Lennon Rae’s Resident
 

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Kai woke earlier than usual, sunlight cutting sharp across his blinds. For once, he didn’t roll over and bury his head under the pillow. Sleep had been thin anyway — not restless, not heavy, just charged. Like his body couldn’t quite come down from the high of sitting across from Lennon at dinner two nights ago, laughing over pasta and cheap red wine like the world hadn’t tried to split them in half.

He stretched, raked a hand through his hair, and sat there at the edge of the bed for a minute, grinning like an idiot at nothing. It wasn’t just that she’d let him in again. It was how Lennon had looked at him — steady, unguarded, like maybe she finally believed him this time. Like maybe she was starting to see what he already knew in his bones: she was it. She’d always been it.

No stage lights, no screaming crowd, no chaos. Just Rae. And him.

Kai glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. She was probably awake by now, scrolling through records or emails, pretending coffee didn’t taste better when someone else handed it to you. His chest tightened at the thought of Lennon curled on the couch, hair mussed, one of those soft hoodies he used to steal hanging loose around her shoulders.

That was the part that stuck with him the most — the ordinary. He’d had a thousand moments with her wrapped in spectacle, but the memory of Lennon laughing with her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a dim record store? That was what had him out of bed before nine, shoving on jeans and a t-shirt, no second-guessing.

He pulled his hoodie over his head, grabbed his keys, and headed out. The city was already humming, cars slipping through intersections, the bakery down the block spilling warm air and sugar into the street. He almost stopped there, just for the nostalgia of it, but he shook his head. No distractions today. He wanted it to be simple. Deliberately simple.

The corner coffee shop was busy, baristas shouting orders over the steam of espresso. Kai leaned against the counter, scrolling his phone, but his mind wasn’t on headlines or texts. It was on whether Lennon still took oat milk in her latte, or if she’d switched it up. He hesitated at the register, then ordered both — hers and his — because hell, if she teased him for remembering, he’d take it.

When the drinks hit the counter, he thanked the barista, tucking the cardboard tray against his chest like it was something breakable. And maybe it was.

Because it wasn’t just coffee. It was proof. Proof he could show up for the little things, the quiet mornings, the unglamorous hours where no one was watching.

By the time he pulled up outside her place, his heart was thudding a little too fast. Not because he was nervous she’d slam the door in his face. Not anymore. But because he wanted Lennon to see it — that he wasn’t just talking about forever in abstract promises. He was building it, one cup of coffee at a time.

Kai slid out of the car, the city air cool against his neck as he adjusted the tray in his hands. Each step up the walk felt heavier, but not with doubt — with the weight of how much he wanted to get this right. The worn stairs creaked under his sneakers, familiar in a way that twisted something sharp and sweet in his chest.

At her door, he paused just long enough to steady his grip on the cups, squaring his shoulders before he lifted his hand. One quick breath, then he knocked — firm, sure, like he’d already decided: this time, he was staying.

Lennon hadn’t expected him. Not this early, not in the soft gray hours when the city was still shaking off it’s sleep. But there he was — standing in her doorway in a black pullover hoodie, hair a little wild, cardboard tray gripped in both hands like it might slip if he breathed too hard.

The scent reached her before the words did — cinnamon, oat milk, warm espresso. Her favorite. Always her favorite.

Her fingers brushed his when she took the cup, and for a second, everything else — the notebooks stacked on the coffee table, the blanket spilling off the couch, the years of sharp words and distance — blurred. All she felt was that flicker of skin, that quiet proof he’d remembered.

“You really did this.” The laugh broke out of her before she could stop it, soft and a little cracked around the edges.

He gave her that sheepish smile, the one that still undid her if she let it, and before her brain caught up with her body, she leaned in. Just a brush of lips against his, warm and quick, like punctuation on a sentence she hadn’t realized she’d been writing. Her chest tightened — not sharp, not painful, but steady. Like maybe this time she could breathe into it.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyebrows lifted, a trace of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Okay, Mercer. You win some points for showing up before sunrise with caffeine. I’ll give you that.”

She stepped back, door swinging wider without making him ask. Not this time. Not anymore.

Inside, she shoved a pile of papers onto the table, flicked the blanket to the side, and then patted the cushion next to her. The smallest gesture, but her eyes stayed on his, steadier now.

“Sit,” she said softly. No teasing. No edge. Just open. “Stay.”

When he set the tray down and dropped beside her, close enough that his arm brushed her sleeve, she let the silence linger. Full, not uncomfortable. Then she nudged his knee lightly with hers.

