Thomas Residence
 

When ideas happen.

It was dumb, but Leighton thought after she and Spencer slept together, he'd finally ask her to be his girlfriend. Two weeks later, it still hadn't happened. However, he did seem more into her than ever before, so that was a plus. He was consistently popping up out of nowhere and sending her sweet text messages. Her mom always told her that men fall in love with sex first, so Leighton used that to her advantage, and it worked for the most part.

Lying on her bed, Leighton held her phone above her face, staring at Spencer’s last few text messages to her, wondering why he had responded yet. Her head was swirling with many different scenarios, but she was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt while also trying not to think about his reputation before her. Things had been going so well. She couldn't imagine him wanting to throw all that away.

Hearing a knock at the door, her mother entered to tell her she was going to bed. She rolled over onto her stomach, looking back at the door. “Okay. Good night, love you too.” Leighton said. She looked back down at her phone, frowning. Tossing her phone aside, Leighton pulled her school books back in front of her and picked up her pencil. She was trying to focus, but she could only think about Spencer and how he hadn't texted her back.

After a while, Leighton gave up on her schoolwork and shut her books. She started to doodle Spencer’s name in a heart on the front of her math book cover. Looking at it for a moment, she realized if Spencer were to see it before he asked her to be his girlfriend, she’d be embarrassed. As she was about to scribble it out, erase it, do something, Leighton heard something outside her bedroom window. What the actual fuck? Getting out of bed, she went to the window to inspect. Before she knew it, her window slid open, and Spencer climbed through, not at all gracefully. She bent down and grabbed him by one of his arms, trying to help him to his feet. “What are you doing here? Do you want my mom to kill us both?” She questioned, her eyes darting between him and her bedroom door.

Spencer answered while he looked around her bedroom. He’d only seen it briefly from the hallway when he came over for dinner once. “You missed me?” She looked over her shoulder as she hurried towards her door and locked it just in case her mother heard whispers and wanted to investigate. It would give Leighton time to hide Spencer. “We could’ve FaceTimed?” Or you could've just answered your text messages! Leighton wanted to scream at him, but she chose to take a different route. He was here. He wasn't with someone else. He was in her bedroom.

It hadn't occurred to her that she was wearing the shirt he gave her to wear home once until he commented. Leighton glanced down. She was only in his t-shirt and underwear. Leighton looked back at him with a smile, “Oh well, it’s mine now,” Leighton shrugged and giggled. Happily moving towards him, her arms latched around his neck before her lips found his. After greeting him properly, she pulled back, gazing into his eyes, “Hi.” He still got to her every time.

In his mind, they were already a couple despite him not officially asking her out. It wasn't until Jess had talked to him that he realized that Leighton might not have seen things the same way. There were many reasons Spencer preferred to be a free agent, and having to verbalize his feelings and shit was definitely one of them. Still, Leighton was worth it and because of that, he had to at least try to be better. So, that was what lead him to stumbling in through her bedroom window late at night.

"No, not particularly," he answered facetiously asked if he wanted her mother to kill them. "I didn't realize how hard that would be," he told her as she helped him back to his feet. "I'm here because I missed you." Spencer looked around her room, taking in all the little details. His room was usually a mess and minus a few posters that he'd hung up with tape and thumbtacks, he hadn't put nearly the effort that she had into making his room look good. His attention turned back to the real reason he was here though, and he finally noticed a familiar shirt hugging her curves. "Is that mine?" he asked, wondering if she realized how incredibly hot that she looked. There was something irresistible about seeing a girl wear your clothes, he'd happily let her keep it.

His arms instinctively wrapped around her waist as she moved in close to him. The original purpose of his visit was suddenly foggy as she kissed him and suddenly all his teenage mind could think about was tearing that shirt off of her. "Hey," he replied with a hushed tone and smile. Unable to fight his urges, he leaned in to kiss her more, with tongue this time, one of his hands making its way to her ass and giving it a firm squeeze. Spencer didn't know how long they stood their making out for but finally he pulled back and smiled down at her again. "I actually came over here for another reason." he admitted.

Holding onto her forearms, he gently pulled her arms off his shoulders before taking one of her hands in his and leading her over to the bed to sit down. Pretending not to notice as she nervously flipped one of her textbooks over behind them, Spencer tried to figure out how to go about this. "I mean, I did miss you but, uh, what I really wanted to know... I was wondering, do you want to be my girlfriend?" 'Real smooth, Romeo.'

Leighton giggled when Spencer squeezed her butt. His hand stayed there until he stopped kissing her and announced he was there for another reason. Spencer moved the two of them over to the bed, where she nervously flipped her book over and pushed it away from them, hoping he hadn't noticed. Leighton hadn't expected what Spencer asked next.

Spencer Walker just climbed through my fucking bedroom window to ask me to be his girlfriend? What in the fucking Black Mirror? For a moment, Leighton was quiet as she dealt with her inner dialogue while still trying to process that everything she'd wished for was finally coming true. Once realizing that she’d been silent longer than she intended, she looked over at him, “Yes,” Leighton finally answered, nodding her head. “Yes. Always fucking yes,” she grinned uncontrollably. Leighton leaned in and gave him another kiss, pulling away from his lips, “It took you fucking long enough, you dingbat!” She teased and kissed him deeply. Her hand moved to the side of her face as they continued.

She didn't know how he did it, but time always seemed to stand still when they were together. Leighton understood why the teenage girls were always fawning over him. He was handsome and mysterious and could make you feel like the only girl in the world. Now he was finally hers and only hers. Leighton broke the kiss briefly to push her school books out of the way and move back against her pillows, with Spencer following. It probably wasn't the best idea she’s had lately with her mother in the other room, but she couldn't help it. He always tasted so good.

Leighton broke the kiss again after Spencer settled between her legs. She pushed some of the strands back that had fallen in his face, smiling and admiring him. “You make me so happy,” she admitted softly. “Happier than I've been in a long time.”

Spencer was overjoyed when she said yes, not that he showed it externally. A smile on his face and a sparkle in his eye was about the happiest emotional response he seemed capable of lately. Even with everything going right, he felt this overhanging sense of dread and despair. Not just in this moment either but in all aspects of his life.

Eagerly joining her on the bed as they made out some, he really hoped that Violet wasn't the bed check type but he honestly wouldn't it past her. Leighton knew her mom better than he did though so until she pulled away, he had no intentions of stopping. His eyes remained closed and lips slightly puckered in hopes that she would change her mind and continue kissing. Instead she spoke so he opened his eyes and smiled back.

"You make me happy too." It felt like a lie, only because hardly anything made him truly happy anymore. She was the only thing is his life that brought him close to that feeling of 'happiness'. "I like you more than I've ever liked a girl before." Not really wanting to talk about his feelings any loger, he leaned down and distracted her with more kissing.

Spencer's erection grew as their tongues swirled around each other and her hand gripped onto his hair. 'Fuck, I don't want her thinking I just came here for sex.' Spencer still didn't even know if doing anything of that nature was even on the table with her mom so close by. Maybe she was a wash sleeping pills down with wine deep sleeper kind of mom. Despite her being his girlfriend's mom and dad's girlfriend's best friend, Spencer really didn't know a whole lot about the woman. Just random rumors here and there that came from their classmates. Even Sam didn't know a whole lot of hard facts about her and Leighton didn't exactly like talking about her much either.

Spencer finally pulled back from the kiss and stared down at her, all the hair that she'd fixed falling right back down into his face again. "Hi."

“Yeah?” Leighton’s eyes lit up when Spencer talked about his feelings as she played with the collar of his t-shirt. Her eyes instinctively closed when Spencer started to kiss her again, quickly getting caught up in the moment again.

Leighton had turned down Spencer for months. There was no way she was telling him to stop. She'd go as far as he wanted to. Not to mention, Leighton thought if she kept him satisfied enough, he wouldn’t want to go exploring. She knew it shouldn’t have to be that way, but it was the only thing she could think of to help her sleep better at night. She didn’t feel pressured, and she enjoyed every touch he placed on her body. Leighton craved him so much more than she’d like to admit.

“Hi.” She moved one of her hands from the back of Spencer's head and cupped his face, kissing him a few more times before slipping from underneath him and getting out of bed. She doubled checked her bedroom door and flicked off her light before returning to the side of the bed. She removed the books that cluttered her bed and sat them on the floor carefully, trying not to make any concerning noises. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she bent over.

Leighton abandoned her clothes while Spencer watched before joining him back in bed. She was going to make sure her boyfriend left happy. “She’s gone to bed. It’s fine,” Leighton told him, watching his hesitation. “You just gotta be quiet. Okay?” Leighton tried to reassure Spencer before her lips found his again.

Spencer fell onto his back once she'd excused herself from under him, his hands propping his head up as he watched her move. It took him a moment to adjust to the light change, but he was definitely able to see her remove what little clothing she had on. This was exactly what he'd wanted but now that it was happening, he felt oddly nervous. Usually, he wouldn't give a damn about being caught by parents, but this was different. They were officially a couple now and that meant that he had to impress her mom if he wanted to stand a chance at this lasting. That being said, he'd managed to get his pants off by the time she'd started kissing him.

He wasn't about to turn her down either because that honestly seemed worse than getting caught by Violet. Spencer kissed her back, one of his hands finding its way to her breasts, making sure to give both of them attention before moving down her curves to her outer thigh. From there his hand moved in between her thighs and worked its way back up. Spencer stroked her clit with his pointer and middle finger before sliding them down and inside of her once she was wet enough. Finally pulling back from the kisses, he left his two fingers in her while he spoke, "I can stay quiet, question is, can you?"

Giving her a few more kisses on her lips as he moved his fingers around, feeling her walls. His thumb began to work on her clit again as he moved his kisses down her body. Once he'd reached her boob, he withdrew his fingers from her as he tugged on her nipple gently with his teeth. Moving himself down and off the bottom of the bed, he stripped off his boxers and shirt before grabbing her by the ankles and pulling her ass closer to the edge of the bed. Kneeling down and placing her legs over his shoulders, Spencer kissed his way down to her thighs. His fingers found their way inside of her again as his tongue flicked around her clit, waiting to see how well she could contain her moans as he satisfied her.

If Leighton knew anything about Violet, it was that her mother already had her three glasses of wine and nightly joint. She was most likely already tucked away, sleeping, and was the last person on Leighton’s mind.

Leighton made a soft noise when Spencer unexpectedly pulled her down to the edge of the bed—covering her mouth with her hand, hoping to silence any more noises. She quickly became nervous, watching as his silhouette kneeled and moved her legs over his shoulders. All of this was undeniably hot, turning her on more than she already was. Usually, Leighton didn’t like anyone's head between her legs. It caused unwanted flashbacks, but surprisingly tonight, it had been easier to keep the negative thoughts away. The only thing she had on her mind right now was Spencer.

Leighton propped herself up on her elbows, wanting to watch him as he ate her out. However, it wasn’t long before she fell back against the bed, feeling his fingers pressing against her walls and his tongue moving against her clit. It was almost impossible not to make any noises, and Leighton had been doing well until Spencer hit a particular spot inside her, causing her back to arch and her body to twitch. “Oooh, holy shit,” she moaned, trying to keep her reaction low. One of her hands moved to the back of his head while the other rested on one of her breasts, occasionally playing with her nipple.

As Spencer continued for a bit longer, the pressure between her legs built up more, making it even harder for Leighton to stay quiet. Biting her lip and grabbing at the sheets, “It’s coming,” she informed him. Spencer’s licking and fingering became more aggressive, causing her orgasm to come sooner than Leighton anticipated. When it finally hit, her back arched again, and she let out a long moan. It was louder than she wanted but still low enough that she didn’t think her mother heard.

