Spencer’s pulse kicked under her cheek, louder now. Not from the kiss, not even from the way she said his name like it meant something holy.

From that.

From her looking straight through him—through the charm, through the jokes, through the detours and delay tactics—and asking.

Asking to see the part he hadn’t shown anyone.

Not even her.

His jaw tightened slightly beneath her hand. Not in rejection. Just in fear. The kind that came when your body wanted to run, but your heart already knew it was staying put.

Because she wasn’t wrong.
And she wasn’t letting it go.

Of course she noticed the smudges. The new sketchpad. The way he kept glancing at the corner of the room like the truth might bite him if he looked too long.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his eyes drift toward the window—then back to her. Still there. Still watching. Still him.

And damn it all, he wanted to show her.

He just didn’t know if he could survive her seeing it.

Not without a buffer.

“…We’re gonna have to smoke first,” he muttered, almost to himself. It wasn’t a stall. It was survival. “Like… definitely. Before you see any of that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, raking it back until his fingers caught at the roots. Then he exhaled, long and slow, like maybe letting her see the cracks wouldn’t break him after all.

Just shake him up a little.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe that was what trust actually looked like.

His eyes met hers again, steadier now. “After that,” he said, voice low but sincere, “I’ll show you everything.”

Leighton shifted just enough to see him, her cheek still against his chest, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt like she was holding him in place. His heart was a drum under her ear—steady, but too loud to pretend he wasn’t shaken.

“Smoke if you need to,” she said, her tone level, a little wry, “but don’t act like I can’t handle what’s in that corner. You’ve already left it all over the room anyway.”

Her eyes flicked to the smudges on his hand, the faint streak of graphite near his wrist, the stack of sketchpads he kept pretending not to care about. Then back to him. Always back to him.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” she asked softly. “The way you look at your notebooks like they might bite you? Or how you keep glancing at your desk like it’s a crime scene you don’t want me investigating?”

She reached up, tracing the edge of his jaw with her thumb. “You don’t have to perform for me, Spencer. Not with jokes, not with excuses, not with a joint to soften the edges. I already know where your edges are.”

Her mouth curved, not into a smirk, but into something quieter. “And I still want to see what you’ve been hiding.”

She let the silence hang, let it land between them like a challenge and a promise all at once. Then, leaning closer, her voice dropped to a near whisper.

“So here’s the deal, Starboy. You show me. When you’re ready. No masks, no smoke, no stalling. Just you. Because I’m not afraid of what’s in that sketchpad—and you shouldn’t be either.”

Spencer didn’t speak at first. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t even look at the sketchpad.

He just stared at her. At the girl curled against his chest, spine straight despite the softness in her voice, fingers still anchoring him like she knew he’d try to bolt if she let go.

Because yeah, she was right.

Those sketchpads weren’t just drawings. They were everything he didn’t say. Everything he couldn’t.

Anger that never found a voice.
Grief he never let rot long enough to bury.
Fear that had kept him frozen, fists balled behind every smile.

And then there were the new ones. The quieter ones. The ones that made his chest ache for entirely different reasons. The ones with light. With curve and color and softness he hadn’t been able to touch in years—until her.

And that was what scared him most.

Not that she’d hate what she saw.

But that she’d understand it.

He finally breathed out through his nose, rough and uneven. One hand came up to cover hers, still at the hem of his shirt, still grounding him like she always did even when she didn’t mean to.

“You say that now,” he muttered, thumb brushing her knuckles, “but they’re not all soft edges and poetic metaphors, Leia. Some of that shit is… heavy. Ugly.”

A beat passed.

“And yeah, maybe I leave it all over the room like a walking red flag. But opening that pad?” His voice dipped, quieter now. “That’s different. That’s me letting you read the stuff I never figured out how to say out loud. That’s every version of me I wasn’t ready to be seen as.”

His fingers squeezed hers gently.

“But you’re the only reason I’m even thinking about it. The only reason those last few pages aren’t just pitch black.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and added—barely audible:

“I’ll show you. Tonight. Just… not yet.”

