Okay so I’ve been reading your stuff for sooo long and you’re actually my fav writer. The way you word things and your character descriptions..it’s seriously amazing and I love it so so so so so much !!! 🙏🙏💞💞 keep up the amazing work and I hope your life is filled with joy and love because you deserve all of it!!!!
Also I just had to say this…. I’m begging for another Spencer enemies to lovers fic. Cabin fever is sooooo good!!! I love the forced close proximity prompt and that paired with your writing is *chefs kiss*. So I’d love it if you’d maybe maybe maybe.. would write another one ☝️
Love ya!! 🩷🩷
Stop! That is so so kind! I am beyond honored to be considered as your favorite writer. 🤗Thank you so much! I will do my best to honor your request, my love!🫶🏻 It's not exactly like Cabin Fever, but hopefully it scratches the itch. Love ya!!💛💛
Creative Differences
Spencer Agnew x Reader
Word Count: 13.7k
Summary: You and Spencer Agnew have spent months turning creative meetings into battlegrounds. When you’re forced to co-produce a new Smosh channel together, the rivalry only gets worse—until late nights, quiet moments, and one accident on set start blurring the line between irritation and something a lot more dangerous.
Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, minor injury, miscommunication, arguments, forced proximity, only one office
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know you’re in trouble the moment Spencer Agnew clears his throat.
It happens mid-brainstorm, right after you finish pitching—marker still in your hand, adrenaline buzzing, the room quiet with tentative anticipation. You’d nailed it. Sharp premise, clean beats, a sketch that could actually breathe instead of exploding into chaos in thirty seconds.
Ian nods. Courtney hums. Someone scribbles a note. Everyone is quiet, considering your idea seriously. And then Spencer leans forward in his chair, eyes sharp and unreadable.
“Well,” he says, folding his arms, “that’s one way to do it.”
You don’t look at him. You’ve been burned by that tone too many times. You know the grin, that half-smile that says, I’m about to destroy your whole pitch and you’ll love it anyway.
“Oh?” you reply, far too sweetly. “Do you have a better idea?”
“Several,” he says immediately, with that infuriating confidence of his. “For example—what if instead of escalating emotionally, we throw them straight into chaos? Full panic, zero preparation.”
You finally swivel to face him, marker tapping the board impatiently. “You mean like every sketch you’ve ever written?”
Somebody snickers. Spencer’s grin widens. That look—it’s infuriating, magnetic, so very him.
“Bold words,” he replies. “From someone who just pitched ‘emotional continuity’ at a sketch comedy company.”
You tap the marker against the board again. “God forbid we care about structure.”
“God forbid we have fun,” he says.
Ian clears his throat. “Okay, okay—maybe we can find some middle ground—” But it’s too late. Sparks have already ignited. This is how it always goes.
You and Spencer have been circling each other for months now. What started as polite professional disagreement has escalated into full-blown creative warfare. Brainstorm sessions have turned into battlefields. Sketches are tug-of-war over tone, actors, and props. Late nights are a silent competition of who can stay later, work harder, and somehow be right.
You’re both annoyingly good. You both know it. And neither of you is willing to back down.
By the time the meeting ends, nothing has changed—except one thing: Spencer’s look as he follows you to the door.
“Good pitch,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” he says, smirking. “I’m threatening you.”
You scoff, shoulder past him, but you can feel his gaze lingering like a static charge on your skin.
By 7:30 that night, the office is quiet. The hum of the fluorescent lights is almost soothing, and the air smells faintly of stale coffee and printer ink. You’re the only one left, sprawled across your desk in an organized chaos of scripts, prop lists, and half-finished emails. Laptop open, markers scattered, post-its clinging to every possible surface.
You stretch, cracked joints reminding you that you’ve been hunched over a desk for hours. Then you realize you’re starving. Late-night office hunger is a cruel beast, but you have a container of leftover pasta in the fridge waiting for you.
Except it isn’t there. Blink. Check again. Nothing.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, voice echoing in the empty office.
There’s only one other person you know who’s still here at this hour. You close the fridge a little too hard and turn slowly.
Spencer.
Of course Spencer is there, standing casually with a soda in his hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up, that infuriatingly calm expression on his face like he owns every late-night corner of the office.
“Problem?” he asks.
You cross your arms, trying to hide how irritated—and weirdly aware of him—you are. “Did you take my food?”
He blinks. Innocence. Or pretending. You can’t tell. “No.”
You squint. “That was fast.”
“I’m efficient,” he replies, as if that explains everything.
“My name was on it.”
“So?” he says, tilting his head. “My name’s on half the sketches you’ve stolen from me.”
Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, taking a sip. “Look, I didn’t take your food. But if I had, I’d say it was delicious and entirely deserved.”
You gape. “You are unbelievable.”
“Mm,” he hums, eyes glinting. “That’s not what you said in the brainstorm.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. A slow exhale leaves you. He’s annoying, infuriating… and somehow magnetic in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“You should label it better next time,” he says, grinning. Then he turns and walks away, leaving you staring after him, plotting revenge, and—against your better judgment—flustered.
Minutes pass. You finally sit down again, trying to focus on your scripts. But now the quiet of the office feels different. You catch yourself glancing at his empty desk every few seconds. He left it tidy, like nothing happened. But there’s a faint trace of soda smell lingering in the air, a ghost of him.
You try to tell yourself it’s just rivalry. Professional competition. Nothing else.
But when you close your laptop and the glow fades, you can’t shake the memory of that grin, the way his eyes lingered just a fraction too long, the careless charm that makes your pulse a little faster than it should.
And you know—though you’d never admit it aloud—you’re not just planning revenge. You’re planning your next move. And it’s going to be personal.
Because this is only the beginning.
And neither of you is walking away unscathed.
~~~
You get in at 7:08 a.m. Not because you’re responsible. Because you’re calculating.
The office is quiet in that fragile, pre-chaos way—sunlight filtering through the high windows, dust floating lazily in gold beams, abandoned coffee mugs like relics of yesterday’s bad decisions. The production floor feels almost sacred before everyone fills it with noise.
You drop your bag at your desk and take a slow look around. Spencer’s desk is directly across from yours. Of course it is. Management claims it’s “collaborative layout design.” You suspect it’s psychological experimentation.
You roll up your sleeves. Operation Retribution begins.
Spencer’s workspace is annoyingly neat. Clean keyboard. Aligned monitor. Sticky notes arranged with unsettling symmetry. His hoodie from yesterday folded over the back of his chair like he’s the kind of person who thinks ahead.
It offends you.
You crouch slightly and spot the tiny USB receiver plugged into the back of his desktop.
Perfect. You unplug it gently. No theft. No destruction. Just displacement.
You slide open the shallow drawer beneath his keyboard and tuck the receiver into the very back corner. Close drawer. Straighten keyboard. Adjust chair. Step back.
Impeccable. You return to your desk and open your laptop just as footsteps echo down the hallway. He’s right on time.
Spencer enters like he owns the place. Drink in one hand. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. T-shirt, slightly rumpled. Hair not styled but somehow still working for him. Glasses sliding down his nose as he drops into his chair.
You hate that you notice these things.
He boots up his computer. Cracks his knuckles. Flexes his fingers dramatically. Starts typing.
Nothing. He pauses. Tries again. Still nothing.
He lifts the keyboard, frowns at it, presses harder like intimidation might fix it. You stare at your screen with Oscar-worthy focus.
He wiggles the mouse. Nothing.
The faintest huff leaves him. You’re fighting a smile so hard it physically hurts. Slowly—very slowly—he turns his head toward you.
“Morning,” he says evenly.
“Morning,” you reply, voice calm, eyes still on your screen.
“My keyboard’s not working.”
“That’s devastating.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that.”
“Me?” You glance over, blinking innocently. “Spencer, I’m hurt.”
He studies you. You hold his gaze. The tension crackles.
He doesn’t look annoyed. He looks entertained. That’s worse.
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down and opens the drawer beneath his desk. His hand brushes the receiver instantly. He closes his eyes briefly. Then looks back up at you.
“You’re unbelievable.”
You smile sweetly. “God forbid we have fun.”
He leans back slowly in his chair, tilting his head. “You want to play?”
Your pulse ticks up despite yourself. “I thought we already were.”
He smiles. Not smug. Sharp.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “We are.”
By 10 a.m., the office has turned into a battlefield. Spencer retaliates swiftly.
Your mouse sensitivity is suddenly set to hyperspeed, making the cursor zip across the screen like it’s possessed. You nearly throw your mouse across the room.
His chair mysteriously lowers to child-height.
Your Slack notification sound is changed to an obnoxious duck quack.
