Lennon blinked at him, still half-stunned from the way his mouth had felt against hers—gentle, grounding, nothing like the wildfire they used to burn each other with. That kiss had landed lower, somewhere deeper, and she was still trying to steady herself from it.

Her laugh slipped out quiet, unsteady, but real. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” she murmured, brushing at her face where his thumb had been like she wasn’t sure if the tear was gone or if he’d just taken it with him. “You drop all that on me, make my chest feel like it’s splitting open… and then you talk about waffles.”

But her smile curved anyway, soft at the edges, betraying her even as she tried to keep a shred of armor. She shifted closer against him, curling into his side like she was testing the promise he’d just made with every inch of contact. “And the worst part? I actually want the waffles.”

Her hand found his, fingers slipping back into the spaces between like muscle memory. She turned her head just enough to look up at him, eyes still glossy but steadier now. “Strawberries on top. And whipped cream. And coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt regret from my sad little machine in the kitchen.”

She let out another breath, shaky but lighter this time, her forehead nudging his shoulder. “I’m not used to you slowing down, Mercer. Not like this. Feels like I’m waiting for the punchline.” She tilted her chin up, smile wry but vulnerable. “But maybe that’s okay. Maybe waffles are exactly where we start.”

She didn’t give him time to answer. Didn’t give herself time to overthink it either. Lennon pushed up on her elbow, closing the little distance between them, and pressed her mouth to his.

It wasn’t long or hungry, not the kind of kiss that left bruises or burned through oxygen. It was slower, firmer, sure in a way that felt like choosing him instead of testing him. When she pulled back, her lips lingered against his just enough to let the words spill out low.

“I like this you,” she whispered, eyes searching his. “The one who isn’t running, isn’t trying to distract me with charm. Just you, right here. It feels… different. Better. Like maybe you’re finally letting me see the version I’ve been waiting for.”

Her hand stayed at his jaw, thumb brushing the rough line of stubble there. She smiled, soft and a little raw, like she wasn’t used to saying things like this out loud but couldn’t stop herself. “So don’t lose him, Mercer. Don’t go back to the guy who left me counting all the exits. Because this one? This one, I could actually get used to.”

She settled back against him again, but this time she kissed his shoulder before resting her head there, as if staking a quiet claim.

Kai couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his mouth, even with her words cutting that close to bone. Because hearing her say she liked this version of him—the one he’d been fighting like hell to be—felt like someone had just handed him oxygen after years of running on fumes.

He brushed a thumb along her knuckles where their hands were laced, glancing down at her curled against him like she belonged there. “Infuriating, huh?” he echoed, tone low and teasing, but threaded with something truer underneath. “That’s rich, Lennon. You just told me I split your chest open, then followed it with a full catering order. You’re lucky I’m the kind of guy who finds that hot.”

His grin widened at her eye-roll, and he bent to kiss the crown of her head before straightening. “Alright. Waffles, strawberries, whipped cream, non-regret coffee…” He ticked each item off like he was committing it to memory. Then his gaze flicked back down, mischievous heat sparking at the edges. “And just to be clear, I’m ordering the whipped cream in a can. Because, you know…” His mouth curved slow, dangerous, before softening again. “Options.”

He squeezed her hand before she could swat him, pulling his phone from his pocket. “But seriously, Lennon—this isn’t me just talking. You want waffles? You’re getting waffles. You want strawberries? Hell, I’ll order an entire damn field if it means you stop drinking that tragic excuse for coffee in your kitchen.”

With a few taps, he pulled up the delivery app, fingers flying as he started adding to the cart. “So here’s what’s happening: we’re getting waffles, sure, but also pancakes. Because balance. Eggs Benedict, because I know you pretend you don’t like runny yolks, but I’ve caught you stealing mine before. And those little croissant things you pretend are too bougie but eat anyway.” He shot her a sidelong grin. “And yes, coffee. The kind that doesn’t taste like burnt regret. Large. Two. One for you, one for me, because you’re not hogging the good stuff alone.”

