Spencer felt her hand before he even realized what she was doing.

Small. Warm.
Wrapping around his busted knuckles like she wasn't scared of the damage stitched into him.
Like she was reaching for him, not just the piece of him he was willing to give.

He froze.

For one cracked, splintering second, every instinct screamed at him to pull away.

Not because he didn’t want it.
God, he wanted it so bad it hollowed him out from the inside.

But because he didn’t know how to take it without breaking it.
Without breaking her.

And then—
she tugged.

Just a little.
Just enough.

And Spencer moved.

He stumbled a half-step closer, heart slamming so loud in his ears it drowned out everything else.
His body went tight, coiled into itself like he was expecting the hit, the recoil, the rejection that always came after he let someone too close.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she leaned in.

Soft. Deliberate.
Resting her forehead against his chest like she already knew the war going on underneath it.

Spencer stared over her head, breathing like a man trying not to drown.
His hands shook where she still held them, barely tethered by her steady grip.

He didn’t know what the hell to do with it.
Didn’t know what to do with the way it felt like his ribs were splintering one by one just from the weight of being wanted like this.

No screaming.
No accusations.
No demands for more than he could give.

Just—
Stay.

Just—
Let me hold the broken parts without trying to fix them.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until the sharp metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth again.

He didn’t deserve this.
Didn’t deserve her.

He wanted to tell her that.
Wanted to ruin it the way he ruined everything, rip it apart before she realized he wasn’t worth the goddamn effort.

But he couldn’t.
Not with her touching him like that.
Not with her heartbeat bleeding steady against his ribs.

So he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

He just leaned his forehead down against the top of her head, his whole body curling inward, folding into the small space she made for him like it was the only thing left tethering him to the earth.

And in a voice so low and raw he barely recognized it as his own, Spencer whispered into the silence between them:

"Don’t go."

The words cracked open his chest as they left him.

Not a demand.
Not a command.
Just a plea.

Small. Wrecked.
Real.

Because for all the ways he'd tried to drive her away,
for all the ways he told himself she deserved better—
he didn’t know how to survive losing her again.

Not when she was the only thing in his whole fucked-up world that ever felt like home.

Leighton felt it—the second his forehead dropped against hers.

Heavy. Hesitant.
Like every part of him was still learning how to stay.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t tighten her grip to trap him.
Didn’t whisper anything to break the moment open too wide.

Just stayed there.
Breathing against his chest.
Holding his shaking hands in hers.

It wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t fixed.

But it was real.
And that counted for more than she could say.

She felt the slight tremor ripple through him before she heard it—the quiet, broken scrape of his voice barely threading into the space between them.

“Don’t go.”

Her breath caught, a sharp, aching thing lodged high in her throat.

God.

If he only knew.

If he knew how many nights she’d already chosen him without him even asking.
How many times she’d stood still while he tried to tear down the only bridge still standing between them.

How many pieces of herself she’d quietly stitched together just so she could keep offering him something he didn’t have to be scared to touch.

She squeezed his hands gently—just once—enough to tell him she heard him.
Enough to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

Leighton let her eyes fall shut, the rough fabric of his hoodie scratching soft against her forehead, his scent wrapping around her like something old and familiar and earned.

She shifted her grip without thinking—sliding her fingers up to his wrists, feeling the pulse there hammering frantic and alive—and tugged a little more firmly this time.

Guiding, not dragging.

An invitation, not a demand.

And when he finally, finally let himself fold into her fully—body slotting into the space between her knees like he was scared he might break it by moving too fast—Leighton wrapped her arms around him.

Tight. Steady.
Careful where he needed careful, firm where he needed anchoring.

She pressed her cheek against the side of his head, closed her eyes against the burn in them, and just held him.

Like he wasn’t too much.
Like he wasn’t failing.
Like he was still worth fighting for even when he didn’t know how to ask.

Her hands moved slow over the trembling line of his back, not trying to fix, not trying to fill the silence with promises she couldn’t make.

Just there.

Just breathing with him.
For him, if that’s what it took.

Leighton wasn’t naive.
She knew this wouldn’t heal everything.

Knew there would be nights worse than this one.
Days when the weight of it would get too heavy for even both of them to carry without sagging at the knees.

