potatipejr

[potatipejr]

alex is running a daycare

[potatipejr]

A Forced Sweet Tooth

Spencer Agnew x f!Reader

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

Words: 3.4k

A/N: Writing a bunch before the inevitable burn out and ghosting tumblr for two months.

—————————————————————————

The first time Spencer saw you, he was just trying to kill time.

He had arrived way too early for a shoot at the office, his usual coffee shop was closed for renovations, and the hunger was starting to claw at the walls of his stomach. That’s when he noticed the tiny corner bakery with big bay windows and a hand-painted sign that simply read: Crumbs

It looked like something pulled straight from a movie à la Gilmore Girls. The kind with soft lighting and acoustic guitar strumming in the background. The bakery's front windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and golden sunlight poured through in strips, catching on the hanging glass light fixtures above the counter. Light wood counters ran the length of the shop, lovingly worn-in from the years of use. Framed chalkboard menus hung behind the register, hand-lettered in white chalk with delicate flourishes. The display case spread with pastries too pretty to be eaten. There were the scones in perfect rounds, rustic apple tarts dusted in powdered sugar, and a whole row of artisan croissants that looked like they belonged on the cover of a food magazine.

Spencer paused in the doorway, the small bell above the door still chiming faintly behind him. He was first hit with the warmth and then the smell. Not just bread, though that was heavenly enough, but cinnamon, espresso and vanilla. It wrapped around him like a thick knit blanket, and his stomach let out a low, traitorous growl. He immediately regretted the depressing gas station sandwich he’d forced down that morning on the drive to work.

And then he saw you.

You were behind the counter, your back to him as you tied a red ribbon around a small white pastry box with the kind of focus and precision usually reserved for surgeries. You leaned slightly on one foot as you tugged the bow tight, your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your apron slightly askew in a way that somehow made you look more put together. A little smudge of flour dusted your cheek, like a detail someone had artfully painted in just to make you more charming. And Spencer was, just for a second, entirely disarmed.

He watched as you handed the box to an older man at the counter, beaming warmly at whatever compliment he’d just paid you. You said something back that made him laugh, and Spencer caught the way your shoulders relaxed, the way you tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You were glowing, actually glowing and not in the cheesy, poetic way people wrote about, but in the way real people did when they were in their element. Bright. Comfortable. Happy.

And then you looked up, and saw him.

“Hi! How can I help you?” you said.

Help me, love me, save me… whatever you’ll give me. Your tone was cheerful and oh so warm, it jolted him out of his daze. You didn’t say it like someone being paid to be polite. You said it like you actually wanted to know how you could help him.

Spencer’s brain promptly short-circuited.

There were so many pastries in front of him. He could have gone with the lemon tarts— he liked those. Or the espresso cake slices. Or the salted chocolate chip cookies. Or literally anything else. But something about your eyes on him, expectant and kind, made his brain hit the panic button a hundred times.

“Uh” he blurted, voice cracking a little. “Croissant.”

He didn’t even like croissants.

“Just one?” you asked, already turning to the case, tongs in hand.

“Yup. Yeah. Just one.” He cleared his throat, silently screaming at himself to act normal. “That’s exactly what I came in for.” It absolutely wasn’t. He had wandered in just to kill some time before entering the chaos of the Smosh Games set. But now, somehow, getting a croissant felt like the most important decision of his life.

You picked out one of the perfectly golden croissants, flaky and buttery, and placed it gently into a paper sleeve. “Good choice,” you said, smiling as you slid it across the counter to him. “Ours are made fresh every morning with extra love. They’re kind of our pride and joy.”

He ate the whole thing.

That was Monday.

By Wednesday, Spencer had rationalized, very convincingly, in his own head, that he just happened to be in the area again. Totally normal. Totally casual. Not at all suspicious. It wasn’t like he had driven twenty minutes out of his way during morning traffic or anything absurd like that.

