Spencer didn’t even pretend to be offended.

He just grinned—wide and wrecked and hers—eyes going all soft at the edges like her words had undone something he hadn’t realized was still wound tight inside him.

Because God, this girl.

This whip-smart, sharp-tongued, emotionally fearless hurricane of a girl who said “I love you” like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a leap. Like he wasn’t a risk.

“Okay,” he murmured, eyes locked to hers, voice thick with that stupid, smitten affection that only she ever got from him, “but I’m not eating the grapes unless they’re peeled. Like, Roman emperor vibes. Get on my level.”

She shoved at his shoulder, laughing, but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t ever pull away.

Instead, she curled in closer, forehead bumping his with a familiarity that made his ribs ache in the best way.

“You realize this means I’m gonna have to one-up your sweater game now,” he added, tone mock-serious. “Like. I’ll be forced to commission us matching beanies that say ‘Emotional Mess’ and ‘Emotional Enabler.’”

A pause.

Then, quieter. Realer.

“I love you too, Leia.”

His fingers curled lightly around her wrist, just over where her pulse thudded steady and sure beneath her skin. He didn’t press, didn’t hold tight. Just touched, like she was something holy.

Because she was.

She really, really was.

“And for the record…” he leaned in, kissed her slow—gentle, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t need a punchline. The kind that said thank you without the words. Then, barely above a breath:

“…I’d lose every WiFi signal on earth if it meant keeping you.”

And he meant it.

Because in this little corner of the world—wrapped in blankets, bad jokes, and that electric pull that never seemed to fade—Spencer Walker had everything he’d never dared to ask for.

And he was never letting go.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Just stared at him with that look—wide-eyed and wild and a little undone—like the world had gone quiet everywhere but here. But him.

Because Spencer Walker, her Spencer Walker, had just said “I love you too.”

And it wasn’t in a panic or a fight or some messy, middle-of-the-night confession.

It was soft.

Real.

Wrapped in bad jokes and warm hands and the kind of kiss that made her bones hum.

So yeah—she didn’t say anything.

Not until he pulled back just a little, that crooked almost-smile starting to form, like he didn’t know what he’d just done to her.

Then she breathed, just once, and mumbled through a grin:

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

She leaned in, kissed him again—shorter this time, but firmer. A little greedy. A little bold.

“You think you can just say that,” she said, fingers slipping into his hair, “and not expect me to immediately start planning our matching Halloween costumes?”

A pause.

A smirk.

“Spencer, I will make you wear a glitter cape.”

But her voice softened again, even as her fingers kept twisting slowly through his hair. Calmer. Lower. Closer.

“I loved you when you were weird about the moon landing. I loved you when you hated yourself for things no one else even noticed. I loved you before you said it, and I’ll love you after. Even when you’re a pain in my ass.”

Another kiss—one to the tip of his nose.

And then, a whisper, like it was for them and no one else:

“You don’t have to earn it, babe. You already did.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. Her forehead rested against his.

And she whispered, like a promise:

“I’m not letting go either.”

She could feel his breath catch.

Could feel it in the way his fingers tightened—just a little—at her side. In the way his forehead leaned into hers like maybe, just maybe, he finally believed her.

And if he didn’t?

That was okay.

Because she’d keep saying it. Keep showing it. Until the last cracked piece of him stopped bracing for her to leave.

Leighton smiled—soft, sure, hers—and ran her fingers through his hair again, slower now. More deliberate.

“Do you even know how hard it is not to love you?” she whispered, brushing the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got that whole haunted-but-soft-hearted thing going on. It’s like a romcom trap.”

A breath of a laugh escaped her—light and real and home.

Then, quieter, almost like it was for the space between their ribs and nowhere else:

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Spence. Not your worth. Not your heart. You just have to let me be here.”

She kissed his temple, slow and steady, like she was sealing the words in.

Then the corner of her mouth tugged up, and she added with a grin:

“But if you did wanna prove something… I could be convinced with movie snacks. Like… five of them. Minimum. I’m just saying.”