His desktop background becomes a zoomed-in screenshot of him mid-sneeze.
You don’t know when it happened, but at some point the pranks stop being subtle and start being… personal.
He replaces your water bottle with one filled entirely with ice so it sloshes aggressively every time you lift it.
You swap his coffee for decaf. He doesn’t notice until noon. The betrayal on his face is cinematic.
“You monster,” he whispers.
“You’ll live.”
“You have no honor.”
“You ate my food.”
“I did not.”
You lean forward across your desk. “You’re still the primary suspect.”
He leans forward too. The desks aren’t that far apart. They never have been.
“Prove it,” he murmurs.
Your stomach flips. You sit back abruptly. “Enjoy your bean water.”
By mid-afternoon, the rest of the office is aware. Shayne pauses beside your desk, watching Spencer try to discreetly peel googly eyes off every object in his drawer.
“…I’m not intervening,” Shayne says, slowly walking away.
“You shouldn’t,” you reply after him.
Courtney passes by with coffee and whispers, “This is better than cable.”
Spencer shoots her a betrayed look. She just grins and walks away.
No one stops it. No one wants to. The energy between you is too electric. Too entertaining. Too… something.
It shifts again that night. Because of course it does.
You’re both still there after 9:30. The office lights are dimmed. Most of the overheads are off, leaving only desk lamps and monitor glow illuminating the room. It feels smaller somehow. Quieter. More intimate.
The pranks have slowed. Now it’s just the sound of typing, the hum of air conditioning, the occasional creak of a chair. You’re deep in an edit when you hear him sigh. Not exaggerated or theatrical. Just tired.
You glance up before you can stop yourself.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his desk, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. His screen reflects faintly in his glasses. His jaw is tight. He looks… frustrated.
And something in your chest tightens in response.
You stand before you can talk yourself out of it. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t look up at first. “Nothing.”
“That’s not convincing.”
A pause. Then he turns his monitor slightly toward you. He’s editing the sketch from earlier. Making his version. And it’s not landing.
The pacing is off. The chaos feels loud instead of sharp. The beats are stepping on each other. You could let this happen. You could let him crash. Instead, you step closer.
“Scroll back,” you say quietly. He does.
You move beside him, leaning slightly over his shoulder. Your hand rests on the edge of his desk for balance. You’re close enough now that your arms brush faintly.
Neither of you comment on it.
“If you cut this reaction,” you murmur, pointing at the timeline, “and let the silence sit for half a second longer, it’ll hit harder.”
He hesitates.
“Trust me.” A beat. He makes the cut. Plays it again.
The silence stretches. Then the chaos hits. The joke lands. Hard.
He exhales slowly. “…Okay.”
You feel stupidly satisfied. “Told you structure matters.”
He turns in his chair to face you. You hadn’t realized how close you were standing.
Your knee brushes his.
You freeze.
He doesn’t move away.
“You could’ve let me fail,” he says.
You shrug lightly. “I prefer winning clean.”
His eyes flicker. “That wasn’t clean.”
“No?”
“No,” he says softly. “That was teamwork.”
The word hangs between you. Teamwork.
It sounds different coming from him. Quieter. More honest.
The air feels heavier suddenly. Charged.
You’re close enough to see the faint freckle near his jaw. The way his lashes cast shadows against his cheek in the low light. The way his expression isn’t smug or teasing anymore.
It’s open. And that’s dangerous.
“You didn’t take my food, did you?” you ask quietly.
He huffs a breath of laughter. “I swear on my mechanical keyboard.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means everything.”
You laugh—soft, surprised at yourself. He smiles back. Not sharp. Not competitive. Just… warm.
It unsettles you more than any prank has all day. Because the war was safe. The banter was controlled.
This? This feels like something neither of you has named yet.
You straighten slowly, stepping back toward your desk. The space between you feels noticeable now. Different.
As you sit down, you can feel his gaze on you. Not challenging. Not calculating. Just watching. And for the first time since this whole ridiculous thing started…
You don’t want to win. You just want to see what happens next.
~~~
The email hits your inbox at exactly 11:42 a.m. You almost ignore it.
You’re mid-edit, headphones on, scrubbing through footage frame by frame, adjusting timing by milliseconds because that’s the kind of detail you care about. Your coffee’s gone cold beside you. Your posture is atrocious. The office around you hums with its usual late-morning chaos—voices drifting from the studio, someone laughing too loudly in the kitchen, the rhythmic click of keyboards and distant music leaking from someone’s speakers.
Then your laptop dings.
Production Meeting – Mandatory. Conference Room A. 12:00.
You frown. Mandatory usually means one of three things: restructuring, expansion, or disaster. You glance up instinctively. Spencer is already looking at you.
He’s leaning back in his chair, one ankle resting over his knee, fingers steepled under his chin like he’s been expecting this. His screen is open, but his attention isn’t on it. It’s on you.
“What did you do?” he asks, deadpan.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He gestures vaguely toward your laptop. “Mandatory meeting. Middle of the week. Feels like your brand.”
You scoff and pull your headphones off. “If I were orchestrating something, it’d be more strategic than a calendar invite.”
He studies you for a beat longer than necessary. You hold his gaze. There’s always that edge between you. That line of tension that feels like a wire pulled too tight.
“Fine,” he says finally. “But if this is HR because you replaced my ringtone with a duck quack, I’m blaming you.”
“You should. It was very funny.”
He huffs a laugh before he can stop himself. You both look away at the same time.
Conference Room A feels colder than usual.
It’s too bright. Too sterile. The long table is already half occupied when you walk in—Ian at the head, Anthony beside him, a couple of department leads with laptops open and expressions that suggest decisions have already been made.
You take a seat on one side. Spencer sits across from you. Of course he does. Not next to you. Not diagonally. Directly across, like this is a negotiation and you’re opposing counsel.
Ian folds his hands on the table.
“Alright,” he begins, and the tone alone tells you this isn’t minor. “We’re expanding.”
The word lands softly but heavily.
Anthony clicks a remote. The screen behind them lights up with a logo mockup—bold typography, fresh colors, a working title that feels experimental. Not main-channel. Not Games. Something in-between.
“We’re launching a new channel,” Anthony continues. “New format. Hybrid structure. Something that blends strong storytelling with some fun, chaotic moments, maybe some improv. Something entirely new.”
Your pulse ticks upward. You don’t look at Spencer, but you feel him react. Because that description sounds suspiciously like both of you.
Ian continues, “This isn’t a side experiment. We’re investing real resources into this. Marketing. Dedicated crew. Regular upload schedule. If it works, it reshapes how we produce content moving forward.”
The room is quiet. The weight of it presses into your chest.
Anthony’s eyes sweep the table. “We need two producers to lead it.”
There’s a pause. Not long. But long enough for your stomach to drop.
“And we’ve chosen you.” Your breath catches. You barely register the first half before the second lands.
“And Spencer.”
The silence that follows feels almost audible. You finally look at him. He looks… stunned. Not pleased. Not smug. Not victorious. Stunned.
His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s trying to mask it. Like he doesn’t want to give the room the satisfaction of seeing him surprised.
“Together?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Ian nods calmly. “Together.”
Spencer shifts in his chair. “You’re assigning us as co-leads.”
“Yes.”
“On a brand new channel.”
“Yes.”
“That could define the next era of Smosh.”
Anthony smiles faintly. “That’s the idea.”
You sit back slowly. Your brain is moving too fast.
This isn’t a sketch fight. This isn’t petty rivalry. This is structural. Long-term. Strategic. The kind of project that can elevate careers—or quietly derail them.
Ian leans forward slightly. “You two challenge each other creatively. That friction? It produces strong work. We want that energy focused in one direction.”
Friction. That’s one word for it.
“You’ll share an office space,” Anthony adds casually, like that part isn’t seismic. “We’re converting the small production room near post.”
Your head snaps up. “What? Shared?”
“Yes,” Ian says. “It’s important you’re in the same physical space. Quick decisions. Constant collaboration.”
Spencer exhales through his nose.
Anthony continues. “You’ll operate on a shared edit schedule. Joint approval on concepts. Joint sign-off on scripts. If one of you greenlights something, the other must agree.”
Your fingers curl slightly on the table.
“No veto wars,” Ian clarifies. “No split camps. You are accountable to each other.”
Accountable. The word feels intimate in a way you don’t like.
Because accountability means visibility. Transparency. No hiding behind sarcasm or creative deflection. If this fails—
It fails on both of you.
“Questions?” Anthony asks.
You and Spencer glance at each other. There are a hundred questions. None of them feel safe to ask.
“No,” you say finally, professional mask sliding into place.