The inside of the bakery was just as warm as he remembered. A soft hum of conversation filled the space, mingling with the gentle clink of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine. This time, he got a lemon scone— zesty, sweet, just enough crumble— and a black coffee he didn’t actually like that much, but figured it would make him look more like a “coffee person.” You know, the type that would attract a young, charming bakery employee perhaps.

When you handed over his receipt with the same easy warmth as before, you didn’t even glance at the name printed at the top. “So just a lemon scone and a black coffee, Spencer?” you asked, already moving to make the drink.

Spencer blinked. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, his heart now beating in double-time.

You remembered his name. From Monday. Just like that.

That shouldn’t have made him as giddy as it did; he was a grown man, not a teenage fangirl at the 1D meet-and-greet, but here he was, humming a stupid little pop song under his breath as he walked back to his car, clutching his paper bag and coffee like they were love letters. He even caught himself smiling at his own reflection in the driver’s side window and immediately forced his face into something more neutral. Just in case anyone was watching. He had to keep up the act of the nonchalant macho man that he was.

By Friday, he had escalated. Not in a dramatic, over-the-top way. At least, not in his opinion. But still, it was a step up.

He had invented a fully fleshed out fake story.

“My roommate’s throwing a last-minute brunch thing,” he told you, holding up his phone as if it held proof of this imaginary event. “Asked me to grab some muffins on the way.”

Of course, Spencer lived alone. And his idea of brunch usually involved reheated pizza and whatever was still edible in the fridge. Or that he hadn’t once hosted another human in his kitchen in months.

But it sounded plausible. Brunch was a thing normal people did, right?

You grinned, eyes twinkling. “You’re a good roommate.”

He smiled back, praying he didn’t look as much like a deer in headlights as he felt. “Yeah, I try.”

You helped him pick out a variety— blueberry, poppyseed, a cinnamon swirl one he insisted was for “the picky one”— and packaged them in a pastry box, tying it up with a familiar red ribbon. That ribbon. He had no idea why it made his chest tight to watch you knot it, your brows furrowed slightly as you pulled it into a neat bow. He didn’t need a bow. Hell, he didn’t even need muffins. But he’d take a thousand of both if it meant you kept looking at him with that quiet, amused curiosity.

Which made him keep coming back.

He tried to play it cool. 

He tried not to linger too long near the register when you were laughing with the other barista, a tall girl with bleached blonde hair and a nose ring. He kept his phone in his hand, pretended to scroll, pretended he wasn’t waiting for you to come back. But somehow, you always seemed to drift toward his side of the counter. Your elbows resting on the wood, your fingers drumming absentmindedly while you asked, “Busy day ahead?” or “Did you try the strawberry cupcakes yet? They’re new.” 

“Hey, Spencer,” you greeted one day, already sliding a chocolate chip cookie into a paper bag. “I saved the last one for you.”

That one went straight to his heart.

You talked more each time he came in. Sometimes it was casual stuff; your favorite pastry to bake, how early your shifts started, which customers were the sweetest. Other times it drifted into shared stories about weird food combinations, music, and movies. He learned your laugh had this little hiccup at the end of it. You learned he hated overly sweet things but would eat anything you handed him.

Your smile began lingering just a second longer than it needed to.

Your eyes flickered toward the door every time the bell jingled, and more than once, Spencer swears he saw that little moment of recognition flash across your face when you realized it was him walking in.

It made something in him stretch and uncurl— a quiet, cautious kind of hope he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Because maybe… you were hoping to see him too.

One day, on a particularly quiet afternoon, the kind where the sun slanted through the bakery windows just right and the hum of the refrigerator in the back was louder than the handful of customers seated at the wooden tables, Spencer lingered. And he wasn’t pretending to scroll through his phone this time. He wasn’t even pretending to be interested in the monthly special that he must have seen thirty times this week. He just… stayed. Hovering awkwardly near the side counter where finished drinks and to-go bags were set, pretending to be waiting on something, even though his coffee had already been served eight minutes ago.

You, of course, noticed.

Leaning forward against the counter, elbows propped up as casually as you could, you fixed him with a knowing grin. “You’re not just here for the cookies anymore, are you?”

