potatipejr

Spencer Agnew (sorted by first posted)

"So I have this cat" 2.2k words

You accidently give Spencer a hickey and your secret relationship may not be so secret anymore....

A Forced Sweet Tooth 3.4k words

You work at a bakery and a frequent customer with a not-so-subtle crush, Spencer, keeps finding excuses to visit the bakery.. until friendly visits turn into something more, and he finally asks you out.

Hopeless, but Happy 3.0k words

Spencer is out at a bar, not drinking, clearly pining for his girlfriend, and not even trying to hide it despite all the teasing.

White Horse part 1, part 2 ~2k words

Spencer and you get in a big argument and honestly, you don’t have it in you anymore. (angst) part 2: spencer begging you to take him back lol

The Bit I Would Ruin 4.1k words

You and Spencer go on Courtney’s new podcast URL separately, but you might just end up together…

Heart Department 1.9k words

You’re trying to focus. He’s trying to kiss you into distraction. Somewhere in between, it stops being casual.

you know i love you, right? 2.0k words

Right Through The Door 1.2k words

Spencer comes home and his partner practically attacks him. (“Can I at least shut the door before you pounce on me?”scenario)

Beginner’s Kiss 2.7k words

Spencer is your first boyfriend/kiss; it was the first time you felt like you were allowed to be wanted, fully and without apology.

"Romancing at 8PM" 2.1k words

“The other night I got irritated with Spencer and he goes "stop i was planning on romancing you later" and I've never laughed so hard in my life.”

You Sleep Like A Log 1.3k words

Spencer is concerned about his new dating partner’s sleeping habits.

Get It Together, Spence! 3.1k words

An ordinary day in the office turns into a frenzy when Spencer terrifyingly realizes that he’s already falling for the newest member of the team.

About Three Months? 2.3k words

At the Smosh holiday party, a quiet moment in a hallway where Spencer finally confesses he’s been trying not to kiss you.

The Note that Stuck 3.5k words

What starts as plastic guitar shredding turns into something real, leaving Spencer (and chat) completely undone.

Answering to Agnew 1.1k words

Spencer gets married and is slightly overwhelmed by the intimacy of someone sharing his family name. 

Glue Gun Dangers 2.0k words

Spencer volunteers to help you build props and spends the entire time flirting so badly that you glue two of your fingers together…

Angela Giaratanna

You Forget Something? 1.1k words

You took a sip of your coffee, grimacing as it went down. It was too tepid and too sweet for your early mornings. “Past experiences.”

Spencer pointed a finger in dramatic accusation. “I am a creative force, nay a visionary. I once made a dragon out of paper towel rolls and duct tape.”

You snorted, finally glancing over at him. “You made a choking hazard for the office. It had googly eyes falling off and everything.”

“Details,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “History will remember me kindly.”

You shook your head, but there was already a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. It was hard not to soften around Spencer. 

He scooted closer, the chair letting out a tragic wheeze as the wheels hit a dried glob of hot glue stuck to the floor. You handed him a stack of foam sheets and gestured toward the sketch tacked above the table: your outline for the background props in tomorrow’s shoot.

“Just cut these out like the diagram. No jazz hands.”

Spencer held the foam like it was a precious relic. “Got it. Minimal jazz.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Minimal means zero.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. No jazz. Just interpretive snipping.”

You turned back to your own project, shaping a foam tree that looked suspiciously like a middle school craft, but your eyes flicked back to him now and then. There was something oddly comforting about having him here, even when he was being an idiot. Especially when he was being an idiot.

For all his chaotic energy and quick-fire commentary, there was something undeniably calming about Spencer when he settled. Sometimes, in rare pockets of quiet, he’d go still. 

Perched on the edge of a desk, a black Creed shirt wrinkled like a deflated balloon, and legs stretched out, casually sipping his drink like he had nowhere better to be. His gaze drifted, quiet and observant, like he was cataloging the room in real time. He was content to just exist there, unhurried. His voice would drop, softer, slower, like he didn’t mind letting the silence breathe between sentences. He didn’t always need to fill space with noise; sometimes, he just liked being near the hum of the room, watching the world move with an easy kind of presence that made you feel a little more grounded, too.

He cut one shape. Then another. And then, predictably, he began to talk.

“So what’s this one for again?”

“The background of the club scene? It’s going near the bar.”

He nodded like you’d just explained nuclear physics. “I can work with that.”

“I’d prefer if you just stuck to the plan,” you muttered.

He was quiet for exactly three seconds before speaking again.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower, like he was about to confess something. You glanced up and caught him staring at you over the edge of a foam triangle. “You’ve got some paint in your hair.”

Your hand shot up to your head. “Where?”

He leaned across the table, squinting at you with exaggerated focus. “Right there. No— left a bit. There.”

You felt fingers gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear. It was a fleeting touch, but it left something buzzing in its wake. You froze. Your hand stayed halfway in your hair. His grin, almost shy now, like he hadn’t expected the moment to land the way it did.

You looked away first.

“I’m gonna hot glue something to your face if you keep distracting me.”

“That’s a bold threat,” he said, leaning back like he hadn’t just melted your brain. “But I respect it.”

“Cut the foam, Spencer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then Spencer hummed.

Low at first, like a sound trying to sneak past your focus. But there was no mistaking the off-key, borderline sultry warble of Careless Whisper building at his side of the table. The saxophone line arrived like a threat.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “What did I say about jazz?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Interpretive snipping,” he replied, dragging his scissors in a slow, dramatic zigzag through a piece of foam like he was painting with sound. “The saxophone solo speaks to me. It says, ‘Cut recklessly.’”

You glanced at the foam in his hands. “It also says, ‘You’re about to ruin that dinosaur tail.’”

He tapped the tip of his scissors against the table, still humming. “So,” he said, like it wasn’t the beginning of an incoming disaster, “do you always look this good while surrounded by glitter and creative despair?”

You didn’t flinch.. “Do you always flirt like a theater kid who fell down a flight of stairs and decided to commit to the bit anyway?”

“Only with you,” he said, all teeth and sunshine.

The scissors slipped. You clipped too close and took a neat bite out of your foam circle. You froze mid-motion, stared at the piece in your hands like it had betrayed you.

Spencer leaned closer, still brandishing his cut-out tail like a prop. “I’m just saying, if I were a glue stick, I’d want you to twist me up and-”

“Spencer.”

He blinked innocently. “Yeah?”

“Don’t look at me like that while I’m holding a glue gun.”

He paused, the grin flickering but not fading. “Define that.”

“Like I’m the only one in this room who hasn’t caught on to your nonsense yet.”

He tilted his head, lashes lowered in mock contemplation. “Is it working?”

You pressed the glue gun to the next foam shape with slow, deliberate menace. “Depends. Do third-degree burns count as flirting?”

He laughed, open and unbothered. “Honestly? Wouldn’t be the worst reaction I’ve gotten to a pickup line.”

You shook your head, biting down a smile as the glue gun hissed against the foam. You didn’t answer. You were too focused on the part where your fingers suddenly… didn’t come apart. You blinked down at your hand.

“Oh no,” you muttered.

“What?”

You held up your hand, index and middle fingers fused together like a V-sign with commitment issues. “I just glued myself.”

Spencer’s eyes widened with uncontainable delight. “You glued yourself. Because of me.”

“No, because I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Because of me.” He was beaming now, practically glowing with chaotic victory. “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened in this room. We’ll tell our grandchildren-”

“Spencer.”

He gently reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours with the kind of carefulness that felt wildly at odds with the chaos he usually trailed behind him like glitter and fire. He turned your hand over in his palms, inspecting the damage with exaggerated focus.

“Ah,” he said solemnly, tilting your hand toward the overhead light. “We’ve got a full bond situation here. Textbook overcommitment. At least medium-strength disaster. Possibly irreversible.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You mean the glue or the fact that I let you in this room?”

Spencer ignored you, tracing the line between your stuck fingers with the gentlest touch, the pad of his thumb skimming just close enough to make your breath catch. “You’ll need warm water, mild soap, and probably to stop letting me distract you with my powerful charms.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest betrayed you; heart fluttering like it hadn’t learned better, like it knew exactly what it was doing. You were sure he could feel the way your hand tensed slightly in his, not from pain, but from the effort of pretending it was just about glue.

He looked up at you now, a little less teasing, his smile gone softer around the edges. “Let me help,” 

You nodded, a little stunned by the sudden shift in air, and let him guide you gently by the wrist toward the small sink in the corner of the room. The faucet creaked to life under his hand, and he hovered with the back of his palm beneath the stream until the temperature was just right.

“Okay,” he murmured, glancing sideways at you. “This might sting a little.”

“Like your jokes?”

His mouth twitched into a smirk. “Exactly.”

You eased your hand under the water, the glue already beginning to loosen, tacky and stubborn. Spencer grabbed a paper towel and folded it neatly, holding it like a surgeon’s assistant waiting to be useful. He didn’t take his eyes off your hand. I mean not in a weird way, but in the way someone watches a sunrise they didn’t realize they’d been waiting for.

“I think you’re good to gently start wiggling them apart,” he said, lowering his voice like the glue might overhear and retaliate. “Just… slowly. No panic.”

“Is this your way of telling me not to scream in your face?”

“I mean, you can,” he offered, shrugging. “But I might take it personally.”

You began to carefully separate your fingers, wincing as the last bit of glue gave way with a sticky snap. He winced along with you, like it hurt him, too. Like he was in it with you, even in this small ridiculousness.

“There we go,” he said softly, reaching for the paper towel to gently pat your hand dry. His thumb brushed over your skin— barely there, but undeniably warm.

You let him. Let the quiet bloom between you. Let the moment stretch, just a little.

He was still close. Closer than necessary, really. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a split second, neither of you said anything.

Instead, he smiled.

“You handled that like a champ.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Yeah? What’s my prize?”

His grin widened, full of mischief again, the moment half-released but not forgotten. “The eternal honor of surviving a crafting emergency with me. Not many can say the same.”

“Wow. I’m honoured.”

After a few moments, you spoke, voice quieter now. “You always do this, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Make it hard to focus.”

He didn’t laugh this time. 

“I know,” he said. “I’ll try to stop.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to.”

Back at the table, he sat beside you again, but didn’t touch the foam this time. Just leaned his chin in his palm and watched you work.

He grinned, nudging your knee under the table. “That was kinda dangerous. Reckless even. Kinda into it.”

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. “You gonna keep flirting or actually help me finish this?”

Spencer leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Why not both?”

And then, without another word, he grabbed a glue stick and dove back in like this was the most important mission of his life.

Literally froze— one hand hovering halfway toward the cupboard, fingers curled around the handle of a ceramic mug he’d grabbed without even thinking. The sound of his own last name in your mouth wasn’t new. He had heard you tease him with it before, call it across a room to get his attention, but this time, it was different.

