He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Not at first.

Just sat there—stoned, quiet, fucking aching in places he didn’t have names for.

The moment she let go of his hand?

He felt it like a goddamn wound.

But he didn’t stop her.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know if he was supposed to.

And when she stood—when her footsteps crunched away from him, slow and careful, like she was walking on something holy—he didn’t chase her.

Not with his body.

Just with every part of him that still wanted something more.

He watched her back.

That familiar curve of her spine, the way her hair whipped in the wind like she was some kind of painting he never deserved to touch.

And when she said that last part—“I just don’t know if staying’s what you want…”—something cracked.

Clean down the middle.

He stood.

Didn’t rush it.

Just pushed himself up with slow, uneven hands, like every motion might give him away.

Like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that this was real.

That she was real.

Still here.

Still waiting.

He didn’t walk all the way to her. Not at first.

Just stopped a few steps behind. Close enough to speak. Far enough to still fuck it up.

And when he finally said something, his voice was low—rough around the edges, like it had been torn from his throat.

“…I’m not waiting for you to leave.”

A pause. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, then loosened.

“I’m scared you will. Yeah. ’Cause people do.”

Another pause.

His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the back of her neck like maybe if he stared long enough, the words would hit where they were supposed to.

“But not ‘cause I want you to.”

A beat.

Then softer, like it hurt to say:

“I don’t want space, Leigh.”

The truth came out fractured. Sharp. Honest.

“I just don’t know how to do this without making a mess.”

Another step forward.

The wind caught his hoodie. His voice dipped.

“But I don’t want you to go.”

His gaze dropped. To her hands. Her arms crossed tight like armor.

“I like waking up to your hair in my mouth. I like when you steal my hoodies and then act like I should thank you. I like when you look at me like I’m not just some burnout waiting to implode.”

Another breath. Slower now. He scraped a hand down his face, then let it fall limp by his side.

“I don’t say the right shit. I don’t know how to be good at this.”

He took the last step forward.

Close now.

Close enough to reach.

“But I want you.”

Not loud.

Not desperate.

Just real.

“And I’ll stay. As long as you let me.”

Then, a whisper—softer than anything he’d said all day:

“Please let me.”

Leighton didn’t turn right away.

Not even when his voice broke behind her like a promise he didn’t know how to keep.

She just stood there, staring at the field below like it had something for her.

Answers. Peace. A distraction.

It didn’t.

But when he said “I’m not waiting for you to leave,”—
when he said “I want you,”—
when he said “Please let me”—

Her spine pulled straighter.

Not like she was bracing.

Like she was trying to keep from breaking.

She blinked hard once, then again, then turned.

Slow. Deliberate.

And there he was.

Spencer Walker, standing like the wind might knock him over if she didn’t reach out first. Hoodie tugged half-off his shoulder. Eyes wrecked. Hands open.

He looked so goddamn young.

So scared.

So his.

Leighton didn’t rush.

Didn’t sprint into his arms like this was a movie.

She walked.

Crossed the roof with the kind of calm that only came when every cell in her body already knew where she belonged.

Right there.

With him.

She stopped inches from his chest. Close enough to breathe him in.

And then—

slowly, steadily, irrevocably—

she reached up and cradled his jaw in both hands.

Not to hold him still.

To let him know.

“That’s the first time you’ve said all of it out loud.”

Her voice was soft. Warm. Threaded with something that felt too big to name.

“But it’s not the first time I’ve known.”

Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, catching a tremble there.

“You think I don’t see the way you hold back? The way you start to reach for me and stop? Like I’ll flinch if you love me too loud?”

She shook her head, smile barely there.

“I’m not afraid of your mess, Spencer.”

A breath.

A heartbeat.

“I just want in.”

And then—finally—she kissed him.

Not urgent. Not fast.

Just deep.

Like she could pour every ounce of belief she had into his mouth, into his hands, into the hollow of his ribs where the doubt still lived.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his and whispered:

“You don’t have to know how to be good at this.”

Her fingers slipped into his.

“You just have to keep showing up.”

Another breath.

“I’ll meet you here. Every time.”

He should’ve looked away.

Should’ve smirked. Shrugged. Made some half-assed joke about her being dramatic or how he wasn’t that messed up.

But he didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because when Leighton walked toward him like that—slow, certain, steady—he didn’t feel like Spencer Walker, the screwup with a rap sheet of bad decisions and worse timing.

He felt seen.

Held.

Fucking wanted.

And when her hands touched his face—when her thumb brushed his cheek like it was something worth being gentle with—he swore to God his whole body forgot how to stand.

He didn’t breathe when she spoke.

Didn’t blink.

Not when she said I just want in.

Not when she kissed him like she meant it.

Like she’d meant every single word.

His jaw tensed, not because he was mad—but because he felt too much.