Still feeling her walls contracting, Leighton stared at the ceiling, trying to process everything that just happened. Leighton had never experienced an orgasm of great magnitude. It was somewhat overwhelming. Spencer removed her legs from his shoulder, and she sat up, meeting him face-to-face before he could go anywhere. After her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and with some help from the moonlight, Leighton could see enough to wipe some of her juice off his face with her hand. She still couldn’t believe this was real. It would take a bit for reality to set in for her.

“It’s your turn,” Leighton whispered as she moved back, making room for Spencer on the bed. The thought of giving him a blowjob had crossed her mind, but honestly, she didn’t think she was ready for that. Leighton hoped Spencer hadn’t been looking forward to that because he would surely be disappointed.

[fade to black: sexy time]

Spencer climbed off of her and laid on his back on the bed next to her while he caught his breath. Once he had, he carefully removed the condom and looked around for a trash bin. When he had spotted it with the help of her guidance, he got up to throw it away, grabbing his boxers along the way and putting them on before crawling back into the bed next to her. Wrapping his arm around her as she cuddled into his chest, Spencer placed a kiss on her head and played with her hair while they lay there.

"I want you to know that I really did come here to ask you to be my girlfriend and because I missed you, not because I was horny. Although, I do love doing that with you, I guess I just wanted you to know that." Spencer admitted. He didn't know how to make pillow talk, usually he simply pretended to be asleep or left after sleeping with girls, but he figured he at least had to try with Leighton. She deserved the aftercare. Trouble was he didn't know what to say so he ended up spewing out whatever crossed his mind and hoped it would get her to fill the silence. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

"And now that you're my girlfriend, I want to take you on a proper date," Spencer paused and analyzed how that might sound. "Shit, that didn't come out how I wanted it to. What I meant to say is, would you like to go on a proper date?" This wasn't supposed to be about what he wanted; this was him trying to court her as best he could. His dad didn't treat his women badly, but he wasn't actually setting the same examples that Jess' dad was. His father had taught him everything he needed to know about getting the ladies, keeping and winning over the ladies he had to learn on his own.

When Spencer got out of bed to dispose of the condom, Leighton took it upon herself to rearrange her covers, covering them both up when he returned. If she enjoyed anything more than sex with Spencer, it was cuddling with Spencer.

Even if it was hard to see him with the lack of light, Leighton still lifted her head to look at him when he started talking about why he came over. “I didn’t think that,” Leighton reassured. “If anything, I initiated because I wanted to, and I did it because I enjoy sex with you too.” Okay, Leighton may have had an alternative motive for why she put out again, but she wouldn’t tell him that. “I appreciate you saying that, though, because it does mean a lot to hear.” Even though Leighton knew Spencer’s track record, he hadn’t done anything to break her trust. Yet. That was the keyword. She pushed the doubts as far down as possible, tied them up in a box, and tucked them away in her mind. Leighton didn’t want her anxiousness to cause them to break up if she had no reason to worry.

Leighton placed her hand on his chest before resting her chin on top. “Look, it’s not like I was a virgin when we had sex the first time. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to think I was easy like Mindy or Jessica or whoever else you’ve had sex with. If you wanted me, I wanted you to work for it and show me you were serious,” Leighton explained. “I’ve been the girl to put out, and when it’s all said and done, I just felt used and gross. I didn’t even know if I had a chance with you, but, like, I didn’t want to risk you making me feel that way about myself or thinking you could turn me into another notch on your belt.” Leighton didn’t like opening up because opening up meant the things she wanted to keep hidden had a chance of coming out. “The way you make me feel in general is just mind-boggling, but the way you make me feel after sex is on another level, baby,” Leighton wasn’t going to backtrack this time because he was now her boyfriend. “You make me feel wanted and sexy. I’ve never had someone make me feel that way.”

Leighton smiled when Spencer quickly corrected himself, wondering if he could see. “It’s okay. I know what you meant,” she told him. “The Valentine’s Day dance counts as a date, though. And if I’m being honest, it was a damn good one too.” Leighton still reminisced about the dance. It was one of the best nights she had ever had. “But yes, another date sounds wonderful,” she gushed. “Have any ideas, or did you need help brainstorming?”

“I wanted to say, too, that you don’t have to be scared of saying something wrong. I know this is new for you. You’re trying, and that’s all that matters to me,” Leighton told him, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against his lips before moving back to her previous position on his chest. “You’re a good guy, Spence. We wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.” Leighton had always seen Spencer’s potential. It’s why she fell for him in the first place.

When Leighton moved her head, he played pushed some of her hair out of the way before propping his head up with his hand so he could see he better. It was nice knowing that she enjoyed the sex as well but he wanted to make sure that they had more than just that going for them. He never wanted to leave her feeling used and gross afterwards. "You are definitely sexy and I want you essentially all the time." He assured her. Sex with her was definitely the best he'd ever had and as afraid as he was to admit it fully, it was because of the feelings he had for her.

Spencer was finally coming back down from his own cloud nine but being snuggled up next to her wasn't exactly helping him. He could imagine doing this every night, forever. Something told him, their parents wouldn't exactly be too thrilled about that however. Her watched her, a smile tugging at his lips as he imagined what the future held for them.

"Valentine's was like a group date. It was special and amazing. Best v-day I've ever had." Spencer didn't even buy into that stupid holiday and somehow Leighton had managed to make it one of his favorites. "I have some ideas but I'm also open to suggestions." He always had Jess to help but he also wasn't about to refuse insider knowledge on how to keep the girl of his dreams. "I do know I want it to be the two of us, no distractions, just us." No friends with no filters, no jealous ex conquests, no nosy parents, just a boy and a girl falling in love.

Spencer exhaled through his nose when she mentioned him being a good guy. He certainly didn't feel like a good guy, or else he wouldn't have a long list of girls who hated him. He was trying with Leighton but what if it wasn't enough? What if he was just another shitty dude? He wanted to change but he didn't know how, it all felt easier said than done. "Yeah, thanks." Spencer smiled at her, trying his best to hide the sadness from his eyes. "You, uh, wanna smoke?" Self medicating and a best friend with an in meant, Spencer was always prepared when the feelings got to be too much.

Leighton couldn’t stop herself from smiling when Spencer complimented her and told her how he always wanted her. It still didn’t make sense how someone like Spencer was into Leighton. But here they were, and he seemed just as into her as she was into him.

“I don’t like movie dates. It’s a lazy excuse for a date,” Leighton told him. “I also feel like guys only take girls to the movies for two reasons. One, they don’t want to talk to you, and two, they wanna make out with you and get a handful,” she finished and shrugged. “Other than that, I’d be down for whatever.”

Leighton could hear the tone in Spencer’s voice shift and wasn’t sure why. She knew he struggled and hoped one day he’d be comfortable enough to talk to her about things, but Leighton wasn’t going to hold her breath.

“Yes. Hang on, though.” Pushing the covers off, Leighton reached for her clothes before getting out of bed and putting them on. It wasn’t the first time she’d smoked in her room, so she had a routine. Instead of using the overhead light, Leighton turned the lamp on on her dresser, which was a bit dim. She wanted to keep the mood chill. Leighton grabbed the towel off the back of her door and placed it on the floor in front of it, hoping it’d stop any smoke from seeping into the hallway. Leighton lit a few candles she had around the room before walking over and opening the window by the side of the bed. She turned, facing Spencer, giving him a quick peck on the lips before reaching for the pillows and her furry blanket from her side of the bed. Leighton walked over to the window Spencer had managed to get through and dropped everything on the floor. She rearranged it, so they had someplace comfy to sit.

Leighton finally joined Spencer on the floor with a cup previously used as an ashtray. She passed it over to him after getting situated and crossing her legs into a pretzel style. “Other than when you’re sleeping, how many hours have you gone without smoking?” She asked curiously with a chuckle, her head resting against the wall as she watched him prepare the joint. It didn’t matter what he was doing; Spencer was always attractive. Like, she understood because his dad was hot too, but damn.

She was aware of his spurts of sadness. Not only could she see it with her own eyes, but Sam also told her a little bit. Did she feel bad for him? Yes, but Leighton wasn’t going to pity him. She knew if the shoe were on the other foot, she wouldn’t want the pity. It is one of the reasons why Leighton didn’t talk about her past. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her. When Leighton was sure he no longer needed his hands, she hugged onto his arm, resting her cheek against it, watching as he finally lit the joint. “You know, making stupid decisions doesn’t necessarily make you a bad person,” Leighton pointed out casually as she reached for the joint while keeping her other arm around his. She took a hit, holding it in, before returning it to him. After releasing the smoke, she looked at him, “I just want you to know you’re not alone, Spence, and I’m here if you need me,” she said before kissing his cheek and pulling back.

"No movie dates. Got it." Spencer replied knowing that she totally wasn't wrong. He went to movie with Jess when he actually wanted to see the movie, he took dates to the movies when he wanted some quiet time in the dark. Which was most dates honestly because he hadn't been on many, and the ones he had had were for the girls who required at least minimal effort before putting out.

Spencer admired her as she set up the perfect little smoke spot for them. He felt so lazy, opening the window or using a toilet paper roll with some dryer sheets was about all the extra effort he ever put into it. Then again, his dad wasn't exactly strict when it came to that kind of stuff. Grabbing a lighter, papers, and a small bag of weed from his pants, he made himself comfortable as he waited for her to join him. He paused to look up as he tilted his head and thought about the answer to her question. "I've gone a day or two before," he chuckled before going back to what he was doing. Grabbing a nearby textbook, he placed a paper down on it and began sprinkling weed bits along it before carefully picking it up and rolling it. Intentionally smirking over at her as he licked and sealed it.

Scooting the book out of the way, he stretched his legs out forward and relaxed some more. Placing the joint between his lips, he looked down at her and smiled as she latched onto his arm. Using his free arm, he lit the joint before tossing the lighter onto the ground next to them. Spencer tried to continue to keep his aloof demeanor but what she was saying, tugged at something inside of him. Spencer exhaled the smoke and cleared his throat before passing the joint back to her again. "Thanks Leighton." was all he could bring himself to say. He was afraid of opening up too much or else his already watery eyes might open the floodgates as well and he was convinced that girl's found guys crying unattractive. He wasn't ready to be that vulnerable with her yet. Hell, he sometimes struggled opening up to Jess and he viewed him like a brother.

Spencer's eyes wandered the surrounding area, trying once again to stop the sad thoughts from seeping in. His eyes landed on the textbook once more, this time really looking at it when he caught his name on it, with a heart around it. A smile spread on his face as he leaned forward to grab it. "What's this?" he teased playfully. He honestly found it rather cute, everything she did was either cute or sexy to him. He felt 'claimed' and for once he didn't mind it; it didn't make him feel trapped but instead, he was proud to be hers.

When he responded, Leighton didn’t know what to say after that. Spencer was like an onion. He had layers and made it almost impossible for her to peel any of them back. “Of course,” she softly sighed and turned away slightly, taking the joint from him. She took a few hits, coughing a little, before returning it to him. Leighton didn't know why she wanted him to open up to her so badly. Maybe it was because she knew if he did, what they had would be different than what he had with the girls before her. It was hypothetical wanting him to open up, though. She hadn’t even told him about her trauma. If I tell him, he might be comfortable talking about his. Her thoughts were quickly interrupted when Spencer started to ask about her textbook.

Leighton’s eyes widened as he looked down at her doodles. “I… um…” she sighed, unsure what to say. “I was thinking about you, and it just happened,” she answered, reaching for it. “I was going to erase it or scribble it out before you saw it, but then you decided to climb through my window,” Leighton added with a smile and shrugged, sitting it on the other side of her. “I hope you’re not freaked out by it. I just really like you, that’s all.” The fact he asked her to be his girlfriend was a big deal, and she didn’t want something like this to scare him off. Sometimes she didn’t want him to know how much she adored him because she didn’t know how he’d respond. For all she knew, he’d run for the hills, and she’d be left heartbroken. Leighton couldn’t even think about what she’d do if something were to go sour between them. She’d grown accustomed to the way things had been.

