest like something sacred. Like every version of her heart had just folded itself into his hands, no pretense, no armor. Just truth.

She was curled against him now, soft and warm and heartbreakingly honest. And all he could think — all he could feel — was that he’d never been more sure of anything in his life.

He shifted just enough to press his lips to the crown of her head, lingering there like a promise. Then he let his hand trail up the length of her spine, slow and steady, anchoring her as much as himself.

“You didn’t imagine it,” he said finally, voice low and thick with everything he hadn’t known how to say back then. “Not even for a second.”

He closed his eyes for a beat, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, the faint trace of studio dust and sleepless hours clinging to her skin.

“I looked at you like that because… you were it. You were the song. Every time. You walked into a room, and the rest of the world just — blurred out. I didn’t know how to hold it. I didn’t know how to say it. So I tried to outrun it instead.”

His laugh was soft, self-deprecating, and he pulled her even closer like he was done running now — done pretending.

“I kept thinking I’d ruin it. Ruin you. That I’d get it all wrong and you’d stop looking at me the way you used to. So I hid behind studio talk and late-night edits and dumb jokes about feedback loops—anything that felt safer than saying I was in love with you before I even realized I’d fallen.”

He swallowed hard, then tilted his head just enough so he could see her — really see her. Her face relaxed into his chest, her hand still wrapped in his, like she’d never let go again.

“But you,” he whispered, “you were always the bravest of the two of us. You felt it first. You named it first. And I let the moment pass because I didn’t trust myself to be what you needed.”

He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand, the smallest movement but charged with everything he’d never given words to.

“You were never pathetic, Lennon. You were the mirror. Every time I didn’t show up, every time I made you feel like you had to earn something that was already yours — that was me getting in the way of the truth.”

Another breath. Another heartbeat shared between them.

“But I see it now. You. Us. The fire and the quiet. The love that doesn’t burn us up, but builds something we can actually live inside.”

His voice dropped to a hush. “And I want to live there. With you.”

He let his forehead rest against hers, eyes fluttering closed. “So yeah… let’s write that song. The one about what we still have. The one about staying.”

His hand lifted to her cheek, tilting her face up just enough to kiss her—slow and sure and reverent. The kind of kiss that said this isn’t the end of the song. It’s the first real verse.

And when he pulled back, voice barely more than a breath against her lips, he said:

“You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.”

Then softer still:
“We’re home now.”

For a long moment, she just stayed there — barely moving, barely breathing — eyes closed, cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath her ear, that quiet, human sound that somehow felt louder than everything else in her life ever had.

Home.

The word echoed in her head like a lyric she didn’t know she’d been writing toward this whole time.

When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were glassy — not from tears exactly, but from something softer, deeper. The kind of fullness that came from being seen and held at the same time.

“God,” she whispered, a shaky laugh tumbling through the word. “You can’t just say things like that and expect me to survive it.”

He smiled faintly, and she reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw — tracing the faint stubble, the curve of his mouth, the warmth that lived there now. She wasn’t testing if this was real anymore. She knew it was.

Her voice softened. “I don’t even know how to describe this feeling. It’s like… for the first time, I don’t have to brace for impact. I don’t have to earn the room I’m standing in.”

Her thumb lingered at the edge of his lip. “You make me feel like I was always worth it. Even when I wasn’t sure I believed that myself.”

She let out a slow exhale, the sound somewhere between relief and awe. “Do you know how long it’s been since I felt safe like this? Not just safe with someone, but safe being me?”

The words hung there, and she smiled — that real, undone kind of smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “It’s new. And terrifying. But in the best way.”

Her fingers slid down, catching the silver chain at his neck, idly twisting it between hers. “You make it easy to breathe again. That’s all I ever wanted.”

She leaned closer, eyes flicking up to his with a spark that was soft but sure. “You always talked about not wanting to ruin things,” she murmured. “But you didn’t. You just had to learn how to stay. And I had to learn how to let you.”

A quiet laugh escaped her, more warmth than sound. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it feels… good. Like we finally stopped fighting the part of us that’s been trying to get back here since the start.”

Her hand came up to his cheek, palm resting there as she looked at him — really looked, like she was memorizing the sight of him in this light, in this version of them. “You look at me like I’m something worth keeping,” she said softly. “And I think maybe I finally believe that.”

She leaned in then, her lips brushing against his — not urgent, not rushed. Just certain. The kind of kiss that tasted like peace and possibility and the promise of morning.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his, her voice a quiet hum against his mouth.
“Okay,” she whispered, smiling through it. “Let’s live there. Let’s build it. Let’s make it ours.”

A beat. Then softer — a confession, not a line:
“I love you, Kai Mercer. And for once… I don’t feel scared saying it.”

She closed her eyes again, sinking back into him, her fingers tracing idle shapes against his arm. “You said we’re home,” she murmured, half-asleep, wholly at peace. “Then don’t ever let me forget what that feels like.”

She stayed quiet for a moment after saying it — her last words still hanging between them like the softest kind of prayer. His hand was still moving absently along her back, fingertips brushing lazy patterns that felt like lullabies.

Lennon let out a long breath, eyes fluttering open. The studio lights had dimmed to a faint red hum, and the clock on the wall said it was way past the hour where anyone should still be awake.

Her lips curved slightly. “You know,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “for a place that’s seen more sleepless nights than either of us can count… this might be the first time it’s ever felt calm.”

She tilted her chin just enough to meet his gaze — tired eyes, soft mouth, the kind of face you only get when you’ve stopped running from something. “But I think we’ve officially hit the point where if I stay here any longer, I’m going to fuse with this couch.”

He gave the smallest smile, and she laughed — quiet and real. “Come on, Mercer. Let’s get out of here,” she said, brushing her thumb over the chain around his neck one last time before letting it fall. “We’ve earned a night that isn’t lit by LED boards and bad coffee.”

Her tone softened, teasing but sincere. “Let’s go back to the hotel. Order something ridiculous — champagne and fries, maybe those little lava cakes you pretend you don’t like.”

She shifted closer, nose brushing his jaw. “And then…” a small pause, her smile curling at the edges, “maybe we stop talking and just exist for a while. You, me, and that oversized tub they call a bath.”

