#nuelleswritez

You hadn’t meant for it to take so long.

When you got the call from your mom, worried about your grandmother’s health and not being able to care for her full-time— it was originally only going to be a couple of weeks, one month tops, according to your mother—it was just until she could get time off her busy work schedule. 

So you packed light, reassured everyone at Smosh you’d be back before anyone missed you, and kissed Trevor goodbye—after convincing him you didn’t need him to come with you, it was just a couple of weeks—with a promise of Facetiming every day, he reluctantly let you go.

The first week went as planned.  You called him every night, laughing about dumb tweets he sent you and the way he’d aim the camera just so you could see the office’s newest chaotic mess. While you fought sleep, he talked about everything you were missing, making sure you wouldn’t be left out on any joke or bit that was being said during meetings. He even called you at night (for him) to see what you were up to during your days with your family. It was like you were both still next to each other, never missing a beat in your lives.

But then your mom’s work kept her longer than expected. Your grandmother’s health dipped, and you couldn’t imagine leaving her in that state. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Calls got shorter, sometimes just quick check-ins when you were both exhausted. And somewhere in the shuffle, you realized you hadn’t actually seen Trevor’s face in over a month.

You knew he understood. Trevor never made you feel guilty for staying, but you also knew him. Knew he missed you, even if he didn’t say it outright. That knowledge sat heavy in your chest every night.

So when your grandmother’s health finally stabilized and your mom took over again, you didn’t tell Trevor you were coming home. You just booked the ticket, packed your bag, and texted Courtney the plan. 

The Smosh office was exactly as you remembered it: the hum of lights, the faint smell of coffee and hair product, and the low buzz of voices from the editing room.

Courtney met you by the front door, grinning like she was about to burst. “They’re filming right now. Trevor’s here.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You better be ready, ‘cause he’s gonna lose his mind.” 

Just as the two of you were sneaking in, trying to avoid any spoiling eyes, you came across Angela in the hallway. She froze mid-step, eyes going wide before she broke into a smile so big it crinkled at the corners.

“No way— you’re back?!” she whispered, her voice pitched low but still buzzing with excitement.

You grinned, pressing a finger to your lips. “Shh, he doesn’t know.”

Angela’s eyes sparkled, and she covered her mouth like she was physically holding in a squeal. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” She gave Courtney a quick, giddy glance. “You’re getting this on camera, right?”

“Already planning on it,” Courtney murmured, tugging your sleeve to keep moving before anyone else spotted you.

Angela gave you both a little wave and mouthed, Go get him, before darting off toward the kitchen set, no doubt to quietly spread the word without tipping off Trevor.

The two of you kept on, slipping into the main set room like shadows. From your hiding spot behind the cameras, you caught your first glimpse of him— seated in a circle with the others, leaning forward with that mischievous grin that always spelled trouble. 

They were filming Werewolf. You recognized the soft background music and the way everyone’s eyes were shut tight while the app narrated dramatically.

“...And now, the werewolves will open their eyes.” There was a beat, the werewolf (who you were positive was Trevor) milking the moment for all its worth.

Trevor’s head lifted. His eyes blinked open, immediately darting to find his partner in crime for the round — but instead, they landed on you.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared like maybe the game was playing tricks on him. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something, but the app narrator continued. 

“And the werewolves will now close their eyes…”

Trevor didn’t close his. Couldn’t. His lips twitched up into the smallest, most disbelieving smile, and he mouthed your name before finally obeying the rules and shutting them again.

By the time everyone wrapped up the night phase and everyone “woke up,” Trevor was already on his feet, ignoring whatever accusation Damien was spinning.

“Uh—Trevor?” Shayne said, confused.

But Trevor was already crossing the circle, his footsteps quickening until he was practically jogging. He didn’t care that they were mid-shoot, didn’t care about the crew watching — he just wrapped you up in a hug so tight it knocked the breath out of you. Your face buried into his shoulder immediately, breathing him in. He smelled like laundry detergent and the faint spice of whatever gum he was chewing.

Your hands fisted into the back of his shirt as your eyes stung. 

“You’re not allowed to do that again,” he said, smiling even as his eyes shone.

“I missed you, too,” you whispered.

He leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes bright and damp. “You have no idea.” Then he pulled you in again, tighter than before, as if he let go, you’d disappear all over again.

“I thought—” his voice cracked, muffled in your hair. “I thought I was gonna have to wait ‘til Christmas to see you.” 

Before you could respond, he cupped your face in both hands and kissed you — quick, warm, and almost desperate, like he’d been saving it for months. The crew let out a chorus of “awwws,” someone wolf-whistled, and you felt his smile curve against your lips before he pulled you back into his chest.

Somewhere behind you, Courtney whispered gleefully, “Best werewolf twist ever.”

“Okay, that’s sweet and all,” Shayne’s voice piped up, “but you really couldn’t have called me first so I could bet money on his reaction?”

Arasha gasped dramatically. “You bet? This is love, Shayne! A cinematic reunion!”

Amanda was clutching her chest like she’d just watched the final scene of a romance movie. “I swear, if either of you cries, I’m crying too.”

You pulled back enough to glance around, cheeks warm. “Hi, guys.”

Trevor didn’t let you go. If anything, he tightened his grip, throwing a quick, half-serious glare at the rest of the crew. “None of you is stealing them from me. They’re mine. I’ve got months of missed hugs to make up for.”

“Do we need to pencil you two out for the rest of the shoot?” Angela—who you can only assume ran in once she had finished updating everyone outside—asked, smirking.

Trevor didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

That earned laughter from the crew, but no one pushed. You felt his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back, his other hand hooked firmly at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish again if he let go.

What you didn’t realize until much later was that Courtney’s phone wasn’t the only camera rolling on this reunion.

The main Werewolf cameras had caught every second—from the exact moment Trevor’s eyes landed on you during the “wake up” phase to the kiss, the crew’s reactions, and even Shayne’s ill-timed betting comment.

When the Werewolf episode finally went up weeks later, it played out like a normal round… until suddenly, Trevor was gone.

Viewers were quick to point it out in the comments:

“Wait, why is Angela sitting where Trevor was??” “Forget Where’s Anthony?! Where’s Trevor?”

The editors let the confusion simmer for the entire video, never explaining why Trevor had vanished mid-game.

Two days later, a YouTube Short appeared on the Smosh channel titled: “Why Trevor Disappeared in Werewolf 👀”

The Short opened with Shayne, Angela, and Arasha sitting at the React desk, the reunion footage playing on a laptop in front of them.

Shayne paused the video right at the moment Trevor spots you. “This. This is the exact second the man mentally quit Werewolf.”

Angela snorted. “And the second I got promoted to Werewolf without warning.”

Arasha was already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry, I’ve seen this like six times and I still get emotional.”

The clip resumed, showing Trevor running over to hug and kiss you. Shayne groaned theatrically. “See, this is why I should’ve put money on it. I could’ve retired.”

Angela leaned toward the camera. “For the record, I killed it as the replacement werewolf.”

The Short ended with all three of them waving at the camera, Shayne signing off with: “Anyway, mystery solved. Love wins. Back to your regularly scheduled chaos.”

Trevor swore he didn’t care about the attention — but when you caught him rewatching both the reunion and the Short later that night, cheeks pink and that goofy smile on his face, you knew he was secretly going to treasure it forever.

And honestly? So were you.

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“And I’m not saying Courtney went feral during the improv challenge, but when she climbed onto the table, screamed ‘I’M YOUR NEW GOD NOW,’ and tried to baptize Damien with a Capri Sun? That’s not ‘yes and’—that’s ‘arrest her.’”

Spencer snorted softly, curled up beside you on the Smosh green room couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned his cheek on his knuckles and watched you with that tiny half-smile that meant he was enjoying this, even if his mouth didn’t move much. But his eyes—his eyes were soft, full of the kind of quiet love that didn’t need words. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than next to you, listening.

“And THEN,” you continued, shifting to face him better, “Emily tried to de-escalate with the puppy voice, which just made it worse, and honestly? At that point, we all deserved chaos.”

“You always choose violence,” Spencer murmured.

“I choose accuracy.” You sipped your drink. “Anyway. I haven’t even told you what happened after filming. Do you wanna guess how many times Shayne dropped his mic?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Three?”

“Five. Five. One of them bounced into a plant. It’s in the blooper reel.”

He grinned. Still quiet. Still watching.

And you knew this rhythm by now.

You yapped. You rambled. You ping-ponged from story to insult to theory, sometimes circling back like a walking Google rabbit hole, like if Wikipedia got caffeine and a personality. And Spencer? Spencer sat with you in it. Always listening and always nodding at just the right moment. Always smirking when you hit a particularly unhinged punchline, like he’d been waiting for it the whole time. He never interrupted. Never rushed you. Just watched you like you were his favorite show, soaking in every wild tangent like it made perfect sense. Like your voice was the best background noise the world had to offer—and maybe the main event, too.

You paused for a beat. “I talk too much.”

Spencer blinked. “No, you don’t.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, you talk a lot,” he amended, eyes warm. “But it’s never too much.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hide it with sass. “You know, most people would say ‘shut up’ by now.”

“I’m not most people,” he said simply.

And that… made something in your chest tug.

You softened. “You ever get tired of listening to me?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“Even when I rant about my neighbor’s emotional support chinchilla at 2 a.m.?”

“That was riveting.”

“Even when I psychoanalyze everyone’s childhood via their Starbucks orders?”

He smiled. “I still think about Shayne’s being a cry for help.”

You laughed, warm and caught off guard.

Spencer reached out—quietly, slowly—and brushed his fingers against yours on the couch. You blinked at him.

“I like your voice,” he said.

You stilled.

“It’s not just the stories or the jokes,” he went on, gaze focused, steady. “It’s you. You could read the back of a cereal box, and I’d still sit here like it was a movie.”

Your face heated. “...You’re literally in a room with trained comedians.”

“I’m aware.” He leaned in a little. “Still only listening to you.”

You bit your lip, heart stuttering.

“You gonna kiss me or just compliment me to death?”

His voice dropped, low and teasing. “You gonna let me?”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him like you’d been waiting through three seasons and two spin-offs.

His hand caught the side of your face halfway through, steady and careful, like he couldn’t believe this was real—but wasn’t about to let it go. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy. It was exactly right—warm and a little dizzying, like laughing too hard in the sun.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, eyes still half-lidded, Spencer just smiled.

That soft, crooked little smile like you’d just handed him the moon.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, still looking at your mouth. “Gimme a sec. My brain's doing the Windows loading wheel thing.”

You laughed, giddy and flushed.

He tucked a hand behind your knee, squeezing gently. “Okay. Yeah. I'm fine. Great, actually. You kissed me. That's… illegal levels of cool.”

You grinned. “I’ll confess later.”

Spencer leaned in again, forehead pressed to yours. “No rush. I’m a patient man....You’re gonna have so much to say about this, huh?”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. Buckle up.”

He nodded.

“Cool,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”

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You were halfway through color-coding Ian’s week when the glass door opened, and your day instantly worsened.

He walked in like he’d been practicing it: smooth gait, tailored navy blazer, no visible socks. The kind of guy who wore a watch specifically to show off that he didn’t need a smartwatch to stay on top of things—he had people for that. And apparently, today? You were one of them.

“Hi there,” he said, flashing teeth so white they were probably copyrighted. “You must be the one who keeps the circus from catching fire.”

You didn’t even look up from your monitor. “That’s the goal.”

He leaned a forearm on your desk like this was a sales convention and not a functioning content studio. “I’m Bradley. Strategic investments. Ian said I should ‘shadow the workflow’ today, but I’m really just here to see the talent in action.”

You finally looked up. “You’ll want the bullpen, then. Back hallway, third left.”

“Oh, I’m in no rush,” he said smoothly, eyes sweeping your desk. “Besides… I think I already found the real star.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but needed to stay professional, so all you did was blink at him. “That line works on other assistants?”

