Spencer wasn’t supposed to be here.

You had invited him, of course, but he had declined—too risky, too public, too many eyes— and let’s not talk about his panic about crowded places. You understood. Your relationship had always been a secret, something precious and hidden, like a favorite book tucked away on the highest shelf.

But here he was anyway, buried in the shadows of the VIP section, heart pounding as he watched you command the stage.

And then the music started. And he was totally enamored with how you looked, how you carried yourself. How you truly loved music.

It wasn’t until the second song that realization hit him like a freight train. The lyrics—so familiar, so intimate. Not just love songs, but your love songs. His nervous habits, his rambling, the way he overthinks everything and the way you love him for it anyway. No one else would notice, but he did. Of course, he did.

By the time the concert ended, Spencer was totally shocked. And a little bit more in love with you (if that was even possible).

You were still buzzing with adrenaline, high off the energy of the crowd as you slipped into your dressing room. When the door clicked shut behind you, you barely had a second to react before he was there, standing in the dim light, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said softly.

Your lips curled into a teasing smile. “Tell you what?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That you wrote an entire album about me.”