Spencer didn’t breathe right for a second.

Because what the hell do you do when the girl who terrifies you—in all the best ways—leans in like that? When she calls you brave instead of broken and says she’s not going anywhere, not even if you throw The Killers at her like a smoke bomb?

His first instinct, the one wired into him, was to deflect. To crack some joke about her future lawyer being underpaid, or how that drawing was definitely artistic choice and not him being a creep with a pencil. To make it lighter. Safer.

But she was right there.
Forehead pressed to his.
Thumb still brushing his knuckles like she’d figured out the one way to keep his pulse from breaking out of his chest.

And he realized—slow and horrible and holy all at once—that she’d already seen through all the jokes anyway.

So instead of running, he let himself stay.

His voice came out rougher than he meant, softer too.
“You say you’re not scared of me, but… you should be. I snore like a chainsaw and I eat cereal out of mugs because I keep breaking bowls.”

Her laugh—quiet, close—knocked something loose in him. He grinned into it, crooked and small, and let his free hand slide up to the back of her neck. Not to pull her in, not to trap her, just to keep her close enough he could believe this wasn’t going to vanish if he blinked.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Leia,” he admitted, his forehead still resting against hers. “But if you’re really not going anywhere… I’ll figure it out. With you.”

The CD spun on, some scratchy guitar filling the silence in the corners of the room, and for once he didn’t feel like he had to fill it with words. He just breathed her in, held her hand tighter, and let himself be wrecked in the way she promised.

Eventually, though, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Smirked, because he couldn’t help himself.
“Also—for the record? That sketch of you drooling on the couch? That’s definitely going in the retrospective someday. Front and center. Title card: Muse, Being Gross.”

He braced for her swat, grinning before she even moved. But beneath the joke, his grip on her hand never loosened.

Because she’d said she wasn’t going anywhere.
And for the first time in his life—
He believed it.

Leighton didn’t disappoint him.

She swatted him hard across the shoulder — the kind of hit that made a satisfying sound and just enough impact to say you earned that, without letting it get sentimental.

“Muse, Being Gross?” she repeated, flat. “You’re lucky I don’t punch you.”

But her hand was still in his, thumb still brushing over the back of it, like she hadn’t just assaulted him in perfect rhythm to the beat of his terrible humor. Her expression cracked, lips twitching with a smile she tried to fight and absolutely failed to contain.

“You really kept that one?” she said. “That’s what made the cut? Not one of the, I don’t know, vaguely mysterious ones with me looking tortured and poetic?”

She leaned in just a little, voice lower now. Not soft — pointed.

“I will sue for emotional damages if anyone ever sees that sketch.”

But then she looked at him again, really looked, and whatever joke she’d been about to add died somewhere between her breath and his.

“You don’t have to figure anything out,” she said quietly. “You already did the part that mattered.”

She didn’t explain what that meant. She didn’t have to.
He’d feel it.
Right there in the way her fingers stayed curled around his like they’d been holding on all along.

And when he didn’t flinch, didn’t run, didn’t bury it all under another smirk — she let herself believe it, too.

Then, just to ruin the moment:

“But if you do draw me drooling again,” she said, dry as sandpaper, “you better make it surrealist. I want melting clocks and a ghost dog in the background. Full chaos. Lean in.”

She bumped his knee, just once.

“Don’t make it pretty. Make it true.”

And then she said nothing else.

Because nothing else needed to be said.

Spencer would’ve kissed her for that.
Not the drool lawsuit part—though, okay, that was peak Leighton Thomas litigation—but for the “don’t make it pretty, make it true.” Because Jesus, she said things like that and had no idea how bad they wrecked him.

He opened his mouth—half to argue, half to tell her she was the only thing he’d ever gotten right—

—and the floor creaked in the hallway.

“Spence?”

His whole body snapped tight like he’d been caught stealing again. His dad’s voice. Low, gravelly, too close.

Damien Walker. Master of timing.

Spencer scrambled upright faster than he meant to, one hand shooting out to nudge the sketchbook closed like it was contraband. Leighton’s hand stayed in his even as he did it, her grip stubborn, grounding, like she was daring him not to drop her too.

“Uh—yeah?” Spencer called, voice cracking just enough to betray him. He cleared his throat, forced casual. “What’s up?”