He chuckled. “You’re funny. And quick. A deadly combo.”

“I prefer ‘highly scheduled and politely impatient.’”

He laughed again—too loud, too rehearsed. “What’s your name?”

You gave it. You couldn’t come up with a good and professional reason not to. And you regretted it instantly.

Mistake #1: Eye contact.

Mistake #2: Letting him know you had a name.

“Well, Y/N,” he said, drawing out the syllables like he’d invented them. “Have you ever considered scaling your role? With your skill set, I could see you running entire teams.”

“I’m already running one,” you said, tapping your tablet. “Smosh.”

“Touché,” he said, unbothered. “But if you’re ever looking for a more… refined environment—one with perks, bonuses, corner offices—I’d be happy to discuss it. Maybe over lunch?”

There it was. The smile. The lean. The casual, calculated suggestion. ugh

You didn’t flinch. “Thanks, but I’m happy where I am. Especially with my boyfriend dropping off coffee and cat memes every morning.”

Bradley raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” You smiled tightly. “Big fan of hoodies. Great jawline. Plays weird little games for a living.”

He tilted his head like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t like the answer to. “So… he’s talent?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re not worried about mixing business and pleasure?”

You tilted your head right back. “Not when the business respects me. And the pleasure has manners.”

A flicker passed across his face—too quick to call offense, too practiced to be real. But you saw it.

He gave a tight smile. “Point taken. But if you ever change your mind…”

You didn’t let him finish.

“I don’t plan to.”

You didn’t even have to say anything. By hour two, the entire cast and crew had clocked Bradley’s vibe—and they were not impressed.

Courtney popped her head into the hallway just as Bradley leaned over your desk for the third time that hour.

“Wow,” she said loudly, “do investor bros always hover, or is this a custom feature?”

Bradley straightened, flashing a smile. “Just taking an interest in the workflow. You all run a tight ship.”

Courtney looked at you. You gave her your best please don’t commit violence face.

She raised both hands and walked off muttering, “Tight ship, my ass.”

Next came Damien.

You were trying to update the equipment checklist on your tablet when he strolled by, wearing sunglasses indoors and carrying a prop flaming sword over his shoulder.

He paused.

Squinted at Bradley.

Turned to you and asked, “Is this guy bothering you?”

You didn’t look up. “I’m fine.” You were getting good at ignoring the man's—the boys'—presence.

He pointed the sword at Bradley and said, “Just say the word, and he gets a two-minute head start.”

Bradley blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Damien grinned. “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you.”

Bradley scurried off—temporarily, at least.

You sighed and leaned your head against the wall.

A few minutes later, Shayne appeared at your desk, holding two LaCroix cans like peace offerings.

He handed one over. “So. Our new corporate overlord is gross.”

“I’m handling it,” you muttered, cracking the can open.

“I know,” Shayne said. “You’re doing great. But also—if you want me to spill something on him accidentally, I’m clumsy.”

You arched a brow. “Are you offering me… a staged workplace soda accident?”

“Two,” he said, holding up his other can. “One for the shoes, one for the watch.”

You laughed, finally—short and sharp. “Tempting.”

Shayne leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Spencer knows yet?”

“No. He’s filming. And I don’t want him to spiral into ‘protective golden retriever’ mode.”

“I give it twenty minutes,” Shayne said.

And he was off by about five.

Spencer wasn’t the most observant person in the building.

He got distracted easily—by snack tables, rogue sound guys, and whatever the hell Damien was doing with that fog machine last week. But when it came to you? He didn’t miss much.

So the moment he stepped into the bullpen that afternoon, iced coffee in one hand and hoodie sleeve pushed up the other, he spotted you.

Specifically, you, standing near the shoot schedule wall. And Bradley—standing way too close, with that fake laugh Spencer already hated and a shirt that looked like it cost more than Spencer’s entire closet.

Bradley was leaning in, saying something. You had your tablet held like a shield. Your face wore that polite, I’m tolerating this so I don’t get sued smile.

Spencer’s stomach dropped.

He crossed the room in five slow steps, weaving past Courtney and Arasha mid-conversation. Shayne caught his eye. Raised an eyebrow. Almost as if to say I’ve got your back, Spencer just nodded once and kept walking.

Calm. Easy. But close enough to let the guy know, you’re not alone.

“Hey, babe,” Spencer said, voice soft as he stepped behind you, one hand sliding instinctively to your lower back. “You good?”

You looked up, and your smile instantly turned real.

“Yeah. Just finalizing timing for the B-studio block.”

Spencer nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave Bradley.

The guy looked between you both, blinking.

“Sorry,” Bradley said slowly. “You two are…?”

“Dating,” you answered quickly, professional tone never slipping. “Have been for a while.”

Spencer added, with a perfectly polite smile, “Long enough to know she hates being called ‘assistant of the year.’”

Bradley’s grin stiffened. “Right. Well. Good for you two.”

“Thanks,” you said lightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a location conflict to fix.”

Bradley took a deliberate step back. “Of course.”

Spencer held your gaze as you turned, guiding you by the hand toward the side hallway.

The second you were out of earshot, you exhaled.

“Okay, that was subtle. Ish.”

Spencer squinted. “Did he really call you assistant of the year?” Asking about the text you had sent him during one of your breaks.

You nodded.

“And try to ask you to lunch?”

You nodded again.

Spencer blinked. “I’m going to pour LaCroix in his briefcase.”

You snorted. “Please don’t. Ian still needs to fire him gently.”

Spencer tilted his head. “...What if I just gently knock over a bottle near it?”

You bumped his shoulder. “Just be here. That’s more than enough.”

He smiled then, soft and slow and only for you. “Always.”

By late afternoon, things had reached peak tension. The vibe was dead. Not just off—dead.

Everyone was avoiding the common areas. Damien had “accidentally” moved his shoot to the other side of the building. Courtney had taken her laptop outside. You, stuck at your desk near Ian’s office, were once again being treated to Bradley’s thoughts on “audience expansion” and how “Smosh had potential—it just needed direction.”

You were moments away from faking an emergency fire drill when Ian’s door creaked open.

“Hey,” he called to you, voice deceptively casual. “Mind stepping in for a sec?”

Bradley, ever the opportunist, started to follow.

Ian held up a hand without looking. “Just her.”

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

Ian was standing by his desk, arms folded. His expression was unreadable—but you’d worked with him long enough to recognize that tight-jawed calm. It was the calm right before a storm. Or a corporate takedown.

“I’ve made a decision,” he said.

You raised a brow. “About Bradley?”

Ian’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Yeah. I’m done watching that guy flirt with you like he’s trying to win a prize on The Price Is Right.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed.

Ian smirked. “I’ve seen that look on your face. You’ve been walking on eggshells for four hours. Not because you can’t handle him, but because you’re too professional to make a scene.”

You shrugged. “Someone’s gotta be.”

“Well, good news,” Ian said, sitting on his chair and already opening his laptop. “I’m not.” He sent you on your way, and as you walked in, Bradley took that opportunity to send a wink at you as he walked into Ian’s office.

Bradley had spent the better part of thirty minutes trying to corner Ian in his office with phrases like “brand synergy” and “scalable verticals.” Ian, to his credit, hadn’t lit anything on fire. Yet.

From your desk outside the office, you heard it: the signature sigh. The one Ian only made when someone pitched NFTs or called him Mr. Smosh.

“Okay,” Ian said finally. “You know what? Let’s cut to the chase.”

Bradley’s voice stayed smooth. “Of course.”

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Ian said flatly.

A beat of silence. Then Bradley: “Excuse me?”

Ian stood. “You’ve been here for about four hours, and in that time, you’ve hit on my assistant, interrupted four meetings, and suggested we replace our equipment with AI livestream puppets.”

“I was offering opportunities.”

“You were offering weird tech bros in suits energy,” Ian said. “And I’m not interested.”

“I thought we had alignment.”

“You misread the entire room,” Ian deadpanned. “I’ve seen what I need to see. Including how you treat my staff. Also—assistant of the year? That’s the line?” It had made its way around the office, great. 

You tried very hard not to laugh as you typed a fake email just to keep your hands busy.

Bradley sputtered. “You’ll regret this.”

Ian shrugged. “Doubt it. Thanks for your time. Security can show you out. They love investor walkouts—it’s like their Super Bowl.”

Bradley sputtered something under his breath, turned on his heel, and left with his shiny shoes echoing hard against the floor.

Ian leaned out of his office, looked at you, and said, “Sorry. I waited to see if Spencer would deck him first.”

You smiled. “Thanks for the restraint.”

Ian shrugged. “You’re good at what you do. I protect my team.”

Then, with his usual deadpan calm: “Also—he called you ‘boss babe.’ That was the final straw.”

By the time you stepped out into the golden haze of late afternoon, the building was mostly quiet.

Bradley was long gone—escorted by security with the dramatic flair of a deleted Try Not to Laugh bit. The tension you hadn’t realized had been coiled tight in your shoulders all day had finally started to melt away.

And there he was.

Leaning against your car, Spencer looked up as you approached, hoodie sleeves pushed up, the edges of his hair ruffled from the wind or maybe from fidgeting with his hands. He had that look on his face—quietly patient, a little worried, like he’d been waiting to see if you were okay before deciding how to feel.

You dropped your bag on the hood and just… let yourself lean into him.

He caught you without hesitation, arms wrapping tight around your waist, head tipping down to press his cheek against your hair.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” you mumbled back into his chest.

You stayed like that for a minute. Maybe more.

His hoodie smelled like cedar and laundry detergent. Warm and familiar and safe.

“So,” he said eventually, voice low. “Bradley’s gone?”

“Escorted out by security,” you confirmed, not moving. “Ian didn’t even blink.”

Spencer exhaled. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

“Ian said it was like the security team’s Super Bowl.”

Spencer chuckled softly. “Should’ve sold tickets.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Thanks for earlier. For showing up. For not... punching him.”

“I considered it,” he said. “Briefly.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “But then I figured you’d prefer a boyfriend who doesn’t get banned from the office.”

“Correct,” you said. “That’s a bare minimum requirement.”

Spencer looked at you, his expression softening. “I hated seeing you deal with that. You were trying to be polite. Professional. And he just… kept pushing.”

You nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“I know,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have to work twice as hard just to be respected. Not here. Not anywhere.”

You blinked. His voice had gone tight at the end—not angry, but serious.

The kind of tone Spencer usually reserved for things like someone insulting your work ethic or questioning your seat at the table.

You stepped closer again, pressing your forehead to his chest. “I’m okay now.”

He held you tighter. “You shouldn’t have had to be ‘okay’ because you powered through.”

You tilted your head up again, suddenly overwhelmed. “You know I’d pick you, right? A hundred times over.”

He smiled. “I already did.”

“And you know I wasn’t even slightly tempted by his... whatever that was?”

“Tech bro aura?” Spencer offered. “Crypto breath?”

You snorted. “It was awful.”

“I almost challenged him to a hoodie-off,” he said seriously.

“You would’ve won.”

“Obviously.”

You both laughed then—real and light and cathartic.

Spencer reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out your keys. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You driving is a reward now?”

“Yeah,” he said proudly. “I’ve only curb-checked once this week.”

You gave him a mock stern look. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

He grinned and opened the passenger door for you. “You’re luckier.”

You slid in, still smiling. “Let’s get tacos. I deserve tacos.”

He kissed your forehead, closed the door behind you, and whispered through the glass, “You deserve everything.”

Meme Team Supreme

Courtney 👑:BRADLEY HAS LEFT THE BUILDING I repeat—THE TECH BRO HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

Damien 🔥: 🧃💼🚫 Investor arc canceled due to harassment and vibes

Shayne 👖: BREAKING: Smosh studio regains 100% oxygen levels after the departure of one (1) walking Axe body spray

Arasha💍: Not the “assistant of the year” line 💀💀 He sounded like a LinkedIn post possessed by a dating app.

Angela 🎤: ✨✨ “Have you considered scaling your role?”YES. Into his face with a chair.

