He should’ve said something back.

Should’ve come up with a smartass retort or a quiet I love you or maybe just a hell yes to all of it — to her, to the moment, to the music they hadn’t even made yet.

But she kissed him again before he could even catch his breath.

And damn if it didn’t light him up from the inside out.

Not because it was flashy. Not because it was choreographed. But because it was her. Wild and warm and fire-bright — and his, if he was lucky enough to keep her.

And maybe that’s what made him do it.

No warning. No countdown.

Just—

One hand sweeping behind her back.

The other catching hers as he dipped her, slow and deliberate, right there in the middle of the empty room like they were standing under stage lights instead of a flickering café bulb.

Like the world had quieted just to give them space.

She let out a breathy laugh against his mouth, startled and glowing, one hand clutching his shoulder like maybe he was the only thing keeping her from floating straight into the stars.

He held her there a beat longer than necessary.

Not for show.

But because he could.

Because she let him.

And because the look on her face — cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, that grin all teeth and freedom — might’ve been the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d ever seen.

“You kiss me like that again,” he murmured, voice low and rough with everything he hadn’t said yet, “and I’m gonna have to dip you every time. Even if we’re on stage. Even if you’re barefoot and yelling about a verse.”

He didn’t pull her up just yet.

Just leaned in, forehead brushing hers again, heart thudding hard in his chest like it had something to prove.

“Glitter and key changes don’t scare me, Rae.”

A beat.

“Neither do you.”

Then finally, finally, he pulled her upright — steady and soft, but with a glint in his eye like he was already planning the next moment she’d take his breath away.

Because she would.

Again and again and again.

And he was so fucking ready for all of it.

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because the thing was — she didn’t feel like talking.

Not when her whole body was still humming from the dip. From his hands. From the way he said her name like it didn’t scare him to love her out loud.

So she just stood there — steady on her feet but slightly breathless, one hand still fisted in the front of his shirt like she was holding onto something electric.

Then:

“You’re gonna regret giving me that kind of power,” she said, lips curving slow, eyes sharp with heat. “I’m already planning my next three moves.”

A step closer, almost chest to chest now.

“Starting with this one.”

She hooked her fingers into his belt loop — just enough to pull him a hair closer — and tilted her head like she was about to kiss him again but didn’t. Not yet. Just let the tension hang there, sweet and unrushed.

“You dip me again, Mercer,” she murmured, “I swear to God I’m gonna make you duet High School Musical 2 with me. On camera. Full choreography.”

Her smirk deepened at the flicker in his eyes — that split second of actual fear.

“But until then…”

She finally kissed him again — not soft this time, not tentative. Just herself, all in. Fierce. Playful. Alive.

And when she pulled back, her voice was quieter — not serious, just full of something real.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

A shrug. A smile that didn’t apologize.

“I just wanna be here. With you. Like this.”

And for once — finally — that was enough.

He should’ve seen it coming.

That look in her eye — all teeth and glitter and challenge — yeah, it was dangerous. Not in the way that warned you off. In the way that pulled you in. Like a spark right before the fuse lit. Like a verse right before the chorus drops.

And God, when she grabbed his belt loop?

Yeah. He felt that in his fucking soul.

“Three moves ahead, huh?” he said, voice low and teasing as he let her tug him in. “That’s cute. I’ve only been planning the next ten years.”

But before he could lean in, she hit him with the real threat.

High School Musical 2.
On camera.
Full choreography.

His soul briefly left his body.

The flicker of fear must’ve shown on his face, because she grinned like she’d just won a damn Grammy. And honestly? She had. At least the one for Best Original Chaos. He’d give her a trophy himself.

“Okay,” he said slowly, mock-casual, lips twitching. “Counteroffer: you never say ‘High School Musical’ in a sexy voice again and I don’t combust on the spot.”

But then she kissed him — full and fearless — and he forgot every word of protest he ever meant to say.

Because that?

That was her.

All fire and tempo, all tangled melody and unapologetic feeling.

And when she pulled back — when she said she didn’t want to talk about it, not yet — something in him exhaled. That quiet thing in his chest that never really settled until she was this close.

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, slow and reverent.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Then we don’t talk.”

Not tonight.
Not right now.

Just this.

His hands slid around her waist again, pulling her back into the same rhythm they always found — not choreographed, not planned. Just them.

“You already know the words,” he said, a little smile curling at his mouth. “So let’s just keep playing the song.”

And then, softer — for her, only her:

“I like this version of us.”

A breath.

“No lights. No noise. Just… you and me. Making something no one else gets to write but us.”

Then he leaned in again, his mouth brushing her jaw, warm and easy.

“And for the record? I’ll duet whatever the hell you want. High School Musical. Taylor Swift. Sesame Street. Just don’t act surprised when I steal the harmony and win the hearts of millions.”

A pause. His smile widened against her skin.

“Especially yours.”

She snorted.

Not cute or coy — snorted. Right there, pressed up against him like her fingers hadn’t just claimed the waistband of his entire soul.

“You’re so dramatic,” she muttered, shaking her head against his collarbone. “It’s High School Musical, not a hostage situation.”