Another beat. Another smile.

Then she curled into him again, arm draped across his stomach, blanket tugged higher, and whispered into the curve of his throat:

“You’re stuck with me, blanket burrito and all.”

And she meant it. Every word.

Because no matter how messy it got—no matter how weird, or quiet, or late-night-too-honest—it was them.

And that was everything.

Spencer let out the quietest, most defeated little groan—more of a sigh-laugh-surrender than anything else—and dropped his head back against the pillow like he’d just accepted his fate at the hands of a tiny, glitter-obsessed tyrant.

Which, to be fair, he had.

Because of course she went straight for Halloween.
Of course there was a glitter cape involved.
And of course she said I love you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

God, he was so screwed.

His hand found her waist again, lazy and warm beneath the blanket, thumb slipping beneath the hem of her shirt just enough to feel the skin there—just enough to ground him.

“Glitter,” he mumbled into the curve of her hair, deadpan but wrecked in that affectionate way only she could drag out of him. “Like I haven’t suffered enough.”

He felt her grin against his neck and groaned again, softer this time.

“I’m already dreading it. Just so we’re clear.”

But he tightened his arm around her anyway. Didn’t let her go.

Wouldn’t.

Not now. Not ever.

Because yeah, he’d wear the damn cape.

He’d match her in whatever chaotic, love-drunk, snack-fueled adventure she planned next. He’d sit through five movies and survive ten Halloween parties and probably get roped into another couples costume by Christmas.

Because it was her.

Because it was them.

And that was worth everything.

Even glitter.

Leighton tried—really tried—not to laugh.
But the second he groaned like the universe had personally betrayed him via rhinestone accessories and festive cape requirements?

She lost it.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just that soft, breathless laugh that tumbled out of her against his chest, warming the space between them like the glow of fairy lights.

Her fingers drifted over his ribs, drawing lazy patterns beneath the blanket as she smirked into his collarbone.

“You say that now,” she murmured, voice muffled and teasing, “but you’re gonna look stupid hot in that cape. Like tragic, misunderstood vampire prince hot. People are gonna write poetry about you. Probably in gel pen.”

She felt his chest shake beneath her, barely-there laughter, and kissed the spot just over his heartbeat like punctuation.

“And for the record?” she added, tilting her head just enough to meet his sleepy, doomed expression in the low light. “I only glitter-curse people I really love.”

A beat.

Then, with the most serious face she could muster:

“It’s a sacred honor. You should feel chosen.”

Her fingers curled lightly at his side again, tracing the edge of his shirt. “Besides, we both know you’re gonna wear it. Complain the whole time. Steal all my candy. And still end up slow-dancing with me in someone’s kitchen while we pretend we’re too cool to care.”

She pressed another kiss to his jaw, softer this time. Slower.

“I do love you, you know.”

Another beat.

Then—

“Even when you act like glitter is a war crime.”

Her smile turned gentler, quieter, full of that warmth she only ever saved for him.

“Especially then.”

Leighton didn’t even pretend to feel bad. Not when he groaned like that. Not when he threw his head back all dramatic, like agreeing to wear a glitter cape was the emotional equivalent of going to war.

She just grinned into his neck—big, smug, delighted—and muttered, “You say that now, but wait till you see the boots.”

A beat. Then, with mock-seriousness:

“They light up, Spencer.”

She felt his entire body do that defeated-limp-flop thing and nearly lost it right there. Couldn’t help the tiny snort-laugh that escaped.

“Oh, come on,” she teased, lifting her head enough to catch the edge of his sulky expression. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t absolutely slay as a bedazzled vampire-slash-space-cowboy hybrid? Be serious.”

Her fingers were already creeping up to play with the hem of his boxers again, just casually enough to be distracting. Just softly enough to be sweet.

“Besides,” she added with a kiss to his jaw, “you owe me. I’ve tolerated your conspiracy theory podcast voice at 2 a.m. on multiple occasions.”

Another kiss. Higher this time. Right under his cheekbone.