“Can I tell you something without completely ruining the mood? Well, no, it’s going to ruin the mood, but I think you should know,” Leighton said, sitting up and turning her body in his direction, tucking her feet underneath her. She nervously ran her hand through her hair and wanted to make eye contact with him, but it seemed impossible. Leighton didn’t know how to start the conversation, and honestly, she already felt like she needed to vomit. “My mom doesn’t always make the best choices,” she paused, looking down at her hands. “Especially when it came to the men she married,” Leighton said, her voice cracking before looking back at him. “My mom also let many random people watch me as a kid when she had to work.” Leighton wondered if Spencer had started to put the pieces together or not. She began to snap the hair tie around her wrist against her skin as she felt overwhelmed. It wasn’t there for that purpose, but it worked for the moment. “My mom’s last husband… he raped me most of their marriage, and then there were a few before that, but like, not as extreme. My mom found out, freaked the fuck out, and moved us here. We have a theme and move every time she breaks up with someone. I’ve lived in,” she started to count how many times they moved. “Twelve… thirteen places, if you include Oahu.” The look on his face wasn’t a surprise. He looked horrified. “And I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” she could feel a knot in her throat. Leighton didn’t want to cry, but she was sure she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. “Or not like me because of it.”

Leighton took the joint back from Spencer, taking a bigger hit than usual. She turned back around, resting against the wall, waiting for her boyfriend to become her ex-boyfriend because what guy would want to hear all that? “I’d understand if you want to leave,” Leighton said as she wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared straight ahead.

Spencer teasingly pulled the textbook away when she went to reach for it, before finally handing it over to her. "I'm not freaked out. It's cute. Maybe, don't erase it? Keep it." Spencer wasn't sure why he liked the idea so much but something about knowing everyone would see his name on her book. Unless they wanted to break bro code, dudes were going to see that and know better than to try messing with her. Spencer hoped she didn't want him doing the same though, half the time he ended up using his covers to make his own joint filters. He didn't want her to have to see the state of them and think he didn't care about her and have his own 'love fern' situation on his hands.

Nothing could have prepared Spencer for what she told him next. Holding the joint to his lips, he nervously side eyed her while he waited to hear exactly what it was that she needed to tell him. His eyes slowly widening in horror with each word that fell from her mouth. This had changed his opinion about her mother more than it had his opinion of Leighton. Yes, he felt more sympathy and suddenly wanted to be gentler with her, but her mom? He kind felt like he might hate her for letting that happen to her daughter. He certainly no longer gave a fuck what she thought of him because he didn't think very highly of her right now.

Spencer only snapped back into when she started to sound like she was about to cry and took the joint from him. "Shit... I'm sorry." Staring at her for a moment before scooting closer and working his arm between her and the wall so he could wrap it around her. Placing his thumb and pointer on her chin, he softly turned her face to look at him before helping her wipe away some more of the tears. "Listen, Leia. None of that should have ever happened to you. I'm sorry that it did, but I'm not going anywhere. Only way you're getting rid of me is if you kick me out." Giving her a kiss on her forehead, he leaned back into the wall again but kept his arm around her.

"I, uh, so I... fuck. I'm not good at this. Opening up. But like..." Spencer sighed and cleared his throat, trying to figure out how he wanted to word what he was going to say. "First time, I had sex, I was like eleven or twelve. I can't exactly remember but young enough that my dad still thought I needed a babysitter while he went drinking. Anyway, it started out as her teaching me how to kiss and one thing led to another and, I didn't really want to do it... but like I didn't exactly say no either. Plus, it felt good so maybe I just didn't realize I wanted it yet, ya know?" Spencer finally looked over at her and was met with a face probably similar to the one he just gave her. "What? Did I fuck up? Should I not have told you that? I was just trying to let you know that I kinda, sorta, maybe can relate. I'm an idiot. Probably just sounds like I'm trying to brag or something."

“Okay, fine. I won’t erase it,” Leighton responded with a smile.

She was surprised by how well Spencer was processing what she told him. She wasn’t expecting him to comfort her the way he did. It was nice, though. She wiped one side of her cheek while he wiped the other. “I don’t plan on kicking you out, ever,” Leighton said, feeling relief rush over her.

Leighton opened up about her sexual abuse because she thought it’d help him open up, too, and it did. She hadn’t expected his trauma to mirror hers, which caught her off guard. When he started backtracking, Leighton shook her head. “No, no, no,” she began and shifted under his arm, turning her body towards him. “I want you to tell me these things. As awful as they are. I want to know everything about you, babe, the good and the bad,” she admitted, tucking some of his hair behind his ear. “Sometimes getting you to open up is like pulling teeth, but I don’t want to pry. That’s why when you shut down or change the topic, I let you,” she admitted. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” finally acknowledging his abuse. “She did take advantage of you, and that’s awful,” she frowned. If Leighton had to guess, her abuse started before she was ten, but she doesn’t remember anything before the age of twelve because she suppressed all of it.

“I mean it when I tell you you’re not alone. You don’t have to tell me everything, and I don’t expect you to, but when you want to talk to someone about what’s going on in that handsome head of yours,” she said, leaning forward and reaching out to turn his head towards her, “I hope I’m the one you choose to talk to,” Leighton finished and pulled her hand back. “I just don’t want you to hide from me or think I’m going to judge you because I’m not.”

Leighton moved his arm from around her and interlocked their fingers together, resting their hands in her lap. She traced over the back of his hand with her other. “Oh, quick question, who’s Leia?” She raised an eyebrow. It could’ve been a nickname. Leighton just never heard him use it before.

Spencer's dad hadn't given him the best example of how to deal with his problems. Usually, when they had issues, they'd let their tempers rise and scream or hide behind slammed doors, but they rarely ever sat down and talked about things. His dad wasn't a terrible dude, but he had a father who did the same things with him, and the cycle kept repeating. If it hadn't been for his mother, Spencer probably would have been worse off than he was. Granted, she usually had to drag it out of him too, but she was persistent; she ensured he knew it was okay to open up. He was thankful for that because, without her "nagging", he and Leighton most likely wouldn't stand a chance. His father taught him how to reel in all the girls, while his mother taught him to catch and keep the best ones. Leighton was one of the best, and she craved that deep connection.

His eyes sunk to the floor when she openly confirmed his suspicions that he had been taken advantage of. Spencer tried to hide the sadness behind his eyes when she turned his head to look at her. He hadn't told many people about that, but when the few times he had, they usually reacted much differently. They'd also been teenage boys. Spencer didn't know if it was a reaction to spilling more information about himself than he was used to but found he struggled to speak now. Instead, he nodded and flashed a sincere, albeit small, smile. Before he had a chance to think of anything to say, his thoughts were interrupted by her questioning who Leia was.

'Shit!'

It was a nickname he'd come up with and had been calling her for a while, but somehow, he'd forgotten to fill her in on this. "Yeah..." he started, his eyes wide as he tried to figure out how to say the next part without sounding lame. There was no way around it without lying, and he didn't want to do that, so he opted for the honest, nerdy truth. "Well, you've seen Star Wars, right? Not the newer ones, the originals..." He tilted his head forward to gauge the reaction on her face before continuing. "Well... this is embarrassing, but, like, you're the Leia to my Han. So, yeah, you. You're Leia." Spencer rolled his eyes at himself as he heard it aloud, knowing there was no way he could tell her the rest of it yet. They'd probably have to be married before he was ready to admit to the sex dream he had about her in those exact roles.

Leighton was a bit surprised, but she loved it. No boy had ever given her a nickname. Little did Spencer know things like that made Leighton fall for him more than she already had. Finally, he was letting his guard down, even if it was only a little at a time. It was still happening. "No, stop," she placed her hand on his forearm to comfort him. "It's cute and super sweet. I'm proud to be your Leia." Leighton didn't know much about Star Wars, but she knew enough and knew Leia and Han were iconic. “I'm proud to be your girlfriend, Spence,” Leighton assured him with a smile. She hoped he was as serious about her as she was about him. Leighton knew their relationship was premature, but she already fell in love with him before he showed interest in her. Her feelings for Spencer had only intensified since they'd gotten together. Leighton knew this one would hurt when they finally came crashing down from Cloud 9.

Leighton was scared Spencer would shut down, and she didn't want him to. They were making progress. "You know what is embarrassing, though," Leighton began, moving back against the wall again, "Thinking you could never like me." Leighton looked over at him briefly, "Well, it's true," she argued, catching his expression. "I'm me and you're, well, you're you... have you seen you?" Leighton teased, nudging him in his side. "I watched you go through more than a dozen girls since I've been here, and none of them looked like me," Leighton said, shrugging. "I, however, no longer have that insecurity," she admitted and slipped her hand into his. "I'm your Leia and they're not." It was easy to say that because Spencer hadn't given her any reason to think otherwise. The thought, of course, always lingered in the back of her mind.

“I vote you climb through my window more often,” Leighton admitted with a grin. “Especially if we get to have more moments like this,” she added, leaning over and kissing him softly. “I also vote that you sleep over. I want more cuddles,” she said against his lips, kissing him again. Finally, Leighton pulled away and got on her feet. She leaned over him to shut the window before stepping back and extending her hand. Before climbing into bed, Leighton put her hair up in a secure bun on the top of her head. She wanted to make sure her hair didn't smother Spencer in the middle of the night. Once in bed, she pulled the covers up and turned to face him. “Despite the topics of conversation, tonight was pretty perfect.” Leighton was a relatively simple girl. She didn't need something fancy or extravagant to happen to think it was a special moment.

Spencer’s hands were shaking so bad he almost dropped the goddamn gutter pipe.

His hoodie clung to him, damp with sweat even though the night air was sharp against his skin, too many sounds crowding the edges of his brain—
a car door slamming down the street, a dog barking three houses over, the hum of a streetlight flickering above him.

Too loud.
Too much.
Too fast.

His chest tightened, shallow and frantic, like his ribs were shrinking around his lungs.

Breathe.
He tried.
Failed.

The world tilted sideways and inside out, breath scraping ragged against his throat as his fingers scrambled for purchase against the rough brick.
Everything felt wrong—
his hands, his heart, his skin.

Too fast.
Too loud.
Too much.

He didn’t think.
Didn’t plan.

He just climbed.

Fumbled over the ledge like a goddamn ghost, sneakers scraping against the windowsill as he hauled himself inside, breathing like he’d just outrun something that wasn’t finished chasing him yet.

He landed hard—knees hitting the carpet with a muted thud—but he didn’t care.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there.

On the floor.
In the dark.
Back pressed against the side of her bed like if he made himself small enough, the panic wouldn’t find him here.

For a second, the room spun—walls and ceiling tipping sideways—but then—

then he saw her.

Leighton.

Curled under her blankets, breathing steady and slow, moonlight catching the edges of her hair, casting soft shadows across her sleeping face.

And something cracked inside Spencer that had nothing to do with fear this time.

He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth like he could shove the noise back down, the panic clawing up the back of his throat.

It was still there.
Still buzzing under his skin like electricity with nowhere to go.

But it didn’t feel as sharp now.

Didn’t feel like it was going to tear him apart molecule by molecule anymore.

Because he was here.
Because she was here.

Spencer curled his arms around his knees, dragging them tight against his chest, and dropped his forehead down to rest on them.
Breathing.
Trying.

The chaos outside—the world, the noise, the shit he couldn’t shut off in his head—it couldn’t follow him all the way in here.

Not when she was wrapped up in sleep two feet away,
not when her breathing painted the whole room in something steady,
something soft,
something safe.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Inhaled through his nose.
Exhaled slow through his mouth.

