Walker Residence
 

Damien, Sophia and Spencer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she loved it.

God, she loved it.

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

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

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

There was no pretending here.

No performance.

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

Her fingers curled tighter in his.

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

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

And now that she had it?

She wasn’t letting go.

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

He hadn’t moved in a while.

Hadn’t needed to.

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

And maybe it was.

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

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

“I like it here,” she murmured.

Simple. Unadorned.

But real.

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

The softness he didn’t show anyone else.

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

Like he liked her here too.

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

But she didn’t repeat them.

She didn’t need to.

Because he already knew.

And she was still here.

Spencer didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t need to.
Didn’t want to.

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

But she had.

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

And God… that did something to him.

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

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

And it leveled him.

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

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

She saw that guy.

And she still said she liked it here.

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

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

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

But real.

And she was his.

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

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

A pause.

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

He meant it like a joke. Mostly.

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

But she hadn’t.

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

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

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

“I like you here too, Leight.”

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

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

And after a long beat, he added, deadpan:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer didn’t answer at first.

Couldn’t.

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

And now?

Now she was in it.

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

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

Because no one had ever made staying sound like this.

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

Instead, he just touched her.

Carefully. Reverently.

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

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

“You wreck me, Leia.”

It wasn’t a complaint.

It was a confession.

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

It was foundation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leighton didn’t rush to answer.

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

Because it did.

Because he meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, really.

Because damn.

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

She was doing it to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers slipped through hers again, anchoring.

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

A beat.

Then, softer:

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

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

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

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

Because she was the storm.

And she’d chosen to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For once, staying didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like choosing.

And she was choosing him.

Always.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t have to.

Because God, she knew.

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

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

Just him.

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

Being chosen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because for once, the future could wait.

This was now.
And now was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re my favorite too, Starboy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause, teasing now, almost sing-song.

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

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

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