klara

You lift an index finger, poke at his jaw, and push him away gently. Lips thinned, brows furrowed, a play at being annoyed.

"Move."

"Aren't we supposed to act like a couple in public?" he asks, the dimple on his cheek appearing even as he fights back a smile. He catches your wrist and holds it hostage near his chest. You, for some unfathomable reason, don't pull away.

"Yeah, but there's practically no one else here." you say, nose wrinkling, "We don't need to lay it on thick—or at all, if I'm being honest."

He chuckles, but lets your hand go and inches away as you'd asked him. However, his attention is still on your laptop, large brow eyes squinting at the image on your screen. You inhale sharply, and gather your bearings just enough to close the currently open tab—a picture of you and Melissa at six or seven, with twin gap tooth smiles and matching ladybug costumes.

A picture he does not need to see that right now. Or ever, if you can help it.

It disappears from view, only to expose another tab, upon which a more recent photo is flashed. Blurry, neon lights in the background. You and Melissa, off centered and flipping off the camera, wearing tight dresses and sky high heels that you can remember pinched your toes and gave you blisters before the night was even over.

"Fuck!" you hiss, closing that window this time. Unfortunately, you've opened an exceptional amount of tabs in your search for older—and specifically embarrassing—pictures of you and Melissa, so another picture is blasted in HD right there on your screen.

This third one is the worst. Somehow, its composition is even messier than the previous one, even though this was taken in a hotel room. You and Melissa were on vacation with a couple other friends, and the photo captures the exact type of chaos that follows a vacation of four young women—a large bed, its fluffy sheets littered with make up products and mismatched bikinis.

One girl stands on the bed in denim cut offs and a tiny swimsuit top, proudly chugging vodka straight from a bottle. Melissa's kneeling in front of her, holding a large, silicone, very adult toy, and you poised right beside it, mouth wide open and your tongue sticking out.

You slam the laptop shut. Warmth blossoms at your cheeks and spreads everywhere.

Beside you, Spencer is failing to hide a laugh.

"I see you're too preoccupied going down memory lane." he says, sliding into the seat next to yours.

"Melissa's wedding organizers asked if I had any old pictures of Melissa—old, hidden ones, you know, the stuff that's not posted online," you explain, the humiliation hardening into defensiveness. Your voice is steely, even though your heart is pounding hard. He isn't meant to see those. "It's for a slideshow, the embarrassing ones are for her bridal shower and the childhood ones are for her wedding."

His smile softens in an instant, turning kind and gentle. "The ladybug one was really cute."

"The ladybug one I can live with, but Melissa might actually commit homicide if I send the other two."

"I don't think the party one was that bad. And the hotel—"

"Do not mention that, please. In fact, just forget about it." you groan, snatching your glasses off and rubbing the heels of your palms to your eyes. Rings of color explode in darkness, and your hands drop to your lap, glasses hanging between your fingers. Without them on, Spencer is a blurry image, which is good because you don't think you can look him in the eye after what he just witnessed.

"I'm just saying, they aren't that bad. Just proof you've had fun and lived, you know?" his voice is so warm you're worried your insides would turn gooey and coalesce into one messy stew.

"They're still embarrassing."

"I've had my share of embarrassing photos, trust me."

You squint at him. Sharp angles, beautiful eyes, a perfect sloped nose—all features that would photograph handsomely. "Somehow, I find that difficult to believe."

He chuckles and pulls out his phone. Humiliation evanesces into curiosity—he's one of the few people you know who, very prudently, keeps his phone in his pocket when he's with company, so this must be something big. You slide your glasses back on just as he tilts his screen to you.

For a moment, you just stare. Blink. Eyes darting at the image on his phone, to him, then back to his phone.

"Oh my god, is that you?"

It must have been from at least a decade ago. There he is, smooth faced and so thin he appears bug eyed, lips pulled in a thin line like he's unsure which muscles to use to smile. His hair is straight, lacquered down his head like an ocher helmet, so unlike the unruly mop of curls he wears now. Even in his youth, he's wearing a button down shirt tucked into a sweater vest, a detail you can't help but find endearing.

