The building itself looks like it’s been part of the island forever—weather-beaten wood, rusted metal accents, and old fishing nets tangled across the sides like forgotten spiderwebs. Faded, hand-painted signs from the warehouse days still cling stubbornly to the walls, half-covered now by colorful graffiti tags, layered stickers, and clumsy drawings of waves, turtles, and inside jokes only the locals understand.

The wide loading dock juts out like a stage, its concrete cracked and patched in places, but sturdy enough to hold a jumble of kids and their boards. Someone spray-painted a rough half-pipe on one end, while the other side is cluttered with secondhand patio furniture: mismatched lawn chairs, a tire swing hanging from a coconut tree, and a couple of ratty couches dragged under the tin awning.

Near the tree line, hammocks sag between tall palms, their fabric faded from the sun. Boards—skateboards, surfboards, even a few beat-up boogie boards—are propped haphazardly against the trunks. Old fairy lights zig-zag between the trees and the awning, giving the whole place a sleepy, golden glow after sunset. You can hear the low thump of music vibrating through the ground, mixed with the occasional slap of a skateboard hitting concrete or someone’s laughter cracking across the heavy island air.

Past the hangout space, the ground slopes down into a sandy, grassy stretch where teenagers sometimes build small bonfires, using driftwood and whatever they can find. The ocean isn’t far—you can smell the salt and hear the waves if you sit quiet enough—but The Drift Lab itself feels tucked away, like a secret base where time moves slower and nobody’s in a rush to leave.

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

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

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

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

Spencer didn’t answer.
Not with words.

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

Leighton smiled. Sharp. Bright. Mean.

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t matter.
She was past pretending.

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

She almost pitied him.

Almost.

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

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

But Spencer stayed silent.

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

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

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

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

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

“I brought backup.”

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

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

She didn’t need to.
Not anymore.

Spencer didn’t flinch.

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

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

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

She was right, wasn’t she?

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

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

But inside?

Inside, he was raging.

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

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

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

He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.

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

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

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

Because this was all he had left.

And hell if he was gonna walk away again.

She didn’t scream.

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

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

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

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

And Leighton—
She just stared at him.

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

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

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

Wanted to forgive him.

Wanted to let it be simple again.

But it wasn’t simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer didn’t flinch.

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

And that pissed him off more than anything.

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

But she didn’t.

She just stood there.

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

Just… back to the circle.

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

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

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

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

They knew better now.

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

Spencer’s hands ached.
His chest ached worse.

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

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

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

For a second—

One second—
Spencer shifted.
One step toward her.

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

But he stopped.

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

Because what was the point?

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

So he just stood there.

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

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

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

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer.

Still there.
Still watching.

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

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

It hit her so hard she almost dropped the joint.

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

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

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

She blinked up.

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

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

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

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

It didn’t.

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

And he did it again.

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

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

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

Saw the way his whole body went stiller than still.

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

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

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

Fear.

Not of Spencer.
Never of Spencer.

But of what he might do.

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

Spencer didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move a goddamn inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze never wavered.
Not once.

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

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

The guy didn’t flinch.

Didn’t back off.

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

And Spencer—
God, Spencer—
He just stared.

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

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

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

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

He wanted it.

He fucking craved it.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Just stood there.

Burning.

Daring.

Waiting.

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

His shoulders rolled once, slow, deliberate, predatory.

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

The look in his eyes said it all:

You’re living on borrowed time, asshole.

Leighton moved.

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

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

She didn’t dare look right away.

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

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

Spencer was still there.

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

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

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

It was something worse.
Something heavier.

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

Come with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t turn around.

Didn’t have to.

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

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

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

She finally looked down.

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

He wasn’t breathing right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So she didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

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

Spencer couldn’t breathe right.

Couldn’t think.

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

She didn’t say anything.

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

And that—
That fucked him up worse than anything.

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

But this?

This quiet.
This aching.

It gutted him.

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t.

Instead—

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

Slow.
Shaky.

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

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

Just a touch.
Just the tiniest anchor.

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

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

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

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

But it was something.

And it was Spencer’s way of saying:

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

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

Leighton watched him.

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

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

But for the toe of her boot.

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

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

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

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

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

But Leighton knew better.

Knew him better.

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

So she didn’t speak.
Didn’t push.

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

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

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

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

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

But he was there.

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

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

Not demanding.
Not suffocating.

Just there.

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

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

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

She understood.

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

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

And Spencer—

God, Spencer—

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

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

She didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.

Just held on.

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

The kind that stayed.

Even when it hurt.

Especially then.