Ki💜

The pen stopped moving. Something in his chest dropped, slow and heavy, like the floor had shifted a few inches without warning.

"Yes. That's me. What happened." It wasn't a question so much as a demand dressed up as one.

"She's okay, I want to say that first. She had a seizure, she was brought in about forty minutes ago, she's stable and resting. She's a little confused, which is normal, and she's been asking for you."

The rest of the room went quiet somewhere far away from him. He knew about your epilepsy, had known since early on, had spent nights he never told you about reading everything he could find on it, seizure types and triggers and what a postictal state actually looked like from the outside, because knowing things was how he made sense of the world and this was no different. He'd told himself once, in that private clinical way he told himself most things, that knowing everything about it would mean he'd stay calm if it ever happened. He understood now, standing there with the phone against his ear, that he'd gotten that completely wrong. Every fact he'd ever memorized about it was just another way of picturing it happening to you, and now it wasn't a picture anymore.

He knew you had him listed as your emergency contact. You'd told him yourself, months ago, half joking about it over dinner. He'd never let himself think about what it would mean for that to actually get used, and certainly not this soon.

He didn't remember standing up. He remembered Hotch's hand landing on his shoulder a second later, remembered the way the whole room had gone quiet without him saying a word, because apparently his face had already told them everything.

"Go," Hotch said. "We've got this. JJ, drive him."

★・・・・・・★

The drive blurred into a strange kind of stillness, JJ's hands steady on the wheel and Spencer's knee bouncing the entire way, his brain refusing to sit in the fear and reaching for facts instead, because facts were something he could hold onto even when nothing else was. Postictal states typically last five to thirty minutes. Confusion, fatigue, headache. Amnesia around the event itself is common. He is not panicking. He is reciting.

He knew all of it. Had known it for months, in the abstract, careful way he knew most things he researched late at night when he couldn't sleep, and he'd been there for a handful of your seizures before too, small ones, over almost as soon as they started, never once past the two minute mark. He'd timed every single one on instinct, phone out before he'd even consciously decided to grab it, because that was the thing that mattered most, how long, always how long. None of those had ever needed more than him staying close and waiting it out with you. This was the first time it hadn't been something he could just sit through and time and know, statistically, it would be fine, and knowing the words for what was happening now did nothing to prepare him for walking into that hospital room and seeing it be more than what he'd learned to expect.

By the time he got to the hospital his shirt was wrinkled from sitting wrong on the car ride over and he didn't care. He gave your name at the desk, got directed down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and vending machine coffee, and pushed open the door to your room like he'd been holding his breath the entire way there.

You were propped up in the bed, eyes half open, an IV taped into the back of your hand. There was a faint bruise starting to bloom along your jaw from where you must have hit something when you went down, and it made something in his chest twist so hard he had to breathe through it before he could speak.

"Hey," he said, quiet.

Your eyes found him slowly, like they were dragging through fog to get there. "Spencer?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Why are you here. Aren't you supposed to be." You stopped, frowning, like the end of the sentence had slipped out of reach. "Where were you supposed to be."

"It doesn't matter." He pulled the chair over to the side of the bed and sat down so he was closer to your height, not looming over you. "Do you know where you are?"

You looked around, slow, like you were seeing the room for the first time. "Hospital."

"Good. That's good." He kept his voice low and even, the same voice he used when he was trying to talk someone down from the edge of something, except this time there was no edge, just you, tired and blinking and trying to hold onto the thread of the conversation.

"I don't remember," you said, and your voice cracked a little on it, more scared than upset. "I don't remember what happened."

"That's normal. That's really normal, actually, your brain sort of hits pause during a seizure and it doesn't always save what happens right around it, it's not that you're forgetting, it's more that it never got written down in the first place." He reached out and took your hand, the one without the IV, careful. "You're not in trouble for not remembering. You didn't do anything wrong. The amnesia around the event is actually really common, it's not a reflection of—"

"Spencer." Your voice was tired, worn thin, but there was an edge under it. "I know. I know, okay. I've done this before. I've lived in this body my whole life, I know what a seizure is, I know what happens after, I don't need you to explain it to me like I've never had one."

He stopped, whatever fact had been lined up next dying somewhere behind his teeth.

"I don't want the science right now. I want you here." Your grip tightened around his hand, the only steady thing you had. "I know what's happening even when I can't remember it happening. That doesn't make me any less scared."

Something in his face shifted, the reciting instinct grinding to a halt all at once, like he'd only just heard himself. "Okay." Quieter now, stripped of the clinical edge he hadn't noticed he was using. "Okay. I'm here. Just me."

You squeezed his hand, weak but real. "I'm so tired."

"I know. That's normal too. Your brain basically just ran a marathon, all your neurons firing at once like that, it's physically exhausting, it's not in your head, it's not you being dramatic, your body actually worked really hard the last hour."

You let out a weak little laugh, barely more than a breath. "Spencer. I said no science."

"Right. Sorry." He almost smiled, caught.

"Tell me something else. Something that has nothing to do with any of this." You squeezed his hand. "I don't want to be the sick girl right now, I just want to be yours for a minute. So tell me something I don't know."

He thought about it for a second, actually thought about it, like he was sorting through a hundred facts to find the right one to hand you. "Okay. In 1896 there was a war between Britain and Zanzibar that lasted a grand total of thirty eight minutes, it's the shortest war ever recorded, the Sultan basically surrendered before the tea had gone cold."

"That's the one you picked."

"You said something you don't know. That's one of the more interesting ones I've got." His thumb moved slow over the back of your hand. "I could also tell you honey never spoils, archaeologists have found three thousand year old honey that's still edible, but I thought the war had more range."

"It did," you murmured, some of the strain easing out of your face for the first time since he'd walked in. "Keep going."

So he did, quiet and unhurried, one fact folding into the next, none of them about seizures or hospitals or anything either of you needed to brace against, just him giving you a few minutes of being nothing more than his, listening to the sound of his voice instead of the sound of your own heartbeat.

Some of the tension went out of your shoulders at that, like you'd been bracing for him to treat it like a bigger emergency than it needed to be right now, or worse, to treat you like you were breakable. He wasn't doing either. He was just there.

"I'm sorry you had to get that call," you murmured, eyes drifting half shut.

"You don't apologize for that. You did nothing wrong, your body's just still catching up with itself, that's all this is." He pressed a light kiss to your forehead, careful of the ache still sitting behind it. "I'm not going to pretend that wasn't scary to hear either. But you're okay. That's the important part."

He made a note, quiet and to himself, to call your neurologist's office in the morning, not because he thought anything was wrong, but because this one had run longer than the ones he was used to, and it was one more thing he could carry for you so you wouldn't have to hold onto it in the middle of being this tired.

A nurse came in not long after to go over discharge instructions, and Spencer listened to every word with the kind of focus he usually reserved for crime scenes, nodding, asking two follow-up questions the nurse looked mildly startled by, memorizing dosages and follow-up appointment windows so you wouldn't have to hold onto any of it yourself. He'd already asked, quiet and to the point, whether the seizure had lasted long enough to be a bigger concern, and the relief that crossed his face when the nurse said no, this one had resolved well within the window they'd want to worry about, was the first time all night his shoulders had actually dropped.

"You're allowed to just rest," he told you once the nurse left. "I've got the rest of it handled."

★・・・・・・★

The car ride home was quiet. You dozed against the window, and he kept glancing over every few seconds like he needed to keep checking that you were still breathing evenly, still there, still okay. He didn't turn on music. He didn't need it. He just wanted to hear you breathing.

Back at your place he got you settled on the couch under the blanket that lived on the back of it, propped you up with two pillows because lying flat still made your head throb, and went to the kitchen to make toast because it was the only thing he was fairly confident he couldn't ruin.

"You don't have to hover," you mumbled when he came back and set the plate down, even though you were visibly glad he was there.

"I'm not hovering. I'm sitting."

"You've checked on me four times in ten minutes."

"Five, actually, but I don't think you counted the one where I just looked at you from the kitchen." He sat down on the edge of the couch by your feet, careful not to jostle you. "I can go sit somewhere less visible if it would make you feel better."

"No," you said, too fast, and he almost smiled.

"Okay. Then I'll stay here."

You ate half a piece of toast and gave up, and he didn't push, just took the plate and set it aside and let you burrow back down into the blanket. The bruise along your jaw looked darker in the lamp light. He reached over, gentle, and brushed his thumb just beside it, not touching the sore spot itself.

"I was scared," he admitted, quiet, like it cost him something to say out loud. "On the way here. I don't know if I've ever been that scared."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't. You don't have anything to apologize for, none of this was something you did, it just happened, bodies just do this sometimes, it's not a reflection of anything you could have controlled." He paused. "I just wanted you to know. That I was scared. Not so you'd feel bad about it. Just so you'd know how much I."

He didn't finish it. He didn't need to.

You reached for his hand instead, and he let you pull him down until he was sitting properly beside you, your head finding his shoulder like it belonged there.

"Stay?" you asked, voice already going soft and slow with sleep pulling at you.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, and meant it in the way he meant very few things, absolutely, without qualification, without any statistic to back it up because some things didn't need one. "Go to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."

You were out within a few minutes, your breathing slow and even against him, and he sat there in the quiet with the lamp turned low, one hand resting careful over yours, and let himself finally believe that you were okay.

He didn't move for a long time. He didn't want to.

It was ridiculous, really.

You had to remain beneath the shower long after there was any reason to. Long after the shampoo had disappeared down the drain and the soap had been washed from your skin. The water had long since turned cold, yet you never reached for the faucet. Instead, you stood there motionless beneath the relentless stream, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as icy water cascaded over your shoulders, your spine and your chest. You just welcomed the discomfort because it was easier to endure the ache of freezing water than the unbearable warmth that had settled beneath your ribs the instant your hands had touched Spencer again.

It had been so innocent.

He was injured, still izzy from the concussion and barely able to stand without swaying. You had simply done what anyone would have done, guided him carefully beneath the spray, steadied him when his knees threatened to buckle and helped him wash around the bandages the doctors had warned you to keep dry.

And yet your body had betrayed you with humiliating ease the moment your fingertips settled against the broad slope of his shoulder.

All because showers had never simply been showers with him.

They had been stolen mornings before work, when one of you inevitably wandered into the bathroom after the other with the flimsiest excuse imaginable. They had been quiet reunions after cases, when he returned home exhausted enough to barely keep his eyes open, yet somehow still found the strength to pull you beneath the water with him because seeing you was the only thing that truly convinced him he was safe. They had been conversations, laughter echoing off tiled walls, shampoo bottles exchanged absentmindedly between sleepy hands, arguments about whose turn it was to buy more soap dissolving into kisses.

Oh...the kisses.

You could remember every single one with a clarity so sharp it almost hurt.

Because Spencer had never kissed you carelessly. Every kiss carried the intensity of someone determined to commit a moment to memory before it disappeared forever. He always approached you slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, though neither of you ever did. His hands inevitably found your face first, cupping it with such impossible gentleness that it often left you wondering whether he truly understood how loved he made you feel with such simple gestures. His thumbs would brush absentmindedly over your cheeks while he looked at you for one lingering heartbeat too long, studying your expression as though there were something endlessly fascinating hidden inside it.

Then one hand would drift upward, disappearing into your damp hair while his fingers settled at the nape of your neck, slipping effortlessly between wet strands until his palm rested against your skin. He would tilt your head ever so slightly before his mouth found yours again, deepening the kiss. Outside the shower, the world continued to exist—cases, paperwork, deadlines, violence, grief—but inside those four tiled walls it all ceased to matter. There was only the rhythmic percussion of water striking porcelain, the damp curl of his hair brushing your forehead, and the slow rhythm of two hearts beating close enough that you sometimes couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

Now, you could almost feel his hands finding your waist again. You could almost hear the quiet hum he always made whenever he was content, vibrating softly against your lips whenever he smiled into a kiss. It felt so vivid that your body leaned into the illusion before your mind could stop it.

Your eyes opened.

Oh.

The shower was empty.

There was no Spencer standing in front of you, no shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, no hazel eyes looking at you as though you were still the safest place he had ever known. There was only cold porcelain beneath your feet, pale steam clinging stubbornly to the glass, and the deafening absence of the man your body still remembered with humiliating precision.

Your arms wrapped instinctively around yourself, holding your own elbows so tightly your fingertips blanched white. You weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to warm your chilled skin or keep your heart from splintering all over again.

Then your phone began to vibrate.

The insistent buzz shattered the stillness with startling violence, echoing across the marble countertop and pulling you so abruptly out of the past that you physically flinched. Your pulse leapt into your throat as you blinked through the curtain of water still clinging to your eyelashes. Through the fogged bathroom, the screen glowed brightly against the counter.

Penelope.

Your hand reached the faucet before your brain fully caught up. The rushing water disappeared instantly, leaving behind a heavy silence interrupted only by the rhythmic drip…drip…drip from the showerhead. You snatched the nearest towel, wrapping it hurriedly around yourself before crossing the room in damp footsteps and grabbing your phone almost before it had finished vibrating.

“Penelope?”

“There you are!” Garcia’s voice burst through the speaker with its usual sunshine, though underneath it lingered the unmistakable exhaustion that had settled over everyone since Spencer had been shot. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep.”

You frowned, absently rubbing the towel over your damp hair as cold droplets slid lazily down the back of your neck.

“…What?”

A brief pause followed.

“What do you mean what?” Penelope laughed, genuine amusement bubbling through the phone. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

Your brow knitted together.

Forgotten…what?

Then, almost audibly, the pieces clicked together.

Dinner.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut in disbelief. “I did forget.”

“I knew it!” Penelope exclaimed triumphantly. “Morgan insisted you’d remember because you’re terrifyingly organized, but I told him trauma beats planners every single time.”

Despite yourself, a tired laugh escaped your lips. You pinched the bridge of your nose, still feeling the lingering ache behind your eyes.

“What time is it?”

“A little after six.

Six.

