Spencer couldn’t lift his head.

Couldn’t uncoil the tight knot his body had wound itself into.

Every breath still scraped against his throat like broken glass, shallow and thin and sharp enough to make his whole chest ache.

He felt her before he really registered what was happening.

A brush of warmth along his arm.
A bump of knees.
A hand—small, steady—pressing against his shin.

At first it made the panic surge higher, a flash of fight-or-flight snapping in his spine.

Touch meant danger.
Meant pressure.
Meant what’s wrong with you, why can’t you just pull it together, what the hell is your problem—

But then—
then—

she didn’t move.

She didn’t pull.
She didn’t demand.

She just stayed there.

Warm and solid and silent beside him, grounding him without trying to fix what wasn’t broken, just battered and bloody and too tired to keep pretending.

Spencer squeezed his eyes tighter shut.

His fingers flexed against the denim over his knees, desperate for something, anything to hold onto.

And then he felt it.

The slow, careful way she leaned in.

The brush of her forehead against his knee—barely there, so soft he would have missed it if he hadn’t been falling apart so slowly it felt like the whole world was moving in reverse.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t tell him to breathe.

Didn’t tell him to calm down.

She just was.

And somehow—
somehow—

that cracked something open in him deeper than any shouted word ever could.

His breathing stayed rough, jagged, ugly—but it wasn’t fighting him so hard anymore.

It started to sync, little by little, with the slow, steady rhythm of hers.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

He stayed like that for a while, forehead tucked tight against his own knees, feeling her hand resting warm and real against his leg, feeling her breathing hum steady into his bones.

The world outside blurred and faded.

The only things left were her hands, her touch, her breathing.

Her.

Spencer uncurled the smallest bit—
not much.
Just enough to loosen the vice grip he had around himself.

Just enough to feel her instead of only feeling the panic.

His heart was still racing, still hammering too fast against his ribs, but it wasn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest anymore.

It was just… there.

Alive.

Terrified.

Still beating.

And when he finally lifted his head—shaky, slow, raw—he didn’t even think about hiding the wreckage from her.

Didn’t apologize for the tears he hadn’t even realized had spilled down his cheeks.

Didn’t shrink away from the way she stayed kneeling there in front of him, forehead still resting lightly against his leg like she belonged there, like he was the one anchoring her too.

He dragged in a breath.

Wrecked.
Heavy.

Tried to find his voice through the gravel lodged in his throat.

It came out quieter than he meant it to, but somehow steadier too:

"I'm trying."

His hand—still trembling—lifted off his knee, reaching for her without thinking.

Fumbling.

Clumsy.

But real.

He caught the edge of her sleeve between two fingers and just—
held on.

Tight.
Like if he let go, he’d fall back into the dark that didn’t know her name.

Spencer blinked, dragging his gaze up to her finally.

Meeting her eyes in the moonlight.

And in a voice that cracked all the way down the middle, he rasped it again:

"I'm trying, Leigh."

It wasn’t an apology.

It wasn’t enough.

But it was everything he had.

And somehow—
with her hand on his leg, her breath steady in the dark, her forehead still pressed against him like a prayer—

it felt like maybe it could be enough anyway.

Leighton didn’t move when she felt it.

The slow, shaky way he started to uncurl himself.
The rough drag of his forehead lifting off his knees.
The breath he pulled in like it cost him everything just to take it.

She stayed kneeling there—anchored to the floor, to him—her forehead still resting lightly against his leg, one hand still cradling his shin, the other hovering nearby in case he needed more.

When she finally lifted her head enough to look at him, her chest cracked wide open.

He was a mess.

Tears streaking his cheeks.
Jaw tight.
Shoulders trembling like he was carrying every bad thing he’d ever been told about himself.

But he wasn’t hiding from her.
Not anymore.

He was letting her see it.
All of it.
All the wreckage, all the ruin, all the broken places he didn’t know how to bandage anymore.

And God, she loved him so much it hurt.