Some things never change.

You can't help it; you snort.

"Hey!" Spencer narrows his eyes in mock anger, "I didn't laugh at yours."

"Technically, I didn't laugh." you reply, grinning wide, "A snort isn't a laugh."

His response is an indignant exhale, and he pockets his phone again. You let a soft giggle slip out, resting an elbow on the table, palm cradling your chin.

"How old were you there?"

"Twenty–one."

"And already in sweater vests?"

Spencer laughs sheepishly. "I was surrounded by professors and academics my entire life, I suppose I modeled my wardrobe after them."

You could just imagine it: a younger Spencer, lankier, but equally brilliant. Losing the battle with his curly hair and taming it into a more socially acceptable hairstyle—because it's easier, or because he had no clue how to style the curls? You don't ask; being able to see the picture feels intimate enough.

A beat passes, silent and comfortable.

"Do you wanna see the pictures I've already chosen? Just the ones for the wedding though, the bridal shower ones are confidential." you offer, still smiling at him.

His face lights up. "If you don't mind."

"I don't; you're attending the wedding with me, so you'll see them anyway."

"Then I would be honored."

You boot your laptop back on, this time without the panic or the embarrassment. Spencer dutifully averts his gaze while you close the opened tabs of even more embarrassing snapshots.

Navigating through the folders quickly, you locate the compilation you've chosen for the wedding slideshow. Mostly from childhood and high school, special ones that only you and Melissa have copies of. Themed slumber parties with your precious childhood toys, more matching costumes throughout the years, your first few disastrous dabbles with make up stolen from your moms.

Spencer is quiet. Even from your peripheral, you can he that he's smiling as he watches and absorbs the photos flashing on the screen. Your childhood memories being shared in this quiet, nearly empty library.

Once you've shown him everything, you say, "Well, now you have potential material for blackmail."

He laughs. "I've no intention of ever blackmailing you."

"I will hold you to that."

Spencer clicks to the previous photo—you and Melissa as your favorite Disney princesses, knees bent in a childish approximation of a curtsy. "I like this one."

"You do?"

He nods. "You must have been really excited over something."

Surprise floods through you. You were. That was the day the two of you performed for a school talent show, and were awarded with the biggest available stars for singing a medley of princess songs.

"What? How did you know?" you ask.

"You smile with your entire face, but it's more noticeable when you're excited. Your eyes scrunch and nearly close." He points to your expression on the screen, where you're beaming so wide that your eyes are, indeed, almost closed, before glancing back at you. "You still do."

The room suddenly feels much warmer than it did a moment ago. He noticed?

"So you're saying I was always destined to have crow's feet." you joke, self consciously touching the skin by your eyes. "With the way I smile."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. I think it's beautiful," Spencer says gently, his hand closing over your wrist again. This time, when he tugs at your hand, he doesn't let go at all. Instead, he shifts and interlaces his fingers with yours, and you let him, even though there's hardly anyone in this library to catch such performance.

He goes on, like this is normal, launching into one of his typical Spencer tangents.

"It's really lovely to see someone with smiley eyes. There's a scientific explanation behind it, you know—a French scientist named Guillaume Duchenne identified it in the 19th century, naming facial muscles that get triggered when—"

But you aren't listening anymore. Too preoccupied with this new piece of knowledge—he knows your smile. You don't know what to make of it, or of the tenderness that forms in the pit of your stomach, trembling and delicate.

Your mind spins as Spencer continues to talk, explaining the functions of orbicularis oculi muscles, and you feel yourself smiling, feel your cheeks lifting so high that the corners of your eyes crinkle. You squeeze his hand carefully, trying to ground yourself through the action, and grateful for something you don't have a name for.

He returns the gesture in an instant, smiling as he talks now, and you can't help but notice he smiles the exact same way. Cheeks pushing up so high the skin around his eyes crinkle, owlish brown eyes narrowing—smiling. Smiley eyes, he said.

And he's right. They're beautiful.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed! Also, happy birthday Lils @spencellelvrr enjoy your day my love!!!