He set the order with a decisive tap, tossing his phone onto the nightstand and sinking back against the headboard with her tucked against his side again. “There. Done. Breakfast in bed, deluxe edition. Because this isn’t a one-morning special, Lennon. It’s the new standard.”

His voice gentled then, slipping into something softer, steadier, like the bassline of a song that wouldn’t let up. “I told you—I’m not going anywhere. And I know your body remembers the guy who made exits look easier than staying.” He angled his face down, brushing his lips across her hairline, lingering there. “But I’m not him anymore. You said you could get used to this version? Then get used to him. Because this one’s permanent.”

He kissed her temple once more, letting his words settle between them like a vow. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added with a grin, “Also, if I don’t get at least one bite of your waffles, I’m walking straight out that door.” He paused a beat, then leaned down to murmur in her ear, low and sure, “Kidding. I’d never leave. But I am stealing your strawberries.”

When he reached for his phone, she tilted just enough to peek at the screen, lashes brushing his arm as she leaned closer. Her mouth curved into a sly little smile as she caught the way he was scrolling through Postmates with the intensity of someone plotting a heist. Pancakes. Croissants. Smoothies. He was piling it all in without hesitation.

“God,” she whispered with a small huff of laughter, watching his thumb fly across the screen, “you’re really doing it. You’re ordering the whole damn menu.”

Lennon laughed under her breath, the sound soft but a little disbelieving, like he’d just said the most ridiculous thing and she couldn’t help herself. She tipped her head back enough to look at him, eyes shining with something sharper than amusement. “You really don’t quit, do you?” she murmured, voice low, carrying both the edge and the ache. “All that just to tell me you’re stealing my strawberries?”

Her shoulder bumped his, light but deliberate, and yet her hand stayed right where it was—woven through his, tight enough to make the point. The warmth of his palm against hers, his thumb tracing along her knuckles, felt like its own conversation.

Her smile softened then, tilting, more fragile around the edges. “Truth is, I don’t care about the waffles. Or the coffee. Or even the damn strawberries.” She paused, breath hitching just a fraction as she pressed her thumb against the line of his fingers, like she needed the proof of him solid beneath her touch. “I just care that you’re here. That you’re not halfway out the door before I even get to finish a sentence. That you’re finally sitting still long enough for me to believe it.”

Her voice dipped quieter, steadier now but still threaded with that raw honesty she never let anyone else hear. “This version of you—the one who stays, the one who makes me think maybe it’s safe to lean in again? That’s the only thing I want seconds of. That’s the only thing I’ve wanted all along.”

She shifted closer, curling tighter against his side until her leg brushed his, until the press of him was as constant as the pulse in her wrist. She let her mouth find the fabric of his shirt at his chest, kissing there like she couldn’t help it, like her body already knew what her head was still catching up to. The scent of him—soap, coffee, the faintest trace of cedar—sank into her as she lingered.

When she looked back up at him, her hair brushed across his jaw, and her smile was softer now, stripped of armor. “So yeah, Mercer,” she whispered, the words carrying more weight than she let her grin betray. “Permanent doesn’t sound half bad.”

Kai felt her words land in him like an anchor—solid, grounding, the kind of thing that used to terrify him but now only made him want to dig deeper. For once, he didn’t feel like he was on trial. She wasn’t waiting for him to trip up, wasn’t cross-examining his every word. She was scared, sure—he could feel it in the way her thumb pressed against his hand like she needed proof he wasn’t a ghost. But for the first time in years, he wasn’t scared with her.

He smiled, slow and certain, tilting his head so her hair brushed against his jaw. “Permanent doesn’t sound half bad,” he echoed softly, letting the words roll off his tongue like a vow. His thumb stroked across her knuckles again, steady and deliberate. “Good thing you’re stuck with me, then. Because I’m not clocking out this time, Lennon. No breaks, no exits. Just… us.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, then lower to her temple, each kiss warm and unhurried, like punctuation on promises he had no intention of breaking. “And for the record,” he murmured against her skin, grin tugging at his mouth, “ordering the whole menu? That’s me making up for years of being an idiot. Years of you putting up with less than what you deserve.” He tipped his forehead to hers, his voice softening even as the charm curved through it. “Spoiling you isn’t extra—it’s the baseline. Non-negotiable. From here on out, it’s standard Mercer policy.”

