belle

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Sleep was impossible for him after your interaction at the bar. 

How was he supposed to sleep with your threat looming over him? For all he knew, you had already called Hotch and convinced him that he was some sick pervert who couldn’t be trusted around the women of the office. 

Instead of sleeping he did the next best thing. 

He returned to his bed and thought about you in that shirt. 

One hand wrapped around his dick with the other wrapped tightly around his throat. 

Thinking about how you sneered at him and called him a creep. 

Pushing his head back against the pillow, squirming like it’s you holding his neck. Squeezing hard. You would squeeze too hard, you would want it to hurt. You would call him a creep, disgusting, a freak. 

His groan comes out as a strangled whine as he runs his thumb across his leaking tip. 

He recalls how the black fabric clung to your waist, cinched just above your belly button. Revealing that thin strip of flesh around your midsection, your skin looked so soft and smooth, what he wouldn’t give to run his fingers across your waist. 

He’s snapped out of his self-gratification by the sound of his phone. Whining at the interruption.  

He had your contact saved under your full name, first, middle, and last, just like everyone else's in his phone. As if you knew what he was doing, there you were.

He answers without a second thought, he couldn’t possibly dig himself into a deeper hole. Maybe you want to give him a chance to explain himself, maybe you want to blackmail him, maybe you got too drunk and you need someone to drive you home, who cares, anything is better than nothing.

“Hello?” He has enough courtesy to stop stroking himself as he brings the phone to his ear. Glancing at the alarm clock beside him, when did it get so late?  

“Whatcha doing?” He can tell immediately based on your slurred speech that you’re drunk, and based on the obnoxious slurping you’re still actively drinking. 

“What?” It’s all he can say as his cock twitches at the sound of your voice, like a dog hearing its favorite word. 

“You sound… sweaty.” Your voice trails off into a fit of giggles, he doesn’t hear anything in the background so you must have left the bar but he’s desperate to avoid addressing his sweating.

“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” He isn’t sure why you called him, you’re drunk enough that you probably just did it by accident. 

“No- no, I’m home.” You’re still giggling, the sound makes his cheeks burn. Contrary to what everyone on the team thinks, he actually enjoys the sound of your laughter, he just likes it less when you’re laughing at him. 

“Are you okay?” He softens his voice, he’s a little worried that you’re too drunk. Even if you’re safe at home, what if you brought someone home with you and they’re over there taking advantage of you? Or what if you invited someone over for drinks and they slipped you something?

“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You drag out his name, he can picture the way you flick your tongue when you use his title. It makes him sit up straight. 

“Do you need help?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…?” Then why did you call him?

“Okay.” Your voice pitches up in that overly sweet way as you mock him.

“You’re drunk.” He’s stating the obvious but he feels like one of you should address it.

“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”

“Are you alone?” He can’t imagine you left the bar empty handed looking the way you did. You could have taken any of those losers home. 

Any of those losers but him. 

“All alone.” He can’t help the sigh of relief that he lets out. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”

“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” It’s true, there’s no reason to make up an active weekend full of plans. He’ll watch the chess tournament and spend the rest of the weekend with his dick in his hand scrolling through your Instagram. It’s the only time he actively indulges in social media usage.  

“That’s it?” 

“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night." He can’t help himself as he snaps back at you, you started it with your tone anyway. 

“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You stutter through your sentence, he can imagine the way your lips curl back as you say it.

“Why exactly did you call me?” He finally asks the question he’s dying to know the answer to. 

You’re quiet for a moment before you clear your throat. 

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” 

“Why?” This has to be a trap. 

“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.” Definitely a trap.

“Really?” He makes his skepticism clear. 

“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” This phone call is harmless but he absolutely should not subject himself to one on one time with you. What’s your angle here? 

“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?” 

“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Goodnight.” He needs this conversation to end while you’re still on mostly good terms.

Before one of you ruins it with something too mean. 

“Spencer.” The world around him stops when you whine. His hand involuntarily squeezes around the base of his cock, he’s going to spend the next several hours repeating that whine over and over again in his head.   

“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.” He swallows, fighting the urge to start fucking his hand again. At the very least he should wait until you hang up. 

“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.” He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it trapped in his lungs as he flashes through the mental images he’s branded into his brain of the shirt. Involuntarily flexing his hand around his cock again. 

“What time are we meeting?” His resolve is thrown out the window immediately at the thought of getting to see you wearing it again. He doesn’t even care if this is a trap at this point. 

“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” 

“What? Why do I have to-” He starts but you interrupt him.

“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” And just like that the phone clicks. 

With his free hand he types out a place that he likes that isn’t too far from you, all the while his other hand has already started stroking his aching cock again. 

White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.

He tosses his phone towards his nightstand as he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow as he arches his hips, fucking down and into his hand as he recalls the exact way you whined out his name.  