Tommy 🧢: Ian looked at him like:

Chanse 🧪: Ian was all “thanks for your time,” like he hadn’t already deleted the man from our Google Drive.

Ian 🧠: Just to be clear, I never put him in the Google Drive. He showed up with a pitch deck and BDE (bad deal energy).

Spencer 🧃: was gonna throw hands settled for holding hers instead growth 🌱

Courtney 👑: You literally side-eyed him so hard he LEFT I’ve never seen a man retreat in slacks before

Shayne 👖: He had the audacity of a man who’s never been told “no” and the jawline of a lacrosse coach

Arasha💍: not gonna lie

i was impressed he fit that much cologne in one outfit

Angela 🎤: anyway, we all voted and your boyfriend wins “protective king of the year”

Spencer 🧃: do i get a crown or just eternal vigilante rights over her clipboard

You 👀: You get tacos and the right to dramatically stand outside every time I have to deal with corporate

Damien 🔥: 👑Clipboard King long may he snark

You hadn’t expected the test to be positive.

You also hadn’t expected to take it while still wearing a purple crushed velvet wizard robe and a fake beard clinging to your collarbone with a stubborn patch of spirit gum.

But here you were—nervously standing on the tile floor of the Smosh studio’s main bathroom, staring at a pregnancy test on the counter like it had just threatened your entire understanding of reality.

Your heart thudded in your chest so loudly it nearly drowned out the buzz of the overhead lights.

One line. Wait. Two lines.

Two.

Your knees gave out before the shock did. You sat, hard, on the toilet lid, cape pooling around your ankles like the aftermath of some magical crisis.

It was almost funny. Almost.

You whispered to yourself, "You have got to be kidding me."

But the test didn’t kid. The test didn’t blink or laugh or give you a moment to ease into the idea. The test just sat there. Unbothered. Unmoving. Stark pink lines blaring from the plastic window like it was shouting:

"HEY, SURPRISE! YOU’RE HAVING A BABY!"

You reached up and pulled the fake beard off your neck with a grimace. It left a tacky red spot behind, but that wasn’t your concern anymore.

Your concern was:

You were definitely pregnant.

Spencer was definitely the father.

Spencer was also definitely Spencer.

And Spencer—your sweet, dorky, easily flustered boyfriend who still blushed when you called him cute on-camera—was going to absolutely malfunction.

You weren’t scared of how he’d react. That wasn’t it. He was kind. Loving. All in. Always.

But the boy once teared up over a surprise puppy adoption reel and nearly passed out when you kissed his nose in a behind-the-scenes video.

You were going to break him.

Emotionally. Lovingly. But entirely.

You laughed once. Just one breathless, disbelieving sound. Then looked back at the test.

The wizard robe shifted slightly as you moved, and somehow that made it all more surreal—like this was a dream. Or a bit. One of Damien’s sketch pitches comes to life.

"Pregnant Wizard Stuck in Emotional Limbo in Bathroom—A Smosh Original."

You leaned forward, elbows to knees, and rubbed your face with both hands. Okay. Okay. Deep breaths.

You weren’t alone. You weren’t scared. But you were very, very pregnant.

A soft knock echoed on the door.

"You good in there?" Courtney’s voice called out, muffled.

You blinked. "Uh—Uh-yeah! Just—uh. Beard glue emergency."

A beat.

"You having an existential crisis in the mirror again?"

You paused. "...Define crisis."

"I’ll grab snacks."

"Thank you."

As her footsteps faded, you stared at the test one more time.

It was real.

It was happening.

And now you had to figure out how to tell the love of your life that you’d made a tiny, accidental chaos gremlin together—and how to do it in a way he wouldn’t faint halfway through your sentence.

You smiled softly to yourself as your hands came to rest on your stomach.

"Okay, baby," you whispered. "Let’s go break the news to your dad."

You weren’t expecting to tell them like that.

You’d planned to bring it up casually. Maybe over lunch. Perhaps not while still wearing the wizard robe. You had just finished the sketch for the next bit city episode, heading to the breakroom to formulate a plan and wrap your head around the idea that you were pregnant. But instead, you accidentally dropped the test out of your (Spencer’s) hoodie pocket while reaching for a charger cord in the green room.

And of course, the three worst possible people to witness it—Shayne, Courtney, and Damien—were all right there.

Courtney gasped. Shayne screamed. Damien dropped his leftovers.

You stood frozen, face blank, staring at the plastic test like it had betrayed you for the final time.

"Well," you said flatly, "so much for subtlety."

Cut to twenty minutes later.

You were sitting on the break room couch with a blanket around your shoulders and a snack plate in your lap like someone who’d just survived a reality show elimination round.

Shayne paced. Damien stood dramatically in the doorway like a soap opera aunt, mostly protecting the door and making sure no one else walked in while they interrogated you—questioned really. Courtney sat across from you at the coffee table, expression flickering between mild panic and pure joy.

"So…" Courtney began slowly. "It’s real?"

You nodded.

"Like, ‘bun in the oven’ real or ‘we’re filming a sketch and I didn’t get the memo’ real?"

You tilted your head and deadpanned, "Would I carry a used pregnancy test for a bit, Miller?"

Shayne blinked. "Honestly? With our brand? Could’ve been anyone’s."

You snorted.

"Okay, okay." Courtney scooted closer. "Spencer doesn’t know?"

You shook your head. "Not yet."

Shayne looked like he was trying to physically hold in ten thousand questions. "Are you gonna tell him or just hand him the baby like ‘surprise, it’s got your face’?"

You grinned slowly. "I want to tell him in a sketch."

They all blinked at you like you’d suggested setting the studio on fire for warmth.

"A sketch?" Damien asked, leaning in. "Like… a bit?"

"Not a prank," you clarified. "A soft, dumb, chaotic moment. Something with glitter. Maybe a prop. Something us."

Smosh was the reason you two met, started dating, eventually moved in together, and of course, are now starting a family.

"Something us," Courtney repeated, eyes wide and already misty. "That’s so stupid. That’s so perfect."

You explained the plan. The fake sketch setup:

"Try Not to Laugh – Weird Gift Exchange."

Each cast member brings in a ridiculous item. Spencer goes last. Your gift to him is a tiny, painfully cute baby onesie that says:

"Baby Chosen On Board"

Simple. Elegant. Emotionally devastating.

"His brain’s gonna bluescreen," Shayne whispered.

"He’s gonna fold like a lawn chair," Damien muttered.

Courtney grinned. "We’ll need tissues. Possibly paramedics."

By the end of the conversation, Courtney was doodling "Baby Agnew" logos on a whiteboard, Shayne was Googling how soon babies can wear beanies ("for brand synergy"), and Damien had named the onesie Carl.

"I’m not calling it Carl," you told him.

"He already has a backstory," Damien argued, holding it reverently. "Carl the chaos heir. Born of hoodie strings and sketch concepts."

"Stop naming the baby accessories," Shayne sighed. 

Courtney finally clapped her hands. "Okay. We’ve got the plan. We’ve got the emotional ammo. All we need now…"

"…is the baby daddy," Damien finished, deadpan.

You laughed, heart full of warmth and static and the kind of fear that came only with loving someone so much it cracked open parts of you.

You looked at the onesie on the table. Looked at your friends—your family. Their excitement. Their support.

You could do this.

You could tell him.

Because this wasn’t a prank or a stunt. This was you. This was Spencer. This was something real and soft and terrifying and good.

You weren’t just breaking the news. You were inviting him into something beautiful.

You barely slept.

Every time you closed your eyes, you dreamed of onesies catching fire or Spencer passing out in the middle of set or—worst of all—him not reacting at all. Waking up didn’t feel any better. Your stomach was already tight with nausea, but this time it wasn’t the pregnancy.

It was the nerves.

You tried to act normal that morning—dressed casually, did your makeup like any other shoot day, even brought in donuts. (Spencer liked maple bars. You made sure there were three.)

But the second you saw him across the studio, you had left separately (giving an excuse of needing to be in early for a meeting he wasn’t in). His hoodie sleeves pushed up, joking with Damien, a smile full of dorky sunshine—you almost turned and walked out.

What if this changed everything?

"Okay, stop panicking," Courtney whispered in your ear as she appeared beside you, casually shoving a donut in your hand like it was a tranquilizer dart.

"I’m not panicking," you whispered back, teeth clenched.

Courtney gave you a look. "You’re sweating through your jacket."

"Fashion statement."

"Are you gonna barf?"

"Not if I breathe through my mouth."

"Romantic."

You took a slow breath, donut untouched in your hand. Spencer walked past again, nodding at you with that sweet, slightly-too-lingering look that still gave you butterflies.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yep!" you chirped, entirely unconvincing. "Totally chill and un-pregnant."

He paused.

"What?"

"Nothing!" You shoved a bite of donut in your mouth. "I said I’m great."

He gave you a suspicious squint. "You’re acting weird."

"I am weird."

"True," he said, laughing—and then, with the softest smile, "But you’re my weird."

Your stomach did a flip that had nothing to do with pregnancy.

"Love you," you mumbled.

He squeezed your hand. "Love you more."

And suddenly, the nerves turned into something else. Something bigger. Something braver.

You were ready.

The set was almost ready.

Camera angles were being checked. Props laid out. Matt was fixing a loose mic while Damien tried to hide a whoopee cushion in Shayne’s chair (you saw it and pretended not to). Spencer was off in the corner, sipping a kickstart, hoodie strings tucked between his fingers like usual.

Courtney handed you the gift bag. Inside was the carefully folded onesie, tissue paper puffed around it like it wasn’t about to change Spencer Agnew’s entire reality.

"You okay?" she whispered.

You stared at the bag. "I feel like I’m about to jump out of a plane."

"Do you trust the parachute?"

You looked up. Across the room, Spencer noticed you watching and smiled. He held up a peace sign with his fingers and mouthed something like you got this even though he had no idea what this was.

God, you loved him.

"I do," you said softly.

"Then let’s go change his life."

The set looked deceptively normal.

Bright lighting. Folding chairs. A table full of ridiculous "gifts" wrapped in tinfoil and hot glue and whatever leftover craft supplies hadn’t been banned yet. It felt like any other Try Not to Laugh day—except for the gift bag in your lap that was threatening to set your entire body on fire.

Courtney and Shayne had gone first. Their bit involved a literal rubber chicken, a ham costume, and a line reading so dramatic you were pretty sure it summoned a ghost.

Angela cracked first. Tommy was close behind. Spencer was up next.

You sat at the end of the line, quiet, holding your breath as his name was called.

"All right, last one—Spencer, you’re up!" Damien announced.

Spencer stood, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Okay, Y/N, what cursed object did you find on the internet this time?"

You handed him the bag. Just smiled. "You’ll see."

He smirked. "If this is a taxidermy raccoon, I’m walking."

You didn’t answer.

He pulled out the tissue paper, muttering, "Fluffy—fluffier—Jesus, how much—"

Then he stopped.

The room went quiet.

In his hands: a baby onesie. Dark gray cotton. Infamous wolf shirt. The words underneath the image in bright block letters:

"Baby Chosen On Board"

He stared.

You saw it all happen at once.

His fingers froze.

His face shifted—brows twitching down, mouth opening just slightly, like he was trying to process an email in a foreign language.

Then:

"Wait…" Shayne coughed into his sleeve. Damien silently clutched Courtney’s arm. Tommy mouthed oh my god.

Spencer looked at the onesie. Then at you. Then back again.

"…Is this—like, a joke?"

You shook your head.

He blinked. "Is it… from a sketch? Like… a future sketch?"

"No, Spencer."

His eyes flicked back to the onesie. His fingers clenched tighter.

"Are you—are we—"

"Yeah," you said softly. "We are."

He made a sound. You weren’t sure if it was a gasp or a laugh or a sob.

And then he sat down.

Just folded like a paper person. Right there, on the studio floor. Cross-legged, holding the onesie like it was a sacred scroll.

The room stayed silent.