This time, it wasn’t just his.

You must’ve noticed his pause, because your eyes lifted from your phone, brows drawing together. “What?”

He shook his head too quickly, trying to mask the way something in his chest had just gone tight. “Nothing. Just… sounded different.”

Your gaze stayed on him for a beat longer “How?”

Spencer stepped closer to pass you the mug, his fingers brushing yours. “Like… it belongs to you, too.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but the corners of your mouth tugged up, slow and warm. He ducked his head toward the grocery bag again, pretending to busy himself with pulling out the rest of the vegetables, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

Your name and his, side by side— pressed together in black ink on envelopes that landed in your mailbox, on the neat block letters of appointment cards, on the return address of that electricity bill that lived for a week on the counter before one of you paid it. A quiet pairing that felt so permanent, so ordinary, and yet so startlingly tender.

He thought about the way it might sound in the wild: someone at the dentist’s office calling, “Agnew?” into a quiet waiting room, and both of you glancing up. That small, private jolt of recognition. The way your hands might brush as you stood, two people answering to the same name.

It was such a small thing, almost nothing at all. And yet, the weight of it made his chest feel just a little too small to hold everything that came with it.

x

It kept happening.

You were both carrying grocery bags (again) when Mrs. Kaplan from 4B appeared from behind the mailboxes. She was all bright lipstick and floral perfume, the neighbor who always had a story about “back in my day.”

“Well, if it isn’t the Agnews,” she greeted cheerfully, as if you’d been a matched set your whole lives.

You smiled without hesitation. “Hi, Mrs. Kaplan.”

Spencer managed a “Hello,” but inside, his mind snagged on the sound of it. The Agnews. Plural. Not just him, in the way he’d been for thirty-odd years, but you, standing there beside him.

Mrs. Kaplan asked about your weekend, and you both mumbled something about laundry and takeout, but Spencer’s focus kept slipping back to the fact that she’d said it so casually like your names had been printed on a return address label for decades.

When you reached your floor, you handed him your grocery bag to unlock the door, and he was still standing there smiling like an idiot.

“What?” you asked, glancing over.

“Nothing,” he said, even though it wasn’t nothing.

At the dentist, it happened again.

You were sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine while he filled out some form on a clipboard. The receptionist looked up from her computer. “Agnew?”

Both of you turned your heads.

Spencer blinked, surprised, and then your hand found his knee like it was the most natural thing in the world. You stood first, answering for both of you. “That’s us.”

That’s us.Two words that hit harder than novocaine.

It even happened with the boring things.

The electricity bill came in the mail, and Spencer flipped it open without much thought until he saw your name printed neatly above his, both followed by the same word: Agnew. He stared at it for longer than he meant to before tucking it back into the envelope and setting it aside.

When you asked what it was, he just said, “Bill,” because it felt too big to explain that seeing your name there was, somehow, more intimate than sharing a toothbrush holder.

By the end of the week, he wasn’t even pretending it didn’t get to him.

He just woke and stared at you.

You stirred several minutes later. How was it that lovers always awake when their better half is staring at them?

“Morning,” you whispered,

“Morning.” Spencer said, pressing his forehead against your. 

Spencer let you wrap around him. The couple were both still naked, some joints sore from sleeping on a couch, both of them feeling the rug burn slowly creep into their consciousness.

“You know what I realized?” he murmured into your shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“You’re Agnew now.”

You laughed. “I know, Spence. You were there.”

“Yeah, but-” He kissed your temple, his voice softening. “It’s not just a name. It’s… us.”

You turned in his arms, giving him a look that was half teasing, half unbearably fond. “You’re getting sappy before breakfast.”

It wasn’t polished nor perfect, but it was alive. And in this strange, messy way—it felt exactly right.

“Tonight, in this very arena, two competitors will face off in a battle of skill, stamina, and sheer willpower!” Shayne bellowed, voice booming.

Spencer, sitting next to you on the couch, shook his head and held up a plastic Guitar Hero controller. “Okay, first of all, ‘battle of skill’? You clearly haven’t seen me play. This is pure talent.”

Courtney snorted. “You missed half the notes in the warm-up round.”

“That was strategy,” Spencer shot back, feigning seriousness. “I wanted to lower your expectations.”

You raised your eyebrows, fighting a grin. “Sure. That’s definitely what happened.”

And then you said, “I’ve actually never played.”

The room went still.

Shayne gasped like you’d confessed to never seeing Frozen. Courtney clutched their chest. Chanse slid to the floor.

“You’ve never—?” Shayne sputtered. “Not even at a middle school sleepover?” You shrugged, laughing at their theatrics.

“Unacceptable, we’re fixing this immediately. Chat’s demanding it,” Chanse said, pointing at the screen. “They want blood. They want plastic guitars.”

Before Spencer could blink, the battered plastic guitar was shoved into your hands. You tilted it warily, like it might bite.

“Okay, so green is green, red is red,” Courtney rattled off in their best tutorial voice. “Hit the buttons when they scroll. Easy.”

“Don’t forget the strum bar,” Chanse added with mock gravity.

You laughed, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. And that was the part that hit Spencer—how effortlessly you settled into it, how your brows pulled together in playful concentration like you’d done this before. His chest tightened before he could stop it.

The music kicked in. Notes started flying down the screen.

And then… you weren’t half bad.

Shayne groaned like it hurt him physically. “Of course, she’s good. She’s a natural. I hate this.”

“Beginner’s luck,” Chanse gasped.

The chat went crazy:

rookie my ass // SHES CRACKED // SPENCER LOOK AT HER FACE RN OMG

Spencer ignored that last one. Or tried. He had gotten used to it by now: the endless stream of ship names, the chat spamming heart emojis whenever your shoulders brushed, the way even Courtney and Shayne dropped little asides like they were in on some private joke.

It was easy enough to shrug off. People shipped everyone; it was just part of being online. And yet… it felt different with you. He told himself that it was all noise, but every time the comments lit up or someone teased, there was this flicker in his chest he couldn’t name. He’d laugh along, roll his eyes, pretend it was nothing, but then you’d glance at him mid-bit or let that quick grin slip his way, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure the internet was making it all up.

He definitely wasn’t watching your face, wasn’t noticing how your grin widened every time you hit a streak, or how you laughed, sharp and unguarded, whenever the game punished you with its awful clunk noise.

He forced his expression neutral, nodding stiffly along to the music. But every time your shoulder brushed his, it sent a jolt through him. He caught the faint smell of your shampoo, bright and clean under the studio lights, and it was ridiculous how much it unraveled him.

“Okay, okay, hand it over,” Spencer demanded the second the track ended. “I need to restore balance to the universe.”

You slipped the guitar off and handed it over, still laughing. “That was fun.”

“That was illegal,” Chanse muttered darkly. “She cannot just be good at everything.”

“Beginner’s luck?” you offered, smiling sheepishly.

Spencer almost laughed, but the way you leaned back—eyes bright, cheeks flushed—something restless pressed against him from the inside, a feeling he wasn’t ready to turn toward.

The next track loaded. Spencer hunched forward, determined, already fumbling through the opening notes. Courtney and Shayne howled as the screen flashed MISS MISS MISS in big, brutal letters.

“Bro hasn’t even hit a multiplier yet,” Chanse deadpanned.

“I HAVE!” Spencer insisted, mashing the strum bar with exaggerated drama.

Shayne leapt up like a sportscaster. “And there it is, folks! Spencer Agnew, fumbling under the bright lights, his career on the line—”

“Shut up!” Spencer laughed, pretending outrage but grinning anyway. “This is sabotage!”

You laughed too while he was hunched forward, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, eyes darting between the screen and you like he couldn’t decide what mattered more.

The song barreled toward its end. Spencer deliberately missed a note, then clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Nooo,” he cried, collapsing backward onto the floor, arms spread wide. “I can’t go on… defeated by my greatest rival.”

The scoreboard lit up. YOU WIN. 68% ACCURACY. Spencer: 64%.

Shayne threw his arms in the air like a hype man. “THE NEW CHAMPION HAS ARRIVED!”

“Chat, can we get some L’s for Spencer?”

The chat obliged instantly, flooding with skull emojis and crying-laughing faces.

You grinned down at him, plastic guitar still in your lap. “Good game.”

Spencer sat up, mock glaring at you. “Good game?? You just annihilated me.”

“Hey, you said it was all talent,” you teased.

“Yeah, and apparently she has it, and you don’t,” Shayne cackled.

Spencer shook his head, still smiling helplessly. “This is rigged. I’m filing a complaint with- who’s even in charge here?”

“You,” Chanse said flatly. “You’re literally the director.”

The whole room cracked up again, the noise bouncing off the studio walls.

You grabbed the plastic guitar again and strummed like you were auditioning for a fake rock band. To everyone else, it was background noise. But Spencer squinted—half convinced you were either secretly cracked at Guitar Hero or hiding something bigger.

And then he swallowed it back, laughed with everyone else, and let the moment slide.

Except he couldn’t stop glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

And when chat spammed another wave of heart emojis, he knew—yeah. They’d noticed too.

Then Chanse, sprawled across the couch like he was the queen of the set, grinned. “Imagine if this was a real guitar.”

Courtney gasped like he’d spoken a curse. “Why would you even- don’t jinx it.”

But Smosh always had a way of answering when it was called.

From the far side of the studio, a crew member strolled in with the most devilish grin, carrying an actual acoustic guitar like it was the Queen’s jewels. They set it down on the couch with the kind of flourish that said good luck surviving this, then walked off as if they’d just tossed a grenade.

REAL GUITAR ALERT // rock band who?? // 🎸🎹🔥🔥🔥

Shayne’s jaw dropped. “No. Absolutely not.”

“We’re a band now,” Chanse declared, clapping her hands once like the matter was settled. “I call triangle.”

Shayne lunged for the guitar with reverence, yanking it up like it was Excalibur. “Chat,” he said gravely, “you are not ready for this.”

He strummed a single, horrific chord. It buzzed, it twanged, it rattled like the instrument itself was begging for mercy.

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “And that’s the sound of our channel getting demonetized.”

The room dissolved into laughter.

And then, with zero hesitation, Chanse shoved the guitar into your lap.

Your eyes went wide. “Oh, no. Nope. Not me,” you protested, laughing nervously.

“Yes,” Shayne said, solemn as a priest. He pointed dramatically. “The chosen one has arrived.”

The chat exploded again, baying for blood:

PLAY!!!! // LET HER COOK // 100 bucks says she’s actually cracked

You sighed like you’d been sentenced, but still, your hands betrayed you.

One tentative strum.

A clean, resonant chord rang out, rich and bright.