You had spent nearly forty minutes standing beneath freezing water trying to convince yourself your heart hadn’t just betrayed you.

“We’re only about ten minutes away,” Penelope continued brightly. “Morgan stopped to grab dinner because he refuses to believe either of you has actual food in that kitchen after…” She hesitated delicately before finishing more softly. “…everything.”

A helpless laugh escaped you.

“He’s probably right.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she laughed. “He’s absolutely right.”

Your gaze shifted toward the bathroom door. Beyond it, the house had settled back into its quiet rhythm. Somewhere down the hallway Spencer was exactly where you had left him. Maybe asleep beneath the comforter. Maybe stubbornly reading every line of his discharge packet despite strict instructions to rest. You could practically picture him with his glasses perched low on his nose, mentally cataloguing recovery statistics instead of allowing himself to simply exist for five uninterrupted minutes.

“I’ll be ready,” you promised.

“You don’t have to impress us,” Penelope replied, her voice gentler now. “We’re coming to see Reid…and maybe confirm neither of you has accidentally burned the house down.”

A genuine laugh slipped free this time.

“I think we can manage that.”

“Mmm.” You could almost hear her grin through the phone. “I’ll reserve judgment until I see the kitchen.”

The call ended with another round of affectionate teasing.

You lowered the phone slowly, your hand lingering around it for a moment as silence reclaimed the bathroom. The mirror in front of you had fogged over completely now, softening your reflection into blurred outlines and muted colors. Even so, you could still make out the evidence the shower had failed to erase. Your cheeks remained flushed despite the freezing water, loose strands of damp hair clung stubbornly to your temples and neck...but no amount of cold water had managed to wash away the memories that lingered beneath your skin.

With a slow sigh, you tightened the towel around yourself before reaching automatically for clean clothes. Familiar motions steadied your hands where your thoughts could not: soft sweater, comfortable jeans and dry socks. The ordinary ritual of getting dressed became something to focus on, each small task another step away from the woman standing beneath the shower only moments ago, remembering kisses she had no business remembering.

Ten minutes.

You should probably warn Spencer.

The thought arrived with enough practicality to interrupt the dangerous direction your mind had been drifting: dinner, just Derek and Penelope, familiar faces and voices. Normality, however temporary, you welcomed the distraction. Taking one final breath, you smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of your sweater, more out of habit than necessity, before quietly stepping into the hallway.

The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.

You paused outside, lifting your hand to knock softly against the wood despite knowing he would almost certainly tell you to come in anyway.

“Spencer?”

No answer.

“…I’m coming in.”

You pushed the door open carefully.

Spencer was standing beside the bed.

Or, more accurately, trying to.

One hand remained firmly planted against the mattress to steady himself while the other was hopelessly trapped somewhere inside the sleeve of a pale blue button-down that had twisted itself halfway up his injured arm. His hospital sweatpants rested low against his hips, the loose waistband sitting carefully above the thick bandage wrapped around his upper thigh, while the rest of the shirt hung completely open, exposing the pale expanse of his chest and abdomen. And fresh bruises painted themselves across his ribs in uneven shades of violet and yellow, and every few seconds he paused, blinking faintly as though his brain needed another moment to remember how sleeves were supposed to work.

It was strangely endearing.

He looked up the instant he heard the door.

“Oh.”

There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment on his face, only relief.

“I appear to have encountered…” His gaze dropped thoughtfully to the offending sleeve. “…a surprisingly complicated engineering problem.”

The corner of your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it.

“You got stuck putting on a shirt.”

“I did.”

His agreement was so completely sincere, that any teasing remark died before it reached your lips.

“The statistical probability of this occurring under normal neurological conditions,” he continued gravely, giving the twisted sleeve another experimental tug that accomplished absolutely nothing, “is relatively low.”

“But you’re not under normal neurological conditions.”

“No.”

He sighed softly.

“I’m also making a conscious effort not to elevate my right arm beyond approximately forty-five degrees because you specifically instructed me not to.”

Your smile threatened to become an actual laugh.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The room settled into a gentle silence broken only by the quiet rustle of fabric and Spencer’s careful breathing. Without the distraction of conversation, your eyes finally lingered on him properly.

His curls were still damp from the shower, darker than usual where they curled untidily against his forehead and temples. Tiny droplets continued their slow journey down the graceful line of his neck, slipping across his collarbone before disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You noticed the faint tension around his mouth every time he shifted his weight, the careful way he unconsciously favored one side.

He looked so tired that your chest tightened painfully.

“May I…” Spencer hesitated and his fingers loosening around the stubborn fabric before he lifted his eyes to yours. “…ask for assistance?”

You didn’t answer with words and simply crossed the room before he had the chance to regret asking.

“Turn around.”

He obeyed immediately.

The mattress shifted softly as he pivoted, careful of his balance, until his back was facing you. Standing this close to him again felt profoundly unfair, close enough to catch the clean scent of his shampoo mingling with the sterile trace of antiseptic ointment lingering around the bandage on his upper arm. If you leaned forward the smallest fraction, your forehead would rest naturally between his shoulder blades, exactly where it had countless times before.

You refused to let yourself think about that.

Instead, you focused on the shirt tangled stubbornly around his arm.

“Relax your shoulder,” you murmured, already gathering the twisted fabric between your fingers.

“I’m trying.”

Very carefully, you eased the sleeve down over the thick white bandage, lifting the fabric millimeter by millimeter so it wouldn’t catch against the gauze. Your fingertips barely grazed his skin, more conscious of where you weren’t touching than where you were. Every adjustment required you to stay close enough to feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your hands.

Spencer remained perfectly still, just as he always had.

It had always been like this with you. Whether you were standing in front of him before an FBI banquet, frowning in concentration as you straightened the knot of his tie because he insisted yours somehow always looked better, brushing away invisible flecks of lint from the shoulders of his jacket before a case, or sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with one of his favorite cardigans pooled across your lap while you patiently stitched together the sleeve he’d torn climbing a fence after a foot pursuit, Spencer had never once flinched beneath your hands.

Now, once his injured arm was finally eased through the sleeve, the rest came naturally. You guided his other hand into the fabric with care before lifting the shirt over his shoulders, settling it carefully against his back. The cotton fell into place with only a few stubborn wrinkles remaining, and almost without thinking, your palms smoothed over them in slow strokes, flattening the fabric the same way you had done hundreds of times before.

“There,” you murmured softly.

Spencer turned to face you, allowing you to finish what you had started. The shirt still hung open, revealing the pale skin beneath and the fresh bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Your fingers found the first button automatically. Then the second. Then the third. One by one, you worked your way upward with precision, each button sliding through its place beneath fingertips that remembered the task far better than your mind wanted to admit.

By the time you reached the last button, there was nothing left to fix.

The shirt sat perfectly against his chest. Every crease had been smoothed away. Every edge lay exactly where it belonged.

You should have stepped back.

Instead, your hands remained there.

Your fingertips rested lightly against the soft cotton over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. Perhaps it was truly his heartbeat...or it was only your own pulse echoing loudly enough to convince you it belonged to him. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Only then did you realize how close you had drifted.

Close enough to count the impossibly long lashes resting against his cheeks. Close enough to notice the tiny scar tucked beneath his jaw, the one you’d kissed absentmindedly so many times throughout your marriage that you’d eventually stopped seeing it altogether. Close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar soap lingering in his damp curls, fresh from the shower.

A loose curl had fallen across his forehead and before you could think better of it, your hand lifted entirely on instinct.

You brushed it back with a tenderness so deeply ingrained it no longer felt like a conscious decision. Your fingers slipped gently through the still-damp curls before settling for the briefest moment against the side of his face, your thumb barely grazing his cheekbone and his eyes closed.

When Spencer finally opened his eyes again, they didn’t wander. They found yours immediately, searching your face with a softness that felt almost vulnerable, as though he were looking for evidence that this wasn’t another concussion-induced dream. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you seemed capable of it. So the silence stretched between you, delicate enough that even breathing felt like it might disturb it.

Then, so carefully it felt more like a question than a movement, Spencer lowered his forehead until it rested lightly against yours.

You didn’t pull away and your noses brushed, featherlight, and for one suspended moment the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. His breathing mingled with yours in slow rhythms, his eyelashes rested against his cheeks once more, eyes closed as though he couldn’t bear to look at you and risk discovering you’d disappeared and the distance between your mouths dwindled until there was almost nothing left of it, only the smallest sliver of trembling air separating two people who had once known each other so completely that kisses had never required thought.

“You…” Spencer whispered, your name caught somewhere behind the single broken word, his voice little more than a breath that ghosted across your lips.

One of his hands lifted hesitantly, slowly enough that you could see him thinking through every inch of the movement. It trembled hovering beside your waist without quite daring to touch you. His fingers curled faintly in empty air, stopping just short of your sweater, waiting for a permission neither of you knew how to ask for.

Oh.

And then the doorbell rang.

The sharp sound cracked through the silence with almost violent force, followed immediately by the unmistakable boom of Morgan’s voice from the front porch.

“Pretty boy! If you’re unconscious again, I’m kicking this door down!”

The moment shattered so completely it almost hurt.

You stepped back too quickly, your hand slipping from Spencer’s cheek as though waking from a dream. His own hand dropped immediately to his side before it had ever reached you, fingers curling into his palm instead. And for a heartbeat neither of you moved, you simply stared at one another, both trying to remember how to exist inside a room that suddenly felt ordinary again.

“I…” You cleared your throat, though it did nothing to steady your voice. “They’re here for dinner.”

Spencer blinked once, twice, as though the sentence had to travel a much greater distance than it should before making sense.

“…Right.”

Another impatient knock rattled the front door.

“Derek Morgan,” Penelope called over his shoulder, “stop traumatizing the recovering patient!”

A small breath escaped you, somewhere between relief and disappointment, because the interruption had arrived at exactly the wrong moment…or perhaps exactly the right one. You weren’t sure anymore.

“I’ll let them in.”

You had almost reached the doorway when Spencer spoke again.

“Thank you.”

You looked back.

He wasn’t talking about the shirt.

But you simply offered a small nod before leaving the room, carrying the weight of another unspoken conversation with you as Morgan knocked dramatically for what was undoubtedly the third time.

***

The front door had barely swung halfway open before Penelope swept inside in a whirl of bright colors and floral perfume, two grocery bags hanging from her wrists and somehow still managing to gesture animatedly while she talked. Behind her came Morgan, nudging the door shut with his foot as he balanced enough takeout containers to feed an entire squad rather than the handful of people expected for dinner.

“There they are!” Penelope announced triumphantly, already smiling before she’d properly crossed the threshold.

Then she stopped.

“…Huh.”

You frowned before you could stop yourself.

“What?”

Penelope didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she continued studying the two of you with the exaggerated seriousness of someone examining evidence at a crime scene.

“You both look…” She narrowed her eyes dramatically. “…different.”

Morgan finally looked up from the stack of containers he’d been carefully preventing from collapsing, following Penelope’s line of sight. His gaze landed on Spencer first, then shifted to you, lingering just long enough for a slow grin to begin spreading across his face.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I was just about to say the exact same thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied a little too quickly.

“Uh-huh,” Morgan drawled.

Penelope abandoned the grocery bags on the entry table and wandered closer, circling the two of you with the kind of open curiosity that only she could somehow make seem affectionate rather than invasive. She hummed softly to herself as though mentally cataloguing every tiny inconsistency.

“Okay…” she murmured. “Let’s see…Spencer’s wearing a clean shirt.” Her finger lifted thoughtfully. “Which is impressive considering a few days ago he could barely lift one arm.” Another finger. “And…”

Her smile widened.

“Your hair’s wet.”

You instinctively reached for it and your fingertips found damp strands immediately.

“It hasn’t dried yet.”

“No,” Penelope agreed brightly. “It really hasn’t.”

Morgan’s attention shifted to Spencer, whose curls were still dark with moisture despite his best efforts to towel them dry. A tiny bead of water escaped one stubborn curl near his temple, tracing a slow path down the side of his neck before disappearing beneath the neatly buttoned collar of his shirt.

Morgan watched it happen and his grin became positively dangerous.

“And his hair’s still dripping.”

Spencer, entirely unaware of the significance of the observation, reached up absently to smooth the offending curl back into place.

Morgan’s eyes flicked between the two of you again.

“Were you two showering?”

Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“No,” you answered instantly.

“Well…” Spencer began at exactly the same time.

Both of you stopped.

Morgan’s eyebrows climbed so high they practically disappeared beneath his curls, while Penelope clapped both hands over her mouth in delighted horror.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, this just became significantly more interesting.”

“I helped him shower,” you corrected immediately, the words tumbling over one another with enough speed that even you knew it sounded suspicious. Folding your arms across your chest, you forced yourself to slow down. “His stitches weren’t supposed to get wet, and the doctor specifically said someone needed to supervise him because of the concussion—”

Morgan nodded solemnly through the entire explanation.

“Perfectly reasonable.”

Relief began settling into your chest.

Then—

“I just hope nothing happened that elevated his heart rate.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“Derek.”

“What?” he asked with flawless innocence, adjusting the stack of takeout containers in his arms. “I’m talking about the patient’s recovery.” He turned toward Spencer with exaggerated professionalism. “So…how was the assistance?”

Spencer blinked.

Then, with complete sincerity that only made everything worse, he answered, “It was very helpful.”

Morgan barked out a laugh.

Penelope made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a cackle before immediately rescuing you from the conversation, slipping her arm through yours and steering you toward the kitchen before you could formulate a rebuttal.

“Come on,” she declared, patting your arm with exaggerated sympathy. “Let’s leave the children unsupervised while we find plates.”

“I’m older than both of you,” Morgan called after her.

“Yes,” Penelope replied over her shoulder without missing a beat as she opened the first cabinet she came across. “And somehow you’ve made that everyone else’s problem.”