Your voice was light, teasing, but it made Spencer’s entire body jolt like you’d caught him red-handed, sneaking a second slice of apple pie. He felt heat rise up the back of his neck— an alien, crawling sensation that left him awkwardly upright, like he was forgetting how to be in his own skin. 

“Busted,” he muttered, lips twitching into a half-smile. “But can you blame me? Your croissants have… grown on me.”

That made you laugh, a warm, musical sound that cracked the already-syrupy air between you two. “Croissants, huh? I thought you said they were quote ‘buttery sorrow folded into disappointment.’”

Spencer let out a groan and dragged a hand down his face, his embarrassment turning theatrical now. “I was trying to be edgy,” he defended. “Turns out they’re not that bad when they come with good company.”

You arched a brow, feigning suspicion. “Is that flattery I hear, Mr. Agnew?”

He looked at her and felt something hiccup in his usually calm mind. He wasn’t blushing, surely not— but he did adjust his cuff with unnecessary focus. “Only a little,” he said, quieter this time. “Well… maybe a lot.”

You shook your head fondly, reaching for the whipped cream canister behind the counter. “Flattery will get you extra whipped cream.”

He watched as you tipped it with flair, adding a ridiculous, towering swirl to his already-finished mocha. It was lopsided. It was a little chaotic. It was kind of perfect.

“You’re enabling me,” he said dryly.

You laughed. “Consider it your reward for being honest.”

Spencer took the cup from you slowly, fingers brushing yours which was completely unnecessary. You didn’t move away either. Not right away. For a moment, everything paused like the quiet before the beat dropped in a song, and then the bell above the door jingled and broke the spell.

But Spencer didn’t leave. 

He just stood there with whipped cream on his cup and something dangerous, something warm, unfurling in his chest.

Because, yes. He wasn’t there for the cookies anymore.

Spencer started coming in every morning before work. And after. Sometimes in the middle of shoots if the crew took a break. He always had a new reason.

“Needed a writing spot. You have the best light.”

“Was in the area. Again. Funny how that happens.”

“I'm trying to find the best hot chocolate in LA. This is... round six?”

You played along. Always teasing, but never pushing. Something in the air between you had started to shift. How you tilted your head when he spoke. He noticed the playlist changing to Weezer on Thursday mornings which isn't exactly cozy bakery music. He noticed how you would rush helping other customers in order to get to him.

One morning, the place was packed, and you were clearly overwhelmed but handling it like a pro. Still, when he walked in, your eyes met his like clockwork. Your face lit up like always.

“Hey you,” you said, breathless but happy.

He squeezed himself to his usual spot against the wall behind the pick-up station, grinning. “Hey. Need help wrangling croissants?”

“Unless you suddenly became a barista overnight, I think I’m good,” you shot back.

“Wouldn't be my worst reinvention.”

By the time the rush died down, Spencer had stayed almost thirty minutes, sipping slowly, watching you dart around in a pink apron with your name stitched into the pocket.

You finally made it to his corner, brushing your hair out of your eyes.

"You sure you don't want a job here? We pay in cookies."

"Tempting," he said. Then, after a pause, cautiously added, "Although, I think I'd be a little too distracted."

You bit your lip at that. He caught the twitch of a smile. Something about the way you looked at him right then made his palms sweat.

Listen, Spencer wasn’t great at subtlety. Not when he liked someone. He tried, God knows he tried, but it always came out in ways that were just a little too obvious: showing up a little too often, laughing a little too loud when you made a joke, bringing his laptop to work in the corner near the bar even though the Wi-Fi in the bakery was objectively shit. He’d told himself it was fine. Just a harmless crush.

So it really shouldn’t have surprised him, while still brushing crumbs off his hoodie from breakfast, Alice— your fellow barista and now, officially, a known instigator— looked up from the espresso machine and called out, loud enough for every customer in the store to hear:

“So are you guys, like, dating yet or what?”

There was a silence, one like you had never experienced. A thick, punch-in-the-gut kind of silence.

