Spencer felt the words before he heard them.

Each one dug under his skin, burrowed into his ribs, twisted somewhere deep and ugly.
Because she meant it.
Every syllable. Every shake in her voice. Every tear she wouldn’t let fall.

And he—

He was wrecked.

Completely, absolutely wrecked.

Because she was still choosing him.
Even now.
Even when he was doing everything short of lighting himself on fire just to make it easier for her to run.

His chest heaved with the effort it took not to break. Not to grab her face and kiss her until she forgot every reason she should hate him. Not to fall apart in the only arms that had ever felt like home.

But that’s exactly why he couldn’t.
Because he would break her.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But someday, when the mess inside him won again—
When the weight of being loved by someone like her crushed the version of him that never thought he was enough—
He would shatter it. Shatter her.

And he wouldn't survive watching it happen.

So Spencer did the only thing he knew how to do.
He lied.

Not with rage.
Not with cruelty.
Not even with the sharp, jagged edges he usually wore like armor.

But with something worse.
Something colder.

"I don't want this," he said, the words thick and slow, like they were made of poison.
He forced his eyes to stay on hers, even as every inch of him screamed to look away.

"I don't love you."

It tasted like blood in his mouth.

"You’re not worth it."

The moment the words left him, he knew he was a coward.
A goddamn coward pretending he was doing the right thing.

He watched it happen—the way her face flinched, the way something inside her seemed to fold in on itself—and it felt like setting fire to his own goddamn soul.

But he stayed still.
Frozen.
Breaking inside where she couldn’t see it.

Because if she hated him—
If she walked away angry instead of broken—
Maybe it would hurt her a little less.

Maybe it would save her from the parts of him he couldn't fix.

So he sat there.
Silent.
Motionless.
Watching the best thing that had ever happened to him fall apart, and telling himself it was mercy.

Even when it felt a hell of a lot more like murder.

Leighton didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.

For one perfect, aching second, she just stared at him.

And then—
She laughed.

Soft. Sharp. Disbelieving.
The kind of laugh you only ever hear from someone whose heart just snapped down the middle.

“Wow,” she whispered, nodding slowly like he’d just proven every nightmare she ever had right. “Okay. Okay, Spencer.”

Her voice was thinner now, all the fight bleeding out of it. But she wasn’t crumbling. Not this time.

Because she knew him.

She knew the way his voice always dropped when he was lying. Knew the way he locked his jaw like he was trying to trap the truth behind his teeth. Knew the way he couldn’t meet her eyes when it really mattered—except now, he was forcing himself to. Holding her gaze like a knife.

And God, he really thought he was being noble.

She let out another laugh—hollow this time—and stood, knees shaky, soul worse.

“You almost had me,” she said, not accusing. Just… tired. “For a second, I almost believed you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest—not defensive, just trying to keep the pieces in. The ones he couldn’t see. The ones she didn’t want to leave behind.

“You know what the worst part is?” she asked, stepping back. “I still love you. Even now. Even after that.”

Her voice broke, finally, just once. But she caught it.

“I hope you win, Spencer,” she whispered. “I hope whatever war you’re fighting with yourself—whatever monster told you you’re not allowed to be happy—I hope it dies knowing it cost you everything.”

And then, almost gently:

“You were worth it. You always were.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond.
Didn’t beg him to take it back.
Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

She just turned.
Walked away.
And let the silence behind her say the rest.

Spencer didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not when her laugh was still ringing in his ears.
Not when her words—I hope you win, Spencer—felt like they’d been stitched into his skin with barbed wire.

He sat there, breathing like he’d just been punched, every part of him vibrating with anger he didn’t know where to put.
At himself.
At her.
At the world that somehow gave him something good just to rip it away again.

She was gone.
Actually gone this time.
No slammed doors. No screaming matches. No second chances hiding in the cracks.

And it was his fault.
All of it.

He let out a low, bitter noise—something between a laugh and a growl—and shoved himself off the floor so fast he nearly slipped. His shoulder hit the bookshelf behind him hard enough to rattle it, but he barely felt it.

"Fuck!" he hissed under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair like he could tear the frustration out by the roots.

