It’s New Year’s Eve and the clock was ticking toward midnight, as you were celebrating with only a few close friends and Spencer. He sat on the couch, his hands gesturing animatedly as he explained something about leap years and how they came to be.

You weren’t even trying to follow. It wasn’t that you didn’t care, but Spencer’s voice was mesmerizing enough on its own. So, naturally, you did what you always did when he got like this: you slid into his lap. It was a sweet gesture and your friends find you two extremely adorable (almost disgusting).

Spencer hesitated for a split second, his words faltering mid-sentence as your weight settled on him. His hands instinctively went to your waist, steadying you. He cleared his throat and tried to continue.

“As I was saying,” he murmured, though his voice had dropped an octave, “the Julian calendar caused a discrepancy of approximately eleven minutes per year, which doesn’t seem like much—“

Your nails gently started tracing patterns along the nape of his neck. His breath hitched, but he soldiered on.

“—but over centuries, it added up to significant misalignment with the solar year. That’s why—”

He kept on talking, his arm still wrapped around your waist to keep you on his lap, his long fingers curling around the fabric of your dress.

After few more minutes, before people’s eyes started wandering on the TV. The giant ball in NYC was about to drop at any minute.

Spencer chuckled still stroking your side “Did you even listen to a word I said?”

“I did,” you said, as your fingers toyed with the top button of his shirt. “Something about eleven minutes. Very exciting stuff.”

“You’re terrible,” he murmured, his lips curving into a lopsided smile. The warmth of his touch sending shivers up your spine.

“And you’re hot when you’re rambling,” you shot back. He raised his eyebrows.

“The ball is gonna drop in three minutes— don’t make me drag you into the closest room while all our friends are here.” He quietly says, pressing a kiss to your temple.