Pulling back just enough to catch her gaze, he let a crooked smile flash across his face. “So yeah, I’ll steal your strawberries. But I’ll also order enough that you’ll never actually miss them. That’s how this works now.”

He glanced toward his phone, already buzzing with the confirmation of his over-the-top order, then back to her, letting his eyes trace the curve of her smile, the softness she wasn’t hiding anymore. “You think this is about waffles, Lennon? About coffee? No. This—” he gave her hand a squeeze, leaning closer until his words brushed across her lips, low and steady, “—this is about you finally believing me. Believing that I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. Not today, not tomorrow, not when it gets messy. Never again.”

And then he kissed her—slow, sure, the kind of kiss that didn’t take but gave, layering itself into her like muscle memory he wanted her to rewrite with him. When he pulled back, his grin softened, eyes lit with something that had nothing to do with swagger and everything to do with truth.

“Breakfast in bed, then the rest of the day wherever you want me,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “Because that’s the secret, Lennon. I’ve already decided—wherever you are, that’s permanent enough for me.”

For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Just stared at him like she was testing the words in the air, waiting to see if they dissolved the way they used to.

But they didn’t.

Her chest rose slow against his, her pulse a little wild where her wrist was trapped under his thumb. She swallowed once, her lashes lowering, then lifted her gaze back to him — steady this time, even if her smile tipped at the edges with disbelief.

“You sound different,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying above the quiet hum of the room. “Not like you’re trying to win me over. Not like you’re selling me a dream you’ll vanish from by morning. Just… different. Like maybe you actually mean it this time.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his once, feather-light, before pulling back just enough to search his face. “And God help me, Kai Mercer, I like it. I like you like this. Permanent. Spoiling-me-is-standard-policy you.” A small laugh left her, shaky and sweet. “Even if it means I’m never gonna get through a Postmates cart without you hijacking it again.”

Her hand shifted in his, her fingers tightening like she was tacking down the moment before it could slip. She tucked herself closer against his chest, closing her eyes as her words softened into him.

“You want me to believe you?” she murmured, her cheek pressed where his heartbeat thudded steady and real. “Then don’t just say it. Keep showing me. Every morning. Every stupid coffee run and every strawberry you pretend you’re not stealing. That’s how I’ll believe.”

She let the quiet sit for a beat, then tilted her head enough to press a slow kiss against the line of his jaw, her lips lingering like it was her own vow. When she pulled back, her smile was small, almost shy, but real.

“Permanent doesn’t sound half bad,” she said again, softer now, almost to herself. Then, with a playful spark threading through the fragile honesty, she added, “But if you really steal all my strawberries, Mercer, I swear to God, permanent’s off the table.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t need one.

Because the second she let herself settle again, her body tucked to his like a favorite shirt worn thin with time, she felt it. The truth of it. In the way his arm curled tighter around her. In the quiet steadiness of his breath. In the warmth of skin that hadn’t flinched once since she’d let herself be honest.

This was happening.

Not the fantasy. Not the crash-and-burn thrill of what they used to be. But this—quiet, messy, sleepy-eyed morning light kind of love.

Lennon exhaled slow, cheek brushing the soft fabric of his shirt as her nose tucked against his collarbone. Her leg shifted under the covers, sliding easily over his, anchoring her there like her body already knew what her heart was still learning to trust.

She liked this version of him.

The one who didn’t rush to fill silence. The one who let his actions speak before his mouth ever did. The one who knew how to order a dozen breakfast items just to make her laugh — and how to mean it when he said he wasn’t going anywhere.

She pressed in closer, letting the heat of his chest soak into her skin. Her lashes fluttered against her cheekbone. The weight of it all—the years, the damage, the old versions of them—started to fall away with every heartbeat that didn’t come with conditions.

It was almost terrifying, how safe she felt.

Not because she doubted him.

But because part of her had never really believed she’d get to have this. Not like this. Not with him.

Lennon breathed in slow. Citrus and coffee and the unmistakable warmth of him now — not memory, not longing, but real. She didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she let her body speak the only way it knew how.