But her smile betrayed her — wide, real, and a little too full of teeth. Because yeah… she’d seen his face when she said it. She’d felt it — that tiny flinch of panic. Which, honestly, made the whole idea ten times hotter.

She leaned back just far enough to look at him — brows lifted, chin tilted, pure challenge in every inch of her.

“You’re not combusting,” she said, like she was testing him. “Yet.”

Then, softer, as her hand slid back up his chest:

“But I’m not promising I won’t say it again… especially in a sexy voice.”

And God, the way he looked at her — like she was the song and the beat and the reason he even bothered showing up to the damn show — it hit somewhere stupid in her ribs.

So she kissed him again.
Because of course she did.

And when he said he liked this version of them?

She didn’t laugh.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t even try to be funny.

She just looked at him.

Really looked.

Because truth was — she liked it too. This soft, off-script, no-audience version where she didn’t have to carry a punchline or a playlist or a perfectly rehearsed comeback. Just them. Hands and breath and gravity. No labels. No pressure.

Just… the quiet.

So when he whispered “just you and me” — she felt something in her settle. Like a note finally hitting the right key.

And because she couldn’t help herself, she reached up and ran her fingers lightly through the back of his hair, letting her thumb pause just behind his ear.

“You win the harmony, huh?” she murmured, voice low now, half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Okay. But just know if you take my high note, I will fake a twisted ankle mid-bridge and make the entire performance about my recovery arc.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his before she whispered:

“And I will win the hearts of millions.”

Then, softer still — real now, no glitter, no games:

“But you already had mine. You didn’t even audition.”

She kissed him again — just once, warm and certain — then tucked her face against his shoulder like maybe the world could stop here for a while.

Because if it was up to her?

It would.


She stayed there for a beat — face tucked into his shoulder, breath syncing with his like it was second nature.

Then, without warning, her voice broke the silence, muffled slightly against his shirt:

“…okay but if we are gonna duet,” she mumbled, “you have to promise not to do that thing where you try to make it sound effortless while secretly showing off your stupid perfect pitch.”

She tilted her head just enough to side-eye him, mock-serious.

“I know what you’re doing when you hit those long notes. You think I don’t, but I do. You do that smirky little inhale and then—bam. Falcon scream. And then I’m over here sounding like Kermit on a rollercoaster.”

She made a dramatic noise in her throat, then giggled, nose scrunching.

“Unfair advantage. You’re literally genetically designed for harmonies. I’m just a gremlin with anxiety and two vocal cords held together by iced coffee and spite.”

She paused, then added, softer:

“…but I do sound really cute on ‘Gotta Go My Own Way,’ so. Just saying.”

Her fingers drummed lightly against his chest, then stilled.

“Also,” she said, tone shifting sweet and sleepy, “remind me to tell you about my childhood obsession with the behind-the-scenes special on how they filmed the pool dance scene. I used to watch it on repeat. Like… what kind of nine-year-old hyperfixates on the choreographer’s commentary?”

She laughed quietly, then looked up at him again — all soft cheeks and fond eyes.

“I was so weird,” she whispered, like it was some kind of secret.

Then, gentler still:

“Still am, probably.”

A beat.

“But you make it feel… kind of magic. Like being weird is the point.”

She nudged her forehead against his, that familiar grin returning — quieter now, but still unmistakably hers.

“Which is dangerous, by the way. Makes me wanna tell you everything. Even the stuff I swore I’d keep locked in the vault.”

Another pause.

“…like the fact that I used to fake being asleep in the car just so my mom would carry me inside. Way past the acceptable age for that.”

She wrinkled her nose again.

“Okay, your turn. Embarrassing childhood habit. Go.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with her still wrapped around him like that — head tucked against his shoulder, voice buzzing against his chest, fingers tracing stories into his heartbeat like they already lived there.

God, he was wrecked.

Not by the kiss. Not by the laugh. Not even by the High School Musical death threat (though let’s be honest, he’d already started mentally preparing his choreography for “Bet On It”).

No, he was wrecked by this.

Her. Like this. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unraveling in the softest way. Like she finally believed she didn’t have to armor up to be loved right.

And then she asked him that — childhood habit, go — and he felt the laugh escape before he could stop it. Not performative. Just reflex. Just Lennon Rae doing what she always did: pulling something real out of him without trying.

“Okay,” he said, tilting his head like he needed to think about it. He didn’t. “But first of all, that ‘falcon scream’ line? Genuinely offended. That’s my moneymaker. Respect the squawk.”

A pause, then a slow grin.

“And second? You’re not Kermit. You’re, like… emotionally intelligent Elphaba. With more glitter and slightly less murder.”

He bumped his nose against hers — soft, playful — then finally gave in.

“Alright. You want a confession? Here goes.”

He lowered his voice, like he was about to reveal state secrets.

“When I was eight, I used to sneak into my cousin’s room when no one was home and try on her rhinestone-studded jean jacket. And not just try it on. I would full-on perform in the mirror to ’NSYNC’s ‘It’s Gonna Be Me.’”

A beat.

“With choreography.”

He closed his eyes like the shame still lingered.

