Spencer couldn’t move.

Wouldn’t, even if he could.

Because she’d just handed him a version of herself he knew not everyone got to see. The version with the sharp edges dulled by trust. The version that didn’t hide behind jokes or jabs or that signature Leighton deflect-and-disarm charm.

This was the real her.

The one who cracked herself open—quietly, carefully—and let him see inside.

And God, he felt it everywhere. In the way she touched him like he was something steady. In the way her voice trembled like a truth finally spoken out loud. In the way her breath hitched against his jaw like she hadn’t meant to say all that, but had to.

He stared at the ceiling for a beat—eyes glassy, chest tight, heartbeat thudding so loud it felt like it echoed in the room.

She didn’t need him to say it back.

Didn’t need a fix.

Didn’t even ask for anything except what she already had.

Him.

And that wrecked him a little. In the softest way possible.

He turned his head slowly, just enough to brush his lips against her hair, and let out a breath that sounded like something breaking and healing at the same time.

Then, still quiet, still him:

“You’re not too much.”

Another pause.

“But if you were…” His fingers found her hand, lacing between hers gently. “I’d still choose you.”

His voice stayed low, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“You think I don’t get it, but I do. I know what it’s like to walk around waiting for the day someone decides loving you is too hard. Too loud. Too complicated. So you pre-warn them. Push first. Hide the blueprint before they can use it against you.”

His thumb brushed along hers.

“I’ve done that my whole damn life.”

He leaned in just enough for their foreheads to meet again. Stayed there.

“I don’t need a polished version of you, Leighton. I want this one. The real one. The one who tells me when she’s spiraling and doesn’t fake being fine. The one who panics and still chooses to try. The one who wears my shirt like armor and somehow looks braver than I ever have.”

His voice cracked then—just a little.

And he didn’t bother hiding it.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Not this time.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

Then softer, into her hair:

“You’re allowed to be soft with me.”

He kissed the top of her head. Let his arms tighten just a little around her. Just enough to say you’re safe here. With me.

And then?

He stayed.

Not because she asked.

But because he wanted to.

Leighton didn’t rush it.

Didn’t flinch or laugh it off or say something biting to cushion the fall.

She just looked at him.

Really looked—like she was trying to memorize every part of this moment: the crack in his voice, the way his hands held hers like they meant it, the way he stayed even after she gave him every excuse to run.

And maybe it wasn’t fireworks or dramatic music or some perfect romcom confession.

But it was real.

Real enough to make her chest ache in the best kind of way.

So she leaned in—slow and certain—and kissed him.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just honest.

Her mouth met his like a promise. Like a thank you. Like a quiet, steady kind of I’m all in.

And when she pulled back, just far enough to breathe, her forehead rested against his. Her voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you.”

No games. No disclaimers.

Just that.

Just him.

Leighton didn’t let go.

Not right away.

Not even after the kiss broke, not even when the weight of the words settled between them like gravity—like truth. Her fingers stayed knotted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his chest, as if part of her still couldn’t believe she was allowed to touch him like this. To say something that mattered and not have it thrown back in her face.

And God, she’d said it.

I love you.

It hung there, not as a test or a plea, but as fact. Her voice steady, if a little breathless. Her eyes burning—not from fear this time, but from the ridiculous, unbearable hope that maybe he felt it too. That maybe she hadn’t just set fire to everything soft inside her for nothing.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was thick with all the things she’d never said out loud before. Not like this. Not to someone who actually stayed.

She shifted just enough to take him in—really take him in.

The way his lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his mouth parted like he might speak but didn’t, like he was still catching up to the moment.

So she kissed him again.

Quieter this time. Slower. Less like punctuation and more like permission. Less like a rush and more like the answer to a question she’d been asking for years without knowing it.

And when she pulled back again—just an inch, just enough—her voice was smaller, but no less sure.

“You don’t have to say it back.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek, then fell lightly to his jaw, grounding herself in the solidness of him. The realness. The fact that this wasn’t some fantasy built from scraps of almosts and maybes.

“This wasn’t a trick. Or a moment I’ll take back tomorrow.”