Then, softer, more certain:

“I want you to see. I just need a minute.”

And even though it wasn’t right now, it was still a beginning.

It was a door. One he’d just opened—for her, and only her.

Leighton didn’t push.

She could’ve—God knows she had that streak in her, the one that shoved at locked doors just to prove they weren’t as sturdy as people thought. But this? This wasn’t a lock. It was a crack. And she wasn’t about to slam herself through and risk shattering the frame.

So instead, she shifted closer, cheek sliding higher up his chest until she could hear the uneven rhythm under his ribs. She let her hand stay caught under his, thumb pressing gently against the pulse that gave him away.

“You think I don’t know heavy?” she said finally, her voice low, steady. “You think ugly scares me?”

Her head tilted enough for her eyes to catch his, brown meeting blue with a stubbornness that wasn’t sharp this time—just sure. “I lived out of plastic bags in the back of a car for half a year, Spence. I watched my mom disappear into people she had no business chasing. I learned how to smile when my stomach was empty, and I figured out how to lie about bruises I didn’t earn. I’ve seen ugly. Up close. Personal.”

Her fingers flexed beneath his, not to pull away—never that—but to tangle tighter. “And none of it makes me want to run from you.”

She let that sink in. The record still spun, some low ache of Arctic Monkeys filling the air, but her words were louder. Heavier.

“Whatever’s in there,” she nodded faintly toward the sketchpad without looking away from him, “it’s yours. And if you’re offering me even a piece of it? That’s not ugly. That’s you trusting me. And I don’t take that lightly.”

Her mouth curved then, not into a grin, but something small and devastatingly soft. She leaned up, brushed her lips against his jaw, and whispered, “Take your minute, Starboy. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

She settled back against his chest after that, like the conversation hadn’t cracked him wide open, like it hadn’t just rearranged something in her too. But her hand stayed locked with his, proof she wasn’t letting go.

Spencer didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t joke. Didn’t run.

He just exhaled, quiet and raw, like her words had cracked something open in his chest and now the air was moving through places it hadn’t touched in years.

Then—slow, deliberate—he shifted.

Carefully untangled his fingers from hers, but only long enough to lean over and crack the window open. The cool night slipped in immediately, brushing against the heat of the moment like a breath of something clean. Something real.

He reached for the joint she’d mentioned earlier—like it had been waiting this whole time—and lit it in two steady flicks. Didn’t speak while he inhaled. Didn’t speak while he held it in.

Only when he exhaled, the smoke curling out into the dark and disappearing like it was never there, did he glance down at her again.

His hand found hers without thought this time. Thumb brushing across her knuckles like maybe if he kept tracing that same rhythm, he wouldn’t lose the nerve.

“You scare the hell out of me, you know that?” he said, voice quiet but low enough to scrape. “Not in the bad way. Not like that. It’s just—”

He dragged in another breath, not from the joint this time. Just air. Just her.

“—no one’s ever stayed long enough to see past the punchlines. No one’s ever wanted to.”

The words burned, but not from the smoke. From honesty. From the weight of what it meant to say it out loud.

He looked at the sketchpad. Then back at her.

“I meant it. I’ll show you.” His voice dropped to something lower. Something vulnerable.

Then softer, with the edge of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes yet:
“But you’re not allowed to look at me like that after. Like I’m some open wound you’re scared to touch.”

He passed her the joint like an offering. Like proof he wasn’t going anywhere either.

And maybe he wasn’t ready to pull the sketchpad open yet.

But he’d already handed her the key.

Leighton didn’t take her eyes off him.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t soften it.

She just sat up beside him—knees drawn up, bare feet tucked beneath her—and let the weight of what he’d said settle into the quiet like something sacred. Like maybe if she moved too fast, she’d shatter it. Him.

When he passed her the joint, she took it without a word, fingers brushing his, light but deliberate. She didn’t inhale right away. Just looked down at the glow of it in her hand and then back up at him.