Her laugh melted into a hum as she spoke against his skin. “I can already picture it — steam, candles we didn’t pay for, you making fun of me for bringing bubbles like it’s a crime.”

She looked up again, her eyes catching the glow from the monitors. “No cameras. No noise. Just warm water, bad room service, and us remembering that we still know how to be happy.”

Her fingers played with the collar of his shirt, light and deliberate. “You in?” she asked softly, though she already knew the answer.

She rose from the couch, stretching, the hem of her sweatshirt sliding up as she did. Then she turned back to him, hand outstretched, eyes gleaming like she was inviting him into something sacred and easy all at once.

“Come on,” she said, that small, content smile tugging at her mouth. “Let’s take this peace somewhere softer. We can fall asleep under clean sheets instead of fluorescent lights.”

A beat passed, her voice lowering, gentler now. “And maybe for once, the night doesn’t have to end with us wondering what happens next.”

Her thumb brushed the inside of his wrist as he took her hand. “It just… happens.”

Then, with a quiet, playful tilt of her head — “But I’m still picking the bath bomb.”

Kai didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because everything about the moment — her voice, her touch, the way she said his name like it had roots now — was already speaking louder than words could.

He watched her with a quiet reverence, as if afraid that moving too fast would disrupt something sacred. Because it was sacred. Not dramatic or performative or burning at both ends like it used to be — just this. Intimate. Grounded. Undeniably real.

When she said his name like that — Kai Mercer, not the man from a studio credit, not the producer everyone wanted to turn into a headline — it felt like a vow sealed in breath and honesty.

And when she said I love you, something in him cracked. Not in a broken way — but in the way old walls finally fall when they’ve held too much for too long.

He kissed her again — a kiss that didn’t ask for anything except the truth. His hand slid to the side of her neck, thumb resting beneath her jaw like he was anchoring her there, like maybe if he stayed still enough, the moment would never have to end.

When she pulled back, forehead resting against his, her words soft and certain, Kai breathed her in like he was memorizing the rhythm of this new chapter — one not built on press cycles or platinum charts, but something warmer. Quieter. Built by hand.

Let’s live there. Let’s build it. Let’s make it ours.

She could’ve said anything after that and he would’ve followed her. Because this was Lennon — not just the girl he’d written hooks with in borrowed studios and unfinished hotel rooms, but the woman who saw through every version of him and stayed anyway.

Her smile, her teasing, the way she tugged on the chain at his neck like she always used to — it all hit him like a flash reel: years of almosts and maybes and could-have-beens crashing against the calm they’d finally made room for.

When she rose, stretching — soft curves framed in the sweatshirt she’d half-stolen from his suitcase, the hem riding up, skin catching the last glow from the monitors — he swore it was the most grounded he’d ever felt.

She looked back, hand outstretched, eyes gleaming. And for the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t hesitate.

Kai stood and took her hand — fingers lacing through hers without thinking, like muscle memory from a better version of them that had been waiting for this moment to catch up.

“You’re picking the bath bomb,” he said, voice low, a little rough from everything unsaid, “but I’m picking the playlist.”

A beat. Then, with a smirk that barely hid the warmth behind it: “And yes, I want the lava cake.”

She laughed, and it sounded like something healing. Like something worth chasing.

As they left the studio — hand in hand, steps unhurried — the air around them felt changed. The city still buzzed beyond the walls, but inside that small pocket of night, there was only them. Them, and the quiet promise that maybe this was what the love songs had been trying to explain all along.

Not the chaos. Not the ache.
Just this.
A kind of peace you build. A kind you choose.

And as they stepped into the elevator, her head resting against his shoulder, Kai closed his eyes for just a second and let it all wash over him — her warmth, her laugh, the way she fit beside him like a lyric he hadn’t dared to write before now.

Because this wasn’t the end of something.
It was the beginning.

And this time — they were staying.

Lennon stayed close to him in the elevator, their hands still intertwined, her thumb brushing over the back of his in slow, absent motions. The silence between them didn’t feel heavy anymore—it felt full. Warm. Like a song settling into its final note.

She glanced up at him, catching the faint reflection of them in the mirrored wall—the two of them standing there, tired and unguarded and somehow new.

“You’re picking the playlist, huh?” she said softly, voice tinged with a smile. “That’s a big responsibility, Mercer. You realize the entire tone of the evening depends on you not picking something depressing.”

He gave her a small look—half amused, half fond—and she huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m serious,” she went on. “If I hear even one acoustic breakup track, I’m commandeering your phone.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. She didn’t move right away, just looked at him, really looked—his face relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen in years. Then she squeezed his hand and stepped forward.

“Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s go do something completely ordinary. Champagne. Lava cake. Maybe even room service fries if we’re feeling reckless.”

They walked down the quiet hall together, her bare ankles catching the glow from the floor lights, his jacket still draped over her shoulders. Lennon spoke again, her tone lower now, less teasing. “You know what’s strange?” she said. “This… us. It doesn’t feel like a comeback. It feels like breathing.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “I think I forgot what that felt like.”

When they reached their suite, she slipped the keycard into the door, and the city spilled in before them—Manhattan glittering in the distance, lights shifting like stars in motion. She toed off her shoes and walked straight to the window, pressing her palm to the cold glass.

“I used to look out at this view and feel small,” she admitted quietly. “Now it just feels alive.”

She turned to him then, that familiar glint returning to her eyes. “Alright, playlist man,” she teased lightly, “cue up something that sounds like peace. I’ll order the champagne.”

When he laughed, she smiled back, softer this time, like the weight of every old version of them had finally lifted.

As she crossed the room to grab the phone, she glanced over her shoulder. “And Kai?” she said, her tone slipping into something gentle, almost reverent. “You didn’t have to promise me anything back there.”

He frowned slightly, but she only shook her head, a small, knowing smile curving her mouth. “You being here like this—this is the promise.”

She finished the room service call, set the phone down, and walked back to him. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, playing with the fabric as she looked up at him. “So,” she murmured, voice low, “how about that bath?”

Then, quieter—half a smile, half a sigh—“Let’s just let tonight be easy.”

She leaned in, brushed her lips against his jaw, and whispered, “We finally get to have this.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Because when she touched his jaw like that, when her lips ghosted over his skin and her voice dipped into something so soft it almost didn’t reach him—we finally get to have this—something in Kai’s chest went still.

