Kai felt it hit — the way she said it, soft but sharp, like she couldn’t quite believe she was handing him the match and daring him not to burn her down with it. Terrifying, she’d called it. And maybe she thought that would scare him too. That the weight of what she was finally letting slip would make him stumble.

But for the first time in years, he wasn’t rattled.

Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, and he held her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, like letting go wasn’t even an option. She thought she was the one risking something by staying — but to him? The risk had always been not fighting hard enough to keep her.

“Reckless?” His voice came low, steady, threaded with that quiet grin she used to catch when the lights were gone. “Nah. This isn’t reckless, Rae. This is the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

He shifted the stack of vinyl against his chest, freeing his other hand long enough to hook a finger under her chin, coaxing her eyes up to his. No stage, no cameras, no song to hide behind — just him, unflinching.

“You don’t scare me,” he said, and it wasn’t a line. It was fact. “Not your walls, not your claws, not even the part of you that still thinks I’ll disappear if you blink too long. I’m not running, Lennon. Not now. Not ever.”

The words landed heavier than he expected, but they didn’t shake. He meant every damn one.

His thumb swept once along her jaw before he let his hand drop back to hers, squeezing tight, a vow pressed into skin and bone. “You want to hold me to it? Good. Do it. Every word, every promise. Because I’m not here to give you another song to hate me for. I’m here because you’re it. You’ve always been it. And this time, I’m not letting us slip.”

He leaned in then, forehead brushing hers, his grin breaking through softer, quieter, but certain. “So yeah. Call me reckless, call me insufferable, call me every name you’ve got lined up. I’ll take it. As long as I get to call you mine at the end of it.”

And before she could throw another quip, before she could armor herself back up, he kissed her — slow, sure, deliberate. Not a plea. Not a fix. Just proof.

When he pulled back, his voice was a whisper against her lips, steady as his pulse under her hand:

“This time, we make it work. No stage, no headlines. Just us. And I swear to you, Lennon Rae — I won’t let it break.”

For once, she didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t sharpen her tongue to keep the upper hand. Because the way he said it — steady, unshaken, like he’d staked his whole chest on every word — cracked something open inside her she’d been fighting for years.

Terrifying, she’d called it. And it still was. But not for the reasons she thought. Not because she feared he’d disappear again. No — the terror was how much she wanted to believe him. How much, in this second, she already did.

Her thumb lingered over his knuckles, slow, deliberate, and she realized she wasn’t holding on for balance. She was holding on because she wanted to. Because it felt right. Because it finally felt safe.

“God, Mercer…” she murmured, shaking her head like she couldn’t quite believe herself. “I don’t know what’s scarier — hearing you say all that, or realizing I actually believe you.”

The admission sat heavy between them, but she didn’t snatch it back. For once, she let it breathe. She let herself breathe.

Her gaze searched his face, every angle she’d memorized a hundred times and still pretended not to know by heart. She found no cracks, no hesitation, just him — steady, certain, hers if she wanted.

And she did.

Her chest tightened, but she leaned closer, her voice a whisper meant only for him. “So fine. You’re not running. You’re not letting go. Then you’d better be ready, because neither am I. I’m done pretending I don’t want this. Done acting like I don’t want you.”

Her free hand lifted, brushing lightly against his jaw, as if she could anchor the moment there forever. “This… it feels right. Scary as hell, but right. And I’m choosing it. I’m choosing you.”

Before the lump in her throat could win, before fear could claw its way back, she kissed him — not out of defense, not out of weakness, but because she could. Because she wanted to.

When she finally pulled back, her smile was shaky but real, threaded with something lighter than she’d carried in years. “So yeah, Mercer. Call me yours. Because you’re mine too.”

Her lips still tingled when she finally leaned back, enough air between them to remember where they were. The hum of the store pressed back in — the faint scratch of a turntable from the counter, someone thumbing through a bin a few rows over, the dusty neon in the corner buzzing like it knew her secret now.

She cleared her throat, tried to shake off the way her chest felt lighter, fuller, all at once. “Alright,” she muttered, more to herself than him, as she slipped her hand from his and nudged at the next row of vinyl. “Back to work before I start writing sonnets in the middle of the damn Jazz section.”

But she didn’t step far. Her shoulder brushed his again, deliberate this time, and she let it stay.

