Spencer didn’t dream.

Not the bad kind, anyway.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, the dark didn’t feel like it was clawing at his throat, didn’t feel like it was swallowing him whole.

It just… was.

Warm.

Soft.

Full of the quiet weight of her arms around him, the blanket tucked up high over his shoulders, her fingers still tracing slow, lazy circles into the small of his back like she meant it—like she wasn’t just waiting for him to wake up and ruin it.

Somewhere between awake and asleep, he shifted closer without meaning to, nudging his nose further into the curve of her neck, chasing the heat of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

It pulled a tiny, shaky sigh out of him—barely a sound—just the loose, wrecked kind that said I'm still here.

Still safe.

Still hers.

And then, just before he slipped fully under—
when the last of the tension melted out of his hands, when the world softened completely around the edges—
Spencer heard himself mumble it.

Slurred and broken and so full of weight it barely made it past his lips:

"Love you, Leigh."

Soft.
Fierce.
Raw.

Not planned.
Not polished.
Not said to win anything.

Just real.

Just him.

And even as the words stumbled free, even as sleep finally dragged him under fully, his arms tightened once more around her waist—instinctive, automatic, absolute.

A quiet claim in the dark:

Mine.

And somewhere, deep in the part of him that still knew her touch even in dreams, Spencer felt her arms tighten around him in return.

Felt her breathe it back into him without even needing to say it:

Mine too.

The first soft stretch of morning light crept across the edges of the room, brushing pale gold across the floorboards, the walls, the tangled blanket slipping halfway down her back.

Leighton blinked sleepily against it, warmth pressed solid and heavy against her side, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing soaking into her bones.

Spencer.

Still here.
Still wrapped around her like the world hadn’t found a way to pull him away in the night.

Leighton smiled—small and private—the kind of smile you only ever made when you woke up to the thing you loved most still breathing easy in your arms.

She shifted slightly, feeling the way his arms tightened instinctively around her waist, his nose nuzzling a little deeper into the curve of her neck like he knew, even in sleep, that she was trying to move.

God, he was warm.

He smelled like her bedsheets and his soap and something softer she didn’t even have a name for—something that just was him.

Leighton pressed a kiss to the top of his head, her fingers brushing slow and light through the messy strands of his hair.

She had to get up eventually—
the stupid real world waiting outside her bedroom door.

But God, she didn’t want to.

Not yet.

Not when he was breathing so peaceful against her chest, no panic clawing at the edges, no walls up between them.

Not when he looked so soft like this.
So safe.
So his—and somehow hers, too.

She shifted just enough to see his face tucked close against her collarbone, lashes fanned out, mouth slack in the most unfairly endearing way.

Her heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Careful, slow, she brushed her thumb along his jaw—barely a whisper of a touch—tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his ear, the small patch of freckles she always wanted to count when he wasn’t looking.

Leighton tucked the blanket back higher around his shoulders, settling him deeper against her, cocooning him again in the safest, softest pieces of her world.

She nuzzled into his hair and whispered so quietly it barely disturbed the air between them:

“Five more minutes, baby.”

A selfish promise.
A soft one.

One she intended to keep.

She closed her eyes again, arms tightening around his back, anchoring him there with her.

Holding him like he was the dream she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for her whole life.

And for once—
for once—
she let the world spin without her.

Because here, in this bed, in this breath, with this boy wrapped around her like she was the only thing he needed to stay afloat—

nothing else mattered.

Not yet.

Not while he was still breathing her name in his sleep.
Still holding her like a lifeline.

Still choosing to stay.

This is absolutely beautiful —
you’ve written their morning energy so tender, sleepy, and perfectly earned after everything they survived the night before.

Here’s Spencer’s full POV continuation, keeping him groggy, warm, stubbornly clinging to her, but also lighter —
because waking up with her feels like home.


---

Spencer drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, tucked against her like his body didn’t know how to be anywhere else.

The first thing he felt was warmth.
Soft. Steady.
The press of her arms around his back, her heartbeat thrumming slow and stubborn under his cheek.

Safe.

The second thing he felt was her voice—
a breath more than words, brushing against his hair like something sacred.

“Five more minutes, baby.”

God.

He didn’t know if he dreamed it.
Didn’t care.

He burrowed closer without thinking—nosing into the curve of her neck, arms locking tighter around her waist like she was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

Maybe she was.

A rough sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and he pressed his mouth lazily against her collarbone, too wrecked with sleep to aim properly.