“So,” she murmured, wrapping her hands around the warm cup, thumb tracing its edge. Her gaze flicked from the drink to his face. “What’s your plan today? Or am I the plan?”

He hadn’t expected her to kiss him. Not even that quick brush of lips, like a match strike in the quiet. But damn if it didn’t light something in his chest anyway. Warm. Dangerous. Addicting.

Kai leaned back into the couch, one arm stretching along the back behind her like muscle memory, like every piece of him already knew where it belonged. She looked at him over the rim of her cup, teasing, but softer than he’d seen her in a long time.

“You’re the plan,” he said, low and easy, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. A slow grin tugged at his mouth as he tipped his cup toward hers, a toast to his own boldness. “Everything else can wait.”

Her knee nudged his again, but this time he didn’t let the contact fade. He angled closer, voice dropping into that honeyed register he knew she felt more than heard.

“You think I’m waking up before sunrise for anyone else?” His eyes caught hers, steady, unreadable except for the spark at the edges. “Nah, Lennon. You’re it.”

He let the silence stretch after that—comfortable, almost heavy with everything unsaid—before he tilted his head, lips curving with just the right amount of mischief.

“So,” he added, brushing his thumb along his coffee cup like he was holding back the urge to do the same to her hand. “You gonna let me hang around all day, or do I have to earn that too?”

Lennon smirked into her cup, hiding the way his words struck deep, sparking places she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let him reach again. But here he was, sitting on her couch like he belonged there, saying things like they weren’t dangerous. Like she wasn’t already teetering on the edge of believing him.

“You’re smooth, you know that?” she said, finally lowering her cup and setting it on the table. Her eyes flicked to him, sharp but bright. “Showing up at sunrise with coffee, dropping lines like you’re auditioning for the role of best boyfriend alive.”

Her knee pressed firmer into his, this time deliberate, and she let the corner of her mouth lift. “But I’ll give you this—you’re smarter than I gave you credit for. Coffee is a good way to start bribing your way back in.”

She shifted closer, shoulder grazing his arm on the couch. “You’re right, though. I wouldn’t let just anyone in here this early. Which means you’ve got a shot at hanging around today.”

Lennon tilted her head, letting her gaze linger on his face in a way that was softer than her words. Then, with a sly grin, she added, “But earn it? That depends. You planning on keeping up this whole perfect-boyfriend act, or is this a one-morning special?”

Before he could answer, she reached out, tugging gently at the sleeve of his hoodie, grounding the banter with something steadier, quieter. “Because if you’re serious about this… you don’t have to earn it. You just have to stay.”

Lennon lifted her cup again, buying herself a moment behind the steam. She took a slow sip, eyes flicking toward him over the rim, then set it down with more care than it needed.

Without a word, she shifted closer, her body angling into his side until her head found its place against his shoulder. It felt too natural, too easy — like muscle memory she hadn’t realized she still carried.

“I’m trying to get used to this,” she admitted, voice quieter now, almost tucked into the fabric of his hoodie. “Without bracing myself all the time. Without waiting for the floor to give out.”

Her hand searched for his, tentative at first, before her fingers slid between his and stayed there. Entangled. Steady.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, the tension in her shoulders easing as she finally leaned all the way into him.

For a long beat, Kai didn’t move. He just let the weight of her settle against him, the faint citrus of her shampoo cutting through the steam curling up from their cups. Morning light spilled through her windows in fractured gold, dust motes drifting lazy in the air, and for once he wasn’t chasing it. He wasn’t bracing for it to end.

Her fingers twined with his like she wasn’t even thinking about it, and God, if that wasn’t the thing that undid him more than anything she’d said. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t cautious. It was just hers. Sliding between his like it belonged there.

He adjusted barely, just enough to close the space between them, to let her fit against his side like she was meant to. His thumb traced along the ridge of her knuckles—slow, deliberate, like he was telling her without words: I’m here. I’m not letting go.

“You don’t have to get used to me staying,” he said, voice pitched low, roughened by something deeper than sleep. The kind of steady you couldn’t fake. “That’s the only part I’ve already figured out. I’m here, Lennon. I’m not walking out this time—not when I finally get to sit here with you like this.”

Her hair brushed his jaw when she shifted, the smallest movement, but it felt monumental. She wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t doubting. She was just here.

“I thought about today,” he went on after a pause, his tone softening, carrying a warmth that pressed into the quiet between them. “I’ve got ideas—places I could take you, things we could do. But if all you want is this? Coffee, silence, your couch and me not moving an inch—I’ll take it. Because that’s the plan, as long as it’s with you.”