And the entire room froze.

Chanse blinked. “Wait. That… actually sounded good?”

You shrugged, sheepish, as though you hadn’t just silenced the entire set. “I, uh… used to play a little.”

“‘Used to play a little,’” Shayne repeated, mocking your tone.

You grinned, shaking your head, and without even thinking about it, your fingers fell into a quick riff. Not a full song, but enough. Enough to prove you weren’t bluffing. Enough to prove you weren’t just humoring them.

Shayne dropped to his knees like a pilgrim at an altar. “Teach me your ways, oh guitar master.”

“Only if you promise never to play again,” you shot back, sharp as ever.

The whole couch howled—Courtney and Chanse the loudest, their chorus of “OOOHHHH” rattling the room.

From there, the “band” descended into pure chaos: Shayne fake-headbanging like he was fronting a metal tour, Chanse slapping nonsense on the table, Courtney wailing into a hairbrush like they were headlining Coachella.

And somehow—underneath all of it—you kept strumming. Steady. Grounding. Real enough that for a fleeting second, the noise almost sounded like music. Like a jam session no one planned but everyone had been waiting for.

Spencer was dying of laughter, doubled over on the couch, hands covering his face. This was what he loved most about these streams—the nonsense that should’ve fallen apart but somehow turned into content. He should’ve been panicking, steering everyone back on track, but honestly? He couldn’t bring himself to.

And yet—his laughter kept breaking, his gaze tugged sideways, over and over, back to you.

Nobody else noticed.

But Spencer saw.

The way you sat with the guitar was different. You didn’t cradle it like a toy. You didn’t joke with it like a prop. You held it like you knew its weight, like your hands belonged there.

He knew those motions—the careful pluck, the wince when a string was sharp, the relief when it settled while tuning a guitar. He’d done it himself a hundred times. And seeing you do it made him feel… known, in a way he hadn’t expected.

He should’ve made a joke. Should’ve called you out for taking it too seriously, should’ve fed the bit. That’s what everyone expected. But instead, he stayed quiet, biting back the words. He didn’t want to break it—the little pocket of calm you’d carved out in the middle of the storm.

“Spence, you’re supposed to be keeping order!” Courtney suddenly barked, pointing at him with mock severity.

He blinked, startled back. “Me? What do you want me to do, confiscate Shayne’s imaginary drumsticks?”

“ I fucking dare you.” Shayne cried, slamming an invisible crash cymbal.

His gaze drifted back to you. Quietly strumming. Patiently tuning. Unbothered by the circus you sat in the middle of. It was unfair, really—how you could sit there under the bright studio lights, small smile tugging at your lips, and make him forget there were thousands of people watching.

He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes away, laugh catching in his throat as Shayne pretended to stage dive. He wasn’t supposed to let this happen. Not on stream. Not when the chat already noticed too much.

But God—if they knew what he was really thinking…

He raked a hand through his hair, cheeks warm, praying nobody noticed.

Except maybe you.

And then you started playing.

Spencer noticed first. His head snapped toward you like a reflex, his chest pulling tight. It wasn’t even the notes: it was the way your hands moved. Like muscle memory, like you’d done this a hundred times alone and now, for some reason, were brave enough to do it here, in the middle of a stream, with thousands watching.

You weren’t looking for attention. Your gaze stayed low, lashes brushing your cheeks as your thumb swept gently across the strings. Your fingers shifted with quiet confidence, easing into chords like they belonged there.

And then like ripples spreading, people began to notice.

The chat was first:

WAIT SHE’S GOOD?? // HELLO??? THIS ISN’T A BIT ANYMORE // ROCKSTAR ARC UNLOCKED

The whole room shifted—like the air itself had leaned in to listen.

And Spencer—Spencer’s breath caught hard in his chest.

He’d always known you were sharp, quick enough to spar with him line for line, smirk for smirk. He’d even admitted, in moments he’d never say out loud, that your smile had a way of disarming him, knocking something loose inside.

But this?

This was something else. This was you pulling music out of the air as though it had always been waiting for your hands to give it shape.

Your fingers moved with quiet certainty, coaxing the chords into something fuller, warmer. Each note shimmered through the stale studio air, brighter than the lights, steadier than the chaos still flickering across the monitors.

It was just you and the guitar. And God help him—it felt like it was just for him.

Then you sang.

And everything stopped.

The sound was soft at first, almost shy, as if you hadn’t meant for the words to reach beyond yourself. But they did. They slipped through the quiet you’d created, clear and unshaken, threading into every corner of the room. Into him. Spencer swore the air bent to make room for you, and he knew—dizzy, helpless—that he would never hear anything the same way again.

His jaw slackened. His chest clenched. Breathing became an afterthought.

Chat exploded, but it was just noise on the periphery:

LOOK AT SPENCER 😭😭😭 // BRO IS ENCHANTED // SOMEONE CHECK HIS HEARTRATE

But none of it mattered. None of them mattered. Because you looked so heartbreakingly beautiful, sitting there in the studio glow, your hair catching the light, your voice wrapping itself around the chords like it had always belonged there.

Admiration hit first—how good you were, how natural. Then awe—how you’d managed to keep this hidden, tucked away like it wasn’t the most extraordinary thing he’d ever heard. And underneath it all, something deeper, more dangerous: the sharp ache of a crush tipping into something far greater. From a harmless maybe to an undeniable God, I’m gone.

Every lyric drew him closer. Every chord pressed harder against the part of him that wanted to know you beyond this set, beyond this night. To sit close, just the two of you, and hear your voice in a space that wasn’t crowded with cameras and noise.

The room was reverent. Shayne leaned in like a kid at confession. Courtney’s grin softened into something wide-eyed and true. Even Chanse, perpetually armed with a smirk, was quiet for once.

And when the last chord lingered, thinning out into stillness, the silence that followed didn’t feel like absence. It felt sacred.

Nobody dared to move.

SHE’S AN ANGEL?? // WE NEED A CONCERT NOW // Spencer isnt even blinking lmao

“HELLO???” Courtney yelped, the spell shattering as she whipped toward you. “Since when can you do that?”

Shayne clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “You’ve been hiding this?!”

You laughed nervously, cheeks flooding pink. “It’s really not that big of a deal—”

“No, it is,” Courtney cut in instantly. “It’s the deal. The only deal.”

Chanse leaned in, eyes gleaming. “I think Spencer agrees.”

The spotlight swung to him, and Spencer flinched, his ears burning before he even processed the words. “Wha—? No, I—shut up.” He buried his face in his hands, but it was too late. The damage was done.

he’s so gone // IF YOU DON’T PROPOSE I WILL, SPENCER CONFESS ALREADY

Spencer groaned into his palms, trying to laugh it off, but he could still hear your voice in his head, every note carved sharp into his chest. And even as Courtney cackled and Shayne performed some melodramatic betrayal, even as Chanse made it into another bit, he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Because they were right.

When Spencer finally found his voice, it broke rough in his throat, more confession than joke. “That was… stupid good.”

You laughed, startled, the sound ringing like a note he wanted to hold onto forever. “Stupid good?”

Color burned its way up his neck. “I mean—really good. Like… incredible.” He shook his head, a crooked grin fighting to surface. “You kind of knocked me flat.”

The truth spilled out before he could catch it, as if the words had been waiting all night for the smallest crack to escape through.

Your head lifted, eyes meeting his, and in that suspended second Spencer swore he’d ruined everything. Too much, too raw, too obvious. His heart battered against his ribs like it wanted out, panic scraping its way up his throat.

And then—you smiled. Small. Genuine. It wasn’t the kind of smile you tossed at the cameras or the chat; it was quieter, warmer, something that seemed to land only on him. And it undid him completely. He could do nothing but sit there, stunned, staring at you like you’d just rewritten the air itself and he was still learning how to breathe it in.

You weren’t even performing anymore. The moment had passed, the chaos of the stream creeping back into the edges, but in his eyes the glow hadn’t let go. It clung to you stubbornly, like the light had decided you were the only thing worth illuminating. You curled in slightly, shoulders hunching as if you wanted to vanish from the spotlight. But Spencer couldn’t let it fade. His mind replayed it over and over—the clean strike of that first chord, the way your voice had slipped into the room as though it had always belonged there, waiting for him to finally notice.

Chanse broke Spencer’s trance first, wheezing into the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, Spencer Agnew: poet laureate of our generation.”

“Shut up,” Spencer groaned, dragging a hand over his face and sinking low in his seat. But the humiliation didn’t stick; it couldn’t touch the fizz of adrenaline still buzzing in his chest.

Courtney leaned forward, dead serious. “Okay, but forget sketches. Forget Try Not to Laugh. We’re a band now.”

The chat erupted, spamming crying emojis and band names by the dozen. Spencer groaned into his palms, but part of him didn’t hate the thought—so long as you were in it.

You groaned too, burying your face in your hands. “Please. Stop.”

“Band names?” Chanse piped up immediately. “The Pussy Meals-” He didn’t even make it through, collapsing into Courtney’s shoulder as the room howled.

The laughter swelled, spilling over the set. Spencer laughed too—he had to—but under the noise, something heavier pulsed steady.

Because it hadn’t felt like a joke. Not to him. Not even close.

He could still see you in his head: shoulders loose, eyes half-closed, voice spilling into the air like it had always belonged there. And it hit him again—sudden, brutal, undeniable. He wasn’t just impressed. He wasn’t just surprised.

He was gone. Completely gone.

The “Stream Ending Soon” screen rolled, the music faded, and little by little the set shifted back to reality. Cameras clicked off, red lights winking out. Crew voices softened to a murmur as they coiled wires, shut down monitors, swept snack wrappers into a bag. The chaos drained into something smaller, almost tender.

You were still clutching the guitar like it was the only solid thing in the room, the strap digging into your shoulder. Your cheeks were warm, your pulse high, replaying every moment in flashes—the chat exploding, the silence of the room, and worst of all: Spencer’s face. The way he’d looked at you, wide-eyed and breathless, like you’d knocked the air straight out of him.

Courtney slid over, bumping your shoulder. “Okay, rockstar. What the hell was that?”

You groaned, half-laughing. “It wasn’t that big of a—”

“Yes it was,” Shayne cut in from across the room. “I literally transcended. My soul left my body. I was hovering near the ceiling.”

Chanse smirked, tossing a wink your way. “And Spencer definitely saw something, too.”

From the equipment table, Spencer’s voice shot out too quickly. “Shut up.” His ears burned pink, his hands suddenly very busy with a cable he’d already wound twice.

Courtney cackled. “God, you two make this too easy.”

You buried your face in your hands, laughing but mortified. “I hate all of you.”