When he rasped it out—

“I’m trying.”
—Leighton felt the words lodge somewhere deep inside her ribs, a quiet, feral kind of love that didn’t ask for perfect or polished or anything but this.

Him.
Here.
Still fighting.

Still choosing to stay.

When his hand lifted—fumbling, clumsy—and caught the edge of her sleeve between trembling fingers, she thought she might actually break apart from how much she loved him.

Not the way she expected love to feel.
Not soft and easy.

But fierce.
Unshakeable.
Something raw and brutal and endlessly steady.

When he whispered it again, voice cracking in half:

“I’m trying, Leigh.”

She didn’t answer with words.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, Leighton moved slow, deliberate—like the whole world had narrowed down to this one boy and the fragile, beautiful way he was still trying.

She slid her hand carefully up from his shin, tracing the inside of his wrist where his pulse stuttered wild and frantic under his skin.
Let her fingers lace gently through his.

No pressure.
No tug.

Just giving him something to hold onto that wasn’t fear.

She leaned forward the tiniest bit more—close enough that their knees bumped harder, close enough that he could feel her breath whispering over his skin.

And when he didn’t pull away—
when he just stayed there, wrecked and reaching—
Leighton cradled the side of his face with her free hand, palm curving gently along his jaw.

Her thumb brushed slow over his cheekbone, sweeping through the wetness there like it didn’t scare her, like it didn’t change a damn thing.

Like he was still hers.
Exactly like this.

She tilted her head—soft, careful—and pressed her forehead lightly to his again.

Just breathing him in.

Just letting him feel her.
Steady.
Unmoving.

Choosing him again.
Choosing him always.

When she finally moved, it wasn’t to pull away.
It was to wrap her arms around him completely, slow and sure, tugging him against her chest like he was something precious that deserved to be held just for existing.

Leighton tucked his face against the curve of her neck, hands moving slow up and down his back, anchoring him to her body, to her breath, to the rhythm that didn’t ask him to be anything more than exactly what he was.

She kissed the top of his head once—barely more than a breath—soft and reverent.

Still no words.
Still no rush.

Just a girl in love with a boy who thought he had to bleed to be worthy of staying.
Holding him tighter.
Loving him harder.

Showing him every second he let her stay:

You’re trying.
That’s enough.
You’re enough.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not now.
Not ever.

Spencer didn’t know how long he stayed folded into her.

Didn’t know how long she kept breathing slow against his skin, hands moving steady up and down his back like she could anchor him just by existing.

He only knew it was the first time in longer than he could remember that the panic wasn’t winning.

Not completely.

It was still there—buzzing low under his skin, a static hum in his bones—but it didn’t own him here.
Not with her holding him like this.
Not with her heart beating slow and stubborn against his ribs, loud enough to drown out the noise in his head.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shuddering against her collarbone, the weight of it almost knocking him sideways.

She tightened her arms around him instantly.

Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask.

Just stayed.

And something in Spencer cracked wider under the gentleness of it.
Something that wasn’t made of fear this time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead harder into the warm curve of her neck, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Her hands kept moving—slow, patient, steady—up and down his back.
Not rushing him.
Not pushing him to be okay faster than he could.

And slowly—so slowly it almost hurt—he let himself sag heavier against her.
Let himself be held.

Not because he deserved it.
Not because he thought he was enough.
But because his body was too tired to fight the truth anymore:

He needed her.

Needed this.

Needed her.

His fingers, still trembling, fumbled against the fabric of her shirt, curling into it like if he could just hold on tight enough, the whole broken world would stop tilting sideways.

He stayed like that—quiet, wrecked, breathing her in—until the words started to claw their way up his throat.

At first he tried to swallow them back down.
Tried to bury them under the shame, under the fear, under the cracked armor he always wore too tight.

But he couldn’t.

Not here.

Not with her hands still tracing steady lines against his spine.
Not with her heart still beating slow and patient into the side of his face.