The door didn’t open, thank God. Just Damien’s voice through the wood, weary and clipped.
“Keep the music down, will you? Got work in the morning.”

Spencer glanced toward the stereo, which was humming at the lowest possible volume a human ear could register. He rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered back, already tugging the knob with one foot to nudge the volume down a hair.

There was a pause. Heavy, like maybe his dad was about to say more. Like maybe he was going to ask who Spencer was talking to, or why his voice sounded different, or—

—but then footsteps retreated down the hall.

Silence again.

Spencer exhaled all at once, shoulders dropping. He looked at Leighton, a little sheepish, a little apologetic, like see? welcome to the circus.

“Damien Walker, everybody,” he deadpanned, voice low. “Father of the year, breaker of vibes. Try the veal.”

Leighton smirked, because of course she did, and he couldn’t help it—he laughed, shaky but real, pressing the heel of his free hand over his face.

When he dropped it, his grin was crooked, tired, wrecked in that way she always teased him about.

“Sorry. He, uh…” Spencer shrugged, the sketchbook heavy against his thigh even closed. “He doesn’t really… get it. Any of it.”

He turned his palm under hers, lacing their fingers again like he needed to prove it hadn’t shaken him loose. Like maybe it had—but she was still there to knot him back together.

And softer, so soft it barely made it out:
“But you do.”

The song still played, slow and steady. And Spencer let himself lean into it—into her—like his dad’s shadow hadn’t just crossed the door.

Like maybe, in this room at least, he was allowed to stay.

Leighton didn’t say anything at first.

Just let their hands stay tangled, even when he moved. Even when his voice cracked and his back went stiff and the entire air in the room shifted like gravity had suddenly remembered it had other plans.

She’d felt it before — that full-body lock-up, the way a single sound from the hallway could turn a boy into a warning.

So she didn’t joke.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed.

She just stayed still and held on.

When he muttered “Damien Walker, breaker of vibes,” she let the smirk come back — small, sharp, but more for him than herself. She watched the way he laughed behind his hand, like maybe if he pushed hard enough on his own face, the moment would reset.

It didn’t.

So when he dropped his hand and looked at her like see? this is the part you didn’t sign up for,
she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.

Just said, quiet but steady:
“Yeah. He doesn’t get it.”

Her thumb moved slow against the inside of his wrist now, not brushing, not soothing — just present.

“But I do.”

She didn’t say it like a rescue.
Didn’t wrap it in softness or lace it with pity.
It was just the truth. Full stop.

And when he laced their fingers again, like he needed to double-check the connection was still there — she let him.

Not because he needed her to stay.
Because she’d never let go.

Leighton leaned in just enough that her temple brushed his. Her voice didn’t rise with the music or try to fill the space.

She just said, low and even:

“He doesn’t get it. But he doesn’t have to.”

Then — after a pause, with the hint of a smile in her voice —
“And also? The volume was fine. You’re, like, a single decibel above whisper-core. The man needs a hobby.”

Her knee knocked into his, just once.
Real. Solid.

Then nothing else.

No big comfort speech. No dramatic rebound.
Just her.

Still here.
Still real.

And for the first time all night —
she didn’t feel like a guest in the moment.

She felt like she fit.

Leighton didn’t pull away right away.

She let the quiet settle again, their hands still tangled, her knee still brushing his. The weight of what almost got said hanging in the air between them like smoke from a fire that hadn’t gone out yet.

But then she glanced toward the door. Not startled. Not rattled. Just… aware.

And when she looked back at him, something in her expression had shifted — not colder, not distant, just clear.

“I should go.”

She said it evenly, not as a question. Not as a test.

She didn’t let go of his hand yet, though.

“I’m not running,” she added, softer now. “And I’m not freaked out. I just—”

She paused. Took a breath.

“—don’t wanna crowd whatever that just was.”

Another pause. Briefer this time.

“And I know myself. If I stay too long, I won’t wanna leave.”

She gave his hand a final squeeze. Not goodbye — just okay.

Then she gently untangled their fingers, brushing her thumb along the side of his hand once more before letting go.