The teasing lingered until people started grabbing jackets and calling goodnights. Courtney and Shayne disappeared mid-bicker about “stage presence.” Chanse was the last out, pausing in the doorway with one last knowing look at Spencer before vanishing down the hall.

And then it was quiet.

You sat on the couch, the guitar heavy across your lap, adrenaline draining into a softer hum—half exhaustion, half something sweeter. Spencer lingered by the cable case, pretending he still had work to do, but his fifth “check” gave him away.

Finally, Spencer set the pick down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it—low, steady, stripped of its usual edge.

“You know I wasn’t kidding earlier.”

You blinked. “About what?”

“About you being incredible.” This time, there was no hesitation. His voice held, unguarded, certain. “I mean—I always knew you were quick, funny, good at basically everything we throw at you on stream. But that?” He shook his head, searching for words that wouldn’t come. “That was… different. It knocked me flat.”

Heat rose in your chest. You ducked your head, trying to wave it off. “You’re exaggerating again.”

“I’m really not.” His grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was softer than usual, less a bit and more a truth. “Chat would back me up.”

Your fingers brushed lightly over the strings, nervous and idle. “Honestly? I was terrified. But once I started, it didn’t feel scary anymore. It just… felt right.” You hesitated, then let the words slip into the quiet. “Probably because you were there.”

The confession landed between you, fragile and unshakable all at once.

Spencer froze, eyes wide, and then—helplessly—he smiled. It spread slow and boyish across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, too bright to hide even when he tried covering it with a hand. “God. Don’t say stuff like that. I’m never gonna stop smiling.”

You laughed, nudging his knee with your foot. “Good. Maybe it’ll erase that tragic ‘defeated at Guitar Hero’ face.”

He laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck, ears glowing pink. “In my defense, you completely destroyed me.”

“You made it easy.”

“That’s what makes you dangerous,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, weightier. “You walk in like, ‘Oh, sure, I guess I'll play Guitar Hero,’ and then suddenly you’re casually a rockstar.”

You rolled your eyes, though warmth spread through you anyway. “Rockstar might be pushing it.”

Spencer leaned in just slightly, as though gravity insisted. His voice dropped, rough with sincerity. “Not even close.”

The joking edge softened into something charged, tender. His gaze held steady on you, and you could swear your heartbeat lined up with his in the hush.

You broke it first, giving him a playful shove. “Careful. You’re laying it on thick.”

His laugh was flustered, his ears pink again. “Yeah, well—I’m not exactly smooth at this whole… compliment thing.”

“Don’t worry.” You smiled, smaller, truer. “It’s working.”

He's in love. His grin softened, eyes searching yours, like he wanted to say more but didn’t trust his voice to carry it.

Instead, he reached over and plucked a single string. The note hummed faint and imperfect, but it lingered in the air like it belonged there. “You know,” he said lightly, trying for levity, “I still expect lessons. Real ones. You can’t leave me stuck at Guitar Hero level forever.”

You smirked. “I don’t know. I kind of like being the undisputed champ.”

He pointed at you, mock stern, though his eyes were still soft. “Exactly why I need lessons. I can’t let you hold that over me.”

“Pretty sure I can,” you teased.

His laugh came easy, but the way he looked at you stayed steady, unflinching. “Guess I’ll just have to convince you, then.”

The moment lingered, easy and unhurried, like the quiet itself didn’t want to leave. Just you, Spencer, and the guitar resting between you—something unspoken humming in the space, delicate but steady.

At last, you set it aside, leaning back against the couch. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

You looked at him, really looked, and let a small smile break through. “Thanks for staying.”

His answering smile was softer than you’d ever seen it, sure in a way his words rarely were. “Always.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It felt full—safe, a little fragile, threaded through with everything neither of you quite knew how to say.

After a beat, he glanced at the guitar, then back at you. He shifted closer, bumping your knee gently. His voice dipped lower like he was letting you in on a secret, a quiet laugh caught in his throat. “Just promise you’ll play again. I don’t think one song’s enough.”

Laughter rang out from every corner. Tinsel clung to walls. Someone had replaced all the usual ambient music with a playlist called “Jingle Bops” and a plastic reindeer in sunglasses stood proudly atop the printer.

It was chaotic, ridiculous, and completely over-the-top. It might’ve been the best office Christmas party they'd ever had.

You were tucked near the corner of the break room, nursing a lukewarm cider and trying to pretend the blinking fairy lights didn’t feel like a visual anxiety attack. Your holiday sweater featuring a disco ball-wearing reindeer was slightly itchy, and the warmth of the crowded space had made you shove your sleeves up past your elbows. You were just trying to survive the night without accidentally starting a fire with a scented candle or getting caught in any awkward mistletoe-related setups.

Until Spencer Agnew appeared.

He wasn’t wearing a sweater, just his usual layered T-shirt and jean jacket combo, but someone had managed to slap a Santa sticker on his chest. He looked unfairly good, cheeks flushed from the cold and hair still slightly damp from the drizzle outside.

He found you like he always did, with that easy magnetism that didn’t seem intentional like his orbit naturally pulled toward yours without needing permission.

“There you are,” he said, stepping close enough to bump his shoulder against yours. “I was worried you’d left.”

You raised your brow. “Why? Would you have had to face the horrifying possibility of drinking cider alone?”

“Worse,” he said gravely, “I might have had to socialize with strangers.”

You snorted. “You’ve known everyone here for years.”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “Too much power.”

The banter was comfortable. It always was with him. That was the problem. Because lately, the space between you two had started to feel electric. And not the cute, holiday-lights kind of electric. The “oh no, I might be completely in love with my coworker” kind.

And God, Spencer—he had a way of looking at you that made it impossible to breathe properly. Like you were some sort of fascinating mystery he hadn’t quite solved. And that look had started happening more often. Lingering glances, little touches that lasted half a second too long.

It was harmless. It had to be. You were coworkers. Friends. You weren’t going to read into things just because he gave you a paper snowflake labeled To: The Coolest Goblin Artist last week.

What you didn't realise is that it wasn't much better for Spencer. He should’ve been watching Chanse’s performance like everyone else. Instead, all he could see was you—your head thrown back, your shoulders shaking, the way you pressed your fingers to your lips to muffle the laugh even as it escaped. The noise of the room blurred into static.

“Hey.”

Your voice snapped him out of it. You’d turned, catching him mid-stare. His mouth went dry.

“You’re really bad at hiding when you’re distracted,” you said lightly, tilting your head.

Spencer coughed, shifting his cup to his other hand like it could save him. “I wasn’t distracted. I was… monitoring. Quality control.”

“Quality control for… karaoke?”

“Exactly. Making sure Chanse doesn’t injure himself trying to hit a note he has no business attempting.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sure. That’s definitely what you were doing.”

He tried for a smirk, but it came out crooked. “Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little distracted.”

“By what?” You asked it too innocently, like you didn’t already know.

Spencer’s brain offered about seventeen answers, ranging from your face, your voice to literally everything about you, none of which were safe. So he took the coward’s route.

“By the hotdogs. They’re a menace. One wrong bite and you’re risking third-degree burns.”

You laughed again, not buying it for a second. And God, it walloped him straight in the sternum, like the universe had thrown an elbow.

From the corner, Angela shouted, “SPENCE, you’re up next for karaoke!” followed by a chorus of cheers. Spencer groaned. You laughed.

“You’re on the list?”

“Against my will. It’s a conspiracy.”

“Guess you’d better distract them,” you teased. “Otherwise they’ll start dragging you up there.”

For a split second, he considered it—leaning in, saying something reckless like you’re already doing that just fine. But the weight of it sat heavy in his throat, too raw, too soon.

Instead, he just smiled faintly, eyes lingering on yours a moment too long before glancing back toward the chaos. “Maybe I’ll just hide in the hallway. They’ll never find me there.”

And when you chuckled again, something in his chest tightened. Because maybe he didn’t mind the idea of you finding him.

You nudged him with your elbow, biting back a smile. “You’re not actually going to run, are you?”

“Not run,” he corrected. “Strategic retreat.”

Then in a smaller voice, “Wanna join me?”

You tilted your head, considering the twinkle of the Christmas lights catching in your eyes. For a second, it felt like the whole party narrowed down to just this: your smile, the closeness of your shoulder brushing his, the way he was holding his breath for your answer.

You hesitated, but his hand was already reaching for yours—lightly, not quite a grip, like an invitation more than a command. 

Finally, you set your cup down on the counter. “Alright. Show me your hideout, Charles.”

Relief and nerves tangled in his chest. He gave you a small smile and gestured toward the door. “This way. Don’t look back. If they see us leave together, they’ll assume we’re plotting something.”

“Plotting or escaping,” you said as you fell into step beside him.

“Could be both,” he muttered, pushing the door open.

The sound of karaoke and laughter spilled after you as you slipped into the dim hallway, but as the door swung shut behind you, the chaos muffled to a distant hum. The sudden quiet pressed in around you, softer, more dangerous somehow. 

Spencer exhaled, finally glancing at you in the dim light. Too close. Not close enough.

“I think this hallway’s haunted,” you whispered.

Spencer grinned. “Good. Maybe the ghosts will save me from accidentally saying something stupid.”

You turned toward him, leaning against the wall, trying not to notice how warm he looked. How his eyes kept flicking toward your mouth and then away again like he was trying to catch himself in the act.

“What were you going to say?” you asked quietly.

Spencer hesitated.

“That I think I’ve been trying really hard not to kiss you for about three months.”

Your breath caught, just for a second. It wasn’t the kind of confession that demanded anything from you. There was no leaning in, no romantic music swelling in the background. Just the hallway and Spencer, standing there with that honest kind of nervousness that made your chest ache.

You let the silence stretch, holding his gaze. “Three months, huh?”

Spencer exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like it might help. “Give or take. There was some denial in the middle. A lot of bad timing. At least one cursed drivethru trip.”

“That explains the fries,” you said, half-smiling.

“Exactly. The subtext was there.”

You shifted your weight, shoulder grazing the wall behind you. His eyes flicked to the movement, then back to yours, steadier this time. There was something grounding about him— anxious, yes, but sure in the way he waited. Like if you said “not yet,” he’d respect it. Like if you stepped back, he’d get it. And if you stepped forward… well. That was your call.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” you asked.

He blinked. “Because I didn’t want to ruin it. You know, the whole… being around you thing. It’s already the best part of my week.”

“I’m not exactly… practiced,” you said, a little too unsure. “At this. At any of it.”

“I kind of figured,” Spencer said, voice low, but not unkind. “And I don’t care. I mean—scratch that. I do care. But not in the way you think.”

You looked at him.

“I care about doing this right,” he added. “Whatever this is. No pressure. No deadlines. No weird expectations. Just…” He hesitated. “You, if you want to be here.”

You tilted your head. “You’re being alarmingly sincere right now.”