So he pulled in a shaky breath, throat raw, chest aching, and rasped it out against her skin:

"I don't deserve you."

The second the words left him, he hated them.

Hated how small they sounded.
Hated how true they felt.

He shifted a little, instinctively starting to pull back—to retreat into himself the way he always did when the vulnerability got too real, too dangerous, too fucking much.

But before he could,
before he could rip himself away—

her hands moved.

Not rough.
Not desperate.

Just there.

One sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
The other smoothing over the center of his back, pressing him closer.

Holding him like she wasn’t afraid of the sharp edges.

Holding him like he wasn’t a burden.

Holding him like she meant it.

Spencer let out a sound then—a broken, gasping thing that barely made it past his throat—and buried his face deeper against her neck, arms locking tighter around her waist like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

Another tear slipped free.
He felt it track slow down his cheek, smearing into the fabric of her shirt.

He didn’t wipe it away.

Didn’t apologize for it.

He just stayed.

Letting her carry the pieces he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

And when she shifted slightly—when she pressed a kiss into his hair so soft he almost didn’t feel it—Spencer felt something he didn’t have a name for break loose in his chest.

Something that didn’t feel like fear.
Something that didn’t feel like running.

It felt like staying.

Like choosing.

Like hope.

He clutched her tighter and, in a voice so low he wasn’t sure she could even hear it, he whispered against her skin:

"Don’t let go yet."

Not because he thought she would.
Not really.

But because he needed to say it.
Needed to ask for it.
Needed to believe it could be okay to need her like this.

And when she held him tighter in answer, arms steady and sure around him, Spencer finally—finally—let himself breathe.

Not fighting.
Not bracing.

Just breathing.

With her.

For her.

With himself.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

Leighton didn’t loosen her hold.

Not when he pressed himself tighter against her.
Not when his voice broke against her skin.
Not even when the weight of him sagging into her nearly knocked her back onto the carpet.

She tightened her arms around him, one hand sliding higher to cradle the back of his head, the other smoothing slow and steady over the broad line of his back.

Not pulling.
Not forcing.
Just being.

Here.

She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, fast and frantic still, but no longer drowning him.
No longer tearing him apart.

She just rocked them gently—barely moving, just enough for him to feel it.

Feel the rhythm of her breath.
Feel the way she wasn’t letting go.

Feel the way she wouldn’t.

Her hands kept moving slow over him, tracing invisible patterns into the fabric of his hoodie—along his spine, across his ribs, the dip of his waist.
Familiar places.
Places she loved.

She didn’t try to find words.

There weren’t any big enough for this.
No string of syllables that could hold everything she wanted to give him.

That he could stay.
That he didn’t have to fight alone.
That he was allowed to need her without apology.

She let the way she touched him say it instead.

Let the slow, sure slide of her fingers through his hair, the way she tucked his face deeper into her neck, the way she held him like he wasn’t something broken she had to fix—just something beautiful she chose—say everything.

When his breathing finally started to slow, when the trembling of his hands softened into something smaller, something closer to trust, Leighton smiled against his hair.

Tiny. Private.
The kind of smile meant for moments like this.
The kind you didn’t even need light to see.

She pressed another kiss into his hairline—soft, lingering—then tucked her chin lightly over the crown of his head, cradling him there.

Her knees ached from the hard floor.
Her arms would probably fall asleep from how tight she was holding him.

But she didn’t care.
She would sit here all goddamn night if she had to.

If that’s what it took for him to believe it wasn’t just a moment.

It wasn’t temporary.

It was real.

He was real.

Loved.
Wanted.
Safe.

Exactly like this.

Leighton stayed there, cradling him against her, until she felt the tremors in his body start to ease into something slower, softer.

Not gone.
Not forgotten.
But manageable.

She pressed one more kiss into the side of his head, her lips lingering there like a promise, before she finally whispered against his hair—low and careful, like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile peace they’d fought to build between them:

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you out of these damp clothes, okay?”

Her voice was barely more than a breath.
Gentle.
Patient.