Her fingers flipped through glossy sleeves — Coltrane, Davis, Simone — but her eyes kept darting sideways, catching him holding her stack like it weighed nothing, still grinning like she’d given him the world and he wasn’t about to hand it back. And God help her, she liked the sight of it. Liked him here, grounded in the ordinary, carrying her records like he’d carry anything she gave him.

“Don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” she said, pulling out a battered copy of Kind of Blue and holding it up between them, eyebrow arched. “You’re still gonna have to prove you know half the stuff I drag home. No bluffing with the radio hits, Mercer.”

The corner of her mouth tilted despite herself — softer than her usual smirk, unwilling to admit she already knew he’d pass every test. She slid the record back, fingers brushing his arm as if she couldn’t help it.

And then she just… let herself keep going. One sleeve after another, her hand moving, her pulse steadying, her chest loosening in a way it hadn’t in years. Like maybe this ordinary thing — the bins, the dust, his warmth pressed against her shoulder — was the part she’d been waiting for all along.

Kai didn’t know the record she held up. Didn’t know it, didn’t care. Hell, she could’ve been holding sheet music from another planet and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Because the only thing he could see was her — shoulders eased for the first time in forever, lips curved soft instead of cutting, her hand brushing his arm like it wasn’t an accident.

And Christ, it wrecked him.

Not the way her kiss used to wreck him, all fire and desperate edges. No, this was worse. Better. Dangerous. Because this was her letting go just enough to trust him. This was Lennon Rae choosing him out loud, no stage, no spotlight.

He shifted the stack of vinyl higher against his chest, cocky grin tugging at his mouth because he couldn’t help it. She was testing him, daring him to slip, but for the first time in years he wasn’t playing catch-up. He wasn’t begging her to believe a lyric or hiding behind some riff he’d written at 2 a.m. He was right here, steady, no bluff in sight.

“I’ll be honest, Rae,” he said, leaning closer so only she caught it, voice dropping warm and certain, “I don’t recognize half of what you’re pulling. Probably couldn’t tell Coltrane from Colbie Caillat if you made me.”

He let the confession hang a beat before tilting his head, grin widening. “But I know you. And that’s enough. You hand me a record, I’ll learn it. You hand me your heart, I’ll carry it. That’s the deal.”

Her eyes flickered, sharp and searching, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t — not when he finally felt the ground under him, not when she’d just told him she was his.

Kai tapped the edge of her sleeve with his knuckle, a casual touch that landed heavier than it looked. “So test me, Rae. Drag me through the deep cuts, the jazz, the ones I’ll butcher if I try to hum along. I’ll take every challenge you’ve got, and I’ll still be here holding the stack when you’re done.”

The corner of his grin softened then, just enough to show her what sat beneath the swagger. “Because you’re mine too. And I’m not about to let go of that. Not now. Not ever.”

Before she could fire back with one of those quips that always used to cut him in half, he dipped down, brushed his lips against her hairline — not a claim, not a plea. Just proof. Quiet, simple, unshakable.

When he pulled back, he nudged her shoulder with his, sliding right back into her rhythm like he’d never left. “Now,” he drawled, easy confidence humming through him, “show me what else you’ve got in this sacred Jazz section. I’m ready to ruin my reputation one record at a time.”

And for the first time in years, he didn’t just hope she’d still be there when he looked over. He knew.

Lennon didn’t care if he knew the record. That wasn’t the point. She could’ve held up the rarest press on the shelf and it wouldn’t have mattered, because he wasn’t even looking at it. He was looking at her. Really looking. Like he hadn’t in years.

And for once, she let him.

Her chest felt lighter than it had in forever, and it scared her, how easy it was to want to stay in that ease. How much she wanted to trust the steadiness in his eyes, the warmth in his grin. Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was dangerous. But right now, it felt right.

Her fingers brushed his arm again, deliberate this time, not an accident. She slipped the record back into its sleeve, sliding it onto the stack he was already carrying for her, and something in her loosened at the sight of it — him holding onto what mattered to her like it was nothing but natural.

She didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t put a wall back up. She just tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips, and threaded her hand into his as she started toward the counter.

Paying was quick — a blur of receipts and plastic bags and the quiet thrum of music overhead — but she didn’t let go of his hand once. And when they stepped back out into the fading light, she glanced up at him, the evening spilling gold across his face, and finally let the words fall.

“So,” she said, voice low but certain, “where are you taking me for dinner?”

And just like that, it wasn’t about records or past scars anymore. It was about them, right here, starting again.