Spencer choked mid-sip on his mocha, nearly dropping it as he coughed and tried to laugh it off at the same time. You, behind the counter, froze with a tray of blueberry muffins in hand. The redness that bloomed across your cheeks was immediate and complete. You went from warm golden to full beet in under a second.

“Alice!” you hissed, your voice squeaky and panicked.

Alice only smirked, completely unbothered as she continued tamping espresso into the portafilter like this was any other work day.

Spencer, for once, had nothing clever to say. He stammered a few half-syllables and backed away from the counter with the grace of an odd horse practicing for its very first show jumping competition, taking refuge near the sugar station and pretending to be very invested in the different options offered to sweeten your drink.

It was nearly an hour later— after Alice gave knowing looks to the pair, after the older man who always ordered the lemon tart and sat in the corner had finally left— that you cornered him near the register. The hum of the café had quieted, replaced by an acoustic song probably sung by some white guy and the soft clink of ceramic mugs being cleared. You stepped around the counter, wiping your hands on your apron, your eyes darting to make sure Alice was far enough away.

“They’re just being nosy,” you said quickly, your voice hushed. “You don’t have to say anything, seriously.”

Your eyes met his. Wide. A little uncertain. But honest.

Spencer looked at you.

Flour dusted your apron, trailing faint fingerprints down the front like ghostly brushstrokes. There was a tiny smear of chocolate near your elbow, probably from those triple-chocolate chip cookies you made every morning. You were flushed from the heat, tired from the shift, and still somehow… radiant.

He opened his mouth and then finally, quietly, said, “Would it be so bad if we were?”

You blinked. 

He watched your brows knit together, a small furrow forming between them as your lips parted, then closed again like you were about to speak but thought better of it. It was subtle, but Spencer caught it— the flicker of surprise, the vulnerable hesitation in your eyes. Like you were trying to process the question and your own heartbeat at the same time, trying to make sense of this unexpected tenderness suddenly blooming between the two of you.

Your gaze dropped to the countertop for a moment, as if grounding yourself, and he saw your fingers lightly grip the edge. You blinked once, slowly, and when your eyes came back to his, they were shining with something soft and unspoken. Not fear exactly, but something cautious.

Spencer held his breath. Because in that pause, in that quiet second, it felt like time had narrowed down to just the space between you, to just the unspoken question hanging in the air: Could this be real? And even though neither of you had moved, something had shifted— something fragile, and new, and impossibly important.

“No,” you said. Your voice was soft. “Not bad. Just… maybe a little scary.”

Spencer nodded, his throat suddenly dry.

Without another word, he reached into the little brown paper bag he’d been hiding in his jacket pocket and pulled something out. It was a small, slightly misshapen… cookie?

He slid the cookie across the counter toward you.

It was a sugar cookie, golden brown and iced with white frosting. On the center, in careful red piping, was a tiny heart.

You looked down at it, then back at him. “You made this?”

He gave a sheepish little shrug, looking down. “It was either that or write you a love poem. Count your blessings.”

You stared at the cookie. Then at him. And the imperfect cookie just cracked something open in your chest— it felt warm and giddy and a little terrified, yes, but also sure.

When you did not respond fast enough for his liking, his eyes flicked up to meet yours. There was expectation there, he wanted an answer. But there was also softness like he really wanted to know the answer, know something more about you.

You let out a laugh.

You actually covered your face with both hands and giggled, the sound muffled but unmistakably joyful. Spencer wanted to be the reason for that sound every day. Your shoulders shook as you tried to compose yourself, finally peeking out from behind your hands to grin at him.

“Okay,” you said breathlessly. “Yes. Take me out.”

Spencer stared at you for half a second, just to make sure you were serious. When he saw the unmistakable yes in your eyes, his face broke into a goofy grin so wide it felt like it might split him open. He couldn’t help it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He picked up the cookie again, held it like it was the most important thing in the world. “Cool. I mean. Great. I’ll text you? Wait—you already gave me your number, right? For, uh… bakery reasons?”

