Spencer didn’t smile right away.

He just looked at her.

Took in the curve of her mouth, the warmth behind her sarcasm, the way she didn’t flinch when Violet passed through—how she stayed tucked in like this was normal. Like he was.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But it did.

Because Spencer Walker had never really been the guy who got to stay.

He’d been the one people liked in theory. The one who made good first impressions, who texted at 2AM, who kissed like he meant it and disappeared like he didn’t. Not because he wanted to. But because leaving always felt safer than staying long enough to disappoint someone.

But Leighton?

She wasn’t blinking.

Wasn’t moving.

Wasn’t pulling back to say this was a one-time thing, okay, don’t get weird about it.

She was there.

Wrapped up in him and still joking, still teasing, still brushing her fingers across his jaw like she wasn’t afraid of what came next.

He tucked a hand behind her knee and pulled her just a little closer—like if he held her tighter, it might finally click that this wasn’t a dream. That he hadn’t imagined her choosing him back.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” he muttered, voice low and warm as his thumb brushed her temple. “Like. Actually cry. Real, snotty, embarrassing tears. In front of your mom.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead like she was the last safe place on earth, and sighed into her hair.

Then, dryly:
“She definitely has a knife named after me in the drawer.”

A beat passed, then his smile curled up lazy and real.

“Worth it, though.”

Because it was. All of it.

The weird mid-week feelings. The softboy slander. The cartoonishly intimidating mom. The glitter jokes. The fact that he’d never get his shirt back.

He glanced down at her again, fingers tracing a slow line along her thigh like he was still trying to memorize this—every inch of her folded into him, every sarcastic one-liner turned love note.

“You ever think maybe we’re not actually disasters?” he asked after a long pause, voice soft, quieter than usual. “Like maybe… we’re just figuring it out. Late bloomers. Or emotionally constipated overachievers.”

He smiled to himself, then added, under his breath:

“Still wouldn’t change it.”

Then he kissed her again.

Not like punctuation. Not like a thank you.

Like a beginning.

And when they broke apart, the glow of the TV flickering against both of them, Spencer rested his chin lightly on top of her head, arms wound around her like he didn’t plan to move anytime soon.

“Next Thursday,” he murmured, lips brushing her hair, “I’m bringing dessert. Like, an actual one. Not gas station Oreos.”

Then, with a grin she could feel more than see:

“Unless that’s your love language. In which case—I got you. Double Stuf. All in.”

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she could feel it—him—in every inch of her. In the way his arms stayed locked around her like gravity finally had a purpose. In the way his heartbeat thudded steady against her cheek. In the way her whole chest cracked open a little more every time he said something stupidly sincere and followed it up with gas station snacks and soft sarcasm.

She wasn’t used to being held like this. Not without it turning sharp or conditional. Not without someone keeping score.

But he wasn’t keeping score.

He was staying.

Even with Violet’s knife drawer. Even with her mess. Even when she couldn’t always find the words for what this was.

So instead, she moved—slid her leg a little higher over his, curled deeper into the curve of his side, like she could burrow straight into the truth of it. The warmth. The weight. The way he kissed her like she was something holy and real.

And when she spoke, it was soft. Barely above a whisper.

“You’re ridiculous.”

A pause.

Then, even softer:

“And yeah. I’d take the Oreos.”

She tilted her chin, pressed another kiss just beneath his jaw—quick and warm and annoyingly full of everything.

“And the emotional constipation. And the forehead kisses. And the part where you keep showing up even when it scares you.”

Her hand found his again, fingers lacing tight, anchored.

“I’d take all of it. Every Thursday. Every disaster version of us. Every messy, slow, kind of beautiful inch of whatever the hell this is turning into.”

A long pause, her eyes fluttering closed as she rested against him again.

Then, muffled against his shirt:

“But if you bring coconut anything, I’m breaking up with you.”

Stillness.

Then a snort-laugh from him, breath huffed straight into her hair.

“Non-negotiable,” she added, smirking now. “That’s a red flag.”

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Because Spencer Walker was still there. And so was she.

And this? This felt like everything she hadn’t known how to ask for.