And then, something in him moved.

Not the kind of movement that stirred the room or made noise or asked for attention. It was internal, quiet, tectonic. Like the slow shift of land beneath water—inevitable and deep.

He let his hands find her waist, gentle at first. Steady. Then slid one up, fingers splaying across the small of her back, the other drifting down over the curve of her hip. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just felt—the warmth of her through the thin fabric of his shirt still draped around her, the way she fit there, close and unflinching, like maybe they’d always been built for this version of proximity.

His thumb traced a lazy arc along her side. Then again. Not coaxing, not urgent—just staying with her, grounding her, reminding them both that this wasn’t a memory they were making to lose later. This was real.

She didn’t pull back. Didn’t fill the space with nervous laughter or clever deflection. And neither did he.

Kai leaned forward, brushing his lips once beneath her ear—barely there, reverent. Then lower, across her neck, the kisses slow and unrushed, like he was trying to relearn the shape of home one breath at a time.

Her body softened into his, arms sliding around his middle. And for a few long, quiet seconds, they just stood like that—no lights, no cameras, no chaos—only skin and breath and the kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything beyond presence.

When he finally pulled back enough to see her face again, he didn’t speak. He just looked—really looked—at the curve of her cheek, the mess of her hair, the way her eyes held the same soft gravity they always had when she let herself stay.

He reached up, brushing a stray curl behind her ear, and then let his forehead rest against hers. Their breathing was synced now, quiet and close. Her fingers still toyed with the hem of his shirt like she didn’t want to let go, and he didn’t want her to.

His voice came low, barely more than a breath against her lips. “Then let’s have it,” he said simply.

And that was all. No poetic speech. No grand gesture. Just truth.

Because after everything—every near miss, every silence, every damn song written from the outside looking in—they were finally here.

In the quiet.

In the warmth.

In the kind of love that didn’t need to burn to matter.

He kissed her again, slow and sure. And when they moved together toward the bathroom, fingers still laced, Kai knew without a single doubt—

They weren’t writing the end.

They were writing the beginning.

Steam still clung to the edges of her hair, damp curls brushing her neck as she leaned back against the headboard. The robe was soft and too big, the kind that made her feel small in the best way — like the night didn’t need fixing, only living.

The room was quiet except for the city humming through the window — that low, constant New York pulse that somehow felt like part of their heartbeat now. They were a few blocks from the studio, close enough that she could almost still hear the reverb of her own voice in the walls there. The EP. The long hours. The way she’d left the last song on a breath and a prayer.

Now it was just this.
The hotel bed.
The tray of room service between them.

Kai sat across from her, robe open just enough to make her brain stop functioning properly, hair sticking up from the towel like he’d fought it and lost. And the lava cake — God, the lava cake — sat squarely between them, already half gone and absolutely not shared.

She smiled into her glass of wine, watching him with the kind of quiet amusement that lived somewhere between affection and disbelief.

“Unreal,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Man produces an entire record about longing and connection and then refuses to split dessert. Classic.”

He didn’t even look up — just kept eating, focused, completely at peace with his crimes.

Lennon tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “I hope that’s worth the betrayal. Because I’m filing this under emotional damage.”

She reached for the second fork that had been placed, untouched, beside the plate — made a show of tapping it against the rim of her wineglass like she was conducting some kind of dessert intervention.

Nothing. No reaction. Just him and his damn cake.

She bit back a grin, leaning forward until the space between them was barely there. Her voice dropped, teasing, low. “You know, I think this might actually be the most intimate thing you’ve ever done — eating lava cake in silence while I question every decision that led me here.”

Still nothing.

She laughed under her breath, sitting back again. “Fine. Keep it. I’ll just sit here and bask in the glow of my artistic achievement and your chocolate greed.”

The laugh that followed wasn’t loud — it was soft, cracked at the edges from the kind of exhaustion that didn’t hurt anymore. The good kind. The kind that came from finishing something that mattered.

She reached for his abandoned water glass instead, taking a sip, her smile lingering.

Everything about the moment was ordinary and perfect.
Warm air, city light, the faint hum of a fridge somewhere down the hall.
And him — quietly existing across from her, looking at peace for the first time in weeks.

She didn’t need him to say anything.
Not tonight.

Just this.
New York outside the window, the sound of her own laughter still echoing in her chest, and the simple, impossible sweetness of knowing she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Kai didn’t look up when she reached for the second fork. Didn’t blink when she called it betrayal. Just scooped another bite of lava cake with the steady patience of a man who knew exactly what lines he was crossing and had zero regrets.

But his mouth twitched.

Barely.

The kind of microscopic smirk that said yeah, I hear you — and no, you’re not getting any.

He lifted the fork slowly, deliberately, and took another bite like he was tasting victory itself. Chewed. Swallowed. Then finally glanced up through lashes still damp at the edges, hair a chaotic halo of towel-fight aftermath.

“You said you wanted to feel again,” he said, voice low, bone-dry. “Congratulations. You’re feeling betrayal. That’s depth.”

He went back for another bite like a man who’d just dropped the mic on a sold-out arena, robe slipping further off one shoulder like he’d never known shame a day in his life.

The fork clinked against the plate.

Kai finally leaned back, shifting into the pillows with a lazy sprawl — long legs stretched out beneath the tray, one ankle hooking around hers beneath the covers like a casual trap. “Besides,” he added, eyes narrowing in mock thought, “didn’t you say something about me being more expressive with my emotions?” He gestured at the cake with faux solemnity. “This is my emotional arc. It’s got layers. Like the ganache.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, more sincere — but still with a smirk curled at the edges:

“You don’t split the good stuff when you’ve waited this long for it.”

And maybe he meant the dessert.

Maybe he didn’t.

His hand found her ankle again under the blanket, thumb brushing slow circles there — absent, grounding. He didn’t say anything else. Just let the city hum and the sugar settle and her laughter melt into the night like it belonged there.

Like she did too.

He tipped his head back against the headboard, gaze lifting to the ceiling like it held stars instead of sprinkler heads, his voice softer now, more rhythm than sentence:

“This is gonna be the song, you know.”

Then, with a grin that was half-dare, half-promise:

“But I’m still not sharing the last bite.”