He smiled. “It’s the haunted hallway. Ghosts bring out my soft side.”

You huffed a laugh, quieter this time. 

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was filled with something electric, like all the words that hadn’t been spoken had finally surfaced, and now there was just air—real and clear—between you.

“The world fell around me when I first laid my eyes on you.” he said, almost afraid to break the moment.

“I—” you started, but he cut you off.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t measured.

He poured everything you'd made him feel over the last few weeks into that kiss, running his hand up your jaw, across your cheek and grasped the back of your head. He groaned into your mouth, once again passion and wanton lust pulsing through every part of him at the mere proximity of you. Your touch was merely gasoline to the fire he had already burning for you.

His hands found your waist in a sudden, desperate motion, fingers splaying over the soft fabric of your sweater like he needed to feel something solid. His grip was firm like without you, he might just spin out of control.

Your breath pressed against his lips, heavier than the silence between them. His hands mapped the line of your chest, only to draw you closer again, your mouths colliding with a fever that left him dizzy.

You gasped, fingers catching the front of his jacket, anchoring yourself. And his pulse stuttered at the realization—you wanted this as much as he did. The scratch of his beard against her skin, the heat of his breath, the way his thumb traced her jaw with a tenderness that betrayed his urgency. It all tangled together until he could barely breathe.

When he finally pulled back, it was barely an inch. His forehead rested against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, breathless. “I didn’t mean to do that. I just… couldn’t not do that.”

You were still trying to steady your breath, heart pounding in your chest like it had missed a cue and was now racing to catch up. Your laugh came out half-breath, half-disbelief. 

“You’re apologizing for kissing me?”

“Maybe.” He gave a crooked smile. “Definitely for doing it at the Christmas party. Wasn’t exactly my plan.”

You kissed him again before he could spiral further, shutting him up with the easiest decision you’d ever made. He kissed you back like he was trying to make up for every almost, every sidelong glance that hadn’t turned into this.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just the press of lips, the quiet thrum of your hearts, and the muffled party on the other side of the door. Everything else fell away.

When you pulled back, breathless, he let out a shaky laugh. That crooked, soft, entirely Spencer smile.

“I had a better plan, you know,” he murmured, voice low, still a little stunned.

Your brow arched, teasing. “Better than that? Or did I just derail your masterplan?”

“If that was derailing, I owe you about a thousand train tracks.” 

Something bright bloomed behind your gaze, pulling him in.

He let out a sheepish laugh, eyes darting down before finding yours again. “Yeah. It involved timing. Maybe a song cue. A dumb excuse to stand closer. I think there were… festive props.”

You bit back a laugh. “You were gonna fake a romcom moment, weren’t you?”

His grin widened, helpless. “I didn’t need to. Turns out the real thing’s way better.”

Your laugh came out before you could stop it—real, bright, a little breathless. 

He grinned, stepping closer, close enough that you caught the warmth in his voice. “But now the secret’s out. I like you. And I’m really, really bad at pretending otherwise.”

Down the hall, someone shouted something incoherent, followed by groans and a vow of karaoke revenge. The noise echoed faintly, a reminder that the world hadn’t stopped—even though it felt like it had.

You snorted, breaking the tension just enough to breathe. “We should probably get back before they start blaming us for the chaos.”

“Too late.” Spencer didn’t move, still anchored to the spot. His voice was light, but his gaze gave him away. “They already think we’re plotting a heist. Or eloping.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Why not both?”

He sighed theatrically, but his eyes never left you. “For the record,” he said, softer now, “this hallway lighting makes you look… extremely cool. And just a little dangerous.”

Your laugh came out quieter than you meant it to. You nudged his shoulder as you finally turned toward the noise. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”

He fell into step beside you. His hand brushed against yours, light as a question, like maybe it was an accident—but he didn’t pull away when you didn’t. The faintest smile tugged at his lips. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I meant it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It stretched warm between you, charged, like a note hanging in the air long after the song had ended.

You lowered your voice, almost afraid to disturb it. “You know this changes everything, right?”

Spencer looked over, that crooked grin softening into something steadier, more certain. His eyes held yours like he’d already decided. “Yeah,” he said simply. “That was kind of the point.”

Spencer had always thought that “love at first sight” was something people exaggerated for movies, some shortcut to skip the messy middle. But all of a sudden, he understood it with painful clarity. Because he was standing there, watching you breathe in this strange new place, and his body reacted like it had been waiting. Like he’d been holding out, half-empty, and now finally the other half had walked through the door.

You caught him staring as you glanced up. He smiled automatically, heart lurching into his throat. He knew he should say something casual, something welcoming but not weird, but all the words bottlenecked at once.

“Hi,” he blurted out. Too fast, too eager. He tried again, softer. “Hey. You must be the new girl.”

Relief flickered across your face. “Yeah. First day.”

He held out his hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. “Spencer. Director of Smosh Games. Pretty sure my actual title is ‘liability,’ but they keep me around anyway.”

His name lingered on your tongue, repeated softly, a small smile on her lips. It was more like a smirk, maybe even a bit playful. Your lips were plump, a gentle sheen of lip gloss on them, or maybe it was just lip balm. He couldn’t tell whether the shade of pink was your own or from pigment, but whatever it was, it made your lips look soft and gentle. They had a nice shape to them, the richness of the hue of pink accentuating their fullness–

Hello? Focus.

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, his lungs feeling weak as he sucked in a small breath to get his brain going again.

You gave him a short, genuine laugh, and it smacked all the air out of his lungs again. Spencer felt the ridiculous urge to memorize it. Already, his brain was storing this moment away: the sound, the glow at the corner of your lips, the nervous adjustment of your feet to try to hide your nervousness even though this place could overwhelm anyone.

He realized, belatedly, that he was still holding your hand. “Come on,” he said quickly, releasing it before he scared you off. “Let me give you the tour.”

He gave you a quick smile, his mind hastily trying to memorize every single detail on your face to have more material for his daydreams. 

You smiled back at him, just a sliver of your teeth peeking from behind your lips. You were so beautiful—he felt his heart clench as you looked back at him, noticing his body lean closer to you on its own, as if drawn in by your presence. He leaned away immediately.

Oh I’m in so much trouble.

“This is the writers’ room,” he said, gesturing like a game show host. “Our sacred temple of half-baked ideas. No one’s allowed to erase the whiteboard unless they want to live with permanent shame.”

Your eyes scanned the chaotic scribbles as he bit back the urge to explain every inside joke on the walls.

He kept talking, stretching trivia across the silence like a flimsy shield against the thud of his own heartbeat. Every time you glanced his way, the air went thin around his heart. He stole looks when you weren’t watching: the furrow of your brow as you took everything in, the way you weren’t performing, not trying to impress, just being. And somehow that undid him more than anything else.

“And over here’s editing,” he continued, guiding you down another hallway. “The quiet zone. It looks calm, but don’t be fooled—everyone’s one corrupted file away from a breakdown.”

You tilted your head, fighting a grin. “You say that like you’re speaking from experience.”

Spencer pressed a hand to his chest in mock seriousness. “I’ve seen things. Whole timelines lost. Projects unsaved. It changes a man.”

Your amusement spilled free. Warmth sparked through him at the sound. Not just at the sound itself, but at how quickly you’d slipped into teasing him back, like you’d already decided he was safe to spar with.

Finally, he pushed open the studio doors. “And this is where the magic happens, where we sweat under too many lights and pray props don’t fall apart mid-take.”

You stepped inside, your face softening as you looked around. The lights overhead, the painted backdrops, the clutter of costumes and props— it was all familiar to him, but through your eyes, he saw it differently. 

“Wow,” you murmured.

“You’ll fit right in,” he said softly, meaning it with every nerve in his body.

You smiled, light and easy, and started toward the exit. Spencer followed a beat behind, hands shoved into his pockets, the buzz of your hand brushing his still lingering under his skin.

You smiled over your shoulder, and then you were gone—swept up in the noise of everyone welcoming you.

The studio emptied. The lights dimmed. The day moved on.

And Spencer told himself: I’m fine.

She was new. That was it. New to Smosh, new to the chaos of the office, new to LA. Of course she stood out. Everyone was making a big deal about her because that’s what they did when someone new joined— Shayne clowning too loudly, Amanda bringing up the “official welcome beverage,” Angela pretending it was an audition for a Broadway musical. Spencer had been through this cycle before. He should’ve been immune to it by now.

And yet... his eyes kept darting back, like there was a magnet behind his skull tugging them toward you.

This is literally day one. She doesn’t need me hovering. Play it cool, dude. 

He folded his arms, leaned against the wall like he had better things to do, like he wasn’t listening to every single word that came out of your mouth. He was good at it. Hovering on the edges of conversation, throwing in a sarcastic line here and there, then ducking out before anyone could pin him down. A casual background character. He also told himself it was background admiration, of your talent, confidence, humour. Nothing personal. 

So when he finally opened his mouth, he aimed for a standard Spencer one-liner. Dry, slightly weird, the kind of thing that usually earned him a pity chuckle before he retreated.

Your head tipped back, eyes crinkling as the sound burst out of you, too sharp and bright to be just polite. And that was when it landed in him, loud and insistent, right beneath his breastbone.

Oh. No. No, no, no.

It wasn't supposed to feel like that. Not jagged, not dizzying, not like a single moment had tilted his whole world off-balance. Not like every detail outside of you blurred until nothing else even registered.

The others carried on, Chanse doing a bad Angela impression, Courtney talking schedules, but Spencer stood frozen mid-smirk, drowning in the sound of you.

Pull it back. She’s new, she’s new, she’s new.

He grabbed his water bottle off the table, took a too-big gulp, and nearly choked on it just to have something to do. But when he looked back at you, you were still smiling at him. Your grin left an echo, something warm had lodged into his bones, impossible to shake.

And God help him, the urge to hoard it like contraband flared inside him. He wanted to say something else, anything else, just to see if he could pull that sound out of you again.

This might be bad. This was actually really bad.

This wasn’t safe. It wasn’t admiration. It was a spark catching on kindling he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

On the outside, Spencer stood casually against the wall, half-grinning like always. Inside, he was unraveling. He tried to convince himself it was the disruption of someone new, that tomorrow you’d just be another coworker, another voice in the background.

But deep down, he knew better.

And his plan worked for about three hours, until lunchtime arrived.

The office always got a little chaotic when food appeared. Half the group huddled around the kitchen counter like it was a feast, others sprawled on couches with laptops balanced on their knees, someone inevitably wandering off to find hot sauce in a desk drawer. He’d just settled into his usual corner of the couch, quietly demolishing his sandwich while the room buzzed around him.

You walked in, plate in hand, scanning the room for a spot. The universe, in its infinite cruelty, guided your gaze directly to him. The cushion dipped under your weight, and suddenly Spencer’s entire nervous system went on high alert.