The two of you disappeared into the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing as Penelope accepted the stack of plates from your hands. The kitchen looked almost untouched by time, with the pale blue kettle still rested on the stove beneath the little shelf Spencer had insisted on building himself despite having absolutely no business handling power tools. Even the tiny chip in the corner of the butcher block remained exactly where it had always been after the two of you had accidentally dropped an entire cast-iron skillet during your first attempt at making homemade pasta. Most people would’ve looked at the room and simply seen a kitchen but Penelope saw six years of your life.

“It’s almost exactly the same,” she murmured, the observation slipping from her lips so quietly it barely sounded like a question.

You followed her gaze almost reluctantly. It wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed before. Time had moved forward everywhere else but inside these walls, it had simply…settled.

“I suppose it is.”

Penelope looked at you then, studying your face with the kind of gentle concern only someone who had known you for years could wear.

“I thought you would’ve sold it.”

A quiet laugh escaped through your nose, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“So did everyone else.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

The answer came easily.

You reached into the drawer for the cutlery, carefully separating forks from knives more because your hands needed something to do than because the task required any concentration.

“I bought an apartment instead.”

Penelope blinked.

“I know that,” she said. “But why keep both?”

Your hands slowed.

“It’s closer to work,” you answered first, almost automatically. “The apartment makes more sense. It’s twenty minutes from the courthouse instead of almost an hour. I practically live there now. But this place…” You said and glanced around the room again. “I couldn’t sell it.”

Penelope waited.

“It wasn’t because of Spencer.” Your fingertips rested against the edge of the counter, tracing absent circles across the wood worn smooth by years of dinners, paperwork, birthday cakes, late-night coffee and ordinary conversations. “I mean, my life happened here, so much of who I became happened inside this house.”

Your eyes wandered toward the dining room.

“I passed the bar while living here, and I painted that wall three different colors before deciding I liked the first one after all.” You shook your head softly. “I planted those herbs because I thought keeping basil alive couldn’t possibly be that difficult.”

Penelope smiled.

“I loved my husband and being married.” You added and your fingers curled against the countertop. “I’m not going to erase six years of my life because they ended badly.”

Penelope reached out instinctively, but you shook your head before she could touch your hand.

“Honey...”

“No.” You stopped her and smiled sadly before she could say anything else. “I know where this conversation is going.”

“Do you?”

“You think this…” You gestured vaguely toward the living room where Spencer and Morgan’s voices drifted faintly through the wall. “…means something.”

“I think,” Penelope corrected softly, “that he still looks at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.”

You looked away.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him.”

“It didn’t matter enough.” You inhaled slowly. “He left.” Your voice remained calm, almost frighteningly so. “He looked me in the eye, signed divorce papers, and walked away.”

Your gaze settled on the wedding photograph that no longer sat on the sideboard because you’d packed it away months ago.

“I begged him to stay.”

Penelope closed her eyes briefly.

“I remember.”

“And he still left.”

You shook your head.

“So whatever he felt…” Your voice caught for the first time. “…it wasn’t enough.”

Penelope stepped closer. “He loves you.”

You laughed softly.

“If that’s what love looks like…” Your eyes stung. “I don’t think I want it anymore.”

The words hung between you, heavy and terrible.

After a long silence, you forced yourself to straighten the stack of plates, needing the distraction.

“I’m taking care of him because he’s hurt.”

Penelope didn’t answer.

“He’ll recover.” You picked up the serving bowl and started toward the dining room. “He’ll go home and I’ll go back to my apartment.”

Penelope watched you for a long moment before speaking, her voice so gentle it almost broke your heart.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.

“That man doesn’t need a nurse. I think he just needs you.”

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said suddenly, forcing another smile onto your face before she could answer. It settled on your lips too easily, practiced from years spent standing in courtrooms where feelings were liabilities instead of truths. “How’s your life going?”

Penelope looked at you for a long moment.

She knew that smile.

It was the one you wore whenever you had already made up your mind. The one that politely informed everyone around you that the discussion was over, whether they agreed or not. She had watched you use it on stubborn witnesses, difficult judges, reporters outside courthouses, and, years ago, on Spencer himself whenever you refused to let him know how frightened you really were.

So she let the subject die.

“Oh, don’t get me started,” she sighed dramatically, accepting your escape with theatrical reluctance as she reached for the serving bowl in your hands. “My dating life continues to resemble an FBI behavioral profile titled Serial Disappointments.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“That bad?”

“Sweetie, at this point I’m considering marrying my computer. At least it already knows all my passwords.”

The laughter that followed was quieter than before, but genuine enough to drift through the open doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. It mingled with the clink of ceramic plates, the scrape of silverware against the countertop, cabinet doors closing softly, and the low whistle of the old kettle settling on the stove after being nudged aside. For a brief moment, the house sounded almost exactly as it used to.

Alive.

The sound carried farther than either of you realized.

Out in the living room, Morgan’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly as your laughter reached him through the hallway. He waited until your voices dissolved back into indistinct conversation before turning away from the kitchen and looking across the room at Spencer.

“So.”

Spencer looked up from where he’d been staring toward the hallway for the better part of five minutes.

“So.”

Morgan leaned back against the couch, crossing one ankle over the other as though the conversation were casual.

“How’s it going?”

Spencer instinctively reached toward the bandage on his arm before stopping himself.

“The headache’s improving. The dizziness is mostly positional now. My short-term recall appears unaffected despite the initial concussion symptoms, although I suspect the fatigue will—”

Morgan held up a hand.

“I’m not talking about that.”

“No?” Spencer frowned.

“No.”

Morgan gestured subtly toward the kitchen, where the muffled sound of you and Penelope debating where the serving bowls were kept floated through the house.

“I’m talking about…that.”

Understanding dawned slowly.

“…Oh.”

Morgan settled into the armchair opposite him.

“So?”

“I don’t know.” Spencer said and looked toward the kitchen doorway without really seeing it.

“You don’t know how it’s going?”

“I don’t know what it means.” His voice had quieted considerably. “She’s being kind.”

Morgan nodded.

“But she would’ve done this for anyone.” Spencer added.

“Doubt it.”

Spencer finally looked at him.

“She would’ve helped anyone. We know she’s that kind of person.” Morgan started and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But she didn’t bring just anyone home, she brought you.”

Morgan didn’t answer immediately.

He simply sat there, elbows resting against his knees, listening as another burst of your laughter drifted from the kitchen. It was softer this time, almost muffled beneath the sound of cabinet doors opening and Penelope’s dramatically offended voice insisting that you had absolutely moved the serving bowls since the last time she’d been here. Spencer smiled before he realized he was doing it, the expression appearing so naturally that it seemed completely disconnected from conscious thought. It was small, but Morgan caught it anyway.

“You still look for her,” he said quietly.

Spencer didn’t answer.

His eyes remained fixed on the kitchen doorway, not really looking at it anymore but listening, waiting for the next sound of your voice the way someone waits for a familiar song to begin again.

“You hear her laugh,” Morgan continued after a moment, “and you stop listening to everything else in the room. You’ve been doing it all evening.”

Spencer lowered his gaze to his hands, fingers absently turning the edge of the blanket draped across his lap. For a long moment he seemed determined not to respond, as though silence alone might be enough to keep everything inside him contained. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped so low Morgan almost had to lean forward to hear it.

“I never stopped loving her.”

There wasn’t any drama in the confession.

No tears or visible breaking apart.

And Morgan wasn’t surprised.

He’d known long before the divorce papers had ever been signed. He’d known because he’d watched Spencer stay at Quantico long after everyone else had gone home, volunteering for every case that crossed the bullpen whether the team needed him or not. He’d watched him bury himself beneath reports, research, lectures, consultations and anything that filled enough hours to postpone returning to an apartment that had become unbearably empty. He’d watched him show up to Rossi’s Sunday dinners with the same polite smile every week, only to spend the evening unconsciously staring at the chair where you used to sit before eventually inventing an excuse about paperwork or an early meeting and leaving before dessert was served. And Morgan had seen heartbreak before. Hell, he’d lived through his own.

But Spencer hadn’t healed from losing you.

He had simply become frighteningly efficient at functioning while carrying the wound.

“I kept waiting for it to get smaller,” Spencer admitted, still staring down at his hands. His thumb drifted unconsciously over the scar across the back of one of them. “People always say grief changes. That eventually it becomes…manageable.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I thought I’d stop walking past bookstores and wondering whether she’d already bought whatever was in the front window before I had a chance to recommend it.” His voice caught almost imperceptibly. “I thought eventually I’d stop missing her every time the world reminded me she existed.”

Morgan let him speak.

He knew Spencer well enough to recognize how rare this was. Spencer didn’t confess things. He analyzed them, categorized them, buried them beneath statistics and probabilities until they became manageable enough to survive.

“I kept working,” Spencer continued quietly. “More cases. More lectures. More consultations. It made sense mathematically. The fewer hours I spent alone, the fewer opportunities I’d have to think about…” His voice faded. “…her.”

Morgan nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“No.” Spencer shook his head. “I don’t think anyone did.”

Morgan looked at him carefully.

“So why’d you leave?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his eyes settled on the scar crossing the back of his own hand, his thumb absently tracing it.

“My mother’s neurologist changed her medication.”

Morgan remembered.

He remembered every frantic phone call Spencer had excused with, “It’s nothing.” Every morning he’d arrived at Quantico looking like he hadn’t slept. Every case where his coffee had gone cold because he’d spent the night in a hospital chair instead of his own bed. He remembered watching Spencer lose weight without seeming to notice, watching exhaustion settle permanently beneath his eyes while he insisted everything was under control.

“It stopped working,” Spencer murmured, his attention never leaving the scar beneath his fingertips. “Around the same time… I started getting migraines.”

“You never told anybody.”

“I told myself they were stress.”

“Were they?”

A bitter smile crossed Spencer’s face.

“I still don’t know.”

Silence stretched between them.

“My memory is…” Spencer swallowed, searching for words he had probably never imagined saying out loud. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever trusted about myself. Intelligence changes. Knowledge expands. Skills deteriorate if you don’t practice them. But memory…” His eyes finally lifted, hollow with something Morgan had never seen in them before. “Memory has always been the constant. It’s who I am.”

Morgan didn’t interrupt.

“Then one morning I walked into Hotch’s office…” Spencer’s expression unfocused, replaying the memory with agonizing clarity. “I reached for the doorknob, walked inside…” His breathing caught almost imperceptibly. “…and I couldn’t remember why I’d gone there.”

He laughed once, but it sounded broken.

“It lasted three seconds.”

Morgan didn’t interrupt.

“Three seconds,” Spencer repeated, almost to himself. “Objectively insignificant. Most people would’ve forgotten it happened before lunch.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“Because I couldn’t afford to.”

His fingers tightened until the tendons in his hand stood out beneath his skin.

“After that…” He exhaled slowly. “I started watching myself.”

The confession sounded almost ashamed.

“Every headache became evidence. Every forgotten word. Every misplaced file. Every moment I lost my train of thought halfway through a sentence.” His jaw tightened. “Every time I walked into a room and needed a second to remember why.”

His breathing became slow, deliberate.

“I was profiling myself.”

Morgan felt something twist painfully in his chest.

“I made lists and I tracked sleep deprivation, migraine frequency, vocabulary retrieval, episodic recall, processing speed.” Spencer’s voice had become frighteningly clinical, as though retreating into science somehow made the memories less terrifying. “I compared my cognitive performance against my own baselines.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found exactly what fear wanted me to find.”

Another burst of laughter floated from the kitchen.

Without thinking, Spencer turned toward the sound.

“When she’d talk about our future…” His entire expression softened before grief quietly erased it again. “She’d already picked baby names.”

Morgan closed his eyes briefly.

“She wanted a little boy who looked like me.” A faint smile appeared despite everything. “She used to wonder whether he’d inherit my curls or her smile. Whether he’d spend afternoons buried in libraries because of me or come home covered in paint because of her.”

The smile vanished.

“And all I could think about…” His voice almost disappeared. “…was whether he’d inherit schizophrenia.”

A long pause.

“Or Alzheimer’s.”

The living room became impossibly still.

“I stopped imagining birthdays.”

His gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room.

“I started imagining neurologists.”

Morgan said nothing.

“I couldn’t stop seeing her twenty years from now.”

“Forty.”

“It didn’t matter.” Spencer’s voice was barely audible now. “Every version ended the same way.”

His throat tightened.

“I kept seeing her sitting beside my hospital bed exactly the way I used to sit beside my mother’s.” His eyes closed. “Watching me disappear a little at a time. Correcting my memory. Introducing herself to me over and over until one day…” His voice broke for the first time. “…until one day I forgot she had ever been my wife.”

The silence that followed felt sacred.

“I loved her too much to ask her to survive that.”

“I know,” Morgan said softly.

Relief flickered across Spencer’s face, but it lasted less than a second.

“But that’s not what happened.”

Spencer frowned.

“You didn’t save her from watching you get sick.” Morgan leaned forward, his voice calm but unyielding. “You made her watch the man she loved walk away without giving her a reason.”

The words landed with visible force.

“You didn’t spare her grief, Reid.” Morgan shook his head slowly. “You just chose a different version of it.”

Spencer looked away.

“You know what she spent the last two years believing?”

Nothing.

“She believed she wasn’t enough.”

Spencer shut his eyes.

“She believed somewhere along the way you stopped choosing her. That every promise you made together meant less to you than it did to her.” Morgan’s own voice thickened despite himself. “She came to me, you know.”

Spencer looked up.

“She asked if I’d noticed when you started pulling away. Asked if maybe there’d been someone else.” He shook his head slowly. “She kept trying to find a reason because the truth made even less sense.”

Spencer’s face folded inward.

Morgan had seen Spencer cry but somehow this was worse because there weren’t any tears. Just the horrifying realization that every nightmare he’d imagined for you had been replaced by one he’d never considered.

“I thought…” He whispered.

“I know what you thought.”

Morgan’s eyes glistened.

“You thought if she hated you, it’d be easier for her to move on.”

Silence settled heavily over the room.