It leaked into his hands, his chest, the back of his throat where all his words stayed stuck.

He didn’t move at first.

Didn’t know how.

Just stood there with her lips on his, her hands on his face, her body close enough to remind him he wasn’t dreaming.

And when she pulled back—when her forehead rested against his and she said You just have to keep showing up—

He broke.

Not loud.

Not messy.

Just a breath that caught on the way out.

Just his fingers squeezing hers like he was still scared she’d disappear if he let go.

His voice scraped low. Rough.

“...I didn’t think anyone would stay.”

The confession slipped out before he could stop it.

Too quiet.

Too honest.

Too fucking real.

His eyes shut tight like maybe if he didn’t look at her, it wouldn’t hurt as much to say it.

“But you did.”

His head dropped to her shoulder, and he let himself fall into her like gravity had finally picked a side.

“Every time I tried to push, you just—stayed.”

He shook his head, chest tight.

“I don’t get it. Why me.”

A beat.

Then, softer—almost ashamed:

“I don’t know how to be this person. I wanna get it right, Leigh. I just…”

He trailed off, hating how much he meant it. How much she meant to him.

How much it scared the hell out of him.

But his hand stayed in hers.

Tight.

Tethered.

And when the wind kicked up again, he didn’t flinch.

He just held on.

Let her be the still point in his storm. The part that didn’t run. The girl who kissed him like his scars were sacred and every mess he carried was just another reason to stay.

And for the first time in a long time—

he believed her.

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way he said it.

Not with the way he looked at her like she was some kind of miracle instead of just a girl who’d loved him since the second he let her see underneath the smoke and deflection.

So she held his hand tighter.

Let him drop his head to her shoulder.

Let him shake.

Let him breathe.

She tilted her face into his hair, shut her eyes, and stayed there—just like always.

And when she finally answered, her voice didn’t tremble.

Didn’t waver.

It was soft. Steady. Certain.

“You don’t have to get it right.”

A beat.

“You just have to let me in when it’s wrong.”

Her thumb traced over his wrist where she could feel his pulse—fast, fluttering, alive.

“I don’t want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I never did.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes searching his like she was memorizing every reason he thought he wasn’t worth this.

“You think I stayed because I didn’t see it all? The push and pull. The bad nights. The guilt you carry around like armor.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I stayed because I do.”

Her hand found his cheek again, soft and certain.

“I stayed because I love you.”

It was the first time she’d said it out loud.

And it didn’t scare her.

Not with him standing there like this.

Not when she’d already chosen him a hundred times in a hundred different ways.

“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” she whispered, voice almost breaking now. “I just want you to stop thinking you’re too broken to deserve this.”

Her forehead dropped to his again, and her breath hitched a little before she could stop it.

“Let me love you. Even when you don’t know how to let yourself.”

Her free hand curled into the back of his hoodie like she was grounding both of them.

“You’re not a storm to survive, Spence. You’re the reason I come back up here. Every single time.”

A beat.

Then, barely a breath—

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

Leighton didn’t let go.

Not even for a second.

Her hand stayed on his cheek, the other still tangled in the back of his hoodie like she was holding on for both of them now. Like she’d heard every sharp, scared, splintered thing in his voice and decided to stay anyway.

Because she had.

She was.

And then—quiet but certain—she pulled him closer by the fabric of his hoodie, slow and steady until their foreheads bumped again.

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers tightened.

And she kissed him.

Soft at first.

Then fuller.

Deeper.

Like she was trying to burn the truth into him with her mouth.

When she pulled back, she didn’t give him space to spiral. Didn’t let the silence stretch long enough for him to convince himself it wasn’t real.

She just looked at him—eyes glassy, voice low and fierce.

“I fucking love you, Spencer.”

She said it again.

Firm.

Unshaking.

Like it was already stitched into the sky above them.

“You do not scare me.”

Her thumb brushed under his eye, catching the place where tears might’ve fallen if he hadn’t already cried them all out.

“Your bad days?” she said softly. “The mess? The noise in your head?”

Another tug on his hoodie.

She pulled him in until their noses brushed.

“They’re not gonna make me run.”

She kissed him again—short, certain, full of promise.

Then pressed her lips to his temple.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

A vow.

“I promise.”

He didn’t deserve her.

Spencer fucking Walker, standing there with a hoodie that still smelled like smoke, with knuckles he couldn’t stop cracking when he was anxious and a heart stitched together out of barbed wire and bad decisions—he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

But she kissed him anyway.

Looked at him like he was something worth saving.

Said she loved him like it wasn’t a death sentence.

And the second she said it again—I fucking love you, Spencer—his knees nearly buckled.

He let her hold him together.

Let her mean it.

Let the words hit him straight in the chest like a goddamn meteor, burning up every last scrap of doubt and fear and guilt he’d been carrying since before he even knew what love was supposed to feel like.