“And that time you made me pause a movie to explain how pigeons are government spies? Yeah. Glitter boots are the least I deserve.”

She was trying to be ridiculous, truly. Keep it light. Keep him light. But underneath all the teasing, her voice was warm. Steady. Like her hands. Like her heartbeat against his chest.

She didn’t say I love you again.

Didn’t have to.

Not when she was curled into him like this, already mapping out matching costumes and future inside jokes and a million tiny ways to say you’re safe here.

With me.

Always.

Spencer didn’t open his eyes.

Didn’t have to.

Just let his head roll back on the pillow like he’d been personally victimized by sequins and love, a hand dragged dramatically over his face like maybe if he suffered hard enough, she’d show mercy.

She wouldn’t.
And he knew it.
God, he loved her for it.

“Light-up boots,” he croaked, voice hoarse and low, like he was halfway between sleep and soul-crushing resignation. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

He cracked one eye open, caught the glint of pure joy in hers, and let out a long, theatrical exhale. The kind that belonged in a coming-of-age indie movie. Or a tragic period drama.

Or, apparently, a bedroom in the middle of nowhere with a girl who wanted him to cosplay as a disco vampire.

“Just bury me in the cape now,” he muttered. “Tell the boys I went down brave.”

A beat.

Then quieter. Almost deadpan. Almost sincere.

“…Tell Jess not to wear my beanie.”

He could feel her smiling against his throat, feel the way her hand slid just a little higher under his shirt, and yeah—okay.

He was doomed.

Totally. Completely. Glitterfully doomed.

And he’d do it. He’d wear the stupid cape. And the boots. And probably eyeliner if she asked real nice.

Because she asked.

Because she was herself.

Because her head was tucked against his chest and her mouth was writing poems into his skin without a single word, and his ribs didn’t ache when she was near—not the way they used to.

Not in that heavy, hollow way.

“Don’t let me trip over anything,” he said after a long pause, softer this time, like he didn’t want to break the hush between them. “If I eat shit in rhinestones, I’m never recovering.”

But his hand was already sliding up her back—slow, absent, fond.

And when he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, barely there, he didn’t groan.

Didn’t sigh.

Didn’t play it off like a joke.

He just let it mean what it meant.

Because she glitter-cursed him, and it felt a lot like being chosen. Like maybe he’d finally been haunted into happiness.

And maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Leighton grinned, wide and wicked, without lifting her head from where it was tucked beneath his chin.

God, he was dramatic.

But he was hers.

And if she was a glitter curse, then he’d damn well better get used to sequins in his sheets and rhinestones on his socks, because she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Light-up boots are non-negotiable,” she mumbled against his collarbone, voice all lazy affection. “You’ll thank me when we’re the hottest couple at the Halloween dance and someone asks for our autograph.”

She shifted slightly, just enough to glance up at him—his eyes still half-lidded, hair all rumpled from the pillow, lips curved in that tragic-hero smirk like he was moments from delivering a Shakespearean monologue about his impending glitter-related death.

God, she loved him.

And yeah, maybe he was doomed. But not the way he thought.

He was doomed in the way you are when someone falls for you all the way—unapologetic, ridiculous, soft.

Leighton reached up and threaded her fingers into his hair, lazy and slow, like she had all the time in the world to memorize the way it curled between her knuckles. She scratched lightly at his scalp, because she knew he liked it and also because she was a menace.

“Jess wouldn’t dare steal your beanie,” she whispered dramatically. “I already called dibs. You die? I get it.”

She paused. Then added, with a grin in her voice:

“Also your Spotify login. And the backup hoodie you think I don’t know about.”

Her thumb traced a little arc near his temple.

She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her, steady now. Not frantic. Not heavy. Just there. With her.

And that? That felt like a miracle all by itself.

“Y’know,” she murmured, lips brushing his jaw, “you’re real cute when you surrender.”

Another pause. Softer now. Sincere.

“I like you better like this. All warm and grumpy and wrapped up in blankets you pretend not to need.”