But right now?

Right now, she could be the place he collapsed into.
She could be the proof that not every time he reached out ended in ruin.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough for tonight.

She shifted slightly, her mouth brushing against his hair without meaning to—soft, almost a ghost of a kiss—and she let the thought settle between them:

You don’t have to be perfect.
You just have to let me love you anyway.

She didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t need to.

He was still holding on.

And she was still there.

Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he let himself be held.

Not like this.

Not like he deserved it.

The second her arms wrapped around him—steady, sure, heartbreakingly real—he felt something deep inside him buck against it.
Fight it.
Want to run from it.

Because it was too much.

It was too good.

And he didn’t know how to hold something that didn’t want to break him.

He stayed stiff at first, breathing shallow against her, like if he moved even a little she’d realize what she was holding wasn’t worth the effort.

But then her hands—God, her hands—moved slow against his back.
Grounding him.
Not demanding.
Not fixing.

Just there.

Like she wasn’t scared of the wreckage he’d tried so hard to warn her about.

And something inside Spencer cracked—
Not the violent kind of crack he was used to.
Not the kind that shattered everything in the room.

It was quieter.
Smaller.
More dangerous.

The kind that let hope bleed through the cracks without asking permission.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, forehead pressing harder against her shoulder now, hiding his face there like maybe if he stayed still enough, she wouldn’t notice how fucking close he was to falling apart.

She wasn’t saying anything.
Wasn’t trying to tell him it was okay.
Wasn’t trying to save him.

She was just breathing.
Just holding.

Like he didn’t have to be anything but broken in her arms.

Spencer’s fingers curled instinctively into the fabric at her sides, desperate for something to anchor him, clutching like he could tether himself to her and keep from spinning out into the void he’d lived in so long he forgot it wasn’t normal.

His mouth opened once against her hoodie, against the warm fabric near her collarbone—like he wanted to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

No apologies.
No explanations.
No promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Just a shallow, wrecked inhale that said please in a language only she could hear.

He tightened his arms around her without thinking—awkward, too rough at first like he forgot how to be gentle—but he didn’t let go.

Didn’t run.
Didn’t crumble.
Didn’t destroy.

Not this time.

He just held on, shaking and silent, letting her heartbeat drum steady against his ribs like a reminder:

You’re still here.
She’s still here.
You’re not alone this time.

And somewhere, deep in the wreckage of him, Spencer Walker let himself believe—just for tonight—that maybe staying wasn’t the worst thing he could do after all.

Leighton felt it the second his body shifted against hers.
Not all at once.
Not in some grand, sweeping way.

Just a slow, aching give—
Like a fortress crumbling stone by stubborn stone.

He sagged into her, forehead pressing harder against her shoulder, clutching the fabric at her sides like he didn’t trust himself not to fall without it.

Her heart cracked wider.
Not from sadness.
Not from pity.

From love.
That raw, unpolished, undemanding kind of love—the kind that didn’t need him to be anything but exactly what he was right now.

She kept one arm wrapped tight around him, steady, anchoring, while her other hand moved up, slow and careful.

She found the edge of his hood, fingers brushing over the worn cotton, and gently—gently—pulled it down.

Spencer flinched so faintly she almost missed it.
Almost.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hide.

So she kept going, slow and patient, threading her fingers into his hair—soft, messy, damp at the temples like he’d been burning alive inside his own skin.

She carded her fingers through it again and again, each pass meant to remind him:
I’m here.
You’re not too much.
You’re not scaring me away.

His breathing stayed uneven, catching on every shallow inhale, but he pressed closer like he needed more and didn’t know how to ask for it.

Leighton shifted her hold just slightly—tilting her head, angling herself toward him—and without thinking, without planning it, she pressed her lips softly against his temple.

Barely there.
Just a whisper of a kiss.

A promise in the shape of a breath.

She stayed there, mouth hovering against his skin, feeling the heat of him, the tremble he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

And then, so quiet it barely shaped itself into sound, she whispered it:

“I love you,” she breathed, the words spilling into the charged space between them, fragile and fierce at the same time.
“Even when your brain makes you believe you don’t deserve it.”

Her throat burned around it.
Her heart hammered like it was trying to break free of her ribs.
But she meant it.
God, she meant every broken syllable.