Because this?

This wasn’t a maybe.

This wasn’t a game.

This was Leighton.

And she was saying it twice.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to look her in the eye without falling to pieces.

So he just stood there, forehead pressed to hers, hoodie clenched in her fist, hands shaking like she’d rewired his whole body with that kiss.

When her lips brushed his temple—a breath, a heartbeat, a vow—he let out the softest fucking sound, like a prayer that didn’t need words.

And then—because he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t hold it in, not when she’d said it like that—

He whispered, raw and low:

“I love you too.”

His voice cracked right down the middle.

Didn’t matter.

He meant every broken syllable.

He pulled her into him then—not gentle, not rough, just real—arms winding around her like he could keep the world out if he held her hard enough.

Like maybe if he just stayed like this, stayed here, he wouldn’t fuck it up.

And if he did?

If he shattered all over again?

He knew now—finally knew—she’d still be there.

Still choosing him.

Still saying it.

Still loving him when he forgot how.

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way his arms locked around her like she was air and gravity and something holy all at once. Not with the way his voice had broken on I love you too, like it cost him something to say it, like it meant something.

Like it was the truth.

She pressed her face into his chest, her fingers fisting tighter in the fabric of his hoodie, and let the moment settle. Let the weight of everything they’d just said—all the things they hadn’t—press down and wrap around them like a blanket only they fit under.

Then, quietly—so quietly—she smiled.

Because that was him.

Not perfect. Not easy. But hers.

Spencer fucking Walker, the boy who thought he was made of damage and static and too many sharp edges—had just cracked himself open and given her the only soft part he’d ever kept hidden.

And he’d done it for her.

With her.

She leaned back just enough to look at him—really look at him.

Eyes red-rimmed.
Jaw tight.
Breathing uneven.

But present.

Still here.

Still hers.

And she kissed him again—slower this time. Softer. Like she didn’t need to convince him anymore.

Like she just wanted to remind him what it meant to stay.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered into his mouth. “Even if you do forget how to say it. Even if you think you’ve messed it all up. I’m still choosing you.”

Another kiss. His jaw this time. The corner of his mouth. His neck, right beneath his ear where she knew he always tensed.

“I love you. All of you. The mess, the silence, the noise.”

She slid her arms up around his neck and tucked herself close again, letting the weight of his love settle on her shoulders like armor instead of ache.

“We’ve got time,” she breathed. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to let me be here.”

And with that, she just held him.

Not fixing.
Not changing.

Just staying.

With the boy who thought he wasn’t worth it.

With the boy she’d never stop choosing.

He didn’t know how to breathe with her saying shit like that.

Didn’t know how to stand there and let it hit him—all of it, full force—without folding in on himself like a goddamn paper cutout version of a boy who didn’t believe in happy endings.

But he didn’t break.

Not this time.

Not with her pressed close. Not with her voice in his ear and her hands in his hoodie and her love like a fucking lighthouse in the middle of all his wreckage.

He just… held her.

Tight.

Like letting go might undo the whole universe.

His jaw clenched, not because he was mad, but because it was the only thing keeping the sob from ripping out of his throat. The kind that didn’t come with tears—just years of trying to survive with a heart that never thought it got to keep anything this good.

She kissed his neck and his knees damn near gave out.

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible. Just for her. Just for this.

Like maybe if he said it soft enough, it wouldn’t ruin the moment.

He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing her in like it was the first clean air he’d tasted in years. And maybe it was.

Maybe she was.

And when she said we’ve got time—when she said you don’t have to know how—

Something inside him cracked.

But it didn’t bleed.

It bloomed.

And all he could do was nod, one shaky inhale at a time, until his voice came back enough to say:

“Don’t let go yet.”

A beat.

Quieter.

“Not ready.”

Because for once?

He didn’t want to disappear.

He wanted to stay.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t fill the silence with reassurance or softness or anything that might feel too big for the moment.

She just held on.

Tighter.

Steadier.

Like her arms were the answer.

Like being here, with him pressed this close and her fingers hooked into the back of his hoodie like a lifeline, was the answer.

When he whispered “Don’t let go yet”, her heart cracked open in the best kind of way. Quiet and raw and so fucking real it made her chest ache with how much she loved him.

She buried her face against his hair, kissed the crown of his head so gently it barely registered as pressure at all.

“I won’t,” she breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her right hand slid up to cup the back of his neck, thumb brushing along the edge of his hairline while the other stayed curled into his sweatshirt like she could anchor him with both.

And maybe she could.

When he mumbled “Not ready,” she whispered back, just as soft:

“Then we won’t move. We don’t have to.”

Because they didn’t.

Not until he was ready.

Not until he felt steady enough to let go without unraveling.