Morgan let it before he asked quietly,

“Did she?”

Spencer couldn’t answer.

Because less than thirty minutes earlier, you’d stood beneath the shower with sleeves rolled to your elbows, carefully washing his hair so he wouldn’t reopen his stitches. Because you’d buttoned his shirt with hands that still knew him by memory and when he nearly kissed you, you’d almost let him.

Morgan already knew the answer.

“You were wrong.”

Spencer inhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging beneath a weight that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry anymore.

“So…” he asked quietly. “…what am I supposed to do now?”

Morgan looked toward the kitchen where your laughter drifted through the house once again, familiar enough to make the years between then and now disappear for just a moment.

“For the first time in two years,” he said, “stop deciding what’s best for her and use this opportunity to fix it.”

He looked back at Spencer.

“She deserved the truth before you left.”

A pause settled between them before Morgan finished, his voice softer than it had been all evening.

“And if you still love her as much as I know you do…” he said, “…then stop protecting her from a future that doesn’t exist yet and let her decide whether it’s one she’s willing to face with you.”

Spencer stared at him for a long moment before quietly shaking his head.

“Telling her doesn’t change genetics.”

Morgan’s expression softened with something painfully close to pity, but before either of them could say another word, Penelope’s voice carried brightly through the house, cutting effortlessly through the heaviness that had settled over the living room.

“Dinner’s ready! And if you boys don’t get in here in the next thirty seconds, I’m declaring the garlic bread legally abandoned!”

Morgan exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, and pushed himself to his feet. As he passed, he rested a hand against Spencer’s uninjured shoulder, giving it one firm squeeze that lingered just long enough to say everything words no longer could.

“Think about what I said.”

Then he disappeared toward the kitchen, where the warmth of conversation swallowed him almost immediately.

Spencer stayed where he was, only for a few seconds.

Eventually, he stood, careful not to pull too hard against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage. His shoulder protested immediately, the sharp ache radiating down his arm as the lingering concussion left the room swaying almost imperceptibly around him. Under any other circumstances he would have catalogued the symptoms automatically because physical injuries had always obeyed rules, they announced themselves honestly and could be measured, monitored, predicted. Bones knitted. Skin scarred. Neurons recovered. Given enough time, the body almost always found a way to heal itself.

The human heart, he had learned too late, followed no such science.

By the time he reached the dining room, everyone had already slipped into the effortless rhythm they used to share every Sunday evening, as though years had collapsed into minutes while he had remained behind in another lifetime. Penelope was animatedly recounting how she had apparently searched five different cabinets for serving bowls that had been sitting directly in front of her the entire time, accusing the kitchen itself of malicious intent while Morgan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork trying to defend the cabinetry. You sat across from her shaking your head with that helpless, affectionate smile you had never quite managed to hide whenever Penelope committed herself wholeheartedly to complete nonsense.

Nobody realized Spencer had stopped in the doorway.

So, for a brief moment, he simply watched.

The dining room glowed beneath the warm light suspended above the table. Steam curled lazily upward from the food Morgan and Penelope had brought, carrying the scent of roasted garlic, rosemary, butter and fresh bread through the house. Someone reached across the table for the pepper. Glasses clinked gently together.

It was ordinary.

Ordinary in the quiet ways that had once made Spencer believe this life could never disappear. There had been a time when he assumed evenings like this would simply continue indefinitely, accumulating one after another until they became decades.

Oh.

Then you looked up.

The moment your eyes found him, you smiled automatically, the expression arriving before thought ever had the chance to intervene. Without interrupting your conversation with Penelope, your foot hooked gently around the empty chair beside you, pulling it away from the table just enough that he wouldn’t have to wrestle with it using one injured arm. It was an almost invisible movement, so absentminded that no one else even noticed it had happened.

Spencer did.

Because he remembered the first time you had done it when he had thanked you.

You had laughed and told him that married people eventually stopped thanking each other for things like that because love, after enough years, stopped announcing itself. It became instinct and lived in gestures so ordinary they disappeared almost as quickly as they happened. A mug of tea already waiting before the other person realized they wanted one. Picking up their favorite cereal during grocery shopping without checking the pantry first. Straightening a crooked tie in the middle of a conversation neither of you would remember the next day. Sliding out a chair because your body had memorized someone else’s comfort long before your mind thought about it.

Love had never lived inside declarations, it had always hidden itself inside habit.

His chest tightened so suddenly it became difficult to tell whether the ache came from grief or from the bruising beneath his ribs.

Because your body remembered him, even after everything.

You were still quietly dividing the food into portions before anyone asked. Still passing Morgan the pepper without him reaching for it because you knew he’d want it eventually. Still carefully avoiding the mushrooms on Penelope’s plate because she insisted she hated them unless they were chopped so finely she couldn’t identify them. Still noticing that Spencer’s glass was empty before he’d realized it himself, your hand already reaching for the pitcher without interrupting the conversation unfolding around you.

You had loved people for so long that kindness had become involuntary.

You had loved him for so long that caring for him still happened before you remembered you weren’t supposed to anymore.

Only then did Spencer move, lowering himself carefully into the chair beside you. The movement pulled uncomfortably against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage, but before he had even settled completely, you had already turned toward him.

“Does your arm hurt?”

The question was so simple that it almost undid him.

Not Why did you leave me? Not Why wasn’t I enough? Not Did you ever stop loving me? There was no accusation hidden beneath your voice, no bitterness sharpened into politeness, no attempt to collect the explanations you had deserved two years ago and never received. You looked at him with nothing more complicated than concern, as though the first thing that mattered after everything that had happened was whether he was in pain.

He wondered, with a guilt so profound it bordered on unbearable, how someone whose heart he had broken so completely still instinctively reached for his wounds before her own.

For as long as Spencer could remember, his life had been governed by a single certainty: every mystery surrendered eventually to knowledge. Every impossible equation possessed an answer whether humanity had discovered it yet or not. Every cipher could be broken, every pattern understood, every unanswered question yielded eventually to enough intelligence. It was the principle that had shaped him long before the FBI, long before profiling. When his mother became ill, he had met terror the only way he knew how. He had read every paper ever published on schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s, memorized neurological pathways until he could sketch them from memory, devoured clinical trials, inheritance models, molecular studies, experimental therapies. He had learned languages simply because another country’s research might contain a sentence no one had translated yet. Somewhere, he had believed it with the stubborn conviction only geniuses and desperate sons possessed, there had to be an answer hidden inside enough information.

There wasn’t.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had found a problem intelligence could not solve. No theorem could rewrite a strand of DNA. No probability model could bargain with heredity. No amount of brilliance could negotiate with fear. And somewhere between trying to outrun a future that might never come, he had forgotten the one variable he had never had the right to remove from the equation.

You.

His eyes drifted almost involuntarily toward your left hand as you reached across the table for the bread basket, your fingers brushing absentmindedly against Morgan’s before apologizing with a smile that came as naturally to you as breathing.

The ring was gone.

He had been the one who slipped it from your finger in a lawyer’s office that smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, convincing himself that every signature he placed on those documents was another act of love. He remembered how cold your hands had been that day. He remembered noticing the pale indentation the band had left behind after years against your skin and wondering, absurdly, how long it would take for it to disappear.

He knew now.

Two years.

Long enough for the mark to fade, but not nearly long enough for the absence to stop hurting.

Yet memory betrayed reality with effortless precision. And for one impossible heartbeat he saw the gold band exactly where it had belonged, catching the warm dining room light as you laughed over something Penelope had said, your fingers colliding with his while both of you reached for the last piece of bread. He remembered saving part of every paycheck because nothing displayed beneath those jewelry store lights had ever seemed worthy enough of you. He remembered visiting three different shops before finding the one you had insisted was “far too expensive,” only for you to burst into tears when he opened the little velvet box because, in your own words, it looked like forever.

Forever.

Such a deceptively simple word.

Such an impossible promise.

For someone who had built his entire identity around certainty, forever should have been the easiest concept to reject. There was no mathematical proof for permanence. Entropy alone guaranteed that everything eventually unraveled. Stars exhausted themselves. Languages died. Civilizations disappeared beneath the earth. Every statistical model pointed toward impermanence.

And yet…he had believed in forever the moment you slid that ring onto your finger.

Not because the odds supported it.

Because you did.

The laughter around the table continued uninterrupted. Morgan was insisting he’d only taken one potato while Penelope accused him of crimes against carbohydrates with the theatrical indignation only she could manage. You quietly reached across the table to refill Spencer’s glass without asking if he wanted more water, your hand finding the pitcher almost before he’d realized it was empty. It was such an ordinary gesture that no one else noticed.

You had loved him for so long that your body still remembered him, even when your heart had every reason to forget. And that, more than anything Morgan had said, became the realization Spencer could not survive.

Because the future he had spent two years trying to protect you from had never arrived. Instead, he had created one infinitely crueler.

He had feared a disease that might one day make him forget the woman he loved, so he had left while he still remembered her perfectly.

As conversation carried on around him and warmth filled every corner of the room, Spencer found himself wondering whether every great tragedy began the same way: not with cruelty, nor hatred, nor even the absence of love, but with one terrified person convincing themselves that destroying something beautiful today was kinder than risking its loss tomorrow.

He had spent years believing the cruelest inheritance his family carried was written into its genes.

He knew better now.

Fear could be inherited too.

And unlike every illness he had ever devoted his life to understanding, this one had no treatment, no trial, no cure waiting somewhere inside another language, another country, another forgotten journal article.

Because this disease had never lived inside his blood, it had lived inside a single decision and he would carry its symptoms for the rest of his life.

Tag list ❤︎: @esw1012 @slayleysstuff @psychicbouquetblaze-stuff @theredvelvetbitch @itstrixie @hiiii-itsme @siriuslyval03 @xomauiwei @tokalotashiz @twilightmoon-13 @piglets-not-so-big-adventure @sanguineseraphim @blog-du-caillou @skye209sblog @patslondonstuff @aidboo @toomanyfanficrecs @tjbfingfh @marcelaferreirapinho @girllblogging777 @reidingcmsmutslikeapro @yoonjisgirl @unknownvistor @alexstalkers @loveucad @stranger-chan @hiddentattooodyssey @winniethezwitch11 @casey1-2007 @natyukie @222hwilsss @h0lymacoroni

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

On top of being one of the richest people in the world, he was heartbreakingly handsome and fit - his cut jaw, even if his face was almost always scowling he looked like he just walked off the cover of Vogue, and not to mention his body.

His biceps, his stomach, he had defined muscles that YN had even known exists like up under his armpits near his rib cage, ripples of toned muscle that came from dedication in the gym.

More importantly than that - he was terrifying brilliant, the fact that he created a multibillion dollar company out of his mum’s living room in mere years and now had the life he did now, that was from being intelligent to the point of genius.

YN just felt like she came to the table with little to nothing to offer in comparison.

She was still in college, massively in debt, working at a run down bar, and living in the cheapest accommodations she could find in London.

She would never call herself unattractive but when she got the inkling urge to google Harry and his past flings - well…it shot her confidence in the gutter because he was seen with gorgeous women who modeled and walked runway shows, a different kind of beauty that she couldn’t compare to.

None of this was fair to Harry because he made her feel like the most beautiful, intelligent person on this earth and she knew he was sincere but she couldn’t help but think that after their honeymoon phase…well he would realize that she wasn’t all that special, not compared to the other options.

When they were out, there were constantly women coming up to him, not shy about flirting and making suggestive comments while she was standing right next to him.

It didn’t matter if he bluntly told them to ‘fuck off’, it was always a hit to her already low self-confidence.

She likes to think that she hides it pretty well from Harry, he always got upset when she put herself down with negative thoughts and comments so she tried to bottle that up.

Harry and her had gotten in small arguements in the past six months but it was nothing ever than being a bit peeved with each other, he had a incredible amount of patience and understanding when it came to her, not to often actually getting irritated.

However, she wasn’t stupid, she saw how he could be to his employees, she say how he talked to random people on the street, to the girls hitting on him, sometimes to his own sister.

He wasn’t any of the characteristics that YN explained him as but the exact opposite - rude, impatient, unsympathetic, and easy to anger.

When she talks about the other shoe dropping, she can’t help but wonder if she’ll face the same wrath that others have - she didn’t know if she could handle the cold, uncaring, angry Harry that others got and how she would deal with it.

It just felt unrealistic that he could magically turn it off with her but not the other people in his life but he hadn’t once shown that side of himself to her, not even when he’s been cross with her attitude.

His temper scared her a bit, she thinks back to the first time she really saw it, and it still sticks in her mind.

-

1 & ½ into the relationship

It was a business dinner, one where a whole restaurant had been rented out to celebrate multiple new branches of Style Marketing & Co opening worldwide, expanding to four new countries.

YN had accepted the invitation because she knew Harry wanted her there, that as his partner, she would have to attend these business dinners and events to support him.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, per se, it was more that she didn’t feel like she fit in - as a broke college student, she didn’t have extra money for dresses and shoes to wear to these things.

People weren’t wearing dresses from cheap online fast fashion websites, they were wearing designer brands like Gucci and Prada to somewhat casual dinners.

The suits Harry was showing up in, most of them had a Gucci label on the sleeve or the inside of the suit jacket, she couldn’t imagine how much they cost as she tried to pick from two dresses she got for thirty pounds each.

YN would make do with what she had because she sure as hell wasn’t going to mention this to Harry, she knows that he would automatically either take her to shop or try to hand her his credit card to buy herself whatever she wanted, and she hated accepting any help - no matter if the intention was good or not.

To mention it, that’s probaly what they fought over the most is YN’s stubbornness when it comes to accepting help or gifts - nothing frustrated Harry more than when he tries to be a good, supportive partner and she won’t let him.

It didn’t matter that Harry was worth billions, it was more about the principle.

She had never accepted help before and she never wanted Harry to think that she was using him for his money even though he assured her a million times he’s never thought that.