By staying.

By curling into him like he was the place she’d always been headed, even when she didn’t know it.

By letting her fingers find his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt and resting there.

And in that quiet, in that stillness, she realized something bone-deep.

If this was what forever felt like?

She didn’t want to run anymore.

They didn’t speak.

Not for almost an hour.

Just the rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shift of fabric as her body melted further into his. Kai’s hand had moved at some point—slow, absent strokes along the length of her arm, like he was memorizing the shape of her in real time. Like he hadn’t quite believed she’d let him stay, and now that she had, he wasn’t going to stop touching her for fear she might disappear.

Lennon didn’t say it, but she felt the same.

Her lashes stayed low, gaze half-lost in the spill of gold light catching the edge of the nightstand, the soft blur of their coffee mugs cooling beside his phone. Her hand had long since stilled over his chest, her thumb resting in time with his heartbeat. Every now and then, she’d shift just enough to press her face deeper into the slope of his neck. He never pulled back.

God, how many mornings had she imagined this?

Not the perfect ones. Not the cinematic ones with flower petals and orchestras and grand gestures.

Just this.

The kind of stillness where her body didn’t ache from guarding itself. Where her heart could rest against someone else’s without bracing. Where silence wasn’t a punishment—it was proof.

Proof that she was safe.

That maybe he really had meant it this time.

And then—

The doorbell rang.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just… real. Tangible. Like the universe gently reminding her that even soft moments get interrupted sometimes.

Lennon let out the smallest huff of breath, her forehead still pressed against the side of his throat. She didn’t move at first—didn’t want to—but she felt him shift slightly beneath her, the barest flex of his chest like he might get up.

She tightened her grip on his shirt.

“Don’t,” she murmured sleepily into his skin. “I’m not ready to let go of this yet.”

But the doorbell chimed again.

She sighed, reluctant and slow, then finally peeled herself from the heat of him. Her leg dragged over his under the covers before she rolled onto her back with a groan, palm dragging down her face. “God, if this is a neighbor trying to sell solar panels…”

Another ring.

Lennon sat up with a dramatic flop of the sheets, glancing down at herself—his oversized shirt rumpled around her thighs—and huffed. “Fine. Waffles better be involved,” she muttered as she slid off the bed.

She didn’t look back right away, but she could feel him watching her. Like he was still stunned she was here. That she’d stayed.

And when she finally reached the door, hair messy, bare legs cold from leaving the covers, she opened it—

And there it was.

The smell hit first—warm butter, sweet berries, cinnamon, coffee.

A stupidly large Postmates bag sat on her welcome mat.

She bent to grab it, lifting the bag carefully, and behind her, from the hallway, she heard the faint creak of the bed. No footsteps yet. Just presence. Stillness.

He hadn’t followed.

He trusted her to come back.

And maybe that was the thing that hit her hardest.

She turned, bag in hand, gaze meeting his down the hallway.

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not theatrical. Just quiet.

Certain.

“Come on,” she called softly. “Before it gets cold.”

And she meant more than breakfast.

She meant everything.

Kai propped himself against the headboard, sheets low around his waist, the golden spill of morning light catching at the edges of her as she moved down the hallway. For a second, he didn’t even breathe. Just watched her.

The oversized shirt hung loose on her frame, skimming high over her thighs, swaying soft with every step. Bare legs pale against the hardwood, hair messy from the pillow and falling like a dark river down her back. It was unfair, really—how someone could look like that without even trying. Beautiful and a little wild. Sexy in the kind of way that didn’t beg for attention but demanded it anyway.

God, she killed him.

There had been a time when he’d have stared at her like this with nothing but hunger, nothing but the sharp pull of wanting what he thought he couldn’t keep. But now? Now it was more than that. The hunger was still there, sure—his pulse was proof enough—but layered under it was something steadier, heavier. Reverence. The kind that made him want to commit every detail of her walk down that hallway to memory.

Because this wasn’t a dream he’d vanish from anymore. This was her. Here. Choosing to stay.