A suggestion, not a command.

She felt him stiffen for half a second against her chest—instinct, fear, something defensive flickering up even now—but then he sagged again, nodding the tiniest bit against her neck.

That was all she needed.

Leighton shifted her weight and carefully started to untangle herself from around him, moving slow enough that he never felt jostled, never felt rushed.

She slid her hands down to his waist, grounding him with every touch, and helped guide him up to his feet.

He wobbled a little, blinking down at her like he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him.

Leighton just smiled—small, soft, steady—and smoothed her hands along his sides once more before gently steering him toward the bed.

He sat down hard on the edge, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead.

He looked wrecked.
Exhausted.
Beautiful.

God, he was so beautiful.

Leighton didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t make a big deal of it.

She just gave his knee a soft squeeze—I’ll be right back—and turned toward her dresser, bare feet padding quiet across the carpet.

She rifled through the drawers, pulling out old shirts, a few tank tops, the oversized hoodie she sometimes slept in when she missed him too much.

Nothing felt right.

She needed his.

She needed something that would smell like him, feel like him, wrap him up in the way she knew words couldn’t reach.

She crossed the room to the chair tucked under her window—half-buried in a mess of blankets and clothes—and fished through the pile until her fingers closed around it.

His old gray t-shirt.

The one she always stole when he wasn’t paying attention.
The one she wore to bed more nights than not.

Soft and worn thin at the seams.
Still smelling faintly of soap and something sharper—something uniquely him.

Leighton smiled quietly to herself and straightened, clutching it to her chest for a second before she turned back toward the bed.

Spencer hadn’t moved much.

Still sitting there, hunched over, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he didn’t quite know what to do next.

Her chest ached at the sight.

She crossed the room again—slow, steady—and knelt down in front of him, just like before.

She held out the shirt between them, offering it with both hands like it was something sacred.

Something he deserved.

Something that said, you’re still mine. you’re still safe. even now.

Her voice stayed soft when she spoke again:

“Here, baby. Let’s get you comfortable.”

No rush.
No pressure.
Just love.

All of it, poured into the smallest, gentlest things

Spencer stared at the shirt in her hands.

His hands hovered stupidly for a second, useless, like he didn’t know how to take something so simple without breaking it.

But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.

Just waited.

Steady.

Soft.

And somehow—
somehow—
he reached out.

Clumsy fingers brushed hers, and for one gut-wrenching second, he almost dropped it.
Almost ruined it.

But he caught it.
Gripped the fabric tight.
Held it like it might save him.

It still smelled like her.
Like soap and something warmer.
Something he couldn’t name without falling apart again.

He pressed the shirt into his lap, head still bowed, breathing hard against the ache in his chest.

When he finally looked up—
when he finally made himself meet her eyes—
the words came out wrecked and raw before he could stop them.

"You’re the only thing that feels real."

It wasn’t brave.
Wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had.

And she—
God, she didn’t laugh.
Didn’t shy away.

She just smiled, that tiny, private smile he used to think he imagined on the worst nights.

The next thing he knew, her hands were at his sides, tugging at the hem of his soaked hoodie.

He stiffened instinctively, the muscles in his spine snapping tight—
reflex.
Fear.

But when her fingers brushed the barest line of his skin beneath the fabric, so careful, so patient—

he exhaled.
Nodded.
Let her.

The hoodie peeled away from him slow, the cool air brushing against his overheated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

He shivered, blinking down at the floor, feeling raw and peeled open, feeling stupid for how badly he needed her to keep touching him anyway.

The soft weight of the shirt—the one he'd been clutching like a lifeline—settled in her hands again.

He ducked his head, let her guide it over him, let her hands slip the fabric into place along his arms and over his chest.

It wasn’t a grand thing.
It wasn’t some cinematic moment.

It was quieter.
Sadder.
Realer.

It was someone letting him be human.

It was someone loving him through it.