“You asked for it so I could send you a muffin menu. Which we update once every three months by the way.”

He beamed. “Best excuse I’ve ever made. A very subtle move from me.”

You took a breath and nudged him toward the door with mock seriousness. “Now go. I have to finish my shift, and if you keep smiling at me like that, I’m going to burn something. Probably myself.”

He stepped backward, still grinning. “No promises.”

“Spencer,” you warned, pointing your spatula at him like a weapon.

He winked, pocketed the cookie like it was treasure, and finally stepped out into the warm sun with the kind of skip in his step that felt ridiculous to admit.

It was the best day of his life so far after all.

Okay, but maybe taking the cookie back out of the store with him wasn’t his best move.

[potatipejr]

"So I have this cat"

Spencer Agnew x reader

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

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Guys it's summer, I'm unemployed and so so bored. Please send me requests. This is a first for me.

You and Spencer hadn’t meant to keep things a secret.

But when the first kiss happened after a long night of editing and tired laughter and his fingers curled gently around your wrist and your forehead leaned against his; it felt too fragile to announce, too precious to hand over to a group of colleagues who would absolutely turn it into a circus act. 

So you didn’t.

For four months, you let your relationship live in the quiet spaces: the gentlest of touches under the editing desk, the silent glances that said words across meeting rooms, the shared playlists and inside jokes and coffee orders memorized down to temperature. As the weeks went on, their comfort became evident to them both. They did what they could to avoid anything that even dwindled on the term public relationship, they liked the way things were. It was a secret. But it was theirs. Whatever you would call it.

You weren’t hiding. You were just… holding something close. And it worked well enough.

Until Spencer walked into work with a hickey.

It had been an interesting morning. He was already ten minutes late, but he didn’t care. How could he when he had woken up to the blissful expression dawning on your face? He watched you for a moment and then with a sigh, he leant forward and kissed you. His lips were soft and a little dry against your own, but it is a proper kiss: sweet and affectionate. You brushed your tongue across his lips, asking permission which he merrily obliged to. It was a deeper kiss now, still sweet and lazy in its exploration until you had to break awake, seeking oxygen.

He pulled back, forehead against yours. 

“That is the best way to wake up.” you decided, some finality in her tone. 

“There are worse ways to wake up.” He agreed with a hum. 

A few careful moments passed with you just staring into each other’s eyes. Your hand continued to move in the hair on the back of his head and one of his hands was trailing up and down your spine, causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. He hated the idea of leaving this bubble of warmth that was created in his own home. The world outside the bed was colder and he already knew he had to resist the urge to immediately climb back into the bed and into your arms. 

Still groggy from your early-morning kisses, it certainly didn't help when you’d pulled him back into bed, whispering a smug “Five more minutes won’t kill you.”

Five turned into ten and ten turned into twenty. And a lot of those minutes had been spent with your lips on his neck.

Neither of you noticed what you’d left behind.

Now fully acknowledging the consequences of your morning endeavours, Spencer had barely thrown on his Legacy hoodie and bolted out the door. Thus, he wandered into the Smosh office bleary-eyed and gnawing on a half-eaten granola bar, expecting to coast under the radar.

He should’ve known better.

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“Yo, Spence,” Angela called from the kitchen, her eyes narrowing. “Did you get attacked by a vampire this morning?”

Spencer blinked. “Huh?”

Courtney leaned over the couch with a grin. “You’ve got something on your neck there, bud.”

Confused, Spencer’s hand made his way to his neck. His fingers found the warm skin just beneath his ear; tender and unmistakably marked yours.

His heart dropped. “Uhm..”

Still half-asleep and caught off guard, his mind scrambled for something - anything - that might appease the office gossip hounds, at least for now.

“Cat,” he blurted. “It was my cat.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Your cat… gave you a hickey?”

“No! No, no, nooooo,” he said too quickly. “She.. you know.. pounced. She’s got this weird habit of jumping on me when I’m asleep. Sharp claws. You know how cats are, right?”