So she stayed. Warm and wound around him like a promise she was finally ready to believe in.

And next Thursday?

She’d be right here.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Just let out a low breath—one of those full-body exhales that slipped past his lips like relief, like Jesus Christ, this girl is gonna ruin me in the softest, most sacred way.

Because she was curled into him like a comma instead of a period.

Because she was taking him. All of him. Emotional constipation, bad snack choices, forehead kisses and all.

And somehow, she made it feel like he was enough.

“Coconut’s dead to me,” he murmured finally, voice rumbling against the crown of her head. “Wasn’t even invited to the group chat.”

His fingers kept moving—absent and reverent—sliding up and down the curve of her spine like he was learning her by feel alone. No rush. No plan. Just her. Just here.

And it didn’t scare him like it used to.

Didn’t make him want to self-sabotage or slip out the door before the moment could get too loud.

Because this wasn’t loud.

It was good.

It was Leighton, wrapped around him, threatening to break up over a Mounds bar with all the conviction of someone falling in love and not hiding it anymore.

He smiled into her hair.

“I think we’re the kind of mess that works,” he said quietly. “Like, not the kind people warn you about. The kind that sticks. That builds slow. That doesn’t fall apart every time someone says the wrong thing.”

A pause. Then, a little lower:

“I wanna be good at this too. With you.”

He didn’t pull back when he said it. Didn’t look at her for confirmation or shove a joke in there to soften the blow.

He just said it and meant it.

And when she squeezed his hand tighter, he knew she’d heard him.

Knew she felt it.

Another beat passed before he shifted just enough to kiss the top of her head. Once. Twice. Then again, just because he could. Because he wanted to. Because nothing in his chest was trying to run anymore.

Eventually, his voice came again—sleepier, looser, but no less sure:

“So… what I’m hearing is Oreos, emotional growth, and light knife-based intimidation every Thursday.”

A beat.

“I can work with that.”

And just like that, Spencer Walker settled deeper into the couch, arms wound around the girl who wasn’t going anywhere.

No finish line. No fireworks.

Just warmth. Just laughter. Just something real.

And next Thursday?

He’d bring the Oreos.

Double Stuf. No coconut.

Leighton didn’t move right away.

Didn’t need to—not when his presence settled around her like a weighted blanket, all low warmth and stupid honesty that made her ribs ache in the best way.

She just smiled.

One of those quiet, crooked, you’re such a goner for me and I know it smiles. The kind that bloomed slow, from somewhere deep in her chest, where the armor used to live.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

Because she didn’t feel like she had to protect herself anymore. Not when he held her like that. Not when his thumb traced lazy circles into the small of her back like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he tried.

She murmured something under her breath—half sarcasm, half truth—about sobbing over shelter dogs and flipping the board during Uno. Then let herself melt into him a little more, breathing in the familiar scent of him: salt, smoke, comfort.

Her hand started moving, almost absentmindedly.

Down his chest.

Lower.

Then right into the front pocket of his jeans like it was the most casual thing in the world. No fanfare. No guilt. Just a girl claiming what she knew was there.

She fished through the contents like it was a game—fingertips brushing keys, maybe gum, definitely a crumpled receipt—before finally finding what she was looking for.

She pulled the joint free with a triumphant little glint in her eye.

Held it up. Smirked.

Then, with all the mock-innocence of someone who absolutely knew what she was doing, tucked it behind her ear like a victory crown.

“For medicinal reasons,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Then curled into him again, smug and soft and absolutely infuriating in the way only she could be.

But she didn’t stay there long.

She shifted, stretched—arms up, shirt rising with her—and uncurled from his lap like she was made of syrup and sin.

Then stood.

Turned.

Held out her hand.

No explanation.

No request.

Just come with me.

And when he hesitated, even for a second, she grabbed his hand and pulled him up herself—bare feet padding across the floor as she led them through the quiet house.

Past the TV. Past the kitchen. Past the lingering ghosts of every goodbye she used to brace for.

She opened the front door without looking back.

The night air spilled in—thick and sweet, the scent of plumeria and salt hanging heavy in the summer dark.