YN had shown up to the event in the nicer of the two dresses, it didn’t scream expensive but it was nice enough that it could pass for not being fast fashion - a simple black satin dress.

She had been worried that Harry wouldn’t like it or be embarassed that was what she chose to wear but when he knocked on her apartment door to pick her up and she opened the door - his eyes trailed down her body, pausing on her hips and chest then collarbones before meeting her eye with a cheeky glimmer.

“Fuckin’ hell, you look amazing,” He had groaned as he stepped forward, pressing his full body against hers as he tilted her chin up to bring their lips together - his hand coming to run along her belly and hips, massaging roughly as he licks at her, “Don’t even want to go to the party now, just want to get you in my bed.”

“Harry,” YN giggled as he hands moved to palm at her bum, gripping up her cheeks before letting them jiggle - he did that a couple times as he kisses her, “We’re going to be late.”

He lets out a spoiled sigh as he steps back, eyes moving over her one more time, “S’a bit unfair how gorgeous you are. How am I supposed to conduct business when you look like this.”

YN can feel her cheeks heat with a shyness, unsure to ever having someone compliment her in the way he does, “Okay charmer, you’re already getting my pants tonight.”

Harry’s smile fades a bit, eyes becoming more serious, his hand grabs her wrist as she turns to start down the hallway, “Hey, I’m not saying those things just to chat you up. I mean them.”

YN feels guilty she made him feel that way, quickly moving to kiss him again, “I know, i'm sorry that came out wrong. I’m not used to having someone compliment me like that. First time.”

“Better get used to it,” He grumbles boyishly, pinching at her lightly, “I don’t think I’m ever going to shut up about how pretty you are.”

-

The compliments that he gave her definitely boosted her self-esteem for the ride there, however when she walked into the dimly lit restraunt, she felt it plummet again not just because of the drop dead females that were already there but how they were staring at harry.

They were gazing at him openly, with glimmer in their eyes, and they weren’t even shy about it - the blatant openness of their attraction made YN know that it wasn’t just in her head.

Harry doesn’t notice or if he does notice, he doesn’t act like he does - his fingers are intertwined with YN’s as he guides them in, the typical stoney expression on his face.

YN doesn’t know if his employees have ever seen him smile.

Probably not as it seemed Harry’s mission to stay as professional and unemotional as possible at these events, she knows he didn’t enjoy them much either but it came with being a boss - he had to attend these things often.

Harry tries to keep YN included in the conversations as the dinner goes on but she doesn’t have much input on data governance plans or how to better track sales by unit which makes her appear more quiet than she usually is.

And she appreciates that Harry isn’t just ignoring her, constantly turning to whisper something sweet in her ear and his hand is glued to her thigh, rubbing circles in soft patterns or squeezing to remind her that he’s there.

She can’t help but feel the weight of the stares of some of the women, it was her first time at an official event as his girlfriend.

A jealous flare shoots up her spine at the thought of Harry bringing other women as his date before her, she wonders if these girls think she’s just another date that will disappear by the next event.

Which she does decide that she thinks is true because none of the women have shame in the way they smile widely, laugh a bit too much at something he said, compliment him on every occasion they can.

Overwhelming would be a good word to describe it, she’s had a few other boyfriends before Harry, some that weren’t too bad looking but she’d never had anyone be so upfront and blunt about their attraction to her partner.

She wondered if maybe it was a rich person thing she had been let in on because Harry didn’t seem surprised by the flirtatious behavior but he also didn’t acknowledge it all.

YN felt a bit foolish as she pushed her food around her plate, a wave of insecurity making her naseous and the beautiful prime rib in front of her unappetizing.

When she stands to go to the bathroom, Harry follows even though she insists he doesn’t need to but apparently has to go to which has them splitting off at the separate bathrooms.

YN has taken a few deep breaths to calm herself down, calm the nausea that is clawing up her throat because she loves Harry so much and she feels so out of place which is something she knows she just has to push past but tonight it’s hard.

She takes a bit longer than necessary in the bathroom, hoping that Harry would have just went back to the table but as she opens the bathroom door - he hears murmurs from around the corner which make her pause to listen because she could recognize Harry’s voice anywhere.

And even though she doesn’t know the name of the women, she recognized the raspy yet high pitched voice from the table, she was wearing a tight red dress and had been batting her eyelashes at Harry all night.

“Just, there’s- we can, in the bathroom,” Red dress is insisting from behind the wall, YN can’t see anything and so she moves forward a little, there’s a plant which blocks the view a little but makes it so she can peak without being spotted.

Red dress is attempting to corner Harry in the hallway, where he was most likely waiting for YN to come out, and she’s stalking towards him like a creeping predator.

“Why the fuck would I want to go in the bathroom with you?” Harry snaps at her without an inkling that he was interested in what she was, “I’m your boss, do you realize how inappropriate you’re being right now?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t looked at me, I know you have,” She’s undeterred as she continues to walk towards him, “I know I’m your type. I know the girls you fuck. Don’t act like I don’t know.”

“You don’t know shit,” Harry replies, his voice colder than she’s ever heard it, and her heart jumps when she watches Red Dress put her hands on his chest and massage at the skin, fingertips trying to sneak into the gap of his barely buttoned shirt.

Harry’s quick as he grips her wrists on his own, using the leverage he has to push her back, and she stumbles on her high heels, surprised that she was just denied like that.

“You can’t push me like that,” She huffs as she straightens out her dress.

“But you can put your disgusting fucking hands on me?” Harry bites out as shakes his head, “I have a girlfriend and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be fucking you. Don’t think so god damn highly of yourself, you’re fuckin’ pathetic, Leah.”

“You kissed me- at that Christmas party two years ago and no-now you act like I don’t even exist,” She accuses and YN can tell the girl is starting to get upset like she actually has feelings for Harry.

“You don’t exist to me,” Harry tells her simply, his eyes are dark but unemotional as he tells her, “I was drunk and you were all over me. It was convenient and nothing else. You’re not as pretty as you think you are.”

YN knows she shouldn’t feel bad for the girl because she had come onto Harry much too forcefully and Harry was her boyfriend but she couldn’t help the pang in her chest as Leah begin to cry more openly at his words.

Harry doesn’t soften up though.

“I just wanted you to give me a chance,” Leah sniffles as wipes her eyes fiercely but her bottom lip is wobbling as she stares at Harry who has his arms crossed and a unreadable expression on his face.

“I was never interested in you. It would have never happened. If I wanted to fuck you, I would have but I didn’t. Get the fuck over it,” Harry tells her without a care of how devastated the girl seems, “And if you try that shit again, I’m going to make sure you’re fired. Get a fucking grip of yourself.”

“You’re a goddamn dickhead,” Leah fires back at him.

“You have about five seconds to get the fuck out of my face before I fire you right now,” Harry warns her calmly, he looks down at his expensive watch to casually fix the band like he’s uninterested which he really seems to be with the whole interaction.

Leah acts like she’s going to start another round of arguements but with the threat of her job, it makes her finally stomp off as she’s reaching in a bag for a tissue.

YN tucks herself back around the wall for a minute, her mind was reeling with what she just saw and she really didn’t know how to process her emotions about it.

Instead of doing so, she gives herself another minute before she’s coming around the corner where Harry is still waiting with his back against the wall and when he sees her, a wide smile crosses his face.

“Darling,” He grins at her, the previous interaction didn’t show in his body language or face at all, “I can’t wait for this dinner to be over. I was thinkin’ we could take a dip in the pool?”

YN hesitates for a moment, unsure of whether she wants to bring up what she just witnessed - it was the issue of her coming onto him because he very obviously turned her down and wasn’t interested but the way he treated her in doing so.

It wasn’t necessarily wrong in the way that she did touch him without permission but the cruel manner in which he spoke to her without an ounce of empathy and coldness wracking through his body.

Again, did it concern her?

No, it wasn’t really her business.

But there was a bit of a inkling of anxiety, what if she fucks up, what if she does something he really doesn’t like?

Was she going to get that same unwavering coldness?

-

4 months in the relationship

The most he’s ever done while YN was annoyed at him over a stupid event he agreed they’d both attend interrupted her plans for them to just stay home and cuddle.

He’d still been slightly amused by her disgruntled disposition as she came out of his shower, hair in a towel, and one wrapped under her arms as she pointedly tossed her dress on his bed with a bit too much drama.

“I don’t want to go, Harry,” YN tells him with an edge in her tone.

“Then why did you agree when I asked you if you would a month ago?” Harry retorts back but there’s mirth in his eyes as he watches her pout and whine.

“I want to cuddle and watch Christmas movies, its three days before Christmas! Not go sit at some event where everyone jsut tries to kiss your ass all night,” She grumbles as begins to pat her hair with the towel to get the extra moisture out of it, “I’m not going.”

That seems to surprise Harry, eyebrows raising, “I want you to come with me. It’s why I asked you to come. We can come home after and watch all the movies you want.”

“Harry, I always go to these things. It’s the one time I don’t want to go-“

“You’re being a spoiled brat,” Harry sighs but it’s not that emotionless snap she heard that night in the hallway, there was exasperation in his tone, sure, but not what she was expecting, “I really want you to go.”

“And I don’t want to, Harry,” YN stays firm, she just wasn’t in the mood to go sit in a uptight hotel ballroom for six hours on a Friday night when she’s worked and had school all week, “I’m staying home.”

Harry’s definetly annoyed at this point but he simply replies, “Fine.”

“Fine?” YN checks because it’s not that she’s trying to rile him up but she’s desperately curious to see how he responds to her when he’s mad - so maybe she is metaphorically poking the bull.

“I said it’s fine,” He repeats slower, his jaw ticks the slightest and the grip on the hanger in his hand tightens but he’s turning around quickly and heading back into the closet.

YN’s watches him retreat, worried about what’s to come - maybe it’s because she remembers how toxic her parents fights where piled on with how Harry treats people when he’s angry that she expects the worse.

Because she’s not going, she pulls on comfy clothes before slipping into his massive bed and turning on the television as well as the fireplace to get in the Christmas mood.

Harry reappears from his walk-in closet a few minutes later in another one of his pristinely tailored suits, his hair still messy but more managed, and he’s clasping a watch on his wrist.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Harry tells her with a void of enthusiasm in his voice, his eyes tracing over her as she lays in his bed, “Call me if you need me. I love you.”

“Harry,” YN frowns because his goodbye was short and to the point, he didn’t come to give her a kiss as he headed towards the door, “Why are you mad at me?”

Harry stops for a moment to look back at her, “I’m frustrated because I pictured this evening with you. I only look forward to going to these things because you’re with me. You’re the only thing that makes them manageable. I get you don’t want to go but I wish you could just push through it for me.”

“I just don’t want to tonight, it’s not every one,” YN clarifies even though she knows he’s not stupid and knows that already - she was just exhausted and didn’t feel like moving for the next twelve to twenty-four hours let alone get dressed up and act interested in stuff she understood nothing about.

“I don’t get why we’re going back and forth,” Harry points out as his phone buzzes in his pocket, he ignores it, “I said it was fine, I told you I love you, and that I’d be back. I didn’t force you to come with me, YN. I’ll be home in a few hours and we can watch whatever movies you want, okay? I love you.”

He’s tenser than usual, his shoulders raised a bit higher but his voice is still a soft rasp, maybe a bit of sharpness but nothing that detectable, and his face isn’t hardened like when he’s mad at other people.

She realizes pretty quickly after he left that she was the one who was in the wrong, it was shitty of her to cancel last minute and then be upset that Harry had a reaction to it.

YN just hoped that when he came in the door that he wouldn’t be cross with her or see that coldness that she’s never experienced for herself cross over his face.

It’s about nine when he finally arrives home, YN had moved downstairs to the living room where she had Family Christmas Vacation playing and a cup of hot cocoa on the table beside her - cuddled up in a ridiculously expensive cashmere blanket.

“Hi,” YN says sheepishly when Harry appears in the doorway, his shoes already kicked off and he was undoing the buttons on his barely buttoned shirt, shucking off his suit jacket and placing it on the arm of the couch.

“Hi,” He murmurs back, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before looking back to unclasp the watch, pulling off a few of his heavier rings, and putting them in a small dish.

“I want to apologize,” YN admits as she grabs the remote, muting the movie as she sits up more from where she had been lounging.

“Yeah?” Harry hums as he watches her, she can’t tell what he’s thinking because his eyes aren’t dull, they’re glimmering and bright but he has a stoic expression like he’s trying to stand his ground, “For being a brat?”

And it’s playful, a smile finally cracking at the corner of his mouth, and fuck, it’s so beautiful.

YN can’t help the giggle that leaves her mouth as she watches him shrug off his dress shirt - he looked a bit obscene in just his tight trousers, his tattoos and rippling stomach leading into a pair of navy blue Gucci pants with a thin leather belt.

“Yes, for being a brat,” She laments but then sobers up to actually apologize, “For canceling last minute, that wasn’t right of me. I shouldn’t have questioned why you were mad because you had every right to be. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s walking over to her, sitting down next to her and sinking into the plush cushions, “Don’t have to apologize, pet. I love you,” and with that he’s pulling her onto his lap until she’s straddling his waist.

It can’t be that easy…

“But Harry,” YN continues because she’s just surprised that he’s not angry anymore because if the situation was reversed, she can admit that she would be annoyed when she got home still, “I really am sorry.”

“And you don’t have to be, okay? I get wanting to stay in. S’fine, darling. It just made me look forward to coming home more, knowing that you were all curled up in my clothes in my house,” Harry rasps and he seems so sincere that she can’t question it anymore, ducking down to kiss him, and in disbelief that he forgave her that easily.

The next morning as she reflected on it, as he made her pancakes in his briefs in kitchen, she realized that she needed to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, that she had to have more faith in her boyfriend that for some odd reason - he won’t treat her like the rest of the world, he won’t shut her out like he does with everyone else.

-

6 months into the relationship

That was two months ago, this is now, the same feeling is coming back with a vengeance - especially because what transpires is a pretty decent reason to not only get mad but possibly end a relationship.