Spencer nods once. “We’re good.”
Ian claps his hands lightly. “Great. Pre-production starts next week. We’ll send over initial outlines this afternoon.”
The meeting adjourned. And just like that your life rearranged in under twenty minutes.
The hallway outside the conference room feels overstimulating. People move around you. Laughter echoes from somewhere. A door slams. Someone asks about lunch plans.
You and Spencer walk side by side in silence. It lasts maybe ten steps.
“This is insane,” he mutters.
“You think?”
“They’re weaponizing us.”
You stop walking. He stops too.
The production floor buzzes around you, but it feels like you’re standing in a bubble.
“They’re trusting us,” you say quietly.
His jaw tightens. “With something that big?”
“Yes.” A long pause.
“You realize,” he says, lowering his voice slightly, “this means I have to approve your crappy ideas.”
You fold your arms. “You think I’m thrilled about this?”
His eyes flicker—not mocking. Not sharp. Just assessing.
“This is going to be a nightmare,” he sighs.
“Or,” you counter carefully, “it’s going to be good. Really good.”
He studies you, eyes carefully assessing you. And for once, there’s no banter waiting behind his expression. Just consideration.
“You’re serious,” he says.
“Yes.”
The air between you feels different now. It’s less competitive. More… charged.
“Okay,” he says finally.
Okay.
It’s small. But it’s real.
The shared office is smaller than you imagined.
When you open the door, the space greets you with a faint dry-erase marker smell and slightly worn carpet. Two desks have been placed along opposite walls, facing inward toward a whiteboard mounted between them. A narrow couch sits awkwardly in the corner. There’s one window, partially frosted, letting in muted light.
It’s close. Too close.
Spencer steps in behind you, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how little space there is between bodies in here.
“This is intimate,” he mutters. You pretend not to react to the word.
“It’s efficient,” you say instead.
He walks to one desk and presses a hand against it like he’s assessing structural integrity. “We could build a divider.”
“You’re not building a divider.”
He glances at you. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He exhales slowly, looking around again.
“So this is it,” he says quietly.
Shared office. Shared edits. Shared responsibility.
No more distance to retreat to when arguments flare. No more safe space across the production floor.
You set your bag down on the left desk. He sets his on the right. The symmetry feels intentional.
“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower now, “if this fails…”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
You meet his gaze.
“No,” you admit. “But I know we won’t let it.”
The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s heavy. Because this matters. This isn’t prank war territory. This is career-defining.
He walks to the whiteboard slowly, picking up a marker. He rolls it between his fingers once before turning toward you.
“If this is going to succeed, we need some ground rules.” Spencer says. You step closer despite yourself. He holds the marker out to you.
For a second, your fingers brush when you take it. It’s brief, but noticeable.
“No more stealing each other’s food,” he says.
You almost smile. “Deal.”
You write it at the top of the board. He steps in closer to add beneath it: No chaos without consulting the other.
You raise an eyebrow. He smirks faintly and adds: No emotional storylines without punchlines.
“I think that covers it for now.” You say, satisfied. You look at each other. Standing too close in a room too small, with stakes too high.
“You ready?” he asks.
You swallow once. “Unfortunately.”
He smiles. And the door clicks softly shut behind you as someone walks past in the hallway. Sealing it.
Just the two of you. No audience. No distance. No escape from each other now. And somewhere beneath the professional tension and competitive pride…
Something else begins to take root.
~~~
By the end of the first week, you realize something important. Working with Spencer isn’t difficult. It’s consuming.
The shared office changes everything faster than you expect. There’s no distance to buffer the friction anymore, no physical space to cool off when a disagreement sparks. Every conversation happens within arm’s reach. Every glance is noticed. Every reaction is immediate and impossible to ignore.
And the worst part? It works.
“Too flat.”
You don’t even look up from your laptop. “It’s not flat. It’s controlled.”
Spencer exhales sharply from across the room, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of your shared office. It’s late—later than either of you planned—but the overhead lights are dimmed and the only real illumination comes from your screens and the small desk lamp angled between you.
“It’s safe,” he says. “There’s no punch.”
You pause your edit and lean back slowly, rubbing your eyes before turning your chair toward him.
“It’s not supposed to punch yet,” you argue. “It builds.”
“It drags.”
“It breathes.”
“It stalls.”
You stare at him. He stares right back.
The air between you feels tight, like something wound too far.
“This is what I mean,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward his screen. “You don’t let anything sit. You rush the payoff.”
“And you let it suffocate,” he shoots back.
There’s a beat. Then another. Neither of you looks away.
It’s not playful anymore. Not entirely. Because this matters now.
This isn’t about being right in a brainstorm—it’s about the channel, the format, the thing you’re building together. Every decision feels heavier. Every disagreement feels like it carries consequences.
You both care too much. That’s the problem.
The argument shifts three times in the span of ten minutes.
From pacing—to tone—to lighting.
“You can’t be serious,” you say, standing now, arms crossed tightly. “That lighting setup is going to wash out the entire scene.”
“It creates contrast,” Spencer counters, equally stubborn, leaning back in his chair but clearly not relaxed. “It makes the chaos pop.”
“It makes it look like a student film.”
“It makes it look intentional.”
“It makes it look cheap.”
“It makes it look different.”
The word lands between you. Different.
That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal. But your version of different and his version of different don’t always align.
You exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. “Different doesn’t mean sacrificing clarity.”
“And clarity doesn’t mean playing it safe,” he fires back. There’s a sharp edge in his voice now. Not anger, but frustration. You recognize it because you feel it too.
You both care too much.
It’s nearly 1 a.m. when the argument circles back to the edit. You’re both still there in the office. Of course you are.
The rest of the office is dark, the production floor silent except for the faint hum of distant equipment left running overnight. The hallway lights cast long shadows under your door. Inside, the air feels warmer, thicker, like it’s holding onto every word you’ve thrown at each other for the past several hours.
“Cut it,” Spencer says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees now, eyes locked on your screen.
“No.”
“It’s dead weight.”
“It sets up the payoff.”
“It’s obvious.”
“It’s necessary.”
“It’s redundant.”
“It’s intentional.”
Silence.
You hit play again. The scene rolls. A character hesitates—just for a second too long.
You watch Spencer out of the corner of your eye as much as you watch the footage. He leans in slightly, his focus sharp. You pause it mid-beat.
“There,” he says immediately.
You turn to him. “No.”
He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re killing the pacing.”
“You’re killing the tension.”
“You’re dragging it out.”
“You’re rushing it.”
“You’re—”
You stop. Because you’re both closer than you were a second ago.
At some point, he stood up. At some point, you stepped forward toward him. Now you’re both hovering over your desk, shoulders nearly brushing, faces closer than they’ve ever been during any argument.
The air shifts. Again.
Always like this.
You swallow.
Neither of you moves.
“Half a second,” you say quietly.
He frowns slightly. “What?”
“Not a full beat,” you clarify, softer now. “Half. Enough to feel it. Not enough to stall.”
He studies you. Not your screen. You. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite read. Then, slowly, he nods.
“Fine,” he says.
You adjust the cut quickly, then hit play. The scene rolls and the moment lands.
Not too long. Not too fast. Just enough.
Spencer exhales softly.
“…Okay,” he admits. You don’t smile, but something in the room settles.
The hours blur together after that. The tension that arose doesn’t disappear, but it changes. It becomes sharper, something quieter between you two. More focused. More… aligned.
At some point, you end up side by side in front of his screen instead of across from each other. It’s not intentional—it just happens, one adjustment leading to another, until you’re both leaning in close, attention locked on the same frame.
“Here,” he murmurs, reaching past you to adjust something. His arm brushes yours. Normally you both react, jerking away from the other. But this time neither of you pulls away. You don’t even acknowledge it, don’t react. You just keep working.
The first time it happens, it’s accidental.
It’s the headphones. You’re both trying to check audio timing, and instead of swapping back and forth, Spencer just—leans in.
“Hold on,” he says quietly, one hand adjusting the headphones already resting around your neck. Before you can react, he lifts one side and settles it over his own ear, leaving the other on yours.
You freeze. He doesn’t.
“Play it,” he says.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for half a second too long. Then you press the spacebar. The audio fills both of your ears.
You’re suddenly very aware of everything.
The warmth of him beside you. The way your shoulders are nearly pressed together. The faint brush of his sleeve against your arm every time either of you shifts.
Neither of you speaks. You just listen. But not to the clip playing.
The clip ends. Neither of you moves immediately. Then—
“That works,” he murmurs. His voice is quieter like this. Closer.
You nod, your voice suddenly not working. He pulls back first. The absence of him feels noticeable.
