Lennon’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it — low, unwilling, the kind that caught in her chest like an old song she’d sworn she’d forgotten but knew every word to anyway. Classic Kai. Always hiding vows inside punchlines, always letting his dimples carry what his voice was too scared to name outright.

She shook her head, slow, feigning exasperation as she set her fork down on the plate between them. “You really think bringing up 2016 helps your case? You were stealing fries back then too, if I recall correctly.”

But her fingers never left his wrist. If anything, they tightened, thumb brushing the line of his pulse like she was testing the reality of him. Because she remembered 2016 too well — the sticky vinyl booths at that roadside diner, the jukebox that only half-worked, the way his Sharpie-inked setlist smudged onto her arm because she’d leaned too close while he was writing. He’d been stealing things from her long before waffles, long before this bed — laughter, lyrics, moments she didn’t think she’d ever want to give away.

The late nights rose uninvited, threaded through the steam of coffee between them: rehearsal rooms that smelled like sweat and static, him sprawled across the studio floor with a guitar on his chest while she harmonized from the couch. Fries in parking lots, neon buzzing overhead, his hoodie slung over her shoulders because she was always cold. He’d stolen her warmth back then too — only he’d left her shivering when he disappeared.

Her exhale trembled on the way out, softer now, surrendering more than she wanted. She nudged the plate closer to him, the syrup gloss catching light like it was sealing a contract. “Fine. Take the damn waffle. Consider it… a down payment.”

Her eyes lifted, catching his, and for a second her teasing fractured. She saw too much there — the boy she used to chase through airports, the man sitting steady now with his arm draped along the headboard like he belonged here. Like he’d finally decided permanence wasn’t a cage.

“If you’re serious about this — about staying — then you should know…” Her voice faltered, not from nerves but from the weight of what pressed in around them: the nights she stayed awake counting ceiling cracks instead of minutes, the empty space in her bed that smelled faintly of his cologne long after he was gone, the ache she swore she’d buried but had only ever pressed down far enough to function.

“…you don’t get to leave again, Kai. Not after this. Not after me finally saying okay.”

The words weren’t theatrical, not spun for effect. They were plain, raw, lived-in — like the scar you stop covering once you realize it’s part of you.

And before he could reply, before he could tuck another vow into a grin, she leaned in. Kissed him soft, sure, unhurried — the kind of kiss that wasn’t about proving heat but about proving history. The kind that said I remember all of it. And I’m choosing you anyway.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested lightly against his, her breath mingling with his coffee-warm air. A smile ghosted across her mouth — small, almost shy, but real in a way she hadn’t let herself be with him in years.

“So yeah,” she whispered, and it tasted like syrup and surrender. “Permanent. I guess I’ll get used to

Kai didn’t move at first.
Didn’t even let himself grin.

Because he knew this tone, knew this exact version of Lennon. The one that wasn’t kidding. The one who wasn’t testing him with sharp edges or daring him to make light of it. This was her scar, bare on the table. And if he threw a joke at it now, he’d never forgive himself.

So he let her kiss sit on his mouth a second longer, like he needed to seal it in place before he trusted his own voice. Her forehead against his, her thumb on his pulse—God, she probably felt it racing, like he was seventeen again and not thirty with a thousand miles of regret behind him.

“Len,” he said finally, rougher than he meant to. He cleared his throat, tried again, softer. “I know. I know what I did before. All the times I said I’d call and didn’t. All the times I let a bus door close between us because it was easier than… this.”

His free hand moved, sliding over hers where it held his wrist. Covering it. Anchoring her. “I can’t undo that. But I swear to you—I’m not leaving again. Not unless you’re in the seat next to me.”

He huffed out a breath, a half-laugh because it felt too heavy without one, but the words didn’t lose their weight. “You think I’m dumb enough to get a another shot with you and blow it? Please. Even I’m not that much of a cliché.” His smile was crooked, but it didn’t hide the sheen in his eyes. “Permanent sounds like the best scam I’ve ever pulled, and I’m keeping it.”

He leaned in, kissed her again—not rushed, not playful. Just steady. Sure. Like he wanted her to know there wasn’t a single corner of him holding back.

When he pulled away, his voice was quieter, but steadier than it had ever been in a backstage or a voicemail at 2 a.m. “You don’t have to get used to me this time, Len. You already did. Years ago. And I’m done making you do it all over again.”

Then, softer still, almost like it was for him as much as her: “I’m staying. You couldn’t pay me to leave.”

Lennon didn’t rush to fill the silence.

