When Spencer told his friends he had something important to do after work, he meant it. He had a pressing matter to attend to.

Painting your nails was important.

Especially because you had a university fashion show coming up and asked him to be the only one to do it for good luck.

Spencer wasn't the type to ditch his friends without a good reason, but everyone knew his world had a single center, and it wasn't the engines he worked on all day. It was you. Always you. He didn't care if they teased him. Nothing mattered when it came to his girl.

The fluorescent lights of the auto shop buzzed overhead as Spencer clocked out, his broad shoulders slightly hunched from a long day bent over a busted transmission. His grease-stained hands flexed as he grabbed a rag from his workbench to scrub the black smudges staining his knuckles and neatly trimmed nails. The rag did a decent job, but not enough, and he wouldn't go to you looking like he'd just crawled out from under a car.

He tossed the dirty rag aside, grabbed his gym bag, and headed to the shop's bathroom. Under the flickering light, Spencer stripped off his oil-soaked clothes and turned on the shower, the water hissing as it hit the old, cracked tiles. He didn't rush, but he didn't linger either. Dried off and dressed in a faded pink T-shirt "because it's trendy" — as you told him — black jeans, and matching boots. Spencer slung his gym bag over his shoulder and headed to his '67 Impala, a classic beast he'd restored himself.

He slid into the driver's seat, tossing the gym bag into the back, where a small grocery bag held a bottle of pink nail polish, a nail stick, and cotton pads he'd bought earlier at your request, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared, vibrating through his chest.

The drive to your apartment was quick, the Impala's engine purring before he shut it off in the open-air parking lot. He grabbed the gym bag, the grocery bag with your stuff, and got out, his heavy boots thudding against the concrete floor as he approached the new building.

He reached for the doorknob when he stopped at the front door and turned it. The door was open, as it was far too often. It was a habit of yours he'd already scolded you for. He sighed and pushed through, locking it behind him with a soft click as he passed. The living room was empty, but the sound of Britney Spears' music — someone he'd become entirely familiar with, thanks to his girlfriend, within their first week of dating — echoed from the bedroom.

His lips curved, not quite a smile, but close. Only you could pull that from him. The bedroom door was open, and his vision was hit with pillows in every possible shade of pink scattered across the bed, along with tons of stuffed animals, many of which he'd won for you at fairs and amusement parks, and a white, fluffy comforter neatly folded at the foot.

Then came the vanity, a chaotic shrine of makeup, jewelry, and framed photos of the two of you. Spencer stopped at the threshold, kicked off his boots, and stepped inside. His 6'8" frame made the room feel much smaller instantly. He slid the gym bag to the floor beside the vanity and set the grocery bag on a clear spot on the vanity. His hand went to the computer's volume button, and he turned it down.

"Doll, I'm here." He announced, his voice low and calm. While waiting, Spencer sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. His fingers brushed the soft fabric of the comforter, catching the faint scent of your vanilla lotion. Everything about the place screamed you perfectly.

Vibrant. Welcoming. Magnetic.

He was the complete opposite.

The bathroom door opened, and his gaze snapped there in a heartbeat. Spencer never talked much, but the way he looked at you said everything that needed saying.

Devotion. Desire. Reverence.

He smiled, that smile reserved solely for you, and stood. His hands went to your face, one sliding to your nape. He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss.

"Let's do this before I get intentionally distracted." He whispered, kissing your shoulder before pulling back and taking your hand gently, his rough fingers enveloping yours as he guided you to sit, his gaze still intense on you while he lifted one of your hands and kissed your wrist.

After that, the only sound for the next few minutes was your sweet, familiar chatter, which Spencer listened to with rapt attention. At some point, the room grew hotter, maybe from the effort of staying hunched in that uncomfortable position. He finished one hand, then tugged the unicorn-adorned T-shirt you'd made for him over his head, tossing it aside gladly before focusing back on you.

He blew gently on your nails to speed up the drying. Twenty long minutes later, he delivered a result that even a blindfolded one-year-old could've done better.

"Maybe you should wear gloves for the show." He grunted.

When he got a giggle instead of a frown, he pulled you onto his lap and wrapped a thick, tattooed arm around your waist.

"Now, I was thinking..." He whispered in your ear, his voice low and measured. "It'd be nice to take you to that restaurant you love." He murmured, kissing below your ear. "Or I could eat you out right here. Right now. Maybe both. In whatever order you want."