Lennon tilted her head, watching him with that lazy half-smile that only ever showed up when she was both amused and dangerously close to giving in. The fork dangled between her fingers, mostly forgotten.

“Oh, wow,” she said, voice soft but teasing, “did you just use ganache as a metaphor for your emotional growth? You’re lucky you’re hot, Mercer, because that is the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard.”

He didn’t even blink, which somehow made it worse — or better, depending on how fast her pulse decided to go.

She leaned forward, robe falling open just enough to make his breath hitch, though she pretended not to notice. “You realize you’re not getting away with this, right? The whole tortured-artist-meets-pastry-thief act? You’re going to have to make it up to me.”

Her tone softened, the teasing curling around something warmer. “You said this was the song… maybe it should start right here. Two idiots in bathrobes, arguing over cake and pretending they’re not in love.”

His thumb brushed her ankle again under the blanket, Lennon smiled into it.

“Careful,” she murmured, “if you keep looking at me like that, I might forget I was mad at you.”

She reached out, tracing a small smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth with her thumb — slow, deliberate — and then licked it clean before he could say a word. “Mm,” she said softly, eyes still locked on his. “You’re right. You don’t split the good stuff.”

Her hand lingered against his jaw for a moment longer than necessary, then dropped back to the sheets.

“And for the record,” she whispered, leaning closer until her lips almost brushed his, “that line about depth? Yeah. That’s going in the bridge.”

She smiled, all quiet affection and challenge. “You inspire me, you know that? Even when you’re stealing dessert and my self-control at the same time.”

A beat. Her gaze flicked to the plate — only one bite left. Then back to him.

“Still not letting you have the last one, though,” she said, voice low, playful, a dare in every syllable.

Kai’s grin came slow — the kind that started in his eyes before it ever made it to his mouth.
He watched her, the robe slipping, the fork dangling, the spark in her voice dancing somewhere between taunt and invitation.

God, she was impossible.
And he loved it.

He leaned back on one hand, the other still resting against the blanket where her ankle had been a second ago, warmth from her skin lingering like static. “You’re really gonna die on this hill, huh?” he said quietly, that low, teasing rasp wrapping itself around the room. “All that talk about sharing the good stuff, but not the last bite?”

His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to the plate. “You know that’s a war crime in some places.”

Lennon’s smile deepened — that soft, dangerous thing that always looked like trouble dressed in silk — and he exhaled through a laugh, shaking his head.

“Fine,” he said, leaning in until his nose brushed hers. “We’ll compromise.”

Before she could react, he reached forward, fork in hand, caught that last bite of cake, and instead of eating it — held it out to her. The silence stretched thin, humming with everything that hadn’t been said yet.

“Go on,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers. “You earned it.”

When she leaned forward, her lips brushed the fork — brushed him — and Kai didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t gone for her. The second the chocolate hit her tongue, his voice dropped lower.

“See? Collaboration,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what this is. You take the last bite… I take the line about depth.”

Lennon laughed, soft and breathless, and he caught her wrist before she could pull back. His thumb found that same smear of chocolate she’d stolen off him earlier and traced it lightly across her bottom lip, slow enough to feel her pulse jump beneath it.

“You said this was the song,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Then maybe this is the part before the chorus.”

A pause — heartbeat, breath, everything caught in the space between them.

“Where we stop pretending,” he said, “and just… stay.”

Outside, the city hummed through the window — sirens distant, rain starting up again against the glass — but in here, it was just the two of them, warmth and sugar and something that felt like the start of forever.

He didn’t kiss her right away. He just looked at her — really looked — like she was the lyric he’d been trying to write for years but finally got right tonight.

Then, quiet as a confession,
“Lennon Rae,” he said, voice low and reverent. “You’re my favorite verse.”

Lennon just stared at him for a moment — fork still between her fingers, lips still tasting like chocolate and something far more dangerous.

He said it so easily. Like he didn’t know he’d just leveled her entire world with one line. Favorite verse.
God, he was infuriating.
And unfairly good at this.

A laugh slipped out — soft, breathless, because if she didn’t laugh, she’d probably melt right into him. “You really just—” she started, shaking her head, “favorite verse? You realize that’s illegal levels of charm coming from a man who literally refused to share dessert five minutes ago.”

Her voice dropped, warm and teasing. “You can’t just say things like that and expect me to function.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched her the way he always did — like she was the punchline and the prayer. And that was the problem.

Because she could feel it — that slow, steady pull in her chest that told her the ground had already shifted, that she wasn’t standing at the edge of something anymore; she was already in it.

She leaned closer, one knee brushing his, robe slipping off her shoulder as her fingers traced the hem of his sleeve. “You know what your problem is?” she murmured, eyes locked on his. “You say stuff like that, and then you look at me like I’m supposed to survive it.”

Her smile softened then — less smirk, more surrender. “So congratulations, Kai Mercer. You win. The cake, the song, the chorus…” she paused, her thumb brushing the space just below his jaw, “and me.”

Her tone was quiet, sure — not a confession, not a risk. Just fact.

“I’m staying,” she said finally, the words landing like a heartbeat between them. “And now you’re stuck with me.”

A tiny grin curved her mouth, all warmth and mischief. “Forever, apparently. Hope your emotional arc’s ready for that kind of depth.”

Then she leaned in, brushing her lips against his — slow, tasting the laughter still caught between them — and whispered against his mouth, “You can keep the last bite, though. I already got what I came for.”

Kai grinned before she even finished the sentence—one of those low, knowing grins that lived halfway between a challenge and a promise.

“Careful, Rae,” he murmured, voice roughened just enough to betray the way she got to him. “You start saying things like forever, and I’m gonna hold you to it.”

The words came out smooth, lazy, like he wasn’t already replaying them in his head—I’m staying—like they weren’t about to live rent-free in every song he wrote from here on out.

He leaned back a little, studying her in the soft lamplight that turned the hotel room gold. The robe had slipped further down her shoulder, her hair catching faint glints of city glow from the window. She looked like sin wrapped in Sunday morning—barefoot, brilliant, absolutely untouchable.

“You think you’re the only one dangerous here?” he asked quietly, stealing the fork right out of her hand before she could react. “You waltz in, wreck my entire sense of direction, and then declare victory over dessert?”

