Spencer didn't say anything at first.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t do a goddamn thing except look at her—like he was watching something sacred happen and didn’t want to mess it up by breathing too loud.

Because she stayed.

Because she reached for him on purpose.

Because Leighton Thomas—the hurricane, the heartbreak, the girl who built emotional escape hatches in her sleep—had just said she wanted to fall and get back on.

And she meant it.

His throat worked around something thick and wordless. Something that tasted like finally.

He squeezed her hand once, grounding. Thumb brushed the side of hers like a promise he didn’t have the language for yet.

“You can fall a hundred times,” he said, quiet. “Just means I get to catch you a hundred more.”

Then he stepped a little closer—still holding on, always holding on—and bent his knees just enough to mirror her stance. A soft grin tugged at his mouth, barely there, crooked as hell.

“And for the record? Nicholas Sparks could never.”

He bumped her shoulder, gentle, then nodded toward the board beneath her feet.

“Alright, soft girl—weight low, shoulders over your knees, and when I say pop, don’t think. Just trust yourself.”

A beat.

“Trust me.”

Because this wasn’t just about skating.

It never had been.

It was about her letting him stay in the hard parts. Letting herself stay too.

And as she adjusted her stance—concentrated, a little flushed, a little cracked open in the best way—Spencer couldn’t stop the quiet awe from slipping into his smile.

Because Leighton Thomas wasn’t running.

Not this time.

Not from him.

And no matter how many times she fell—he’d be there.

Hand out. Heart open.

Always.

Her heart was beating too fast.

Not from fear this time—but from knowing. From the weight of what it meant to trust him out loud. From the way his voice wrapped around her like gravity and grace and that crooked-ass smile she’d probably die a little for someday.

And god, she wanted this.

Not just the ollie. Not just the rush of trying. She wanted this moment—wanted to keep it tucked in her back pocket like a charm. Like a vow. Like something holy.

So she breathed in. Let the air shake through her lungs, let it fill the cracks she used to hide in. Her fingers flexed at her sides before she crouched down again, Converse soles squeaking slightly against grip tape, legs tense and ready. She wasn’t graceful—but she was grounded.

Weight low. Shoulders steady. Heart open.

She didn’t look at Spencer.

She didn’t need to.

She felt him there—felt the quiet hum of his faith in her like a lighthouse beam aimed straight through her ribs.

And when he said “pop,” she did.

Her back foot snapped down instinctively. The board lifted—awkward, crooked, barely an inch off the pavement—but her feet stayed with it. Her knees bent on the way down, arms out, body wobbling but not falling.

Not this time.

And then—then the board rolled.

She rolled.

And her laugh—sharp and shocked and wild with joy—broke across the air like thunder.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, turning slightly even as the momentum pulled her forward. Her arms flailed out to balance, hair in her face, smile taking up all of her. “Oh my god, I did it! Did you see that?!”

She coasted a few feet more, shoes scuffing the pavement before she stopped herself and turned, half-wobble, half-spin, breathless with disbelief.

“I fucking did it.”

Her eyes were wide, burning bright as she pushed off again, shakier this time, but trying—and that was everything. That was the point. Her body remembered the motion even if her brain still stuttered. She popped again. Smaller, messier. But she stayed on.

And then she looked back at him.

Spencer.

The boy who saw her flinch and never walked away. The boy who held her hand like it was sacred. The boy who taught her how to fall—and made sure she knew how to stand back up.

“You taught me how to do that,” she said, still breathless, still stunned.

But what she meant—what filled every inch of her voice—was:

You taught me how to stay.

You taught me how to be soft.

You taught me that maybe I don’t have to run when someone loves me right.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

She wasn’t scared of the fall.

She was ready for the next try.

Spencer couldn’t move at first.

Couldn’t breathe right either—not when she laughed like that. Not when she landed. Not when she turned and looked at him like maybe she finally believed it too. That she could do this. That she was allowed to try and not run.

His chest cracked open in the quietest way, just a breath behind her joy.

She’d done it.

She’d really fucking done it.

And not just the ollie—though yeah, that too, and it was maybe the most beautiful, janky, glorious inch-and-a-half of airtime he’d ever seen—but the trust. The showing up. The trying.

Spencer grinned so hard it almost hurt.

“You—” he started, voice caught in his throat, too full of everything she’d just given him. “Hell yeah, you did.”

He jogged the short distance to her, sneakers thudding against hot pavement, and didn’t wait. Didn’t think. Just grabbed her by the sides of her face and kissed her.

Fast. Fierce. A little too much, probably.