So she rocked him gently, forehead resting against his temple, their shadows stretching long across the rooftop like proof that they were still here.

Still choosing each other.

Still staying.

And when the breeze picked up—tugging at the edges of their clothes and the echoes of everything they couldn’t quite say yet—Leighton didn’t flinch.

She just pressed another kiss into his hair, held him tighter, and whispered it again like a promise he could climb into and live inside if he needed:

“I’ve got you.”

She didn’t rush it.

Didn’t tug or demand or speak.

Just started pressing soft, lingering kisses to his temple. The curve of his cheek. The corner of his jaw.

Gentle reminders.

Not just of love—but of presence.

Of here.

Of still.

Each one was slow. Deliberate. Barely-there. But steady enough that eventually, he had to lift his head. Had to look at her.

And when he did—when those eyes met hers, still stormy but less frantic, less ready to vanish—Leighton leaned in and kissed him again.

Not hard. Not heated.

Just true.

A kiss that said: You’re not a fuck up to me. You’re not some cautionary tale. You’re my boyfriend.

And he was.

God, he was.

The only one who ever saw past her silence. Past her art and her walls and her sharp edges that came out when she was scared.

She kissed him again—his lips this time, soft and slow, thumb brushing his jaw—and held his gaze when they broke apart just long enough to breathe.

“This isn’t some high school phase, Spence,” she whispered. “You’re mine.”

Another kiss, this one closer to his mouth.

“And I’m yours.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, her voice barely a breath now:

“We might be messed up. We might have trauma and shit we haven’t even said out loud yet, but I’m not afraid of yours.”

She kissed his cheek again, right beneath his eye.

“And I’ll keep reminding you every day that you don’t have to be afraid of mine.”

Her forehead pressed to his once more.

No rush. No weight he couldn’t carry.

Just truth.

“We get through it together. Okay? All of it.”

Then—softer than everything else, almost like a prayer:

“Because you’re not just my boyfriend, Spencer. You’re my person.”

And she wasn’t letting go.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t trust his voice.

Didn’t trust that if he opened his mouth, it wouldn’t all come spilling out in a way that felt too much, too fast, too real.

But her hands didn’t flinch.

Her voice didn’t shake.

And those kisses? God—those kisses felt like forgiveness for things he hadn’t even named yet.

So he let it in.

Let her in.

Because Spencer Walker didn’t believe in second chances. Didn’t believe in love that didn’t leave. Not really. Not until her.

She called him hers like it wasn’t a threat or a test. Like she meant it. Like she’d already planted her flag in the most fucked-up parts of him and said yeah, this too.

And somehow?

He believed her.

Even if it scared the shit out of him.

Even if the voice in his head still whispered that he’d ruin it. That he always ruined it.

Because Leighton? She wasn’t a maybe.

She was a fucking lighthouse.

And he was tired of pretending he didn’t want to be found.

So when her forehead pressed to his again—soft, steady, real—he let his hands slide from her waist to her back, holding her like he was still learning how.

Not gripping.

Not desperate.

Just there.

He leaned in—just barely—and whispered against her lips like it hurt to say but hurt more to keep in:

“You make it feel like I could actually stay.”

Not perfect.

Not whole.

But present.

And with her?

That was enough.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t rush to fill the silence he left between them.

Because Leighton felt it.

All of it.

Every inch of his hesitation, every shadow in his voice, every quiet way his hands held her like he was still afraid this might not be real.

And she held it too.

Held him.

Gently, fiercely, without conditions.

Her hands cupped his face again—thumbs brushing across his cheekbones like maybe, just maybe, she could smooth out every scar the world had left on him.

And when he said it—

You make it feel like I could actually stay—

she exhaled like it physically knocked the wind out of her.

Because that?

That wasn’t just a confession.

That was Spencer Walker, battle-worn and heartbreak-bruised, letting her see him. Letting her matter.

She swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to his lips, then back to his eyes.

“You can stay,” she whispered. “You already are.”

She leaned in then, pressed her lips to his—soft, steady, no fireworks or fanfare, just truth. Just them.

Because this wasn’t about the drama. Wasn’t about the high of it.

It was about the fact that he was still here.

Still choosing her.

Still letting her love him even when he didn’t know how to love himself.

When she pulled back just enough to breathe, she rested her forehead against his and let her voice fall to a hush:

“I don’t need perfect. I don’t need easy.”

A beat.

“I just need you.”

Her hand slipped down to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it stutter beneath her palm like it knew the weight of this.

Like it believed her.

Finally.

She smiled then—barely there, just for him—and whispered one more thing into the air between them, like a promise she meant to keep:

“I’ll keep the light on, Spencer. No matter how long it takes you to find your way back.”

Because if he was lost?

She’d wait.

And if he stayed?

She’d never let go.