You hate that.
Later, you catch him staring. You don’t know how long he’s been doing it. You’re focused—really focused—typing notes, adjusting a script outline, mentally juggling five different ideas at once. You can feel the familiar tunnel vision settling in, the rest of the world fading out.
And then something tugs at your awareness. You glance up.
He’s watching you.
Not subtly. Not casually. Just… watching. Like he forgot to look away. Your fingers still.
“What?” you ask. He blinks, like you’ve snapped him out of something.
“Nothing.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You were staring.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
His gaze flickers—just slightly. Then:
“You.”
Your breath catches before you can stop it. He seems to realize what he said a second too late.
“I mean—your process,” he adds quickly. “The way you structure things.”
You lean back slowly. “Right.”
But something’s shifted again. Something quieter. More dangerous.
It’s close to 2 a.m. when you both finally stop. Not because you’re done, because you can’t keep going. Your eyes burn. Your body aches. The room feels too warm, too small, too full of everything you haven’t said.
You sit back, stretching slightly. Spencer exhales, leaning back in his chair, head tipping against the wall for a moment. Neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s… full.
“You know,” he says eventually, voice quieter than usual, “this shouldn’t work.”
You glance at him. “What shouldn’t?”
“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you. “Us. Working like this.”
You consider that. He’s not wrong. On paper, this should be a disaster. Constant conflict. Opposing instincts. Too much pride. And yet—
“It does,” you say softly.
He looks at you again. Not like a rival. Not like a problem to solve. Just… like you’re there.
“Yeah,” he says. The word lingers.
The tension doesn’t break. It just… settles. Deeper.
Because the banter hasn’t disappeared. It’s softened. And in its place—
Something sharper has taken hold. Something neither of you has named yet.
But it’s there.
In every glance. Every almost-touch. Every moment that lingers just a second too long.
And neither of you is pulling away.
~~~
It happens on a day that doesn’t feel important.
There’s no looming deadline pressing down on your shoulders, no late-night edit hanging over your head like a threat, no looming production day forcing everything into sharp, urgent focus. The office hums along at a steady, manageable pace—keyboards clicking, quiet conversations drifting between desks, the occasional burst of laughter from the studio down the hall. It’s the kind of day where things work without too much effort, where you can almost pretend this whole arrangement—this shared office, this constant proximity, this careful balancing act between collaboration and competition—is something you’ve settled into.
You and Spencer haven’t argued yet. Not really.
There were small disagreements earlier—notes on pacing, a quick back-and-forth over a concept direction—but nothing that spiraled, nothing that stretched into hours of stubborn silence or sharp-edged banter. If anything, the day has felt… smooth. Which is probably why it catches you so completely off guard.
You’re coming back from the kitchen, coffee warm in your hands, when you hear your name. Not loud. Not enough to call attention. Just enough to make your steps falter slightly, your attention snagging on instinct before your brain can catch up.
“…I’m just saying,” someone says, voice uncertain—one of the newer producers, you think, still finding their footing in the chaos of everything. “It feels a little inconsistent. Like the tone shifts depending on who’s leading the segment.”
You don’t mean to stop. You don’t mean to listen.
But something in your chest tightens anyway, subtle and immediate, like your body has already decided this matters before you’ve consciously processed why.
You hover just out of sight around the corner, coffee held a little too still in your hands.
There’s a pause. A small one. The kind that could go either way. Then Spencer speaks, and the tone of his voice is enough to root you in place.
It’s not the one you’re used to—not the dry, teasing cadence he slips into when he’s sparring with you, not the lightly sarcastic edge he uses to deflect, to provoke, to keep things just shy of serious. This is something quieter. More deliberate. Thoughtful in a way that feels… unguarded.
“You’re not wrong,” he says. “It does shift.”
Your stomach drops. Of course it does.
You’ve argued about that exact thing more times than you can count. You’ve defended it. Refined it. Pushed back on notes about it in meetings. It’s not a flaw—it’s a feature. You know that.
But hearing it said out loud, like this—without context, without the back-and-forth you’re used to—makes something uneasy curl low in your chest.
You shift your weight, already bracing yourself for what comes next. For the agreement. The polite distancing. The subtle implication that maybe this is where your approaches don’t quite line up.
But then—
“That’s kind of the point.”
You go still.
There’s a quiet murmur from the other producer, confused. “What do you mean?”
Spencer exhales softly, like he’s choosing his words carefully instead of letting them fall out on instinct.
“They’re the reason half of this works,” he says.
The words land before you have time to prepare for them. Your fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around your coffee cup, the warmth grounding you as everything else seems to tilt slightly off-balance.
“They build the structure,” he continues, voice steady, matter-of-fact in a way that makes it feel even more sincere. “The pacing, the emotional beats—everything that keeps the chaos from just… collapsing in on itself.”
You blink, staring at the empty hallway in front of you like it might rearrange itself into something that makes more sense.
“They push back on my worst instincts,” he adds, a faint note of self-awareness threading through his tone. “Which, statistically, is most of them.”
There’s a small laugh—light, unsure—but you barely register it. Because your chest feels tight in a way you don’t recognize.
“And you don’t think it clashes?” the other producer asks.
There’s another pause. Longer this time.
You can picture him without seeing him—the slight tilt of his head, the way his expression shifts when he’s actually thinking something through instead of reacting on instinct.
“No,” he says finally, quieter now. “I think it works because it clashes.”
The words settle into you, slow and heavy. And then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—
“I wouldn’t want to do this without them.”
Something in your chest stutters. It’s not dramatic. It’s not overwhelming. It’s small. Precise.
But it lands deeper than anything else.
You step back before you can think better of it, retreating silently down the hallway before you risk being seen, before you have to figure out what your face is doing or how to act like you didn’t just hear something you were never meant to.
Because that’s the thing that sticks. Not just what he said. But how he said it. There was no performance in it. No edge. No attempt to win anything.
Just… truth. And that rattles you more than anything else he’s ever thrown your way.
The rest of the day feels subtly off-kilter.
Nothing outwardly changes. You still sit across from him in your shared office, still go over notes, still exchange comments and small observations about the project like you always do. From the outside, it probably looks exactly the same.
But underneath it—
Everything feels shifted.
You’re more aware of him than you want to be.
Of the way his voice sounds when he’s focused, lower and more even than when he’s joking. Of the way he leans forward slightly when something catches his attention, like his whole body aligns with the work in front of him. Of the way his gaze flicks toward you sometimes, quick and unintentional, like he’s checking your reaction before he even realizes he’s doing it.
It’s distracting. And worse—it lingers.
Because now there’s context where there wasn’t before. Now you know what he says when you’re not in the room.
And you don’t know what to do with that.
He leaves earlier than you that night. Something about a scheduling meeting, a note he needs to follow up on—he mentions it in passing, already halfway out the door, and you nod without really processing the words. Which leaves you alone.
The office feels different without him in it. Quieter, obviously. Stiller. But also… emptier, in a way that feels disproportionate to one person leaving a room.
You sit at your desk for a long moment after the door clicks shut, staring at your screen without really seeing it. His words echo, uninvited. I wouldn’t want to do this without them.
You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together. It shouldn’t matter this much. It was one comment. One conversation. Something you weren’t even supposed to hear. Except—
It wasn’t meant for you.
And that’s exactly why it matters. Because it wasn’t said to get a reaction. It wasn’t framed as an argument or a counterpoint or a joke.
It was just… honest.
And that settles somewhere deep in your chest, unfamiliar and impossible to ignore.
You shake yourself out of it eventually, dragging your attention back to your laptop. Work. Focus.
You scroll through the project files, clicking through drafts and edits, trying to ground yourself in something familiar—structure, timing, things you can control.
That’s when you open one of his sketches. You hesitate for half a second. Then click.
The file loads, timeline stretching out across your screen. It’s one of his earlier pitches—chaotic, fast, layered with bits that stack on top of each other in a way that almost overwhelms itself. It hadn’t landed well in the initial meeting. Too much, people had said. Too messy. Too niche.
It had been close to getting cut.
You remember that meeting more clearly than you expect. The way the room had shifted as feedback started turning. The subtle shift in tone, the polite but firm suggestions to move on, to focus on stronger concepts.
And Spencer—
He hadn’t fought it.
That’s what stuck with you.
He’d leaned back slightly in his chair, expression unreadable, letting the conversation move past him without interruption. No pushback. No defense. Just… acceptance.
It had felt wrong.
You’d felt it before you’d even thought it through. And then, before you could second-guess yourself, you’d spoken.
“It’s not the concept that’s off,” you’d said, the room turning toward you. “It’s the framing.”