Her presence anchored him better than anything else ever had.
Better than therapy.
Better than meds he never took.
Better than running himself into the ground until his lungs gave out.

He stayed there on the floor, tucked into himself, letting her breathing set the rhythm for his own.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Not fixed.
Not healed.

But not drowning either.

Not anymore.

Yes, absolutely —
that’s such a beautiful choice because it keeps the moment raw, quiet, and full of weight without him even meaning to wake her.

Spencer stayed there, forehead pressed to his knees, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

The world still felt like it was vibrating underneath him, the panic not gone, just muted—like a storm had moved offshore but left the waves still crashing inside his ribs.

He barely registered the soft creak of the floorboards behind him.

Barely heard the rustle of covers shifting.

Too wrapped up in trying to stay still, trying not to ruin the fragile quiet that was keeping him stitched together.

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes—slow, heavy, raw—that he saw her.

Leighton.

Awake.

Blinking sleepily down at him, her cheek still creased from the pillow, hair messy around her face, brows furrowed in that soft, worried way she always got when she didn’t know where to put the hurt she couldn’t fix.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t gasp or sit up or ask a thousand questions like anyone else might have.

She just looked at him.

Wide-eyed and quiet.
Still half-wrapped in blankets, still tucked into her bed, but looking right at him.

Spencer blinked, heart slamming hard against his ribs—part panic, part something way worse.

She’s awake.

She sees you like this.

For a second—
a stupid, brutal second—
he thought about bolting.
Thought about scrambling back out the window like he hadn’t just shown up wrecked and desperate at her feet.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because the way she was looking at him—
it wasn’t judgment.
It wasn’t pity.

It was something quieter.
Something softer.

Something like stay.

Spencer swallowed hard, dragging one trembling hand out from under the crook of his knees just to give himself something to do, something to anchor him to the ground while she kept staring at him like he was still something whole.

And then—

so slow he barely realized he was doing it—
he lifted his head a little higher.

Met her eyes properly.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t apologize.

Just let her see him.

Every shattered, shaking, storm-ridden inch of him.

And when she shifted—when she reached one hand out from under the blanket, slow and careful, palm open toward him—

Spencer thought maybe, just maybe, breathing didn’t have to be a fight anymore.

Not with her.

Not here.

Leighton woke up slow.

The way you do when something in the air shifts—
not loud,
not violent,
just different.

Her eyes cracked open in the dark, vision swimming a little as she blinked the heavy sleep away.
The room was still wrapped in shadows, moonlight pooling soft across the floor.

And there—
there he was.

Spencer.

Curled against the side of her bed, hoodie damp, knees drawn tight to his chest like he was holding himself together with nothing but willpower and shaking breath.

Leighton’s heart twisted in a way that almost made her dizzy.

He looked so small like that.
So raw.

But not weak.
Never weak.

Just worn down.
Bone-deep tired from fighting a war inside himself no one else could see.

She didn’t sit up.
Didn’t startle.
Didn’t say anything.

Just watched him for a second—
watched the way he pressed his forehead against his knees like he could disappear into himself,
watched the way his hands trembled where they clutched the fabric of his jeans,
watched the way he was still trying to breathe like it was a battle he didn’t know how to win.

And God, it made her chest ache—
not with fear,
not with sadness.

With love.
With something steady and heavy and endless.

She didn’t call his name.
Didn’t ask him if he was okay.

He wasn’t.
And that was okay.

Instead, slowly, carefully, she reached one hand out from under the cocoon of blankets, palm open and empty and waiting.

No pressure.
No demands.

Just a quiet offering:

I’m here if you want me.

Leighton didn’t move right away.

She just kept her hand extended—still, patient, steady—
offering him something without asking for anything back.

And when he didn’t reach for it—
when he stayed curled in on himself, trembling and too small and too wrecked to even pretend to know how to ask for help—

she didn’t pull her hand back.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t let disappointment touch her, not even for a second.

Instead, Leighton shifted.

Slow. Careful.
Making sure every move told him exactly what he needed to hear:
I’m not scared of you.
I’m not leaving.
I’m not going to make you do this alone.

She pushed the blanket off her legs, bare knees catching the cool air of the room, and slid down off the side of the bed without a sound.

The carpet scratched soft against her skin as she knelt in front of him—still careful, still giving him room—but close enough that he could feel the heat of her, the steadiness of her breathing.

Still close enough to choose her if he wanted to.

Still close enough to be chosen if he could.

Leighton settled there, cross-legged, folding herself down to his level without a word.
Making herself small beside him, not above him.
Not reaching, not demanding, not dragging him anywhere he wasn’t ready to go.

Just there.

Just breathing with him.

She watched the way his shoulders jerked once—tiny, involuntary—like he was trying to steel himself for something that wasn’t coming.

And it made something sharp and protective burn deep in her chest.

Without thinking, without rushing, Leighton reached out again—
this time slower, smaller—
and brushed the backs of her fingers lightly along the side of his arm.

A touch so soft it could have been a whisper.

I’m here.

I’m still here.

He flinched the tiniest bit—just a shudder at the contact—but he didn’t pull away.

So she stayed there.
Tracing soft patterns against the worn fabric of his hoodie with the back of her hand, no urgency, no expectation.

Her knees bumped gently against his.

Her breathing stayed slow and even, setting a rhythm for him to find if he needed it.

And she didn’t speak.

Didn’t tell him to calm down.
Didn’t ask what was wrong.
Didn’t say anything at all.

Because sometimes words made the wounds deeper.
Sometimes the only thing you could offer was presence.
Steady. Fierce. Quiet.

Leighton inched a little closer, her knees brushing his, and slowly—so slowly it made her own heart ache—she reached out again.

This time she rested her palm flat against his shin, grounding him without pinning him, a touch that didn’t ask anything but gave everything.

And when he didn’t move away—

when he just sat there, breathing ragged and raw, letting her stay—

Leighton let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and pressed her forehead lightly against his knee.

Soft.
Steady.
Home.

She stayed like that.

Silent.
Anchoring him with every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of space she filled up beside him without forcing him to be anything but exactly what he was.

Because if he couldn’t reach for her yet—
if he couldn’t take her hand—

then she would just get close enough that he wouldn’t have to.

Spencer couldn’t lift his head.

Couldn’t uncoil the tight knot his body had wound itself into.

Every breath still scraped against his throat like broken glass, shallow and thin and sharp enough to make his whole chest ache.

He felt her before he really registered what was happening.

A brush of warmth along his arm.
A bump of knees.
A hand—small, steady—pressing against his shin.

At first it made the panic surge higher, a flash of fight-or-flight snapping in his spine.

Touch meant danger.
Meant pressure.
Meant what’s wrong with you, why can’t you just pull it together, what the hell is your problem—

But then—
then—

she didn’t move.

She didn’t pull.
She didn’t demand.

She just stayed there.

Warm and solid and silent beside him, grounding him without trying to fix what wasn’t broken, just battered and bloody and too tired to keep pretending.

Spencer squeezed his eyes tighter shut.

His fingers flexed against the denim over his knees, desperate for something, anything to hold onto.

And then he felt it.

The slow, careful way she leaned in.

The brush of her forehead against his knee—barely there, so soft he would have missed it if he hadn’t been falling apart so slowly it felt like the whole world was moving in reverse.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t tell him to breathe.

Didn’t tell him to calm down.

She just was.

And somehow—
somehow—

that cracked something open in him deeper than any shouted word ever could.

His breathing stayed rough, jagged, ugly—but it wasn’t fighting him so hard anymore.

It started to sync, little by little, with the slow, steady rhythm of hers.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

He stayed like that for a while, forehead tucked tight against his own knees, feeling her hand resting warm and real against his leg, feeling her breathing hum steady into his bones.

The world outside blurred and faded.

The only things left were her hands, her touch, her breathing.

Her.

Spencer uncurled the smallest bit—
not much.
Just enough to loosen the vice grip he had around himself.

Just enough to feel her instead of only feeling the panic.

His heart was still racing, still hammering too fast against his ribs, but it wasn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest anymore.

It was just… there.

Alive.

Terrified.

Still beating.

And when he finally lifted his head—shaky, slow, raw—he didn’t even think about hiding the wreckage from her.

Didn’t apologize for the tears he hadn’t even realized had spilled down his cheeks.

Didn’t shrink away from the way she stayed kneeling there in front of him, forehead still resting lightly against his leg like she belonged there, like he was the one anchoring her too.

He dragged in a breath.

Wrecked.
Heavy.

Tried to find his voice through the gravel lodged in his throat.

It came out quieter than he meant it to, but somehow steadier too:

"I'm trying."

His hand—still trembling—lifted off his knee, reaching for her without thinking.

Fumbling.

Clumsy.

But real.

He caught the edge of her sleeve between two fingers and just—
held on.

Tight.
Like if he let go, he’d fall back into the dark that didn’t know her name.

Spencer blinked, dragging his gaze up to her finally.

Meeting her eyes in the moonlight.

And in a voice that cracked all the way down the middle, he rasped it again:

"I'm trying, Leigh."

It wasn’t an apology.

It wasn’t enough.

But it was everything he had.

And somehow—
with her hand on his leg, her breath steady in the dark, her forehead still pressed against him like a prayer—

it felt like maybe it could be enough anyway.

Leighton didn’t move when she felt it.

The slow, shaky way he started to uncurl himself.
The rough drag of his forehead lifting off his knees.
The breath he pulled in like it cost him everything just to take it.

She stayed kneeling there—anchored to the floor, to him—her forehead still resting lightly against his leg, one hand still cradling his shin, the other hovering nearby in case he needed more.

When she finally lifted her head enough to look at him, her chest cracked wide open.

He was a mess.

Tears streaking his cheeks.
Jaw tight.
Shoulders trembling like he was carrying every bad thing he’d ever been told about himself.

But he wasn’t hiding from her.
Not anymore.

He was letting her see it.
All of it.
All the wreckage, all the ruin, all the broken places he didn’t know how to bandage anymore.

And God, she loved him so much it hurt.

When he rasped it out—

“I’m trying.”
—Leighton felt the words lodge somewhere deep inside her ribs, a quiet, feral kind of love that didn’t ask for perfect or polished or anything but this.

Him.
Here.
Still fighting.

Still choosing to stay.

When his hand lifted—fumbling, clumsy—and caught the edge of her sleeve between trembling fingers, she thought she might actually break apart from how much she loved him.

Not the way she expected love to feel.
Not soft and easy.

But fierce.
Unshakeable.
Something raw and brutal and endlessly steady.

When he whispered it again, voice cracking in half:

“I’m trying, Leigh.”

She didn’t answer with words.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, Leighton moved slow, deliberate—like the whole world had narrowed down to this one boy and the fragile, beautiful way he was still trying.

She slid her hand carefully up from his shin, tracing the inside of his wrist where his pulse stuttered wild and frantic under his skin.
Let her fingers lace gently through his.

No pressure.
No tug.

Just giving him something to hold onto that wasn’t fear.

She leaned forward the tiniest bit more—close enough that their knees bumped harder, close enough that he could feel her breath whispering over his skin.

And when he didn’t pull away—
when he just stayed there, wrecked and reaching—
Leighton cradled the side of his face with her free hand, palm curving gently along his jaw.

Her thumb brushed slow over his cheekbone, sweeping through the wetness there like it didn’t scare her, like it didn’t change a damn thing.

Like he was still hers.
Exactly like this.

She tilted her head—soft, careful—and pressed her forehead lightly to his again.

Just breathing him in.

Just letting him feel her.
Steady.
Unmoving.

Choosing him again.
Choosing him always.

When she finally moved, it wasn’t to pull away.
It was to wrap her arms around him completely, slow and sure, tugging him against her chest like he was something precious that deserved to be held just for existing.