She just needed a seat. Don’t make it a thing.

You turned, easy and bright, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve been here the longest, right? Well, at least one of the longest so I've heard.”

Spencer blinked. “Uh… yeah, I guess.”

“Then you’re the person I should bug about any Smosh lore. Unless you don’t want to be bugged.”

His first instinct was to deflect, to mumble something noncommittal and keep the distance he’d sworn to himself he’d maintain. Instead, his mouth betrayed him.

“Oh, no, I’m the perfect person to bug,” he said, words tumbling out faster than his brain could catch them. “I have, like, a thousand useless facts about this place. Like, did you know—”

And off he went.

About how the office used to have this one weird wall painted neon green for sketches that never saw the light of day. About how there was once a cursed bean bag nobody would sit on because an ex-employee had sex on it years ago. About the time a shoot ran three hours late because a giant rat had infiltrated the office.

Spencer noticed your eyes spark, and it feels like the floor shifted under him. He found himself gesturing more than usual, lowering his voice as if letting you in on forbidden secrets, even though everyone in the room knew these stories.

He was supposed to be casual. Professional. Distant. Instead, he was a runaway train.

And with every look, he felt himself sinking deeper. Spencer knew that his resolution was already dust. Because there was no distance in this. There was only the magnetic pull of your attention, the way it lit him up from the inside. He wanted to keep talking, to keep making you laugh, to keep earning those small smiles that felt like they were meant for him alone.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the rational voice was still yelling: You said you wouldn’t do this. Stop it.

But his heart wasn’t listening.

Not when you tilted your head, eyes bright, and said, “Okay, but you’ve gotta tell me about your favorite Smosh sketch you’ve ever done.”

Not when he caught himself smiling so wide it made his cheeks hurt.

Not when he realized that, against all better judgment, he didn’t want to stop.

By late afternoon, the office had slipped into that strange limbo where everyone was half-working, half-loitering, and all of them were running on too much caffeine. There were wires snaking across the floor, camera batteries charging in a tangle, and someone had left a half-eaten bag of pretzels on the kitchen counter that nobody wanted to claim but everyone kept eating.

Spencer was pretending to scroll through emails, though he hadn’t absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes. His brain was too loud. Every time he caught himself glancing in your direction, he had to mentally slap his own hand. Stop staring. Be normal. Normal coworkers don’t… gaze.

You were tucked into the corner of the break room, phone in hand, thumb scrolling too fast to actually be reading. You had that flat, distant look of someone trying to tether themselves to something familiar.

The shift inside his body, like someone had pressed a fingerprint on his lungs was instant. He shifted in his chair.

Don’t. Do not go over there.

But then you sighed, barely audible, and muttered under your breath what seemed to be out of habit: “I just… hope I don’t screw this up. Everyone’s so… fast. And funny. I’m not—I don’t know if I can keep up.”

Something happened.

He didn’t even realize he was standing until he was halfway across the room. Abort, abort, the rational part of his brain screamed, but the words were already on his tongue.

“You already fit in,” he blurted.

You blinked up at him, startled. “What?”

Too late. He had to commit now. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly hovering beside your chair. “I mean… they’re a lot. Like, too much even. But they’re gonna love you. Honestly, they probably already do.”

Three seconds of silence. Longest three seconds of his life.

Then you smiled. Small at first, like it snuck up on you, then wider, softer, and directed at him. 

You practically beamed at him.

Spencer felt it like a physical impact; hook, line, and sinker. 

He’s done for.

He scrambled for something else to say, something to lighten the weight of what had just slipped out. “I mean, don’t tell them I said that. They’ll never let me live it down. Tommy will write a whole sketch about it. Chanse will, like, choreograph a musical number.”

There was no coming back from this— this image of you looking at him like he wasn’t just some awkward guy in the corner, like he’d made you feel a little less alone.

He sat down before his legs betrayed him, pulling out the chair across from you. “Also if you ever need, like, a translator for… whatever the hell we’re doing at any given time, I can help. Been here long enough to speak fluent Smosh.”

“Fluent Smosh?” you repeated, amused.

He nodded solemnly, keeping a straight face only by sheer willpower. “Yeah. It’s mostly inside jokes and yelling. Sometimes there’s snacks involved too.”

That earned him another laugh, and he swore his ribcage wasn’t built to hold this much.

For a while, you just sat there, scrolling a little slower now, trading small comments back and forth. He didn’t press, didn’t ask why you’d looked overwhelmed, didn’t pry. He just stayed close enough to make sure you weren’t alone in it.

And maybe that was the moment— the quiet shift he’d never be able to undo. Because he wasn’t supposed to care this much. Not on day one. Not before you’d even found your footing. Spencer had thought he knew himself, knew how carefully he kept those lines drawn, how tightly he held the boundaries in place. But here he was, already rearranging his sense of gravity because of one person.

The building had wound down into its usual hum—footsteps fading, laughter echoing down the hall, someone still arguing about whether hot dogs counted as sandwiches. But Spencer felt detached from it, like everything around him had dimmed except the noise inside his own head.

He sat at his desk, staring into a cup of cold coffee he didn’t remember pouring, replaying every second of this day as though there might be some glitch, some point where he could rewind and stop this from happening.

Six hours. That’s all it had taken. Six, and his heart already felt rewritten.

He tried to rationalize it. He’d known people longer than this—months, years—without ever feeling anything close. You probably didn’t even know where the good bathroom was yet. And yet…

His mind had betrayed him. He’d already built entire futures in his head.

He could see it too vividly: you laughing in the kitchen while someone made terrible instant ramen, you scribbling notes during brainstorms, you slipping into bits mid-shoot like you’d been there for years. He imagined coming home and finding your jacket draped over his chair, your name showing up on the group chat like it had always belonged there. He imagined— God help him— the sound of you saying Agnew like it was yours, too.

It wasn’t just attraction. Not some casual oh, she’s cute. This was bone-deep. Like the universe had tapped him on the shoulder and said, hey, pay attention, this one is the one.

And Spencer hated it.

Not you. God, not you. But the timing. The impossibility. The speed of it, sharp as a trap. Love at first sight had always sounded like a lazy cliché to him— until now, when it felt less like a shortcut and more like an ambush.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, groaning under his breath. This was insane. He’d known people longer than you’d been in the building today and felt absolutely nothing. And now—what? He was ready to change his entire personality because you’d smiled at him across the table?

“Cool,” he muttered into the empty office, voice dripping sarcasm. “Totally cool. The girl says hi and you’re picturing her name on your mailbox. Very appropriate.”

The thought made his pulse stutter in a way that wasn’t funny at all. Because under the panic, under the disbelief, there was something terrifying in its clarity.

He wanted this. Too much, too soon, but real all the same.

He thought about how your eyes had crinkled when you laughed at his dumb joke earlier, how you’d leaned in like you actually wanted to hear what he had to say. He thought about how soft your smile had been when he’d blurted out you'd fit in.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, laughter slipping out sharp and bitter, like it had nowhere else to go. Then he dragged his hands down his face as he began to admit something he didn’t want to.

The truth had landed, brutal in its simplicity: he was already in love with you.

The admission hung in the empty room, weighty and inescapable.

Somewhere down the hall, someone shouted his name, dragging him back into the noise of the office. He stood still for a moment, reigning in his mind, drawing breaths through his nose like a man composing himself before war. Because this was war— against himself, against the electric hum you ignited in him without ever trying.

And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that no amount of logic was going to save him from this.

He hadn’t planned for love today. 

He’s puzzled, truly, by how you manage to get up in the morning. There’s no way an alarm is responsible. Maybe it’s some deeply attuned internal clock—some unconscious instinct honed over years of morning routines. Or maybe, Spencer thinks, he simply hasn’t been around long enough to witness the miracle that is you waking up.

Even though he has seen you asleep a handful of times now, you always ask him to wait for you to fall asleep and he always obliges. Tonight, however, he lies next to you for the second time ever, still trying to get used to the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone he likes without all the rules and expectations that usually crowd the space. He doesn’t know how to be here yet. So he doesn’t touch, not at first. He keeps a careful distance; his body a foot from yours, hands clasped at his chest like he’s bracing for impact. But his eyes never leave you.

He watches the way your eyelashes flutter faintly, the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the little sighs that escape when you shift. It makes something ache in him.

He reaches out, finally, to touch your cheek with the backs of his fingers, ever so light, it’s almost not a touch at all. Just a confirmation that you’re real. That this isn’t another one of his imagined futures.

Then you do something that knocks him of balance.

You mumble something unintelligible— his name, he imagines— and stretch out your arm toward him, searching, tugging gently at the space between you. “You’re so weird,” you whisper through sleep, barely forming the words. “So stiff. Just come here.”

And that’s when it happens. The quiet collapse of all his practiced restraint.

He doesn’t move right away, but something in him shifts. Spencer feels it like gravity pulling him closer to something he never quite thought he deserved. A kind of permission. A silent trust. You want him close, even like this. Especially like this.

Still, sleep does not find him for hours.

Spencer remains quiet, staring at the ceiling like it might hold answers for the maddening, tender, beautiful woman beside him.

He stays awake, listening to your breath, watching the way your nose scrunches every so often, memorizing the rhythm of your dreams. His body doesn’t know what to do with this kind of stillness, this kind of warmth that isn’t transactional or loaded with expectation. He is a guest in this moment. He’s invited, but still unsure of how to make himself at home.

He doesn’t hold you like a lover, not yet. He hasn’t quite learned the choreography of shared sleep, of hands resting and hearts slowing together. But he takes small steps into it. Quiet steps. Reverent ones.

And when the night has softened around the edges and the early hours begin to creep in, he finally allows himself in his indulgences. He slides closer, gathering you gently into his arms. He’s almost afraid to breathe too loud. His arms move, one snaking beneath you and the other coming to pull you closer until you are slotted in against his body. As close as he could be. Your head buried in his neck against the mattress and his was above yours, lifted by the pillow. You are completely and utterly encompassed in him. He breathes in your scent. The cleanliness of you. The smell of soap and body wash. He smells the faint scent of lavender in your hair, the clean cotton of your pajamas. 

He presses his cheek against the crown of your head and lets himself feel the terrifying weight of closeness. The simplicity of holding someone not because you have to, but because you can.

He doesn’t think about what it means. Not yet. Not now.

He just closes his eyes and lets the warmth of you settle into him like something permanent.

“Goodnight, my darling.”

x

The morning sun dances off her skin like that had been its sole purpose in traveling down from the sky. Like after billions of years of burning through space, the sun had made a private arrangement just to spill gold across your shoulder, your cheek, the line of your collarbone still tangled in a mess of cotton sheets.