There had been hesitation. You’d pushed anyway. “If we ground the opening—give the audience something to latch onto—the escalation works. It just needs structure.”
Discussion. Back and forth. And eventually—
“Okay,” someone had said. “Let’s keep it for now. Rework the opening.”
You hadn’t looked at him. He hadn’t looked at you. But the sketch had stayed.
Now, staring at it again in the quiet of the office, you can see exactly where it falters. Not fundamentally, just structurally.
You hover over the timeline, fingers resting lightly on the trackpad. Then, without overthinking it, you start making adjustments. Small changes.
Refining the opening beats. Cleaning up the pacing. Shifting a line here, trimming a reaction there—just enough to give it shape without losing what makes it his.
You don’t announce it. You don’t leave a note. You don’t even think about telling him. You just… fix it.
He notices the next morning. Of course he does. You hear it before you see it—the subtle pause in his typing, the shift in the rhythm of the room as his attention locks onto something.
“…Wait.”
You keep your eyes on your screen. “What?”
There’s a click. Then another. He rewinds. Plays it again.
“This wasn’t like this.”
Your stomach tightens, but you keep your voice even. “Probably updated.”
There’s a beat. Then his chair moves. You hear it scrape softly against the floor before his footsteps cross the short distance between your desks.
He stops beside you. Close.
Too close to pretend you’re not aware of him.
“Did you do this?” he asks.
You shrug lightly, still not looking up. “It needed some work.”
“That’s my sketch.”
“It’s our channel.”
The words hang there. He doesn’t respond immediately. And when he does, his voice is quieter.
“You fought to keep this.” It’s not a question. You don’t answer.
Because answering makes it real. Makes it something you have to acknowledge out loud. Instead, you click through another tab, keeping your focus deliberately fixed elsewhere. “The opening was weak. It’s better now.”
There’s a long pause.
You can feel him looking at you—really looking, like he’s trying to piece something together that doesn’t quite fit with the version of you he’s been working against. Then, finally—
“…Yeah,” he says softly, a gentle smile on his face. “It is.”
You nod once. “Good.”
Neither of you says thank you. Neither of you says anything at all. Because that would mean naming it. And naming it would change things.
More than they already have.
He steps back eventually, returning to his desk.
But the room feels different now, like how many things had felt different so soon. This time it was softer. No tension, no heaviness. Just lighter.
Because now there’s something underneath everything else—under the arguments, the banter, the constant push and pull.
Something steady. Something unspoken.
You’re not just challenging each other anymore. You’re supporting each other. Protecting each other’s work in rooms where the other isn’t there.
And neither of you knows how to talk about that.
So you don’t. You just keep working. Closer than before.
More careful. More aware.
And the space between you—small as it already was—feels like it’s shrinking even further.
~~~
The set feels tighter than usual.
Not smaller, not physically different—but tighter in the way the air seems to hold onto everything. Every voice, every movement, every flicker of light from the rig overhead feels sharper, more immediate. The kind of tension that doesn’t come from panic, but from pressure—quiet, mounting, shared across everyone trying to make something work.
You’re at the center of it. Clipboard in one hand, headset slightly askew, your attention split in a dozen directions at once as you track timing, blocking, camera placement, and the small, accumulating problems that always seem to crop up just as you’re about to roll.
“Can we shift that light two feet left?” you call, gesturing toward the setup without looking away from the monitor feed. “It’s blowing out the frame—yeah, there. Stop. That’s good.”
Someone acknowledges you, already moving. Another voice cuts in behind you with a question about props. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and you ignore it, already stepping forward to adjust something yourself because it’s faster that way, because it’s easier, because—
Because you don’t slow down. Not when it matters.
Across the set, Spencer is locked into his own orbit of focus.
You catch glimpses of him as you move—leaning in toward a camera operator, one hand braced against the rig, the other gesturing as he explains something with quiet intensity. His voice carries just enough for you to pick up fragments.
“—if we tighten it, we lose the scale—”
“—but the punchline hits cleaner—”
“—not if you cut the reaction—”
He’s fully in it, the way he always is when something matters. There’s a precision to him in these moments that most people don’t notice at first—underneath the chaos he pitches, underneath the humor, there’s structure, intent, control.
You don’t interrupt. You trust him to handle that side. Just like he trusts you to handle yours. It’s unspoken, but it’s there.
The problem doesn’t announce itself. It builds.
A missed cue. A prop reset that takes too long. A lighting adjustment that’s just slightly off, forcing another take, and then another. Nothing major on its own, but layered together, it starts to drag. You feel it in the pacing, in the way the energy dips between resets, in the subtle shift of the crew as things take just a little longer than they should.
You adjust, recalibrate, keep things moving.
“Again,” you call, stepping forward. “Let’s tighten the reset this time—faster in, faster out.”
Someone nods. Someone moves. You step in to fix the prop yourself. Because it’s quicker. Because you don’t have time to explain when you can just—
“Hey—careful—”
The warning reaches you a fraction too late.
Your foot catches on something—cable, maybe, or the edge of a prop that didn’t get cleared properly—and suddenly the ground shifts in a way it’s not supposed to.
It happens fast.
Fast enough that your body reacts before your mind can.
Your balance tips forward, your weight thrown off-center, and there’s that split-second of awareness—of knowing you’re going down and not being able to stop it.
Your shoulder hits first.
The impact is sharp, jarring, the kind that sends a shock straight through your body. Your knee follows a beat later, striking the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, and your hand slaps down instinctively to catch yourself, the sting immediate and bright.
The sound cuts through the set.
Everything stops.
For a moment, the world goes strangely quiet.
Not silent—there are still voices, movement, the distant hum of equipment—but it all feels muffled, like you’re hearing it through water. Your body is still catching up, processing the impact in delayed waves—dull ache in your shoulder, sharper throb in your knee, a lingering sting in your palm. You push yourself up slightly, more out of instinct than anything else.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically, even as your knee protests the movement. “I’m fine, I just—just tripped—”
“Don’t.”
The word cuts through everything else. Close. Immediate.
And suddenly Spencer is there.
You don’t see him cross the set. You don’t hear him move. One second he’s across the room, the next he’s kneeling beside you, presence solid and grounding in a way that makes everything else fall into the background.
“Don’t move,” he says again, and his voice—
It’s different.
Completely stripped of the usual edge you’ve come to expect from him. No sarcasm, no teasing, no deflection. Just something low, steady, and focused entirely on you. You blink up at him, disoriented for a different reason now.
“I’m fine,” you repeat, but it comes out softer this time, less convincing even to your own ears.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t dismiss it. He just looks at you. Really looks.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks. There’s no impatience in it. No challenge. Just quiet insistence.
You hesitate, instinctively wanting to brush it off, to wave it away, to keep things moving because there’s a set around you and a schedule and—
“Where,” he repeats, softer but firmer.
“My knee,” you admit, the words coming out before you can stop them. “And my shoulder.”
He nods once, already shifting his weight.
“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to you. “Okay. Stay here.”
He glances up briefly, addressing the crew without raising his voice. “Can we get a little space?”
The response is immediate. People move back. The noise lowers. The set, which had been buzzing moments ago, pulls away just enough to give you room to breathe.
And suddenly, it’s just—
You.
Him.
And the steady rhythm of your pulse is still catching up.
You don’t realize how much it hurts until you stop trying to move through it. Until you’re sitting still, the adrenaline fading just enough for the ache to settle into something more defined. Your knee throbs with a steady, insistent pulse, your shoulder tight and sore in a way that makes you hesitant to test it too much.
Spencer returns quickly, ice pack in hand. He drops back down in front of you, movements more controlled now, deliberate in a way that suggests he’s forcing himself to slow down.
“Hey,” he says, quieter. You look at him.
There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before—not directed at you like this, not without any layer of humor to soften it. Concern.
“You’re okay,” he says, like he’s trying to anchor that as fact. You nod, even though you’re not entirely sure what “okay” means in this moment.
“Can I?” he asks, gesturing toward your knee.
The question catches you off guard. He’s never asked before. Not really. There’s always been an assumption between you—movement, proximity, arguments that close distance without permission.
This is different.
You nod.
His hands are careful when they touch you. Gentle in a way that feels almost unfamiliar coming from him, his grip steady but light as he adjusts your leg just enough to check movement without pushing too far.
“Tell me if this is bad,” he says. You inhale slowly as he presses lightly along your knee, testing for anything worse than surface impact.
“It’s sore,” you say. “Not—sharp, exactly. Just… there.” He nods, focused.