When she bent for the bag, his chest tightened, because even that looked like a prayer answered. The sight of her, hair falling forward, lifting up a breakfast order he’d stuffed full just to make her laugh—yeah, this was it. This was the life he wanted. The quiet mornings. The interruptions that didn’t shake anything. The sound of her muttering about waffles as if she hadn’t just confessed she wanted him permanent.

She turned then, bag in hand, eyes finding his across the stretch of hallway. And just like that—he was done. Finished. Because her smile wasn’t the teasing one she used to throw when she was testing his edge. It wasn’t sharp, or sly, or layered in defenses. It was soft. Real. Certain.

It was for him.

He swung his legs off the bed, slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The floor was cool under his feet, but he barely felt it. He only felt the way her words lingered between them like a vow: Before it gets cold.

And she wasn’t just talking about breakfast.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low, steady as he pushed to his feet. “I’m coming.”

Not just for the food. Not just for the morning.

For her.

Always, now.

They didn’t say much on the walk to the kitchen — just the rustle of the bag, the familiar creak of the floor near the fridge, her muttered “told you it’d be waffles” and his answering smirk. But it didn’t feel like silence, not really. It felt like something shared. Like understanding without having to explain.

She handed him his coffee first, black and no room for grace, then slid the box with the croissant things across the counter. He raised an eyebrow, clearly remembering every time she’d claimed they were too much. She ignored it.

He helped plate everything — haphazard and piled high — before she turned and led the way back to her room, toes catching the edge of the hallway rug, Kai close behind. And for once, it didn’t feel weird. Didn’t feel like she had to tuck her real life away to make room for him.

He already fit.

By the time they settled, he was propped against her headboard, shirt wrinkled from sleep, coffee balanced on one knee. The morning light cut across his jaw in the way that should’ve been illegal. Lennon sat across from him, legs crossed under her, one plate resting in her lap. The fork dug into syrup-soft waffle as she laced her fingers around it to steady the heat.

It was domestic. It was quiet. It was everything she hadn’t let herself want.

He was watching her again. Not the way he used to — like she was something temporary he didn’t quite trust to stay — but like he couldn’t believe she’d stayed anyway.

She tilted her chin toward him without meeting his gaze directly, tongue sweeping syrup from the corner of her mouth as she bit into the next bite. “You’re sitting there like that’s a throne,” she murmured, half-playful, half-honest, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch the way his mouth quirked at the corner. “You planning to rule my bed now too?”

Her voice was lighter than what she felt — than the tight twist in her chest that came from watching him make room here like it was the most natural thing in the world. No apologies. No armor. Just Kai, eating waffles in her bed like it had always been this simple.

Lennon looked down at her plate, then back up through her lashes, quieter this time. “I could definitely get used to this.”

And she meant the syrup.
She meant the bed.
She meant him.

Kai felt the words hit him harder than she probably meant them to.

Not just the playful edge, not even the syrup she was pretending was the only thing worth noticing — but the quieter truth beneath it. The one she let slip without even realizing.

I could definitely get used to this.

His throat tightened around a sip of coffee, the bitter heat grounding him when his pulse wasn’t. Because she wasn’t talking about waffles. She wasn’t even talking about mornings. She was talking about him. About them. And for a guy who used to think permanence was a trap instead of a gift — he’d never wanted anything more than to be exactly where he was.

He leaned back against the headboard, one arm hooked lazily along the pillow at his side, but his gaze never left her. The way her hair caught the light, the faint syrup gloss at the corner of her lip, the way she folded herself cross-legged like she’d finally stopped guarding her space from him — all of it was too much and not enough.

“You say that like I haven’t already claimed the title,” he murmured, voice low but warm, mouth tugging into that half-smile she knew too well. He shifted just enough to set his mug aside on the nightstand, then reached across the rumpled blankets to steal a piece of her waffle straight from her plate.

She swatted at his hand too late, indignant, and he just grinned around the bite, shaking his head. “Territory rules, Lennon. Anything you eat in this bed is officially subject to tax.” His tone was teasing, but the way his eyes softened when they caught hers gave him away. This wasn’t about waffles or coffee. This was about being here. Being allowed to stay.