His thumb gave another subtle press over her hand, grounding himself as much as her. He let a grin creep in, lazy but sure, and angled his head enough to glance at her profile. “So tell me, Rae—what’s today look like for you? Because wherever you go, I’m following.”

Lennon’s laugh was quiet, more breath than sound, like it slipped out before she could catch it. She tilted her head just enough to look at him, eyes soft but steady, as if she were taking inventory of every word he’d just given her.

“You really think you get to decide that?” she teased gently, though her thumb brushed over the back of his hand in a way that gave her away. “That I don’t have to get used to you staying?”

Her gaze lingered on his, lips quirking at the corner. “I don’t think you get how used to leaving I got, Kai Mercer. How easy it was to believe that was just… who you were.”

She shifted closer, curling more fully into his side until her cheek rested against his shoulder. For a moment, she just stayed there, breathing him in, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat anchor her.

“But,” she murmured finally, words muffled against his shirt, “if this is who you are now… if this is the part you’ve figured out…” She angled her face toward him again, smile tugging in quiet surrender. “Then yeah. Maybe I’ll let myself get used to it.”

Her fingers tightened around his. She leaned up, brushing her temple against his jaw, the smallest nudge of affection.

“As for today?” she said, voice soft but laced with a kind of certainty that felt new between them. “I don’t care about the plans. Or the coffee. Or the couch.” She sat up just enough to look him in the eye, a sly glint breaking through her warmth. “What I want is you. And if that means letting the whole damn day pass us by right here, then that’s exactly what it looks like.”

She didn’t give him the chance to argue—not that he would have. Instead, she rose, tugging him gently by the hand as she got up. “Come on, Mercer. If you’re following me, then follow.”

She pulled him down the hall, pausing only to sweep most of the blinds shut so the room dimmed to a golden hush. Then she climbed onto her bed, sinking into the sheets like she’d been waiting for this moment longer than she’d admit.

When he hesitated at the edge, she shot him a look—half daring, half fond. “Don’t just stand there. Get in.”

And when he did, she curled into his side all over again, warm and certain, her smile softening as she whispered into the quiet:

“This. This is my today.”

Kai followed, because of course he did—there was no universe where he wouldn’t. Her hand in his was enough gravity to pull him anywhere, even if it was just ten steps down the hall to a place he hadn’t been invited into in years.

Her room smelled like her—linen, perfume ghosted in the air, something warm and human underneath it all. The blinds she’d half-drawn left streaks of gold across the floor, slanting up the bed where she already waited, sheets shifting as she settled in like she belonged there and so did he.

And God, the way she looked at him when he lingered a second too long at the edge—half a dare, half a promise. It wasn’t just about the bed. It was about what this meant. What he meant, if he didn’t screw it up.

So he climbed in. Not with the usual swagger he might’ve shown the world, but with the quiet sort that came from being sure. Sure of her, sure of himself when it came to her.

She curled into his side again, like she had on the couch, only now it was softer. Closer. Sheets instead of cushions. Home instead of halfway. And when she whispered this is my today, he swore he felt it echo in his chest.

Kai let his arm curve around her, pulling her tighter against him, chin brushing her hair as he breathed her in. He thought about every time she’d braced for him to leave, every scar he’d etched into her rhythm without meaning to. And he thought about how the brain rewires itself—how you can train it to stop believing one thing if you feed it a better truth.

That was his plan. To rewrite every exit with an arrival. Every silence with a touch. Every goodbye with something like this.

“Then this is mine too,” he murmured, letting his thumb trace the slope of her waist through the fabric of her shirt. Not greedy—just grounding. “And tomorrow. And the next day. However long you’ll keep pulling me in.”

She shifted, just enough for her leg to brush his, and he felt that streak of heat coil low in his gut. He was still a man in her bed, after all—still wanted every inch of her. But the thing that floored him was how much he wanted the quiet just as bad.

So he let it show in small ways—the way his fingers dragged lazy lines against her skin, the way he leaned down and pressed his mouth to her temple instead of her lips, the way he kept his voice low, like he was afraid to break the spell.

“You don’t have to get used to me staying, Lennon,” he said again, softer now, almost a vow. “I’ll just keep showing you, until your whole body remembers.”

He smiled against her hair, wicked glint tugging through the tenderness as his hand gave the faintest squeeze at her hip. “Though, fair warning—if you keep pulling me into your bed like this, I can’t promise I’ll behave forever.”

The hush between them deepened, golden and steady, and for the first time in a long time, Kai didn’t feel like he had to chase the moment. It was already his.

Lennon felt her throat tighten before she could stop it. The kind of ache that wasn’t sharp but heavy—like every word she’d swallowed over the years was suddenly pressing to the surface at once.