A beat passed. Her gaze flicked from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

“I’m not asking for forever. I’m just—”

She exhaled, shaky but certain.

“I’m asking you to let me love you. However long I get to.”

And that was it.

The whole, breakable truth of her—laid bare in the quiet. In his shirt. On the couch. Wrapped around the boy who kept showing up.

And this time?

She didn’t pull away.

Spencer didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when her voice sounded like the soft edge of something sacred. Not when she kissed him like her heart already knew he was hers—and maybe always had been.

She said it.

I love you.

And it didn’t feel like a bomb or a dare or a cliff to jump off.

It felt like gravity.

Like the thing that had been pulling him toward her since the beginning finally had a name.

His chest burned. His throat burned. His eyes burned.

Because no one had ever said it like that before. Not without strings. Not without expectation. Not with that kind of steady, stupid courage.

And when she said “I’m asking you to let me love you. However long I get to,”—

He was done for.

He dropped his forehead back to hers, jaw tight, eyes closed like he was trying to trap the moment in amber.

“You already do,” he whispered.

A breath. Barely a breath.

Then, rougher—warmer—like something breaking open:

“Every time I look at you and forget how to lie to myself.”

His hands cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing just beneath her eyes like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Every time you call me out, pull me back, let me in.”

He swallowed hard.

“You’ve been loving me this whole time, Leia.”

A pause. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, and he almost smiled—almost—but couldn’t quite pull it off through the ache in his chest.

“I just didn’t know how to let myself believe it.”

And then—softly, finally, like the only truth that had ever mattered:

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was a match struck in the dark.

And Spencer?

Spencer didn’t pull away either.

He kissed her like it was a vow.

And meant every second of it.

Leighton didn’t cry.

Not really.

But her eyes burned and her throat ached and her hands curled into his shirt like she was holding onto something holy. Because she’d said it—terrified, bare, trembling with truth—and he hadn’t run. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t joked his way around it.

He’d met her in the moment.

Matched it.

Matched her.

And now he was saying it back, not like a reflex or a rescue, but like something he’d been holding inside his ribs for longer than he knew how to name. Like every time he looked at her, he had to remind himself it was real—that she was.

She wasn’t sure when her breath caught.

Maybe when his voice cracked.

Maybe when he touched her like she was something precious and real, not delicate, not breakable—but worthy. Like she was worth staying for. Worth choosing. Worth loving.

And then he kissed her.

God, he kissed her.

And it didn’t feel like the kind of kiss that ends a night.

It felt like the kind that begins everything.

So she kissed him back.

Slow. Certain. Honest. The kind of kiss you only give when you’ve stopped hiding. When you’ve already said the hardest thing out loud and the sky didn’t fall.

When you know—finally know—that you’re not the only one feeling it.

Her fingers slipped into his hair. His arms wrapped fully around her like they’d always belonged there. And everything else—the movie, the pillows, the world—faded into nothing.

Because this?

This was everything.

When they finally broke apart, still close, still tangled, still wrapped in the warmth of something terrifying and true, she pressed her forehead to his and smiled.

Small. Quiet. Stupidly full of hope.

“You better not bail during the dog reunion commercial now,” she whispered.

And then, softer still—just for him:

“Because I’m not letting you go either.”

She didn’t move right away.

Just stayed right there, forehead against his, like maybe if she kept still enough, time would slow down and let her live inside the moment a little longer.

But eventually—when her heart stopped trying to beat its way out of her chest and the world steadied around the sound of his breathing—Leighton leaned in.

Tucked herself against his side like muscle memory.

Her legs folded up beneath her, knees bent and pressed gently into his thigh, toes curling under the blanket they’d kicked half off the couch hours ago. One hand still tangled loosely in his shirt, the other resting along the slope of his ribs, like she needed to feel him breathe to believe it was real.

Because she was so far gone.

Like—floating, dumb-grin, I-might-actually-be-glowing gone.

The kind of cloud-nine she used to roll her eyes at in other people. The kind she didn’t think she’d ever get. Not really. Not for her.