He took the last bite—slowly, obnoxiously—then set the fork down with deliberate precision.

“Too damn good to share,” he said, unapologetic, still chewing. “But I’ll order two next time. One for you… one for the version of me that’s apparently stuck with you forever.”

She swatted his arm, laughing, and he caught her wrist mid-swing, fingers sliding down until they were twined with hers. The playfulness in his expression softened—just a fraction, but enough to make the air change.

He brushed his thumb along her palm, eyes flicking to her mouth, then back to her eyes.
“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” he said quietly. “You just rewrote every song I thought I knew how to finish.”

Outside, New York buzzed on—horns, sirens, the hum of a city that never slept. But in here, time folded in on itself. Just her breath, his heartbeat, the ghost of chocolate and champagne between them.

Kai leaned in, voice low enough to be mistaken for a lyric.
“Guess we’ll have to see if my emotional arc can keep up with you, Lennon Rae.”

Then he kissed her—unhurried, deliberate—like he was tasting the word stay and realizing it finally meant something real.

When he pulled back, his grin returned—cocky, boyish, infuriating.
“Good news, though,” he said, brushing a crumb from her lip. “You’re officially the only thing sweeter than the lava cake.”

Lennon’s smile came easy, quiet and dangerous all at once. The kind that lived in her eyes before it reached her mouth.

“Sweet talk and sugar metaphors,” she said softly, shaking her head, “you’re relentless.” Her voice had that soft rasp it got when she’d been laughing too long, singing too much, living too hard.

But he was still looking at her like she’d invented the concept of light. That grin of his—the one that always walked the tightrope between arrogance and affection—did something to her chest she didn’t have a name for.

“You holding me to forever?” she asked, eyebrow lifting slightly. “That’s a bold move for a man who just proved he can’t even share dessert.”

She laughed, but her tone gentled when she caught his eyes again. “Still,” she murmured, “I guess I’ll take that risk. I’ve never really been afraid of a little danger.”

The sound of the city filtered through the window—horns, rain, the low, steady rhythm that never stopped. But here, in this sliver of golden lamplight, it all felt far away. The moment was its own orbit.

“You talk like I wrecked your sense of direction,” she continued, the words half-whisper, half-thought. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we were both supposed to get lost somewhere between the noise and the quiet.”

Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, tracing the path his own had made a second earlier. “And for the record, Mercer,” she said, a grin ghosting at the edge of her voice, “I knew what I was doing the moment I walked into that studio. You just finally caught up.”

When he told her she’d rewritten his songs, she didn’t look away. “Good,” she said simply. “They needed better endings.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it was full. Full of the hum of their shared pulse, the smell of champagne and candle wax, the steady echo of something that felt like truth.

“You said your emotional arc might not keep up with me,” Lennon murmured, tilting her head, “but here you are—still trying.” Her smile softened. “And that’s kind of my favorite part.”

When he kissed her, she met him halfway—steady, sure, tasting laughter and something close to forever.

When he pulled back and threw his final line, she laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re impossible,” she whispered, eyes bright. “But I’ll give you this one.”

Her voice dropped to a murmur as she leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin. “You might have eaten the cake, Mercer…” she said, the smile audible in her tone, “but I’m the one you’ll still be hungry for.”

For a beat, Kai just stared at her—like the room had dimmed everywhere except where she was sitting. That last line landed in his chest with the kind of slow-burn ache he only ever felt onstage, right before a crowd went quiet.

Damn.

His grin faltered into something more dangerous, more reverent. The kind of smile that didn’t belong to cameras or headlines. The kind that was just for her.

“You have no idea what that does to a man,” he said, voice low enough to blur into the city hum. His thumb found the corner of her mouth, tracing the echo of her smile, the faint shimmer of chocolate still there. “You drop lines like that and then expect me to act civilized?”

He leaned closer, his breath catching the faintest hint of her perfume—amber, smoke, something that already felt like memory. Outside, the rain thickened against the glass, city lights bleeding gold through every drop. The sound of it filled the silence between their heartbeats.

“Relentless, huh?” he murmured, brushing his knuckles under her chin. “That’s rich coming from the girl who walked into my studio, wrecked my schedule, rewired my lyrics, and now has me rethinking what I’m supposed to want when the lights go out.”

He didn’t kiss her right away. He just looked at her—like he was trying to memorize this exact frame: the way her robe hung loose at her shoulder, how her laughter still trembled faintly in the air, how the city kept rushing by while they stood still inside it.

Finally, his hand slid up, fingers tracing the side of her neck. “You’re right,” he said, almost to himself. “You are the hunger.”

Then he kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, with the kind of control that only came from surrender. The world outside went on pulsing, neon and restless, but in here, it was all rhythm and breath and the quiet chaos of being seen.

When he pulled back, his voice was rough, the grin returning like the flicker of a lighter in the dark.
“Guess I’m ruined for dessert now,” he said. “Unless it’s you.”

Lennon absorbed his final words, letting the concept of being his ruin—his ultimate, delicious downfall—settle deep within her. The hotel room was a quiet haven from the roaring sound of the city. Propped up against the pillows, surrounded by the crumpled, soft expanse of the hotel sheets, every carefully constructed boundary she had kept was dissolving under the direct, unfiltered heat of his gaze. He had named her the fire, and she moved toward him, affirming forever—a word that now felt like the only truth.

Lennon gave him the slow, knowing smile that was all promise and no defense, a mirror of the dangerous grin he’d worn just moments before. They had both said their piece, rewriting the whole damn script in the space of a single lava cake.

She moved first, a silent promise in the way she leaned closer. Her hands settled on his shoulders, tracing the sharp, tense lines of muscle that held the weight of his world. Then, she caught the thick, white cloud of the hotel robe. It was ridiculously soft, a symbol of temporary luxury that felt utterly misplaced against the raw, permanent look in his eyes. With deliberate, unhurried focus, she pulled the material open. The soft, heavy fabric caught briefly at his hips and then pooled softly on the sheets like melted snow, exposing the strong, carved lines of his chest. Lennon's fingers immediately began tracing the fine script of the tattoos etched across his pectoral muscle, following the familiar contours of the ink like reading a sacred text. Her hands moved purposefully, tracing the sharp ridge of his collarbones, then gliding down his arms to outline the solid curve of his biceps. This was a full inventory, a physical claim on the promises he offered.