And smiled. Not pitying. Not afraid.

Just real.

“I’m not scared of you, Spencer.”

Her voice came out low. Measured. Like every syllable had been sifted through the part of her that didn’t do performative comfort. The part of her that knew what it meant to be looked at like a problem someone didn’t want to solve.

“Hell, I’m probably the only one who’s never been.”

She flicked ash out the cracked window, then finally took a slow hit. Let it burn a little. Let it feel like something tangible. When she exhaled, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. Just quiet. Easy.

Like honesty could be that too.

“You think no one’s stayed because of who you are.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “But I think maybe it’s because you’ve never let anyone close enough to want to.”

She let that hang. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just true.

“And yeah, maybe you’re a mess. Maybe you hide behind jokes and sarcasm and that whole too-cool-to-care bullshit because it’s easier than hoping someone might actually care back.”

She passed the joint back to him, her hand still warm from his.

“But I do. I care.” A beat. “And not in a savior complex kind of way. Not in some ‘I can fix you’ fantasy. I care because I see you. I see the way you flinch when people get too close. The way you downplay everything so no one expects more than you’re ready to give.”

Her voice dropped, softer now.

“And I don’t need your sketchpad to understand you. I already do.”

She nudged her shoulder against his like punctuation. Not a question. A promise.

“I’m not gonna look at you like an open wound, Spencer. I’m gonna look at you like a boy who bleeds in color. And maybe that’s the kind of mess I want inked all over me.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, watching the smoke curl past the window like the night was carrying it somewhere they didn’t have to be brave. Not yet.

“Whenever you’re ready… I’m still here.”

And this time, she didn’t need to say again.

He already knew.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t trust his voice.
Didn’t trust the way it felt like she’d just cut him open and stitched him back together in the same breath.

Instead, he took the joint from her fingers—slower than he needed to—like the warmth of her hand might stay with him a second longer if he moved gently enough.

He brought it to his lips, inhaled deep, let the smoke coat his lungs in something sharp and grounding. It didn’t chase the feeling away. Just made it easier to hold.

His head tipped back against the wall with a quiet thunk.

Outside the window, the night stretched wide and indifferent. But in here, in this tiny room where the air felt too full of her voice and not full enough of oxygen, he could breathe. Maybe for the first time in weeks.

She was still leaning on his shoulder. Still warm. Still here.

And fuck, that scared him more than anything.
Not because he didn’t want it—
But because he did.
So much it ached.

The joint hovered between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling like it knew better than to linger too long.

“She used to say that,” he murmured finally, voice raspy. “My mom. When I was a kid. That I bled in color.”

He wasn’t sure why it came out.
Maybe because it was the truth.
Maybe because Leighton had looked at him like he was more than just a punchline or a ticking bomb.

“She meant it literally back then. I’d come home from school with ink all over my arms—markers, pens, whatever I could get my hands on. I’d draw on myself like skin was just paper waiting to be used.”

He took another slow drag, not rushed. Not shaky. Just enough to feel it hum through him. Then he reached out, flicked the ash out the window, and passed the joint back to her without looking.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

“She stopped saying it when the drawings got darker.”

A breath. Then another.

“She didn’t know what to do with that version of me. The one who didn’t want to smile anymore. The one who was angry all the time and couldn’t explain why.”

He glanced at Leighton then, just enough to catch the edge of her profile in the low light.

“She wasn’t wrong to be scared,” he said, quieter now. “But you’re right—I never gave anyone a reason to stay, either. I made it real easy to leave.”

The smoke danced between them.

Spencer leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was almost lost in the quiet.

“You’re the only one who’s ever made me want to let someone in.”

And it wasn’t a confession meant to break her. It was one meant to hold her.

He didn’t move when he said it. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to.

He just reached down, grabbed the sketchpad off the floor without ceremony, and dropped it in her lap.

Still closed. Still worn at the edges. Still a little bit haunted.