YN’s stubbornness to be independent has only gotten better by a smidge, if any, and when she is putting the keys in the ignition of her fifteen year old car that she bought for only two thousand pounds of off Craigslist, the engine didn’t so much as turn.

There was no signal that the key had activated any type of triggers to start the car - the was no clicking or whirling, nor any lights on the dashboard, absolutely nothing.

“Are you kidding me,” YN groans as she uselessly turns the key a few more times like it will magically start up but is met with nothing as expected which makes her rest her forehead on the steering wheel, “Fuck.”

She knew that she had no money in her bank account to get the car towed, let alone take it to the mechanic and pay for whatever needs fixed - who knows it might not even be fixable and her affording a new car right now is laughable.

Literally anyone else in the world may consider this to be a good time to ask their billionaire significant other for funds to help with the fix or a new car but not YN.

It’s not like it doesn’t cross her mind, it would be the easiest fix, she knows Harry would take her out that day and purchase her any car that she wanted but she wasn’t using him for his money and just because he had an exorbitant amount of it didn’t mean that she was entitled to any of it.

YN felt like she didn’t get to this point in her life, of working so hard, just to rely on a man - maybe because she sees how much her grandma struggled because she got married and had kids instead of going to college or she sees her mum who relied on her father and that turned fucking south quick.

YN is frustrated with herself when she feels hot tears start to trickle down her face but she can’t do anything to make her car turn on, and the pub she works at isn’t too far.

She normally may walk to save gas money but she lives in a bad part of town which means that walking to her job requires her to walk through all the other unsavory streets of her neighborhood.

It didn’t phase her much, she didn’t grow up in the safest area either, it more so made Harry worry - he really hated where she lived and he hated even more that she wouldn’t let him put her up in a nicer apartment.

There’s no other choice when she grabs her purse from the passenger seat and gets out of the car, locking it even if it's pointless, and beginning her trek to work.

Harry visited her every night that she worked if he didn’t have a work dinner, business meeting, or something that caused him to be out late after he left the office.

YN tries not to let her car worry her too much but she is still in her last semester of university and she’ll have to take a bus now because it’s too far to walk and the bus adds almost an hour onto her commute.

The anxiety about being car-less doesn’t fade much throughout the night of serving patrons, she’s not a chipper as she usually is, and just wants to be done for the night.

The pub closes at eleven on weekdays and she was on closing shift, Harry trails in around ten, still in his suit and as always, much too overdressed for the run-down establishment.

There’s not many people in the bar at this point, all the regulars who spent hours at the bar a day knew Harry by now so they didn’t get starstruck when they saw him but there were always a few people playing pool or sitting in a booth who would whisper when they realized who he was.

YN was distracted, didn’t see him walk in, has her back turned as she’s polishing a glass, and hyper focusing on trying to get a smudge out of it when she hears a smooth rasp that she’d be able to know anywhere, “Excuse me, darling. Can I get a rum and coke? Maybe a kiss?”

A smile automatically grazes her face, she can’t help it as she turns around and puts the glass down, “I don’t serve men who talk to me like that.”

“Oh no? What do you prefer, sweetheart? Baby? Or was it the kiss? I could go for a myriad of other different things, maybe your mouth on my -“ Harry is grinning widely as he watches YN flush with embarrassment as she shushes him with a stern look.

“You have no shame,” YN accuses as she pulls out a glass for his drink, scooping the ice.

“None,” Harry agrees, his dimples flashing deep in his cheeks, something she always loves to see, “But I would like my kiss.”

YN slides the drink across the bar to him, leaning over to quickly peck him, not wanting any of the other sleazy men at the bar to get any ideas or say anything creepy (even though Harry would correct them).

“Where’s your car?” Harry asks like he just remembers it was a question he had, he takes a sip and watches her as she continues to do little tasks to start to clean up for the night, “I didn’t see it anywhere on the street.”

It was street parking, usually YN was able to get a spot right near the front of the restaurant so she did not have a long walk to it at night when the bar closed and she forgot that Harry would catch onto that.

“It wouldn’t start when I was trying to leave for work. It did nothing when I turned the key in the ignition, I think that my engine died or it’s something big that needs to be fixed.”

“That car's old as dirt. It’s not worth it to put any money into it at this point. You need a new car,” Harry points out and logically, she knows he’s not wrong but he makes it seem so easy - it is easy for the man who has a multi-million pound car collection.

“Yeah, let me just go out tomorrow and get a brand new car,” YN’s tone is a bit sharper than she intended and the sarcasm was dripping through every word which made Harry’s smile falter slightly.

“Okay, let’s,” He challenges as he puts his drink down, “Our seven month anniversary is coming up in about two weeks. Let me buy you a new car to celebrate.”

“Harry,” YN warns as she knew how this was going to go down, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Harry replies as fire starts to flicker in his eyes, he wasn’t going to let this go, “Don’t help my girlfriend when I have the full capability of doing so? You don’t want a new car? Fine. Let me buy you a used one or pay to fix your car.”

“No,” YN shakes her head, her hands shaking with irritation as she tries to keep her attention by wiping down the glasses that just came out of the washer.

“It’s not an option, pet,” Harry tells her, he’s being firm in a way he only he when he wants his way and knows he’s right, stubborn meet stubborn, “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you that’s what we're doing. You’re not walking here and then back home at night. You have to get to school.”

“I’ve told you a million times, I’m not going to use you for money, Harry,” YN grits out because she knows this isn’t going to end well, most of the times she can push off Harry’s generosity with a little fight but she didn’t see them getting out of this one without a few scratches.

“You’re not using me. I’m trying to help you. You’re my girlfriend and I want to make sure you’re safe. You’ll be safer with a car,” Harry matched her energy now, putting his glass down and sitting back, arms crossed on his broad chest.

“I can’t ask you to buy me a car, that’s absurd,” YN doesn’t think he sees how mental that is, to just offer to buy someone a car, and maybe it’s because her bank account looks like the opposite of his but this isn’t an everyday event - people just don’t buy other people cars.

At least not in YN’s world.

Harry pulls his cellphone out of his inner jacket pocket and puts it on the bar, looking down at it pointedly before meeting YN’s frustrated stare, “Do I need to show you my bank accounts? Even just one of them? I make enough money in five minutes to buy you a brand new car. Would I not be an asshole if I didn’t offer? Plus, I want to buy you one. I’ve been wanting to since I’ve seen the shitty little sedan.”

That offends YN, she’s not going to lie, it’s why her voice is edged with annoyance when she says, “Don’t talk shit on my car. I had to work for nearly a year to afford it. I worked hard for that car and I don’t appreciate you saying that, Harry.”

Harry seems to understand what he said wasn’t nice by the guilt that flickers over his expression and he reaches out for her which a bit begrudgingly she steps forward and lets Harry take her hand.

“I’m sorry, you're right. I shouldn’t speak down about that. Please, baby. Let me do this for you. You know we’re going to be together, you know I’m going to marry you. All my money will be yours soon anyways. Just let me do this one thing right now,” Harry’s nearly begging, she knows how important it is that she’s safe, she knows how much he worries about her safety.

However, there is just something in her where she doesn’t allow herself to say yes to his offers despite all the good intentions behind the words, she knows that there are no strings attached but she just can’t accept any of it.

“Harry, I’m not letting you buy me a car or give me money to fix it. End of story,” YN’s voice is shakier than she’d prefer because she doesn’t know how she’s going to make it work but her pride was stupidly more important than transportation.

“Telling me ‘no’ isn’t an option,” Harry’s soft smile has completely disappeared, the dimples carved into his cheeks were gone, and his jawline was tight and sharp, “I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re fuckin’ insane if you think I’m going to let you walk home from the pub at night or take three buses to get to university.”

“Harry,” YN tries again because it’s a losing battle, she’s going to start to give in either because she knows she actually needs help or because she doesn’t want this to start a fight, “I just-“

“Enough,” Harry says firmly, louder than his normal tone, a few patrons look over at them before quickly minding their own business again, it was the loudest he’s ever been with her.

“I’m not arguing anymore with you about it. You have until tomorrow before your shift to figure out how I’m going to help you. Whether it’s money to fix it, going to get a new car, taking one of the cars I already have.”

YN couldn’t lie and say that she wasn’t startled by his harsh tone, the anger and irritation dripping into his features which she’d seen before but usually it was directed at everyone else but her, his patience was typically on a longer thread than this.

“Finish your shift,” Harry bites out, he pulls out his wallet and throws a hundred pounds down to cover his five pound drink before standing up, “I’ll be in a booth, finishing some work.”

YN watches as he grabs the black leather messenger bag he came in with that stores his laptop and makes his way to a booth in the far corner where no one would bother him and there was an outlet to plug in his computer.

He occasionally did work when he came into the pub, it was only when the establishment was so busy that YN didn’t have time to chat with him because she was too busy bartending or running food.

It was a clear message now due to the fact that she wasn’t busy, he didn’t want to interact with her right now because he was angry with her and it didn’t make her feel good.

Normally he’d be glancing up occasionally to meet her eye, giving her a cheeky smile or a wink but now she couldn’t catch his gaze because he kept his eyes strictly on the screen in front of him as he typed away.

This may be the first time that Harry has officially been mad at her.

The irrational side of her wants to throw a fit and tell him that it’s not fair that he’s mad, she’s allowed to turn down money and cars.

The logical side of her knows that Harry is trying to be a supportive partner who has the means to provide her help and that it’s only an offer out of kindness and love but nothing else - no strings attached if he would help her.

Those two polar opposite sides were fighting with each other right now because she didn’t know what to expect with Harry’s anger directed at her for once.

People slowly start to filter out of the pub as it gets closer to the eleven pm close time and by the time YN has the bar completely wiped down, glasses cleaned and put away, and garnishes cut for tomorrow - it’s just Harry and her left.

Harry tucks his laptop into his bag and slips out of the booth, he was breathtakingly beautiful even when he was tense with his lips tight together, a dent between his eyebrows, and frown lines lightly traced into the skin around his mouth from always scowling.

They’re silent as they walk to his car, parked right in front, the suicide doors swing up automatically when he presses the unlock button his fob and YN is getting into the passenger side.

As the engine purrs to life, smooth and barely audible, Harry’s adjusting the temperature on the touch screen and asks, “Am I taking you to your apartment or home?”

Home.

He never said my home, my house.

It was your apartment or home - like the slightest invitation that it could be hers too.

“Home,” YN decides because even though it might be better to have a bit of time apart if he’s truly upset with her, she doesn’t want to spend the whole night awake in her bed and wondering if he’s just contemplating their relationship.

She knows the fight isn’t that serious but her insecurity always creeps in during moments that she’s unsure or nervous.

Harry nods but doesn’t say anything else as he pulls away from the curb, his fingers are tight where they’re wrapped around the wheel and the normal hand that’s on her thigh is instead just resting limply on his own.

YN isn’t going to cry.

She’s not going to cry just because Harry’s a little upset with her.

It’s quiet for the first five minutes of the car ride and YN realizes that Harry has no intention of breaking the silence first, he doesn’t even look like he’s about to talk at any point.

“I’m sorry,” YN breathes out after a bated breath, “I shouldn’t have gotten that defensive with you. I know you’re just trying to be a good partner to me.”

Harry doesn’t look over at her but he sighs, broad shoulders slumping in relief as he murmurs, “You’ll let me buy you a car then?”

And that is not what YN was insinuating or hinting to at all.

“That’s not what I meant, Harry,” YN’s tone becomes sharp again because he misinterpreted her apology, “No, I’m not. I’m just apologizing for my reaction to your offer.”

The more relaxed look that had crossed Harry’s face disappears back into the same stoic expression she saw when they were leaving the bar when she looks over at him - she can see his jaw muscle twitch as he grits his teeth like he’s trying not to speak.

“I’m not accepting your apology. You don’t sound sorry,” Harry replies curtly, eyes directly on the road ahead, “I do not care if it means I buy you the cheapest car on the market. I’m not going to have my fuckin’ girlfriend walking alone at night in the city or struggle to get her education when I can help it. You’re not letting me take care of you which is what I am supposed to do as your significant other.”

“Boyfriends don’t just buy their girlfriends cars!” YN points out with a lift in her voice, a bit hysterical, and she throws her hands up in exasperation like it’s an obvious point.

“They do when they’re fucking billionaires!” Harry retorts but he’s loud enough now that he’s nearly yelling, making YN jump in her seat with the unexpected increase in volume in the small car, “They do when they can because they don’t want their girlfriend to have to suffer or have a harder life than they need to! But apparently you just like being fucking difficult!”

YN was at a loss of words, partly because she was surprised by how frustrated he is and partly because she knows he’s right - she knows that she’s being stubborn and that she’s being difficult, there’s an easy solution she isn’t taking it.

When YN doesn’t speak Harry continues, “I know where you come from. I know how much you’ve fought for what you have and that you don’t want to rely on anyone. If you can’t rely on the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you have fucking no one. I know you’re prideful, I am the most prideful bastard on this earth but if you can’t be vulnerable with me then I must be doing something wrong.”

That kickstarts YN to say something because she doesn’t want him to every think that her stubbornness is due to him or because he hasn’t been a good partner - that’s never ever something she wants him to ever feel because he’s the exact opposite - he’s so fucking wonderful.

“Harry, that’s not-“

“No,” Harry cuts her off, “I have nothing more that I want to talk about right now.”

YN has never been shut down like this by him, she has to try one more time, “Harry…”

He shakes his head though, hand coming up to pause her words, his voice is dead serious but softer, “I’m not talking about this anymore tonight. I want to go home and go to sleep.”

YN looks down at her hands, folded in her lap, and swallows a few times to choke back tears - she feels like a crybaby, she started the fight and now that Harry stood his ground with her, she feels like crumbling in on herself.

Even in his state of frustration with her now, he still wasn’t acting like the man she’d seen yelling at employees or turning down females who were trying to take him home - that wasn’t her Harry, she didn’t know the person who acted that way.