"Spence?" you asked gently, kneeling beside him.

He looked up at you, eyes shiny, mouth trembling like he couldn’t find a single word.

"You’re really pregnant?"

You nodded.

"And it’s—?"

"Yours, yes," you said, laughing a little. "I double-checked."

He barked a disbelieving laugh. "Holy shit. Holy shit."

And then he cried.

Real tears. Quiet, stunned, a little ugly. Spencer Agnew, king of bits and dad jokes and hiding behind his hoodie strings, cried into a baby onesie while everyone else tried (and failed) not to cry too.

Courtney was the first to crack audibly. Shayne handed her a tissue. Damien whispered, "This is better than the time Arasha slapped Anthony."

Spencer finally spoke, voice raw, "I didn’t know I could feel this many things in one minute."

You cupped his cheek. "Do you hate me?"

He laughed through the tears. "Hate you? I love you so much I might explode."

He stood and wrapped you in a hug that left you both breathless. Tight. Honest. His whole face was buried in your shoulder.

Then he leaned back, eyes searching yours. "I’m gonna be a dad?"

"You’re gonna be amazing," you whispered.

Somewhere behind you, someone popped a confetti cannon.

Two hours later, Spencer still hadn’t let go of the onesie.

It was folded neatly in his lap, his hand resting on top of it like it might float away if he didn’t keep it anchored. His hoodie was rumpled, his hair a little wild from repeatedly raking his hands through it, and his eyes were still red in that post-emotional-breakdown glow.

You sat curled into his side on the green room couch, legs tangled with his. Neither of you said much.

You didn’t need to.

There was something beautifully quiet about the aftermath. All the chaos had blown through like a tornado made of glitter, love, and Damien’s wildly inappropriate commentary—leaving only the stillness of holy crap, we’re actually doing this.

Spencer was still processing.

You could see it happening. Every few minutes, his brow would furrow like he’d remembered a new detail—cribs, doctor’s appointments, taxes—and then relax again when you squeezed his hand.

Eventually, he mumbled into your shoulder, "Do babies like Baja Blast?"

You choked on your sip of water. "Excuse me?"

"I just—I don’t want to drink one and then the baby turns out… neon. Or carbonated."

You laughed so hard you had to bury your face in his hoodie. "Think it's a little too late for that, but we’ll ask the doctor."

Courtney burst into the room holding a tray of cupcakes.

"Okay!" she announced, voice still suspiciously emotional. "We made you celebration snacks."

Spencer blinked. "...‘We’?"

"Shayne mostly heckled me, but I made it work."

She set the tray down with a flourish. Most of the cupcakes were frosted in baby blue or pale pink. But smack in the center sat a line of them with bright green icing and bold, shaky letters that read: #1 DILF??

Spencer stared at it.

"I’m not… I don’t think I’m ready to be that acronym," he whispered.

"You don’t get to choose," Shayne said solemnly, walking in behind Courtney and stealing a cupcake. "Fatherhood chooses you."

Damien poked his head in next. "So when’s the gender reveal? And can I weaponize the cake?"

"No!" you and Spencer said in unison.

Shayne pulled up a chair. "Okay, real talk. When did you find out?"

You glanced at Spencer, who was still gently cradling the onesie in his lap like a newborn duckling.

You smiled. "About four days ago. Took the test right after we wrapped that wizard sketch."

Courtney gasped. "While you were still in the robe?!"

"Yep."

"Iconic."

"I looked like a deranged Dumbledore when I found out," you said dryly.

Spencer leaned over and kissed your temple. "You’re my favorite wizard."

Damien fake gagged. "Ugh, parental affection is so gross. I’m gonna go weep in the sound booth."

There was laughter. There were more cupcakes. And there was Spencer—quiet, thoughtful, overwhelmed but full of a joy that came in waves so big they left him blinking back tears again and again.

At one point, he held up the onesie and said, "It’s so small. Like… It’s gonna wear this. It’s gonna fit."

And Courtney nodded, misty-eyed again. "That’s the wild part. It’s not just a thing anymore. It’s your thing. Your tiny person."

Spencer looked at you again, and for once, he wasn’t flustered.

You’d been talking less today.

Not that anyone else seemed to notice—not in the middle of shoot day chaos, with Ian misplacing his phone for the fifth time and Shayne turning a prop ladder into a visual bit mid-scene—but Spencer did.

He always did.

It wasn’t that you’d gone silent. Just… quieter. More careful. Like you were editing yourself in real time. Cutting down on the tangents. Swallowing the unfiltered commentary that usually spilled out of you like it was oxygen.

And Spencer hated it.

He figured it out halfway through lunch. You were scrolling through comments on the morning’s video, biting your lip in that way you did when you were trying not to react to something. He caught the brief flicker of a frown before you locked your phone and stuffed it into your pocket. He didn’t ask—not right away. Spencer wasn’t the “demand answers” kind of guy. He waited. Watched you retreat into the background for the rest of the shoot like you were just… part of the furniture.

When the cameras were finally off, and everyone else scattered to reset for the next bit segment, he found you leaning against the snack table, staring at a bag of pretzels like it had personally wronged you.

“You good?” he asked, leaning next to you.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… tired.”

He hummed. “Mm. That’s funny. ‘Cause usually when you’re tired you talk more, not less.”

You hesitated, then sighed.

“Someone left a comment. Said I… talk too much. That I’m not even funny or essential to the team. Just… extra noise, I guess.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened.

You laughed weakly, like you could shrug it off. “It’s not a big deal, it’s just—maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t have to fill every silence.”

His eyes softened, but you kept going.

“It’s dumb, because… this happened to Angela, remember? A couple of months ago, when people in the comments decided she ‘didn’t add anything’? I was furious. I sat with her in the break room and told her those people didn’t know what they were talking about—that they don’t get to decide who belongs here. I meant it, too.”

You rubbed your arm, gaze dropping. “So why can’t I just… take my own advice?”

Spencer turned fully toward you, voice steady but low.

“Because it’s harder when it’s about you,” he said. “It’s easy to defend someone else you care about. It’s harder to believe you deserve that same defense. But you do.”

His tone sharpened just enough to make you meet his eyes.

“You’re part of the team because you are essential. You’re funny. You’re smart. You make people feel comfortable just by being you. Including me. And just like you told Angela—those comments don’t matter. They didn’t change how much she brings to the table, and they sure as hell don’t change you.”

Something in your chest loosened, the same way it had the day Angela smiled at you through her tears back then.

📱 Smosh HQ Group Chat: “🎬 We’re Professionals (Allegedly)”

Courtney 👑: WHO SAID IT??? Drop the @, I just wanna talk.

Shayne 👖: No, I wanna talk. With my fists.

Damien 🔥: 👀 what’s happening?

Angela 🎤: Someone in the comments decided to be real brave today and called Y/N “extra noise.” Like?? Sorry, you’re allergic to joy???

Tommy 🧢: Absolutely feral take.

Arasha 🎬: Not them being wrong and loud about it 💀

Courtney 👑: I have a spreadsheet of insults for this exact scenario.

Ian 🧠: We don’t condone targeted harassment, Courtney.

Courtney 👑: Right, right. Public harassment, then.

Angela 🎤: No, seriously—Y/N, remember when people came for me a few months ago? Said I didn’t “add anything”? You sat with me in the break room for like two hours, telling me how much that crap doesn’t matter. You were right then, and you’re still right now. Don’t let one bored internet troll make you feel smaller.

Tommy 🧢: 👏 THIS 👏

Damien 🔥: Yeah, they clearly have no clue what it’s like here without you. (Spoiler: it’s worse.)

Shayne 👖: You’re the glue and the glitter, Y/N. Without you, we’d just… be some people standing in a warehouse.

Arasha 🎬: …and it would smell worse.

Spencer 🧃: …agree.

Courtney 👑: Wow, two words from Spencer? he’s practically yelling.

Shayne 👖: Seriously, though, he’s right. You’re the best part of the room.

Spencer 🧃: yep.

Ian 🧠: Can confirm. Essential personnel.

Damien 🔥: So it’s settled. We keep being loud and amazing.

Courtney 👑: And by loud, you mean—

Angela 🎤: Exactly what you’re thinking.

By now, you knew the signs.

The hoodie was off. The hair was slightly messier than usual. And Spencer was pacing.

It was the pacing that got you—he only did that when he was fully locked in on a bit, the kind that snowballed from “funny idea” to “possible OSHA violation” in under an hour.

“You’re doing the thing,” you called from the doorway of Studio B, where the crew was setting up a fake game show set.

Spencer glanced up mid-stride. “What thing?”

“The pre-chaos shuffle. Like a cat about to knock something off the counter.”

He stopped, tilted his head, and smiled. “Maybe I’m just walking.”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping inside. “Or maybe you’re planning to launch yourself into the prize wheel like last time.”

“That was art.”

“That was a hazard report.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he wandered toward you, twirling a prop microphone in his hand like he was born to drop it dramatically.

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning against the wall beside you. “I’ll keep it safe today. Wouldn’t want my favorite handler to get written up for negligence.”

You gave him a look. “I’m not your handler.”

“You literally stop me from injuring myself on a weekly basis.”

“That’s just being a decent coworker.”

He hummed, a low, amused sound, and for a second it felt like the studio was quieter—like he was waiting for you to say more.

Damien’s voice broke the moment. “Hey, we’re mic’ing in five!”

Spencer pushed off the wall, but not before leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of coffee and whatever laundry detergent he used. “Stick around for this one,” he murmured. “I think you’ll like it.”

You arched a brow. “Should I be concerned?”

“Yes,” he said, grinning as he walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, you were perched behind the cameras, headset on, clipboard in hand. It was supposed to be a mock game show, nothing complicated—except Spencer was on one.

He was quick, firing off one-liners that had Shayne breaking character and Olivia barely holding it together. He didn’t look at you much—until he did.

Every now and then, after a particularly sharp joke landed, his eyes would flick your way for just a heartbeat. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Long enough for you to.

When the director called cut, the crew broke into chatter. Spencer made his way over, slightly breathless, eyes still bright from the bit.

“You didn’t laugh,” he said.

“I smiled,” you replied.

“That’s not the same.”

“It is when you’re trying to keep the camera steady.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, smirking, “you’re still here.”

On the second take, Spencer came out swinging.

The bit started normal enough—banter with Olivia, fake buzzer slams, some exaggerated hand gestures. But then he improvised a full thirty-second fake monologue about losing “custody” of the game show podium in a messy divorce, complete with dramatic sighs and a heartfelt goodbye to “their shared pet toaster.”

It was so ridiculous, so perfectly deadpan, that it punched right through your professional façade. You laughed—loud enough for the nearest camera operator to glance at you.

Spencer noticed instantly. His grin was quick and sharp, his posture shifting like he’d just won something.

He didn’t break character, but the next joke he delivered was clearly for you.

When cut was called, he strolled over, looking far too pleased with himself. “There it is,” he said.

“There what is?”

“That laugh. The real one.”

You tried to brush it off. “You got lucky.”

“No,” he said, leaning in with a spark of mischief in his eyes. “I’m just that good.”

You shook your head, but the heat in your cheeks made it impossible to sell your indifference. “Go get ready for the next segment, Chaos Boy.”

He backed away, still grinning. “Sure thing, Handler.”

And as he disappeared toward the green room, you caught yourself smiling too—because for all the chaos he brought, Spencer Agnew knew exactly how to get to you.

The next segment was already being set up, but you didn’t get far before Alex intercepted you, holding a clipboard.

“Quick question,” they said, pointing their pen between you and the green room where Spencer had disappeared, “is this… whatever that was… going to be a regular thing now?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That thing where he’s clearly aiming his jokes at you like a laser beam and you’re clearly trying not to melt into the floor?”

You scoffed. “It’s called maintaining professionalism.”

“Right,” Alex said, clearly not buying it. “Sure.” They walked off, shaking their head.

By the time you got to the prop table to check the next bit’s setup, Spencer was back—fresh water bottle in hand, still looking obnoxiously pleased with himself.