When she brushed his hair back out of his face—gentle, brief, no fanfare—he almost broke again.
Almost folded back into himself.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Sat there with the shirt clinging warm to his skin, the world no less heavy, but somehow less lonely.

And after a long, shaking breath, he tipped forward.
Pressed his forehead against her shoulder.
Let his hands, still clumsy and unsure, find her sides and hold on.

Not desperate.
Not pleading.

Just needing.

Just being.

His voice cracked low against her collarbone, barely loud enough for her to catch:

"Thank you."

It wasn’t enough.

But it was everything he had left.

And when her arms came around him again—steady, sure, home—Spencer let his eyes fall shut.

Let himself breathe her in.

Let himself stay.

She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t ease up.

Just stayed curled around him, breathing slow and deep, letting her own body set the rhythm he could match if he needed it.

In.
Out.
In.
Out.

When he shivered against her, she only tucked him closer, her cheek resting lightly on top of his head, hands smoothing steady paths over the trembling muscles of his back and shoulders.

She didn’t tell him it was okay.
She didn’t tell him to stop shaking.
She didn’t tell him he was strong.

She didn’t tell him anything.

Because sometimes the bravest thing wasn’t dragging yourself upright.

Sometimes it was letting yourself be held.

Letting yourself stay.

And she would hold him for as long as he needed.
As long as he wanted.

Even if that meant sitting here all night, wrapped up on the edge of her bed, letting the rest of the world keep spinning without them.

Because right now, this was all that mattered.

Him.
Her.
This.

Leighton kissed his hair again—softer this time, almost a breath—and whispered it so low she wasn’t even sure he would hear it:

“I’ve got you.”

A promise.
A prayer.

And this time—
this time—
she knew he believed it.

Because he didn’t pull away.

He stayed.

Breathing her in.
Letting her love him.

Letting himself be loved.

Exactly as he was.

Leighton kept him wrapped tight against her for another breath.
Another heartbeat.

Long enough to feel the way his weight shifted subtly in her arms—
not pulling away,
not running—
just sagging heavier, like his body was finally realizing he didn’t have to brace for impact anymore.

She kissed the crown of his head again, slow and careful, before letting her hand slide down the curve of his back.

Still patient.
Still steady.

But she could feel it—the way the damp fabric of his jeans clung cold and uncomfortable to his skin, the way he shivered even tucked so close against her.

She shifted her weight slightly, pulling back just enough to nudge her forehead against his.

Soft.
Quiet.

“Come lay down with me, baby,” she whispered, her voice low, warm against the shell of his ear.
“Let’s get you comfortable, okay?”

She felt him tense for a heartbeat—pure instinct—but he didn’t resist.
Didn’t bolt.

Just breathed out a shaky exhale that hit her collarbone like a storm finally blowing itself out.

Slowly, gently, she guided him upright, her hands bracketing his ribs, keeping him steady as she coaxed him backwards toward the pillows.

He followed her lead without a word, clumsy and dazed, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

When the back of his knees bumped the edge of the bed, he sat down heavily, one hand still fisting weakly in her shirt like he didn’t want to lose his tether.

Leighton brushed his hair back again, soothing her fingers through it, and bent low to press another kiss to his forehead.

“You’re okay,” she murmured against his skin.
“I’ve got you.”

She crouched down in front of him again, hands moving to the waistband of his damp jeans, fingertips careful, asking permission without words.

He gave a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.

Trust.

Real and trembling.

She worked his jeans down slow, careful not to jar him—peeling the wet fabric away from his legs, leaving him in his boxers and the soft worn t-shirt she’d slipped over his head.

No shame.
No judgment.

Just care.

Just love.

She balled the jeans up and tossed them into the growing pile by the door, then tugged back the covers with one hand, sliding under them first.

The blanket was warm from her body heat, the sheets soft from too many washes, the whole bed still smelling faintly of her shampoo and the lavender spray her mom had given her.

Home.

She scooted over, holding the covers open for him.