Her tone, when she spoke again, was back to that dry, grounded Leighton cadence he knew too well:

“And besides. I have to go home and file a formal complaint with the International Muse Association. My rights have been violated.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth as she stood, brushing off her knees. She didn’t rush. Didn’t make it dramatic.

Just reached for her bag, glanced once toward the stereo, and then back at him — eyes steady, still locked on his like she’d never once looked away.

“You gonna walk me out, or do I have to call an Uber and dramatically disappear into the fog like an indie film protagonist with trust issues?”

She was already teasing him again.

But this wasn’t a retreat.
It was a choice.

And she wanted him to see that.

Spencer felt the space empty when she untangled her hand from his.
Like he’d been holding onto something with both fists and someone just told him to loosen his grip.

And yeah, maybe it stung.
But the way she said it—I’m not running—landed harder than the sting ever could.

So he didn’t beg. Didn’t throw some half-assed joke to keep her sitting cross-legged on his floor. He just sat there, back pressed to the wall, and watched her stand. Watched her brush herself off like she hadn’t just been holding the heaviest parts of him without dropping them.

God, she was terrifying.

Not because she was leaving.
Because she made leaving feel like it wasn’t an ending.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tried to laugh off the knot in his chest. “Yeah, okay, International Muse Association. Pretty sure my membership card expired around the time I started sketching in math class instead of, you know, doing math.”

His voice cracked on math, which was rude of it, but Leighton’s mouth curved, and that was enough to make the air feel less sharp.

He pushed himself up, joints protesting like he was eighty, and grabbed his hoodie off the chair on instinct. Tossed it over his shoulder as he crossed the room toward her.

“You’re not allowed to Uber dramatically into the fog,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets once he was close enough. “Indie film rules say that’s how the sad boy gets left alone with nothing but acoustic guitar and unresolved feelings. Which, like… accurate, but still cruel.”

Her bag was slung over her shoulder now. She was still looking at him the same way she had when she said I’m not running. Like she meant it. Like she wasn’t scared of the mess.

And maybe that was why he finally moved.

Spencer reached out, fingers brushing hers once before catching, squeezing—not enough to keep her, just enough to remind her he was still here too.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, softer this time. Almost steady.

Then, with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth: “But if you ghost me into the fog anyway, I’m putting Mr. Brightside on loop and sending you passive-aggressive playlists until you cave.”

He let her roll her eyes at that. Let her laugh, even if it was just a huff of breath through her nose.

Because underneath the joke, he hoped she heard it:
He wasn’t letting her disappear.

Not tonight.
Not after this.

Leighton shifted her weight just enough to face him. Still by the door, still with her bag slung over one shoulder, but now fully turned toward him — like she was giving all of it back. All the air he’d just let out. All the pieces he didn’t even try to hide.

“Your membership card’s still valid,” she said first, mouth tugging sideways. “Maybe even platinum. You’ve got the tortured sketchbook pages to prove it.”

Her voice was soft, but not careful. Not tiptoeing. She wasn’t scared to name what was true.

“And for the record,” she added, stepping closer, “you were always better at drawing than math.”

She let that land — the smallest nudge of sincerity beneath the tease — before continuing.

“I’m not ghosting you, Spencer,” she said, plain and clean. “Not now, not ever.”

Then, as her eyes dropped to the floor for half a second — a breath, a memory — she looked up again and echoed, “And I’m definitely not UBERing dramatically into the fog. Even if I did have a tragic indie montage soundtrack queued up.”

There was a beat, then a pause that wasn’t quite silence — just space.

“You don’t have to walk me out,” she said, but reached for his hand anyway. Laced their fingers together like it had always made sense. “You could just come with me.”

The way she said it wasn’t casual.

Not heavy either. Just… real.

“I mean—” her smile flickered, dry and warm, “—this way, you don’t have to sit here listening to acoustic guitars and spiraling through your emo phase again. I’m doing us both a favor.”

And then, quieter — enough that it nearly disappeared into the space between them:

“I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

Another pause. Then she nudged his arm gently with her shoulder.

“You can even bring Mr. Brightside if you’re that emotionally attached.”

And just like that — no pressure, no performance — she turned toward the door, still holding his hand.

But this time, she didn’t let go.

Spencer felt his throat go tight.
Not in the bad way. Not like it used to, when words piled up and he didn’t trust himself not to choke on them.