He set the bottle in front of you without comment.

“What’s this for?” you asked.

“Hydration. Laughter takes it out of you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re still going on about that?”

“Going on about winning?” He grinned. “Absolutely.”

You opened the bottle just to have something to do with your hands. “You’re insufferable.”

He leaned on the table beside you, casual but just close enough to make your pulse tick up. “And yet…”

You sighed. “I’m still here.”

His grin widened. “Exactly.”

The director called for everyone to get into position again. You moved to your spot by the monitor, Spencer heading toward his mark, but before he went too far, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Handler?”

“Yeah?”

“Round three’s mine, too.”

You shook your head, muttering to yourself as you adjusted your headset, “We’ll see about that.”

The rest of the shoot went smoothly—well, as smoothly as anything went at Smosh. Spencer stayed in the zone, tossing lines at his castmates, clearly riding the high of having cracked you earlier. And maybe you were imagining it, but a few of those lines felt just a little sharper, like he was still aiming for you.

When wrap was finally called, the crew began packing up. Spencer wandered over, spinning a pen between his fingers.

“Solid day,” he said casually.

You gave him a side-eye. “You didn’t set anything on fire, so yeah, I’d call that a win.”

“I made you laugh,” he corrected, like that was the real metric.

You tried not to give him the satisfaction, but your lips twitched anyway. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m planning on it,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the exit.

Halfway out the door, he tossed back, “See you Monday, Handler.”

And as much as you wanted to roll your eyes, you couldn’t help smiling at the sound of it.

✨ Reblogs + likes | Comments feed the writer

📎 Requests welcome!

It started small.

A new water bottle here. A jacket there. Nothing flashy—just practical, nice quality stuff that could’ve been bought anywhere. If you didn’t know brands, you wouldn’t think twice.

But the Smosh crew knew brands.

It was Courtney who noticed first, eyeing the sleek black thermos Spencer started carrying on set one morning. “That thing looks…expensive,” she said casually, turning it in her hands. “Is this…designer? For water?”

Spencer shrugged. “It was a gift.”

Nobody thought much of it. Until the next week, when Spencer walked in wearing a hoodie softer than anyone had ever seen, the kind of fabric that screamed “stupidly overpriced boutique.”

“Another gift?” Shayne asked, squinting.

And then… came the shoes.

Spencer played it off, “It was cold.” 

Spencer strolled into the office, headphones around his neck, coffee in hand, same soft “I’m here but please don’t make this loud” energy as always. But today, Shayne stopped mid-conversation, finger already pointing at Spencer’s feet.

“Spencer, my man. Those are new.”

Everyone turned.

Spencer froze like a deer in headlights. “Uh. Yeah. I… needed a new pair?”

Angela crouched a little, inspecting the sneakers before slowly straightening back up. She squinted—not sure if it was because she couldn’t see the price tag from this distance or because Spencer’s excuse was just that flimsy. “Are those… limited editions? The ones that sold out in, like, fifteen seconds?”

Courtney gasped so dramatically that you thought she might faint. “Are you secretly a sneakerhead?!”

Spencer’s hoodie bunched around his ears like he was trying to retreat inside it. “They were a gift.”

A beat of silence.

Then Tommy slid into the doorway, coffee in hand, wearing the smuggest grin known to man. “From… a sugar mommy?”

Spencer’s head whipped around. “Excuse me?”

Angela grinned, standing back up. “It would explain the sudden drip.”

Courtney jumped in immediately. “Oh my God, it makes so much sense! Think about it: He doesn’t blink at overpriced studio coffee, he’s got those fancy headphones, the hoodie, and now this? Spencer is a kept man.”

“I’m not—” Spencer started, but Shayne cut him off with a sing-song, “Sugar baby confirmed.”

The entire break room erupted into laughter as Spencer groaned and buried his face in his hoodie, silently questioning all of his life choices.

By lunch, the teasing had evolved into a full-blown investigation.

Damien leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee with all the exaggerated casualness of someone about to cause problems. “So… hypothetically,” he began, drawing the word out, “if someone was, let’s say, funding your lifestyle, what would you call them?”

Spencer didn’t even look up from his sandwich. “…A generous person?”

Courtney, from across the room, perked up immediately. “A sugar mommy.”

Shayne, louder, practically announcing it to the whole studio: “SUGAR. MOMMY.”

Spencer sighed, “It’s not like that.”

Tommy, now fully invested, poked his head through the doorway like a nosy sitcom neighbor. “Guys, it gets worse. I checked—he’s got AirPods Pro now. I heard him noise-canceling us this morning.”

Angela slid into the room, pointing at Spencer’s hoodie sleeve. “And don’t think we haven’t noticed this thing. That’s what, cashmere? Baby alpaca? What kind of hoodie whispers luxury like that?”

Damien swirled his coffee like a detective connecting conspiracy threads. “I’m starting to think we should be curtsying when she finally shows up. Or at least offer her a gift basket.”

“Gift basket?” Shayne snorted. “Nah, we’re asking for allowances.”

Courtney leaned against the counter, smirking. “Alright, Spence. No judgment. Just blink twice if she bought you the AirPods and three times if we’re getting invited on the yacht.”

Spencer groaned and dropped his head on the table, voice muffled by his hoodie. “I buy my own coffee.”

“Sure you do, Sugar Spence,” Shayne said, patting him on the back like this was a support group.

Angela grinned. “So, when do we get to meet her?”

“Alright,” Shayne says dramatically into the mic, “welcome back to ‘Most Likely To...’ Smosh edition! Where we hold absolutely no secrets, no shame, and no mercy.”

Spencer didn’t answer. Which, of course, made it worse.

----

The cast cheers half-heartedly, already bracing for emotional damage.

Courtney spins a small whiteboard in her hands. “Today’s first prompt: Most likely to have a sugar mommy and pretend it’s totally normal.”

Before Spencer can blink, everyone in the room holds up their boards.

Spencer blinks. “Wait—wait, is this still happening?”

Every. Single. One.

Reads: SPENCER.

Angela doesn’t even try to hide her laugh. “Still? Babe, we just got started.”

Tommy points at his board, where he’s drawn a tiny crown over Spencer’s name. “Our boy’s got that luxury minimalist look lately. Rich girlfriend core.”

Spencer glares down the line. “I’ve literally worn this hoodie for three years.”

Shayne gasps, scandalized. “Three years of silken comfort, you mean. Is that alpaca?”

Courtney’s eyes gleam. “Say ‘no’ again but louder, Spencer. Louder for the yacht!”

Spencer slaps his whiteboard face-down and leans into the mic. “This is slander. Defamation. I’ve never even been on a yacht.”

Angela points, grinning. “That sounds exactly like what someone with yacht access would say.”

Laughter erupts around him, and Spencer buries his face in his hands, muttering, “I’m going to kill Tommy for starting this.”

Tommy grins wide. “I only said what we were all thinking.”

The camera cut to Shayne mid-laugh as the chaos died down. He glanced straight into the lens, his expression somewhere between faux-serious and fully amused.

“No, but in all seriousness, we love our Sugar Spence,” Shayne said, hand on his heart in mock sincerity. “We support him. We just want to meet his mysterious Patron Saint of Expensive Footwear.”

He was clearly addressing the fans directly — the exact audience who would see this clip if (and only if) Spencer didn’t demand it be cut.

From off-screen, Courtney yelled, “Leave that in!” while Angela whispered dramatically, “The fans deserve the truth!”

Spencer groaned, tugging his hoodie over his head like a turtle retreating into its shell. “This is harassment. Actual workplace harassment.”

Tommy just grinned at the camera. “Like and subscribe if you also want to meet her.”

The teasing had been relentless all week. Between the shoes, the AirPods, the hoodie that apparently “whispered luxury,” and the sugar mommy jokes escalating into actual fan theories after that last video, Spencer was officially done.

He just wanted to leave. Quietly.

So naturally, the entire cast was camped out near the front door when he clocked out for the day.

Courtney leaned against the wall, arms crossed, grinning like she’d just set up a hidden camera prank. “So… what’s she driving? Tesla? Maserati? Helicopter?”

Angela shaded her eyes like she was scanning the horizon. “Private jet’s landing any second now.”

Tommy cupped his hands around his mouth. “ATTENTION, WE’RE READY FOR OUR ALLOWANCES!”

Spencer groaned and shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “You all need new hobbies.”

That’s when the sleek, black car pulled up.

Not over-the-top flashy, but definitely expensive — the kind of car that purred rather than rumbled, all polished lines and tinted windows. The cast immediately straightened like meerkats.

“Called it,” Shayne muttered under his breath.

The passenger-side window rolled down, and there you were, smiling casually at Spencer. “Hey, babe. Ready to go?”

Without a word, Spencer walked over, opened the passenger-side door, and slid into the seat. Only once the door was shut did he lean over to press a quick kiss to your lips. He clearly didn’t notice (or care about) the six pairs of stunned eyes glued to you both.

Courtney, whisper-shouting, “SHE’S REAL.”

Angela elbowed Tommy. “Pay up. I said definitely hot, you said probably an alien.”

Tommy, muttering, “Still not ruling out alien.”

Spencer leaned out the open window, deadpan. “She’s my girlfriend, not my sugar mommy.”

You smirked, resting your chin on your hand. “Girlfriend who occasionally buys him sneakers. And maybe hoodies. And coffee. And—”

“Not helping,” Spencer cut in, glaring at you with pink cheeks.

Damien waved from the curb. “So, uh… do we need to curtsy? Or are allowances only for the favorite sugar baby?”

You rolled your eyes but reached out to lace your fingers with Spencer’s over the center console. “No allowances. But maybe I’ll buy you all coffee one day if you stop bullying him.”

Shayne immediately yelled, “SHE’S A SAINT. LONG LIVE PATRON SAINT OF EXPENSIVE FOOTWEAR!”

Spencer groaned and buried his face in his hands as you pulled away, laughing. “This is my life now.”

----

Spencer was sprawled on the couch, hoodie hood pulled so far over his head he looked like a grumpy little turtle. The TV flickered softly in the background, but he wasn’t watching it — just sulking in the most Spencer way possible.

You padded in from the kitchen, setting two mugs of tea on the coffee table before dropping onto the couch beside him. “You’re really committing to the brooding thing, huh?”

A muffled groan came from inside the hoodie. “They’re never gonna drop it.”

You smirked, tucking your legs beneath you as you turned toward him. “To be fair… you do look like a man who’s been swept off his feet by a mysterious benefactor.”

He peeked one eye out from the hood, glaring halfheartedly. “You are my mysterious benefactor.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I am a girlfriend. Benefactor makes it sound like I found you on a classifieds ad.”

Spencer pulled the hood back just far enough for his face to appear, cheeks still faintly pink. “Well, considering they all think I’m being bankrolled, I might as well start leaning into it. Get a little cane. Maybe a monocle.”

You snorted. “Oh, you’d look so dignified. The perfect little sugar baby.” You reached over, tugging gently at the hood. “Should I start drafting a contract? Weekly allowance and everything?”

He finally cracked a smile, rolling his eyes. “You’re evil.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe. But I also like spoiling you. And they only tease you because they love you, you know.”

Spencer sighed, relaxing against you as he let his head drop to your shoulder. “Yeah. I know. Still…”

“Still humiliating?” you teased.

“Still humiliating,” he muttered. “But… at least my Patron Saint of Expensive Footwear is cute.”

You grinned, threading your fingers through his. “Flattery will get you another pair of sneakers.”

He groaned again, but you felt the small smile against your shoulder.

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If anyone had told Spencer Agnew he’d spend a week filming Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers on a real-deal Southern farm, he would’ve laughed, made a sarcastic remark about outlaw fashion, and then quietly prepared to die in 90-degree heat.

But no one told him that the real danger wasn’t the heat, or the bugs, or Ian’s over-enthusiastic cowboy accent.

It was you.

