A/N: Based on a Tumblr "Seven-Day Spoby Challenge." I missed Day 1, but I'm going to try to do the rest of them. But I'm not going to promise anything, just in case! Especially because this was supposed to be "ficlet" length and look where that got me.

TODAY'S PROMPT: Spoby portrayed in a classic or new romantic comedy.

MY TWIST: I decided to do an AU piece based off of the movie Win A Date With Tad Hamilton. For those unfamiliar, the movie is about a girl who wins a promotional contest to go on a date with a famous actor. The actor develops actual feelings for the girl. Her best friend is a guy, and he gets insanely jealous.

WIN A DATE WITH JULIAN MORRIS

Goddamn Black's Anatomy. Goddamn fan baiting, female pandering, network seducing TV dramas that flaunted themselves like the ratings whores that they were.

There was nothing special about the stupid show. There really wasn't. Half the cast couldn't act to save their lives, and the other half were being wasted on a subpar script with enough plot holes to play bean bag toss. The only appeal, really, was the fact that the show's frontrunners had somehow managed to buy the most sought-after male model-turned-actor of the current generation. He was the most eligible bachelor in America, according to Forbes Magazine; a fact of which Toby was aware only because of Spencer's and Hanna's mindless babbling since the issue had come out three months ago. They had practically drowned the cover with all the drooling they'd done.

Stupid Julian Morris. Who cared that he had been the face of Calvin Klein since he was sixteen? Or that he had landed the role of a lifetime in that stupid war movie seven years ago that had set the stage for his budding theatrical career?

So he talked like Hugh Grant, and all those other pretentious pretty boys from across the pond. So he regularly participated in charity events and was known specifically for his semi-monthly trips to Guatemala to read to the blind and build schools in the ghetto. So what if he had a philanthropic persona so unprecedented that even Mother Theresa would have lined up for his autograph?

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

Toby could give two shits, really. But his opinion was clearly that of the minority – the fact of the matter was that Dr. Wren Kingston was the most popular character on prime time television, and Julian Morris, respectively, the most popular actor. Ratings continued to break records, and each actor in the primary ensemble cast was paid a generous commission of a three-quarter million an episode. If Julian Morris was such a goddamn good person, what did he need with all that money, anyway?

The producers had been rolling in dough ever since the pilot. The money-hungry motivation behind the show was the most glaringly obvious thing in the world, in Toby's opinion. But Spencer and Hanna insisted that there was so much more soul to it than that.

Yeah, okay. Maybe if they were talking about Lord Voldemort's soul. Hacked into pieces to achieve fame and immortality. That sounded about right.

Because if ordinary profits were not enough, their most recent publicity stunt had certainly caught people's attention. 'Win a Date with Julian Morris.' Please. Like any event with Julian Morris was little more than a glorified photo op. Toby was sure that the poor girl who won wouldn't even get a word in edgewise. As if who they were, as an everyday, average Joan, could possibly merit two seconds of that man's undivided attention.

So when Spencer had actually won the stupid thing, there had been a tiny portion of morbid satisfaction bubbling in the core of his stomach, caught somewhere between the frustration and jealousy that resided nearby. Part of him wanted her to see the truth about Julian – see that he was merely a pretty face, not a superhero. Oh, yes. He was sure that after the entire ordeal, Spencer would be disgusted at the man she had sipped cocktails and broken bread with. She would see him for who he truly was.

But Toby's luck never panned out that way. Of course not. Instead of putting all of his demons on display, Julian had fooled her in person just as well as he fooled everyone behind the cameras. And if one date wasn't enough, the fact that he asked her on a second – and a third – and actually moved to Rosewood to be closer to her – was just about all the bad karma Toby could bear.

It wasn't fair. Toby knew things about Spencer that Julian would never think to pay attention to. He knew all about her borderline-psychotic addiction to coffee, and the fact that if she didn't get at least two cups in the morning, she was an absolute nightmare for the rest of the day.