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You should have texted him and cancelled. 

It would have been so easy to blame everything on your intoxication but for some reason you couldn’t. It’s eating you up inside, Emily’s words are driving you fucking crazy. 

There’s no reason to be nervous, yet you still gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles were white on the drive here. You have the upper hand here, you have all the power and he’s still just Spencer. 

He’s still annoying, bratty, creepy, Spencer. 

And until you prove anything Emily claimed, you shouldn’t act otherwise. 

Scratch that.

You shouldn’t act at all, you should just get the information you want and learn to live with it. You just want to know, there’s nothing wrong with knowing. 

You’re in a rut. You don’t know what you want anymore and Emily threw a firecracker into your already confused brain. Now you’re scrambled, maybe having an adult conversation about adult topics with an adult will fix you. You don’t actually want to fuck him. You just want to know that someone wants you, it’ll help you get your mojo back, that’s all this is.

True to your word you’re wearing the same shirt you wore last night, paired with a baggy pair of sweatpants this time. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to impress him, quite the opposite actually. You want to prove Emily wrong, if he’s obsessed he’ll be obsessed even if you look like this. 

You hold the strap of your purse tightly as you approach the entrance, a coping mechanism to try and soothe your nerves as you scan the inside of the empty restaurant. Only one booth is occupied. 

Of course he’s already here. 

You’re ten minutes early and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. 

When you start towards him he looks up, to no one's surprise his eyes linger too long on your chest before he meets your eyes. Neither one of you smiles or waves. 

There are no words exchanged between the two of you as you take a seat on the opposite side of the booth. 

He really is doing his best to look at your face. It looks as though it physically pains him to not look down but he gives it his best effort as he chews his lip. You want to keep him on the edge of his seat for a little while longer, so you take this as an opportunity to look him over. 

He’s dressed like he would be for a day in the office, of course. At this point you’re certain he doesn’t own casual clothes, his closet must just be a never ending supply of dress shirts and sweater vests.

And he looks tired, even more so than he normally does. 

Good. 

You’re glad he didn’t sleep well after whatever the fuck yesterday was. You hope he had a long night spent fretting over this whole situation. You spent your night and morning coming up with a game plan. 

You’re gonna feel things out, do a few “experiments” to test Emily’s theory, and that’s it. At the end of the day he’s still him and you’re still you. 

You just need to know.

That’s all. 

You just need to remind yourself that you have all the control here, he isn’t going to run and tell Hotch anything you say because he doesn’t want you to do the same thing. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” No reason to beat around the bush, you know this conversation is going to be uncomfortable for him. 

He chokes on his coffee, grabbing a napkin he dabs at his chin.

“What kind of question is that? Why does every conversation with you have to be about sex? It’s ten in the morning, what is wrong with you?” It’s ten in the morning and his voice is already high pitched in a way that normally takes hours of teasing for you to achieve. 

“We’re here because I want to talk about sex.” 

“Well I don’t want to, and if that’s all you want to do then I’ll just leave.” He starts to slide out of the booth but you reach across the table, grabbing his arm. 

“If you stay I’ll forget everything that happened yesterday.”

He shakes you off as he sits back down.

“I told you, I’m not scared of you and I didn’t do anything wrong. Going to a bar isn’t a crime.” Based on the way he crosses his arms defensively while his jaw ticks you know that he is in fact scared. 

“That’s fine and you’re welcome to go if that’s the case.”

He should know you’re telling the truth, your whole job is knowing.

“You swear you won’t tell anyone if I stay?“ He speaks softer now, less defensively.

“If you have breakfast with me and answer my questions I promise I’ll forget everything, I won’t coyly tease you about it, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”

He buries his face in both of his hands for a moment before dragging his fingers through his hair as he sighs. He always does that when he’s stressed, it’s why his hair is always a mess. 

“Okay, sure, fine. But I need collateral.” You knew he’d agree/ 

“Collateral?”

“Yeah, you have to give me something, or- or tell me something in exchange. I’m not just gonna tell you my embarrassing secrets without something in return, otherwise you could just go and tell everyone everything I’ve told you and that I was at the bar.”

“Fine, we can go back and forth, any questions at all, and you have to tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“And I’ll know the same.” He says it like he says most things, smugly, despite the way his leg bounces nervously under the table. 

“And obviously all of this never leaves this table. If you even tell anyone we had breakfast I will deny it.”

“Obviously. A mutual agreement of trust.”

“Agreed.” You hold your hand out, out of habit, and much to your surprise he shakes it. “I thought you didn't shake hands?”

“Is that your first question?” 

“No, when was the last time you had sex?” You’re itching for the answer, if it’s been a while he’s more likely to cooperate. The more desperate he is the easier it’ll be to get him to talk. You know how to play this game, if you want him to cooperate all you have to do is just your chest out and pout.  