“I’m not ready to explain them,” he said, voice hoarse. “And you don’t have to say anything after. But I meant what I said.”

A pause. A heartbeat. A choice.

“You get to see me now.”

And he leaned back, hands braced behind him, letting the silence stretch again.

Letting her be the one to turn the page.

Leighton didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.
Didn’t look at the sketchpad in her lap.

She just sat there, her fingertips brushing lightly over the edge of the cover, like if she pressed too hard it might vanish. Like maybe he might.

Because what he’d just given her?
It wasn’t a drawing.

It was a door.

And she could feel her pulse in her throat at the thought of stepping through it.

So when she finally spoke, her voice came out quieter than she meant it to. But steady. Honest.

“Okay,” she said, eyes still on the sketchpad. “But if I get to see you now—”

She looked up. Met his gaze.

“Then you don’t get to disappear after.”

Not a threat.
Not a plea.

Just a line drawn in soft chalk. One that said: I’ll stay if you do.

She shifted slightly, knees brushing his. Let the silence sit with them a second longer, full of things she wasn’t ready to name but wasn’t scared of anymore.

Then, softer—like it wasn’t meant for him at all:

“People look at me like I’m unbreakable. Like if I’m still standing, nothing could’ve hurt that bad.”

Her thumb traced the edge of the cover again.

“But you just handed me something you’ve been trying to outrun your whole life. And I’m not gonna pretend that’s not a big deal.”

A beat. Her voice dropped lower.

“So no—I’m not opening it yet.”

She let that sit. Honest. Sharp. Steady.

“But I’m not leaving, either.”

Then, after a second, her mouth tilted into something half like a smile.

“You said I scare the hell out of you?”
She passed the joint back with a small shrug.

“Yeah, well… right back at you.”

Spencer didn’t breathe right away.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just watched her.

Watched her thumb the edge of that sketchpad like it held a detonator. Like she knew exactly what it was—who it was—and still wasn’t flinching.

That shouldn’t have undone him.

But it did.

Because he’d been waiting.
For the crack.
For the recoil.
For that flicker in her eyes that always came right before people backed away.

But it didn’t come.

Not from her.

Instead, she passed the joint back like it hadn’t just followed a gut-punch of a confession. Like it was normal. Like they were normal.

He took it—grateful for something to do with his hands—and let the smoke coat his lungs again. Less for the high now, more for the shape it gave his breath.

She scared the hell out of him?

Yeah. She did.

Not because she was loud. Not because she pushed. But because she didn’t.

Because she saw through all of it—him—and stayed anyway.

That kind of steady?
That kind of soft that didn’t demand a thing?

It wrecked him.

He flicked ash out the window and exhaled slow, letting the smoke spiral and vanish before he trusted himself to speak.

“I’m not good at being looked at like that,” he said finally. “Like I’m worth the effort.”

His voice was low. Worn. But not brittle.

“I spent so long being someone people could bail on, I stopped asking them to stay.”

His gaze dropped to her hands again. Still resting on the sketchpad. Still gentle.

“And I sure as hell didn’t think someone like you would be the one to mean it.”

He reached out then, slow and cautious, like the moment might spook if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed her knee—just a graze, just enough—and stayed.

“And I’m not disappearing.”

The words came out like a vow. Not loud. Not flowery. But real.

“Not from you.”

He looked at her again, and this time there was no mask. No smirk. No sarcasm to hide behind.

Just Spencer.

Raw edges and all.

“If you can hold the weight of this,” he nodded slightly at the sketchpad, “then I’ll try to hold the fact that you want to.”

A beat passed between them, the kind that could only exist in rooms where silence was safe.

Then, softer—half-laugh, half-admission:

“Shit, Leia… I think you might be the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He passed her the joint with a look that said thank you without needing the word.

Then leaned back again, shoulder brushing hers like punctuation.

Not a question. Not a test.

Just the start of something he didn’t know how to name yet.

But for once, he didn’t need to.

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Not when he touched her knee.
Not when he said her name like that—soft, reverent, like it meant more in his mouth than it ever had in hers.