“Come here, Spence,” she whispered, soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question.
Like she already knew he would.

And he did.

God, he did.

Moving slow, clumsy, still trembling in places—but he crawled in beside her, curling into her side like gravity didn’t give him a choice.

Leighton pulled the blanket up over both of them, tucking it around his shoulders, then slid her arm around his back, cradling him against her like he was something precious and breakable and hers.

He tucked his head under her chin, breath still hitching in his chest every few beats, hands clutching the hem of her shirt like if he let go, the world would tilt sideways again.

She kissed the top of his head.
Again.
And again.

Until she felt the tension start to bleed out of him.
Until his breathing evened out against her throat.
Until his fingers loosened just slightly in the fabric at her waist.

Leighton curled her other arm around him too, full body wrapped around his like a shield, a shelter, a promise.

“You’re safe, baby,” she whispered into the dark, her voice threading into his skin.
“I’m right here.”

And this time, when she felt him nod against her collarbone—

small.
shaky.
real—

she knew he believed her.

At least for tonight.

And that was enough.

It was everything.

Spencer stayed tucked under her chin, breathing her in like oxygen he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Her hand moved slow against his back—up and down, up and down—keeping him anchored even though the worst of it was finally ebbing out of him.

He still felt wrung out.
Still felt stupid.
Still felt like he’d cracked himself open and dumped all the worst parts of himself into her lap.

And she hadn’t flinched.

Not once.

God, he didn’t deserve her.

The thought wedged itself under his ribs, sharp and familiar.

He shifted slightly—just enough to bury his face deeper against her collarbone—and mumbled it against her skin, low and wrecked:

"I'm sorry."

Her hand stilled for a second, a soft pause he felt more than saw.

But she didn’t say anything yet.
Didn’t interrupt.

So he kept going.
Breathless.
Broken.

"For climbing in. For waking you up. For—"
his voice cracked, frustration bleeding through,
"—for being so fucking bad at this."

He squeezed his eyes shut, arms tightening instinctively around her waist like maybe if he held on hard enough, she wouldn’t hear how much he meant it.

"I just—"
a breath, sharp and shaky,
"—I didn’t know where else to go."

It slipped out quieter than the rest.
Almost an admission.
Almost a prayer.

Spencer felt the way her hands started moving again—softer this time, smoothing slow circles into the small of his back like she was rubbing the apology right out of him.

He hated that he couldn’t look at her when he said it.
Hated that he still felt like he might shatter if he saw the way she was probably looking at him right now—like he was something worth saving when he knew better.

He tried to laugh it off—weak, brittle—but it broke halfway up his throat.

"You're the only thing that makes sense when my brain decides to be a dick about everything."

It was a joke.
Sort of.
Not really.

It was the truth, too.

She shifted a little, enough that he felt her lips brush his hair again—another soft kiss, another reminder he wasn’t too much for her—and his whole chest squeezed tight around it.

He finally forced himself to lift his head.

Just enough to see her face in the dim light.

God, she looked at him like he wasn’t a burden.

Like he wasn’t a wreck.

Like he was just...
hers.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Let his forehead rest against hers—soft, careful, a little clumsy—and closed his eyes.

"Thank you,"
he whispered, so rough it almost wasn’t words,
"for not telling me to leave."

Another beat.
Another breath.

He rubbed his nose lightly against hers—barely there, almost sheepish—and added, softer:

"Or, y'know...for not calling the cops when a stray idiot climbed through your window in the middle of the night."

He cracked a ghost of a smile then.

Tiny.
Tired.
Real.

And it hit him—sharp and full and terrifying all at once—that he loved her.

He loved her so much it scared him stupid.

But for once, he didn’t run from it.

Didn’t lock it down.

He just stayed.

Pressed against her.
Breathing her in.
Letting her arms stay locked around him like it wasn’t a mistake.
Like he wasn’t a mistake.

And when he whispered it again—quieter this time, just for her, just for now—

"Thank you"—

he meant it with everything he had left.