The act was a conscious unveiling, a claim that went far beyond the physical. Lennon didn't look up to meet his eyes immediately; she was focused entirely on the topography of his body, finally unguarded, finally just Kai. The rain hammered the windowpane, a violent rush that provided a stunning contrast to the profound quiet between their heartbeats.

She rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the loud, uneven beat of his heart. The rhythm was suddenly hers, keeping time for a new, chaotic song. The weight of his need was palpable, a silent plea, but the weight of her own desire—the crushing need to give him everything—was greater. This was not about speed; this was about the crushing, undeniable commitment of a choice—the choice to stay.

Lifting her head, Lennon looked at him once more, seeing the surrender in his eyes that only intensified her own need to dominate the moment. Her hands slid down, warm against his skin, pushing the discarded robe further away. She shifted forward on the mattress, gliding the short distance until she was kneeling before him. The gold light seemed to concentrate where she was, the curtain of her dark hair falling forward as she focused on the task.

Her movement was deliberate, a devotional ritual she performed in the gold light, understanding that this was not merely physical, but an act of cementing the master chord of their future. She was giving voice to the song he was too overwhelmed to sing. The world outside—the city, the rain, the entire pulsing neon universe—was muted. All that existed was the space she carved out for them, a sanctuary built of breath and intent. She paid reverence to the anchor that tethered him to her. The darkness of her hair pooled against the sheets, a cloak of intimacy shielding them from everything but each other.

Kai's sharp, sudden inhale was the only sound, a cracked sound of pure, unadulterated release. Lennon felt the shift beneath her touch—the wave breaking, the current reaching the shore—and in that moment of profound silence, she knew she was finally, fully, home. The taste of victory was sweeter than any lava cake.

Kai's world had narrowed to the heavy, gold-lit curve of her back and the intense focus of her intent. His hands, which had been frozen on the sheets like useless anchors, flexed into useless fists, utterly devoid of purpose other than to keep him from interfering with the ritual she was performing. Every nerve ending on his body felt raw, exposed, and impossibly, deliciously vulnerable. He wasn't breathing; he was simply existing as the recipient of her singular attention, a pedestal for her devotion.

When that sudden, shocking rush of air escaped his throat, it wasn't a gasp of surprise, but a cracked, honest-to-God sound of pure, unadulterated release. It was the sound of a man who had been holding his breath for a lifetime and was finally given permission to drown. The shift she felt beneath her touch—the wave breaking, the current reaching the shore—was the fundamental tremor of his control giving way. His spine arched involuntarily, his head falling back against the crisp cotton pillows, the movement driven by a force so fundamental it felt like physics.

Kai felt the exquisite friction of his skin against the sheets, the soft drag of the linen a sudden, overwhelming distraction from the heat she was generating. He couldn't speak. Every word had been wiped from the script by the eloquent, crushing pressure of her hands. The only thing that mattered was the weight of her presence, the taste of her victory, and the absolute, paralyzing fact that she had chosen him, right here, right now, as her ruin.

He wanted to tear her away, to flip the script back and take control, to bury himself in the sheets and forget the entire damn world existed. But the truth was, he couldn't move. He was a statue carved in the moment of his own destruction, and she was the sculptor. Her hair, dark as ink, pooled against the white linen, a cloak of intimacy that shielded them from the roaring sound of the rain and the indifferent city outside.

A ragged, heavy groan tore from his chest, an involuntary, honest plea for more—for everything. His hands finally found a destination, tracing the strong, sharp line of her collarbone as she knelt before him, an anchor for his world. He didn't pull, he simply held, his thumbs tracing the frantic pulse point in her neck, a mirror to the frantic, uneven beat of his own heart. The movement was a silent affirmation: You are the one. You are the only one. He finally managed a single, hoarse word, a breathy sound that was barely a whisper against the drumming of the rain: "Lennon."

It was a prayer, a warning, and an absolute surrender. The taste of victory might have been hers, but the glorious downfall was entirely his.

The world had gone impossibly quiet.
Only the rain was left—steady, patient, threading through the crack in the window like a metronome for their breathing.

Lennon stayed where she was for a moment, palms flat against the sheets, the air between them thick with heat and leftover thunder.
Then she moved up toward him, slow, instinctive, until her knees pressed lightly against his legs. She pushed the damp hair from his forehead with shaking fingers.

“Hey,” she whispered. It wasn’t a question, just a sound meant to bring him back.

His eyes opened—still glassy, unfocused—and she felt the smallest tug in her chest. All that control, all that armor, gone. For once he wasn’t the producer or the performer or the man who kept every part of himself measured; he was just Kai. Breathing. Human.

“You’re alright,” she said quietly. “You can breathe now.”

Her thumb skimmed the corner of his mouth before falling to rest against the pulse in his throat. She could feel it, strong again, steady. That was all she needed to know.

Lennon let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and sat back on her heels. The room was still gold from the bedside lamp, still smelling faintly of cocoa and rain. She studied him—his chest rising and falling, his hand resting near the edge of the sheet like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

A small, tired smile touched her lips. “You look like you just ran a marathon,” she murmured. “And won.”

He didn’t answer, only exhaled, the sound half-laugh, half-relief. That was enough.

She reached out again, combing her fingers through his hair until it lay flat, smoothing the tension from his temples. The movement was slow, tender, rhythmic—something more like care than desire now.

For a while they didn’t speak. The city outside hummed, indifferent. In here, everything had narrowed to the sound of the rain and the weight of what they didn’t have to say.

Finally, Lennon leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered, “Don’t move yet. Let the world catch up.”

She stayed there beside him, hand still in his hair, both of them breathing in the soft, golden quiet they’d made together.

Kai stayed perfectly still for a long while—eyes closed, chest rising slow, like even his lungs were reluctant to break the spell.

The air was warm, humming with the quiet aftermath of everything they hadn’t put into words. He felt the rain before he heard it again—steady, soft percussion against the glass, the city murmuring somewhere far below. But up here, it was just her heartbeat echoing faintly against his ribs, her scent stitched into the pillow, the faint ghost of chocolate still on his tongue.