But here she was.

Wrapped in the arms of the boy who’d said I love you like it was a fact, not a gamble. Who kissed her like he meant it. Who stayed.

She tilted her head to glance at the TV—half a second, maybe less.

Couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t even pretend to care about whatever early-2000s rom-com was mumbling in the background, because all she could think about was the way his fingers were still drawing slow, absent circles into her arm. The way he shifted just slightly to make more space for her like it wasn’t even a question.

Like they fit.

Like this fit.

Her voice was barely a whisper when it came, more thought than sound.

“I can’t feel my face.”

And then—because she knew he’d be smug about it, and because she couldn’t stop herself—she turned just enough to meet his eyes, cheeks still pink, mouth fighting back a crooked, dazed grin.

“Don’t say it.”

But he didn’t have to.

Not when he was already smiling too. Not when she was still pressed against him like she never planned on moving again. Not when the air around them was thick with everything they hadn’t been brave enough to say until now.

She looked back at the TV.

And stayed curled against his side.

Totally useless for the rest of the night.

Utterly, stupidly, happily doomed.

Spencer couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the full-blown kind. Not the sharp, performative one he used to wear like armor.

This one was quieter. Warmer. Barely there—just a twitch of his mouth, a crinkle at the corner of his eye. Like something had settled in his chest and decided to stay.

Because she said it.

Because he said it.

Because they didn’t combust.

He watched her tuck into him like she’d always belonged there, all cotton softness and ridiculous, devastating gravity, and he didn’t even pretend not to notice the way her fingers curled into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. Like he was.

And maybe he was.

Because God, he felt weightless and heavy all at once. Like the world was still spinning but he’d finally found something to hold on to.

She murmured it—“I can’t feel my face”—and his grin deepened before she even looked up.

Then came the warning: “Don’t say it.”

Too late.

Because the smirk was already there, lazily blooming across his face as he dropped his gaze to hers, eyes soft, voice even softer.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

Beat.

“Was definitely thinking it, though.”

He didn’t say anything else right away.

Just let the moment stretch.

Let his hand drift to the back of her neck, fingertips brushing the curve of it like he couldn’t quite believe he got to touch her like this—without the fear of shattering it.

Without pretending it was temporary.

She felt like always.

“Leia…” he said, voice low, like it was a secret just for her. Like the name itself meant something more now—something sacred.

He tilted his head until their foreheads touched again, breath mingling in the space between words.

“I meant it,” he murmured. “All of it.”

And then, quieter still:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever made staying feel easy.”

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, reverent.

No rush. No pressure.

Just presence.

She wasn’t the only one floating.

Because Spencer Walker—messy, guarded, sarcastic Spencer—was so gone for this girl.

And for once?

He wasn’t scared of it.

Leighton didn’t pull back right away.

She just stayed there, forehead resting against his, breathing him in. Letting the moment settle around them like a blanket—quiet, warm, undeserved in the way all good things feel when you’ve spent your whole life bracing for the fall.

And maybe she was still bracing.

But not from him.

Not tonight.

Her fingers traced the hem of his shirt like she was memorizing it—like if she could just get the texture right, maybe the rest wouldn’t feel so impossible. His heartbeat thrummed beneath her palm, steady and solid and here, and she closed her eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Then she kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Fuller.

Not a promise, but something close. A thank you she didn’t know how to say out loud. An I love you, again, without needing the words.

He didn’t move, didn’t rush it. Just let her have the space, the closeness, the ache. His hands stayed steady—one on her hip, the other cupping the side of her neck like she might vanish if he wasn’t careful.

She broke the kiss on a breath. Stayed close. Let her nose brush his.

“I don’t do this,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “The whole—stay and feel and let it be real thing. I don’t let people mean this much.”

Her hand slipped up to his chest, curling into the fabric there like she needed to anchor herself. Like the contact might keep her from unraveling.

“But you do. You mean something. And I don’t know what to do with that except try not to screw it up.”

Her voice shook just enough to make her bite the inside of her cheek.

“I want to be good at this. With you.”