Leighton stayed wrapped around him, breathing slow against his hair, feeling the way he kept clutching her like he was scared he’d disappear if he let go.

She didn’t loosen her grip.
Didn’t shift away.
Didn’t let the silence fill with anything ugly.

She just held him tighter, the blanket slipping down her back as she pressed her lips to his temple and whispered, steady and warm:

“You don’t ever have to apologize for needing me.”

Her fingers moved carefully through his hair, combing through the knots and damp strands like she could smooth the fear right out of him.

“You didn’t ruin anything, Spencer. Not even close.”

She tucked her forehead against his, breathing him in, letting her voice stay low and sure—something he could hold onto if he needed it.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Another slow stroke of her hand down his spine, feeling every tremble he tried to hide.

“I want you here.”

Her heart squeezed tight when he shook in her arms—tiny, involuntary—but she didn’t let him go.

She pressed a soft kiss to the center of his forehead, her lips lingering there longer than necessary, and murmured:

“You’re not bad at this. You’re not broken. You’re trying… and that’s more than enough for me.”

Leighton shifted back slightly just to look at him, her hands cradling either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheeks with infinite care.

“You’re not too much for me, Spence.”

She brushed another kiss into his hair, breathing it into him like a prayer:

“You never were.”

The way he blinked at her then—wrecked, wide-eyed, so afraid and so desperate to believe her—nearly broke her in half.

She smiled, small and real, letting her thumb trace his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore. You get to come here… always.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, barely there, a promise etched soft into his skin.

“No matter what your brain tries to tell you.”

When he made some broken sound between a laugh and a sob, she let out a quiet breath of her own, teasing lightly to pull him closer:

“And for the record? If you think I’m ever calling the cops on you, you’re even dumber than you look.”

She nudged her nose against his with a soft, affectionate bump, feeling his lips twitch the tiniest bit in return.

“I’d leave the window open for you, dumbass.”

Leighton tucked him tighter into her arms, pulling the blanket up over both of them, cocooning him there, safe and warm and real.

She kissed the crown of his head again, softer this time, speaking right against his skin:

“Come here, baby.”

Fingers slid into the back of his hair again, slow and sure, coaxing him to rest fully against her.

When he did—when he sagged into her with all the wrecked weight he didn’t know how to hide anymore—she tightened her arms around him and whispered like it was a vow:

“You’re safe.”

She kissed his temple.
Pressed her forehead lightly to his.

“You’re mine.”

And finally, when she felt him breathing with her, when she felt him trusting her to stay, Leighton let the last words fall from her mouth like a prayer stitched into the dark:

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t care if she had to hold him for hours.
If she had to whisper it a thousand times.

She would.

Because he was home now.
Because she loved him.

Exactly like this.

Always.

Spencer didn’t move for a long time.

He just breathed her in—
the soft drag of her fingers through his hair,
the steady beat of her heart under his cheek,
the way her voice wrapped around him like a second skin.

You’re safe.
You’re mine.
I’m not going anywhere.

He’d never needed anything more than he needed that.

And the terrifying thing?

He believed her.

God help him, he actually believed her.

Spencer felt the tightness in his chest start to unravel—
slow, slow, like pulling a thread that had been knotted too long.
The panic didn’t vanish all at once.
It didn’t dissolve into nothing.

But it softened.

It let go.

He sank into her fully, head tucked beneath her chin, arms slipping looser around her waist until he was just there—no walls, no armor, just him.

Breathing her in.

Letting her steady him.

Letting her keep him.

The blanket slid up higher around his shoulders, and Spencer let out a sound—something low and wrecked and so full of relief it cracked in the middle.

He didn’t care if she heard it.

Didn’t care if she knew how goddamn much he needed her.

Especially now.

Especially always.

She kissed his temple again, and Spencer closed his eyes, letting the warmth of it bleed through every shattered place inside him.

No one had ever kissed him like that before.
Like it wasn’t a reward.
Like it wasn’t earned.
Like it was just his—because he existed, because he breathed.