You stood at the edge of the gravel driveway in cut-off jeans, a tied-up flannel shirt, and worn-in boots that looked like they’d actually touched dirt before today. Sunlight hit your face just right as you waved at the approaching van.

“Welcome to the farm, y’all!” you called, Southern drawl like molasses—warm and impossible to ignore.

Spencer, from the back seat of the van, whispered, “Okay. Nope. Not emotionally ready for that.”

Damien, beside him, raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Spencer sat up straighter. “For the full Yeehaw Cinematic Universe. Obviously.”

Damien grinned. “Sure. That’s totally what you meant.”

There was something about the way you said y’all that short-circuited his frontal lobe. This was going to be a long trip.

As the van came to a stop, Spencer gave himself a pep talk: You were just a person, a beautiful, smart, and funny person. And this was just like any other work trip — 

“How was the ride, darlin’?” Spencer had been so in his head that he hadn’t noticed Shayne open the side door or seen his fellow castmates get off, leaving him by himself in his dissociated state. “Hope you’re not getting second thoughts about coming to my family farm,” Spencer shook his head, trying and failing to get the words out.

“Yes — No, I mean no, I was just giving everyone a head start, you know, since I'm gonna win this.” You arched a brow at him but shrugged nonetheless, “Can’t wait to see that, sugar.”

Fuck

You helped them unload gear, directing people to where the bunkhouse was, where the bathrooms were, and where not to step if they didn’t want to get chased by a rooster named Carl.

Spencer tried to keep his cool. He really did.

But then you handed him a bottle of water and said, “You better hydrate, darlin’. Don’t want you droppin’ like a sack of flour on your first day.”

He almost said “thank you.” What came out was: “Ha ha yeah cool cool flour me.” His brain screamed internally. Why did he say that? What did that even mean? It was like his mouth had disconnected from his consciousness and gone rogue.

You blinked.

He blinked.

Courtney, walking past, snorted so hard she almost choked on their gum.

“Flour you?” you repeated, smiling with a raised brow.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Sorry. I meant... thank you. I’m not used to being in the presence of someone who knows how to wrangle cattle and also looks like they belong on the cover of a romance novel.”

You tilted your head. “You callin’ me a cowboy romance cover model?”

Spencer blinked, realizing what he’d just said, and immediately tried to backpedal. “I mean, not in a weird way. Like, respectfully. Like, you’d have a hat and a horse and emotional range.”

You laughed again, clearly entertained. Spencer fought the urge to bury himself in the hay bales behind you.

“I’m just saying if there was a book where someone tames a mysterious stranger with a YouTube career and too many emotional metaphors, I feel like you could carry the whole plot.”

There was a pause.

Then you grinned. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m sweating and emotionally compromised.”

You laughed, soft and amused. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Spencer stood very still, wondering if it was possible to pass out from sheer attraction.

Shayne wandered over, squinting. “Are you two flirting or having a stroke? I can’t tell.”

Spencer didn’t answer. He was still rebooting.

A few minutes later, Ian clapped his hands together and yelled, “Alright, y’all! Y/N’s family was nice enough to let us crash here, so find a partner and head inside, tomorrow’s filming day!”You pointed toward a wooden fence across the field. “Home is this way. Mind the goats.”

Spencer squinted. “Wait. Actual goats? Like, roaming? With agendas?”

You gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome to the country, cowboy.”

As you walked away, Spencer turned to Damien and whispered, “They just touched my shoulder, and I think I need a moment alone.”

Damien just sighed. “You’re gonna die out here, man.”

Spencer nodded, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And I’m gonna look hot doing it.”

Spencer woke up to the sound of a rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against him.

For a solid three seconds, he thought it was Damien doing a bit.

Then he opened his eyes, saw the rustic wood paneling, the dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight, and—most disturbingly—a goat staring at him through the bunkhouse window like it had questions.

Spencer stared back.

The goat blinked.

Spencer slowly rolled over and groaned into his pillow. “This place is haunted.” 

He sighed and threw his legs over the side of the bed, praying that today would run smoothly— and that his brain would listen to him when you were in front of him.

Slipping on his shoes and glasses, he made his way towards the kitchen. He already knew he looked like a tired zombie. He needed caffeine, and since he’d forgotten his Kickstarters, some good ol’ black coffee would have to do.

In the bunkhouse kitchen, Shayne was already half-dressed in outlaw gear, sipping from a mason jar of coffee like he hadn’t spent the night curled up like a shrimp on an ancient twin mattress.

“Morning, city slicker,” he said cheerfully as Spencer shuffled in.

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the weak sunlight pouring through the screen door. “Is this… what morning is supposed to feel like?”

“Welcome to farm time,” Courtney muttered, chewing on whatever breakfast seemed to have been put out and reapplying their mustache for the day. “Time moves differently out here. Like prison.”

“Pretty sure I heard a ghost rooster,” Spencer said.

“That’s just Carl,” Damien yawned, flopping onto a creaky couch. “Y/N says he only goes after people who walk funny.”

Spencer blinked. “I walk fine.”

Everyone stared at him.

“…I walk differently.”

“Oh, by the way,” Damien added, “Y/N also said there’s some Mountain Dew Kickstarter in the fridge for later—made it very clear it’s not a morning drink.”

They’d thought of him. Maybe today really would look different.

An hour later, the full cast had gathered near the massive hay maze built behind the barn. It was tall enough to block your view across the field and rickety enough that it looked like one good sneeze could knock it over—which meant it was perfect.

You strolled over from the barn, clipboard in hand, wearing a fresh plaid shirt tied at the waist and a cowboy hat that probably should’ve looked ridiculous—but somehow didn’t. The sun hit your face, and Spencer had to physically resist the urge to sigh out loud.

“Morning, y’all,” you called, flashing that smile that somehow made dirt roads and sweat look romantic.

Spencer took a gulp of water and muttered to himself, “Cool. Totally normal reaction. Just a normal coworker crush. Not a crisis.”

You came to a stop beside him, giving him a once-over with your eyes. “You look ready.”

“For what? Farm-themed death?”

You grinned. “Maze challenge. First event of the day.”

“Right. Hay. Running. Definitely my strong suit.”

“Did you sleep alright, darlin’?” you asked, teasing. “Did Carl behave?”

Spencer deadpanned, “Carl and I had a heart-to-heart about boundaries. I think we understand each other now.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re funny in the morning. That’s rare.”

“No, I’m delusional from sleeping on a mattress stuffed with, I assume, corn husks and regret.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if  they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if  they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

As the rest of the cast decided who’d go in after, you passed by Spencer again, leaning close with a crooked smile.

“Don’t worry,” you said quietly, voice smooth and warm. “I believe in you, cowboy.”

Spencer didn’t trip walking into the maze.

But it was close.

Spencer stepped into the hay maze like he was entering a war zone.

He could hear Damien behind him whispering, “Godspeed, buddy,” and Shayne yelling, “Remember us when you’re famous—or dead!”

The opening corridor of the maze was narrow, lined with hay bales stacked taller than his head. It smelled like dust and livestock trauma. Somewhere in the distance, a walkie crackled with static, and Courtney’s voice echoed: “There will be consequences for cheating, and those consequences will be dramatic reenactments.”

Spencer muttered, “That’s not ominous at all.” Time to impress you and show everyone just how quickly he could get out of there.

Cut to: The Other Cast, Waiting Outside the Maze

Courtney, Shayne, and Damien stood on a picnic table, squinting into the maze like over-invested sports commentators.

“Ten bucks says he takes a wrong turn and ends up back at the entrance within five minutes,” Courtney said, arms crossed.

“I’ll double it if he trips over a scarecrow that isn’t even in the challenge,” Shayne added.

Damien held up a hand. “Guys. Come on. Let’s have some faith in him.”

They all turned to see Spencer on the GoPro feed, spinning in a circle and yelling, “WHO DESIGNED THIS? WHO HURT YOU?”

“…Okay, yeah. Ten bucks says he doesn’t make it to the puzzle without an existential crisis.”

Back to Spencer

Spencer turned a corner and hit a dead end.

“Cool,” he muttered. “Symbolic. Love that.”

He backtracked, only to find two identical-looking paths.

Left or right?

He squinted at a hay bale on the left. Someone (Shayne, probably) had taped a piece of paper to it. In bold Sharpie, it read: “This is totally the right way. Definitely. Trust us.”

Spencer stared at it for a moment. “Hmm. That’s not suspicious at all.”

He went left anyway.

Twenty seconds later, he stepped on a booby trap—an explosion of glitter and feathers shot into the air, coating him like an arts-and-crafts project gone rogue.

From somewhere deeper in the maze, a triumphant cackle echoed.

“SHAYNE!” Spencer shouted.

Eventually, by some miracle (and yelling “Marco” until someone shouted “Polo” in confusion), Spencer stumbled into the center clearing—face flushed, shirt wrinkled, and glitter sticking to his hair.

There was a folding table with a jigsaw puzzle.

And next to it, you.

You leaned against the hay wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing at your lips. “Well, well,” you said. “You made it.”

Spencer exhaled dramatically and pointed at the puzzle. “Please tell me that’s it. I don’t have to milk a cow next, right?”

“No promises.”

You stepped up to help him with the puzzle, and he glanced at you sideways. “Are you here to sabotage me?”

“Officially? No. Unofficially? Maybe a little.”

He grinned. “Great. Love that. Betrayed by the one person I trusted.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You trust me?”

“I’m covered in glitter and hay. It’s been a long day.”

Together, you managed to finish the puzzle—barely—and Spencer took off running toward the exit, dragging you behind him with a triumphant, “WE’RE FREE! WE SOLVED YOUR RURAL CURSE!”

Everyone cheered.

Spencer collapsed in the grass, face-up, arms spread. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, grinning. “You alright, cowboy?”

He looked up at you, dazed. “Emotionally? No. Spiritually? I think I was reborn inside that maze.”

Courtney leaned over and whispered to Shayne, “Double or nothing, he doesn’t survive the next challenge.”

Later that afternoon, after everyone had recovered (read: collapsed dramatically in the grass for twenty minutes), Ian gathered the cast near the barn with a suspicious gleam in his eye and a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

“Time for our next challenge!” he announced. 

Courtney squinted. “Why do I feel like that’s code for ‘someone’s about to get tackled’?”

You stepped up beside Ian with a grin. “Because someone is—if they don’t dodge fast enough.”

You gestured to a pen just behind you. Your eyes twinkle with excitement, ready to see how everyone would react to the challenge, “Alright, y’all,” you drawled, “this one’s called the Rope ‘Em Rodeo. Teams of two, timed challenge. One person’s gotta lasso a moving target while blindfolded—guided only by their partner’s voice. The fastest team to rope the target wins. Bonus points if you don’t trip and die.”

“Wait—moving target?” Damien asked warily.

You whistled.

From behind the barn, your cousin appeared, leading an actual miniature pony—outfitted with pool noodles taped to its sides like jousting armor. Angela immediately gasped.

“Her name is Clementine!” you said proudly.

Clementine, to her credit, looked like she could not care less.

Spencer stepped forward slowly, eyeing the pony. “I have so many questions, and I’m scared none of the answers will help.”

You clapped him on the back. “You’ll do great.”

The heat simmered off the dirt like a stovetop left on low, and Spencer was already regretting everything.

His bandana was tied over his eyes, itchy and crooked, the rope felt weird in his hands, and somewhere to his left, Clementine the miniature pony let out a huff that sounded judgmental.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and called out, “Just to clarify—I’m blindfolded, holding rope, and about to throw it at a live animal?”

You laughed from the sidelines. “Clementine’s tougher than she looks. And technically, you’re tossin’ the rope near her.”

Spencer tilted his head toward your voice. “That sounds hard.”

“It absolutely is.”

There was a brief pause as he sighed, and the cast behind you murmured in various tones of amusement and very little help. You held the walkie-talkie up to your mouth, your voice warm in his ear through the little earpiece Ian rigged together last-minute.