Leighton tucked his face against the curve of her neck, hands moving slow up and down his back, anchoring him to her body, to her breath, to the rhythm that didn’t ask him to be anything more than exactly what he was.

She kissed the top of his head once—barely more than a breath—soft and reverent.

Still no words.
Still no rush.

Just a girl in love with a boy who thought he had to bleed to be worthy of staying.
Holding him tighter.
Loving him harder.

Showing him every second he let her stay:

You’re trying.
That’s enough.
You’re enough.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not now.
Not ever.

Spencer didn’t know how long he stayed folded into her.

Didn’t know how long she kept breathing slow against his skin, hands moving steady up and down his back like she could anchor him just by existing.

He only knew it was the first time in longer than he could remember that the panic wasn’t winning.

Not completely.

It was still there—buzzing low under his skin, a static hum in his bones—but it didn’t own him here.
Not with her holding him like this.
Not with her heart beating slow and stubborn against his ribs, loud enough to drown out the noise in his head.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shuddering against her collarbone, the weight of it almost knocking him sideways.

She tightened her arms around him instantly.

Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask.

Just stayed.

And something in Spencer cracked wider under the gentleness of it.
Something that wasn’t made of fear this time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead harder into the warm curve of her neck, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Her hands kept moving—slow, patient, steady—up and down his back.
Not rushing him.
Not pushing him to be okay faster than he could.

And slowly—so slowly it almost hurt—he let himself sag heavier against her.
Let himself be held.

Not because he deserved it.
Not because he thought he was enough.
But because his body was too tired to fight the truth anymore:

He needed her.

Needed this.

Needed her.

His fingers, still trembling, fumbled against the fabric of her shirt, curling into it like if he could just hold on tight enough, the whole broken world would stop tilting sideways.

He stayed like that—quiet, wrecked, breathing her in—until the words started to claw their way up his throat.

At first he tried to swallow them back down.
Tried to bury them under the shame, under the fear, under the cracked armor he always wore too tight.

But he couldn’t.

Not here.

Not with her hands still tracing steady lines against his spine.
Not with her heart still beating slow and patient into the side of his face.

So he pulled in a shaky breath, throat raw, chest aching, and rasped it out against her skin:

"I don't deserve you."

The second the words left him, he hated them.

Hated how small they sounded.
Hated how true they felt.

He shifted a little, instinctively starting to pull back—to retreat into himself the way he always did when the vulnerability got too real, too dangerous, too fucking much.

But before he could,
before he could rip himself away—

her hands moved.

Not rough.
Not desperate.

Just there.

One sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
The other smoothing over the center of his back, pressing him closer.

Holding him like she wasn’t afraid of the sharp edges.

Holding him like he wasn’t a burden.

Holding him like she meant it.

Spencer let out a sound then—a broken, gasping thing that barely made it past his throat—and buried his face deeper against her neck, arms locking tighter around her waist like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

Another tear slipped free.
He felt it track slow down his cheek, smearing into the fabric of her shirt.

He didn’t wipe it away.

Didn’t apologize for it.

He just stayed.

Letting her carry the pieces he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

And when she shifted slightly—when she pressed a kiss into his hair so soft he almost didn’t feel it—Spencer felt something he didn’t have a name for break loose in his chest.

Something that didn’t feel like fear.
Something that didn’t feel like running.

It felt like staying.

Like choosing.

Like hope.

He clutched her tighter and, in a voice so low he wasn’t sure she could even hear it, he whispered against her skin:

"Don’t let go yet."

Not because he thought she would.
Not really.

But because he needed to say it.
Needed to ask for it.
Needed to believe it could be okay to need her like this.

And when she held him tighter in answer, arms steady and sure around him, Spencer finally—finally—let himself breathe.

Not fighting.
Not bracing.

Just breathing.

With her.

For her.

With himself.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

Leighton didn’t loosen her hold.

Not when he pressed himself tighter against her.
Not when his voice broke against her skin.
Not even when the weight of him sagging into her nearly knocked her back onto the carpet.

She tightened her arms around him, one hand sliding higher to cradle the back of his head, the other smoothing slow and steady over the broad line of his back.

Not pulling.
Not forcing.
Just being.

Here.

She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, fast and frantic still, but no longer drowning him.
No longer tearing him apart.

She just rocked them gently—barely moving, just enough for him to feel it.

Feel the rhythm of her breath.
Feel the way she wasn’t letting go.

Feel the way she wouldn’t.

Her hands kept moving slow over him, tracing invisible patterns into the fabric of his hoodie—along his spine, across his ribs, the dip of his waist.
Familiar places.
Places she loved.

She didn’t try to find words.

There weren’t any big enough for this.
No string of syllables that could hold everything she wanted to give him.

That he could stay.
That he didn’t have to fight alone.
That he was allowed to need her without apology.

She let the way she touched him say it instead.

Let the slow, sure slide of her fingers through his hair, the way she tucked his face deeper into her neck, the way she held him like he wasn’t something broken she had to fix—just something beautiful she chose—say everything.

When his breathing finally started to slow, when the trembling of his hands softened into something smaller, something closer to trust, Leighton smiled against his hair.

Tiny. Private.
The kind of smile meant for moments like this.
The kind you didn’t even need light to see.

She pressed another kiss into his hairline—soft, lingering—then tucked her chin lightly over the crown of his head, cradling him there.

Her knees ached from the hard floor.
Her arms would probably fall asleep from how tight she was holding him.

But she didn’t care.
She would sit here all goddamn night if she had to.

If that’s what it took for him to believe it wasn’t just a moment.

It wasn’t temporary.

It was real.

He was real.

Loved.
Wanted.
Safe.

Exactly like this.

Leighton stayed there, cradling him against her, until she felt the tremors in his body start to ease into something slower, softer.

Not gone.
Not forgotten.
But manageable.

She pressed one more kiss into the side of his head, her lips lingering there like a promise, before she finally whispered against his hair—low and careful, like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile peace they’d fought to build between them:

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you out of these damp clothes, okay?”

Her voice was barely more than a breath.
Gentle.
Patient.

A suggestion, not a command.

She felt him stiffen for half a second against her chest—instinct, fear, something defensive flickering up even now—but then he sagged again, nodding the tiniest bit against her neck.

That was all she needed.

Leighton shifted her weight and carefully started to untangle herself from around him, moving slow enough that he never felt jostled, never felt rushed.

She slid her hands down to his waist, grounding him with every touch, and helped guide him up to his feet.

He wobbled a little, blinking down at her like he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him.

Leighton just smiled—small, soft, steady—and smoothed her hands along his sides once more before gently steering him toward the bed.

He sat down hard on the edge, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead.

He looked wrecked.
Exhausted.
Beautiful.

God, he was so beautiful.

Leighton didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t make a big deal of it.

She just gave his knee a soft squeeze—I’ll be right back—and turned toward her dresser, bare feet padding quiet across the carpet.

She rifled through the drawers, pulling out old shirts, a few tank tops, the oversized hoodie she sometimes slept in when she missed him too much.

Nothing felt right.

She needed his.

She needed something that would smell like him, feel like him, wrap him up in the way she knew words couldn’t reach.

She crossed the room to the chair tucked under her window—half-buried in a mess of blankets and clothes—and fished through the pile until her fingers closed around it.

His old gray t-shirt.

The one she always stole when he wasn’t paying attention.
The one she wore to bed more nights than not.

Soft and worn thin at the seams.
Still smelling faintly of soap and something sharper—something uniquely him.

Leighton smiled quietly to herself and straightened, clutching it to her chest for a second before she turned back toward the bed.

Spencer hadn’t moved much.

Still sitting there, hunched over, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he didn’t quite know what to do next.

Her chest ached at the sight.

She crossed the room again—slow, steady—and knelt down in front of him, just like before.

She held out the shirt between them, offering it with both hands like it was something sacred.

Something he deserved.

Something that said, you’re still mine. you’re still safe. even now.

Her voice stayed soft when she spoke again:

“Here, baby. Let’s get you comfortable.”

No rush.
No pressure.
Just love.

All of it, poured into the smallest, gentlest things

Spencer stared at the shirt in her hands.

His hands hovered stupidly for a second, useless, like he didn’t know how to take something so simple without breaking it.

But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.

Just waited.

Steady.

Soft.

And somehow—
somehow—
he reached out.

Clumsy fingers brushed hers, and for one gut-wrenching second, he almost dropped it.
Almost ruined it.

But he caught it.
Gripped the fabric tight.
Held it like it might save him.

It still smelled like her.
Like soap and something warmer.
Something he couldn’t name without falling apart again.

He pressed the shirt into his lap, head still bowed, breathing hard against the ache in his chest.

When he finally looked up—
when he finally made himself meet her eyes—
the words came out wrecked and raw before he could stop them.

"You’re the only thing that feels real."

It wasn’t brave.
Wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had.

And she—
God, she didn’t laugh.
Didn’t shy away.

She just smiled, that tiny, private smile he used to think he imagined on the worst nights.

The next thing he knew, her hands were at his sides, tugging at the hem of his soaked hoodie.

He stiffened instinctively, the muscles in his spine snapping tight—
reflex.
Fear.

But when her fingers brushed the barest line of his skin beneath the fabric, so careful, so patient—

he exhaled.
Nodded.
Let her.

The hoodie peeled away from him slow, the cool air brushing against his overheated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

He shivered, blinking down at the floor, feeling raw and peeled open, feeling stupid for how badly he needed her to keep touching him anyway.

The soft weight of the shirt—the one he'd been clutching like a lifeline—settled in her hands again.

He ducked his head, let her guide it over him, let her hands slip the fabric into place along his arms and over his chest.

It wasn’t a grand thing.
It wasn’t some cinematic moment.

It was quieter.
Sadder.
Realer.

It was someone letting him be human.

It was someone loving him through it.

When she brushed his hair back out of his face—gentle, brief, no fanfare—he almost broke again.
Almost folded back into himself.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Sat there with the shirt clinging warm to his skin, the world no less heavy, but somehow less lonely.

And after a long, shaking breath, he tipped forward.
Pressed his forehead against her shoulder.
Let his hands, still clumsy and unsure, find her sides and hold on.

Not desperate.
Not pleading.

Just needing.

Just being.

His voice cracked low against her collarbone, barely loud enough for her to catch:

"Thank you."

It wasn’t enough.

But it was everything he had left.

And when her arms came around him again—steady, sure, home—Spencer let his eyes fall shut.

Let himself breathe her in.

Let himself stay.

She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t ease up.

Just stayed curled around him, breathing slow and deep, letting her own body set the rhythm he could match if he needed it.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

When he shivered against her, she only tucked him closer, her cheek resting lightly on top of his head, hands smoothing steady paths over the trembling muscles of his back and shoulders.

She didn’t tell him it was okay.
She didn’t tell him to stop shaking.
She didn’t tell him he was strong.

She didn’t tell him anything.

Because sometimes the bravest thing wasn’t dragging yourself upright.

Sometimes it was letting yourself be held.

Letting yourself stay.

And she would hold him for as long as he needed.
As long as he wanted.

Even if that meant sitting here all night, wrapped up on the edge of her bed, letting the rest of the world keep spinning without them.

Because right now, this was all that mattered.

Him.
Her.
This.

Leighton kissed his hair again—softer this time, almost a breath—and whispered it so low she wasn’t even sure he would hear it:

“I’ve got you.”

A promise.
A prayer.

And this time—
this time—
she knew he believed it.

Because he didn’t pull away.

He stayed.

Breathing her in.
Letting her love him.

Letting himself be loved.

Exactly as he was.

Leighton kept him wrapped tight against her for another breath.
Another heartbeat.