The sheer white curtains of her bedroom did little to block out the light. Instead, they filtered it gently, turning it to warmth. The fabric swayed slightly in the breeze from a cracked-open window, the smell of dew and a hint of early jasmine drifting through.

The light is soft, curious. It likes the couple. It finds them pretty.

It paints different shapes across their faces— scattered beams breaking apart over eyebrows, stretching lazily across closed eyelids and the curve of a jaw. It toys with them gently, brushing over skin and warming their blankets, nudging shoulders and cheeks like a cat asking to be noticed.

But the couple doesn't seem to like it very much.

They do not wake slowly and romantically like in the movies. They flinch.

You groan first, muttering something about “the stupid sun” as you bury your face deeper into the pillow, dragging the sheet up to your forehead in protest. Your hair lays across the pillowcase, some strands stuck to your cheek from how deep you have been sleeping. You smell like sleep and lavender, and something sweet he can’t name.

Beside her, Spencer shifts with a low, disgruntled noise, cracking one eye open only to squint hard against the gold light pouring in.

“Is it morning?” he rasps, voice rough with sleep and disapproval.

You don’t answer him with words. Instead, your arm flops out blindly, locating his chest with the grace of a sleepwalker. You press your hand flat against him and sigh contently, like the effort of reaching him had been monumental but worth it.

“Why is it always morning?” you mumble into the pillow. “Every day. Just relentlessly.”

Spencer grins against the crook of his elbow, eyes still barely open. “Time tends to do that. It’s rude.”

You hum in agreement, your hand now absentmindedly rubbing at his chest. He catches it, lacing your fingers together without thinking about it. It’s the kind of gesture that will become second nature, soft and thoughtless in the best way.

The light catches his eyes as he turns toward you. They crinkle at the corners, still sleepy, but warm. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, defying gravity on the other. His t-shirt is twisted and hanging off one shoulder, and the sheet is tangled around his hips like it tried to hold him hostage and failed.

You peek up at him finally, one eye squinting. “You look dumb.”

He murmurs, “So do you.”

“Good,” you whisper, shifting closer. “Match made in morning hell then.”

He raised his hands like you were holding him at emotional gunpoint. “Okay, okay. Cease fire. I come in peace.”

You turned to him slowly, eyebrow arched like a warning sign. “You come with dramatics and no oat milk.”

He blinked, visibly wounded. “Wow. The attitude.”

You dropped the box of cereal onto the counter with a hollow thud, pressing your palms to the cool surface like it might ground you. “I’m just—” You cut yourself off, exhaling hard through your nose, your voice dropping to something tired and fraying at the edges. “I don’t have it in me today. The dishes are still in the sink. You left laundry in the basket after promising you’d fold it ‘in five’. Five what? Five hours? Days? Lifetimes? I’m not sure anymore. I’ve been doing things all day. I’ve had maybe ten seconds to myself today and eight of them were in the bathroom. And now you’re here, empty-handed and confused why I’m not in the mood for banter.”

Spencer stayed quiet for a moment, the goofy glint in his eye dimming into something more thoughtful. He pushed off the counter, arms dropping to his sides, and crossed the kitchen in a few slow steps. He tilted his head.

Then he said it:

“Stop– I was planning on romancing you later.”

You blinked.

“...What?”

He shrugged with a sheepish half-smile, stepping slightly closer. “I had a whole plan for this evening. Mood lighting. Back rub. Maybe shit poetry.”

You stared at him, deadpan. No movement. No blink. Just silence thick enough to stir a hint of panic in his expression.

And then like someone cut a wire, you broke. Something between a bark and a wheeze burst out of you that echoed off the kitchen tile. It startled even you. You doubled over, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing entirely.

“Romancing me?” you wheezed. “Later?”

Spencer was grinning now, delighted. He took another step forward, amused as you braced yourself against the counter. “Yeah! I mean, I figured I’d let you decompress, then swoop in with some charm and a playlist that subtly includes three songs I pretend aren’t about you.”

You shook with a fresh wave of mirth, your stomach already aching. “You were going to schedule seduction like it’s a meeting on Slack?”

“Oh, excuse me for respecting your time,” he said with mock offense. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You left the dishwasher half-loaded and were still planning to hit me with Shakespeare?”

“More like Keats. Or Neruda. Lots of yearning,” he said, voice low and teasing.

You practically slid down the cabinets, heels kicking against the floor, lungs burning from how hard you were laughing.

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“I was going to say something like ‘soak me into your skin and carry me around you for eternity’ while holding a candle. Maybe light some sandalwood. Romantic things like that.”

You snorted. “That sounds like a séance.”

“Only if you’re summoning feelings,” he said, winking.

You pushed his shoulder, still smiling. “You're the most absurd person I've ever loved.”

“Keyword love. So I win.”

You shook your head and turned back to the groceries, the tension that had built up in your chest now dissolving under the weight of laughter and his stupid, sincere grin.

You groaned, letting him wrap his arms around you. “You’re stupid.”

He kissed you. “Stupidly into you.”

Spencer moved beside you, wordlessly helping you unpack the rest of the bags.

He never tried to fix things with some over-the-top gesture or dramatic apology. Instead, it was always something smaller. A single line dropped at just the right moment, so casually it almost didn’t register until it hit you. But this time, like so many before, it landed. Cracked straight through your irritation like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. You hadn’t meant to laugh. You were still annoyed, still tense in that coiled, brittle way that came after a long day.

But there he was yet again, tipping the moment off its axis just enough to shift your perspective. And the worst part? It worked. It always worked. Because he never used it to avoid the hard stuff— just to remind you it didn’t have to swallow you whole.

A few minutes later, as you closed the cabinet and leaned against the counter, he sidled up next to you and nudged your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently.

You looked at him.

“I’m sorry I left the dishes and the laundry. I got distracted, and I forgot. I’ll do better.”

There it was: the part that mattered. Not just the laughter, but the accountability.

“I know,” you said, voice softer now. “I just needed you to meet me halfway.”

“I will,” he said, and you believed him.

He reached for your hand. “And for the record, the back rub offer still stands. I may not have a candle, but I do have very average upper body strength for a man and a playlist that includes a suspicious amount of Hozier.”

You tilted your head. “Romancing me now instead of later?”

He grinned. “Why wait?”

You let him pull you into his arms, your forehead against his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing circles into your back. The groceries were put away, the sink was still full, but for a moment, everything felt right, perfectly you and him; the chaos and the humour, the short fuses and the deep affection underneath it all.

You exhaled into his hoodie and mumbled, “You are lucky I find you funny.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he whispered. “It’s a finely honed survival instinct.”

And when your chest shook with another soft, involuntary chuckle, he kissed the top of your head.

x

Later, after dinner and a half-hearted promise to finish the dishes, Spencer disappeared for a suspiciously long time….

You were curled on the couch, phone in hand, mostly scrolling but not really reading. The apartment was quiet — too quiet for Spencer to still be in it without causing mild chaos. No off-key humming from the kitchen. No dramatic sighs from the hallway. No clattering of something being dropped followed by a muttered, “Totally meant to do that.” Not even one of his signature “Where’s my—oh, never mind, it was in my hand” moments.

Then the lights dimmed. Like, not flickered. Not a normal bulb-going-out dim. They lowered. Intentionally. Soft and gradual, like someone was trying to set the mood at a dinner theater or seduce a Victorian ghost.

You started to rise, squinting at the hallway.

You sat up a little straighter. “Spencer?”

There was a soft clink. Then the unmistakable flick of a lighter.

“No sudden movements,” his voice came from the kitchen. “Romance is a delicate process and I only bought two tealights.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously-?”

“Shhh,” he said. “You’ll scare the ambiance.”

From somewhere out of view, his voice floated in, way too casual. “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”

Which, historically, meant everything was absolutely not under control.

Soft shuffles announced his return before you even saw him. When he stepped into view, you were graced by a man with your oversized sweater hanging off his frame like it belonged there, mismatched socks sliding across the floor, a plate of.. something in one hand and a mug cradled carefully in the other. He looked smug like he’d just invented comfort.

“I bring offerings,” he announced solemnly.

You couldn’t help it– your face cracked into a grin.

He set the mug and plate on the coffee table like he was presenting a feast to royalty.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “As previously scheduled: sweeping the love of my life off their feet.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. “So what’s the plan, Romeo?”

He turned toward you, crossing his legs. “Well, first: compliments. I’ve heard those are romantic. So here we go.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I like your face,” he said without irony..

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Be still, my beating heart.”

“I’m not done.” He cleared his throat again, now fully performing. “I also like how you get irrationally annoyed at me but still feed me. I like how your socks never match and how you clearly think no one notices, but I do, and I think it’s kind of art.”

You looked away, trying not to smile, but he noticed.

“I like how you pretend not to cry during commercials, but I hear you sniffle,” he continued, voice softening a little as he reached the end. “Especially that one with the dog who finds his way home after, like, five winters and a snowstorm. You act tough, but you’re not. Not with me.”

He paused, like the weight of that last line landed even more than he meant it to. Then, with a teasing grin to cut the tension, he added, “I also like that you’re kind even when you’re tired. And that you let me be weird. And that you still laugh at me even when I’m testing your last nerve.”

You looked back at him. He wasn’t grinning anymore.

“Something about you makes me feel like there’s something about me worth sticking around for, and I think that’s all I need.”

He just stared at you, steady and unhurried, like whatever else the night held could wait. Like sitting here with you, in this exact moment, was the whole point. Like you were the plan.

“Spencer,” you said softly, your voice catching a little.

He reached for the mug and held it out. “And now, hot chocolate.”

You took it from him with both hands, and he watched you for a moment before leaning in, not too close, just enough that his voice lowered.

“You looked like you were carrying the whole world earlier,” he said. “I wanted to be the reason you could set it down.”

Your throat tightened, the words hitting with more weight than you expected like he’d peeled something back and touched the exact part of you that had been aching all day. There were crumbs on the coffee table from whatever attempt he’d made at dessert, and one of the candles was sputtering like it regretted being involved. The romantic plan hadn’t gone entirely smoothly, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he’d tried. This was Spencer. Trying. Loving you in a language all his own.

But it was his effort that made it beautiful.

He was sitting close, legs folded, one hand resting near yours but not pushing. Like he knew you needed a second to breathe. Like he was willing to let the silence speak for a while.

You smiled, tears threatening but not falling.  “You are so weird.”

“I know,” he said, nudging his knee against yours. “But so are you.”

You held up the mug in a small toast. “To being weird and to being romanced.”

He clinked the spoon against the side of it. “Romance level: chaotic good.”

You laughed, leaning into his side. The music played softly in the background, the candle flickered bravely, and you thought: yeah.

This might not be what romance looks like in the movies.