She didn’t know if he could hear it yet.
If he could let himself believe it yet.

But that didn’t change a damn thing.

She would say it anyway.
She would mean it anyway.

Because love wasn’t just the easy parts—the laughter, the golden afternoons, the nights where everything felt possible.

It was this too.

It was standing still when the storm hit.
It was holding tight when everything inside him said to run.

It was staying.
Even when it hurt.
Especially then.

Leighton stayed exactly where she was—arms around him, forehead tucked against his, breathing for both of them if she had to—and let the weight of the moment be enough.

Because loving Spencer Walker had never been about saving him.

It had always been about reminding him he didn’t have to save himself alone.

Spencer felt it the second her hand brushed the edge of his hood.

Gentle. Careful.
Like she wasn’t trying to fix him, just trying to see him.

He flinched.
Couldn’t help it.

Every instinct wired into his bones told him to pull back, to armor up, to not let her touch the parts of him that still shook from old wars he didn’t know how to explain.

But she didn’t yank.
Didn’t demand.
Didn’t push.

She just stayed.
Patient. Steady.

So he stayed too.

Let her pull the hood down, let her thread her fingers into his hair, let her card them through like she wasn’t afraid of the wreckage underneath.

Spencer shuddered.
Once.
Violent and involuntary.

But still he stayed.

Because somehow—against every ugly thing he'd ever believed about himself—she wasn’t pulling away.

When her mouth brushed against his temple, soft as breathing, he thought he might actually come undone.

And when she spoke—
When she whispered it—

> “I love you. Even when your brain makes you believe you don’t deserve it.”



Spencer broke.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.

He just sagged harder into her—into her arms, into her breath, into the space she made without asking anything in return.

His hands fisted tighter in her sides, like if he let go, the whole world would splinter apart and take her with it.

And then, almost against his will, a sound clawed up his throat—
Half-sob, half-laugh, sharp and wrecked and raw.

He buried his face against her neck, against the worn fabric of her shirt, and shook with the force of it.

Tried to swallow it down.
Tried to hold it back.

But it kept tearing out of him in short, broken gasps—
the sound of a boy who never thought anyone would stay long enough to say it,
and a boy who didn’t know how to hold love without bracing for it to be ripped away.

She just kept her arms around him.
Kept breathing against his hair.
Kept grounding him like he wasn’t something dangerous she needed to protect herself from.

Spencer didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

The words lodged somewhere behind his teeth, too sharp, too fragile, too big to force out.

But his body said it.
In the way he clung to her.
In the way he finally let his weight sag fully into her.
In the way he let himself be held without fighting it.

And if she could hear the frantic pounding of his heart against hers, he didn’t care anymore.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—
Spencer wasn’t surviving.

He was letting himself be loved.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the bravest thing he’d ever done.

Leighton felt it the second he broke.

Not with fists.
Not with fury.

But with something quieter.
Something infinitely more devastating.

The way his body sagged heavier into hers, the way his breath hitched sharp and jagged against her neck, the way his hands fisted so tightly in her sides like letting go would rip the ground out from under him.

She tightened her arms around him without hesitation, anchoring him harder against her chest, hands splaying wide across his back like she could shield him from the weight he was finally letting crash down.

He buried his face against her shoulder, whole body trembling under the strain of it, and she just… held on.

Didn’t flinch when the first broken sound clawed up from his throat.
Didn’t freeze when it hit again, raw and helpless.

She let him fall apart.
Because he needed to.
Because he deserved to.
Because God, if there was one thing he had earned a hundred times over, it was the right to feel it without fear of being abandoned for it.

Her fingers moved slow through his hair, combing lightly, steady as a heartbeat.

No shushing.
No smoothing it away like it was something to be embarrassed about.

Just—
I’m here.
You’re safe.

Leighton turned her head slightly, breathing him in, letting her lips brush softly against the side of his forehead.

Then, voice low and even, just loud enough for him to catch against the thundering noise inside his own head, she whispered:

“You’re safe with me, Spencer. You can let it out if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words bled into his skin, into the worn cotton between them, into the spaces he kept bolted shut against the world.

She didn’t know if he believed her yet.
Didn’t know if he could.