Long enough to feel the way his weight shifted subtly in her arms—
not pulling away,
not running—
just sagging heavier, like his body was finally realizing he didn’t have to brace for impact anymore.

She kissed the crown of his head again, slow and careful, before letting her hand slide down the curve of his back.

Still patient.
Still steady.

But she could feel it—the way the damp fabric of his jeans clung cold and uncomfortable to his skin, the way he shivered even tucked so close against her.

She shifted her weight slightly, pulling back just enough to nudge her forehead against his.

Soft.
Quiet.

“Come lay down with me, baby,” she whispered, her voice low, warm against the shell of his ear.
“Let’s get you comfortable, okay?”

She felt him tense for a heartbeat—pure instinct—but he didn’t resist.
Didn’t bolt.

Just breathed out a shaky exhale that hit her collarbone like a storm finally blowing itself out.

Slowly, gently, she guided him upright, her hands bracketing his ribs, keeping him steady as she coaxed him backwards toward the pillows.

He followed her lead without a word, clumsy and dazed, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

When the back of his knees bumped the edge of the bed, he sat down heavily, one hand still fisting weakly in her shirt like he didn’t want to lose his tether.

Leighton brushed his hair back again, soothing her fingers through it, and bent low to press another kiss to his forehead.

“You’re okay,” she murmured against his skin.
“I’ve got you.”

She crouched down in front of him again, hands moving to the waistband of his damp jeans, fingertips careful, asking permission without words.

He gave a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.

Trust.

Real and trembling.

She worked his jeans down slow, careful not to jar him—peeling the wet fabric away from his legs, leaving him in his boxers and the soft worn t-shirt she’d slipped over his head.

No shame.
No judgment.

Just care.

Just love.

She balled the jeans up and tossed them into the growing pile by the door, then tugged back the covers with one hand, sliding under them first.

The blanket was warm from her body heat, the sheets soft from too many washes, the whole bed still smelling faintly of her shampoo and the lavender spray her mom had given her.

Home.

She scooted over, holding the covers open for him.

“Come here, Spence,” she whispered, soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question.
Like she already knew he would.

And he did.

God, he did.

Moving slow, clumsy, still trembling in places—but he crawled in beside her, curling into her side like gravity didn’t give him a choice.

Leighton pulled the blanket up over both of them, tucking it around his shoulders, then slid her arm around his back, cradling him against her like he was something precious and breakable and hers.

He tucked his head under her chin, breath still hitching in his chest every few beats, hands clutching the hem of her shirt like if he let go, the world would tilt sideways again.

She kissed the top of his head.
Again.
And again.

Until she felt the tension start to bleed out of him.
Until his breathing evened out against her throat.
Until his fingers loosened just slightly in the fabric at her waist.

Leighton curled her other arm around him too, full body wrapped around his like a shield, a shelter, a promise.

“You’re safe, baby,” she whispered into the dark, her voice threading into his skin.
“I’m right here.”

And this time, when she felt him nod against her collarbone—

small.
shaky.
real—

she knew he believed her.

At least for tonight.

And that was enough.

It was everything.

Spencer stayed tucked under her chin, breathing her in like oxygen he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Her hand moved slow against his back—up and down, up and down—keeping him anchored even though the worst of it was finally ebbing out of him.

He still felt wrung out.
Still felt stupid.
Still felt like he’d cracked himself open and dumped all the worst parts of himself into her lap.

And she hadn’t flinched.

Not once.

God, he didn’t deserve her.

The thought wedged itself under his ribs, sharp and familiar.

He shifted slightly—just enough to bury his face deeper against her collarbone—and mumbled it against her skin, low and wrecked:

"I'm sorry."

Her hand stilled for a second, a soft pause he felt more than saw.

But she didn’t say anything yet.
Didn’t interrupt.

So he kept going.
Breathless.
Broken.

"For climbing in. For waking you up. For—"
his voice cracked, frustration bleeding through,
"—for being so fucking bad at this."

He squeezed his eyes shut, arms tightening instinctively around her waist like maybe if he held on hard enough, she wouldn’t hear how much he meant it.

"I just—"
a breath, sharp and shaky,
"—I didn’t know where else to go."

It slipped out quieter than the rest.
Almost an admission.
Almost a prayer.

Spencer felt the way her hands started moving again—softer this time, smoothing slow circles into the small of his back like she was rubbing the apology right out of him.

He hated that he couldn’t look at her when he said it.
Hated that he still felt like he might shatter if he saw the way she was probably looking at him right now—like he was something worth saving when he knew better.

He tried to laugh it off—weak, brittle—but it broke halfway up his throat.

"You're the only thing that makes sense when my brain decides to be a dick about everything."

It was a joke.
Sort of.
Not really.

It was the truth, too.

She shifted a little, enough that he felt her lips brush his hair again—another soft kiss, another reminder he wasn’t too much for her—and his whole chest squeezed tight around it.

He finally forced himself to lift his head.

Just enough to see her face in the dim light.

God, she looked at him like he wasn’t a burden.

Like he wasn’t a wreck.

Like he was just...
hers.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Let his forehead rest against hers—soft, careful, a little clumsy—and closed his eyes.

"Thank you,"
he whispered, so rough it almost wasn’t words,
"for not telling me to leave."

Another beat.
Another breath.

He rubbed his nose lightly against hers—barely there, almost sheepish—and added, softer:

"Or, y'know...for not calling the cops when a stray idiot climbed through your window in the middle of the night."

He cracked a ghost of a smile then.

Tiny.
Tired.
Real.

And it hit him—sharp and full and terrifying all at once—that he loved her.

He loved her so much it scared him stupid.

But for once, he didn’t run from it.

Didn’t lock it down.

He just stayed.

Pressed against her.
Breathing her in.
Letting her arms stay locked around him like it wasn’t a mistake.
Like he wasn’t a mistake.

And when he whispered it again—quieter this time, just for her, just for now—

"Thank you"—

he meant it with everything he had left.

Leighton stayed wrapped around him, breathing slow against his hair, feeling the way he kept clutching her like he was scared he’d disappear if he let go.

She didn’t loosen her grip.
Didn’t shift away.
Didn’t let the silence fill with anything ugly.

She just held him tighter, the blanket slipping down her back as she pressed her lips to his temple and whispered, steady and warm:

“You don’t ever have to apologize for needing me.”

Her fingers moved carefully through his hair, combing through the knots and damp strands like she could smooth the fear right out of him.

“You didn’t ruin anything, Spencer. Not even close.”

She tucked her forehead against his, breathing him in, letting her voice stay low and sure—something he could hold onto if he needed it.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Another slow stroke of her hand down his spine, feeling every tremble he tried to hide.

“I want you here.”

Her heart squeezed tight when he shook in her arms—tiny, involuntary—but she didn’t let him go.

She pressed a soft kiss to the center of his forehead, her lips lingering there longer than necessary, and murmured:

“You’re not bad at this. You’re not broken. You’re trying… and that’s more than enough for me.”

Leighton shifted back slightly just to look at him, her hands cradling either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheeks with infinite care.

“You’re not too much for me, Spence.”

She brushed another kiss into his hair, breathing it into him like a prayer:

“You never were.”

The way he blinked at her then—wrecked, wide-eyed, so afraid and so desperate to believe her—nearly broke her in half.

She smiled, small and real, letting her thumb trace his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore. You get to come here… always.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, barely there, a promise etched soft into his skin.

“No matter what your brain tries to tell you.”

When he made some broken sound between a laugh and a sob, she let out a quiet breath of her own, teasing lightly to pull him closer:

“And for the record? If you think I’m ever calling the cops on you, you’re even dumber than you look.”

She nudged her nose against his with a soft, affectionate bump, feeling his lips twitch the tiniest bit in return.

“I’d leave the window open for you, dumbass.”

Leighton tucked him tighter into her arms, pulling the blanket up over both of them, cocooning him there, safe and warm and real.

She kissed the crown of his head again, softer this time, speaking right against his skin:

“Come here, baby.”

Fingers slid into the back of his hair again, slow and sure, coaxing him to rest fully against her.

When he did—when he sagged into her with all the wrecked weight he didn’t know how to hide anymore—she tightened her arms around him and whispered like it was a vow:

“You’re safe.”

She kissed his temple.
Pressed her forehead lightly to his.

“You’re mine.”

And finally, when she felt him breathing with her, when she felt him trusting her to stay, Leighton let the last words fall from her mouth like a prayer stitched into the dark:

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t care if she had to hold him for hours.
If she had to whisper it a thousand times.

She would.

Because he was home now.
Because she loved him.

Exactly like this.

Always.

Spencer didn’t move for a long time.

He just breathed her in—
the soft drag of her fingers through his hair,
the steady beat of her heart under his cheek,
the way her voice wrapped around him like a second skin.

You’re safe.
You’re mine.
I’m not going anywhere.

He’d never needed anything more than he needed that.

And the terrifying thing?

He believed her.

God help him, he actually believed her.

Spencer felt the tightness in his chest start to unravel—
slow, slow, like pulling a thread that had been knotted too long.
The panic didn’t vanish all at once.
It didn’t dissolve into nothing.

But it softened.

It let go.

He sank into her fully, head tucked beneath her chin, arms slipping looser around her waist until he was just there—no walls, no armor, just him.

Breathing her in.

Letting her steady him.

Letting her keep him.

The blanket slid up higher around his shoulders, and Spencer let out a sound—something low and wrecked and so full of relief it cracked in the middle.

He didn’t care if she heard it.

Didn’t care if she knew how goddamn much he needed her.

Especially now.

Especially always.

She kissed his temple again, and Spencer closed his eyes, letting the warmth of it bleed through every shattered place inside him.

No one had ever kissed him like that before.
Like it wasn’t a reward.
Like it wasn’t earned.
Like it was just his—because he existed, because he breathed.

Another breath slipped out of him—shaky but real—and he nudged his nose lightly against her collarbone.

Not asking for more.
Not needing anything else.

Just being.

Just staying.

After a long minute of silence—only broken by the slow rhythm of their breathing—he tilted his head slightly, cheek brushing hers.

Voice raw but steady now, he mumbled against her skin:

"You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

He didn’t mean it to sound so broken.

Didn’t mean for it to hit so hard inside his own chest.

But it was true.

More true than anything he’d ever said out loud.

He shifted just enough to bury his face in her neck again, arms wrapping tighter around her middle, fingers curling into the back of her shirt like he could stitch himself to her if he just held on tight enough.

And then, softer—like it was a secret just for her:

"Even when I’m a mess."

A tiny breath of a laugh—wrecked but real—shook against her skin.

"Especially then."

He felt her smile against his hair, felt her arms lock tighter around him, and something inside him finally, finally went quiet.

The noise in his head.
The fear clawing at his ribs.
The endless second-guessing.

All of it.

Silent.

Just her heartbeat now.
Just her breathing.
Just the two of them, wrapped up so tight the rest of the world couldn’t find him if it tried.

Spencer tugged the blanket higher, snuggling deeper into her chest, letting her arms be the last thing he felt as his body finally gave out into sleep.

No fear.
No panic.

Just the soft, steady knowledge, echoing in every breath he took:

She stayed.

And so did he.

Leighton didn’t move.

She barely breathed.

She just stayed wrapped around him—
blanket tucked up high over his shoulders,
his body curled into hers,
his breath hot and ragged against the hollow of her throat.

She felt every part of it.
Every tremble.
Every slow unraveling.
Every tiny piece of him letting go.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever held.

Not perfect.
Not polished.

Just real.

Her hands kept moving—slow, slow—through the messy strands of his hair, tracing the nape of his neck, smoothing down the curve of his back.
Not to calm him.
Not to fix him.

Just to remind him he wasn’t alone anymore.