He knew that she thrived on competition. When she thought for a moment at the end of high school that she might actually lose the role of valedictorian to Andrew Campbell, she had spent an entire weekend writing her commencement speech anyway, with every intention of showing it to the principal in an effort to persuade him to reconsider his verdict. And when she found out she had the honor after all, no coercion necessary, she re-wrote the goddamn thing seventeen times anyway until it felt absolutely perfect.

He knew that she had a heart so big that it was a wonder there was room for it in that tiny body of hers. She tutored children at the local foster care center in her spare time under the pretense that they weren't getting adequate education. And sure, that was part of it. But Toby knew it was more about connecting with the kids and establishing a meaningful place for herself in the world. Making a difference in someone's life and acting as a mentor and a confidante. Helping them build the confidence to tackle future obstacles and giving them the proper tools to traverse adversity.

And he knew that she always smiled in spite of her pain, because she didn't like other people knowing that she was hurting. It was a feeble sort of smile that took an immense amount of effort to plaster onto her pretty face, and he knew that it expended just about all the energy she had in her reserves – but she did it anyway, to spare her loved ones the burden of her hardships.

But yet, the fact that Julian had noticed that she preferred white wine over red was somehow the most endearing thing in the world, and him taking her on an impromptu trip to Rome in his private jet was, quote-unquote, 'the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.'

Toby could do those things in his sleep, if he had the money and the means. They were lavish but they reeked of impersonal grandiosity. What Julian should have really focused on was the fact that she only liked white wine over red because Melissa had once tossed a glass of Merlot on her periwinkle gown for junior prom. Toby didn't know all of the specifics, only because Spencer was embarrassed to rehash them, but he knew the gist: Melissa's boyfriend at the time, Ian, had a thing for Spencer, and made no attempt to hide it. Melissa was just as competitive as Spencer and infinitely more jealous, and it had made for a messy confrontation.

Spencer had spent hours thereafter locked in her bathroom at home, crying and trying to clean the stain from the silky fabric, but to no avail. She never did make it to the dance. And Toby had been the one that noticed her absence and had left to find her, spending the most emasculating night of his life experimenting with club soda, baking powder, and a toothbrush to help remove the stain. But all threats to his manhood be damned, he had done it because he cared about her. Where was Julian then?

And Rome? Please. Spencer had lifelong fantasies of traveling to Paris and The Louvre, not Rome, and had specifically studied French all through high school in preparation for when the day came.

And to make matters even worse – the goddamn icing on the whole fucking cake – the bastard had had the audacity to ask if he could buy the rocking chair off of him. The rocking chair that Toby had spent hours on, painstakingly measuring and cutting the wooden slats to perfection for – the one he had been building as a gift for her birthday. Julian-Douchebag-Morris wanted to give him money to take credit for making it.

He shouldn't have said yes, but he did. Maybe it was partially out of defeat. Maybe a bit of it had to do with the fact that if Toby, himself, gave it to her, it would raise more questions than he felt like answering. Maybe it was a little of both. Either way, he had ripped up the check a half hour later and forced a strained smile at her birthday party that night when Julian unveiled what was allegedly his own handiwork.

In truth, the whole thing made Toby sick. And if this was how things were going to be from now on, he wasn't sure he could bear it. It was both a blessing and a curse that Hausman's Architecture had called to offer him a job that would send him across the country.

He would miss her terribly, of course. She was a part of him. Being without her would be like reaching out to touch a phantom limb. She was forever imbedded in his soul.

But perhaps this was the fresh start he needed. He had been clinging to her for far too long, despite the fact that her affections were always directed elsewhere.

Maybe it had been him living in the fantasy world all along, not the girls with their TV show. Maybe he was just as guilty of putting someone on a pedestal as they were with Julian.

Either way, he wasn't sure how much more he could take. It was like his heart had been ripped from his chest, covered in paper cuts, steeped in salt, and plowed by a steamroller. He had literally no energy left to wait for her, and, as much as it pained him to move on, he knew it was his only hope for survival.