He kicked the wall once—hard, reckless, stupid—and the hollow thud didn’t even register through the roar in his head.

Because she had looked at him like he was still worth it even after everything.
Even after he handed her every broken piece of himself and called it love.

And she’d walked away with her head high, and he was the one left here—

Pathetic.
Angry.
Alone.

The worst part?
The part that gutted him and made him want to rip the whole damn library apart just to make the ache stop?

He wanted to call after her.

Wanted to run.

Wanted to throw every ugly, selfish instinct to the floor and chase her down the hallway, grab her hand, pull her back and tell her—

I lied.
I’m scared shitless and I love you more than anything and I’m an idiot but please, please don’t go.

But he didn’t.

He stayed frozen in place, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like maybe if he stayed angry enough, he wouldn’t have to feel the part of him that was crumbling.

Because Spencer Walker didn’t get happy endings.
He got regrets.
He got almosts.
He got to live in the wreckage of what could’ve been.

He slammed his back against the shelf again, harder this time, needing the pain, needing something real.

And then—
When the library swallowed him whole and there was no one left to see how completely he was coming apart—
Spencer slid down the wall and dropped his head into his hands.

Breathing like he was drowning.

Hating himself so much he wasn’t sure he’d ever claw his way back out of it.

Leighton climbed the last rung of the maintenance ladder, nudging the trapdoor open with her shoulder like she’d done a hundred times before. The hinges creaked just enough to let him know it was her.

Spencer didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to.

He was sitting exactly where she knew he’d be—back against the faded brick, legs stretched out in front of him, hoodie strings chewed half to hell. The spot right under the rusted-out vent, where they’d made out after homecoming like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Like maybe it still didn’t.

Leighton stepped out onto the roof, let the door fall shut behind her with a soft thud, and walked over without a word. The sun was too bright and the wind smelled like asphalt and flowers from the science wing garden below, but it didn’t bother her.

Not when he was here.

Not when this place still felt like theirs.

She dropped her backpack between his legs as she sat down beside him, knees pulled up, boots planted firm on the gravel.

Spencer glanced sideways—eyes low-lidded, slow—and held the joint out to her.

She took it with her left hand.

But before he could pull his hand back, she caught it with her right—fingers slipping between his and lacing together like they were made to fit.

No hesitation.

Just muscle memory.

She brought the joint to her mouth, took a couple slow pulls, exhaled out toward the sky. The kind of hit that said I needed this. The kind that settled her ribs a little looser.

She passed it back without looking at him.

Then, after a beat, she leaned her shoulder lightly into his. Still holding his hand. Still quiet.

“You can keep skipping sixth,” she said, voice dry but fond. “But you’re gonna fail, Spence.”

Another puff of wind dragged hair across her cheek. She didn’t brush it away.

“And if you think I’m sitting through summer school with you again just to watch you doodle in the margins and flirt with detention, you’ve got another thing coming.”

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Didn’t move away.

Just sat there next to him, staring out over the soccer field like it mattered, like the world couldn’t touch them this high up.

Because maybe it couldn’t.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not as long as they kept showing up.

He didn’t look at her when she sat down.

Didn’t need to.

Could feel her like gravity the second the trapdoor creaked open.

Leighton.

The only person in this whole godforsaken school who could tell him he was fucking up without making him want to disappear.

He passed her the joint without a word, let their fingers catch like always—like habit, like muscle memory, like maybe he needed the contact more than he’d admit. And when she kept holding his hand?

Yeah.

That wrecked him a little.

But he didn’t show it.

Didn’t say a damn thing when she leaned her shoulder into his.

Didn’t flinch when she said he was gonna fail.

Because maybe he was.

Maybe he didn’t care.

Or maybe he cared way too much about the wrong shit—Jess skipping econ to race the guys from the auto shop. Sam stealing cafeteria cookies like it was a mission from God. Leighton sitting beside him with her boots dug into the gravel and that fire in her voice when she called him out.

That was the stuff that mattered.

Not chemistry tests or college apps or getting lectured by people who didn’t know the first thing about him.

