Spencer wasn’t used to feeling tongue-tied, but something about you did that to him. He first saw you at the bookstore, tucked into a quiet corner with a novel in hand. Spencer, who could recall entire libraries with ease, suddenly found himself lingering in the same aisle far longer than necessary, sneaking glances at you between pages.

When he finally gathered the nerve to approach, you looked up, startled but polite, a small, shy smile on your lips. Your conversation was halting at first—you spoke little, but when you did, your voice was warm, with a kindness that eased his own nervousness and your eyes were very expressive. Spencer, ever the gentleman, offered to carry your books without thinking, and when you hesitated, he added a quiet, reassuring smile. It worked.

In the weeks that followed, he found excuses to return to the bookstore. He’d hold the door open for you, step aside in narrow aisles, and offer his hand instinctively if you so much as wobbled on your feet. The gestures were small but unerring—fingertips brushing yours when he passed a book, a steadying hand at the small of your back when crowds pressed too close. You blushed each time, but never pulled away.

Spencer noticed how you listened more than you spoke, eyes bright with interest even when he rambled. You’d nod, offer a soft laugh at his weird jokes, and surprise him with thoughtful questions that showed just how much you paid attention. Your generosity was quieter—half of your sandwich offered without a word, a bookmark slipped between pages of a book he’d admired, your time freely given.

Your first date was approaching, a fact that left Spencer exhilarated and uncharacteristically nervous. He ran through every detail in his mind: where to take you, what might make you smile. Spencer was a bit old-fashioned: he’d offer his arm, open doors, and listen—truly listen—he wanted you to know you weren’t just another face in a crowd of strangers.

No, you were something else entirely—unexpected, warm, and very easy to fall for.