“Okay. That’s good,” he murmurs. “Nothing feels off. Probably just the fall.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. He shifts then, pressing the ice pack carefully against your knee. The cold makes you flinch instinctively.
“Sorry,” he says immediately, his other hand coming up without thinking to steady your leg, fingers warm against your skin.
The contact lingers. Not accidental. Not fleeting. Grounding.
You become acutely aware of it.
Of how close he is. Of the way his attention hasn’t wavered from you since he got here.
“Shoulder?” he asks after a moment. You nod again.
This time, he’s slower about it. More deliberate. His hand hovers for a second near your arm, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to, before settling lightly against your upper arm.
“Lift it,” he says gently.
You do. It pulls. A sharp edge of discomfort that makes you wince before you can hide it. His jaw tightens.
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Don’t push it.”
His voice drops even softer, almost instinctively, like the rest of the world has narrowed down to just this moment.
You’ve never heard him like this.
Not with you.
Not without the buffer of humor or tension or that constant undercurrent of competition.
This is… stripped down.
Real.
“I told you to be careful,” you say after a second, the words slipping out more quietly than you intend, not accusatory, just… something to fill the space.
His eyes flick up to yours immediately.
“I know,” he says. “I should’ve—”
He stops. Shakes his head slightly, like he’s correcting himself mid-thought.
“I should’ve been closer,” he finishes.
The words land somewhere deeper than they should.
“That’s not your job,” you say.
He doesn’t look away. “It kind of is.”
The way he says it—steady, certain—makes something shift in your chest.
Because it doesn’t feel like he’s talking about the set anymore.
The world starts to filter back in slowly after that. The quiet murmur of the crew. The shuffle of movement as people reset, waiting for some kind of signal that things can continue.
But Spencer doesn’t move.
He stays right where he is, one hand still steadying your leg, the other resting lightly against your arm like he hasn’t quite convinced himself you’re okay yet.
“You scared me,” he says, almost under his breath. You blink. The admission catches you off guard more than anything else.
“What?”
He exhales, glancing away briefly before looking back at you.
“Nothing,” he says. But it’s not nothing. You can feel that it’s not nothing. And for a moment, neither of you says anything else.
You look at him differently now.
You can feel it happening, subtle but undeniable, something shifting under your ribs, something settling into place that reframes everything you thought you understood about the space between you.
Because this—
This isn’t rivalry. This isn’t just tension or banter or the constant push and pull of two people trying to outmatch each other. This is something else.
Something quieter. Something steadier. Something that doesn’t disappear when things go wrong.
It shows up. It stays. It cares.
And the realization lands, slow and certain:
This isn’t just competition.
It’s attachment.
“I’m okay,” you say softly, not because you need to convince him anymore, but because the words feel necessary somehow.
He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s weighing that against everything he’s seen. Then, finally, he nods.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
But his hand lingers for just a second longer before he pulls away. And somehow, that feels like the part you’re going to remember.
~~~
The office is quieter than it’s been in days.
Not just empty—quiet in a way that feels deliberate, like the building itself has exhaled after a long stretch of noise and pressure. Most of the lights on the production floor are off, leaving only the dim glow from hallway fixtures spilling faintly under the door of your shared office. Inside, the only real illumination comes from your monitors and the desk lamp angled between you, casting a warm, low pool of light that softens the edges of everything.
It’s late. Later than either of you meant to stay. But neither of you left.
You’re sitting on the floor.
Not because you planned to, but because at some point—after hours of editing, note-taking, reworking segments that didn’t quite land—you needed a break from the chair, from the screen, from the rigid posture of trying to keep everything under control. The couch in the corner is half-covered in papers and cables, so the floor had been easier.
Your back rests lightly against the side of your desk, legs stretched out in front of you, laptop balanced across your thighs. The soft hum of the machine blends with the quiet buzz of the building, creating a kind of white noise that makes everything feel slower, softer.
Spencer is still at his desk. Or—he was.
You hear his chair shift behind you, the faint scrape of it against the floor followed by the quiet sound of him standing.
For a moment, you think he’s leaving, but then his footsteps cross the room. And stop. Close. Too close to ignore.
“You’re going to ruin your back like that,” he says. His voice is low, softer than usual, like the quiet of the room has pulled it down with it.
You don’t look up right away.
“I’ll survive,” you murmur, eyes still on your screen.
There’s a beat. Then the soft rustle of movement as he lowers himself to the floor beside you. Not across the room. Not back at his desk. Right next to you.
Your shoulder brushes his without either of you meaning it to.
Neither of you moves away.
For a while, you just… sit there. Working, not talking.
The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It hasn’t been for a while—not in the way it used to be, filled with tension or unspoken arguments waiting to happen. This silence feels different. Full, but not heavy. Like it’s holding something instead of avoiding it.
You scroll through footage, adjusting small cuts, refining timing by instinct more than thought. Beside you, Spencer leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his attention fixed on your screen without asking permission to watch.
“Pause that,” he says quietly. You do. He leans closer.
The shift is subtle, but it brings him just within your space, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours, his presence suddenly more tangible.
“Go back half a second,” he murmurs. You scroll. “Play it again.”
You press the spacebar. The scene plays. You feel him react beside you—the slight shift of his posture, the quiet inhale when the beat lands just right.
“That’s it,” he says. There’s no argument in it, no pushback. Just agreement.
You glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
It’s small things like that now. Moments that linger a second too long. Glances that don’t break as quickly as they used to. The space between you shrinking without either of you acknowledging it.
You’ve been skirting around it for days—weeks, maybe—pretending that the shift isn’t happening, that the way he looks at you now is the same as before, that the way your chest tightens when he gets too close is just residual tension from too many late nights and too much pressure.
But sitting here, shoulder to shoulder on the floor, the quiet wrapping around you both like something protective—
It’s harder to ignore.
“You should’ve told me it hurt more than you said.” The words come out of nowhere. Soft. Careful.
You blink, thrown off. “What?”
He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze stays on the screen, but you can see the way his jaw tightens slightly, like he’s choosing his words more carefully than usual.
“Earlier,” he says. “On set.”
Oh.
Your knee still aches faintly, a dull reminder every time you shift. Your shoulder feels better, but not completely right.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
He huffs a quiet breath. “You always say that.”
You glance at him now. “And you always don’t believe me.”
“Because you don’t mean it.” The words aren’t sharp. They’re… observant.
You swallow slightly, something about the way he says it settling heavier than it should.
“I didn’t want to slow things down,” you admit after a moment. “We were already behind.”
He turns his head then, looking at you fully.
“I don’t care about that,” he says. Your breath catches. “I care if you’re actually okay.”
The room feels smaller. Quieter. Like the air has shifted again, narrowing down to just the two of you and the space between your words.
“You stayed,” you say before you can stop yourself. It’s not what you meant to say. But it’s what comes out.
His expression flickers, something softer breaking through. “Of course I did.”
Like it’s obvious. Like there was never another option.
You look down at your hands, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily you could close the space between you if you just—
“I didn’t think you would,” you admit quietly.
That makes him still. “Why?”
You shrug slightly, even though the movement pulls faintly at your shoulder. “I don’t know. You always—” You stop yourself.
“Always what?” he presses, softer now.
You hesitate. Because this is the line. You can feel it.
The edge of something you haven’t said out loud yet. Something that, once spoken, won’t fit back into the neat, controlled space you’ve been keeping everything in.
“You always keep things… light,” you say finally. “Detached.”
He watches you carefully. “And you think I was being detached today?”
“No,” you say, almost immediately. “That’s the point.”
The silence that follows is heavier than anything that’s come before.
Because now you’re both standing right at the edge of it.
“I wasn’t,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, more honest. “I wasn’t detached.”
You nod slowly. “I know.”
He shifts slightly, turning more toward you, his knee brushing yours now, his body angled in a way that closes the space between you even further.
“You scared me,” he says again, like he needs you to hear it this time. Not brushed off. Not deflected.
You look up at him. Really look.
There’s no joke waiting behind his expression.
No smirk. No safety net.
Just him.
Open in a way you’ve never seen before.
And it hits you all at once—everything that’s been building, every late night, every shared glance, every moment that lingered just a little too long.
Your pulse picks up. Your breath feels shallow.
Because you know what this is.
You just haven’t said it.
“Spencer—” Your voice catches. You don’t even know what you’re about to say.
Only that it’s something. Something real. Something that’s been sitting just beneath the surface for longer than you’ve been willing to admit.
He leans in slightly.
Not enough to touch. But enough that you feel it.
The shift. The gravity pulling you both toward something inevitable.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
Your heart is pounding now.
This is it. This is the moment.
If you say it—if either of you says it—everything changes.