But she laughed into it, didn’t pull back, just curled her hands in his shirt like she’d been waiting for that moment since the second her wheels left the ground.

When they broke apart, breathless and bright, he rested his forehead against hers, still holding her close.

“You looked like a goddamn superhero,” he murmured. “All messy and radiant and about two seconds from flying.”

His thumb traced the corner of her mouth where her smile still lived—like maybe he could keep it there. Like maybe this was the part that ruined him for good.

She bumped her nose against his. Still smiling. Still her.

And Spencer—Spencer felt it everywhere.

That love she kept trying not to say. That want she kept stuffing behind sarcasm. That joy that leaked out no matter how hard she tried to stay cool.

He leaned back just enough to see her whole face.

“You’re not getting rid of me now,” he said, soft and certain. “Just so you know.”

A pause.

Then, deadpan: “I’m becoming your full-time skate coach. Gonna print business cards. ‘Lessons by Hot Boyfriend Who Cries at Musicals.’”

She rolled her eyes. Snorted.

But she didn’t let go.

And neither did he.

Because this—this was the moment he was gonna remember. The one he’d replay when the world got too loud or when she forgot what she was made of.

The moment Leighton Thomas stopped waiting for a reason to run—

And chose to fly instead.

Leighton couldn’t stop grinning.

Couldn’t stop feeling either—not the way his hands cupped her face like she was something rare, or the way he kissed her like the air between them didn’t matter. Like it never had.

She laughed into his mouth, dizzy and breathless, hands twisted in the fabric of his shirt like if she didn’t hold on, she might float right off the concrete.

Because he saw it. All of it.

Not just the ollie—her ridiculous little hop into glory—but her. The fact that she’d tried. That she’d let him see her trying. That she hadn’t talked herself out of it this time.

She hadn’t run.

She hadn’t folded.

And she wasn’t going to.

When he pulled back, forehead pressed to hers, still catching his breath like she’d knocked it out of him, she felt something hot bloom in her chest. Not panic. Not fear.

Just holy shit, I love him.

She didn’t say it. Not yet.

But she thought it loud enough it might’ve echoed.

She rolled her eyes at his stupid business card line—Hot Boyfriend Who Cries at Musicals—and let the corners of her mouth twitch, but her hands didn’t budge from his shirt. Her fingers curled tighter like she was grounding herself, anchoring to the only thing that made sense right now.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “But fine. Only if I get to be your emotional support skater girl. I want matching shirts.”

She said it like a joke.

But the weight of it was real.

Because she could still feel the ghosts of all the places she’d left behind. Still hear her mom’s voice telling her it was time to go, time to start over, time to burn it down before it got taken.

And yet here she was.

Still standing. Still trying.

Still his.

Her voice dropped a little, breath catching in her throat. “You’re not gonna have to look for me next time. I’m not going anywhere.”

She looked up then, let him see all of it. The part of her that still flinched sometimes. The part that kept waiting for the ground to give out.

And the part that wanted to stay anyway.

With him.

Leighton leaned in and kissed him again—slow this time. Certain.

Then pulled back just enough to whisper, “You ruined me, y’know.”

A beat.

Then, quiet and grinning:

“And I’m not even mad about it.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because his brain was still short-circuiting over the part where she smiled like that and then said things like that and then kissed him like she meant it.

Jesus Christ.

This girl was gonna end him.

And the worst part—the best part—was that he was letting her. Willingly. Happily. Like he’d handed her the detonator and said, “Go on. Make it art.”

His forehead was still against hers, his hands still cupping her face, thumbs moving without thought—just brushing over the apples of her cheeks like she was the most delicate thing he’d ever dared to hold. Which, yeah. She kinda was.

And when she whispered that last line—you ruined me—he almost laughed.

Because same.

Because Leighton Thomas had strolled into his life with all that glitter and glare and weaponized sarcasm, and turned every rule he’d ever made about not believing in forever into confetti.

And yeah, okay, maybe his chest felt a little tight.

But it wasn’t the bad kind.

It was the kind that felt a whole lot like staying.

“Okay, well,” he murmured eventually, voice low and half-stunned, “I was gonna make a joke about ruining you in a cool, edgy, emotionally unavailable bad-boy way, but now I’m having feelings and might throw up.”

He peeked down at her through too-long lashes, still close enough to kiss her again, still not totally sure he wasn’t dreaming all of this.

Matching shirts. Not going anywhere. Letting him see her—all of her—and still staying.

His throat worked around the ache of it.