She kissed his cheek, then buried her face back in the crook of his neck like it was home.

Because it was.

Because he was.

And she wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

Even if he tripped in rhinestones. Even if she had to drag his dramatic ass to every school dance for the rest of the year.

He was hers.

Glitter and all.

Spencer let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh—equal parts suffering and stupidly in love—as he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle his nose into her hair.

God, this girl.

She was a fever dream wrapped in chaos and glitter glue, and he was done for.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her in until there wasn’t a sliver of space left between them. Not that he wanted any. Not when she was warm and soft and pressed to his chest like she belonged there. Like they belonged there.

And she did.

Even if she was planning his rhinestone-induced downfall.

“Light-up boots,” he muttered like it physically hurt him. “What kind of hell have I agreed to?”

But he didn’t stop smiling.

Couldn’t.

Not when her fingers were in his hair like that, lazy and possessive and smug as hell. Not when her lips brushed his jaw like a secret. Not when she tucked herself against him like he was the one she needed and not the other way around.

Which he absolutely did.

Every day.

More than he’d ever admit out loud.

He kissed the crown of her head, slow and unhurried, like punctuation on a promise. Then another, just beneath her ear. Then lower, trailing down to the edge of her jaw where he lingered—hot breath and warm mouth and nothing but affection.

“You get the beanie,” he murmured. “But I’m haunting your Spotify. You play that one playlist with the sad girl piano songs again, and I’m pulling a full poltergeist.”

His hand found the curve of her hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the hem of her sleep shirt.

She was his.

And glitter curse or not?

He’d wear every damn sequin she threw at him.

Because being hers meant Sunday mornings like this. Meant teasing and tangled sheets and soft confessions disguised as insults. Meant being the safe place she curled into and the reason her voice dropped to a whisper when she said I like you better like this.

He closed his eyes, pressed one last kiss beneath her ear, and whispered back—

“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got me.”

Forever.

The front door creaked open with the kind of protest that matched her mood—tired, impatient, vaguely annoyed. Her shift had dragged. Her shoes were unforgiving. Her phone was dead. And all she wanted was a grilled cheese, a shower, and the remote.

She hadn’t even looked up yet, already mentally composing the text she was going to send Spencer later. Something snarky. Something half-joking about how it was very cool of him to no-show after her mom made rice pilaf from scratch like it was 2003 and they still had dinner parties.

But then she heard it.

Laughter.

Not her mom’s solo mutter-laugh at one of her audiobooks. Not the TV. Real laughter—shared laughter—from the kitchen.

Her brows pinched. She kicked off her shoes with more force than necessary and padded down the hall, steps slowing the closer she got.

And there he was.

Spencer Fucking Walker.

Barefoot, grinning, sleeves rolled up as he leaned against the counter like he’d been here a hundred times. Like he belonged. A plate of something half-eaten in front of him, and her mom mid-story with a glass of wine in hand, smiling in that rare, real way that only showed up when she wasn’t trying to keep it together for Leighton’s sake.

She blinked.

Once. Twice.

Spencer noticed her first. Of course he did. That twitch of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting to be caught.

Leighton didn’t say anything.

She just crossed the kitchen, eyebrows still arched in disbelief, and kissed him. Just a peck. Quick. Light. Real.

Then she pulled back and glanced at the plate.

“You ate the pilaf?” she said, pretending she wasn’t entirely thrown off balance. “Brave.”

Her mom snorted. Spencer tried not to look too pleased with himself.

And Leighton?

She leaned against the fridge, arms folded, pretending her heart wasn’t doing that ridiculous, fluttery thing it always did when the people she loved surprised her by getting along.

Maybe he wasn’t going to flake this time.

Maybe—just maybe—he was trying.

And damn it, that mattered.

Spencer had shown up twenty minutes early.

Not on purpose. Not exactly.
He’d just needed the walk. The quiet. The clarity.
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to prove something.

Not in the look how boyfriend-coded I can be kind of way. More like I know what matters to you, so it matters to me too.