“Sure,” Amanda said slowly, joining the scene with a knowing smile. “A surprise feline ambush. Classic.”

“Looks like a mouth, dude.” Angela said bluntly. “Not paws.”

“It’s just a bruise!” Spencer insisted, voice cracking a little. “A really mild bruise from, uh… enthusiastic cuddling. With a cat. My cat. You know my cat, Cleo.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the laughter erupted.

“Oh my god,” Courtney wheezed. “You are the worst liar.”

Oh God, Spencer was already dreading this day. 

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You walked in an hour later, iced matcha latte in hand, humming absently under your breath and having no idea you were walking into an ambush.

Angela met you at the door with a smirk. “Hey! Quick question.”

“Uh oh,” you said. “That’s never a good start.”

Amanda cornered your other side, “Any idea who Spencer’s seeing?”

Your heart hiccupped.

“Wh-what?”

He’s got a mystery hickey,” Courtney added. “And he’s blaming it on his cat which, for everyone’s sake, I really hope isn’t true.”

You glanced toward the editing bay. Spencer hunched over his desk, red-faced and painfully still. Definitely not listening to Alex who was swinging around some board game and excitedly talking about it.

“I have,” you started, voice wobbling. “No idea.”

You practically ran to your desk, face flushed and pulse pounding. You slumped into your chair, hiding behind your monitor like it could somehow shield you from the smirks and raised eyebrows being traded across the office. Your fingers trembled slightly as you grabbed your phone, typing with furious urgency.

meet me in the hallway. now.

You hit send before you could second-guess it, watching the little "Delivered" bubble pop up like a lifeline. You didn’t know what you were going to say when you saw him. You just knew you needed to see him. You needed to talk.

“They saw it?” you hissed.

Spencer winced, his shoulders curling inward like he could physically shrink from the memory. “Immediately,” he admitted, voice low and apologetic. “Like, the second I walked through the door. I swear Angela didn’t even say hi, just launched right into, ‘Did you get attacked by a vampire?’" He mimed the air quotes helplessly. "She needs to learn some manners, by the way."

You groaned, glancing around as if someone might still be eavesdropping. “And your excuse was… your cat?”

“I panicked!” he whisper-shouted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It was the first thing that came to mind!”

Your mouth dropped open in disbelief, hands flying to your hips. “Spencer. No one on this earth would believe that a house cat gave you a perfectly round, purple hickey right under your jaw.”

“I know!” he hissed. “I’m realizing that now, okay? It’s your lips that were right there, and I didn’t exactly think to double-check the damage before running out the door!”

You narrowed your eyes, heart still hammering from the sudden chaos. “This is so bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said hopefully.

You gave him a look.

He immediately backtracked. “Okay. It’s terrible. It’s really, really terrible. I am never going to hear the end of this.”

You both stood there for a moment, silent but brimming with mutual dread with the tiniest hint of amusement curling at the corners of your mouths, because of course it had to be this that outed you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By noon, things had escalated.

Courtney had created a whiteboard titled “WHO GAVE SPENCER THE HICKEY?”

Angela was placing bets.

Amanda had compiled a list of “likely suspects” with categories like “Production Team,” “Art Department,” and “Unhinged Fans.”

You were barely surviving. Every question felt like a loaded trap, every sly glance like a spotlight burning straight through your barely maintained composure. It was like walking through a minefield of smirks and half-whispered theories, your nerves fraying with each passing moment. The air around you buzzed with speculation, and you could feel it pressing against your chest. You tried to focus on your work, fingers typing nonsense because your brain was too busy playing defense. The secondhand anxiety clung to you like static, building every time let their voice drop in mock secrecy. It wasn’t just teasing; it was scrutiny, and it made your skin itch with the unbearable need to either scream or sprint out the nearest exit.

You had to talk to Spencer.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he groaned, raking both hands through his hair like he was considering actually yanking it out. His eyes were wild, a little glassy with embarrassment. “I feel like I’m in a bad sitcom. Laugh track and everything. I’m just waiting for someone to trip me and land in a cake.”