“You’re gonna wreck me back,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, but not quite managing it. “Like, full emotional carnage. But in a fun, beachy, youth-drama-on-HBO kind of way.”

And then, quieter—barely a breath:
“I’m not mad about it either.”

He leaned in and kissed her temple, gentle and stupid and so soft it made something behind his ribs ache in that sweet, unbearable way.

Then he wrapped his arms fully around her and tugged her close until her face was hidden in his shoulder and his chin was in her hair and they were just… there.

Breathing. Holding. Staying.

And he thought, not for the first time:

Maybe this is what forever feels like at the beginning.

He didn’t say it.

Didn’t need to.

Just stood there with her in his arms, board at their feet, sunlight cutting through salt wind, and thought—

If this is ruin, I’ll take it.

Forever and then some.

Leighton didn’t try to fill the silence.

Didn’t rush to make it easier, or lighter, or safer. She’d done that before—in other lives, with other boys who hadn’t stayed long enough to make it count. She’d filled silences like lifeboats, patching over cracks just to keep from sinking.

But this wasn’t that.

This was him.

And she was letting it be.

Letting him be.

She felt the shape of his laughter more than she heard it, warm and breathless against her skin. His arms around her, his chest rising and falling like maybe she’d knocked something loose in there—something quiet and wild and already hers.

And when he called it carnage?

When he said she’d wreck him back?

God.

She wanted to.

Not in the messy, leave-him-burning kind of way she used to know. But in the way that stayed. The way that peeled her open and made her want to stay. The way that let her believe this could be a ruin worth building from.

Her fingers curled in the back of his shirt, just to feel him there.

She didn’t pull back, not right away. Didn’t need to look him in the eye to know he meant it.

Instead, she pressed a smile into his shoulder and whispered, soft and stupid and completely sincere:

“Guess we’re both doomed, huh?”

Then—because she couldn’t help it, because her heart was still thundering like it hadn’t figured out how to slow down—she added, “But I’d rather be wrecked by you than safe with anyone else.”

And when she finally leaned back to meet his eyes, her hand found his again—knuckles scraped a little from the ramp, palm still warm from catching herself mid-landing. She laced their fingers like it was second nature.

Because it was, now.

And looking at him—sun in his hair, sea salt in his lashes, lips still parted like he hadn’t come all the way back down yet—she felt something in her chest click into place.

Not a lock.

A key.

She bumped her nose against his.

“I don’t want to un-ruin you,” she said. “I just wanna stay wrecked together.”

And then—God help her—she grinned. Bold and smug and maybe a little bit in love with the fact that she got to have this. Him.

“Now shut up and kiss me again.”

Spencer didn’t shut up right away.

Which, honestly, was progress.

Because three months ago? Two? Hell, maybe even last week? He would’ve cracked a joke so fast it left skid marks. Would’ve laughed off her sincerity like it was a beach bonfire that got too close to his ribs. Would’ve deflected, rerouted, made it easier.

But she didn’t flinch.

And so he didn’t run.

Because this girl—this emotionally punk-rock, chaos-in-a-Converse, glitter-fisted girl—just said she’d rather be wrecked by him than safe with anyone else.

And yeah. That… did something to him.

Something terrifying. Something permanent.

Something that felt suspiciously like all the love songs he used to skip because they hurt too much to believe in.

He looked at her like he was still trying to memorize it all.

Not just the smirk or the sun in her hair or the way she said “un-ruin” like it was a perfectly acceptable verb.

But the way she stayed.

Here. In his arms. Still choosing him even after seeing the worst of it.

And yeah—maybe he was a little doomed.

But hell if it didn’t feel like exactly the kind of doom he’d been waiting for.

His free hand slid to her waist, fingers brushing a soft stripe of skin where her shirt had pulled up. He leaned in—close enough that their noses bumped again, close enough that he could count every freckle, every breath.

“You’re such a menace,” he said, voice a little rough, a little wrecked. “Like, a full-blown emotional terrorist. With dimples.”

Then—softer, just for her—
“But yeah. Let’s stay wrecked.”

And then he kissed her.

Not the kind of kiss that came with fireworks or soundtracks or slow-motion waves.

But the kind that said: I’m not going anywhere.

The kind that anchored. That cracked his chest open just enough for her to see the blueprint inside—all splintered ribs and half-scared hope—and trusted her not to run from it.

He kissed her like they had time. Like the board could wait. Like he’d teach her to fall a hundred times over if it meant she always got back up like this—grinning and scraped and holding his damn hand.

When he finally pulled back, dazed and dumbly in love, he looked at her like he’d just lost a fight he was happy to never win again.