It wasn’t romantic. Not in the glossy, cinematic way you’d always imagined your first big moment might look. No swelling music, no conveniently falling snow outside the window or a dramatic thunderstorm and a gut wrenching confession of true love. Just the soft flicker of dying kitchen lights, and a hoodie you were pretending not to be sweating in because it technically wasn’t yours. Spencer had tossed it at you earlier when you mentioned being cold. 

Across from you, Spencer leaned against the opposite counter. His arms were folded, his posture relaxed, but his gaze wasn’t casual. He wasn’t looking through you or around you or anywhere else to make things easier. He was looking at you. Like you were the most compelling thing in the room, even with nothing to say.

He did that a lot. Look at you like you were worth listening to, even in silence. There was no need to perform to be worth his attention.

You should’ve been used to it by now. You’d been hanging out with him for months— slowly, gently, like orbiting closer to a sun you hadn’t realized you needed warmth from until you felt it. He was funny without trying too hard, soft without apologizing for it, and for some reason you hadn’t figured out yet, he liked you. He texted you first. He always remembered your coffee order. He laughed at your dumbest jokes like they were actually funny.

And he looked at you like this.

It made your skin buzz; not of excitement nor nerves, but something harder to pin down. A slow, crawling awareness under your skin as if your body had suddenly realised you were being seen. The attention felt too tender, too direct, as if you were standing too close to a heat source without knowing if you were supposed to warm your hands or back away.

You tugged at the edge of your sleeve, fingers finding the loose seam you always picked at when you were trying to seem smaller than you felt. Crossed your ankles, uncrossed them, crossed again like maybe your limbs could distract your brain. The rim of your mug gave your thumbnail something to do, tap-tap-tap, like a metronome measuring how long you could hold this stillness without breaking.

You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you like that. You hoped it was something good or maybe warm. But there was still that tiny voice in the back of your mind, the one warning you that he might see too much. That if he kept looking long enough, he’d notice the uneven edges — all the awkwardness, the lateness, the parts of you that always felt like too much.

And still… you didn’t look away.

So you sat there, buzzing, and let yourself be looked at. Just long enough to wonder what it might feel like to believe it.

Spencer didn’t say anything. He just kept watching like he was giving you space and time to get there on your own.

He was patient like that. Part of you wondered if he’d been waiting for you to make the first move all along. Part of you worried he was only still here because he was too polite to leave.

But then he'd glance at you like now and all of that noise faded.

The silence stretched between you, and underneath it all— beneath the hum of the fridge, the faint clatter of a distant neighbor’s TV, the warm press of the mug in your palms— was the quiet, inescapable truth that something was about to shift.

You just weren’t sure who was going to speak first.

You took a sip of your tea, mostly just to do something with your hands. “I think I’ve hit a new record for number of times I’ve said ‘cool’ in a single conversation.”

Spencer smiled. “You only said it four times.”

“That’s three too many.”

“Eh.” He shrugged, pushing off the counter and walking toward the sink. “I say ‘unfortunately’ like it’s a comma. You’re fine.”

You let the silence settle again, watching him rinse out a glass. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Not lazy, just… unbothered. It gave you the impression that nothing about this moment needed to be rushed. That part always made you a little nervous too. Because he made space so easily, and you never quite knew what to do with it.

You set the mug down.

“Hey,” you said, a little too quickly. “Can I tell you something weird?”

Spencer didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Always.”

You swung your foot slightly, trying to summon some kind of courage. “You’re… my first boyfriend.”

He paused, for exactly two milliseconds, before answering. “Okay.”

Okay?

You blinked. “Okay?”

He gave you a soft look, a smile still in the corners of his mouth. “I mean, yeah. Cool. You’re my girlfriend. That’s how that works.”

You huffed, not quite a laugh. “I just thought— I don’t know, maybe you’d think it’s weird.”

“Why would I think that?”

“I’m in my mid-twenties,” you said, gesturing vaguely like the number itself was some kind of punchline. “Most people figured this stuff out years ago.”

He leaned back against the counter again, casual and easy, like that settled everything. 

“Still not hearing a problem.”

You had no idea how to explain it to him. The feeling you’d carried for years that was heavy and embarrassing in a way you never quite knew how to put into words. It had been there like a clock set a few beats slow, always a step behind the rhythm of everyone else at sleepovers and birthday parties and crowded bars, ticking on its own time while you pretended not to notice.

For as long as you could remember, there had been this nameless entity inside of you that raked its nails across your organs. You had always wished for someone to choose you on purpose. Not by chance, not out of comfort, but because when they looked at you, they saw something worth holding on to. You wanted someone who would choose you publicly, freely, and not just when the lights were off and no one else was looking. You wanted to be the reason, not the regret. 

The fridge let out a mechanical groan, a quiet reminder that the real world was still here.

It made you remember sitting in the corner of some basement in high school while everyone else passed around bottles and secrets, laughing too loud, spinning stories about first kisses — soft, clumsy, breathless things — and how you’d laughed along, nodding like you knew. Like you weren’t lying, like you weren’t completely outside the joke.

There was always a moment, in those stories, where there was like a window between you and everyone else — clear, thin, but unbreakable. You could see them, you could hear them, but no one could really see you.

And how well you knew that crushing weight, the one that settled over you whenever your friends got approached by men while you stood awkwardly beside them, invisible. Not just to the guys, but sometimes, painfully, to your friends too. Always the one on the sidelines, listening to their boy drama and the highs of their happy relationships, while you sat there, silently unraveling. “What’s wrong with me?” you’d wonder. “If everyone else is in a relationship or at least talking to someone… am I not lovable?”

Too big. Too noticeable. Too easy to joke about and too hard to love, or so you’d been led to believe.

So you taught yourself to shrink in other ways. Bigger clothes, smaller dreams. You learned how to pull focus away from your body; be funny, be smart, be chill. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t hope too loudly. Don’t want. It felt embarrassing to even want a relationship in a world that had shown you time and time again: it just wasn’t in the cards for you. 

And that feeling had followed you well into adulthood like a shadow you avoided talking about. You kept waiting for the moment it would disappear; that you’d catch up somehow, outgrow the ache of being behind.

But it didn’t.

“I just…” you started, then stopped, your fingers tightening around the chipped rim of your mug. “I feel like I missed a whole phase of life everyone else got.”

The words stuck in your throat for a second.

“Like I showed up late,” you said, finally, “and the party’s already winding down. Everyone’s already danced, and spilled drinks, and had their messy moments. And I just got here, trying to catch up with no compass.”

Spencer moved across the kitchen slowly, like he was approaching something fragile. He knew not to startle the moment. 

When he stopped, he was standing between your knees. His hands came to rest on the edge of the counter, one on each side of your legs. Just near enough that you could feel his warmth radiating through the space between.

“You didn’t miss anything,” he said, voice low, almost like he didn’t want to scare the thought away. “You just took your time. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

You looked at him, eyes stinging a little more than you expected.

He didn’t look at you with pity. Not with amusement. Just that same steady kind of interest he always had like you were a story worth reading slowly. 

“Besides,” he added, a little softer, “the party’s better now that you’re here.”

You couldn’t look at him. Instead, you kept playing with your hair. “You don’t think it’s… I don’t know. Weird? Sad?”

“I think it’s yours,” he said. “Your timing. Your pace. Yours to give when you’re ready. And I’m really lucky you chose me to give it to.”

That was enough to send you spiraling.

You’d had dates before. Sort of. There had been a few flirty conversations that never quite turned into plans, a couple of almosts that fizzled before they ever had the chance to become something real. You had late-night texts that felt promising until they didn’t, compliments that came with caveats, or worse: jokes you were expected to laugh at, as if your body was to be apologized for in advance.

You were used to being the big girl. The bigger friend. The one with the big laugh and the quick wit. People liked you. They just didn’t look at you the way you wanted to be looked at. And when they did, it always seemed to come with hesitation, like they were weighing some equation in their head. Maybe they were working up the courage to cross some invisible line.

It left you feeling like you were always too something. Too soft. Too much. Too visible in a world that preferred you smaller, quieter, easier to overlook. Too hopeful, too late. Like wanting to be chosen without being treated like a compromise was already asking too much.

And Spencer, he didn’t look at you like that. He never had. His gaze never lingered in pity or calculation. He looked at you like you were a moment he didn’t want to miss, that being here, with you, was the whole point.

And that terrified you, because part of you still wondered if love was a language written in sizes you weren’t allowed to speak. But maybe you didn’t have to shrink to fit.

You finally met his eyes.

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you said.

The air shifted like the room had paused to listen.

Spencer’s gaze flicked over your face. Soft like the warmth of a lamp turned on in winter.

“Okay,” he said again, and then: “Do you want to?”

You felt your breath catch. How do you just ask someone that so casually? God, you hated how easily he could make things seem so simple. You nodded, tiny and unsure.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, lower this time.

You nodded again.

And then— he kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t polished. It unfolded slowly, with a kind of care that caught you off guard. His mouth met yours like a question. It was warm, real, and just the slightest bit hesitant, like he was letting you set the pace without saying a word. His hand rose to your cheek, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw, steady and featherlight, like he was afraid to press too hard. Like you were delacate— not in a breakable way, but in the way someone cradles a brand-new thing they’re afraid to mishandle. 

The soft pressure of his lips was unfamiliar but grounding, not perfect or practiced, but honest. And in that closeness, in that still, tentative offering of himself, something in you shifted. Something you’d kept buried under layers of self-doubt and years of wondering. It stirred, stretched, and then slowly unfurled. You didn’t feel like an afterthought or a backup plan. In that moment, wrapped in the hush of the kitchen and the warmth of his hands, you felt chosen. Not despite anything. But with everything.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes stinging a little with the kind of emotion that didn’t have a clean name. “Yes. Just… didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Spencer smiled, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t do it late. Just… right.”

His face softened even more, if that was possible. “You didn’t do it late. You did it when it meant something.”

You let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, resting your forehead lightly against his. You stayed like that for a moment, both of you quiet, both of you holding the weight of something that wasn’t fear anymore. Just possibility.

“You’re still my first everything,” you said.

He nodded, not moving away. “Then I’ll be really gentle with all of it.”

And that— God, that— settled deep in your chest, a tenderness so precise it almost hurt.

Not the kind of ache that comes from being unseen, or left out, or made to feel like a detour in someone else’s story. This was different. This was warm and unfurling in your ribs, something sacred being met without hesitation. For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like you were catching up to some invisible timeline or trying to disguise the parts of yourself that took longer to bloom. You finally felt like you— exactly where you were supposed to be. Held in a kind of hushed reverence that had nothing to do with experience, and everything to do with the way he saw you. Not as someone missing pieces, but as someone whole. Someone who mattered.