"M'not moving," he mumbled against her skin, voice wrecked from sleep, "You’re stuck with me now."


His words slurred a little, thick and slow and warm like honey.
He didn’t bother trying to be charming.
Didn’t bother pretending he was fully awake.

He just stayed there.
Pressed against her.
Letting himself feel her breathing, feel the way her fingers kept carding soft through his hair like she wasn’t ready to let go either.

Spencer shifted again—slow, lazy, like he weighed a thousand pounds—and threw one leg haphazardly over hers beneath the blanket, tangling them together even more.

Another sleepy, satisfied sound rumbled out of him.

God, he could stay like this forever.

He blinked up at her—barely—just enough to catch a glimpse of her smile in the early morning light.

That soft, private one.

The one he wanted to bottle up and keep for all the bad days he hadn’t had yet.

He grinned a little—slow and crooked and completely unguarded—and slurred:

"You look way too good for someone who didn’t get any sleep babysitting my dumbass."

A weak joke.

But it was the best he could manage with his brain still swimming somewhere between awake and dreaming.

He dragged one hand up from her waist, clumsy and gentle, brushing a messy curl of her hair behind her ear.

Held her there.
Looked at her.

No fear this time.
No walls.

Just hers.

Soft.
Sleepy.
Stupidly in love.

He leaned up the tiniest bit—enough to brush the sloppiest, sleepiest kiss against her jaw—and mumbled:

"Five more years sounds better than five more minutes."

And then he collapsed back into her, arms cinching tight around her ribs like he meant to fuse himself there.

Like letting go wasn’t even a question anymore.

Leighton felt his breath first—
a warm, sleepy brush against her skin,
the kind of weightless exhale that said he trusted her enough to stay.

Her whole heart melted right there in her chest.

She cradled him closer without even thinking, sliding her hand up into the messy tangle of his hair, fingertips tracing slow, featherlight circles against his scalp.

When he mumbled it against her collarbone—so soft, so broken, so stubborn—

“M’not moving. You’re stuck with me now.”

God.

She wanted to cry, it hit her so hard.

Instead, she smiled—small and helpless and aching—and pressed a kiss into his hair like she could fold all of it into him without breaking the quiet between them.

“Good,” she whispered, brushing her mouth against the crown of his head.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”

When he shifted, dragging a heavy leg across hers under the blanket, tangling them even closer, Leighton let out a soft, breathy laugh against his hair.

Not teasing.
Not sharp.

Just full.

Full of the kind of love that stayed even when words felt too big.

Her hands moved slow against his back, smoothing out the tension he didn’t even realize he was still holding, holding him like he was something precious and fragile and hers.

When he blinked up at her—barely awake, that slow, sleepy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—Leighton felt it again.

That ache.

That sweet, unbearable ache of loving someone so much it filled every inch of your ribs.

And when he slurred it, voice thick and fond and a little wrecked—

“You look way too good for someone who didn’t get any sleep babysitting my dumbass.”

Leighton shook her head gently, forehead brushing his as she smiled, slow and soft and endless.

“You’re worth every second, Spence.”

She traced her thumb along the line of his cheekbone, brushing a messy strand of hair away from his forehead, her touch barely more than a whisper.

“Always.”

When he leaned up and pressed that sleepy, sloppy kiss against her jaw—warm and clumsy and so heartbreakingly him—Leighton let out a tiny breath against his hair, smiling so wide it hurt in the best way.

And then he murmured it—half a joke, half a promise—right before he collapsed back against her:

“Five more years sounds better than five more minutes.”

Leighton’s heart squeezed so tight she had to close her eyes for a second just to keep it together.

She curled around him fully then, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped tight around his ribs, cocooning him safe in the softness of them.

She pressed her lips to his temple—slow, steady, full of everything she couldn’t say all at once—and whispered against his skin:

“Forever, baby.”

She felt the way he breathed out against her chest—slow and safe and so real—and she smiled again, softer this time.

Sleep tangled between them, pulling him under, but Leighton stayed awake a little longer.

Just to hold him.
Just to memorize this.

The weight of him curled against her.
The slow beat of his heart against her ribs.
The way he clung to her even in sleep.

Mine, she thought, smiling against his hair.

And she was his, too.

For five more minutes.
For five more years.
For forever.

Exactly like this.

Exactly, exactly like this.

This is so beautiful —
you've captured them with so much earned softness, like they've fought through hell and now refuse to let go.

