⤐ "We'll still worship this love, even if they call me a slut." ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Dating Spencer so far should have been great. But following blind faith often led to a hard road, and it was difficult not to get lost. But it was especially hard since he was an FBI agent, and you were a famous pop star, notorious for dating around. The scrutinisation that came from the public was more than either of you two could've ever imagined, even though he was the first man to treat you right.

People warned you that it wasn't going to be easy. But it was heaven when he touched you, hell when you fought, and all you needed was him. That's how you knew that he was the one that you wanted. You warned him, too, but he still wanted you. Even though it could blow up in his face so easily, he was going to stay. You'd learned that after a while.

And of course, all the talk didn't really bother either of you. All that mattered was that among all those boys you'd dated, he was a gentleman. And no matter what they said, whether they called you a slut - you loved each other. He practically worshipped the ground you walked on, treated your lips like a religion, your hips like an altar. Everything about you was sacred to him.

Which is why, when the two of you were out on a date, he held you close to his side as cameras flashed everywhere. The tabloids would be talking about this in the morning, but none of them would be trashing him - it'd all be about you. You had a price to pay, he didn't.

"You okay?" He leaned down to your ear to whisper, double checking with you.

"I got all dressed up, they may as well look." You murmured, looking up at him with a small smile. He offered a small laugh, which you were grateful for, because it diffused some of the tension in the air.

"Good point." He mused, smiling as he straightened a little. "Smile for the cameras, pretty girl."