So here he was. Car packed to the ceiling with his belongings, a full tank of gas, and a half-functional GPS that tended to short out at the most inopportune times. He had never so much as set foot out of Pennsylvania, and now he was embarking on a one-way road trip to Arizona.

The rain pattered against his windshield faster than his wiper blades could keep up, and he cursed under his breath. He probably should have waited until the morning to leave. Tomorrow called for clear skies. But the thought of staying one more second in that asphyxiating little apartment made his skin crawl with frustration. Besides, he had already told his friend Emily that she could sublet from him until his lease expired.

No. The time was now, no looking back. He had to do this.

He leaned over the steering wheel and squinted his eyes, attempting to make out the lines on the road. But it was like trying to make sense of fine print through a hundred gallon fish tank. The solid sheet of rain acted as a barrier separating his car from the pavement a mere few feet in front of him, preventing him from seeing where he was actually going. And the water on the road reflected the beams of his headlights and blinded him, making it that much harder to discern the edges of the lanes.

"Goddamnit," he muttered to no one in particular. He knew that it was probably best to pull over and let the storm ride itself out, but the thought of stopping now felt synonymous with turning back. And that was something he would not allow himself to do. Not this time.

The downpour intensified just then, if that were even possible. The loud clatter of moisture pounding against the windshield was drowning out the radio, and out of instinct he went to turn up the volume, his eyes flickering away for only a second –

WHUMP!

He barely caught control of the steering wheel in time, having lost traction on the loose shoulder. Ignoring the racing of his heart and trying to keep a cool head, he brought the car to a slow and steady stop, the sound of the blown tire flapping pathetically in tandem with the rainfall.

There was a moment that he just sat there, watching the windshield wipers dance back and forth across the pane of glass in front of him. A flat tire was par for the course for anybody who had ever owned a vehicle. But for him, it represented a very precarious impasse. He was literally stuck in limbo. And whatever move he made next carried the weight of what could be the most important decision he ever made in his life.

Part of him just wanted to stay there. Screw the flat. He had some snacks in the back seat. He could live off them for a while. And when those were gone, he could probably find some nuts or berries or something. Then when he had exhausted his food supply, he could just sit and wait to die. At least he wouldn't have to make the choice between being near her and giving himself a genuine chance at happiness.

He thought fleetingly of his frostbitten body lying limp and lifeless in the driver's seat, a blizzard of snow and ice blowing around the car in a vortex. Just waiting to be found. Maybe even a bear or two would scratch at the windows, stomachs rumbling, yearning to gnaw on his frozen leg. It was as good a way to go as any. Right?

And then, his mother's voice echoed somewhere in the caverns of his brain, one of her heavily used mantras striking him through the heart like it were a bulls-eye.

Inaction is the most surefire way to miss out on great opportunity.

"Shit." He rubbed his hands wearily down the length of his face, an almighty groan ripping past his vocal chords. Without thinking twice about it, he popped the trunk, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and pushed open the driver side door.

The wind caught it almost instantaneously, and he was sure it was going to blow straight off the hinges. The intensity of the rain was sharp, like a barrage of needles, and he instantly regretted choosing to take care of the stupid tire now instead of later. But his mom's pearls of wisdom were on repeat in his mind, and he was irritably inclined to do as she said.

He pulled his hood more tightly around his face, but it did little to shield his vision from the torrent. He could not see two feet in front of him, much less attempt to change a goddamn tire in this kind of weather. And even if he tried, he ran the risk of some other yahoo losing traction in the exact same place and running him down like pancake.

He could call a tow truck. Have them take it back to his apartment for the night, and he'd tend to it in the morning. It was probably the safest bet, to be honest.

But that was backtracking. And he would not backtrack.

He darted to the back of the car, trying to ignore the fact that the puddles had already begun to soak through his shoes. It was horrendously unpleasant, but there wasn't much he could do about it in the midst of the storm. He grabbed the small flashlight from the trunk, smacking it a couple of times to knock the batteries back into place, and repositioned it to hold it to his mouth. He would need both hands to unscrew the spare and the jack from under the mat.