When he shifted—nudging his nose lightly against her collarbone—Leighton tightened her arms instinctively around his back, holding him closer like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Because it was.

Because there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

When he finally spoke—
voice raw, muffled against her skin, cracking open right there in her arms—

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Leighton’s whole chest ached with how hard she loved him.
How fiercely she wanted to gather up every shattered thing inside him and hold it safe forever.

She felt him bury his face deeper into her neck, clinging tighter, curling his fingers into the back of her shirt like he couldn’t stand the thought of being anywhere but right here.

And when he whispered it softer—

“Even when I’m a mess.”
“Especially then.”

—Leighton let out the tiniest, breathless sound.
Not a sob.
Not a laugh.

Something quieter.
Something full.

She kissed the side of his head again—long and slow—pressing her mouth against the place where his hair curled soft behind his ear.

And she smiled.

Small.
Fierce.
Unshakable.

Because this was love.
Not the easy kind.
Not the storybook kind.

The real kind.

The kind that stayed when everything else cracked and crumbled.
The kind that wrapped arms tighter around wreckage and whispered I’m still here anyway.

She felt the last of his weight finally sink into her—the last defensive twitch, the last shallow, braced breath melting away.

Leighton tucked the blanket higher over his shoulders, burrowing them deeper into the warmth of each other, the world falling away beyond the cocoon of soft sheets and steady breathing.

When his body went still, slack and warm against hers, his breath evening out at last, Leighton closed her eyes.

Held him tighter.

Let her fingers trace small, slow circles against the small of his back, even as his grip on her shirt loosened slightly in sleep.

She stayed awake, holding him through the first real sleep he’d found in too long.

And she kept whispering it—
soft, against his hair, against his skin, over and over like a promise stitched into the dark:

“I’ve got you.”
“I’m not letting go.”
“You’re mine.”

And every time she said it, she meant it even harder than the last.

Because he stayed.

And so did she.

Always.

Spencer didn’t dream.

Not the bad kind, anyway.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, the dark didn’t feel like it was clawing at his throat, didn’t feel like it was swallowing him whole.

It just… was.

Warm.

Soft.

Full of the quiet weight of her arms around him, the blanket tucked up high over his shoulders, her fingers still tracing slow, lazy circles into the small of his back like she meant it—like she wasn’t just waiting for him to wake up and ruin it.

Somewhere between awake and asleep, he shifted closer without meaning to, nudging his nose further into the curve of her neck, chasing the heat of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

It pulled a tiny, shaky sigh out of him—barely a sound—just the loose, wrecked kind that said I'm still here.

Still safe.

Still hers.

And then, just before he slipped fully under—
when the last of the tension melted out of his hands, when the world softened completely around the edges—
Spencer heard himself mumble it.

Slurred and broken and so full of weight it barely made it past his lips:

"Love you, Leigh."

Soft.
Fierce.
Raw.

Not planned.
Not polished.
Not said to win anything.

Just real.

Just him.

And even as the words stumbled free, even as sleep finally dragged him under fully, his arms tightened once more around her waist—instinctive, automatic, absolute.

A quiet claim in the dark:

Mine.

And somewhere, deep in the part of him that still knew her touch even in dreams, Spencer felt her arms tighten around him in return.

Felt her breathe it back into him without even needing to say it:

Mine too.

The first soft stretch of morning light crept across the edges of the room, brushing pale gold across the floorboards, the walls, the tangled blanket slipping halfway down her back.

Leighton blinked sleepily against it, warmth pressed solid and heavy against her side, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing soaking into her bones.

Spencer.

Still here.
Still wrapped around her like the world hadn’t found a way to pull him away in the night.

Leighton smiled—small and private—the kind of smile you only ever made when you woke up to the thing you loved most still breathing easy in your arms.

She shifted slightly, feeling the way his arms tightened instinctively around her waist, his nose nuzzling a little deeper into the curve of her neck like he knew, even in sleep, that she was trying to move.

God, he was warm.

He smelled like her bedsheets and his soap and something softer she didn’t even have a name for—something that just was him.

Leighton pressed a kiss to the top of his head, her fingers brushing slow and light through the messy strands of his hair.

She had to get up eventually—
the stupid real world waiting outside her bedroom door.

But God, she didn’t want to.

Not yet.

Not when he was breathing so peaceful against her chest, no panic clawing at the edges, no walls up between them.

Not when he looked so soft like this.
So safe.
So his—and somehow hers, too.

She shifted just enough to see his face tucked close against her collarbone, lashes fanned out, mouth slack in the most unfairly endearing way.

Her heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Careful, slow, she brushed her thumb along his jaw—barely a whisper of a touch—tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his ear, the small patch of freckles she always wanted to count when he wasn’t looking.

Leighton tucked the blanket back higher around his shoulders, settling him deeper against her, cocooning him again in the safest, softest pieces of her world.

She nuzzled into his hair and whispered so quietly it barely disturbed the air between them:

“Five more minutes, baby.”

A selfish promise.
A soft one.

One she intended to keep.

She closed her eyes again, arms tightening around his back, anchoring him there with her.

Holding him like he was the dream she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for her whole life.

And for once—
for once—
she let the world spin without her.

Because here, in this bed, in this breath, with this boy wrapped around her like she was the only thing he needed to stay afloat—

nothing else mattered.

Not yet.

Not while he was still breathing her name in his sleep.
Still holding her like a lifeline.

Still choosing to stay.

This is absolutely beautiful —
you’ve written their morning energy so tender, sleepy, and perfectly earned after everything they survived the night before.

Here’s Spencer’s full POV continuation, keeping him groggy, warm, stubbornly clinging to her, but also lighter —
because waking up with her feels like home.


---

Spencer drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, tucked against her like his body didn’t know how to be anywhere else.

The first thing he felt was warmth.
Soft. Steady.
The press of her arms around his back, her heartbeat thrumming slow and stubborn under his cheek.

Safe.

The second thing he felt was her voice—
a breath more than words, brushing against his hair like something sacred.

“Five more minutes, baby.”

God.

He didn’t know if he dreamed it.
Didn’t care.

He burrowed closer without thinking—nosing into the curve of her neck, arms locking tighter around her waist like she was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

Maybe she was.

A rough sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and he pressed his mouth lazily against her collarbone, too wrecked with sleep to aim properly.

"M'not moving," he mumbled against her skin, voice wrecked from sleep, "You’re stuck with me now."


His words slurred a little, thick and slow and warm like honey.
He didn’t bother trying to be charming.
Didn’t bother pretending he was fully awake.

He just stayed there.
Pressed against her.
Letting himself feel her breathing, feel the way her fingers kept carding soft through his hair like she wasn’t ready to let go either.

Spencer shifted again—slow, lazy, like he weighed a thousand pounds—and threw one leg haphazardly over hers beneath the blanket, tangling them together even more.

Another sleepy, satisfied sound rumbled out of him.

God, he could stay like this forever.

He blinked up at her—barely—just enough to catch a glimpse of her smile in the early morning light.

That soft, private one.

The one he wanted to bottle up and keep for all the bad days he hadn’t had yet.

He grinned a little—slow and crooked and completely unguarded—and slurred:

"You look way too good for someone who didn’t get any sleep babysitting my dumbass."

A weak joke.

But it was the best he could manage with his brain still swimming somewhere between awake and dreaming.

He dragged one hand up from her waist, clumsy and gentle, brushing a messy curl of her hair behind her ear.

Held her there.
Looked at her.

No fear this time.
No walls.

Just hers.

Soft.
Sleepy.
Stupidly in love.

He leaned up the tiniest bit—enough to brush the sloppiest, sleepiest kiss against her jaw—and mumbled:

"Five more years sounds better than five more minutes."

And then he collapsed back into her, arms cinching tight around her ribs like he meant to fuse himself there.

Like letting go wasn’t even a question anymore.

Leighton felt his breath first—
a warm, sleepy brush against her skin,
the kind of weightless exhale that said he trusted her enough to stay.

Her whole heart melted right there in her chest.

She cradled him closer without even thinking, sliding her hand up into the messy tangle of his hair, fingertips tracing slow, featherlight circles against his scalp.

When he mumbled it against her collarbone—so soft, so broken, so stubborn—

“M’not moving. You’re stuck with me now.”

God.

She wanted to cry, it hit her so hard.

Instead, she smiled—small and helpless and aching—and pressed a kiss into his hair like she could fold all of it into him without breaking the quiet between them.

“Good,” she whispered, brushing her mouth against the crown of his head.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”

When he shifted, dragging a heavy leg across hers under the blanket, tangling them even closer, Leighton let out a soft, breathy laugh against his hair.

Not teasing.
Not sharp.

Just full.

Full of the kind of love that stayed even when words felt too big.

Her hands moved slow against his back, smoothing out the tension he didn’t even realize he was still holding, holding him like he was something precious and fragile and hers.

When he blinked up at her—barely awake, that slow, sleepy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—Leighton felt it again.

That ache.

That sweet, unbearable ache of loving someone so much it filled every inch of your ribs.

And when he slurred it, voice thick and fond and a little wrecked—

“You look way too good for someone who didn’t get any sleep babysitting my dumbass.”

Leighton shook her head gently, forehead brushing his as she smiled, slow and soft and endless.

“You’re worth every second, Spence.”

She traced her thumb along the line of his cheekbone, brushing a messy strand of hair away from his forehead, her touch barely more than a whisper.

“Always.”

When he leaned up and pressed that sleepy, sloppy kiss against her jaw—warm and clumsy and so heartbreakingly him—Leighton let out a tiny breath against his hair, smiling so wide it hurt in the best way.

And then he murmured it—half a joke, half a promise—right before he collapsed back against her:

“Five more years sounds better than five more minutes.”

Leighton’s heart squeezed so tight she had to close her eyes for a second just to keep it together.

She curled around him fully then, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped tight around his ribs, cocooning him safe in the softness of them.

She pressed her lips to his temple—slow, steady, full of everything she couldn’t say all at once—and whispered against his skin:

“Forever, baby.”

She felt the way he breathed out against her chest—slow and safe and so real—and she smiled again, softer this time.

Sleep tangled between them, pulling him under, but Leighton stayed awake a little longer.

Just to hold him.
Just to memorize this.

The weight of him curled against her.
The slow beat of his heart against her ribs.
The way he clung to her even in sleep.

Mine, she thought, smiling against his hair.

And she was his, too.

For five more minutes.
For five more years.
For forever.

Exactly like this.

Exactly, exactly like this.

This is so beautiful —
you've captured them with so much earned softness, like they've fought through hell and now refuse to let go.

Here’s what I truly believe Spencer would do next, staying fully in the sleepy, raw sweetness you’ve built:


---

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

He just melted.

Fully.

Completely.

Sagging heavier into her like gravity didn’t mean anything when she was the one holding him up.

Her arms around him, her hands stroking slow and sure through his hair, the quiet hum of her heartbeat steady against his cheek—
it was all he needed.

More than he ever thought he was allowed to need.

The word forever floated somewhere in the fog of his brain—
sticky and heavy and terrifying—
but it didn’t scare him here.

Not like this.

Not with her arms around him like a promise stitched into skin.

He hummed low in his throat—something content, something his—and tucked himself closer into her side, nuzzling blindly into the soft stretch of her throat like he could disappear there.

"You’re stuck with me,"
he mumbled again, voice slurred with sleep and certainty.
"Hope you like sweaty, clingy nightmares, Leigh. 'Cause that’s the full package."

A soft, broken kind of laugh shook against her skin—half real, half a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

He felt her laugh too.
Felt it rumble low in her chest, felt it in the way her arms squeezed tighter around his back.

He grinned against her throat—lazy, wrecked, so stupidly in love it was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

But not here.

