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Spencer had always supported you. He had been with you long before your name started showing up on cast lists with lead roles beside it.
He was with you when you were still doing side characters and bit parts, juggling Smosh shoots and auditions and late-night table reads. He’d been there when you flubbed your lines during a cold read, when your callback got canceled last minute, when you cried on his couch because you thought maybe you just weren’t cut out for this.
And he had celebrated with you when you landed your first commercial gig, sat with you when you nervously paced the green room waiting for an off-Broadway callback. Always in your corner. Always proud.
And now here you were.
Veronica Sawyer. In a full Broadway production of Heathers. A proper stage. A real audience. You had made it.
He was the first person you called when you landed the role. And the first to scream. He had gotten you flowers, a handwritten card full of awful inside jokes, two Mountain Dew Kickstarts to celebrate together, and one line at the end that said: “You’re gonna blow the roof off, V.”
You told him about everything. About moving to New York, the panic of signing a lease, the chaos of rehearsals. Every phone call was a play-by-play: the set design, the costumes, how your choreographer nearly cried during the first full run-through.
You sent him shaky videos from tech rehearsal, FaceTimed him in full costume, left voice memos rambling about how terrifying and beautiful it all was.
He listened to every one. Saved most of them.
And when you finally said, “Opening night’s in two weeks. Come if you can,” he didn’t hesitate.
He bought the ticket the same day.
Now he was here to see opening night.
He’d been proud. So proud.
But he’d also been warned.
By you. By Courtney. By Angela. Even by Shayne, who read the libretto once and handed Spencer a sticky note with the words: “Don’t get weird during Dead Girl Walking.”
Spencer, at the time, had scoffed.
“Please. I’ve seen them flirt with demons in Smosh sketches. I can handle Heathers.”
He thought he was prepared.
Thought knowing the lyrics, the plot, and the choreography would be enough. You’d told him everything; you’d called him after every rehearsal, shared backstage gossip, sent him snippets of songs, and described scenes in painful detail, all in an effort to prepare your man.
And he said he could handle it.
He really thought he could.
Right up until opening night.You’d met him for a quick dinner and a drink before the show. You only had water, to stay hydrated, and he had a much needed Kickstart after a bumpy flight. You’d teased him about it for years. His one true vice, second only to you.
You looked radiant in that chaos of the evening; focused, lit up from the inside. The kind of glow that didn’t come from makeup or lighting. The kind of glow that only came from doing what you loved and knowing you were meant to do it.
You kissed him quickly outside the theater, laughing as you turned to leave, promising to see him after curtain.
Spencer watched you go, heart full.
And then the show started.
He slid into his seat, front row, aisle, black button-up, trying to play it cool. The Playbill in one hand. A bouquet of your favorite flowers in the other.
From the first number, he was done for.
You weren’t just performing, you were transforming. Veronica’s words, her emotions, her anger, her heartbreak, every part of her lived in you. You disappeared into the character.
He had the biggest smile on his face, until it started slipping.
He watched those two dumb jocks hit on you, watched them hover, flirt, touch. Watched you laugh. In character, yes, but Spencer’s hand gripped the edge of his seat all the same.
His smile twitched slightly in Fight For Me.
You were singing to JD, eyes soft, vulnerable. Reaching out.
Hey
Could you hold my hand?
And could you carry me through no man's land?
You grabbed JD’s hand.
Spencer flexed his hands. Smile gone.
Then came Freeze Your Brain.
JD sang to you like you were the only person in the world. Got in your space. Pressed a Slurpee to your lips. You sipped.
Spencer’s jaw tensed. Hard.
Go on and freeze your brain
Try it
He was seething. In the prettiest, most tightly wound way imaginable.
The moment the blue lighting spilled across the stage, he felt it, this low, humming sense of doom building in his chest. He knew what was coming, you had told him about this song so many times before.
The one scene Spencer had tried so hard to mentally prepare for.
But nothing could’ve prepared him for this.
It started quiet. Innocent.
You were alone on stage.
You could feel the energy in the room change. The audience buzzed with anticipation. Spencer sat up straight, every nerve ending on fire.
You started the number with fire in your eyes. He’d never seen you so alive. So in control.
The demon queen of high school has decreed it
She says Monday, 8 a.m., I will be deleted
They'll hunt me down in study hall
Stuff and mount me on the wall
30 hours to live, how shall I spend them?
You prowled across the stage like it belonged to you. Because it did. And Spencer’s pulse kicked up in response.
I don't have to stay and die like cattle
I could change my name and ride up to Seattle
But I don't own a motorbike
Wait.