“And once? I got caught mid-spin by my grandma. She said, and I quote, ‘Kai, sweetie, if you’re gonna steal the jacket, at least get the arms through the sleeves first.’”

He opened his eyes, grinning helplessly.

“So yeah. That’s my origin story. Bedazzled denim and Justin Timberlake. It explains a lot, actually.”

His hand found the back of her neck again, thumb grazing soft at the edge of her jaw.

“But you know what?” he added, voice softer now, honest beneath the teasing. “I think weird is the whole damn point.”

He kissed her again — not rushed, not showy. Just steady. Like punctuation. Like truth.

“You’re magic, Lennon Rae. Even when you’re threatening to out-sing me on a Disney duet.”

Then, lips brushing her temple, low and certain:

“And for the record? I would’ve carried you inside too.”

She didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because God, she felt it. The way he kissed her. The way he said her name like it meant something. Like she meant something — even with her chaos and glitter and Kermit falsetto and unhinged Disney threats.

Maybe especially because of them.

Still, she wasn’t about to let the rhinestone jean jacket slide without proper commentary.

So she pulled back just enough to look at him — wide-eyed, mock-serious.

“…I’m sorry. Rhinestones?”

A beat. She blinked.

“Kai.”

She shoved at his chest like she was scandalized. “You’ve been holding out on me. That’s, like, elite-level content. Why have I never seen the footage? Because I know you recorded yourself. You don’t just full-body spin to ‘It’s Gonna Be Me’ in a stolen jacket without documenting it for future blackmail.”

She grinned, wild and delighted, then added:

“I demand a reenactment. Immediately. I’ll even play Lance Bass. I’ve been told I have range.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “You can’t just drop grandma-level shade and not expect me to weaponize it. We are absolutely reenacting this on my birthday. I’ll find a bedazzler and everything.”

But then — like always — her smile softened. The kind that meant more. That felt more.

Her hand slid up to his collar, fingers curling there, anchoring herself in that little patch of fabric and familiarity.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter now, “if you’d told eight-year-old me that one day I’d be cuddled up with a boy who unironically performed ‘It’s Gonna Be Me’ in rhinestone outerwear, I would’ve cried tears of joy. Possibly written a Wattpad about it.”

She nudged her nose against his. “But if you’d told me he’d also be the one who makes me feel… like this? Like I don’t have to earn being soft? I don’t think I would’ve believed you.”

Her thumb brushed just under his jaw — gentle, rhythmic, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

“And for the record?” she whispered, echoing him.

“If anyone was gonna carry me inside, I’m glad it would’ve been you.”

A breath.

“But also? You would’ve complained. Loudly. And then tripped over my backpack and pulled us both down like a tragic romance novel.”

She smiled again — sleepy, sweet, safe.

“And I still would’ve said thank you.”

Then, because she couldn’t help it, she added:

“…but I am gonna need that jacket story in full. Visual aids. Dance break. Preferably before Christmas.”

She tipped her head forward to rest against his.

“Deal?”

He was grinning before she even finished the sentence.

Not a smirk. Not a tease. That full, helpless, god-I’m-so-in-love-with-you kind of grin that tugged something stupid in his chest every time she did that — flipped from chaos goblin to warmest thing in the room without warning, like it was a song she knew by heart.

“Deal,” he said, voice low and wrecked and already ruined by the way her fingers curled into his collar like she planned on staying.

Then, because he was a menace too — just the slow-burn kind — he added, “But only if I get to pick the color of the rhinestones.”

A beat.

“And we’re making it a full group number. I’m talking hats. Fake microphones. One of those horrible silver tinsel curtains you can buy on Amazon for six dollars.”

He slid his hand up her back, settling it between her shoulder blades like it belonged there — because it did. It had. Since the second he met her and realized she was never going to fit into the version of his life he thought he wanted.

She was louder. Wilder. Brighter.

Better.

“I’ll even let you autotune my falcon scream,” he murmured near her ear, mock-reverent. “But only if you promise to wear those oversized sunglasses you hate and make everyone call you DJ RaeRae during the dance break.”

He felt her laugh before he heard it — that shake in her chest, that little hitch in her breath — and something in him settled.

Not because they were joking.

But because this was them now. Their version of serious. Of soft. Of stay.

“And for the record,” he added, brushing his thumb lightly across the dip of her spine, “you don’t have to earn any of this. Not the softness. Not the glitter. Not me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes — not intense, not dramatic, just honest.

“You already did that just by being Lennon. And maybe tripping into my life like a raccoon in rhinestones. Which, by the way, I’m still pitching as the band name.”

Then he leaned in again, nose brushing hers.

“And I would’ve carried you, backpack disaster and all. I’d carry you now. I am carrying you now. Not literally — unless you really want me to try — but like…”

He paused, fingers curling lightly at her hip.

“Whatever this is? We’re doing it together. No one’s holding the whole weight alone.”

Another breath.

Another look.

“Even if the weight is emotional damage from Disney Channel choreography.”

Then, softer — no punchline this time:

“I’m in this, Lennon. All of it. Loud. Barefoot. Sparkly. Yours.”

And he didn’t need her to say it back.

Because she was already here.