Her voice was still hoarse from the show when she slipped into their apartment past midnight. Spencer looked up from his book, glasses low on his nose, the softest smile tugging at his lips.

“You waited up,” she said, kicking off her heels.

“I like seeing you when the world’s quiet again,” he murmured.

She crossed the room and sank into his lap, his arms wrapping around her like instinct. The glitter on her cheek brushed against his sweater, and she whispered, “You always make me feel like I’m just me—not the girl on stage.”

He kissed her temple, gentle and sure. “You’re my favorite version of you.”

She smiled, tucking her face into his neck. The crowd, the lights, the noise—it all faded. There was only this.

The genius who waited up for her. And the pop star who always came home to him.