Another breath slipped out of him—shaky but real—and he nudged his nose lightly against her collarbone.

Not asking for more.
Not needing anything else.

Just being.

Just staying.

After a long minute of silence—only broken by the slow rhythm of their breathing—he tilted his head slightly, cheek brushing hers.

Voice raw but steady now, he mumbled against her skin:

"You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

He didn’t mean it to sound so broken.

Didn’t mean for it to hit so hard inside his own chest.

But it was true.

More true than anything he’d ever said out loud.

He shifted just enough to bury his face in her neck again, arms wrapping tighter around her middle, fingers curling into the back of her shirt like he could stitch himself to her if he just held on tight enough.

And then, softer—like it was a secret just for her:

"Even when I’m a mess."

A tiny breath of a laugh—wrecked but real—shook against her skin.

"Especially then."

He felt her smile against his hair, felt her arms lock tighter around him, and something inside him finally, finally went quiet.

The noise in his head.
The fear clawing at his ribs.
The endless second-guessing.

All of it.

Silent.

Just her heartbeat now.
Just her breathing.
Just the two of them, wrapped up so tight the rest of the world couldn’t find him if it tried.

Spencer tugged the blanket higher, snuggling deeper into her chest, letting her arms be the last thing he felt as his body finally gave out into sleep.

No fear.
No panic.

Just the soft, steady knowledge, echoing in every breath he took:

She stayed.

And so did he.

Leighton didn’t move.

She barely breathed.

She just stayed wrapped around him—
blanket tucked up high over his shoulders,
his body curled into hers,
his breath hot and ragged against the hollow of her throat.

She felt every part of it.
Every tremble.
Every slow unraveling.
Every tiny piece of him letting go.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever held.

Not perfect.
Not polished.

Just real.

Her hands kept moving—slow, slow—through the messy strands of his hair, tracing the nape of his neck, smoothing down the curve of his back.
Not to calm him.
Not to fix him.

Just to remind him he wasn’t alone anymore.

When he shifted—nudging his nose lightly against her collarbone—Leighton tightened her arms instinctively around his back, holding him closer like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Because it was.

Because there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

When he finally spoke—
voice raw, muffled against her skin, cracking open right there in her arms—

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Leighton’s whole chest ached with how hard she loved him.
How fiercely she wanted to gather up every shattered thing inside him and hold it safe forever.

She felt him bury his face deeper into her neck, clinging tighter, curling his fingers into the back of her shirt like he couldn’t stand the thought of being anywhere but right here.

And when he whispered it softer—

“Even when I’m a mess.”
“Especially then.”

—Leighton let out the tiniest, breathless sound.
Not a sob.
Not a laugh.

Something quieter.
Something full.

She kissed the side of his head again—long and slow—pressing her mouth against the place where his hair curled soft behind his ear.

And she smiled.

Small.
Fierce.
Unshakable.

Because this was love.
Not the easy kind.
Not the storybook kind.

The real kind.

The kind that stayed when everything else cracked and crumbled.
The kind that wrapped arms tighter around wreckage and whispered I’m still here anyway.

She felt the last of his weight finally sink into her—the last defensive twitch, the last shallow, braced breath melting away.

Leighton tucked the blanket higher over his shoulders, burrowing them deeper into the warmth of each other, the world falling away beyond the cocoon of soft sheets and steady breathing.

When his body went still, slack and warm against hers, his breath evening out at last, Leighton closed her eyes.

Held him tighter.

Let her fingers trace small, slow circles against the small of his back, even as his grip on her shirt loosened slightly in sleep.

She stayed awake, holding him through the first real sleep he’d found in too long.

And she kept whispering it—
soft, against his hair, against his skin, over and over like a promise stitched into the dark:

“I’ve got you.”
“I’m not letting go.”
“You’re mine.”

And every time she said it, she meant it even harder than the last.

Because he stayed.

And so did she.

Always.