Leighton stepped out first.

Onto the porch. Onto the warm, creaking wood that remembered every teenage night they used to waste pretending they weren’t already halfway in love.

And then—just before he caught up—she glanced over her shoulder, lips curved, eyes gleaming.

No words.

Just that look.

Like: You coming, or what?

And of course—he was.

Spencer followed like he didn’t have a choice.

Because he didn’t.

Not really.

Not when she looked at him like that—like trouble and tenderness wrapped in one slow-smiling hurricane. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew he’d follow.

(He always would.)

The front door clicked soft behind him. The screen door groaned just a little as it swung shut, the porch light flickering above them like even it couldn’t believe the moment was real.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, mostly out of habit. Mostly to stop himself from reaching for her again too soon.

But she was already waiting—barefoot and smug, arms crossed over that stolen shirt, joint tucked behind her ear like a secret only he was allowed to know.

And God, she looked like every version of home he never knew how to ask for.

So he stepped up beside her. Close enough to bump her shoulder with his. Close enough to feel the static between them crackle back to life in the humid night air.

“Pretty sure that’s theft,” he murmured, nodding toward the joint. “I could press charges.”

But his voice was too soft to be serious.

Too gone.

She didn’t answer. Just gave him that little tilt of her head, all challenge and charm, before walking barefoot down the steps like the whole damn island belonged to her.

Spencer followed. Again.

The yard was dark, just patches of moonlight cutting through the trees. Everything smelled like hibiscus and midnight and something just about to happen.

She led him around the side of the house—toward the old hammock strung between two palms. The one they used to dare each other into flipping out of back when everything still felt like maybe.

And then she stopped.

Turned.

Waited for him to catch up.

Spencer didn’t say anything this time. Just reached out, tugged her gently toward him by the hem of his shirt (still hers), and pressed a kiss to the center of her forehead.

Quick. Fierce. Ridiculous.

Like he couldn’t not.

When he pulled back, his eyes found hers in the dark. Warm. Honest. A little dumb with affection.

“I’m already yours, Leia,” he said, voice low and sure. “You don’t have to steal my stuff to prove it.”

Then he smiled. Crooked. Soft. Helpless.

And let her pull him into the hammock like two kids who had all the time in the world.

Leighton didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him.

Like she was trying to commit the whole damn thing to memory—his stupid soft smile, his dumb gorgeous eyes, the way he always said her name like it was a prayer and a punchline all at once. Like he couldn’t believe he got to say it out loud.

And maybe she couldn’t either.

She reached up, slow and sure, plucked the joint from behind her ear, and held it out between two fingers like evidence.

“You really gonna complain,” she said, voice light, “when I’m out here improving your closet and your street cred?”

The smirk was playful. But the look in her eyes?

That was something else.

She leaned back into the hammock with him, knees folding, limbs tangling, head resting on his chest like it had been there a hundred times before. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath her cheek. Her fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt again, casual but unshakable, like the touch grounded her.

The joint dangled loosely from her other hand, forgotten for a second.

Then she grinned—slow and smug and devastatingly happy.

“Okay, yes,” she added. “Maybe I do steal your shirts to make a point.”

She paused dramatically.

“But mostly? It’s just fun.”

And then she laughed—really laughed—the kind that cracked her wide open and made her eyes scrunch and her whole body shake a little against his.

Because God, this didn’t have to be serious all the time.

It could be this. Light. Easy. Moonlight and stolen joints and teasing each other under the stars like maybe love wasn’t a loaded word—it was just another kind of dare they were both finally ready to take.

She passed him the joint, still laughing a little, and tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

“I know I don’t have to steal your stuff to keep you,” she said, quieter now. “But I’m still gonna do it.”

She nudged him with her knee.

“Fair warning.”

Then she took the joint back, lit it with a flick of the lighter, and took a slow drag before passing it to him again with a grin that didn’t try to hide a damn thing.

Not the peace.
Not the giddiness.
Not the maybe-this-is-it feeling swelling in her chest.

“You’re stuck with me, Walker,” she said, soft and sure. “And I’m not even sorry about it.”