Here’s what I truly believe Spencer would do next, staying fully in the sleepy, raw sweetness you’ve built:


---

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

He just melted.

Fully.

Completely.

Sagging heavier into her like gravity didn’t mean anything when she was the one holding him up.

Her arms around him, her hands stroking slow and sure through his hair, the quiet hum of her heartbeat steady against his cheek—
it was all he needed.

More than he ever thought he was allowed to need.

The word forever floated somewhere in the fog of his brain—
sticky and heavy and terrifying—
but it didn’t scare him here.

Not like this.

Not with her arms around him like a promise stitched into skin.

He hummed low in his throat—something content, something his—and tucked himself closer into her side, nuzzling blindly into the soft stretch of her throat like he could disappear there.

"You’re stuck with me,"
he mumbled again, voice slurred with sleep and certainty.
"Hope you like sweaty, clingy nightmares, Leigh. 'Cause that’s the full package."

A soft, broken kind of laugh shook against her skin—half real, half a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

He felt her laugh too.
Felt it rumble low in her chest, felt it in the way her arms squeezed tighter around his back.

He grinned against her throat—lazy, wrecked, so stupidly in love it was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

But not here.

Not with her fingers still threading slow through his hair, not with her breath warm against his temple, not with the blanket wrapped around them like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Spencer let out another slow, hitching breath—
one that didn’t feel like it was clawing its way up from panic anymore.
One that just… was.

He pressed a kiss against her collarbone—barely there, more breath than touch—and whispered, so quiet he wasn’t sure if he even said it out loud:

"Love you."

Again.
For the second time.

But this time he was awake enough to mean it harder.
Mean it with everything in him that hadn’t been able to say it before.

He felt her hand still against his back—just for a second—
then curl tighter around him like she could hold the words there, safe.

He smiled again—sleepy, wrecked, hers.

And somewhere between the feel of her arms and the weight of forever stitched into the space between them, Spencer finally let himself fall.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Just sleep.

Safe.

Home.

Hers.

Always.

Leighton barely breathed.

Barely moved.

She just held him closer—
tighter—
like if she let even an inch slip away, the weight of what he’d just given her might tear through her completely.

He was saying it.
Really saying it.
Not slurred by fear or broken open by panic.

Awake.
Wrecked.
Hers.

When he tucked himself closer, nuzzling into the hollow of her throat like he belonged there—like he had always belonged there—Leighton closed her eyes, squeezing him tighter against her ribs.

When he mumbled it—half-laughing, half-pleading:

“Hope you like sweaty, clingy nightmares, Leigh. ’Cause that’s the full package.”

she let out the softest, breathless laugh against his hair, smiling so wide her whole chest ached.

She tipped her head down, brushed her nose along his hairline, breathing him in slow.

“I’ll take the full package,” she whispered against his skin, voice breaking in the sweetest way.
“Every messy, beautiful piece of it.”

Her hand kept moving slow through his hair—fingers carding through the soft, tangled strands like she could memorize every inch of him by touch alone.

She felt him grin against her throat, felt the way his whole body melted deeper into her—lazy, wrecked, all-in.

And God, she loved him for it.
Loved the way he gave himself to her, clumsy and reckless and unpolished, like he didn’t know how to be anything but real.

When he pressed a kiss to her collarbone—barely there, more breath than touch—and whispered it again:

“Love you.”

Leighton felt it tear straight through her.

Felt it stitch itself into every corner of her chest that had ever been afraid she’d lose him.

She froze for just a second—overwhelmed, overflowing—then curled her arms even tighter around his back, cradling him closer like she could pull the words straight into her bloodstream and never let them go.

She kissed his hair again—slow and steady—her lips moving against the messy curls like a silent promise:

Me too.
Always.
More than you’ll ever know.

She didn’t need to say it back.

Not now.

Not when he was already tucking himself tighter against her side, breathing slower, breathing steadier, trusting her to hold the weight of it all.

Leighton shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher over both of them, wrapping them tighter in the cocoon they’d built together—safe and warm and too sacred for the outside world to touch.

She kissed the top of his head one more time, fingers smoothing down his back in the slowest, softest patterns she could manage.

And when he finally slipped fully under—when she felt the last of the tension bleed out of him, leaving him loose and warm and breathing easy in her arms—Leighton smiled against his hair.

Small.
Full.
Forever.

She tucked her face into the crown of his head, let her hand settle steady over his heart, and whispered so softly it barely brushed the air:

“Always, Spence.”

