Spencer didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with his throat tight and his chest cracked wide open like she’d reached in and peeled something raw and real out of him just by trusting him with it.

Because that’s what it was.

Not just a confession. Not just a story.

It was trust.

And it leveled him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t say he was sorry, even though God, part of him wanted to. For all the shitty years she never should’ve had to carry. For every scared kid moment she’d buried in sarcasm and sharpness.

But he knew better.

Knew what it cost her to say any of that.

So instead, he kissed her hand. Quiet. Steady. Right where his thumb brushed hers.

Then he looked at her.

All of her.

Hair a mess. Eyes still half guarded. Mouth still pink from where she’d kissed him like she meant it.

And he smiled.

Not wide. Not showy.

Just sure.

“Then don’t.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges like it had been scraped clean.

“Don’t run. Don’t look for the next crash. Don’t pretend like this isn’t yours too.”

His thumb kept moving across the back of her hand. Absent. Certain.

“You’re not just passing through, Leia. You’re the damn reason this place feels like home now.”

And maybe it was too much. Maybe he should’ve played it cooler. Laughed it off. Said something stupid about how she could take the blue hoodie if she promised not to ghost him for coconut ice cream.

But she’d given him her real.

So he gave it back.

“I don’t care what came before me,” he said softly. “I don’t care how many motels or couches or half-assed promises you had to survive to get here.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers.

“You’re here now. With me. And I swear, Leighton… I’m not letting you go.”

He paused.

Then added, a little quieter:

“Even if you do steal the hoodie.”

And there it was again—that tug in his chest that felt a hell of a lot like forever.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

But his arms tightened around her, pulling her in like gravity had finally picked a side.

And maybe it had.

Because this?
This was the part where she stayed.
And he did too.

Leighton stayed quiet for a long time after.

Not because she didn’t have more to say—but because saying it meant naming something she’d been trying not to look at too closely. Not out loud. Not even in her own head most days.

Her head rested against his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat grounding her more than she wanted to admit. One hand still tucked beneath his shirt like maybe skin-to-skin could keep her steady. Like maybe it’d hold her in place long enough to say this without unraveling.

Then, low—so low it barely stirred the air between them:

“I think sometimes I’m just… waiting for the part where I turn into her.”

She didn’t explain who.

She didn’t have to.

“She always bailed when things got too hard. Called it instinct. Survival. Whatever made it sound noble.”

Her fingers moved against his side, slow and restless, tracing the stitching in his shirt like a map she couldn’t stop following. Something familiar. Something that couldn’t leave.

“I used to think I’d be different. That I’d build something real and stay in it. But I catch myself watching her when we’re out… seeing the way she clocks exits, the way she flinches at quiet. Like she’s already planning the next out.”

The words got heavier the longer they stayed in the air.

“She told me she wouldn’t date until after graduation. Said we’d stay here. Just us. That I could finish school somewhere that didn’t smell like cigarettes and desperation.”

A pause. The kind that felt like it cracked something open.

“I want to believe her,” she said. “I really do.”

She swallowed hard. The moonlight caught on the edge of her profile, silvering her lashes as her voice dropped.

“But the guy from the bar’s been real friendly. Keeps asking if she needs help with the car. Told her there’s live music this weekend. Offered her a ride home the other night after we ran into him at the gas station.”

She let out a breath through her nose—sharp, dry. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

“She smiled back.”

That part stayed soft. Like it hurt to admit.

“If she leaves, I have to go. That’s the deal. Doesn’t matter what I’ve built here. Doesn’t matter that this—” she nudged her shoulder gently into his, still not looking up, “—finally feels safe.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick. Honest.

“Sometimes I wonder if I already missed the chance to learn how to stay,” she said finally. “Like there’s this whole version of me I’ve been trying to grow into, but the old one keeps dragging her heels. Still half-packed. Still waiting for the knock on the door that says it’s time to go.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly, at the very end. But she didn’t hide from it.

Didn’t apologize.

Just stayed there. Still. Soft. Real.

Held together by the hammock. By the night. By him.