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she was curled into him like that—laugh-wrecked and glowing, smirking up at him like she’d just won something. Like she knew she had. And maybe she had. Maybe she always would.

Because yeah, he was hers.

Has been. Will be.

And if this was what being stuck looked like? Hell, he’d take it.

He took the joint without looking down—just felt her fingers brush his, warm and easy—and brought it to his mouth, still watching her like she was the whole sky.

“Wouldn’t even try to escape,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked in that sleepy, smitten kind of way that only she ever pulled out of him. “You’re terrifying.”

A pause.

Then he added, totally serious:

“And hot.”

He passed the joint back. Let his fingers linger against her wrist for a second longer than necessary—just to make a point.

Just to feel it.

The realness. The ridiculousness. The way her laugh was still echoing in his chest like some kind of miracle.

She shifted against him—settling deeper, like they were one of those perfect fits you didn’t realize existed outside of rom-coms and dreams you don’t say out loud.

And he kissed her hair.

Didn’t even think about it.

Just did it.

Then whispered against the crown of her head, barely audible beneath the buzz of the night:

“You can have every shirt I own, Leia.”

He felt her smile without even looking.

“Hell, take the dresser too. Closet’s yours. Top drawer. Whole thing.”

He paused again, arm tightening around her like instinct.

“But if you steal my hoodies, I’m gonna need visitation rights.”

And just like that, the smile cracked across his face again—lazy and full of something dangerously close to joy.

Because this?

This was the best kind of ruin.

This was the quiet version of forever.

And he was all in.

Leighton didn’t laugh right away—not out loud, anyway.

She just let it bloom behind her lips, slow and bright and helpless, like something she couldn’t quite hold back. Not when he said things like that. Not when he looked at her like that.

She tapped ash from the joint with her free hand, then passed it back without a word, her fingers grazing his deliberately this time—because she could. Because he was hers and she wanted to feel it everywhere.

Then she shifted, not away but closer, tucking herself tighter into the curve of him like maybe she could memorize it. Like maybe she already had.

“You’re such a sap,” she murmured, soft enough it didn’t undo anything. “A hot one, but still.”

Her grin curved lazily as she tilted her face toward his collarbone, nose brushing the neckline of his shirt—her shirt now, obviously.

“So I guess that means I’ll just keep rotating through yours until you start locking your closet.”

A beat. Then quieter, closer to something real:

“But I’m not giving the hoodies back.”

She felt him breathe in like he was trying not to let that ruin him.

Good.

Because she was ruined too.

And maybe this was it. Not perfect. Not planned. But real.

Fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw, she leaned in—kissed him slow. Familiar. A little reckless. Like he was the last good thing on earth and she wasn’t about to let it slip.

When she pulled back, she stayed close. Smirking.

“You can have visitation rights,” she whispered. “But only if you ask nicely.”

Then she stole one more kiss—quick this time, stupid and sweet—before leaning her head back against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

She didn’t need to say anything else.

He already knew.

Spencer let the joint hang loose between his fingers, forgotten now.

Because yeah—she was tucked into him, saying shit like that, kissing him like that, and expecting him to stay normal?

Not a chance in hell.

His heart stuttered behind his ribs, loud enough he was half-convinced she could hear it. Feel it. Probably could, with the way she was curled into his chest like it was hers—and, honestly, it kind of was.

She’d claimed everything else.

His shirts. His hoodies. His sanity.

Might as well take the heart too.

“I don’t do ‘nicely,’” he mumbled, voice rough at the edges. “But I make exceptions.”

Then he looked down at her. Really looked.

The smirk. The lashes. The way her fingers still traced his jaw like they were spelling something only she could read.

God, he was so far gone.

“Only hoodie I’m not giving up is the blue one,” he added after a beat, like it mattered. “You take that, and I’m showing up at your door with a slideshow presentation and a hostage negotiation plan.”

He felt her laugh more than he heard it—right there in his chest, wrecking him slow.

And he didn’t care. Not even a little.

He kissed the top of her head. Let his hand settle at her waist, fingers drawing lazy shapes against her hip like he couldn’t stop touching her even if he wanted to.