She just sat there, thumb still brushing the corner of the sketchpad like her hands hadn’t started shaking the second he said not from you.

Because what the hell was she supposed to do with that?

With a boy like him, who was always ready to run but just promised he wouldn’t?
Who’d peeled himself open and let her look—not at the polished lines or pretty punchlines—but the parts that bled?

What the hell was she supposed to do with that kind of tenderness?

The kind that didn’t ask for a spotlight, didn’t ask to be praised—just asked to be held without being turned into a project.

So when he leaned back and said she was the scariest thing that ever happened to him?

She blinked once, slow.

Then smirked.

“Yeah,” she said, finally looking over at him. “You said that already.”

But it didn’t come out sharp this time. Didn’t come out like armor.

It came out like relief.

Like maybe she needed to hear it twice just to believe it the first time.

She took the joint from his fingers again, her touch casual, but her pulse nowhere near it.

And after one long drag—one that scraped the bottom of her lungs and came out soft between her teeth—she exhaled toward the window without looking away from him.

“You know the worst part?” she said, voice lower now. Not bitter. Not dramatic. Just honest in the way she always made sound dangerous.

“I used to think that being chosen was the whole point. That if someone saw me—really saw me—and stayed, then maybe I’d finally be worth something.”

She looked down then. At the sketchpad. At the way it felt heavier now that it wasn’t about art anymore, but trust.

“But that was before you,” she said quietly. “Before you handed me something that didn’t ask for praise. Didn’t ask to be fixed. Just… existed.”

She traced her finger along the spine. Didn’t open it. Didn’t rush.

“I’m not gonna say thank you for this yet. That feels too easy.”

Her gaze flicked back to his.

“But I am gonna remember that you said it. That you meant it.”

And she smiled then. Small. Crooked. Real.

“Besides, someone’s gotta keep you honest.”

She tapped the edge of the sketchpad like a secret between them.

“So… yeah. You don’t get to disappear. And I don’t get to pretend I don’t care.”

She didn’t say anything right away after that.

Didn’t feel like she had to.

There was a kind of hush sitting between them now—not awkward, not heavy. Just… earned. The kind of quiet you don’t get with most people. The kind that only exists when all the masks are off and nobody’s trying to fill the silence with something clever or performative.

Her fingers brushed over the sketchpad again.

Slower this time.

More like reverence than hesitation.

Because she knew what this was. What it meant to be handed the thing someone never shares. Not the highlight reel, not the curated grief—the raw, unedited version. The one with teeth.

And it didn’t scare her.

If anything, it made her spine sit straighter. Like she’d just been trusted with something sacred.

She didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because this moment wasn’t about what was inside.

It was about the fact that he gave it to her.

That he let her see him in a way no one else had.

So instead, she reached for the ashtray on the windowsill, tapped out the joint with steady fingers, and slid it aside. Like she was clearing the stage. Making room.

Then she turned toward him, legs folding under her, and studied him in the low light. Really looked.

Spencer, without the armor. Spencer, without the noise.

Just a boy sitting in front of her with his chest cracked open and no promise it wouldn’t hurt.

“Okay,” she said, finally. Quiet, but not small.

“You let me in.”

Her voice didn’t shake.

“But if we’re doing this—if you’re gonna give me the real stuff—then you have to let me be real, too. Not the version of me that says the right thing. Not the version that knows how to make people laugh or stay quiet when it counts.”

She leaned in just a little. Not close enough to overwhelm. Just enough that he’d feel the weight of it.

“I want to see you, Spencer. But I need you to see me, too. Not just the cool girl who doesn’t scare easy. Not just the girl who stayed.”

A pause.

Then, with soft defiance:

“I want you to know what you’re letting in.”

She didn’t say she was messy. Or broken. Or hard to love.

He’d figure that out eventually.

She just wanted him to choose her anyway.

And tonight?

This moment?

It was the closest she’d ever come to asking for that out loud.