This was different.

Because she’d just said the one thing he’d been praying for without even realizing he was praying. Not now, not ever. And then she’d gone and slipped her hand into his like it belonged there—like she hadn’t seen all the jagged edges stuffed under his bed an hour ago.

He squeezed back before he could think better of it. Let his thumb brush over her knuckles once, quick, like muscle memory.

“You’re seriously underestimating how attached I am to my emo phase,” he muttered, half a laugh sneaking out. “Like, if I could legally marry Mr. Brightside, we’d already have kids in middle school.”

She rolled her eyes, exactly like he wanted her to, but didn’t let go. And God, that part undid him worse than anything else.

Spencer grabbed his hoodie from the chair, slung it over his free arm, and let her pull him toward the door. The floorboards creaked like they were in on the secret, the whole house holding its breath while he followed her out.

“Also,” he added as they hit the hall, his voice softer now, the joke fading at the edges, “just so we’re clear—if I come with you, you’re officially responsible for preventing me from singing I Write Sins Not Tragedies at full volume past midnight.”

She smirked over her shoulder, and he let himself grin back, even if his chest still felt like it was breaking in the best possible way.

Because she didn’t want to leave him alone tonight.
And for the first time, he realized—

He didn’t want to be alone, either.

Leighton didn’t look back right away. She just kept walking, his hand still wrapped in hers like it was the most natural thing in the world — like reaching for him hadn’t been a decision but a reflex.

But God, she felt it. Every quiet piece of him trailing her down the hallway. The weight of the laugh he didn’t mean to let out. The soft thread in his voice when the jokes started slipping into something real. The way the air behind her wasn’t heavy anymore — just full.

When he caught up, she didn’t slow her pace. Just tilted her head toward him with a sideways glance and the smallest roll of her eyes. “If you start singing Panic at midnight, I’m kicking you off the futon,” she murmured. “I mean it. I’ll make you sleep on the floor like a tragic little ghost of Hot Topic past.”

But her thumb pressed into his again — warm, certain.

And when they reached the front door, she finally stopped. Turned to face him with something just shy of a smile, but steadier than any grin.

“I don’t need you to be okay tonight,” she said quietly. “I just need you with me.”

She pushed the door open without waiting for a response, stepping out into the night like it belonged to them now. Not because everything was fixed. Not because either of them knew what came next.

But because this — him walking beside her — was enough for now.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t scared of the quiet.

Because he was in it too.

Spencer didn’t let go.

Not when she turned toward the door, not when the night air crept in through the crack she’d opened. His grip stayed tight, almost stubborn, like if he loosened even a little she’d vanish into the fog she kept joking about.

But she didn’t.

She was still there—bag slung over her shoulder, teasing him about playlists and Panic! and futons, still looking at him like she wasn’t waiting for him to turn into every other mistake in her past.

And it did something to him.

Something he wasn’t ready to name, not out loud, but he felt it anyway.

“Okay, but for the record,” he said, voice low, a little ragged from everything they hadn’t said tonight, “if you make me sleep on the floor, I’m taking all the good snacks with me. You’re getting stuck with stale pretzels and mystery-brand soda.”

He let the corner of his mouth twitch up—small, crooked, not enough to erase the weight in his chest but enough to cut through it. Enough to give her back some of that ease she kept giving him.

And then he stepped forward. Closed the gap she’d left at the door until their shoulders brushed again.

“I’ll come with you,” he murmured, softer now, serious slipping back in around the edges. His thumb pressed into hers, steady, certain. “Not because I think you need me there. But because I want to be.”

He leaned into the doorframe with his free hand, stealing one last look around the room—the sketches scattered on the desk, the stereo still humming faintly, the stars above his bed that never quite glowed enough. All the pieces he’d shown her. All the pieces she hadn’t run from.

Then he looked back at her.

And for once, he didn’t joke.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t wanna be alone tonight either.”

So he pulled the door all the way open, stepped out into the dark beside her, and didn’t let go.

Didn’t even think about it.

Because maybe this was it—the part where staying wasn’t some impossible weight anymore. The part where he didn’t have to say he was terrified just to prove he was still here.

He just was.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, that felt like enough.