But she meant it.

Every word.
Every breath.

She didn’t loosen her hold even when his shoulders shook harder.
Didn’t look around to see if anyone noticed.

The world outside didn’t exist right now.
There was no embarrassment.
No shame.

Just him.

Just her.

And the tiny, broken pieces of him she would hold as long as he needed—without trying to rearrange them, without trying to fix what wasn’t broken, just battered and bruised from fighting too long alone.

Her hands slid up to cup the back of his neck, thumbs brushing slow circles into the tense muscles there, a silent reassurance with every stroke:

You don’t have to hide here.
Not from me.
Not ever.

Leighton closed her eyes and stayed with him, heart beating steady against the frantic, wrecked rhythm of his, anchoring him with nothing but love and the certainty he could fall apart in her arms—and still be whole.

Still be wanted.

Still be hers.

Spencer wanted to disappear.

Not from her.
Not from this.

From the parts of himself that didn’t know how to breathe without bracing for the blow.
From the way it felt to be seen like this—with nothing left between them but everything he never knew how to say.

Her hands moved steady against the back of his neck, warm and patient, grounding him like she wasn’t afraid of the pieces splintering loose under her palms.

And when she whispered it—
soft, steady, safe—

“You’re safe with me, Spencer. You can let it out if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

Something inside him shattered so quietly it almost didn’t hurt.

Almost.

He pressed his forehead harder against her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut like he could trap the flood inside him just a little longer.

But he couldn’t.
Not anymore.

His fingers dug into her sides, trembling, desperate.
Not pulling.
Not pushing.

Just holding.

The sound that left him wasn’t a word.
Wasn’t even a sob.
It was just breath breaking apart in real time.

Spencer didn’t know how long he stayed there.
Didn’t know how many minutes passed while he shook against her, while her heartbeat stitched something steady back into the ruins of him.

He just knew that when he finally managed to pull his face from the crook of her neck,
when he finally forced himself to lift his head—

he still couldn’t look her in the eye.

Couldn’t risk seeing everything he’d ruined written across her face.

Instead, he kept his forehead pressed lightly against hers, their breaths tangling, the space between them too sacred to break.

His voice, when it finally scraped out of him, was so low it barely existed.

"You're gonna hate me someday," Spencer rasped, raw and wrecked, words shaking loose like gravel in his throat.
"You're gonna realize I'm just... this."

He squeezed his hands where they clutched her shirt, like maybe he could anchor the truth between them.

"Too fucked up. Too much. Too—" He broke off, biting down hard before he could say something even uglier.

He tried to pull back then.
Tried to give her the out he was sure she'd want someday.

But her hands stayed steady.
Her touch didn’t falter.

And something about that—
something about being wanted anyway—
stole the last of his defenses.

So he said it.
Choked on it.

Half-sobbed it against the space where their foreheads still touched:

"I love you."

Raw.
Broken.
No armor left.

"I love you so fucking much it scares the hell outta me."

A cracked laugh hitched out of him, bitter and helpless.

"I don’t know how to be good at this. I don’t know how to stay."

He dragged in a shaking breath, clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him from dissolving entirely.

"But I’m trying, Leigh. God, I’m trying."

He finally forced himself to lift his gaze—bloodshot, wild, terrified—
and let her see every wrecked, trembling, desperate piece of him.

Because if she was going to love him—
if she was going to stay—

then she deserved to know exactly what she was holding onto.

And he would give her that.
Even if it broke him wide open.

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Not when his breath broke apart against her skin.
Not when his hands clutched at her like he was drowning and she was the last thing left to hold.
Not even when his voice—wrecked and wild and scared—cracked the space between them open wider than it had ever been.

She stayed.

She let him break against her without trying to stop it.
Let him spill the ugliest parts out between them like shattered glass on the floor.

And when he said it—
when he rasped out the thing he was so sure would drive her away—
I love you.

God.

She felt it hit her chest like a second heartbeat, pounding and fierce and so achingly real it almost knocked her breathless.

Not pretty.
Not polished.
Not the kind of love you wrote songs about.

The kind you fought for.
The kind you stayed for.
The kind you chose even when it scared the hell out of you.