Spencer didn’t move for a long moment.

Didn’t rush in with comfort or fix-it words. Didn’t try to wrap her sadness in something easier to carry.

He just breathed.

Felt the weight of her against him—the way her fingers curled into his side like she was trying to stay tethered, like maybe if she held on tight enough, the rest wouldn’t break loose.

And then, slowly, he reached for her hand under his shirt. Twined their fingers together, palm to palm, skin to skin.

He squeezed once.

Not a promise. Not a plan.

Just I hear you.

Just I’m not going anywhere.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Barely more than a thread. But steady. Unshaking.

“You’re not her.”

A pause. Then again, firmer.

“You’re not her, Leighton.”

He didn’t mean it like a rejection of who raised her. He meant it like a declaration. Like a fact he knew down to his bones.

“You flinch at quiet because quiet’s been dangerous. You clock exits because people taught you not to trust safety when it showed up.”

He turned his head slightly, lips brushing the crown of hers as he spoke.

“But you’re not the one smiling back at guys like it’s your next escape plan. You’re not the one leaving. You’re the one staying, even when it scares you.”

His thumb brushed along the back of her hand again.

“You stayed when I got too close. When I said too much. When I brought you to that busted-ass diner at the edge of the island and let you see all my soft underbelly bullshit.”

A breath of a laugh.

“You’re already doing it, Leia. You just don’t know it yet.”

He shifted then—tilted his head enough to glance at her profile, moonlight catching the strands of her hair.

“She might leave,” he said quietly. “And if she does, I know that’s gonna feel like the end of something. But it doesn’t have to be the end of you here.”

His hand squeezed hers again.

“You’ve got people now. Me. Sam. That weird old guy at the surf shop who calls you kiddo. You’ve got Thursday night movie marathons and your own toothbrush in my bathroom and a stake in this place that you built.”

Then, even softer:

“And if she leaves and you do have to go? I’ll help you pack.”

He turned to press his lips to her temple, gentle.

“And I’ll go with you.”

Because he meant it.

Because she didn’t have to do any of it alone anymore. Not the staying. Not the leaving. Not the loving.

Not if she didn’t want to.

And maybe it wouldn’t change the ache in her chest. Maybe it wouldn’t undo the part of her that still believed in expiration dates.

But he’d still say it.

“I don’t care where you are, Leighton. I’m yours.”

A beat.

Then a crooked half-smile tugged at his mouth, because he couldn’t help it:

“And not just ‘cause your planning to steal my favorite hoodie.”

His arm curled tighter around her as he tipped his head back toward the stars.

“And yeah… maybe I don’t have it all figured out either. Maybe I still panic when I feel too much or love too hard. But if you’re still trying?”

He kissed her hand.

“Then so am I.”

And they stayed like that.

Held together by the hammock.
By the night.
By each other.

Leighton exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that felt like it had years behind it.

Like maybe it’d been waiting to be let out her whole damn life.

“My mom was seventeen when she had me,” she said quietly. “Seventeen. I used to think that meant I was lucky. That we were close because we were more like sisters than anything else. That we got each other.”

She paused, eyes on the stars, voice steady even if her throat wasn’t.

“But the truth is… we just kind of grew up together. Clumsily. Desperately. She didn’t know how to be a mom any more than I knew how to be a kid. And when you’re raised by someone who’s still figuring out how to raise herself…”

Her voice trailed off for a second.

“Sometimes I didn’t know where she ended and I started. She’d cry in front of me, tell me things no kid should hear. About the guys. About how tired she was. How scared. And I’d nod and listen and pretend I understood. Because I thought that was love. Carrying her weight for her. Being her person, even if I was just a kid too.”

Leighton’s fingers tightened slightly in Spencer’s.

“I learned how to lie for us before I learned how to ride a bike. How to cover for the bills we couldn’t pay. How to talk fast when someone asked too many questions. I got good at pretending like it didn’t bother me. Like sleeping in borrowed rooms and making friends I wouldn’t keep wasn’t chipping away at something I couldn’t name.”

Her voice dipped lower.