While he worked, he tried to picture how much better tomorrow would be. Or how much happier he would feel when he reached Arizona. It didn't fucking rain there, after all. Not much, anyway. He wouldn't have to deal with this kind of predicament again for a long time.

But that also meant he would never see Spencer with that stupid pink umbrella ever again. Would never be able to fix the kitchen ceiling in her apartment for the millionth time, which tended to leak during the big storms. Would never see her again, rain or shine.

A sharp pang squeezed in his chest cavity, and he found that he had frozen in place, the jack in one hand and the other clutching at the tread of the spare. How could he possibly do this?

He was distracted from his reverie when the glare of oncoming headlights caught his eye. He shielded his face from the unpleasant brightness, watching in confusion as the car came to a halt behind his. Maybe some good Samaritan was stopping to give him a hand.

"Hey!" he called, waving his arms as he broke into a jog. "Hey, thanks for – "

The sentence died on his tongue when the driver rolled down the window. It was Spencer, and she looked just as waterlogged as he felt, her usually pristine chestnut hair melted into haphazard ringlets around her face and the little makeup she wore bleeding black beneath her eyes. He cursed silently to himself for not recognizing her car right away.

There was a brief moment in which they merely stared at one another, the only sound stemming from the rainfall pounding against the pavement and the steel body of the car.

Then, she spoke. Her voice was low and even, and he knew at once that she meant business.

"Get in."

He didn't even think twice. He was darting around the front of the car and diving into the passenger seat before there was even time to blink. Once situated, he instinctively raised his palms to the heat that surged from the vents. He hadn't even realized how cold it was out there with the crisp autumn breeze biting at his wet skin. But her car was warm and soothing, and a vast degree of his anxiety ebbed in her presence, as it usually did. So much so that for a moment he forgot why he had been on the road in the first place.

"I talked to Julian."

Oh. Right. Because of that.

His gaze was drawn to hers by the anchor of her voice, and he soon found himself lost in the russet pools of her eyes. They reeled him in, as they so often did, and his undivided attention was with her.

"He said that the rocking chair was yours."

The confession caught him off-guard, and he had to pause a moment to ensure that he had heard her correctly. That pretentious British bastard had actually told the truth. But why? What did he have to gain?

"Why didn't you tell me?" she pressed when he did not respond.

He took a moment to study her – really take a good look at her – while he thought about how to answer. She looked beautiful – like she always did. The inconvenience of being drenched did not change that. He was trying very hard to be a gentleman, but he could not help noticing that her rain-soaked white t-shirt was clinging to her chest in such a way that he could see the faint hue of her flesh and the outlines of – things. The shame of the thought immediately harnessed him, and he purposefully averted his eyes to the not-quite-as-transfixing glow of the radio display.

"Because," he said simply. "What difference would it have made?"

There was a moment of silence as they let the innocent question simmer between the two of them.

"It would have made all the difference in the world."

He turned back to her once more, and was certain that he was doing a poor job of masking the surprise he felt. She pursed her lips together in what appeared to be an effort to stop them from trembling, as if trying to stay oncoming emotion.

"Hanna's been saying since the seventh grade that you like me," she murmured, allowing a nervous chuckle to punctuate the end of the statement. "I guess I didn't really think about it much until the end of high school. But by then you were with Mona, and…"

She trailed off, her voice tiny with uncertainty. He was attempting to wrap his head around what she was saying, running it through his brain on repeat to ensure that he was both hearing her words and understanding her meaning correctly.

"Why didn't you say good-bye tonight?" she asked, opting to change the subject. He felt a degree of his hopefulness fizzle as the conversation moved on, and he offered a half-hearted shrug, his gaze fixated on some distant image that stretched far beyond the confines of the vehicle they sat in.

"I didn't think it would help anything."

There was another pregnant pause. The low hum of the radio could barely be heard above the clatter of the torrential downpour outside, and he was reminded of why he'd had to pull over in the first place. He had been so frustrated with the less-than-ideal timing of the flat tire, and now he could not help but wonder whether it was meant to be a blessing in disguise.