And she stayed.

Wrapped around him.
Breathing with him.
Loving him in every tiny, quiet way she knew how.

Because he was hers.
Because she was his.
Because they had survived the dark.

And now—
now they had this.

Soft.
Safe.
Forever.

Exactly like this.

Spencer drifted in and out of sleep, warm and heavy and tangled so deep in her he didn’t know where he stopped and she started.

Her heartbeat was steady against his cheek.
Her fingers were slow in his hair.
The blanket was tucked high around them, the world outside the bed still blessedly far away.

He wasn’t ready to leave it.
Not even close.

When the sun started slipping higher against the window, brushing a faint glow over the sheets, he made a soft, grumbling noise low in his chest and buried himself deeper into her neck.

She laughed—quiet and warm—and he felt it ripple through her body.

Felt her arms tighten around him like she wasn’t ready either.

Good.

He sighed against her skin, too tired to smile, but feeling it anyway—small and lazy in his chest.

Tried shifting just enough to hide from the light, but only managed to tangle himself worse in the blanket, in her.

A hand slid under her shirt, palm flattening against the bare skin of her back like he needed to feel her breathing to keep his own heart steady.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t try to move.

Just pressed a soft, clumsy kiss against her collarbone.
A promise without words.

After a long moment—long enough that sleep almost dragged him back under—he blinked up at her through heavy lashes, still half-lost to the warmth of her.

A low, broken mumble escaped him, barely shaped into sound:

"Don't wanna move."

That was it.

That was all he had left.

He tucked his head back under her chin, arms tightening around her ribs, blanket cocooning them in tighter.

If the world wanted him, it was gonna have to pry him out of her arms first.

Because here—
here he was safe.

Here he was home.

Here he was hers.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Leighton didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

She just lay there, curled around him like he was something delicate and priceless, something she was afraid to let go of even in sleep.

The sun crept higher across the sheets, soft and golden, catching in the tangled mess of his curls and the edge of the blanket still cocooned around them.

And still—
he stayed pressed into her chest like the light didn’t matter.

Like the only thing that existed was the curve of her body, the hush of her breath, the way her fingers kept moving slow through his hair without thinking.

When he grumbled low and tucked himself deeper into her neck, Leighton let out a soft laugh—gentle and warm and quiet enough not to scare the moment away.

God, she loved him like this.
Loved this slow, quiet version of him.
Loved that he let her see it.

Her arms tightened automatically around his back, one hand sliding under the blanket to stroke a lazy path along the warm skin of his spine.

She felt his hand slip under her shirt, palm settling flat between her shoulder blades, grounding them both with the soft weight of it.

And then he kissed her collarbone.

Not with heat.
Not with urgency.

Just with something deeper.
Softer.
A promise written in skin instead of words.

Leighton closed her eyes, breathing it in like it might settle somewhere permanent inside her chest.

And when he blinked up at her through heavy lashes—eyes glassy with sleep, mouth soft and slack—and murmured:

“Don’t wanna move.”

She smiled.
Small.
Full.

She dipped her head, kissed the tip of his nose.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the breath between them.
“You don’t have to.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of his jaw, brushing the soft curve of his ear, memorizing the feel of him in the morning light.

“We’ve got nowhere to be.”

She didn’t know if it was true.
Didn’t care.

Because right now, nothing existed outside this bed.

Not when he was still clinging to her like she was his anchor to the earth.
Not when she could feel his breath slow and even against her chest, each exhale syncing with hers like they were the only two people left in the world.

Leighton shifted just enough to bury her nose in his hair, kissed the crown of his head.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, her voice thick with love and sleep.
“You’re home.”

And she meant every word.

Because she’d never felt more still.
More full.
More herself than she did with him wrapped around her like this.

She held him tighter.

Let the morning keep rising.

Let the world wait.

Because if Spencer was going to stay wrapped in her arms for forever—

she wasn’t going anywhere either.

Spencer stirred.

Not because he wanted to.
Not because he was ready.
Just… because his stomach was being an asshole.

It grumbled low and violent against her ribs, loud enough to echo in the stillness between them.

He winced—barely awake—and let out a soft, miserable groan against her collarbone.

Didn’t move.
Didn’t lift his head.
Just mumbled into her skin like the words were too heavy to lift properly.

"M’gonna die.”

Another grumble.
Worse this time.