Here's an option that I like
Spend these 30 hours gettin' freaky, yeah
The lights shifted again.
There was a bed.
JD on the bed.
Spencer leaned forward in his seat without realizing.
I need it hard
I'm a dead girl walking
I'm in your yard
I'm a dead girl walking
Before they punch my clock
I'm snappin' off your window lock
Got no time to knock, I'm a dead girl walking
You crossed the stage slowly, deliberately. The choreography was sensual, full of bravado and desperation. Your voice wrapped around the lyrics with dangerous intent.
You stalked JD, your hands sliding up his arms slowly. Deliberately. Spencer’s eyes widened.
Sorry, but I really had to wake you
See, I decided I must ride you 'til I break you
'Cause Heather says I got to go
You're my last meal on death row
Shut your mouth and lose them tighty-whities
You shoved JD back onto the mattress. Climbed into his lap. JD’s hand slid to your waist.
Spencer’s blood boiled.
Then JD ripped open your blouse. You tossed it dramatically to the side, matching the beat. The crowd gasped. Spencer stopped breathing.
He knew it was acting. He knew the show. Knew this scene.
But knowing and watching were two very different things.
You looked so real. Your hands, your breath, your grin, it wasn’t timid. It wasn’t “sorry, this is for the part.” It was bold.
And then you kissed JD. Hard. Deep. Hands in his hair. Spencer’s eye twitched.
His nails dug into the Playbill in his lap.
He could feel his knee bouncing, jaw locked so tight it ached.
The lighting turned red. Hellfire.
Then, the line.
You turned slightly toward the audience. The spotlight caught your face just right.
Your voice is crystal clear, every lyric dropping like a challenge.
And in the middle of it, in that exact moment, your gaze snapped to the front row.
Right to him.
You held his eyes.
A single second. Maybe two.
And you sang it.
“Better chug that Mountain Dew.”
He stared, slack-jawed.
And when your lips curled into the faintest smirk, he nearly blacked out.
Because that line? That line was a direct hit.
That line was sacred.
He had once said in passing that the only thing he’d marry before you was a cold Kickstart at 9 a.m., and now here you were; mocking, seducing, owning him with five words.
He hadn’t even realized how tense he was until then. Not until those five words punched him in the chest.
Everyone knew he loved that stupid drink. You especially.
You turned back to JD like it was nothing.
He didn’t hear the rest of the song. He saw movement, saw you ducking down to your scene partner for another kiss, but all he could focus on was the electric buzz under his skin, and the fire in your eyes when you looked at him like that.
Someone seated next to him noticed how agitated he was and leaned over. “Are you good?”
“No,” he said, eyes still locked on you. “Not even a little.”
Because it wasn’t just the acting. It wasn’t the choreography. It was you. Performing like your life depended on it. You were electric. Unapologetic. On fire.
And the way you looked at him?
Like you knew exactly what you were doing.
Like you were daring him to do something about it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your hips moved, how your voice hit every note like a weapon, how JD’s hands had lingered for far too long.
He wanted the show to end.
He wanted the curtain to fall.
He wanted you.
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Backstage after curtain call, you barely made it to the dressing room before your phone buzzed.
SPENCER:
Hope you’re ready to wrap this show with an encore.
At home.
No lights, no audience.
Just you and me.
You laughed, a little breathless. Warm. Buzzing from adrenaline and applause and him.
A knock.
You opened the door.
Spencer stood there, arms crossed. Eyes burning.
“Hi,” you said sweetly. “Did you enjoy the show?”
His eyes dragged down, slow. Then back up.
“Don’t ‘hi’ me.”
You blinked, still smiling. “What?”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Did I?” you asked, batting your lashes. “I was just playing the role.”
Three steps. That’s all it took.
He closed the distance, voice low and sharp.
“I don’t know if I want to marry you or strangle you.”
You blinked. “That good, huh?”
“You made eye contact with me. During that line.”
“Yep.”
“That wasn’t in the choreography.”
“I improvised.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“Tonight, you’re my dead girl walking.”
You shivered.
“I meant it, by the way,” you said softly, stepping closer. “I knew exactly where you were sitting.”
He looked at you like he wanted to tear the world apart just to get you closer.
“You’re evil.”
You tilted your head, all fake innocence. “And you love it.”
His hands slid to your waist. His breath hit your jaw.
“I’m driving us home,” he murmured. “And when we get there, you’re gonna repeat every word you sang tonight.”
“Oh?”
“But this time,” he growled, “you won’t be pretending who it’s for.”
You smiled.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
He didn’t wait another second.