"Just answer one question," she sighed shakily, and the apprehension in her voice caught his attention again. He turned to face her and felt his heart melt at the somber smile she wore on her mouth – the precise smile she used to hide the sadness and pain she was actually feeling. Instinctively he reached for her hand, wrapping her cold, trembling fingers in his in an attempt to share what little body heat he had with her.

Her toffee eyes flickered to this embrace – then back up at him – and darted back and forth between his cobalt ones in a desperate plea. "Just one, simple question, and we can forget this ever happened."

He offered a brief nod and squeezed her hand, hoping to indicate that he would do whatever she asked.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if gearing up for an answer she was not sure she wanted to hear. "Is Julian the person I'm supposed to be with?"

He knew his response immediately, but he bit his tongue. Was this a trick question? Was she asking him to be honest, or selfless? To fight for her, or to make a sacrifice?

There was no implication of either persuasion in her countenance, and he found himself thrust into uncharted territory. He could always read what she was thinking. The sudden inability to look past the arbitrary expression on her face made him immensely uncomfortable, and he thought briefly of how much he truly relied on the fact that they could peer into one another's souls during even the most superficial of interactions.

He knew he should do the noble thing. Set her free and give her wings and all those other corny metaphors and proverbs. Let her be with Julian and be happy with someone who could shower her with all the luxuries she deserved.

But there was that one part of him – that sharp, tiny voice – that hollered wildly from the canyons of his heart and fought against the grain of his gallantry. And it was that voice, somehow, that he managed to zero in on.

"No," he answered at last. "Because I am."

And that was that. In times like this, he usually wanted to snatch his honesty right out of midair and shovel it back into his throat, pretending it was never uttered in the first place. He typically regretted being forthright and vulnerable when it came to his feelings for her – it was like exposing a raw layer of flesh to the ultraviolet radiation of the sun. It was often painful and anxiety inducing and he had always done everything to avoid it.

But not this time. He was tired of hiding. And he let his tone of finality reign supreme, his confession weighing heavy and shining brightly in the air between them like a badge of honor. At least this way he would know – one way or the other. And he could make his choice with all the cards on the table.

Nevertheless, the moment of silence that followed felt like a lifetime. There was a thin sheen of moisture glistening in her eyes, and he wasn't sure whether it was from happiness or disappointment, and –

All other thoughts were cut short. She had launched herself across the center console to fasten her mouth to his, and everything else went utterly still. He could no longer hear the storm, or the radio – the only sound he was aware of was the wild thrumming of his own heart in his chest.

After his initial shock he responded with equal fervor, burying his hands in the mass of curls blanketing her scalp and pulling her head as close to his own as humanly possible. She tasted faintly of coffee and peppermint, which he had somehow always predicted, and he felt weak in the knees. Surely he would be on his ass if he weren't already sitting down.

And then, she pulled back, and it was over as soon as it had begun. Her eyelids fluttered lazily in place, as if too heavy to lift in her dazed state. He was sure he looked equally as intoxicated, gasping for air and running his fingers along the curve of her jaw.

"I love you," he murmured. "I always have."

She chuckled a bit in spite of their magnetic proximity. "Always? Really?" she asked with teasing incredulity.

He squinted his eyes and pursed his mouth playfully, as if deep in thought. "Well, since puberty, anyway."

A sudden laugh erupted from her throat, and she suddenly could not contain herself. Within moments she was clutching at her sides, tears dribbling from her eyes, and even then she could not stop. It was an infectious sort of mirth, and he couldn't resist riding the waves of her laughter and joining in.

There was a brief moment during which it felt he had left his body and was watching the scene unfold as a third party. The whole thing felt suspiciously like something he had seen in one of Julian's stupid movies: a corny, romantic comedy that ended with some light-hearted, sappy, unrealistic portrayal of actual unscripted couples.

And maybe it was. Like that. Maybe their relationship was just as corny as something portrayed on the big screen.

The difference was, it was real. And it was better than anything any screenwriter could come up with.

END