“Alright, sugar,” you drawled, smile audible. “Take three slow steps forward.”

Spencer shuffled forward like he was walking across lava, arms stiff, rope gripped like it might bite him. “You’re sure this is the right way?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m literally watchin’ you. Trust me.”

“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” he muttered, toeing the dry dirt. “Blindly following the voice of a person who regularly threatens me with roosters.”

“Threatens?” you said, feigning offense. “Carl just likes his personal space respected.”

“I said good morning!”

“And he said, ‘Try again.’”

A ripple of laughter from the others floated across the field. Spencer tried not to smile, but you could hear it in his voice.

“Okay,” you said, focusing. “You’re close now. Couple more steps, then turn about fifteen degrees left.”

Spencer turned right.

“Other left.”

“That’s aggressive,” he muttered, adjusting.

“Alright, now square your shoulders. Clementine’s dead ahead. I need you to aim just a little above her shoulder, then let the rope fly when I say.”

Spencer exhaled slowly. “You ever guided someone into blind-lassoing a pony before?”

“Nope.”

“Cool. Great. Feeling very alive.”

You grinned. “You should. Now… swing it smooth. On my count. Three… two… one—now!”

The rope sailed through the air in a perfect lazy arc. It spun once, then twice—before looping right over Clementine’s neck.

The pony didn’t even flinch. Just blinked.

There was a stunned second of total silence.

Spencer stood frozen. “What happened? Did I rope a person? Is Damien crying?”

You were already running toward him, laughter breaking loose from your chest. “Spencer, you did it! You got her!”

He pulled down the bandana, blinking at the scene before him. “Wait. I actually got the—?”

“Roped her fair and square,” you said, reaching his side.

Spencer looked down at the rope, then at Clementine, then back at you, stunned. “I have no idea how that happened.” Spencer stood there, blinking in disbelief, still gripping the rope that now loosely hung from Clementine’s neck. Glitter clung to his shirt from the earlier maze disaster, and now sweat dotted his brow under the high afternoon sun.

You leaned in, teasing, “Beginner’s luck?”

“No,” he said solemnly. “Divine intervention. Or you bribed the pony.”

“Pfft. Clementine doesn’t take bribes.”

Spencer rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This is either the coolest or weirdest thing I’ve ever done. Possibly both.”

“You did real good, darlin’,” you said softly, grabbing the rope to lead Clementine back toward the post. “Kinda proud of you.”

Spencer opened his mouth—then promptly closed it. Whatever words were forming, they scattered like the hay in his hair. You gave him one last crooked smile before turning to the others.

“Alright, y’all! Who’s up next?”

Team Two: Shayne & Courtney

Shayne marched up like he’d just been handed the role of a lifetime, saluting the crowd.

Courtney pulled the bandana over their eyes with a flourish. “Let’s ride, partner!”

Shayne whispered something dramatic like, “Let the spirit of the wild west consume us,” before guiding Courtney into the arena with a flair for the theatrical.

“Step left! No, your other left! No—wait—SNAKE!” Courtney screamed and threw the rope. It sailed wide, wrapped around a random hay bale, and yanked it straight into Shayne’s shins.

He went down like a sack of yams.

“Y’all okay?” you called, fighting laughter.

Shayne groaned, face in the dirt. “I’ve been humbled.”

Courtney tore the bandana off. “I roped something, though!”

Team Three: Angela & Tommy

 Tommy approached with precision, arms folded, already in Game Mode.

Angela, meanwhile, was bouncing slightly on his heels. “Okay, so I have lassoed before—granted, it was a belt loop and a chair leg, but I feel good about this.”

Tommy side-eyed her. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He guided her with shocking clarity—left, left, steady, swing—and when she let it go, it soared in a clean arc…

…and gently landed around Clementine’s neck.

Gasps all around.

“Did we just win the whole game?” Tommy whispered.

Angela smirked. “We roped the pony. That’s a win in my book.”

Clementine sneezed, clearly unimpressed again.

Team Four: Ian & Anthony

When these two stepped up, the chaos was immediate.

“Ian, I swear to God, if you say ‘yeehaw’ one more time—” “YEE-—sorry.”

Anthony stood in front of him like a fed-up schoolteacher. “Just listen to me. No bits. For once in your life.”

Ian pouted. “But I was born for the rope.”

He took two steps, swung wide, and nearly nailed a camera tripod.

A very long, slow silence.

Anthony sighed. “You’re banned from rope.”

Team Five: Amanda & Arasha

Amanda stepped forward with pure confidence. “I grew up on country movies. This is in my blood.”

Arasha blinked. “...I once saw a horse. Does that count?”

“Absolutely not,” Amanda said cheerfully, tossing her bandana on. “We got this.”

Arasha tried her best to guide her, but Amanda had already sprinted full speed across the field, yelling, “YEEHAW!” while swinging the rope above her head like a rodeo queen.

It hit Clementine’s butt.

The pony made an offended noise and trotted a circle in protest.

“Y’all alright?” you called again.

“Great!” Amanda said, grinning. “I call that a direct hit.”

“On the wrong end,” Arasha muttered, facepalming.

When all was said and done, you were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt. The cast gathered again in the middle of the field as Ian tallied scores using an old clipboard and what looked like a cartoonishly large pencil.

“Alright! Time for the final tally,” Alex declared. “Some teams roped with elegance. Others roped with… whatever Ian and Anthony did.”

“That was art,” Ian shouted. “You just didn’t get it.”

Courtney threw a hay bale chunk at his feet.

“Angela and Tommy take the point for fastest clean rope,” Ian announced. “But I think we all agree that Spencer gets the honorary ‘Most Unexpected Cowboy Arc’ ribbon.”

You whooped. “I second that!”

Spencer just looked around like he’d blacked out for the entire event. “Wait, what? What’d I win?”

“Respect,” Damien said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And possible tetanus.”

“And Clementine’s admiration,” you added, reaching out to gently pluck a piece of glitter out of Spencer’s hair. “She don’t trust easy.”

Spencer, thoroughly flustered, offered a shaky thumbs-up. “Great. Big honor. Thanks. Yeehaw.”

You leaned in with a wink. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of us, cowboy.”

And Spencer didn’t say anything—because he couldn’t say anything.

His brain was still buffering.

The sun had dipped below the hills, leaving the farm bathed in that syrupy golden hour glow. Crickets chirped lazily in the tall grass, fireflies blinked like tiny stage lights, and the air finally cooled enough for people to stop complaining in real-time about heatstroke.

A bonfire crackled at the edge of the field, its orange light flickering across everyone’s faces as they gathered around in mismatched folding chairs, hay bales, and one deflated pool float someone had decided was “rustic.”

You were perched on a log with a s’more in hand, cowboy hat tipped back on your head. Spencer sat across from you, chin in hand, blinking like he was trying not to combust.

Courtney took a huge bite of a marshmallow and pointed at him. “So. You roped the pony.”

Spencer, already mid-sip of water, choked slightly. “Are we still on this?”

“Buddy,” Damien said with mock sympathy, “we will be on this until the end of time.”

“Legend status,” Shayne added. “Right up there with Tommy’s chattering moment and Ian’s two truths and a lie failure.”

Anthony poked at the fire with a stick. “I just want to know how you managed a perfect lasso while blindfolded. That’s, like… divine comedy.”

“He was guided by love,” Amanda said dramatically, clasping her hands together.

You arched a brow, trying not to smirk. “Love?”

“Farm love,” she added with a wink. “Southern tension. There was chemistry in the air.”

Spencer made a strangled noise. “I don’t—what? There was dust in the air.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tommy said, grinning. “We all saw you blush when Y/N straightened your bandana. You turned the color of a boiled shrimp.”

“I did not!” Spencer protested, half-laughing, half-suffering.

“You did,” Angela said, deadpan. “It was... honestly kind of sweet. Like a middle school dance if it was sponsored by Wrangler.”

Courtney snapped their fingers like they'd cracked a case. “Spencer’s got a farm crush!”

A chorus of “oohs” echoed around the fire like a live studio audience.

Spencer, fully red now, buried his face in his hands. “Why are y’all like this?”

You leaned back, bite of s’more still in hand, and said in your best innocent drawl, “You okay, cowboy? Look a little overheated.”

The group howled.

Shayne was doubled over. Amanda fell off her chair.

“Okay,” Spencer said, pointing at you, “you don’t get to say that while lookin’ like you walked out of a romance cover and lassoed my nervous system.”

“Nervous system?!” Damien howled.

Even Clementine—off in the distance, tied to a post and chewing hay—snorted like she was laughing.

You tipped your hat lower, hiding your smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Y’all flirting is louder than Ian yelling ‘Yeehaw,’” Courtney added.

“I regret nothing,” Ian called from where he was roasting a marshmallow at a wildly unsafe angle.

Spencer groaned and melted further into his chair. “Why did I come on this trip.”

“Because fate wanted us to watch you fall in farm love,” Shayne said, holding his hands to the sky. “And we are so blessed.”

You met Spencer’s eyes across the fire, your grin softer now, a quiet twinkle behind it.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently, voice just low enough for him to hear over the others. “They’ll forget by tomorrow.”

He didn’t believe you for a second.

But for the first time all day, he didn’t seem to mind.

Spencer had barely made it out of bed. He was 80% sore, 15% glitter, and 5% internally screaming.

The sun had barely climbed past the trees when Ian announced, far too cheerfully, “Good morning, cowfolk! Today’s challenge is called ‘Love & Livestock!’” He pointed to a line of wooden posts, hay bales, eggs, and… was that a podium?

“I hate it already,” Spencer mumbled to Damien.

“It’s a relay race,” Ian continued. “One partner is the ‘Cowboy,’ the other is the ‘Sweetheart.’ Together, you must complete four farm-themed obstacles, including—but not limited to—egg carrying, goat herding, wheelbarrow sprinting, and romantic communication!”

“Romantic, what now?” Anthony blinked.

Courtney raised a hand. “I’m sorry. Did you say romantic communication?”

You stepped forward, clearly in on the scheme. “That’s right. Each team has to shout a romantic line of encouragement before the final sprint. Extra points for sincerity... or creativity.”

Spencer looked skyward. “Cool. Love that for me.”

“Alright,” Ian clapped his hands, “first team: Spencer and Y/N!”

Everyone erupted in cheers and whistles.

“NO. No no no,” Spencer protested, turning toward Ian. “You did this on purpose.”

Ian was already walking away. “It’s what the people want.”

You were beside Spencer now, all sunshine and smugness, clearly having the time of your life. “C’mon, partner,” you teased. “You ready to prove your love to the livestock?”

“I swear if one of these obstacles involves Carl, I’m out.”

Obstacle One: Egg on a Spoon

Spencer stared at the wooden spoon like it was a cursed relic. You, meanwhile, stood behind the start line, gently stretching like you were about to run the Kentucky Derby.

“Alright,” you said, handing him the spoon. “Balance the egg on this. Walk in a straight line to the fence post, round the bale, and come back. Easy.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Nothing on this trip has been easy.”

“Consider it a test of grace under pressure,” you said sweetly. “Like love. Or avoiding Carl.”

From the sidelines, Courtney shouted, “Walk like you’re carrying Y/N’s heart in your mouth!”

“Oh my god,” Spencer muttered, stuffing the spoon between his lips.

As he began his awkward shuffle down the track, the entire cast broke into an impromptu chant of “He’s got her heart! Don’t drop it!”

He wobbled left.

He wobbled right.

You jogged alongside him, hands on your hips, voice syrupy-smooth. “Steady now, darlin’. Don’t you dare crack under pressure.”

Spencer made a muffled noise—something like “You’re not helping!” but it came out as “Mph mm hngghff!”

He was two feet from the bale when a butterfly flew past his face.

He flinched.

The egg rocketed into the air like a tiny doomed UFO—then splattered on his shirt.

Silence.

Spencer stared down at himself. “Cool. Romantic yolk. Symbolic.”

You giggled, reaching over to pluck a bit of shell off his shoulder. “Guess you scrambled.”

