He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not when she looked at him like that.

Like he was the miracle. Like he was the thing worth staying for.

Not a burden. Not a mistake. Not some walking apology for every broken night and bad decision.

Just… Spencer.

And she meant it.

Every word, every breath, every touch of her hands on his face like he was something worth holding gently. Carefully. Like she knew how fragile he felt and was choosing him anyway.

Something in his chest pulled tight. Sharp and hollow and full all at once.

Because he’d never been someone who got words like that.

Not without strings.

Not without a clock ticking down in someone else’s patience.

But Leighton?

She wasn’t leaving.

Even after he gave her every reason to.

Even after he broke open in front of her and called it love without knowing how to be good at it.

His fingers lifted slowly, curling around the edges of her jacket like he needed to hold onto something real. Something solid. Something that didn’t vanish when things got hard.

She didn’t vanish.

She stayed.

She always stayed.

And for once—for once—he let himself believe that maybe he could too.

So he didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t try to explain what it meant.

He just leaned in—forehead to hers, breath mixing in the quiet between their mouths—and let the words fall out low, rough, honest:

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

A breath. A beat.

“But I want to be.”

His voice cracked a little, but he didn’t look away.

“I want it to be you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“I want this.”

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t polished.

But it was real.

And when she didn’t flinch—when she didn’t pull away or try to fix him or ask for more than he had—

He let out the smallest breath of something that almost sounded like relief.

“I’ll try,” he whispered.

And this time?

He meant it.

She didn’t blink.
Didn’t waver.
Didn’t back down.

She just stood there, eyes locked to his like she was memorizing him—this exact version, wrecked and wide open and brave enough to hand her the truth without dressing it up.

Her fingers squeezed where they held the edge of his jacket.
Just once.
Just enough.

Then her voice, soft and steady, like something sacred:
“You don’t have to be good at it yet.”

A pause—gentle. Certain.
“I’m not going anywhere.”

She reached up, brushed her thumb across the corner of his mouth like she could smooth the tremble in his voice, then let her hand fall to his chest, palm flat over his heart.

“It’s you, Spencer. Always was.”

Another heartbeat passed.
One. Then two.

She leaned in again, forehead to his, nose brushing his, their breaths syncing up like they were learning how to breathe all over again—but this time, together.

And then she whispered, low and full of fire:
“You don’t have to know how. You just have to want to.”

Her other hand slid into his, grounding him. Steadying him.
And when she smiled?

It wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t pressure.

It was home.

“I’ll remind you on the hard days,” she said, a little softer now. “When you forget. When it gets loud in your head. When you think you’ll mess it all up.”

She tilted her chin, kissed his cheek—warm and deliberate—and rested there a second longer than she needed to, just so he’d feel it.

“You’re already doing it, y’know.”

A grin pulled at her lips then—small, lopsided, impossibly hers.

“Loving me messy.”

She stepped back just enough to tug his hand. Not to break the moment. Just to pull him gently into the next one.

“Now come on, boyfriend. My bed misses you.”

And with one last squeeze of his fingers, she started toward the ladder—already knowing he’d follow.
Not because she expected him to.

But because this time…
He wanted to.

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t rush him.

Didn’t soften what he said with something easier or safer.

She just looked at him—like she’d never seen anything more honest in her life.

Like this version of him—the wrecked one, the real one, the one who didn’t know how to love right but wanted to—was all she ever needed.

Her lips curled, slow and steady, into the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything back. The kind that just was.

Then, gently, she reached down and tugged his hand into hers.

Warm.

Sure.

Unshakable.

Her voice stayed quiet, but there was a spark behind it—familiar and grounding, like every night they’d spent tangled up in each other’s fear and hope and stubborn, stupid loyalty.

“Come on,” she said, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. “My mom’s out till this evening.”

A beat.

A softer smile.

“We can hide out in my room. Blankets. Snacks. You. Me.”

Another tug—not forceful, just a promise.

“We can be soft today.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek—just a breath of a thing, but enough to ground him.

Then she nodded toward the ladder, still holding his hand.

“No pressure. No fixing. Just you and me under a mountain of pillows.”

A pause. Her eyes searched his.

“And yeah, cuddling is mandatory.”

And in that moment—between the rooftop and the fall of her voice and the way she never asked him to be more than what he was—Spencer felt something settle.

Not all the way.

Not perfectly.

But enough to stand.

Enough to follow.

Enough to stay.

He didn’t smile.

Not really.

But something in his chest went quiet.

Like the storm had paused. Just long enough for him to feel the air again. To notice her hand in his. Her thumb over his knuckles. The way she said my bed misses you like it was the most natural thing in the world to belong to each other like that.

Like it didn’t have to be complicated.

Like he didn’t have to be.

He glanced at the ladder, then back at her.

Still waiting.

Still sure.

Still hers.

God, she made it so easy to want things he never used to believe in. Quiet days. Soft blankets. A future that didn’t end in him running.

His fingers squeezed hers.

Not hard. Just enough to say I’m here.

And when she turned to lead him back inside, he didn’t hesitate.

He followed.

Not because he thought he deserved it.

Not because he knew how to be good at any of this yet.

But because—for once—he wanted to stay.
And that was enough.
For now.
For her.
For both of them.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

She could feel him behind her—close, warm, steady in the way that mattered most. And for the first time in what felt like forever, that was enough.

Not a promise he couldn’t keep.
Not a perfect version of him that didn’t exist.
Just Spencer.
Quiet. Present. Choosing.

And when they reached the bottom of the ladder, when her boots hit the floor and she turned just enough to see him land behind her, that soft, stunned look still half-tucked beneath his lashes—

She smiled.

For both of them.

For the mess. The trying. The fact that he came down with her instead of staying on that roof, stuck in the weight of everything he never said.

She reached for his hand again—this time with no rush, no pressure, just a familiar ease—and laced their fingers together like it was second nature now. Like he belonged in that grip. Like he always had.

As they walked through the halls—dim, quiet, a little too late for sixth period and a little too early to be love stories just yet—she didn’t say much. Just bumped his arm with her shoulder and gave him that smile again.

The one that said you did it.

The one that said I see you trying.