He exhaled slow, lazy, like the smoke could carry his whole mood with it.

Then he said it.

Low. Flat. Real.

“I’m not doing summer school again.”

Didn’t say for you.
Didn’t say because you’d sit through it with me even if you hated every second.
But it was there.

Right under his tongue.

He rolled his head toward her—just enough to catch a glimpse of her jaw, her hair, the way the sun kissed the side of her face like it knew she was worth worshipping.

Then looked back out over the edge.

His thumb was still moving against her hand.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

“I don’t give a shit about this place,” he muttered. “Never did.”

A beat passed.

Then quieter—

“But I care about you. Jess. Sam.”

Another pause. A shrug, sharp and silent. Like that should be enough.

Like of course that’s all that mattered.

And maybe it was.

Because this?
This roof.
This hand in his.
This girl who still showed up, even when he made it hard?

It was the only part of his day that ever felt real.

So yeah.

He was gonna flunk something eventually. Probably snap at a teacher. Probably smoke too much and show up late and let the world think he didn’t care.

But up here?

With her?

He cared enough to stay.

She didn’t look at him either.

Not right away.

Just let the silence settle.

Let the truth of it sit between them like a third person—loud, unflinching, maybe even a little holy.

Because he never said shit like that. Not out loud. Not unless it was burning a hole in his chest and had nowhere else to go.

So she sat with it.

Let it matter.

Let it mean something.

Her fingers stayed curled through his, thumb brushing once across the back of his hand like punctuation.

Then—quietly, not teasing this time—she said:

“Good.”

A beat.

The kind of breath that was less about air and more about feeling everything all at once.

“‘Cause I swear to God, Spence—if I have to watch you do another packet on ancient Mesopotamia while pretending you’re too cool to care, I’ll walk straight into traffic.”

But her voice was soft around the edges. Almost fond.

Like she wasn’t joking, but she was.

Like she’d do it all again if he asked.

Leighton took another slow drag, exhaled through her nose, watched the smoke drift up toward the clouds they used to name during seventh period psych.

Then, still staring out, she added—

“You don’t have to give a shit about this place.”

She turned to him finally. Just a little. Just enough to meet his eyes.

“But, I’m not letting you skip straight to dropout burnout phase—you don’t even have a tattoo yet.”

Another pause. Her voice dipped lower.

Softer. Real.

“But I’m glad you care about us.”

She gave his hand the gentlest squeeze.

Then she looked away again, leaned back on her other arm like she was trying to play it casual, like the moment wasn’t making her heart beat louder than it had all day.

The sun was high now. The sky was stupidly blue. Someone was blasting music from the art wing window down below, and it bled up into the air around them like an afterthought.

Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t break the contact.

Just held his hand.

Like always.

Like she wasn’t going anywhere.

“You’re not alone up here, Spencer.”

A whisper, more than a promise.

“Not now. Not ever.”

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

And that somehow made it worse.

Because Leighton sitting with it—like his words deserved the space they took up—hit harder than anything she could’ve said.

So he sat too.

Let her fingers stay tangled in his.

Let her thumb brush his skin like it meant something.

Because fuck, it did.

And when she finally answered—soft, sure, that little “Good” carrying more weight than a goddamn graduation speech?

Spencer’s throat got tight.

Stupidly tight.

He stared hard at the soccer field, jaw clenched, trying not to show it. Trying not to let her see how just being seen by her made everything hurt and settle all at once.

Then she dropped the Mesopotamia line and he almost smiled.

Almost.

A huff of breath escaped, nose scrunched, corners of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t ready to give her the full smirk yet but it was fighting its way through.

And then?

Then she turned to him.

Really looked at him.

And said that part about tattoos and burnout and “I’m glad you care about us”—

Yeah.

That one almost knocked the air out of his lungs.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

But his grip tightened—barely, just enough for her to feel it. Just enough to say I heard you. I feel it too.

Because he did.

More than he could say. More than he knew how to hold.

He let his head fall back against the brick, closed his eyes for a second, let the music from the art wing drift over them like static and memory and every reason he wasn’t completely unraveling right now.

Leighton’s hand stayed in his.