Then, quieter:

“I already know you’re not giving anything back.”

He paused. Let it hang there.

“Pretty sure you never planned to.”

And he didn’t sound mad about it. Not even close.

Because she could have it all.

The shirts. The hoodies. The heart.

Hell, she already did.

So he kissed her temple once, soft and dumb and probably too much, and leaned his head back against the hammock, pulling her with him like she belonged there.

Because she did.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Leighton didn’t respond right away. Not with words, anyway.

Just this slow, dizzy kind of smile that curled at the corner of her mouth like it had nowhere better to be. Her fingers paused against his jaw, then slipped down to his collarbone—dragging light, lazy lines like she was memorizing him by touch.

She tilted her face up, chin tucked into his chest, lips parted like a secret might fall out if she breathed too hard. Her voice, when it came, was low and teasing and wrecked at the edges.

“I knew the blue one was sacred,” she murmured, smirking against his skin. “That’s why I’m stealing it last.”

Then—before he could fire back—she pushed up onto one elbow and kissed him again.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Hungry.

Confident.

Like she’d already decided he belonged to her and was just letting him catch up.

And then she pulled back, lips brushing his, eyes still half-lidded and glowing with that familiar fire.

“You’re real dumb for me, you know that?”

Her tone made it sound like affection. Like awe. Like a little bit of disbelief tangled up in the truth of it all.

Then she dropped back against him, dragging him with her until they both hit the hammock in a messy sprawl—her head landing right over his heart again, her fingers tugging the hem of his shirt down like she was tucking them in for the night.

And she didn’t say anything else after that.

Didn’t need to.

Because the weight of her against him, the smile still tugging at her lips, the way she fit without trying?

That said it all.

Leighton didn’t speak right away.

She just lay there—head cradled in the crook of his arm, eyes fixed on the stars like they might offer up some kind of permission. Like maybe if she stared long enough, the past would keep its distance.

But it didn’t.

It never really did.

“I’ve lived in a lot of places,” she said quietly. “Not in the fun, postcard kind of way. In the throw-everything-you-own-in-a-trunk-and-pray-we-make-it-through-the-week kind of way.”

Her voice stayed even, but her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his ribs.

“There were stretches where it was just me and my mom, bouncing between couches and motels. Sometimes we’d sleep in the car. She always called it ‘car camping’—like it was some big adventure. Like we were choosing it.”

She exhaled, sharp and soft at once.

“But we weren’t. We were just… surviving. And half the time, barely.”

She turned her face toward him—not all the way, just enough that her cheek brushed his shoulder. She didn’t look for a reaction. Didn’t need one.

“She stole a lot,” Leighton said, voice flatter now. “Food. Clothes. Gas. I used to stand lookout like it was some kind of game. She’d wink at me, tell me I had good instincts. That I was smart. Brave.”

A pause. Her jaw tightened slightly.

“I was just scared.”

Another beat.

“There’s a lot I wish I didn’t remember. And even more I wish I hadn’t been part of. But I was. Because I didn’t have a choice. Because when someone you love tells you it’s the two of you against the world, you believe them.”

She went quiet again, staring up at the stars like maybe they’d understand what it meant to love someone flawed. Someone messy. Someone who hurt you and protected you in the same breath.

And then—softly, like the truth might break if she said it too loud:

“I never felt safe. Not really. Not until now.”

Her fingers slid into his, tighter this time. Not like she was grounding herself—but like she was choosing him.

“For all the places I’ve been, all the cities I’ve seen… this hammock, this house, this island?” She breathed out a small laugh. “You.”

She squeezed his hand once, thumb brushing along the back of it.

“This is my favorite place. Because it’s the first one that feels like mine. Like I’m not just passing through, waiting for the next crash. Like I can just… be.”

Then quieter:

“And I don’t want to run anymore.”

She didn’t say she was scared of messing it up, though she was. She didn’t say she wasn’t sure she deserved it, though the thought gnawed at her sometimes.

She just held onto him a little tighter, and for once, didn’t try to outrun the silence.