The rivalry. The tension. The careful balance you’ve been maintaining.
All of it.
You inhale. “Do you ever feel like—”
A knock at the door.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Too loud in the quiet.
You both freeze.
“Hey—sorry,” a voice calls from the other side. “Did one of you leave your bag in the studio? We’re locking up.”
You pull back instinctively, the space between you snapping back into place like a stretched cord finally released.
“Yeah—one second,” Spencer calls, his voice already different—lighter, controlled, like he’s pulling the mask back on piece by piece.
He stands to answer the door. Much too quickly for your liking.
You stay where you are, staring at your laptop without seeing it, your heart still racing like you just missed something you can’t get back.
The door opens briefly. A quick exchange. A bag retrieved.
Normal.
Everything suddenly, painfully normal.
When he comes back, he doesn’t sit next to you again. It hurts more than you’d like to admit.
He returns to his chair. You stay on the floor.
The distance between you feels… louder now. More noticeable than it ever has before.
Neither of you speaks.
Not about what almost happened. Not about what you were about to say.
Because how do you even start that conversation again?
How do you pick up something that fragile once it’s been dropped?
Eventually, you close your laptop.
“Probably should head out,” you say, your voice quieter than usual.
“Yeah,” he replies.
You stand carefully, grabbing your things, acutely aware of him without looking directly at him.
“See you tomorrow,” you add.
“Yeah,” he says again.
But neither of you moves right away.
There’s a pause.
A long one.
Like maybe—just maybe—one of you might say something.
Finish it.
Close the gap.
But neither of you does.
You leave first. The hallway feels colder than it should. And as the door closes behind you, the weight of what almost happened settles fully into place.
Because now you both know.
Not just that something is there.
But that it’s close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to say.
And the next time—
There might not be anything to stop it.
~~~
It starts, like most of your fights do, with something small. A note is left on a draft, a decision made without consensus, a version of a cut that wasn’t the one you would’ve chosen.
It shouldn’t become what it becomes.
But it does anyway.
You notice it the moment you open the file.
Something’s been changed.
Not drastically. Not enough that anyone else would immediately catch it. But enough that you do. A timing shift here. A removed beat there. A tightening of a moment you deliberately left breathing space for.
It’s subtle. Intentional.
Spencer.
You sit there for a second, staring at the timeline like it might explain itself if you give it enough time. It doesn’t. Your jaw tightens before you even speak.
“Why did you cut that section?” The question cuts across the room cleanly.
Spencer doesn’t look up right away. He’s still at his desk, fingers hovering over his keyboard like he’s deciding whether or not this is worth pausing for.
“It was dragging,” he says finally.
You blink once. “It wasn’t dragging.”
“It was,” he replies, like that settles it.
Something in your chest tightens.
“It was a setup,” you correct. “It pays off later.”
“I know what it was,” he says, sharper now. That tone. That edge.
It hits something raw in you immediately.
“Then why did you cut it?”
He finally looks at you. And whatever he sees in your expression seems to shift something in him too.
“Because it didn’t work.”
The words land harder than they should.
Not because of what they say—but because of how final they sound. Like the decision is already made. Like your perspective wasn’t part of it.
You stand up without realizing you’re doing it. “You didn’t even talk to me about it.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” he says.
That’s it.
That’s the line.
Something in you snaps—not loudly, not explosively—but cleanly. Like pressure finally finding its release point.
“You didn’t think you had to?” you repeat, voice rising despite yourself. “We are supposed to be co-leads, Spencer.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, standing now too.
“We are,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean every single decision has to be a debate.”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “It does.”
The silence that follows is thick.
Heavy enough to feel physical.
Spencer runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, like he’s trying not to say something worse than what he already has.
“You know what the problem is?” he says finally.
Your stomach tightens. “Oh, I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t trust anything unless you’ve approved every inch of it.”
That hits.
Hard.
You feel it in your chest before your brain even fully processes it.
“That’s not true,” you say immediately.
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” you repeat, sharper now. “It’s called quality control.”
“It’s just called control,” he corrects.
The word lands differently this time.
He steps closer without meaning to, or maybe he does mean to—you can’t tell anymore.
“You think if you don’t oversee everything, it’ll fall apart,” he continues.
“That’s literally my job,” you snap back.
“It’s my job too,” he says, voice rising now. “But I don’t need to micromanage every second of it to feel like I’m doing it right.”
That stings in a way you weren’t expecting. Because it’s not just about the edit anymore.
It’s about you.
Something hot flares in your chest.
“Oh, I get it,” you say, voice tightening. “So I’m the problem now.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He stops pacing. Looks at you properly now.
And there’s something different in his expression.
Not anger.
Something more exposed. Something strained.
“You make it impossible not to care,” he says suddenly.
The words cut through the room.
Both of you freeze slightly at the weight of them.
You blink. “What?”
Spencer exhales, like he didn’t mean for that to come out that way. But he doesn’t take it back.
“That’s the problem,” he says quieter now. “You act like none of it matters unless it’s done your way, and then I end up—”
He stops, his jaw tightening.
You take a step forward without realizing it.
“End up what?”
Silence.
His hands flex at his sides like he’s holding something in.
“End up what, Spencer?” Your voice broke at his name.
He still said nothing.
You sighed in exasperation. Then you turn, making your way to the door. Then—
“Caring too much,” he admits.
You freeze. Your hand hovering just over the handle.
The honesty in it shifts everything. Because it’s not an accusation anymore.
It’s not even anger. It’s frustration turned inward.
Something deeper. Something personal.
And it knocks the fight off balance.
You swallow and turn back to face him. Your voice comes out quieter now, less sharp. “That’s not a bad thing.”
Spencer lets out a humorless breath. “It is when you’re trying to pretend it doesn’t affect you.”
That lands differently.
You stare at him.
Really stare.
And suddenly all the arguments you’ve had—every late-night edit, every disagreement over tone or pacing or structure—start rearranging themselves in your mind.
Not as conflict. But as investment.
Emotion. Care. Lov—
You shake your head slightly. “We don’t—” you start, then stop.
Because it feels wrong now.
To say it’s just work. To pretend this has only ever been professional friction. Not after everything.
Not after him kneeling beside you on set.
Not after the almost-confession sitting on the floor.
Not after the way he looked at you last night like he couldn’t quite stop himself from caring.
“You don’t respect me,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Spencer goes still. That hits him harder than anything else.
“What?” he says, quieter. You realize immediately you’ve gone too far.
But it’s already out.
“You don’t,” you repeat, softer now but no less certain. “You decide things without me. You cut my input out when it’s convenient. You act like I’m just—just there to argue against you, not actually part of this.”
His expression changes. Something in it tightens, like he’s been struck somewhere he didn’t expect.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he says, but there’s less force in it now.
“Then what are you doing?” you ask.
Spencer looks at you for a long moment. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower.
Less defensive. More real.
“I’m trying to keep up with you.”
You blink. That wasn’t what you expected. Not even close.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair again, but slower this time.
“You walk into a room and you already see three steps ahead of everyone else,” he says. “And I’m just trying not to fall behind.”
Your chest tightens slightly. “That’s not—”
“It is,” he interrupts gently. Not harsh. Just certain. “And it’s not a bad thing. It’s just… you don’t slow down. Ever.”
He looks at you now, straight into your eyes. All pretense is gone. “And I don’t know how to exist in that without either pushing back… or trying to match it.”
The room feels different again.
Not charged. Not tense.
Just… open.
Uncomfortably open.
Because suddenly this isn’t about edits. Or decisions. Or control.
It’s about you both.
And how deeply you’ve been paying attention to each other without admitting it.
You sit back slightly, like the air has shifted under your feet. Spencer does the same, just a fraction. The fight is still there. But it’s not the same anymore.
It’s been peeled open. Exposed.
Neither of you says anything for a moment. Because you both realize the same thing at the same time:
This was never about work.
Not really. Not anymore.
“You don’t hate me,” you say quietly, almost disbelieving it as you say it out loud.
Spencer lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh.
“No,” he says. Then, softer—
“I never did. And I have a feeling you don’t hate me either.”
That lands.
Fully.
Finally.
And something between you shifts so completely it feels like the floor tilts.
Because if that’s true—
Then everything else has to be re-evaluated.
Everything.
The arguments. The tension. The late nights.
All of it.
You look at him. And for the first time, there’s no confusion in it.
Only clarity.
Neither of you leaves right away.
The fight doesn’t continue. It doesn’t need to. It just… dissolves, like something that burned too hot and finally ran out of fuel. What’s left behind isn’t silence filled with anger anymore—it’s something looser. Heavier in a different way. Like the air itself hasn’t quite figured out what shape it’s supposed to take now.