From the background, Shayne yelled, “You scrambled the relationship, man!”

Obstacle Two: Goat Herding

“Alright,” you said, unlocking the small corral gate. “All you gotta do is get these three goats into that little pen over there. Use the treat bucket if you need.”

Spencer nodded, dead serious. “Copy. Goats. Pen. I’ve seen ‘Charlotte’s Web.’ I’m emotionally prepared.”

You handed him the bucket.

He stepped into the pen.

Carl the rooster immediately charged the gate, flaring his wings like he’d been waiting all night for a rematch.

Spencer backpedaled. “I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOAT HERDING—WHY IS THERE A MINIBOSS?”

Carl pecked his boot with surgical precision. The goats bleated with interest, clearly invested in the chaos.

“Maybe... maybe start with gentle persuasion?” you suggested.

Spencer turned to the goats, crouched low, and held out a handful of treats. “Okay, listen. I’m not from here. I’m a man from the internet. But we don’t have to be enemies.”

One goat trotted toward him.

Spencer smiled—then it headbutted his thigh and bolted past him.

“I’M LOSING TO A FARM,” he shouted.

The second goat just… sat down and refused to move. The third followed Carl like it had better things to do.

“Your aura’s all messed up,” Amanda called helpfully. “Goats are intuitive.”

You leaned on the fence, eyes twinkling. “Maybe they sense the unresolved romantic tension.”

Spencer spun. “What tension?!”

“You tell me, sugar.”

The goat behind him bleated.

And pooped.

Obstacle Three: Wheelbarrow Sprint

You flopped into the rusted metal wheelbarrow with a dramatic sigh, adjusting your bandana and resting your boots on the edge like royalty.

Spencer gripped the handles with a weary look. “Is this revenge for the goats?”

You popped a marshmallow in your mouth from your pocket stash. “Nope. This is character development.”

He lifted the handles—and immediately struggled. “Okay. Wow. Either this thing’s made of concrete or you’ve been secretly lifting hay bales for sport.”

“Shut up and push, cowboy.”

The track was a bumpy, uneven loop around the barn. Spencer sprinted, dodging rocks and tufts of grass. You cheered like a pageant queen on a parade float.

“You’re doin’ great, sweetheart! Real strong—real capable—just don’t hit that—”

He hit a rock.

The wheelbarrow veered sharply, nearly launching you into the grass.

“WE’RE GOOD!” he yelled, correcting course. “WE’RE FINE!”

You were doubled over with laughter, one hand braced on the rim. “My spine disagrees!”

As they rounded the final turn, Spencer lost steam. He wheezed. “Why did no one tell me this was a leg day episode?!”

Shayne called from the sidelines, “Love makes you stronger, bro!”

Damien added, “Or just sweaty and confused!”

As Spencer crossed the finish line and dropped the handles, you tumbled out onto the grass with a dramatic roll.

“10 outta 10 dismount,” Courtney announced.

“I’m seeing spots,” Spencer panted.

“Those are just fireflies,” you whispered, lying beside him. “You didn’t die.”

“...Emotionally, I did.”

Obstacle Four: Romantic Declaration

Now it was time for the final piece—the dramatic confession.

Spencer stood in the middle of the field, sweaty, dirt-streaked, possibly concussed by love. The entire cast formed a semi-circle behind you, phones out, ready to document everything.

You crossed your arms, eyebrows raised. “Alright, cowboy. Final step. Woo me. Loudly.”

Spencer stared at you for a long moment.

The group held its collective breath.

Then, Spencer took a step forward, raised his arms to the sky, and bellowed:

“IF THIS WEEK HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, IT’S THAT I’D CHASE GOATS, WHEELBARROW A GODDESS, AND EAT RAW GLITTER IF IT MEANT YOU’D KEEP CALLING ME DARLIN’!”

Silence.

Then uproar.

Damien screamed. Amanda actually fell over. Angela wheezed. Even Clementine let out a single unimpressed snort like she couldn’t believe the audacity.

You blinked once.

Twice.

Then tipped your hat low, smirking. “You passed.”

Spencer blinked. “What does that mean?!”

Ian blew the whistle. “TIME! They win!”

Spencer stared up at the sky, dramatically collapsing into the dirt. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, shadows dancing across your face. “I’ll make sure it’s a good one, sugar.”

And just like that, he was done for.

The chaos of the day had finally dimmed.

The crew had scattered across the bunkhouse, the barn, and wherever they’d passed out in exhaustion. Someone’s leftover s’more sat half-melted on a paper plate, and Carl had (mercifully) gone quiet for the night.

The fire pit still glowed faintly, low embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the grass.

You stepped out of the bunkhouse, hoodie thrown over your top, holding a mason jar of lemonade. The air was thick with summer, soft and humming with crickets.

Spencer was already out there—lying flat on his back in the grass a few feet from the fire, arms folded behind his head, gaze fixed skyward. His glasses were perched slightly crooked on his nose, and his shirt still had a smudge of dirt across the sleeve.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just padded over and dropped into the grass beside him, close enough for your knees to brush.

He glanced over and smiled. It wasn’t his usual sarcastic grin or chaotic one-liner expression. Just… tired. Soft. Warm.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey, yourself.”

You both looked up at the stars—dozens of them, bright and wild in a way they never were in the city. The Milky Way stretched overhead, glowing faintly like some spilled-glitter accident across the sky.

Spencer let out a breath. “I forgot how many stars there are out here. I’m used to like, six. Maybe one bold planet.”

You smiled, tracing a constellation with your finger. “Out here, you’ve got the whole galaxy if you want it.”

A pause.

Then he added, voice quieter: “Can’t lie. I’m still emotionally recovering from that goat herding. That was... humbling.”

“Carl’s a menace,” you said, tone affectionate.

Spencer chuckled. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. There were... memes. So many memes.”

You tilted your head toward him, resting on your elbow. “You did good today. All things considered.”

“Even when I yelled my feelings in a field?”

“Especially then.”

He didn’t reply for a second, just blinked up at the stars.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was gonna say something earlier. After the race. When you asked me to ‘woo’ you.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“I panicked.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

The night wrapped around you both like a soft quilt, warm and slow. Spencer sat up slightly, bracing on one elbow to face you.

I think you’re incredible,” he said simply. “Funny. Cool under pressure. Completely terrifying with a rope. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing around you.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“But every time you say ‘darlin’,’ I forget what my own name is.”

You let out a soft laugh, blinking down at your jar of lemonade. “You don’t gotta flirt with me under starlight like we’re in a country song, Spence.”

“Not flirting,” he said. “I mean, yes, I am, but… I also mean it.”

The quiet buzzed a little louder now, closer to your heartbeat than the crickets.

You looked back at him. “You don’t always have to be charming, y’know.”

He smiled. “Then I’m in trouble. That’s most of my skill set.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t look away. “But you like it.”

“…Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

And for a moment, neither of you needed to say anything else.

The stars above blinked on, steady and wide. Somewhere inside, the crew snored, laughed in their sleep, or muttered about goats.

But out there, under a sky too big to hold all the feelings starting to crack open between you—

You and Spencer just sat, and existed, and felt.

Together.

The next morning broke with golden sunlight, damp grass, and the uneasy quiet that only meant one thing on this farm: chaos was coming.

Spencer had just finished sipping from his emergency Kickstart when Ian appeared out of nowhere, breaking the stillness of a morning that smelled like dewy grass and distant livestock. Somewhere behind the barn, a cow mooed lazily, and a chorus of birds chirped from the treetops, blending into the soft rustle of wind through the fields. megaphone in hand.

“GOOD MORNING, PARTNERS!” Ian shouted with too much energy for 8:02 a.m. “It’s time for your FINAL Summer Games challenge: The Great Eggscape!”

You raised a brow. “This gonna involve actual chickens or just, like, metaphorical ones?” Worried about putting the hens in any stressful environment.

“Both,” Ian beamed. “We cleared it with your dad. Here’s how it works: each team must collect five eggs scattered around the chicken yard and return them to the basket at the fence. Fastest time wins.”

Spencer frowned. “That sounds… suspiciously simple.”

Courtney stepped up with a clipboard. “Forgot to mention—Carl’s guarding the eggs.”

Spencer froze. “Carl? Carl the rooster?”

From the shadows, a single ba-kawk rang out. Sinister. Personal.

“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID, AGNEW,” Courtney added in a low growl. “Ever since that time you accidentally knocked over his feed bucket during the rehearsal shoot, he’s had it out for you.”

The chicken yard had been turned into a mini obstacle course—scattered hay, tiny wooden bridges, fake cacti for aesthetic, and at least two dozen plastic and real eggs hidden around the space. But standing dead center like a feathery war general…

Carl.

Tail puffed. Wings out. Eyes locked on Spencer like he owed him money.

You clapped Spencer on the shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Guess you’re up first.”

He looked at you, horrified. “This is how I die.”

“No,” you said sweetly. “This is how you win my heart.”

“Same difference.”

He stepped into the chicken yard like it was a minefield.

The timer started. The cast counted down. “3… 2… 1—GO!”

Spencer sprinted, ducking under a string of bunting and snatching the first two eggs with surprising agility.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself. “This is fine. No poultry problems. Just eggs. Just—”

BA-KAWK!

Carl swooped in from the left like a dive-bombing missile.

“AHHHHH!” Spencer shrieked, dropping an egg as he dodged the bird.

The cast howled.

“HE’S BACK FOR BLOOD!” yelled Damien, from atop the fence.

Carl flapped his wings dramatically and gave chase. Spencer ran a zig-zag pattern through the hay bales, yelling, “I DIDN’T EVEN LOOK AT YOUR HENS!”

You were doubled over laughing, holding your basket.

“Spence!” you called. “Over here—two more!”

He dove behind a coop, grabbed the eggs—and then Carl launched from the roof like a villain in a Fast & Furious movie.

Spencer flailed, landed hard in a pile of feathers, and emerged with one cracked egg and grass in his hair.

“I want it known,” he gasped, sprinting toward you, “that I have fought literal chickens for your honor!”

You held the basket out. He dumped the eggs in and collapsed at your feet.

Shayne and Courtney approached the pen like trained spies. Carl ignored them completely.

Ian and Anthony made it halfway before Anthony tripped and invented new curse words.

Amanda and Arasha worked silently, efficiently, and somehow found all their eggs without being attacked once.

Spencer, still on the ground, muttered, “Why me?”

You smirked. “He only attacks threats.”

“…I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

Courtney checked the stopwatch. “Despite being mauled by poultry… Spencer won by five seconds!”

Everyone clapped. Someone started chanting “CARL! CARL! CARL!”

You dropped the basket on the haystack and turned to Spencer, dusting feathers off his shoulder. “You alright, cowboy?”

“Mentally? No. Physically? Still feeling egg yolk in places I didn’t know existed.”

You grinned. “You really did all that for me?”

Spencer stood up straighter. “I’d do it again. Probably cry a little harder, though.”

You stepped in close. “Well, lucky for you… you don’t have to.”

Before he could respond, you kissed him.

His breath caught mid-thought, every word he might’ve said instantly forgotten. For a second, all the chaos faded—the goat bleats, the chants, even Carl’s indignant squawk in the background. Spencer’s mind, usually a nonstop parade of sarcasm and overthinking, just… quieted.

It was soft, a little messy thanks to the feathers still stuck to his shirt, but it was real. And in that barnyard, with hay underfoot and your hand resting lightly on his chest, he felt like the whole week had led to this exact ridiculous, perfect moment.

When you pulled away, Spencer’s heart was doing something suspiciously dramatic in his chest. His glasses were slightly crooked, but his grin was straight out of a romance novel.

He blinked. "Okay. That definitely counts as a win."

Right there in the barnyard, surrounded by cheers, goat bleats, and the faint squawk of a very offended rooster—you kissed him.

And Spencer melted into it, feathers and all.

When you pulled back, he was grinning like a fool. “Worth it?”