She kept her forehead pressed against his as he spoke, every broken word spilling out of him like it had been dammed up for years, each one carving deeper into the spaces she’d already carved out just for him.

And when he finally looked up—
when he finally let her see all of it—

Leighton’s chest ached so hard she thought it might split her wide open too.

Because he wasn’t just giving her the good parts.
Wasn’t just handing her the pieces he thought she wanted.

He was giving her the wreckage.
The war.
The parts no one else ever stayed long enough to hold.

And he was begging her to understand without even realizing it.

Leighton didn’t hesitate.

She reached up, slow and sure, framing his face between her palms, thumbs brushing against the wet heat at the corners of his eyes.

Not wiping it away.
Not pretending it wasn’t there.

Just… touching him.
Seeing him.

Loving him anyway.

She shifted closer, knees tightening around his hips where he still stood pressed between them, her voice so low it barely made it past the breathless thundering of her own heart.

“You’re not too much for me, Spencer,” she whispered, steady and fierce, like she could anchor the words into his bones if she said them soft enough.
“You’ve never been too much.”

Her thumbs swept over his cheekbones again, slow and sure.

“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”

She pressed her forehead to his again, feeling the way his whole body shuddered under the weight of being seen, of being known, of not being pushed away.

“You just have to let me love you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

Leighton pulled back just enough to meet his shattered, terrified gaze head-on, her chest rising and falling with the force of everything she couldn’t fit into words.

She smiled then—small, raw, beautiful in the way only real things could be—and whispered against his trembling mouth:

“You can't scare me off.”

And then, without giving him time to argue, without giving him time to armor back up—

She kissed him.

Soft.
Certain.
Breaking through all the noise between them like it had never stood a chance.

She kissed him like she wasn’t afraid of the wreckage.
Like she wasn’t going anywhere even if he tried to shove her out.
Like loving him wasn’t a battle—it was a choice she was making every single second she got to breathe the same air as him.

And she would keep making it.
Over and over.
For as long as he let her.

Because love wasn’t safe.
Wasn’t easy.

It was this.

It was staying.
It was choosing.
It was him.

Every broken, beautiful, breathing part of him.

Spencer didn’t move at first.

Couldn’t.

The second her mouth touched his, everything inside him stopped.

Not like the world stopped spinning in some romantic, movie-ending way.
No—this was messier.
Rougher.

It stopped like a body hitting cold water.
Like the air getting punched out of your lungs.
Like being ripped raw and clean open in the exact same second.

Her lips were soft against his—steady, certain—kissing him like he was something chosen, not tolerated.
Like he was someone worth staying for.

And Spencer—
Spencer didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

His whole body locked up, hands still fisted in the fabric at her sides, shoulders shaking like he was holding in an earthquake.
He didn't kiss her back.

Not right away.

He couldn’t.
He was too fucking scared.

Scared if he touched her wrong, she’d realize he wasn’t worth the weight she was willing to carry.
Scared if he kissed her back, really kissed her, it would rip open something inside him so deep he wouldn’t know how to survive it.

But she didn’t pull away.

She stayed.

Breathing against him.
Waiting for him.
Choosing him.

And slowly—God, so achingly slow—Spencer let himself believe it might be real.

He shifted, just barely, the broken edges of him tilting forward into her like a man surrendering ground he never thought he could give up.

His lips moved against hers—clumsy at first, shaky—like he was still half-expecting to break her by accident.

But she didn’t shatter.

She only tightened her hold around his ribs, pulling him closer, anchoring him harder, breathing into the hollowed-out spaces he didn’t know were still bleeding.

Spencer kissed her back fully then.

Desperately.
Reverently.

Like he could pour every apology, every I’m sorry I left, every I never stopped loving you into her mouth and trust she could carry it better than he ever could alone.

His hands finally moved—sliding up, threading into her hair, holding her face like she was something holy, something breakable and his and still here anyway.

The kiss wasn’t perfect.
It was messy.
It was broken.
It was real.

It was him.

When they finally broke apart—just a breath, just a heartbeat—Spencer stayed close.
Forehead pressed against hers.
Breathing her in.
Clutching at her like if he let go, the whole goddamn universe would collapse and he wouldn’t even blame it.