He pressed his forehead tighter into the hollow of her neck, one arm curling tighter around her waist like if he held on hard enough, maybe he wouldn’t dissolve from starvation on the spot.

"Need food. Something. Anything. Your pillow. I don’t care.”

His voice was low and broken and way too dramatic for someone who’d eaten yesterday, but he meant every word.

Still didn’t move though.

Just lay there, a full-grown man starved half to death by morning, clinging to the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t make me get up, Leigh.”

A pause.
Another long, suffering exhale.

“You’re warm. And I’m weak.”

He tucked his nose back under her jaw with a groggy little sigh, clearly unwilling to lift a single limb to save himself.

If he starved here, so be it.

At least he’d die in her arms.

Leighton didn’t answer at first.

Mostly because she was trying very hard not to laugh directly into his hair.

His forehead was mashed against her collarbone like a man in mourning. His arm tightened dramatically around her waist like he was going to slip into the afterlife if she so much as suggested getting out of bed.

And his stomach—
God.
It growled again, louder this time, like it had something to prove.

Leighton bit down a smile, brushing her fingers slowly through his hair, her other hand dragging soft, lazy circles across his back.

“You’re not gonna die, Spence.”

She kissed the top of his head, lips brushing warm against curls and sleep and soft skin.

Another groan.

She grinned into it, shaking her head slightly.

She tilted her head down, trying to catch a glimpse of his ridiculous face—what little she could see buried under blanket and desperation.

“You want me to feed you breakfast in bed because you’re too weak from fake starvation to move ten feet to the kitchen?”

His only answer was another soft, suffering sigh against her throat.

Leighton laughed then—gentle and quiet, not teasing enough to make him pull away—and let her hand slide up to cradle the back of his neck.

“Okay, you win. I’ll get up and make you something. But only because I don’t want your ghost haunting me about toast.”

She kissed his temple, slow and sweet.

“Give me two minutes to pee and I’ll save your life.”

She felt his arm tighten one last time, his entire body curled stubbornly into hers like letting go might actually kill him.

And God help her—
she wouldn’t have minded staying like this forever.

But he needed pancakes.

Or toast.

Or not to die dramatically against her ribcage.

So she smiled into his hair, breathed him in once more, and whispered:

“Don’t go dying on me in the next sixty seconds, Romeo. I’ll be right back.”

And maybe—just maybe—she kissed him once more than she needed to before slipping out from under the covers.
Because no one ever died from too much love.

But if they did,
he’d probably be the first.

Leighton moved carefully—slow, gentle, like if she pulled away too fast, he might actually wither on the spot.

She kissed his hair one last time, then eased out from beneath the blanket with practiced grace.
His arm made a valiant, half-asleep attempt to hold her hostage, but eventually it slid down to the mattress with a defeated sigh.

She smiled to herself.

“Still alive,” she whispered as she stood, tugging his shirt lower over her hips. “Barely.”

She padded across the room on quiet feet, pausing to grab her phone and duck into the bathroom. Her hair was a mess—soft waves tangled from sleep and Spencer’s constant nuzzling. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes still heavy. But God, she looked like someone who’d been loved well.

And more than that—
someone who loved well.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up loosely, splashed cold water on her face. No rush. Just moving through the rhythm of the morning with him still folded into her memory—arms around her, lips against her skin, that half-smile he wore like a secret just for her.

She could still feel the weight of him everywhere.

And she didn’t want to be gone long.

She pulled open the bedroom door, stepping into the hush of the hallway, the light brighter now—soft gold spilling over everything. Her house was quiet. Safe. Still.

The kitchen welcomed her like muscle memory.

She flicked on the stove and pulled ingredients from the cabinets like she’d done it a hundred times—but this time with bare legs and Spencer’s shirt hanging loose on her frame, sleeves past her fingertips.

She grabbed a pan, some eggs, a bit of cheese, two slices of bread she could toast.

Nothing fancy.
Nothing that required measuring or thinking.

Just something warm.

Something he could eat curled back into bed, looking at her like she’d just delivered him from the grave.

While the eggs cooked, she leaned back against the counter, watching the yolks bubble as the toast popped up and the scent of something real and familiar filled the room.

Her chest swelled, slow and full.

He was still upstairs.
Still tangled in her sheets.
Still hers.

And she’d be back beside him in less than five minutes—plate in hand, a smug smile ready, and maybe—just maybe—a second cookie tucked into her palm for after.

Because if he was going to survive the morning?

He deserved a reward.

And so did she.