She’d learned the hard way that words were easy. He’d given her plenty of them before — promises, apologies, those soft goodbyes that felt like see-you-soons but never were. And she’d given him silence in return, because she thought that was safer. Easier than letting him hear how much it hurt.

But now? Now he wasn’t just filling air. He wasn’t hiding behind charm or smirks or that boy-band deflection he’d perfected. He was holding her hand like he needed it as much as she did. He was naming every moment she thought she’d carried alone. And he was asking, in his own uneven way, for her to believe him.

Her throat tightened, not with anger this time, but with something quieter. Something closer to release. Because yes, he’d left. More than once. Yes, she’d spent years learning to smile through the ache. But he’d also come back — again and again, like gravity she couldn’t fight, no matter how many miles or headlines got in the way.

And maybe that was the difference now. He wasn’t promising a clean slate. He wasn’t pretending the wreckage didn’t happen. He was laying it out, owning it, asking her to see him anyway.

Her thumb pressed gently against his pulse, a steady beat beneath her touch. For once, she didn’t want to run from what it meant.

“Hey,” she murmured, tilting her forehead against his, catching his eyes so he couldn’t look away. “I know. I know what it cost me before. I know what it cost you, too. We both screwed this up more times than I can count.”

Her mouth curved, not sharp this time but soft, almost wry. “And maybe I should tell you I need time, or space, or a hundred more reassurances. But the truth is… I don’t. I’ve already been used to you for half my life. Good, bad, everything in between.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his just long enough to steady them both. When she pulled back, her voice was sure, almost gentle.

“So if you’re really staying? Then yeah, Kai. I’ll get used to it. Again. Because I want to. Because I love you.”

Her hand slid higher, resting over his heartbeat now instead of just his wrist, like she was finally allowing herself to hold onto him fully.

Kai felt those words slam into him like a chord change he hadn’t rehearsed for. Lennon Rae — saying she loved him like it wasn’t a risk, like it was a fact carved into her bones. Not sharp. Not pleading. Just certain.

He wanted to live in it. Hell, he wanted to tattoo it under his skin. But he also knew if he sat in the weight of it too long, he’d start choking on it. That wasn’t what she needed from him now — another heavy vow, another cracked apology.

So he shifted, slid her hand flatter against his chest, then tapped her knuckles lightly like it was a beat they could both follow. “You know what’s wild?” he said, voice low but sly, eyes sparking even as he held her gaze. “We’ve been circling this whole epic, tortured, second-chance love story thing…” His grin broke through, dimples and all. “And you still haven’t admitted that I was right about croissant-waffles being the superior breakfast food.”

Her laugh spilled out — unwilling, caught off guard — and that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her light, not just her scars.

Kai leaned back against the headboard, one arm slung lazy across his lap, the picture of casual confidence even as his heart still thrashed under her palm. “I mean, Lennon Rae, think about it. Years from now, people are gonna ask what finally broke the will-they-won’t-they saga, and it’s not gonna be a ballad or a big Hollywood moment.” He plucked the edge of her plate, snagging another bite of syrup-soaked waffle before she could swat him. “It’s gonna be me, in your bed, stealing your breakfast and proving I was right. Again.”

He chewed like it was a victory lap, cocking his head toward her with a grin that was all charm, all tease — but the undercurrent was clear. He was choosing this, choosing her, not just with promises but with the stupid, ordinary, everyday moments.

“Permanent,” he added, softer now, though the smirk lingered. “Even if you make me pay waffle tax every damn morning.”

Lennon’s laugh lingered in her throat, softer this time, almost shaky, because God — only he could take three little words that cracked her wide open and answer with croissant-waffles. And somehow, it didn’t cheapen it. It made it truer.

She shook her head, pressing her lips together like she could hide the smile threatening to take over, but it broke through anyway. “You’re impossible,” she said, though the way her hand curled tighter against his chest gave her away. “Only you would turn a life-or-death confession into a pastry debate.”

Her eyes flicked to his, catching the spark there, and for a beat she just let herself stare — at the dimples, at the grin, at the maddening steadiness underneath all the teasing. He was ridiculous. And he was hers.

“Fine,” she breathed, tilting her chin in mock surrender. “Permanent. Waffle tax included. But for the record, I still say pancakes beat both.”

Her smirk curved sharp again, but her voice softened when she added, almost under her breath, “You make it sound like ordinary is the best part.”

Because maybe it was. Him stealing bites. Her laughing when she swore she wouldn’t. A future measured in mornings instead of maybes.



( WE CAN END HERE ... ok :) )