He dragged in a shaking breath, chest trembling against hers, and when he finally spoke—

his voice was wrecked.

Frayed at every edge.

"I don’t know how to do this right," he whispered, the words falling between them like confession and prayer all at once.

He squeezed her waist gently, grounding himself.

"But I swear to God..."
His breath hitched, a broken sound.
"...I'm not gonna stop trying."

Not for her.
Not for them.
Not for the piece of himself he barely knew how to protect but still wanted to give her anyway.

Spencer stayed there, arms wrapped around her like armor he didn’t deserve, eyes squeezed shut, forehead still pressed to hers—

and for the first time since he could remember,
he let himself believe:

Maybe he was allowed to have something good.
Maybe he was allowed to stay.

Maybe he was allowed to be loved.

Even when he was scared.
Especially then.

Leighton didn’t move when he froze under her mouth.
Didn’t pull away when he stayed locked up so tight it felt like breathing might break him.
Didn’t panic when he didn’t kiss her back right away.

She just stayed.
Steady.
Certain.

Letting him feel it.
Letting him know—without a single word—that she wasn’t going anywhere.

She could feel it happening, slow and devastating—
The moment he started to believe it might be real.
The moment he tipped forward, tiny and broken and brave.

When his lips moved against hers, hesitant and trembling, Leighton pressed back just enough to tell him she felt it.
Felt him.
All of him.

Not the pieces he thought he had to glue together before he could be loved.
Not the mask he wore when he was scared he wasn’t enough.

Just… him.

And when he finally kissed her fully—desperately, reverently, like he was trying to pour his whole heart into her hands—
Leighton met him with every ounce of the love she had.

She let him be messy.
Let him be broken.
Let him be real.

Her hands slid up from his sides, one threading into his hair again, the other resting against the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing slow over the corner of his mouth like she could memorize every single tremor, every single wrecked, beautiful piece of him.

The kiss wasn’t perfect.
Wasn’t smooth.

It cracked and caught and stuttered with every breath between them.

And Leighton thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever felt.

When they finally broke apart—forehead to forehead, breath to breath, world still trembling around them—she didn’t open her eyes at first.

Just stayed there.
Breathing him in.

Letting the closeness stitch something deeper into the spaces between them.

And when he spoke—
When his voice, raw and trembling and so impossibly human, scraped the words out between them—

“I don’t know how to do this right.”

Leighton’s heart clenched so hard it hurt.
But not because she was scared.
Not because she doubted.

Because she understood.

God, she understood.

She felt the soft squeeze at her waist, the way he tried to tether himself to her like he was afraid he might float away if he didn’t hold tight enough.

“But I swear to God… I’m not gonna stop trying.”

Leighton finally opened her eyes then—heavy with tears she didn’t dare let fall yet—and looked at him.

Really looked.

At the wreckage.
At the fight.
At the boy who never stopped trying, even when he didn’t think he deserved to.

And she smiled.

Small.
Soft.
Real.

The kind of smile that wasn’t about promises or futures or all the ways they might screw it up someday.

It was about this.

About now.

She brushed her thumb slow along his cheekbone, catching the broken edges of him like they were precious, and whispered back against his trembling mouth:

“That’s all I ever needed.”

She shifted her hand, pressing her palm flat over his chest where his heart thundered wild against her skin.

“Not perfect.”
Her voice was a breath.
“Not easy.”
She leaned in closer, forehead still resting against his.
“Just you.”

Leighton let her hands roam slow over his back, his arms, everywhere she could reach—steady, grounding, like she could etch the truth into his skin:

You don’t have to be better.
You don’t have to be fixed.
You’re enough, exactly as you are.

She could feel him shaking still—small tremors he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore—and she loved him even harder for it.

Loved him for the way he stayed even when it terrified him.

Loved him for the way he was still fighting to believe he was worth the love he’d already earned a hundred times over.

She kissed him again—soft this time, slow and certain—like she wasn’t trying to consume him or save him.

Just stay.

Just love.

And when she pulled back, she whispered it against his lips, the words threading into the air like a promise she wasn’t afraid to make:

“We’ll figure it out together.”

Because that’s what love was.

Not perfect.
Not polished.

Just together.

Even when it hurt.
Especially then.