She buried her face a little deeper against his chest, hoping the steady thrum of his heartbeat might drown out the fact that her own was hammering. “You don’t get it,” she whispered, voice catching on the edges. “You’ve said things like this before, Kai. Maybe not in so many words, but close enough that I believed you. And then you left anyway.”

Her hand fisted in his shirt, not to push him away, but to anchor herself there—like proof he was real and not some half-dream she’d wake up from.

“I learned how to stop expecting you,” she admitted, a raw edge slipping through. “How to tell myself I didn’t care. How to go quiet so it wouldn’t hurt as bad when you disappeared.” Her laugh was soft, shaky, and nothing like humor. “Turns out it still hurt like hell.”

She finally pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glossy but unflinching. “So you can’t just keep telling me, Mercer. I want to believe you—I do. But I’ve got scars with your name on them, and words don’t cover that.”

Her voice gentled, the truth cracking open softer now, like it wasn’t just pain but the beginning of trust threading through it. “But you’re here. And God, I feel it. Every time you touch me like you mean it, I feel it. My body remembers the leaving, yeah. But it also remembers this. Us. And that part…” She swallowed hard, a tear slipping free before she could catch it. “…that part wants to trust you so bad it scares me.”

Her hand slid up from his chest to his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone as if she could memorize him in case it all went to hell again. Her lips curved in something small, broken but real. “So don’t behave, Kai. Don’t play safe. Just… stay. And let me relearn what it feels like to stop holding my breath.”

Kai felt her words hit like body shots—slow, deliberate, right where they hurt most. Because she was right. He had said things before. He’d leaned on promises he didn’t have the discipline to keep, let the leaving come easier than the staying. And he could see every scar he’d left written in the sheen of her eyes now.

He lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, brushing the tear from her cheek with his thumb before it could fall further. “You’re right,” he admitted, voice low, steady. No defense. No excuses. “I left too many times. I gave you reasons to doubt me. I’m not gonna try to rewrite that history with words, Lennon.” He tipped his forehead against hers, breath mingling with hers in the quiet. “But I can write you something new. Every damn day, if that’s what it takes.”

Then he kissed her—not the reckless, hungry kind he’d given her in another lifetime, but something deeper. His hand cradled her jaw, his mouth pressing against hers like he was pouring every unspoken vow into the space between them. It wasn’t about wanting her body. It was about telling her in the only language that mattered that he saw her, that he stayed.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb still ghosting over her cheek, he let a small, lopsided smile break through. “But as much as I wanna lose myself in you right now,” he murmured, voice rough with honesty, “I think we wait. Not because I don’t want you—God, you have no idea how bad I do—but because I need you to know I’m not here just for that. I’m here for you. All of you.”

He let that sit for a beat, then leaned back against the headboard, still keeping her tucked against him, lighter now. Easier. “So, here’s my pitch.” His tone softened into something almost playful, warm. “Breakfast in bed. Anything you want. Waffles, bagels, some ridiculously overpriced smoothie from that place you love… hell, even a box of cereal if that’s what’ll make you smile. I’ll have it delivered and we won’t move from this spot all morning.”

His hand squeezed hers, grounding the moment. “Let me feed you, Lennon. Let me be here in the simplest ways too. Because that’s how you’ll know I mean it—not just when it’s big and heavy, but when it’s quiet. Like this.”

He turned his head just enough to kiss her hairline, lips lingering in her hair. “So tell me, gorgeous,” he whispered, low and sure, “what’s the order? ’Cause whatever it is, it’s coming straight to your bed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t need one.

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

This was happening.

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

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

She liked this version of him.

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

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

It was almost terrifying, how safe she felt.

Not because she doubted him.

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

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

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

By staying.

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

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

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

If this was what forever felt like?

She didn’t want to run anymore.

They didn’t speak.

Not for almost an hour.

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

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

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

God, how many mornings had she imagined this?

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

Just this.

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

Proof that she was safe.

That maybe he really had meant it this time.

And then—

The doorbell rang.

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

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

She tightened her grip on his shirt.

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

But the doorbell chimed again.

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

Another ring.

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

A stupidly large Postmates bag sat on her welcome mat.

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

He hadn’t followed.

He trusted her to come back.

And maybe that was the thing that hit her hardest.

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

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not theatrical. Just quiet.

Certain.

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

And she meant more than breakfast.

She meant everything.

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

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

God, she killed him.

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

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

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

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

It was for him.

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

And she wasn’t just talking about breakfast.

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

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

For her.

Always, now.

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

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

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

He already fit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could definitely get used to this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 :) )