He let out a breath that almost counted as a laugh, low and rough.
“Pretty sure that was the best encore I’ve ever had,” he murmured, voice wrecked but threaded with that signature smirk. His hand found hers, fingers tracing the back of her palm. “Though, for the record, I didn’t realize survival was optional.”

He cracked an eye open, catching the faint curve of her smile in the gold light. It hit him all over again—the way she looked right now, soft and sure and unguarded. The way she’d pulled him back from every edge he didn’t even know he’d been standing on.

“God, you’re trouble,” he said quietly, still half-smiling. “The kind of trouble that makes a man forget he ever wanted to be anywhere else.”

He rolled his head slightly toward her, eyes drifting along the sweep of her shoulder, the way the lamplight painted her skin in honeyed tones. “You should come with a warning label, you know that? ‘May cause complete emotional disarmament.’”

The smirk softened into something truer as he reached up, brushing his thumb along her jaw, memorizing the shape of her there. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, voice gentling, “and brilliant, and—damn it, Rae—you’re everything I didn’t know I was writing toward.”

Silence followed—thick, golden, alive. He drew her a little closer until her hair brushed his chin, until her breath mingled with his again.

“Guess the city can wait,” he whispered finally, half to himself. “I’m kind of busy falling apart over you.”

Lennon laughed softly, the sound breaking through the quiet like sunlight through clouds. “You always did have a way with words,” she murmured, her tone teasing but fond. “Even when you’re half-delirious.”

Her fingertips traced idle patterns against his chest, following the rhythm of his breath. “An encore, though?” she said, glancing up at him with that familiar spark in her eyes. “You make it sound like I should bow.”

The corner of her mouth tilted upward as she studied him. The gold light painted his face in soft edges—his hair a mess, his pulse still visible at his throat, his expression somewhere between dazed and content. He looked real in a way that made her chest tighten.

“You talk too much after the good moments,” she teased, voice barely above a whisper. “You should let them breathe.”

She leaned forward, close enough for her hair to brush his cheek, and caught the edge of his smirk with a soft laugh. “Besides, you’re not fooling anyone with that smooth talk. You look wrecked.”

Her tone softened, the humor settling into something gentler. “Beautiful, but wrecked.”

She brushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “You always look like this after you’ve been lost in something that mattered.” Her thumb traced along his temple. “Like you finally let yourself feel it.”

The rain filled the pause between them, steady and grounding. She smiled faintly and shook her head. “And for the record, I don’t need a warning label,” she said. “You knew exactly what you were doing walking into this.”

Her voice dropped, quiet but certain. “You always do.”

She leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth—unhurried, unshowy—then let her forehead rest against his, the air between them thick with warmth and the scent of rain and chocolate.

“Now shut up,” she whispered with a small grin. “You’ll ruin the moment.”

Kai bit back a laugh—barely. The sound still rumbled in his chest, quiet and low, like it was too content to bother escaping all the way.

He obeyed her, mostly because the look in her eyes made resistance feel like the stupidest idea in the world. But the grin wouldn’t leave—it lingered, lazy and crooked, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a secret.

His voice came out rough, half-a-whisper against her hair. “You give a guy a compliment and a cease-and-desist in the same breath,” he murmured. “You’re terrifying.”

She gave him that look again, the one that told him she meant it when she said shut up, so he lifted both hands in mock surrender and let the quiet stretch.

Still, he couldn’t help himself. His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. “But, for the record,” he breathed, “if being wrecked gets me this view—yeah, I’ll talk less.”

He fell silent then, because she was right—some moments didn’t need words.
The rain did the talking, tapping steady against the glass; her breathing filled the space between the beats of it. He let his fingers drift through her hair, untangling strands just to feel them slide between his knuckles.

Her forehead stayed pressed to his, both of them caught somewhere between laughter and stillness.

Kai smiled—soft, genuine, the kind that barely lifted his lips but reached his eyes. He whispered, almost to himself, “Fine. No words. Just this.”

And then he shut up—finally—letting the silence do what language never could.

Kai’s smile deepened, slow and sleepy, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than amusement—closer to awe.

He hadn’t realized until now just how loud his world always was. Noise followed him everywhere—studios, stages, interviews, his own head. Even silence usually had static in it. But this—her—was different. Quiet didn’t feel empty here; it felt earned.

She shifted just slightly, her hand still resting over his heart, and he swore his pulse stuttered to match her rhythm. He could feel the weight of her breathing, the soft brush of her hair against his jaw, the rain still whispering against the window like applause that didn’t want to fade out.

He let his hand slide from her hair to her back, fingertips tracing lazy circles there. “You know,” he murmured, voice rough from restraint, “I think this might actually be my new favorite sound.”

She made a small, content sound—something between a laugh and a sigh—and Kai felt it reverberate through both of them, warm and grounding. He smiled into her hair. “Not the music, not the city… just you, breathing.”

He meant to stop there, but a quiet chuckle escaped him, his breath brushing against her temple. “Which, by the way, I’m taking as proof that I do occasionally know what I’m doing walking into things.”

Her fingers twitched against his chest, a silent, amused response, and he grinned wider, closing his eyes again. The bed creaked softly when she shifted closer; the lamp’s glow had turned to amber, flickering gently in the corner like it knew not to intrude.

Kai pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible now. “I’ll stay quiet. Just don’t move. Not yet.”

He settled deeper into the pillows, his hand still moving in those slow, unconscious patterns across her back, memorizing every breath she took. The world outside could do whatever it wanted—rain, thunder, traffic, time.

He’d already found his rhythm.

Lennon exhaled a small laugh, the kind that barely made it past her lips but still warmed the air between them. Her fingers, splayed across his chest, felt the echo of it vibrate under her palm. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, voice somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Completely incapable of shutting up, even when you promise you will.”

She didn’t sound mad—not even close. If anything, her tone was laced with that quiet affection she only ever let slip in rare, unguarded moments. Her thumb traced a slow line just above his heart, like she was trying to measure the rhythm he kept talking about. “But…” she added softly, “you’re not wrong. It’s not terrible, hearing you.”

She shifted slightly, tilting her head so her nose brushed his jaw, breathing him in—the clean warmth of his skin, faint traces of rain and something sweet she couldn’t quite name. “For the record,” she whispered, a smile curving at the corner of her mouth, “if this view keeps you quiet, maybe I should’ve figured that out years ago.”