“She did what she could, I guess. But I can’t forget the times she didn’t. The times she left me at the laundromat with a bag of quarters and said she’d be right back and didn’t come for hours. The times she let people in who scared me. The times she asked me to smile and say thank you to men who didn’t deserve it.”

Her eyes closed for a beat.

“I know she tried. I know she didn’t have much. And I don’t hate her—I don’t. But sometimes, I hate that I didn’t get to just be a kid. That I was always the one holding everything together while she unraveled.”

She looked back at him then, her voice thick but sure.

“So yeah. I’m scared of becoming her. Of making the same mistakes. Of being so wrapped up in surviving that I forget how to live. That I hurt the people I love because I never learned how not to.”

A breath. Then, softer:

“But with you… it’s different. You slow everything down. Make space where there wasn’t any. And for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to hold the world up alone.”

She let her head fall back against his shoulder.

“And I don’t know what that means yet. Or how to stop flinching when it’s quiet. But I’m here. I’m trying.”

A beat passed.

“And I’m not gonna run.”

Spencer didn’t say anything right away.

Just let the quiet stretch between them, not as a void—but as a kind of reverence. Like the space between breaths in a song. Like silence that knew how to listen.

His arm tightened around her, gentle but unshakable. Like if she needed the world to stop spinning, he’d figure out how.

She could feel his pulse under her cheek again—strong, steady, real. Like he meant it just by existing. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

His voice, when it came, was rough around the edges. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because the truth always sat heavy in his throat when it was about her.

“You were a kid,” he said finally. “And you deserved to be one.”

No fix-it. No silver lining.

Just the truth, laid bare.

He reached for her hand again—threading their fingers together with a kind of quiet urgency, like he wanted her to feel it in her bones.

“You shouldn’t’ve had to be her anchor,” he murmured. “But you were. And somehow you still turned into someone who gives a damn. Someone who shows up. Someone who tries.”

His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow.

“I don’t think you’re anything like her.”

A beat.

“But even if you were—even if you were—you’d still be here. With me. Saying the things that scare you and staying anyway. And that’s more than she ever did.”

He tipped his head down, brushing his lips to the top of hers like punctuation. Like prayer.

“You don’t have to know what it means yet,” he said. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to stay.”

A pause, softer now.

“And you already are.”

He tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars with her like maybe they owed her something. Like maybe they were listening too.

“I know how heavy it gets,” he added after a moment. “Trying to be the one who holds it all together. Trying not to drop anything. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word. But he didn’t flinch from it.

“I’ve got you, Leia. Mess and all.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“And if we fuck it up sometimes? We’ll clean it up together.”

He looked down at her, eyes soft and lit from the inside.

“I’m not afraid of your past. I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Then—after a beat—his mouth tugged into a small, lopsided grin.

“And for the record?” he murmured. “You’re way too stubborn to turn into anyone but you.”

He kissed her temple.

“Thank God for that.”

She didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t think she could.

Because her throat felt tight and her chest felt full and the sky felt way too close—like if she looked too long it’d swallow her whole.

So instead, she pressed her forehead against his collarbone. Let her fingers tighten around his. Let herself feel him. The warmth. The weight. The way he didn’t let go even when her words got ugly. Even when she offered him all the parts of her that had never been soft.

She’d never had that before. Not really.

And it was terrifying.

But also—it was everything.

“I don’t even know who ‘me’ is supposed to be,” she whispered eventually, voice small and raw. “Like… I spent so long being whoever she needed. The peacekeeper. The grown-up. The reason we didn’t get kicked out again. And now that I’m here, in this, I—I don’t know what to do with it.”

Her voice cracked around the edges, sharp and quiet all at once.

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to shift. For you to wake up one day and decide I’m too much or not enough or exactly what you don’t want anymore.”

She paused.

Then added, lower:

“Because that’s what people always did. They saw the cracks and called them warning signs.”

Her thumb swept over his knuckle.

“But you don’t. You just… stay. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

And that?

That messed her up more than anything.

Because she wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe she was allowed this. That she didn’t have to bleed for it or beg for it or be someone else to deserve it.