The quiet stretched, not awkward — never awkward — but full. He set the fork down gently against her plate before she could protest again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it. He just looked at her, steady and unflinching, like he was trying to memorize her all over again.

“You should know…” His voice dropped, softer now, stripped of play. “This? Us? I’m not planning on it being temporary. Not anymore.”

He reached, slow and certain, brushing his thumb across her mouth where the syrup had lingered. It wasn’t a move for heat — not the way he used to chase it. It was reverent. Grounding. The kind of touch that told her he was here, awake, and not going anywhere.

He let his hand linger at her jaw, then bent in, pressing a kiss to her lips that was unhurried, meaningful — not the kind that demanded, but the kind that promised.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his voice nothing but a vow in the small space between them.

“Get used to it, Lennon. Because I’m not leaving this time.”

Lennon let the quiet stretch, her fork turning idly through the syrup on her plate though she hadn’t taken another bite. His words sat between them, warm and steady, heavier than the coffee steam curling into the morning light. She felt them settle in her chest the way his voice always did when he wasn’t just teasing, when he meant it.

And God, she remembered every time he hadn’t been able to mean it before. The half-promises left backstage, the I’ll call you that always fell apart when the tour bus rolled on. The way her phone lit up at 2 a.m. in cities they never shared. The way she used to fall asleep with his voice in her headphones instead of in the room.

But this—this wasn’t that boy. This was him now. Sitting barefoot in her bed, hair mussed from sleep instead of styled for cameras, stealing bites of her waffles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her heart tugged, soft and dangerous, and she realized she wasn’t bracing anymore. For once, she wasn’t waiting for the crack.

A laugh slipped out, quiet but real, and she shook her head. “You always did like sneaking in and declaring things like you owned the place,” she murmured, her eyes catching his, gentler than her tone. “But… maybe I don’t mind this time.”

She leaned forward, syrup-sweet kiss pressing quick to his mouth before she could think herself out of it, before the lump in her throat could get in the way. When she pulled back, her grin tipped lopsided, her voice softer.

“Okay,” she said, finally letting herself agree. “I’ll get used to it.”

Her free hand slid across the blankets, catching his wrist, guiding his fingers back against hers like she needed the weight of him to make it real. Then, with a spark of that familiar mischief, she added, “Just… don’t think this gets you out of paying the waffle tax. You’re still a thief.”

Kai almost choked on his coffee—half from the kiss, half from the way she said okay like it wasn’t just about waffles. Like it was about all of it. About him.

And damn if that didn’t knock the air out of him more than any stadium crowd ever had.

He leaned back a little, the kind of casual lounge that was absolutely deliberate, stretching his arm along the headboard like he’d been planning this throne move all morning. His grin came slow and crooked, dimples deep, voice dipping into that low, teasing register he knew made her roll her eyes.

“First of all, sweetheart,” he drawled, eyes flicking to her fork like he was weighing his next heist, “tax implies I agreed to a system. What we’ve got here is more like… divine right. I take, you glare, I grin—classic arrangement. Been working for us since 2016.”

Her head tipped, fighting a laugh, and he let his thumb brush the inside of her wrist where she’d caught him. Not rushed, not greedy—just there. Anchored.

“Second,” he went on, pretending to study the syrup on her plate like it was a legal document, “I think you just officially admitted you don’t mind me owning the place. Big day. Historic, really. We should mark the calendar.” He looked back up at her, eyes glinting with that Joe-Jonas-on-a-late-night-interview charm, half sincerity, half trouble. “Or maybe just celebrate by me stealing another bite of your waffle and you not threatening to exile me.”

And before she could retort, he leaned forward, quick and smooth, snagging a piece of her waffle like a thief who’d already cased the joint. He popped it in his mouth, chewing slow, exaggerated like he was savoring victory.

Then, softer—like he couldn’t help himself—he leaned in close enough that she could feel his words against her cheek.

“Face it, Lennon,” he murmured, all warmth under the tease, “I’m already permanent. Waffles or not.”

And when he pulled back, dimples flashing, he gave her that look—the one that said he’d joke all day if it kept her laughing, but the promise underneath wasn’t going anywhere.