Not with her fingers still threading slow through his hair, not with her breath warm against his temple, not with the blanket wrapped around them like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Spencer let out another slow, hitching breath—
one that didn’t feel like it was clawing its way up from panic anymore.
One that just… was.

He pressed a kiss against her collarbone—barely there, more breath than touch—and whispered, so quiet he wasn’t sure if he even said it out loud:

"Love you."

Again.
For the second time.

But this time he was awake enough to mean it harder.
Mean it with everything in him that hadn’t been able to say it before.

He felt her hand still against his back—just for a second—
then curl tighter around him like she could hold the words there, safe.

He smiled again—sleepy, wrecked, hers.

And somewhere between the feel of her arms and the weight of forever stitched into the space between them, Spencer finally let himself fall.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Just sleep.

Safe.

Home.

Hers.

Always.

Leighton barely breathed.

Barely moved.

She just held him closer—
tighter—
like if she let even an inch slip away, the weight of what he’d just given her might tear through her completely.

He was saying it.
Really saying it.
Not slurred by fear or broken open by panic.

Awake.
Wrecked.
Hers.

When he tucked himself closer, nuzzling into the hollow of her throat like he belonged there—like he had always belonged there—Leighton closed her eyes, squeezing him tighter against her ribs.

When he mumbled it—half-laughing, half-pleading:

“Hope you like sweaty, clingy nightmares, Leigh. ’Cause that’s the full package.”

she let out the softest, breathless laugh against his hair, smiling so wide her whole chest ached.

She tipped her head down, brushed her nose along his hairline, breathing him in slow.

“I’ll take the full package,” she whispered against his skin, voice breaking in the sweetest way.
“Every messy, beautiful piece of it.”

Her hand kept moving slow through his hair—fingers carding through the soft, tangled strands like she could memorize every inch of him by touch alone.

She felt him grin against her throat, felt the way his whole body melted deeper into her—lazy, wrecked, all-in.

And God, she loved him for it.
Loved the way he gave himself to her, clumsy and reckless and unpolished, like he didn’t know how to be anything but real.

When he pressed a kiss to her collarbone—barely there, more breath than touch—and whispered it again:

“Love you.”

Leighton felt it tear straight through her.

Felt it stitch itself into every corner of her chest that had ever been afraid she’d lose him.

She froze for just a second—overwhelmed, overflowing—then curled her arms even tighter around his back, cradling him closer like she could pull the words straight into her bloodstream and never let them go.

She kissed his hair again—slow and steady—her lips moving against the messy curls like a silent promise:

Me too.
Always.
More than you’ll ever know.

She didn’t need to say it back.

Not now.

Not when he was already tucking himself tighter against her side, breathing slower, breathing steadier, trusting her to hold the weight of it all.

Leighton shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher over both of them, wrapping them tighter in the cocoon they’d built together—safe and warm and too sacred for the outside world to touch.

She kissed the top of his head one more time, fingers smoothing down his back in the slowest, softest patterns she could manage.

And when he finally slipped fully under—when she felt the last of the tension bleed out of him, leaving him loose and warm and breathing easy in her arms—Leighton smiled against his hair.

Small.
Full.
Forever.

She tucked her face into the crown of his head, let her hand settle steady over his heart, and whispered so softly it barely brushed the air:

“Always, Spence.”

And she stayed.

Wrapped around him.
Breathing with him.
Loving him in every tiny, quiet way she knew how.

Because he was hers.
Because she was his.
Because they had survived the dark.

And now—
now they had this.

Soft.
Safe.
Forever.

Exactly like this.

Spencer drifted in and out of sleep, warm and heavy and tangled so deep in her he didn’t know where he stopped and she started.

Her heartbeat was steady against his cheek.
Her fingers were slow in his hair.
The blanket was tucked high around them, the world outside the bed still blessedly far away.

He wasn’t ready to leave it.
Not even close.

When the sun started slipping higher against the window, brushing a faint glow over the sheets, he made a soft, grumbling noise low in his chest and buried himself deeper into her neck.

She laughed—quiet and warm—and he felt it ripple through her body.

Felt her arms tighten around him like she wasn’t ready either.

Good.

He sighed against her skin, too tired to smile, but feeling it anyway—small and lazy in his chest.

Tried shifting just enough to hide from the light, but only managed to tangle himself worse in the blanket, in her.

A hand slid under her shirt, palm flattening against the bare skin of her back like he needed to feel her breathing to keep his own heart steady.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t try to move.

Just pressed a soft, clumsy kiss against her collarbone.
A promise without words.

After a long moment—long enough that sleep almost dragged him back under—he blinked up at her through heavy lashes, still half-lost to the warmth of her.

A low, broken mumble escaped him, barely shaped into sound:

"Don't wanna move."

That was it.

That was all he had left.

He tucked his head back under her chin, arms tightening around her ribs, blanket cocooning them in tighter.

If the world wanted him, it was gonna have to pry him out of her arms first.

Because here—
here he was safe.

Here he was home.

Here he was hers.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

She just lay there, curled around him like he was something delicate and priceless, something she was afraid to let go of even in sleep.

The sun crept higher across the sheets, soft and golden, catching in the tangled mess of his curls and the edge of the blanket still cocooned around them.

And still—
he stayed pressed into her chest like the light didn’t matter.

Like the only thing that existed was the curve of her body, the hush of her breath, the way her fingers kept moving slow through his hair without thinking.

When he grumbled low and tucked himself deeper into her neck, Leighton let out a soft laugh—gentle and warm and quiet enough not to scare the moment away.

God, she loved him like this.
Loved this slow, quiet version of him.
Loved that he let her see it.

Her arms tightened automatically around his back, one hand sliding under the blanket to stroke a lazy path along the warm skin of his spine.

She felt his hand slip under her shirt, palm settling flat between her shoulder blades, grounding them both with the soft weight of it.

And then he kissed her collarbone.

Not with heat.
Not with urgency.

Just with something deeper.
Softer.
A promise written in skin instead of words.

Leighton closed her eyes, breathing it in like it might settle somewhere permanent inside her chest.

And when he blinked up at her through heavy lashes—eyes glassy with sleep, mouth soft and slack—and murmured:

“Don’t wanna move.”

She smiled.
Small.
Full.

She dipped her head, kissed the tip of his nose.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the breath between them.
“You don’t have to.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of his jaw, brushing the soft curve of his ear, memorizing the feel of him in the morning light.

“We’ve got nowhere to be.”

She didn’t know if it was true.
Didn’t care.

Because right now, nothing existed outside this bed.

Not when he was still clinging to her like she was his anchor to the earth.
Not when she could feel his breath slow and even against her chest, each exhale syncing with hers like they were the only two people left in the world.

Leighton shifted just enough to bury her nose in his hair, kissed the crown of his head.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, her voice thick with love and sleep.
“You’re home.”

And she meant every word.

Because she’d never felt more still.
More full.
More herself than she did with him wrapped around her like this.

She held him tighter.

Let the morning keep rising.

Let the world wait.

Because if Spencer was going to stay wrapped in her arms for forever—

she wasn’t going anywhere either.

Spencer stirred.

Not because he wanted to.
Not because he was ready.
Just… because his stomach was being an asshole.

It grumbled low and violent against her ribs, loud enough to echo in the stillness between them.

He winced—barely awake—and let out a soft, miserable groan against her collarbone.

Didn’t move.
Didn’t lift his head.
Just mumbled into her skin like the words were too heavy to lift properly.

"M’gonna die.”

Another grumble.
Worse this time.

He pressed his forehead tighter into the hollow of her neck, one arm curling tighter around her waist like if he held on hard enough, maybe he wouldn’t dissolve from starvation on the spot.

"Need food. Something. Anything. Your pillow. I don’t care.”

His voice was low and broken and way too dramatic for someone who’d eaten yesterday, but he meant every word.

Still didn’t move though.

Just lay there, a full-grown man starved half to death by morning, clinging to the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t make me get up, Leigh.”

A pause.
Another long, suffering exhale.

“You’re warm. And I’m weak.”

He tucked his nose back under her jaw with a groggy little sigh, clearly unwilling to lift a single limb to save himself.

If he starved here, so be it.

At least he’d die in her arms.

Leighton didn’t answer at first.

Mostly because she was trying very hard not to laugh directly into his hair.

His forehead was mashed against her collarbone like a man in mourning. His arm tightened dramatically around her waist like he was going to slip into the afterlife if she so much as suggested getting out of bed.

And his stomach—
God.
It growled again, louder this time, like it had something to prove.

Leighton bit down a smile, brushing her fingers slowly through his hair, her other hand dragging soft, lazy circles across his back.

“You’re not gonna die, Spence.”

She kissed the top of his head, lips brushing warm against curls and sleep and soft skin.

Another groan.

She grinned into it, shaking her head slightly.

She tilted her head down, trying to catch a glimpse of his ridiculous face—what little she could see buried under blanket and desperation.

“You want me to feed you breakfast in bed because you’re too weak from fake starvation to move ten feet to the kitchen?”

His only answer was another soft, suffering sigh against her throat.

Leighton laughed then—gentle and quiet, not teasing enough to make him pull away—and let her hand slide up to cradle the back of his neck.

“Okay, you win. I’ll get up and make you something. But only because I don’t want your ghost haunting me about toast.”

She kissed his temple, slow and sweet.

“Give me two minutes to pee and I’ll save your life.”

She felt his arm tighten one last time, his entire body curled stubbornly into hers like letting go might actually kill him.

And God help her—
she wouldn’t have minded staying like this forever.

But he needed pancakes.

Or toast.

Or not to die dramatically against her ribcage.

So she smiled into his hair, breathed him in once more, and whispered:

“Don’t go dying on me in the next sixty seconds, Romeo. I’ll be right back.”

And maybe—just maybe—she kissed him once more than she needed to before slipping out from under the covers.
Because no one ever died from too much love.

But if they did,
he’d probably be the first.

Leighton moved carefully—slow, gentle, like if she pulled away too fast, he might actually wither on the spot.

She kissed his hair one last time, then eased out from beneath the blanket with practiced grace.
His arm made a valiant, half-asleep attempt to hold her hostage, but eventually it slid down to the mattress with a defeated sigh.

She smiled to herself.

“Still alive,” she whispered as she stood, tugging his shirt lower over her hips. “Barely.”

She padded across the room on quiet feet, pausing to grab her phone and duck into the bathroom. Her hair was a mess—soft waves tangled from sleep and Spencer’s constant nuzzling. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes still heavy. But God, she looked like someone who’d been loved well.

And more than that—
someone who loved well.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up loosely, splashed cold water on her face. No rush. Just moving through the rhythm of the morning with him still folded into her memory—arms around her, lips against her skin, that half-smile he wore like a secret just for her.

She could still feel the weight of him everywhere.

And she didn’t want to be gone long.

She pulled open the bedroom door, stepping into the hush of the hallway, the light brighter now—soft gold spilling over everything. Her house was quiet. Safe. Still.

The kitchen welcomed her like muscle memory.

She flicked on the stove and pulled ingredients from the cabinets like she’d done it a hundred times—but this time with bare legs and Spencer’s shirt hanging loose on her frame, sleeves past her fingertips.

She grabbed a pan, some eggs, a bit of cheese, two slices of bread she could toast.

Nothing fancy.
Nothing that required measuring or thinking.

Just something warm.

Something he could eat curled back into bed, looking at her like she’d just delivered him from the grave.

While the eggs cooked, she leaned back against the counter, watching the yolks bubble as the toast popped up and the scent of something real and familiar filled the room.

Her chest swelled, slow and full.

He was still upstairs.
Still tangled in her sheets.
Still hers.

And she’d be back beside him in less than five minutes—plate in hand, a smug smile ready, and maybe—just maybe—a second cookie tucked into her palm for after.

Because if he was going to survive the morning?

He deserved a reward.

And so did she.