Then, because he was still Spencer Walker, and because he couldn’t not—

“I swear to God, Leighton,” he said solemnly, “if this turns into one of those ‘we were wrecked all along’ Instagram captions, I’m breaking up with you.”

But he didn’t let go.

Not even close.

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t try to armor up like she used to when things got too sincere, too sharp-edged with truth.

She just looked at him—really looked—and let it settle.

That he hadn’t run. That he hadn’t ducked behind a joke. That he hadn’t deflected or rerouted or tried to lessen the weight of what she said. Of what she meant.

Of what they were.

Her chest tightened in a way that was more holy shit than panic. Like something inside her was finally exhaling after holding its breath too long.

She curled her fingers into the fabric at the back of his shirt, still warm from the sun, still clinging to the last kiss like it had rewired her lungs. And when he called her a menace—an emotional terrorist with dimples—she huffed out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so loaded.

“Okay,” she muttered, tilting her head just enough to nudge his jaw with her nose. “First of all, rude. Second of all… fair.”

Because she was a lot.

Too much, sometimes.

But he hadn’t let go.

He was still here. Hands on her waist, breath on her cheek, heart open in that messy, breakable way that made her want to protect it with her whole damn body.

And when he said “let’s stay wrecked,” her stomach flipped. Not from nerves. From recognition.

That he got it.

That he meant it.

That he was saying yes to all of it—not just the glittery parts. Not just the jokes or the heat or the wild, stupid chemistry that crackled every time they touched. But the messy stuff. The bruises and bad dreams. The mornings where she didn’t know how to talk about the past. The nights when silence wasn’t peace, it was survival.

He was staying for that.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat, thumb brushing a slow arc along his collarbone like she was trying to memorize the feel of him.

And then—because she couldn’t not—she kissed him again.

Just once.

Quick.

Like a promise.

When she pulled back, her smile was soft but a little dangerous, all mischief over meaning.

“Okay, coach, you win,” she said, eyes narrowing with faux-seriousness. “But I swear to God, if you ever post a close-up of my wheels mid-air with a dramatic caption about healing… I’m slashing your grip tape in your sleep.”

She didn’t mean it.

Obviously.

She was already half in love with the idea.

But the point was—he’d ruined her. In the best, slowest, safest way.

And when she leaned up again, breath brushing his lips, she murmured low:

“Let’s get out of here. I got some ideas you might enjoy.”

Then she kissed him for real—slow and certain and unshy—and smiled against his mouth like she’d never known how to stay before, but maybe now?

She was learning.

Spencer didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink, honestly.

He just stood there, heart thudding like it was trying to beat its way out of his ribs, staring at the girl who kissed him like a promise and threatened his grip tape in the same breath.

And all he could think was—

God, I’m so screwed.

Not in the bad way. Not in the self-sabotage, push-her-away-before-she-leaves kind of way. That version of him—the one who didn’t believe in permanence, who pretended forever was a punchline—he wasn’t here right now.

No, this was the version who stayed.

Who got wrecked on purpose.

Who let himself want things like this. Like her.

Spencer exhaled slow, like he was afraid to wake the moment, forehead still tipped toward hers, fingers curling tighter at her waist like she might disappear if he didn’t hold on with something other than charm.

“You kiss like you’ve got secrets,” he murmured, voice low, a little dazed. “And I’m tragically unqualified to handle the emotional consequences.”

He grinned faintly—more awe than arrogance.

Then, quieter:

“But I’m gonna try anyway.”

Because of course he was.

Because this wasn’t just about the kiss. Or the ramp. Or the summer air curling around her hair like even the wind didn’t want to leave.

It was about every part of her she let him see.

The fire and the fear. The smart mouth and the softer center. The way she said “I’m not going anywhere” without needing to raise her voice. Like it was truth. Like it was the truth.

He brushed his thumb along the edge of her jaw, eyes locked to hers like maybe he could memorize this expression—this her—before the sun dipped too low.

And then, with a crooked smile:

“Hold that thought.”

Spencer turned, jogged two lazy steps to where the battered deck waited near the edge of the ramp, and scooped it up with one hand—worn grip tape, scuffed edges, and all.

Then he spun on his heel, that shit-eating grin firmly back in place, and reached for her hand without hesitation. Laced their fingers like he’d never learned to be afraid of wanting.

Like maybe he finally believed he didn’t have to.

“Alright, menace,” he said, tugging her just close enough to bump hips. “Lead the way.”

And yeah—he was probably still a little wrecked.

But for once?

He wasn’t looking for the exit.

He was looking at her.