Still warm.

Still there.

Still his.

And when she whispered “You’re not alone up here, Spencer. Not now. Not ever.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just turned his head, eyes opening slowly.

Looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because she was.

And even if he didn’t say it?

She’d know.

From the way he watched her like she was the only thing worth giving a shit about in a world that kept asking him to be someone else.

From the way he didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Didn’t run.

Leighton felt his grip tighten—just a little—but it said everything.

Said I heard you.

Said Don’t stop.

Said You’re the only one who gets it right.

And for a second, she just sat with it. Let the silence settle between them again like a secret only they knew. The hum of the school below, the scrape of sneakers on concrete somewhere near the gym, the warbled music curling up through the vents—it all faded into the background.

She let her thumb brush over the back of his hand one last time.

Then she let go.

Not because she was pulling away.

But because she wasn’t.

Leighton shifted slowly, pulling her knees up for balance as she slid her arm around his shoulders. Not cautious. Not uncertain. Just sure.

Just there.

She tugged him close, tucking him in like muscle memory. Like she’d done it a hundred times before. Like she’d do it a hundred times more.

And when his head tilted toward her shoulder—just slightly, just enough—she let hers rest gently against his.

Not to fix him.

Not to tell him it was okay.

Just to hold what he couldn’t say out loud.

Her voice was soft when it finally came, a murmur tucked into the curve of his ear.

“You don’t have to say it.”

She gave him the tiniest squeeze. Barely a breath. But it was full of everything.

“I already know.”

Leighton felt the way his body leaned into hers—slow, cautious, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

Like he was still waiting for the sky to fall, even with her arm around him.

So she stayed there.

Close.
Steady.
Silent.

Her left hand, now free from his, drifted down without thinking—fingertips brushing his knuckles, his palm, the curve of his thumb.

She started tracing idle shapes across his skin—lines, circles, loops—anything that might help settle whatever anxiety was still buzzing under the surface.

He was quiet, but she could feel it in him.
The tension.
The war.
The way his shoulders stayed tight, even if he was trying to melt.

So she kept going.

Threaded her fingers through his gently, one by one.
Pressed the pads of her fingers to his like a rhythm.
A pattern.
A promise.

She didn’t look at him when she said it, just let the words fall out soft and certain.

“I’ll do your homework.”

A pause.

Then, with a little more bite—Leighton-style affection disguised as threat:

“And your extra credit. Don’t argue. I’m not letting you miss out on our summer because you were too busy spiraling to pass Mr. C’s joke of a history class.”

Her arm gave the barest tug around his shoulders—closer, tighter, like she could physically pull him out of whatever place his brain was stuck in.

And then, still gentle, still grounding him in every way she knew how—

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

Soft.
Certain.
Like it wasn’t the first time she’d done it and sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Her hand kept moving across his—calm and deliberate—like she was willing to play with his fingers all damn afternoon if it kept him tethered.

Because if the only way to make the world stop spinning was to hold on tighter?

Then that’s exactly what she’d do.

He didn’t mean to lean into her.

Didn’t mean to let his head tip toward her shoulder or his hand stay palm-up in her lap like some pathetic open metaphor.

But fuck.

It was Leigh.

And she did that thing—slid her arm around him like he hadn’t spent the whole morning convincing himself he didn’t need anybody.

Like she knew he did.

Like she always knew.

The kiss to his head nearly split him open.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Because it was soft.

Because it stayed.

And when she said she’d do his homework—his fucking homework—like it was some kind of lifeline and not a death sentence, he almost laughed.

Almost.

But his throat was too tight and her fingers were tracing little shapes across his hand and all he could think was God, don’t let this go.

He stared out at the sky like it had answers. Like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do with someone like her.

Someone who didn’t run.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t give up when he stopped showing up in every other way that counted.

His voice was raw when it finally came out—low, almost a grunt, like dragging it out hurt.

“…You ever think maybe I don’t wanna be fixed?”

He didn’t look at her when he said it.

Couldn’t.

Just stared hard at the horizon like it might swallow him first.

“I’m not some fucking lost puppy, Leigh. I’m not a project.”