Her Harry was still right next to her in the car, it didn’t feel like the stranger with anger issues but it still hurt to see his guard up like he didn’t want to talk anymore because he didn’t want to risk showing emotion.

It’s not even another ten minutes to the house, pulling into the garage where there’s a fleet of other cars taunting her, and Harry’s cutting the engine quickly before the doors are folding back up.

They have such a routine of Harry’s hand on her thigh in the car, him intertwining their hands when they’re walking into his house, and neither happens.

Harry doesn’t make a move to hold her hand, instead he’s walking into the house without looking at her - already shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it carelessly on the kitchen island which was unlike him, kicking off his leather boots without a glance at where they land as he makes his way towards the staircase.

Normally, he would have kept all his clothes on until they were in his walk-in closet where he would meticulously put his shoes back in their spot and put the dirty clothes in one of his many hampers specific to certain items.

It’s no better when they’re upstairs because Harry is disappearing into the walk-in closet to change, coming out a minute later in a pair of grey joggers.

He has a shirt of his and a pair of sleep shorts she leaves at his house in his hand, along with a pair of underwear that she keeps a few in a drawer in the closet and hands it to her.

His face is blank when she mutters a “thanks.”

Only nodding at her before he’s getting into bed and opening a book that he had laying on his bedside table without glancing her way.

She showers quickly, scrubbing the scent of greasy food and cigarette smoke out of her hair and off her body with his expensive body wash before changing into the sleep clothes.

YN pads over to the opposite side of the bed but doesn’t slip underneath the covers yet, sitting cross-legged instead, and grasping her hands together, “Harry.”

Harry doesn’t look away from his book, flat as he responds, “Yes?”

“Why do you not want to talk to me right now?” YN hates how she sounds a bit whiny, needy.

“We tried to talk and we argued. We were going back and forth. I told you that a decision needs to be made by tomorrow night. I’m frustrated and I don’t want to fight even more than we have. I’m setting a boundary and I’m done talking about it for the night, I want to go to sleep,” Harry closes his book, placing it back on the table before he’s finally meeting her eyes albeit warily.

YN bites her bottom lip because she wants to keep talking about it but she also knows that the points he’s making are valid and she doesn’t want to be disrespectful by pushing him.

“Okay,” She agrees, feeling like a scolded child, and she doesn’t really know how to act so she gets underneath the plush comforter and pulls it nearly up to her chin, facing away from him, and burying her face in the pillow to avoid tears.

A few moments later, she can hear rustle as Harry moves to switch off his lamp and flood the room into darkness as lays down but she feels hands wrap around her waist until he brings her into his chest to spoon.

“Just because I’m frustrated doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” Harry reminds her as he presses a kiss to the nape of her neck then her shoulder blade, “You’re stubborn and not listening but I’m so fuckin’ in love with you I can’t see straight.”

All the tension in YN’s body melts at his sweet words, sinking back further  into his hold and putting her hands over hers where they’re laying on her tummy, “I’m so in love with you. It seems too good to be true sometimes, you’re so good to me.”

Harry continues to plant kisses along her skin, chuckling softly before murmuring, “I wish you could be inside my mind sometimes. I could show you all I want to do is care, protect, love you. Maybe it would make more sense to you why I do the things I do but since that’s not an option, you need to trust my intentions.”

“I’ll make a decision by tomorrow night,” YN finally agrees as she brings his hand up to kiss it, “When you pick me up tomorrow from work, I’ll tell you what I’ve decided.”

“Thank you, baby,” Harry sighs with relief, flooding his tone.

It makes YN feel guilty that she’s been stressing him out in the first place but now, she has to figure out how she’s going to fight her pride and put her relationship first.

-

YN luckily didn’t have class today which meant she could focus on homework as she relaxed at Harry’s house.

She had a shift from four to eleven at work but besides that, her day was free.

Harry was off to work before she even woke up but all she could think about was her decision on what she was going to do.

Harry was a CEO - he thrived on precision and being punctual which meant he wasn’t going to forget about the deadline he had set for her tonight.

She really is struggling to find the solution which is the middle ground of Harry helping her but not fully relying on him for his monetary contribution.

Nothing is clicking when she checks her bank account which has a hundred and thirty pounds to last her until tonight if she’s tipped well ( the only reason she has a hundred is because Harry tipped her that unreasonable amount).

YN’s halfway through a discussion board post when her phone begins to ring, the light twinkling song signaling that it’s her grandma calling her, and she answers right away, “Hi gran, everything okay?”

“A little birdie told me that you’re being a stubborn mule,” Rosemary chimes in her motherly tone, an lift of scolding and enough of it to make YN feel like she’s being told she’s bad.

YN loved that Harry and Rosemary had a great relationship.

She hated that they talked shit behind her back about her without any shame or secrecy.

Harry was using reinforcements, he knew that Rosemary would help give YN an extra push in the right direction if he couldn’t get her there on his own and he had definitely called her this morning to complain about her.

“Wonder who that would be,” YN replies with a huff.

“You should accept his help,” Rosemary tells her with no wavering in her words, “You know this is the man you’re going to marry. He just wants to help you.”

“You’re the one who taught me to work for everything I’ve got, don’t accept hand-outs, don’t-“

“Do not twist my words,” Her gran cuts in with a harshness, any lightness in her voice was gone with how stern she now was, “I have taught you to work hard, to not give up, and to not spend your life relying on people, that’s true.”

“I did not teach you not to accept help when needed from trusted people,” Rosemary reminds, “There were times that I couldn’t afford winter jackets for you and your sister despite how much I was working. Frank Jackson, down the road, offered to buy them and you think I wanted to accept the help? It wounded my pride that I couldn’t afford them myself but I said yes to his help because you being warm in the winter was more important than my damn pride.”

“Swallow your pride, YN,” Her gran tells her with conviction in her tone, “Your life partner offering you help doesn’t make you weak or not capable. This isn’t the time to dig your heels into the ground and put up a fight. Your pride isn't of any use if it destroys you in the end.”

-

YN respected her grandmother with everything in her, for the next few hours the words she spoke let spin and process through YN’s mind a million different ways before she finally makes her choice.

Harry had another business dinner that night as well as taking prospective clients to a theater show which meant he was pulling up to the pub right around the time her shift ended.

YN’s slipping into the passenger side with a small, unsure smile as Harry returns it cautiously, waiting for whatever she’s about to say.

It looks like he’s bracing himself for another round of arguments by the way he’s tense and uncomfortable.

“You called my gran,” YN pants out, a bit out of breath from the sharp chill in the air.

“I did,” Harry confirms, fingers tapping nervously on the wheel, “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t tell her to call you. I asked her for advice on how to deal with….with your stubbornness.”

He has the decency to look sheepish as he admits it.

YN reaches over to take his hand, pulling it into her lap, and telling him, “I made a choice and I’m sorry that I have made this so difficult but I’m…I’m still learning to let you help and it’s hard.”

Harry brings her hand up to kiss her knuckles, waiting for her to continue.

“I was thinking that I could maybe use one of your cars until I can save up enough to either repair mine or buy a new used car? That way you’re not spending any money and I can still try to pay for it myself.”

Harry studies her face for a moment, lips pursing as he thinks about what she just suggested, and he doesn’t look upset, just thoughtful, “I’ll agree to that but with one contingency. If in six months you still do not have the money, I can either give you the car you’ll be driving or I can buy you one.”

YN knows she won’t have the money in six months but maybe in six months she’ll feel more comfortable with him buying or giving her one and much to his surprise, she says, “Deal.”

“Mmm,” Harry hums as he leans over to console to kiss her, hand cupping her jaw, “I like when you let me spoil you, s’ my favorite thing in the world to do.”

“I worry about when we will have kids, can you imagine how spoiled they-“ YN’s eyes widened at her admission, “I didn’t-I just.”

Harry cuts off her anxious blabbering with a sweet, honey smile on his face, kissing her once again and saying, “They’re going to be the most spoiled.”

-

The next morning, YN is still half-asleep when Harry drags her out of bed at six, and he’s already fully dressed about to leave for the day when he brings her into the garage.

He clicks a fob in his hand until a white Porsche’s headlights blink to signal it’s unlocked, that’s been parked front and center, and it was one of the newest cars in his collection.

“I want you to drive this one. It’s by far the easiest one in my collection to drive if you don’t have experience with luxury engines. It drives smoothly but operates just like most sedans,” Harry hands her the keys before he’s kissing her cheek in a rush, “I’m sorry, I’m already behind. Call me if you have any questions, I love you.”

“I love you,” YN says distractedly as she holds the key and looks at the car.

She can’t even stomach thinking about how much he paid for this and she’s going to have to drive it this morning to get to school.

She has driven a few of his cars in the past but it was always with him in the passenger seat but now this whole car was going to be her responsibility, she really shouldn’t be worried because she’s always been a safe driver.

YN decides she needs a few more hours of sleep before she builds up the courage to drive that thing.

-

The drive to school was fine, Harry wasn’t lying when he said it was a pretty easy car to use, and there weren't any super fancy buttons or paddles that she needed to push.

She wasn’t as tense when she was pulling onto the highway after her last class of the day, the fear of something happening had started to dissipate all together as she turned up her music and began to sing along to it - she could actually herself getting used to driving this thing.

YN had to stop at the grocery store to pick up a few things she wanted to make for dinner the next night when she didn’t have to work and so she turned down a different street than usual if she was going to Harry’s house.

It’s a residential road in one of the nicer neighborhoods.

She's noticed a car coming up the side road out of one of the housing plans but they have a stop sign where YN doesn’t.

As anyone would, it doesn't even track in her mind because they’re going to stop at their stop sign so YN doesn’t prepare herself to have to hit her brakes or try to swerve when the other sedan doesn’t stop.

YN lets out a surprised scream when realizes that the driver of the other car doesn’t yield to the stop sign which results in them hitting the passenger side door of the Porsche going at least fifteen miles per hour.

YN doesn’t have time to think before the airbags are deploying which are hitting her right in her mouth as she slams on her brakes until she comes to a full stop - her car now in the middle of the road where it’s been pushed by the other vehicle.

She’s so shaken by the extremely loud clash of the impact, the smokey smell emitting from the deployed airbags, and the burning pain on her chest where the seat belt seized up and did its job.

YN just sits in shock as the people from the other car, two men, rush out to open her door to make sure that she’s okay, and YN just feels stuck in her seat as she comprehends that she wrecked and the car was damaged.

Harry.

What the fuck was she going to do?

Her brain was in such confusion, anxiety, and trying to process the traumatic situation that she couldn’t think of what she should do.

The obvious option would have been to call Harry but her brain was telling her that he was going to be furious with her that she wrecked his car.

“Are you okay?”

“Miss?”

“Do we need to call an ambulance?”

YN finally snaps out of her stupor as she shakily unbuckles her seatbelt, wincing as it comes off her chest, and getting out of the driver’s seat to stand next to the two extremely worried men.

“I think…I think I’m okay,” YN mumbles as she takes a few steps, nothing feels broken and the only thing that hurts is her chin from the impact of the airbag and the friction burn on her chest, luckily her neck, back, and head didn't hurt at all.

“Thank god, we were so busy bullshiting we weren’t paying attention. We’re so so sorry,” The man apologizes as his eyes widen, realizing exactly what car he just hit, “Oh my god, this…shit.”

Like he just realized that his insurance is either going to go up or kick him off after hitting such an expensive car.

“Is this your car?” The passenger of the other car asks as they wait for authorities to show up.

“My boyfriend’s,” YN replies shortly, shakily.

“I hope he a nice guy, I’d break up with my girl if she even put a dent in a car this nice-“

The driver elbows his friend with a scolding look before trying to mend the situation, “He can’t be upset, she didn’t do anything wrong.”

It just sends her spiraling further.

It wasn’t long until the police showed up to file a report, offering both parties to be checked out at the hospital but both her and the other men declined.

They were nice, apologetic, and YN was too numb in the moment to be angry with them for being careless.

“Where would you like this towed?” The police officer asks as he jots information down on his notepad.

“Er, Jeffey’s?” YN fumbles out the first mechanic shop she can think of, the cheap one that does work on her car.

The cop laughs because he thinks she’s telling a joke but his smile disappears when he realizes that she’s not, “I can guarantee they don’t work on this type of car there. I would recommend sending it straight to the dealership.”

“Oh, um - okay, do that,” YN nods jerkily, her hands shaking and the cop goes back to his car to call for a tow.

The tow truck driver takes her along and drops her off at the dealership as well where she sits in an expensive leather chair as she waits for someone to come speak with her.

A man in a sharp suit with gelled hair and a confused look on his face walks over to her after about thirty minutes, “Hello, I’m Rich. I was expecting Mr. Styles?”

“Oh,” YN was stumbling over her words and at the time, she didn't realize that it makes her look suspicious and not like she’s a bit traumatized because she was just in an accident.

“I am his sales associate that he contacts when he’s purchasing a new Porsche,” Rich explains slowly.

Harry had a certain person for just buying Porsches?

That was a thing?

“I just sold him that car about a month ago.”

“I’m his girlfriend,” YN says weakly, she was trying to be professional but was coming off as flighty and nervous as her leg shook, “I’ll be paying for the repair.”

Why the fuck did she just say that?

“Alright,” Rich says easily enough, “Would you like to come back to my office so we can discuss what needs to be repaired? Our mechanic just emailed me the quote. Of course, we don’t know how much the other driver’s insurance will cover but most insurances won’t cover the full price of luxury repair but cover a percentage.”

Fuck.

YN walks back to the office with him, her college backpack still on her shoulder as she ignores the eyes following her with curiosity and suspicion all the way.

Rich hums as he clicks around on his computer, pulling up the quote, and tilting the screen to show her what he’s looking at, “As you can see, the passenger side front and back door will need replaced, the windshield is cracked in three places which will need change-“

He continues to rattle on about what needs to be fixed but all she can see is the estimated cost at the bottom of the document for the parts and labor without insurance coverage.