Her lips grazed his jaw in a slow, deliberate kiss. Then another, lower this time, at the curve of his neck. “You talk too much,” she said quietly, “but sometimes it’s the only way I know what you’re thinking.”

She lingered there for a beat, her words softened by the sound of rain against the window. The world outside seemed far away—blurred by the amber light, by the steady rhythm of two people who had run out of reasons to keep their distance.

“I used to think silence was just what happened when people ran out of things to say,” Lennon went on, voice barely above a whisper now, her fingers still tracing lazy shapes across his chest. “But with you… it’s different. It feels like we’re still saying something, even when we’re not.”

She looked up at him then, eyes catching the soft gold of the lamplight. “So maybe you don’t have to stay quiet,” she said. “Just… don’t ruin it with that smug tone.”

The grin that tugged at her lips betrayed her teasing, though, and before he could reply, she pressed another kiss just beneath his collarbone—slower this time, almost reverent. “There,” she murmured against his skin. “That’s my favorite sound too.”

Her hand slid up to the base of his throat, resting there for a moment as if to feel the pulse beneath her touch. Then she settled back down against him, her voice drowsy and sure. “Don’t worry. I’m not moving either.”

The rain went on, steady and soft, while Lennon stayed right where she was—quiet, unhurried, and completely content to let the city fade around them.

Kai let out a quiet hum, the kind that barely counted as a sound—more like a vibration caught halfway between his ribs and a laugh. Her words had hit somewhere deep, the kind of place he usually kept off-limits, but she said them like they belonged there.

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t need to. The only thing that moved was his thumb, tracing an absent-minded rhythm along the curve of her shoulder, matching the slow cadence of the rain.

“Smug tone, huh?” he finally whispered, voice low and gravel-soft. “You make it sound like I’ve got a setting for that.” He paused, grin ghosting across his lips. “Alright—fair. I do. But I’m toning it down for the sake of atmosphere.”

Her hair tickled his jaw when he tilted his head toward her. The lamplight caught the strands, and for a second he just watched them shimmer in that half-gold glow, thinking he’d never seen anything more unreal.

“You know,” he murmured, barely brushing the words against her temple, “for someone who tells me to shut up, you say the kind of things that make it impossible to stay quiet.”

He exhaled slowly, letting his palm flatten over hers on his chest. “This—” he said, almost to himself, “—this is what I mean when I talk too much after the good moments. I’m just trying to hold onto them a little longer.”

His thumb caught her pulse at her wrist, steady and warm. He smiled again—smaller this time, softer. “But you’re right. Sometimes the silence says more.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. The kiss was light, almost absent, like punctuation at the end of a sentence he didn’t need to finish.

“Guess that means we’re still talking,” he murmured. “Even when we’re quiet.”

The rain filled in whatever space was left between them, gentle and endless. Kai tightened his arm around her, a subtle, grounding pull, and let his eyes fall shut.

“Fine,” he whispered after a long beat, tone playful again but worn soft around the edges. “You win. I’ll save the smug tone for morning.”

And he kept his promise—for once—sinking into the hush she’d built around them until the only thing left was breath and heartbeat, two steady sounds keeping time with the rain.

“Terrifying?” she murmured, tone feather-light but edged with amusement. “You say that like you don’t love it.”

Her thumb traced a slow circle over his ribs, a quiet rhythm that matched the rain. She tilted her head slightly, cheek brushing against his skin. “And for the record, your smug tone doesn’t scare me either,” she added, softer now. “It’s cute when you think you can get away with it.”

When he promised to stay quiet, she smiled again—sleepy this time, the kind of smile that slipped out when she wasn’t watching herself. “You won’t,” she whispered. “You’ll think of something to say. You always do.”

She shifted closer, pressing her nose against the warm spot where his collarbone met his shoulder, the scent of him filling her lungs—warm skin, rain, and the faintest trace of wine. “But it’s fine,” she said, voice barely audible. “I don’t mind the noise when it’s you.”

Her hand moved upward, fingertips brushing the side of his throat before settling there, light and certain. The pulse beneath her touch was quick, but steady. “Still,” she murmured, “this part’s nice.”

The rest of her words dissolved into quiet as she let her body fit closer against his, their breathing syncing without effort. “Don’t think,” she whispered against his skin, almost as if the words were for herself. “Just be.”

And she did—eyes closed, heart steady, her whole body softening into the comfort of him, of this moment that didn’t need fixing or defining.

Kai felt her words like gravity — quiet, invisible, undeniable. They sank somewhere low in his chest, settling into the space between heartbeat and breath.

Her warmth was pressed against him, the kind of closeness that rewired everything he thought he knew about peace. He’d spent most of his life chasing noise — applause, chaos, sound — but now, her breath against his skin was louder than all of it.

“Terrifying, adorable, impossible,” he murmured, voice half-buried in her hair. “You’ve got quite the résumé, Rae.”

He smiled — small, genuine, a flicker of humor cutting through the stillness. “And for the record, I wasn’t scared. Just... strategically overwhelmed.”

Her thumb was still moving against his ribs, tracing small, hypnotic circles, and he swore she could feel his heart trying to keep up. He didn’t move, didn’t want to. Instead, his hand drifted to her back, palm warm against her spine, fingertips resting just below the curve of her shoulder blade.

The rain hadn’t stopped; it was softer now, like it had decided to listen in. The city lights outside the window bled through the glass in long, golden streaks, painting her skin in something that looked almost sacred.

Kai exhaled, slow and steady, and tilted his head slightly until his lips brushed the top of hers — not a kiss, just a touch. “You’re dangerous when you’re quiet,” he whispered. “Makes a guy forget all his best material.”

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t push it. He could feel her slipping toward sleep, her breathing lengthening, syncing with his again. So he let himself match her pace — heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath.

“Don’t think,” she’d said.

He tried. For once, he really did.

No set lists. No headlines. No what-ifs. Just this — her weight against him, her hand still resting over his pulse like she was keeping time.

He smiled faintly, eyes half-shut, voice a low rasp meant only for her. “Alright, Rae,” he murmured. “No thinking. Just being.”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he meant it.