A beat.

A breath.

Something soft cracked beneath his ribs and his next words came quieter. Less teeth. More ache.

“I just… don’t know how to do this without fuckin’ it up.”

Another beat. He rolled the joint between his fingers, watching the ash break apart in the wind.

“School. Life. You.”

He let the smoke curl out slow between his lips, staring straight ahead, voice getting softer and softer.

“I care about you so much it makes me sick.”

That part?

He didn’t take back.

Didn’t hide.

Just let it sit there.

Heavy. Unwrapped. True.

His fingers twitched slightly in hers, like maybe he wanted to pull away but didn’t know how to survive it if he did.

So he didn’t.

He just stayed.

Quiet.

Unraveling.

And hers.

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Didn’t rush in to argue or drown the silence in reassurances.

She just… stayed.

Stayed with his words.

Stayed with the weight of them.

Stayed with him.

Her fingers stilled on his for a second—just a beat—but then they started again, softer now. Slower. Drawing little loops across the back of his hand like maybe she could trace the ache right out of him.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Unshaken. Clear.

“Spence.”

Not sharp.

Not scolding.

Just real.

Like she knew how close he was to bolting. How much it took for him to even say that out loud.

Her hand tightened around his—gentle, firm, like an anchor.

“I don’t want to fix you.”

She let it hang there.

Let it land.

Then leaned in, her shoulder pressing warmer against his, like she was trying to close every gap he left between them.

“I just wanna be here. When you let me.”

A pause.

A breath.

Her voice stayed soft, but it didn’t shake.

“And for the record? You haven’t fucked it up.”

She glanced sideways—not enough to make him flinch, just enough to let him know she saw him.

All of him.

“You showed up.”

Another beat. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, sad and solid all at once.

“That’s more than most people ever do.”

She let her head tilt toward his just slightly, forehead nearly brushing his temple.

“You don’t have to know how to do this,” she whispered. “Not with me.”

Then, quieter—

“I’m not asking you to be anything but here.”

Her thumb moved again across his hand.

Soft.

Steady.

Real.

And after a long pause—long enough for the breeze to lift the smoke and the rooftop to go quiet again—she added, like it was the simplest truth in the world:

“I care about you too.”

And she meant it.

Every cracked, terrified, unraveling inch of him.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t let go.

She just stayed.

Leighton didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t push him to look at her.

Didn’t argue with the way his voice cracked around words like fixed or fuck it up.

She just sat with it.

Held it for a little while longer.

Then—without warning—she let his hand slip from hers.

She moved gently, slowly, deliberately.

Not in anger.

Not even in sadness.

Just something else.

A quiet sort of pause, like she was setting the moment down to see what he’d do with it.

She rose to her feet without looking at him, brushing her hands off on the sides of her jeans, the gravel under her boots shifting soft as she stepped away.

Her back was to him before he could stop it.

Not far.

Just… enough.

Enough space to breathe.

Enough space to leave, if he wanted to.

She walked toward the far edge of the roof—the same spot where they used to sit freshman year and watch the football games, pretending they weren’t just kids trying to survive each week. The wind tugged at her shirt, her hair.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, exhaling slow.

Didn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

She stared out at the quad below—the noise of lunch period, the blur of backpacks and bad cafeteria food and someone blasting music on a cracked speaker. It all felt distant. Like a different world.

Then, still facing away, she said it low—barely above the wind:

“I’m not gonna stand in your way if you want space.”

Her voice wasn’t cold.

It was quiet. Measured. Careful in the way only Leighton could be when she was breaking her own heart just a little.

“I meant what I said. I don’t wanna fix you.”

A pause.

Her fingers curled tighter around her elbows.

“I just don’t know if staying’s what you want. Or if you’re just waiting for me to leave so you don’t have to be the one to do it.”

She let the words hang there, raw and naked in the breeze.

Not accusing.

Not begging.

Just true.

And still… she didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look at him.

She just stood at the edge of the roof—right where they made out after that first homecoming, where she swore she’d never let anyone get that close again—and waited.

Not for a grand gesture.

Not for an apology.

Just… for him.