Fifty-five thousand dollars.

For a car.

To fix a car.

YN thinks she might throw up or pass out or both.

“YN? Are you alright?” Rich asks after he asks a question she doesn’t respond to.

“Yes,” But it's a whisper, she doesn’t know what to do, and everything is fuzzy as she says, “Um, you can just-. Fix the car and I’ll pay whatever isn’t covered by the insurance.”

The salesman doesn’t look convinced and instead offers her a kind smile, “I know you’ve been through quite a bit today. Why don’t you call me tomorrow once their insurance has contacted us and we can discuss?”

YN nods as she gets up, “That would….that would be better. Thank you for everything.”

And she feels like she’s basically running out of that dealership.

After she’s left, Rich picks up the phone, and dials a number right away but it’s rings and rings and rings.

“Hello, you’ve reached Harry Styles at Styles & Marketing Company. Leave me a message and I or my secretary will return it at the earliest convenience. Thank you.”

“Mr. Styles, it’s Rich from Hampstead Porsche….”

-

By the time she leaves the dealership, she’s cutting it close to her shift at the pub, and she doesn’t really have any other choice than to order an Uber that cuts into her already short funds.

When she gets into work, going to the bathroom to change into her work clothes, she removes the sweatshirt she was wearing, and hisses as she sees the burn on her chest - right between her breasts where the seatbelt had rested.

She has to be careful as she tugs her shirt on but whines when the soft fabric brushes the tender skin, it makes tears prick at the corner of her eyes and realizes her body is aching a bit more as the day wears on.

Her shift is long, feels like it drags on for nearly a century as she messes up on quite a few drink orders and pours the wrong liquor in a cocktail - all her mind could think about was that Harry would break up with her for getting in an accident in his car.

YN had made the mistake of looking in the folder that Rich had when he’d try to show her different estimates or what not, her eyes stumbling along the lines until she realized that Harry had paid nearly two hundred thousand pounds for the car.

She isn’t expecting Harry when he walks in around ten, he’s in more casual clothes because he had an earlier day at work, and blended in more to the crowd in some Nike jogging shorts and a hoodie.

YN can feel herself forcing an excited smile when Harry sits down at the relatively empty bar beside a few regulars who were already nursing their drink of choice.

“Hi darling,” Harry greets with a wide smile, the one when he’s actually happy, it makes his dimples pop and the crows feet near his eyes more prevalent, “Car run okay for you today? Any issues? It wasn’t park out front.”

“I parked it a few blocks away, the street was er…busy when I got here,” YN flat out lies and she feels awful for it already, like the truth was clawing up and out of her throat, making her nauseous and dizzy, “It was a nice drive. Smooth like you said.”

Harry doesn’t think anything of it, taking a swig of the rum and coke that she puts in front of him, “I’m glad you liked it. I’d really love to give you that car. I’m hoping you fall in love with it and don’t want to part with it.”

YN’s stomach is on the floor because fuck, he’s so sweet and genuine.

And right now, she feels like an asshole.

“Maybe,” YN shrugs noncommittally and Harry’s watching her, curiosity in his eyes as he smiles like he thinks she’s downplaying how much she actually likes the car.

“Just think about it, m’heart,” Harry hums and then he’s leaning over the counter, just like he always does, his hand comes to firmly grip her chin to pull her lips to his but a sharp ache shoots through YN’s body as it’s right where the airbag hit her.

YN flinches, instantly pulling away with a hiss, and Harry’s eyes widen in confusion at her reaction.

She fumbles before she says, “I’m at work. I can’t kiss you at work.”

“We kiss all the time while you’re working?” Harry responds with hurt laced in his tone, “You act like I just hurt you or something. I was just trying to show you some love.”

YN sighs as she mindlessly wipes the same spot on the bar, “I’m sorry, I know. I just-it’s just been a long day.”

Harry backs off, watching her carefully as she finished her shift but he’s trying to talk about things that will brighten her mood, trying to make her feel better.

It doesn’t work.

As they’re walking out after she locks the door, Harry backs her gently up against the brick wall, hands coming to her hips, and lips pushing against hers.

“I missed you so much today, my love. I was so relieved that you made a choice. So good to me.”

YN kisses him back for a moment, willing her mind to just forget about everything for a moment, and that’s easy to do when his tongue is teasing at hers and he smells like he just walked out of a Tom Ford advert.

But then his hand is coming to palm at one of her breasts which in turn makes her bra brush against the burn on her chest which has her pushing him off once again, making him step back with narrowed eyes.

“Not tonight, Harry. I just told you I didn’t have a good day,” YN snaps as she feels like she’s about to burst into tears any moment if she lets down her guard at all.

Poor Harry is absolutely lost as to what was going on with her tonight.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make it worse,” Harry puts his hand up in surrender, “What’s going on? It seems like more than just your professor being a dick. Did I do something? Are you mad at me for making you decide on transportation?”

“No,” YN groans, running a hand through her hair, “I’m not mad at you for anything, Harry. It’s not about any of that, okay? I’m just…I’m tired and I’m ready to go to bed.”

“I’ll walk you back to your car and then we can go to mine,” Harry says as he goes to intertwine their fingers but YN can’t let him do that because there is no car to walk towards.

“I forgot my laptop charger in the pub,” It wasn’t a lie but she also had a spare at home, “I really just feel like sleeping in my own bed tonight, Harry. I just need some time to myself, you know? It’s really been stressful these past few days and I’m not going to be any fun to be around.”

Harry's face drops in disappointment but he nods in understanding, if YN could feel any lower she would because Harry doesn’t deserve what she’s doing right now but it feels like she has dug a hole that she can’t get out of.

“Alright, are we still having dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course,” YN nods, hoping she can figure something out by then, which what the fuck was she going to do, “Go home, I know you’re tired. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry responds slowly as she pecks him, she knows that he wants to follow her back into the pub, walk her to his car but he also is trying to give her the space she’s requesting and so a bit hesitantly, he gets in his car and by the time YN’s back out of the pub, his car is gone.

-

Harry had been uneasy since last night when he went home alone.

He had called her nan, her sister to see if she had called them about anything that was wrong and both confirmed that she hadn’t which made him just so fucking confused to why she was acting like a nervous wreck last night.

Even though she said it wasn’t, he wondered if him getting frustrated the other night and demanding that she make a decision made her question their relationship or think he was controlling.

All the possibilities were running through his mind when he stepped into his office at seven in the morning, his office phone flashing red which meant he had voicemails.

The first two are from different departments within the company but the third one is from a number he doesn’t recognize.

“Hello, Mr. Styles. This is Rick from Hampstead Porsche. I was calling in regard to your recently purchased Porsche Panerama. Today it was towed into the shop after an accident and the female driver, YN LN, reported that she was your girlfriend. She approved the work to fix the damages and stated that she would pay the difference but we didn’t want to start work until we had a guarantee it would be paid and she didn’t give us a credit card. I understand that she was in an accident but she seemed nervous and jumpy. I wanted to confirm that she was indeed your girlfriend or if we need to contact police about the stolen vehicle. Please give me a call back at your earliest availability.”

“I knew it was something,” Harry hissed to himself as he ended the voicemail, standing up and walking right back out of his office, telling Dorothy to cancel everything on his schedule that day.

-

YN startles awake at the sound of her bedroom door being opened, she had been in such a deep sleep she never even heard her front door being unlocked, and when she startles awake, Harry is standing in the doorway in a dark navy suit and a scowl on his face.

“Are you out of you god damn fucking mind?” Harry seethes as he stays in the same spot, not moving anymore into the room, “Have you actually lost your fuckin’ mind?”

YN was taken aback by the anger in his voice, the rasp, and the fire in his eyes, his shoulders were broad and tenses, fist clenching at his sides like he wanted to wreck something.

“Harry, I’m so so sorry. I’ll pay you back,” YN begins to plead with hot tears streaming down her cheeks, she knew she was going to get caught, it was a matter of time.

“You’ll pay me back?” Harry scoffs as he looks at her in bewilderment, “You’ll pay me back?” He repeats in complete and utter disbelief.

“As long as it takes, I know I don’t have the money right but I’ll find a way to. I promise,” YN sniffles as she sits up, crawling closer towards the end of the bed.

“You think I give a fuck about the money?” Harry nearly roars, her neighbors can surely hear him and she was quiver where she was sat as he took a deep breathe to try to calm himself down, “You think I give one single fuck about the money or the fucking car, YN?”

YN doesn’t know what he means, her eyebrows knitting in confusion, “I…I didn’t mean to lie. I was just scared that you would be mad at me, break up with me.”

Harry laughs without humor as his bottom lip starts to quiver, almost like he’s about to cry, and YN is taken aback by it, “Do you not hear me? I don’t give a fuck about a car or about money. You could have been hurt and you didn’t tell me.”

And then it clicks for her.

He’s not upset about the wrecked car.

He was worried about her and only her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to lose you,” YN whimpers as she looks down at her hands, “I thoug-I was so scatterbrained after the accident, I didn’t know what to tell you, and the guys at the scene said dumb stuff and I panicked.”

Harry finally takes a step forward but he doesn’t touch her, “Nothing means anything if I don’t have you.  How could you possibly think that I would care about a car more than you?”

YN frowns because she didn’t think about it like that.

She knee walks closer until she can wrap her arms around Harry’s waist and bring him closer, pressing her face into his stomach as she speaks, “I don’t think that. I know, I know how much you love me. I just…fear took over. The thought of you not wanting me scared me so much that I acted irrationally. It’s not an excuse and I’m so sorry, H.”

He doesn't respond but YN feel’s his stomach tense and releases quickly, when she pulls back to glance up, she realizes that he’s crying - eyes red rimmed and he’s brushing away tears with his fist.

“Oh, Harry,” YN murmurs in surprise, she’s never seen him cry, and to see it for the first time was startling as he swallowed harshly to try to get himself to stop the onslaught of tears.

“I love you so much,” Harry chokes out as he looks at the wall, embarrassed so he’s not making eye contact, “I…I need to be there for you even if you think I’ll be mad. Nothing is more important to me than keeping you safe, baby. I don’t-“

Harry takes a shuddering breath before he continues, “I can’t live without you. I wouldn’t leave you, m’heart. I need you so much more than you need me.”

“That’s not true,” YN argues quietly as she reaches up to thumb away the falling tears, “It’s the other way around. I need you more than you need me.”

“It’s not,” Harry shakes his head adamantly, “I’ve never loved someone like I love you. Darling, you could wreck every single car I own and I would still worship the ground you walk on. I don’t care about money or cars when I have you. I did before but fuck, I don’t need anything but you. I’d give it all up.”

“I’m sorry,” YN apologizes again because she doesn’t know how she can emphasize how sorry she is, “I’ll never lie like that again. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, I’ve already forgiven you,” Harry tells her as his tears finally come to a halt slowly, “I’m not mad at you but you can’t hide things from me like this ever again or I will be upset. I can’t imagine what you went through yesterday.”

And when Harry goes to kiss her, once again fingers come to her jaw, she flinches back with a whine to get out of his grasp.

“Are you hurt?” Harry demands urgently, eyes widened in concern, “You went and got checked out right?”

YN shakes her head sheepishly, “I felt okay after it happened. Just a bit sore, the airbag hit my chin and the seatbelt hurt me a little.”

She was definitely downplaying it.

“For fucks sake. I can’t believe you. Not getting checked out? Out of your damn mind,” He grunts as he’s gently trying tugging her shirt over her head, the burn was starting to scab and it appeared irritated, pink around the edges, and it looked as painful as it felt, “Baby.”

YN lets him examine the marks, his fingers dancing over her skin lightly, “It’s not bad,” She promises, “I’m just sore and the burn is the only thing that actually hurts bad.”

“We need to go get you checked out,” Harry moves away, beginning to dig through her drawers to find fresh clothes for her to put on, “Just to make sure that you’re okay. I want them to look at that, make sure it's clean and doesn’t get infected.”

YN wants to argue that she’s fine but she knows he’s right and she also wants to do it because she knows that it will calm his nerves as he helps her get dressed to go to the urgent care.

-

Everything was okay. Just like YN had thought, her jawbone was bruised and overall she was achy from the impact but there was no sign of concussion or serious injury.

Harry draws them a bath that night, helping her in as she winces as her body protests, the bath water hitting her chest making her squeak at the sting before getting situated.

“The car will be back next week for you to drive until then you can take my Audi,” Harry tells her as he massages the bottom of her feet, an amused smirk coming onto his face, “The other driver’s insurance only covers twenty-thousand in damages. Mind telling me how you were going to cover thirty five thousand pounds?”

YN pouts, splashing at him a bit, “I was freaked out, I don’t know!” But his fond expression makes her giggle, “I didn’t know what else to say at the moment.”

“I can’t wait until you have my last name, my bank account,” Harry tells her.

YN laughs again, “You know most men would never say that.”

“I can’t wait until you can’t push away my money because it will quite literally be your money too,” Harry smiles cockily as he pulls her a bit closer to move up to her calves.

“You’re too good to me,” YN shakes her head, pointing her toes until they dig into his stomach and make him pinch them in response, making her squirm and him chuckle.

“You’re going to be spoiled for the rest of your life whether you like it or not,” Harry informs her with a raised brow, “Always going to provide for you. M’going to be the best husband.”

“I know you are,” YN leans forward until their chest are pressed together, kissing him and when she tries to adjust so she can straddle his lap, she groans as her bones protest, “I may not be able to pay you back for the car in money but when I’m not as achy…”

“Are you suggesting sexual favors in lieu of money?” Harry questions as he helps her sit back down in a more comfortable position, “What kind of man do you think I am? You think I would accept that trade?”

YN can’t help but nudge his soft length with her foot, teasing.

“You’re a hundred percent right, I would if the favors are coming from you,” Harry agrees as he wraps his hand around her ankle, “I think we have a deal, m’heart.”