Spencer was a genius—an actual, walking encyclopedia with legs.

He could recite entire books from memory, word for word, like he’d swallowed a library whole. Complex calculus problems? He’d have the answer before you could even find a pen, scribbling down solutions in looping equations that looked like some alien language. He spoke… well, no one was exactly sure how many languages, because every time you thought you’d heard them all, he’d surprise you with another. Ancient Greek? Sure. Mandarin? Of course. Some obscure tribal dialect only three people on Earth still knew? Naturally.

He knew everything about every subject—history, chemistry, obscure trivia about sea cucumbers—and was constantly going on intellectual “rumbles,” debating with anyone who dared challenge him.

And even if he didn’t mean to, the constant interruptions—correcting people’s grammar, jumping in to “fix” someone’s facts—got exhausting.

Especially now. You were already having a terrible day, and Spencer just had to tell you you were wrong about something so insignificant it shouldn’t have mattered.

You blew up at him. Just started shouting—about how annoying he was, how he didn’t know what his place was.

He froze, staring at you mid-rant. His mind flickered, unbidden, to his mom, who used to shout the same way during her schizophrenic episodes.

When you finally stopped, breath ragged, he took a small step back and adjusted his glasses.

“That was extremely unnecessary."

He said in a quiet, clipped tone.