She pulled back just far enough to look up at him, eyes shining but fierce.

“I don’t wanna be scared all the time,” she said, barely louder than a breath. “I don’t wanna keep flinching every time it feels too good. I wanna choose this. You. Even when I’m messy. Even when I’m loud and mean and not the easiest person to love.”

Her voice hitched.

“But you make it feel… safe. Like maybe I can mess up and still be wanted. Still be mine.”

She rested her forehead to his again, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

“So yeah. I’ll stay. I am staying. And if I get it wrong, if I screw something up, I’ll still keep showing up. For you. For me. For us.”

A shaky breath.

Then softer:

“You don’t have to fix me. You never did. I just needed someone who didn’t leave.”

She smiled, small and wrecked and honest.

“And yeah, I am way too stubborn to be anybody but me.”

Her eyes closed as she leaned in, kissing him slow—like it was a vow she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet, but meant with everything she had.

“Thank God you see her.”

The porch was quiet except for the scribble of her pen and the lazy hum of late summer. Leighton sat cross-legged on the old bench, journal balanced against her thigh, toes tapping out a rhythm against the chipped wood. The air smelled like salt and overripe mangoes from the neighbor’s tree, sweet and heavy. Familiar.

She’d been out here for a while. Long enough for the sun to dip lower, for the pages to start curling a little from the breeze. Long enough to stop thinking about what she was writing and just… write.

The screen door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t look up.

She knew the sound. The pace. The quiet way her mom moved when she didn’t want to interrupt but couldn’t help coming closer anyway.

One of the chairs shifted. The porch groaned under the weight.

Still, no words.

Just presence.

Leighton paused mid-sentence. Tapped her pen twice against the edge of the journal before slipping it closed and resting it in her lap.

Then she looked up.

Not defensive. Not braced.

Just open, in that tentative way she was still learning how to be.

Her voice was soft when it came, but steady.

“…Yes?”

She didn’t ask what her mom was doing there.

She already knew.

The silence had changed shape.

And Leighton was ready to hear whatever came next.

Violet didn’t look at her right away.

She sat back in the old rocker, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, her eyes scanning the yard like she was waiting for something to move. But nothing did. Just the breeze, the buzz of a cicada too stubborn to shut up, and the slow thud of her own heart reminding her that these moments didn’t come with do-overs.

So when she spoke, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t careless.

It was intentional.

“What does he call you?” she asked, voice low but direct. “Like… when he’s not being dumb. When it’s just you and him.”

She didn’t turn her head, but her hand moved—subtle—plucking a leaf from the porch railing like it had said something worth correcting.

“I just want to make sure it’s not something like ‘baby girl’ or ‘shawty,’” she added, dry. “Because then we have a different conversation to have.”

She finally looked over then, and though the line hung there like a joke, her eyes were sharp. Not suspicious. Not accusatory. Sharp like she was taking inventory.

Of Leighton.

Of this moment.

Of whatever boy had wandered into her daughter's orbit and stuck around long enough to matter.

She wasn’t asking for details. She didn’t want the whole story.

She wanted one thing: truth.

Not the kind Leighton offered to the world, all layered in cleverness and eye rolls.

The kind she offered when she knew she was safe.

Violet leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, head tilted slightly, watching her daughter like she was something luminous and unpredictable and hers.

“I just…” she said, a little quieter now, “wanna know how he sees you. Not what he says in front of people. Not what he texts when he’s trying to be slick. What he calls you when there’s no one to impress.”

She paused.

Then, with just the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—

“Because that’ll tell me more than anything else.”

Her tone was light, but the weight of it settled between them like sun-warmed stone.

Violet wasn’t asking as a test.

She was asking as a mother who’d fought tooth and nail for softness in a world that didn’t offer it freely. A mother who wanted to know that her daughter was being held gently—even when no one else could see.

She flicked the leaf away and let her voice drop just slightly.

“He doesn’t have to call you poetry. But if he calls you anything less than something that makes you feel seen, I want his full name and a running start.”