Spencer is still standing by his desk. You’re halfway between sitting and standing, like your body forgot what it was supposed to be doing the moment everything shifted.
Neither of you moves first.
It feels too fragile for that.
Too new.
Eventually, you let out a breath that sounds too close to a laugh. Not because anything is funny, because the tension has nowhere else to go.
“This is insane,” you murmur, rubbing a hand over your face.
That does it. Spencer huffs something that breaks halfway between a laugh and exhaustion, leaning back slightly against his desk like his body has just remembered it’s allowed to be tired.
“Yeah,” he says. “Kind of is.”
You glance at him. He looks just as wrecked as you feel.
Hair slightly messier than usual, shoulders looser now that he’s not actively bracing for impact. There’s still something in his expression—residual intensity from the argument—but it’s softened around the edges, worn down by everything that came out of it.
You shake your head slightly.
“I hate that you were kind of right,” you admit.
That earns a real laugh from him this time. Short. Honest. A little disbelieving.
“I hate that you were kind of right too,” he says. That makes you look at him properly.
And something about the way he says it—like he’s not trying to win anything anymore—loosens something in your chest.
You sit back down without really deciding to. Spencer follows a moment later, lowering himself into his chair like the adrenaline has finally drained out of him completely. The room feels different now. Not because anything changed physically, but because neither of you is holding it the same way anymore.
The fight is gone. But the honesty is still here.
And it has nowhere to hide.
You spin slightly in your chair, staring at the edge of your desk, then let out another breath—longer this time.
“I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore,” you say quietly. Spencer hums under his breath.
“Working,” he offers.
You snort softly. “Apparently very badly.”
That gets another small laugh out of him. And then—there’s a pause.
Spencer leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees again, but this time it’s not defensive. It’s just… him. Present. Unarmored in a way you’re still getting used to.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he says after a moment. You glance up.
“The part where you’re a control freak?” you ask dryly.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “…No, I stand by that part.”
That makes you laugh properly this time, and the sound of it changes something in the room again. Softens it further. Like the space between you has finally stopped bracing for impact.
He watches you laugh. You notice.
And it makes your chest feel strange. Light and tight at the same time.
When your laughter fades, neither of you looks away immediately.
Spencer exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
“I didn’t mean to imply that I don’t respect you,” he says more quietly. “That was… not what I was trying to say.”
“I know,” you reply softly, before you can overthink it. That makes him pause.
You shrug slightly. “I said things I didn’t mean too.”
Another beat. Then he nods. “Yeah.”
You shift in your chair, turning slightly toward him without realizing it.
“I think…” you start, then stop. Because whatever comes next feels like stepping off something solid.
Spencer looks at you. Waits. Patient in a way you haven’t really seen from him before.
That steadiness makes it easier. Or harder. You’re not sure which.
You try again, quieter. “I think I like you.”
The words land in the space between you like something dropped carefully instead of thrown.
Spencer blinks once. Then again, slower. Like he’s making sure he heard you correctly.
“…You think?” he asks, voice low. That pulls a laugh out of you again, nervous this time.
“Don’t ruin it,” you mutter. He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“No, I—” he starts, then stops. And for once, he looks like he doesn’t have a prepared response.
That alone feels like its own answer.
He leans forward slightly, elbows off his knees now, like something in him is shifting closer without permission.
“I think I’ve been kind of failing at not liking you for a while,” he says finally. That makes your breath catch a little.
“Kind of?” you echo. His mouth curves faintly.
“Badly,” he corrects.
There’s no argument left in his expression. No tension waiting to be resolved. Just something steady and unguarded that feels like it’s been there longer than either of you admitted.
The space between you feels smaller now.
You stand up without thinking about it. He does too.
It happens at the same time, like neither of you could stay still anymore.
Like everything that’s happened—every argument, every late night, every almost-moment—has been quietly pulling you both toward this exact point without either of you naming it.
You stop in front of him. He doesn’t move away. Neither of you speaks.
There’s no joke here, no deflection. Just the quiet realization that there’s nothing left to argue about.
Only this.
Spencer’s voice is barely above a whisper when he says your name.
And that’s it.
That’s the last barrier.
The kiss happens like it was always going to.
Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just natural.
He leans in first—but only slightly. The rest is you closing the distance without hesitation, like your body already decided before your mind caught up.
It’s soft, careful at first. Like neither of you wants to break the moment by moving too fast.
Then it settles. Becomes sure. Familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense yet somehow does.
When you pull back slightly, it’s not abrupt. Just enough to breathe.
He stays close. Forehead almost brushing yours.
Neither of you moves away.
Neither of you wants to.
Spencer lets out a quiet laugh against your breath. “Wow,” he murmurs.
You huff softly. “Yeah.”
A pause. Then, softer—
“We’re really bad at this.”
That earns a small smile from him.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But I think we’re getting better.”
The moment the kiss ends, nothing in the room goes back to what it was before. It can’t. Even the air feels rearranged, like it has to settle into a new shape around the two of you standing there, too close now to pretend there’s still a clean line between “before” and “after.”
Spencer doesn’t step away. You don’t either. It’s not hesitation so much as awareness—like moving too quickly would make the moment feel less real, and neither of you is ready to risk that. His hand hovers near yours for a second, uncertain in a way that feels almost foreign on him, before it finally settles lightly against your fingers. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just there, like he’s testing whether this version of reality holds.
You let out a slow breath, the kind that feels like it’s been stuck in your chest for far too long.
“This is going to change everything,” you say quietly.
It isn’t a warning. It’s just truth.
Spencer hums under his breath, almost amused, though there’s a softness in it that wasn’t there an hour ago. “Yeah,” he agrees. Then, after a beat, “It already has.”
That should feel overwhelming. It should feel like stepping off a ledge without knowing how far down it goes. Instead, there’s something steadier underneath it. Like the fall already happened earlier—during the argument, during the honesty—and this is just what comes after the impact.
You glance up at him. “Are we going to be weird about this?”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “We are absolutely going to be weird about this.”
That gets a small laugh out of you, real and unforced, and the sound loosens something in both of you again. It doesn’t erase the intensity of what just happened—it just makes it livable.
The night outside the office is long and quiet when you finally leave together. The building hums with its usual late-hour stillness, lights dimmed, hallways mostly empty. Everything feels slightly unreal, like you’re walking through a place that hasn’t caught up to what just changed between you.
At some point, your shoulders brush. Neither of you correct it.
Outside, the air is colder than expected. Spencer shrugs off his jacket without thinking and, after a moment of hesitation that lasts just long enough to be noticeable, drapes it over your shoulders. It’s not performative. It’s automatic, like some instinct has already rewritten itself without permission.
You look up at him. “You’re doing the caretaking thing again.”
He glances at you. “Don’t get used to it.”
But there’s no edge in it. Not anymore.
The walk is quiet after that, but not empty. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled because something else is already occupying the space. Every now and then, your hand brushes his again, and each time, it lingers a little longer than the last until it stops feeling like an accident and starts feeling like a choice neither of you is bothering to question.
Eventually, you slow outside the building where you’re meant to part ways for the night.
Neither of you moves right away.
Spencer looks at you like he’s still figuring out how to fit this version of you into his understanding of the world. Like you’re the same person he argued with for months and somehow also not.
“You’re going to be impossible at work tomorrow,” you say lightly, though your voice is softer than your words.
“Me?” he replies, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You’re the one who confessed first.”
“That is not what happened.”
“It’s exactly what happened.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and it feels like the argument is now just another language the two of you know how to speak without hurting each other.
A pause settles between you.
Then Spencer steps closer—not enough to overwhelm the space, just enough that the distance stops feeling accidental.
“We should probably figure out what this is,” he says, quieter now.
You study him for a moment. The sarcasm is still there somewhere, the instinct to deflect still woven into him, but it’s gentler now. Less armor, more habit.
“We will,” you say. “Not tonight.”
That seems to sit right with him. He nods once, like that’s an agreement he can trust.
Another pause. Longer this time. Then, almost reluctantly, he lets out a soft breath that might be a laugh if it weren’t so careful.
“Okay,” he says. “Goodnight.”
It feels like it should be harder than this. Ending the night. Stepping away. Returning to separate spaces after something like that.
But when you look at him again, it doesn’t feel like separation. It feels like a continuation.
“Goodnight,” you reply.
You start to turn, then hesitate just long enough to look back once more.
Spencer is still watching you.
Not from a distance. Not from tension. Just there.
You leave anyway.
And for the first time, walking away doesn’t feel like an ending.
Shut. TF. up….. this is art