You leaned back against the hallway wall, arms folded, lips pressed tightly together. “I mean… you kind of started it.”

Spencer turned to you, scandalized. “By liking you too much?” he whispered dramatically, eyes wide with mock-pleading.

You gave him a flat stare, but your lips twitched at the corners. “Stop,” you muttered, pushing lightly at his chest. “I’m already freaking out enough for the both of us. I’ve spent all morning dodging questions and pretending I don’t know what your neck looks like.”

He sighed, stepped forward and leaned in until his forehead pressed gently against yours. The contact was grounding, familiar, safe.

“Should we just tell them?” he murmured. His breath was warm against your cheek, and despite the absurdity of the day, it made your heart flutter in that annoying, traitorous way it always did around him.

You hesitated, the weight of the decision suddenly pressing heavy on your mind. You thought about the teasing, the questions, the jokes that would never stop. But then you looked at him, really looked at him. Red-cheeked, tired-eyed, and still willing to stand beside you through the chaos he helped create.

“Are we ready for that?” you whispered, barely audible.

He gave you the softest smile. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to be.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening as you nodded slowly.

Right on cue, as if she knew what she would be stumbling upon, Amanda walked right into the two of you in the hallway.

A sly grin creeping across her face. “You two seem cozy.”

Spencer froze. You turned bright red.

Amanda dramatically gasped and pointed. “IT’S YOU!”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny, deflect, or just make a run for it, but Spencer beat you to it. “Alright! Fine! I made out with my - my partner! This morning! Before work! In bed! It wasn't my cat!"

The hallway went quiet. Dead quiet.

Then Angela popped out of the kitchen. “What?”

Spencer blinked. “Wait. Did I say that out loud?”

You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

Amanda pointed between you both, wide-eyed. “Wait. That partner?”

Spencer muttered, “There’s only one.”

Amanda looked between the two of you. “Are you serious?”

You sighed, stepping forward. “Yeah. We’ve been dating.”

Courtney walked around the corner with perfect timing. “Since uh when?”

Spencer scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a little as he avoided eye contact. “Four months?” he offered uncertainly, like he was testing the truth of the statement as much as anyone else.

Amanda’s eyes went wide, and she gasped. “You absolute liars! All those late-night editing sessions?” Her tone was equal parts shock and amusement, like she was uncovering a juicy secret she’d been dying to know.

Angela snorted, folding her arms with a smirk. “Yeah, and the snack swaps? The weirdly intense trivia chemistry you two have going on? Actually, it doesn't surprise me now I'm thinking about it.” She glanced pointedly between the two of you, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Courtney held up the whiteboard with a triumphant grin. “This makes all my data meaningless,” she declared, tapping the title “WHO GAVE SPENCER THE HICKEY?” as if it were some grand conspiracy finally solved.

You couldn’t help but laugh despite yourself, the tension breaking a little with the ridiculousness of it all. “We just… didn’t want to deal with the circus,” you admitted, shrugging.

Spencer matched your shrug with his own, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Turns out,” he said, “the circus comes to you whether you want it or not.”

The room filled with chuckles and knowing glances, and for a moment, the secret didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Amanda smirked. “So. Was the cat real?”

Spencer deadpanned. “The cat has an alibi.”

Later that afternoon, when you were both back in the editing bay, Spencer leaned close and nudged your knee with his. “Feels kind of nice,” he murmured. “Not hiding.”

You smiled. “Even if everyone thinks your cat’s a kinky little gremlin?”

He laughed. “Especially then. In hindsight, there are better ways to confess you are in a relationship. Like literally any other way.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together beneath the desk.

“Next time, just let me check your neck before you leave.” She smiled up at him and his head tilted slightly, his attention fixed on her.

“Spencer.” You said. 

He responded, your name came out in a long, soft whisper. 

Spencer closed the gap between you. His lips landed softly against yours. It was sweet, soft, but very real.

And when Amanda walked past the door, she didn’t even blink.

She just called out, “Tell your cat to use protection next time.”