Then she folded her hands in her lap.

Ready.
Waiting.
Listening.

Because this wasn’t about control.

It was about care.

Leighton didn’t look away.

Not right away, anyway.

She just traced the edge of her journal with her thumb, heartbeat slow and steady, like the moment mattered but didn’t scare her. Not this time.

She heard the question for what it was—not a joke, not a test. A check-in. A quiet offer of space. And she didn’t want to waste it.

So she answered.

“Leia.”

Her voice wasn’t defensive. If anything, it was soft. A little breathy around the edges, like the name still caught her off guard in a good way.

“He calls me Leia.”

A beat passed.

And then, quieter—

“Like Star Wars, yeah. But not in a stupid way. I mean… I knew what he meant before he even explained it.”

She let the ghost of a smile tug at her mouth. Not sarcastic. Just real.

“He said it the first time like it just slipped out. Like it had always been there. And I didn’t correct him, because…”

She shrugged, looking down at her lap.

“I liked it. I really liked it.”

Another beat.

“He didn’t say it because he thought it’d be cute. He said it because he sees me that way. Brave. A little reckless. Trying to lead with her heart even when it’s hard.”

She blinked once, slow.

“And it wasn’t a line. I think that’s what got me. It wasn’t performative. It was just him. Just honest.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the journal again.

“I didn’t say anything when he first said it. Just smiled like an idiot and hoped he wouldn’t take it back.”

Then she glanced toward Violet—shoulder angled, head tilted just slightly.

“And I didn’t make fun of it. Not even a little. I think it was the first time someone called me something that didn’t make me feel small.”

A pause.

“Just… seen.”

And then, because some habits die hard—

“If you bring this up during dinner, I’m switching all your playlists to trap remixes of meditation sounds.”

But she was smiling now. Not hiding. Just… soft.

Because Leia wasn’t a nickname.

It was a promise.

And she wanted her mom to know that.

Violet exhaled through her nose—quiet, sharp, not quite a laugh. The kind of sound she made when something hit a little deeper than she was ready to admit, but she respected the hell out of it anyway.

“Leia,” she repeated, letting the name roll over her tongue like she was test-driving it.

It passed inspection.

Then she leaned back in the chair, one arm draped lazily over the side like she hadn’t just been handed something sacred. But her eyes—those told the truth. Still. Still and shining.

“Well,” she said, tone dry but proud, “as far as nicknames go, that’s not bad.”

A beat.

“It’s earned. And it’s smart. Girl was a rebel leader, a war strategist, and managed to look iconic with space buns and zero patience for men who underestimated her. Honestly, you could do worse.”

She paused just long enough for Leighton to feel the shift.

“But if he’s saying it just to try and get you into a slave-girl bikini, I will end him.”

She turned her head then. Not joking. Not smiling.

Just fierce.

“If he sees you as power in heels and grit in lip gloss? Good. Great. I’m glad. But if I catch even a whiff of him treating that name like it’s permission to fetishize you or dress you up for his fantasy—he’s done.”

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

There was steel in her spine and a fire under her calm.

Because Violet had spent too many years earning her own dignity in the silence between being overlooked and being desired—and her daughter? Her daughter deserved better than either.

She watched Leighton for a moment longer. Took in the way she sat—not armored, not guarded. Just there. Soft and steady, letting herself be known.

And Violet nodded once, firm. Like sealing something.

“I like it,” she said finally, voice softer now. “Because it means he sees your strength and your heart. The parts that don’t always fit cleanly together. The ones most people miss.”

She reached out then—just a touch. Just enough to tug gently at the edge of Leighton’s journal, fingers brushing over hers for the briefest second.

“He better keep seeing that. All of it.”

A beat.

“And if he doesn’t—he won’t need a lightsaber to feel pain.”

She smirked.

Then leaned back again, casual as anything, eyes on the sky now like she hadn’t just drawn a line in the sand with a mother’s love and a woman’s fire.

“Also, just for the record? You’ve always been more Leia than you know.”

Still Violet.
Still razor-sharp.
Still the safest place her daughter had ever known.