He’d stopped at that overpriced flower shop near the corner, the one with the dusty window display and faintly judgmental owner. Bought two bouquets—one small and wild-looking, all daisies and lavender and messy charm. The other more polished. Cream roses. Clean edges. A thank-you in bloom.

He didn’t flinch when Violet opened the door.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t shrink.

Just offered the nicer bouquet with that crooked half-smile of his and said, “Figured it might help me survive the pilaf.”

She’d raised an eyebrow, took the flowers with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and replied, “Well, aren’t you a charming little distraction.”

But she let him in.

She let him stay.

And she even—God help them all—let him sit at the counter while she finished cooking. Quizzed him like it was casual. Like she didn’t already have a private investigator’s worth of knowledge about his grades and his absences and the time he punched a guy in tenth grade for saying something about Leighton’s laugh.

He didn’t dodge.

Didn’t charm his way out of it either.

Just answered her questions. Ate the pilaf. Complimented it. Meant it.

And when she finally softened enough to tell him a story about Leighton as a toddler—something about glitter glue and a ruined chaise lounge—he laughed. Real and quiet and too fond by half.

So yeah.

He was still recovering from the sheer emotional pilaf of it all when she walked in.

And when he saw her—tired, sharp around the edges, still somehow the most magnetic thing in the room—Spencer couldn’t stop the grin. Didn’t even try.

The kiss? Short. Surprising. Stupidly grounding.

And when she pulled back, already teasing, already pretending not to be thrown?

Spencer leaned one elbow on the counter, tipped his head, and gave her that special kind of look. The one that said I see you. I always do.

“Wasn’t gonna flake,” he said, voice low, easy. “Not when there was the promise of early-2000s carbs and death stares from your mom.”

He held up the second bouquet—the one meant for her. A little beat-up from the walk, but still good. Still hers.

“Got these too. Thought you might wanna throw ‘em at me later. Y’know. Options.”

He handed them over, fingers brushing hers just a second longer than they had to.

And yeah, maybe he was pretending to be cool.

But the way he looked at her?

That wasn’t pretend at all.

Leighton blinked.

Once. Twice.

Because her brain was still catching up to the fact that Spencer Walker—who routinely flaked on lunch plans and forgot his own backpack three times last semester—was currently leaning against her mother’s kitchen counter, fully fed and lightly smirking, with a bouquet in his hand and no visible signs of chaos trailing behind him.

What the actual hell.

And God, the way he looked at her. Like she was gravity. Like she was safe. Like she was the punchline to a joke he never wanted to stop laughing at.

She could’ve cried. Or punched him. Or both.

Instead, she took the flowers.

They were scraggly. A little crushed. Half-charming, half-mess.

Like him.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The press of her mouth to his was quick, casual, deliberately unceremonious. But her fingers stayed on his for just a second too long, like she needed to make sure he was actually here. Real. Breathing her air.

He was.

And apparently? Surviving pilaf night with Violet Thomas.

Her mother, who was currently watching them both from the stove with an expression that could’ve meant “I tolerate this” or “I’m deciding where to hide the body.”

Leighton didn’t flinch.

Just turned toward the counter like she wasn’t rattled to her core by how normal this all felt. Like she wasn’t spiraling internally about the fact that Spencer showed up early and brought flowers and smiled at her like she was worth showing up for.

She grabbed a vase from under the sink.

Her hands weren’t shaking. Not really.

Okay—maybe a little.

But whatever. She was allowed to be soft about it.

Without looking at him, she set the flowers down, turned just enough to clock the faint lipstick smear on his cheek, and smirked as she wiped it away with her thumb.

Then—because she had to say something or she’d combust—she leaned in just slightly, voice pitched low enough to keep it between them.

“So,” she murmured, keeping her expression neutral, “exactly how many glitter glue horror stories did she tell you before I got here?”

She didn’t expect an answer. Not right away.

She just wanted to watch him squirm.

Because even if he was winning tonight—boyfriend points stacked stupidly high—she was still Leighton Thomas.

And he was never getting out of this unscathed.