Her thumb moved absently along his collarbone, grounding herself in the smallest movements.

“I don’t need you to fix anything. I just—can we stay right here? Just for a little while?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

She just leaned in again, softer this time. Mouth brushing his like a secret she wasn’t ready to share out loud.

And then?

She stayed. Tucked into his side, legs folded up, heart thudding like it finally had permission to want.

Not forever. Not yet.

Just this.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Spencer didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, really—not until she tucked herself in again like it was instinct, like her body already knew exactly how to fit next to his. Like they’d done this a thousand times in other lives, other timelines, and now the universe had finally caught up.

His chest felt too full.

Of what, he wasn’t even sure.

Her, maybe.

Hope.

The bone-deep kind of want that didn’t scream or burn—it glowed. Quiet and steady, like the light under a bedroom door that never went out.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and tilted his head just enough to rest his cheek against her hair. His arm wrapped tighter around her, like he was trying to memorize the weight of her leaning on him.

And when he spoke?

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t careful. It was Spencer, stripped back to his softest setting.

“You are good at this,” he said, voice low, right into the crown of her head. “I know you don’t think you are, but, Leia…”

He smiled—small, private, entirely hers.

“You make me want to be good at it too.”

He let the quiet sit with them for a second before continuing, his thumb drawing slow circles into her side beneath the hem of her shirt.

“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight. We don’t have to pretend we’re some perfect couple who eats matching yogurt or—whatever healthy people do.”

A pause. His grin widened just a little.

“We just have to keep showing up. Keep being real. And if real means cereal commercials and late-night spiral naps and you stealing every one of my shirts, I’m in.”

He kissed the top of her head—soft and full of the kind of affection he never thought he’d be allowed to give out loud—and leaned back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t have to do anything special to be worth staying for, okay?”

His eyes softened. His fingers brushed her jaw.

“You’re already it.”

He didn’t say “I love you” again.

He didn’t need to.

Not when he was already looking at her like it was the only language he’d ever learned fluently.

Not when she was curled against him like maybe—just maybe—this was what safe felt like.

So he pulled the blanket up over her legs, shifted just enough to settle deeper into the couch with her weight against his, and reached for the remote with his free hand.

“Movie’s probably garbage,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into her hair. “But I’m not watching it anyway.”

Then, quieter:

“I’ve got better things to look at.”

And he did.

She was right there. Still.

And that?

That was everything.

Leighton’s breath hitched a little as she nestled back into him, the weight of everything they’d just said still buzzing under her skin like static electricity. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t have to be. But it was there. Crackling in her chest. Blooming behind her ribs.

She could still taste him on her lips. Still feel the way his hand hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t stopped grounding her, like maybe he needed it just as much as she did.

Because this wasn’t just a moment.

It was a shift.

And maybe it wasn’t flashy or dramatic or dressed up in perfect timing. Maybe it was just two kids on a secondhand couch, clinging to a feeling they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

But it felt like everything.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her legs, tucking them up beneath her as her body folded easily into his. One of her arms slipped under his, wrapping around his middle. And with her face pressed to his chest, she could hear it—his heartbeat, still fast, still real.

Still there.

“I used to think…” she started, voice quiet, vulnerable in the way she hated letting herself be, “that I had to do something big to be enough. Like if I wasn’t impressive or useful or ‘the strong one,’ I’d lose people.”

She felt him tense slightly under her, like the weight of those words hit somewhere familiar.

“But with you? I don’t feel like I have to earn it.”

She tilted her chin up just enough to glance at him, her lips quirking into a tired, honest smile.

“I just get to be. And that scares the shit out of me.”

She let out a shaky laugh. Not bitter—just real.

“But I want to keep choosing it. Even when it’s scary. Especially when it is.”

Then she kissed him again—shorter this time, but just as full of that quiet, heart-splitting affection. The kind that made her brave enough to stay soft.

Her voice was barely more than a breath against his collarbone when she spoke again.

“So, yeah… I guess we’re just two disaster people with commitment issues and questionable coping mechanisms—”

She looked up at him again, eyes shining.

“—who maybe just fell in love for real on a Thursday.”

Her grin turned crooked. Her thumb traced slow, lazy lines against his chest.

“Pretty solid date night, if you ask me.”

And then she rested her head back down like she’d finally found the spot that fit her best.

Because she had.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t trust himself to—not when his chest was doing that weird, tight, achey thing like his whole ribcage was trying to hold in the fact that she just cracked him wide open.

He stared down at her, heart pounding loud enough he was pretty sure she could hear it, and let her words settle into all the hollow places he’d spent most of his life pretending didn’t exist.

I don’t have to earn it.

That one hit different.

Because he’d spent years believing the opposite. That love was transactional. That you had to be charming enough or funny enough or broken in the right way to make someone stay. And now she was curled into him like she knew him—like she wanted to know him—and he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could stop performing.

Just be.

“I hate how much I love that you called us disaster people,” he said after a beat, voice low and just a little rough at the edges. “Like—accurate. Deeply rude. But accurate.”

His hand found the back of her head, threading into her hair, thumb brushing lightly behind her ear. A quiet thank-you. A silent me too.

“You scare the shit out of me too, Leia,” he added, soft and real and just for her. “But in the good way. Like rollercoaster panic. Like almost-miss-the-turn-but-make-it-anyway kind of terrifying.”

And then, before she could call him out for being sappy—

“You should know I’m blaming you for this permanent softboy rebrand. I had a whole bad boy image going.”

She snorted quietly against his chest.

And then—

“Just grabbing my water,” Violet’s voice called as she passed through the room like she wasn’t absolutely doing recon.

Spencer stiffened slightly, instinct kicking in before his brain could stop it. But Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t untangle herself from him like it was something to hide.

So neither did he.

He just offered Violet a small nod as she passed the threshold, eyes warm, hand still tangled in Leighton’s hair.

And if her mother narrowed her eyes just slightly?

Well.

He’d survived pilaf night.

He could survive this.

When the kitchen door finally swung closed behind her, he let out a breath and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Leighton’s head.

Then—

“Might need a five-year plan just to earn your mom’s neutral expression,” he muttered against her hair. “But honestly? Worth it.”

A pause.

Then he tilted her chin gently, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Disaster person or not, I’m in. And if we keep having Thursday nights like this?”

His grin went soft. Boyish.

“I’ll take the whole damn week.”

Leighton didn’t lift her head when Violet passed through. She heard the cabinet open, the faint clink of glass, the beat of deliberate silence that said I’m not looking—but I’m definitely looking.

And for the first time in forever, she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t scramble to sit up or throw some sarcastic line into the air like armor.

Because Spencer’s arm was still around her. His hand was still in her hair. And she didn’t want to pretend this was anything less than what it was.

So she just murmured, quiet and steady:

“She already knows.”

A pause. Then, because it was Violet:

“And she’ll pretend she doesn’t until she finds a way to weaponize it. Probably over breakfast.”

Spencer huffed a laugh against her crown, and she smiled, lazy and small, her fingers curling a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt.

She finally tilted her face to look up at him, eyes still a little dazed, a little too full.

“Neutral expression’s basically her love language,” she said, mock solemn. “If she gives you a full smile before Halloween, we’ll have to call the Vatican.”

But her voice softened at the edges then—serious without losing the warmth.

“I think she likes that I’m softer with you.”

A beat.

“God knows she’s been trying to get me to drop the ‘I’m fine’ act since middle school.”

She reached up, traced the side of his jaw with her knuckles. Light. Thoughtful. Still stunned by how easy it felt to touch him like this and not pull away.

“Sorry about the softboy rebrand, by the way,” she teased gently, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Kind of a hazard of dating someone who cries during golden retriever ads.”

Then she kissed him again—slow and close-mouthed and not trying to prove anything.

Just because she could.

Because he was still here.

And because she meant it.

When she pulled back, her voice was soft and a little sleepy.

“I’m in too. For Thursday nights. For weird mid-week feelings. For you.”

She didn’t say forever.

But it felt like it.

And that was enough.