“With Lila Archer, two years ago.” His eyes dart away from you down towards his coffee, his pinky twitches around his mug.

Fucker. 

“Are you seriously already lying to me?” You throw a sugar packet at him, he doesn’t so much as flinch as it hits him in the chest. You both watch as it falls under the table. 

“We already established that I don’t need to be doing this at all, why does it matter if I lie? This is just a stupid game, I gave you an answer. Let's just be happy about that.” He mumbles, always with the mumbling. 

You’re about to stick the end of his tie in his coffee when a pretty older woman in an apron smiles as she approaches the table.

“How are the two of you doin’? You look like you’re havin’ the sweetest mornin’.” She has an adorable tooth gap and a voice like honey but he doesn’t even look up at her, with you distracted he doesn’t tear his eyes off your tits. 

“We’re doing so great! We were just talking about the funniest thing that happened last night over at Betty’s, have you ever been?” You flash her a grin as you kick Spencer under the table, finally he looks up at her, just for a second before he looks back at you. 

“I haven’t but I’ve heard good things from a couple’a girlfriends of mine. How was it?” She pulls a pencil out of her apron pocket.

“Oh it was so great, we actually work together and ran into each other there completely by accident,” You point at Spencer as he glares at you. “do you wanna tell her what happened, Reid?” You turn your smile from her to him as his lips settle into a sulk. 

“You know what, it’s a long story and we don’t want to bother you but I think my friend and I are ready to order.” He speaks in a controlled and calm tone, despite his expression. He closes the menu in front of him, handing it to her. “I’ll have the un-birthday breakfast and she’ll have an order of chocolate chip pancakes with a seasonal fruit assortment.” You open your mouth to object but he just carries on speaking. “Could she also get a coffee and some water, and a cup of flavored creamer please, vanilla or mocha are fine, thank you.” He takes your menu before you can say anything, giving your server a tightlipped smile as he hands yours to her as well before she finishes scribbling in her notepad, turning on her heels and disappearing back into the kitchen. Once she’s out of sight he sighs. “Okay, fine, I won’t lie, let’s start over.” He’s pouting as he takes a sip of his water.

“How do you know my breakfast order?” You sit up a little straighter as you squint at him, studying his mannerisms. 

“You like sweet things for breakfast, you usually opt for a donut or a pastry over a breakfast sandwich. When there are donuts in the bullpen you always take a chocolate one, and you circled your finger across the seasonal fruit option at least four times when you were looking over the menu.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe he does spend a lot of time staring at you specifically, you seriously doubt anyone else on the team would know your breakfast order.  

“I- wow, I don’t even know what to say to-” You really don’t, you normally have a snarky quip to throw back in his face but this is uncharted territory. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” You don’t have time to think of something to say, he beats you to it.

“What?”

“You asked your question, and I answered, now it’s your turn, that was the deal.”  

“Two months ago.” You speak without another thought, if you tell the truth he’s more likely to as well. The second you say it he’s suspicious. He tilts his head like he does when he’s watching an unsub from behind the glass. 

“How is that possible? You said just last week that you… hooked up-” He says it like it’s a phrase in another language, completely foreign to him. “-with some vet tech?” 

“I was lying. I haven’t had sex in two months.” You shrug, you aren’t exhibiting any signs of lying and he knows it. You're telling the truth. 

“Why even bother telling everyone-” You hold a finger up in front of his face. 

“It’s not your turn. When was the last time you had sex? And don’t lie.” You put on the most serious face you can muster given how ridiculous this conversation is.  

“It’s been…” He mumbles something, reaching for another sugar packet, emptying the contents into his coffee. 

“If you keep mumbling I’m going to pour your coffee into your lap.” As you reach for his mug he pulls it back. 

“I suppose technically I haven’t.” The words tumble out of his mouth in quick succession as his eyebrows furrow.

“Haven’t what?” You draw your hand back. 

“That was your turn, you already set a precedent that there are no follow up questions.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, refusing to look at you as you stare at him. 

Oh. 

He hasn’t. 

“Why are you lying to everyone about having sex?” He sets his mug down a little too hard, the table shakes as your server reappears, offering a smile as she silently sets down your coffee, a small silver pitcher of creamer, and a glass of water before disappearing again. 

You have to clear your throat as you try to collect yourself. 

He’s twenty five, and despite how annoying he is you can’t deny that he is sort of attractive. If you’re into librarians, or guys who don’t know how to style their hair. You’re certain he could pick someone up at a bar if he tried.  

“I umm- I guess I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it when I stopped having sex.” Your brows are drawn together in a sharp motion as you continue to try and make sense of this. “Is this a voluntary celibacy?”

“Absolutely not.” His jaw ticks, just a little bit, his hands are in his lap but if you had to guess you’d say his nails are digging into his palms. 

Something must be wrong with him, aside from the obvious. 

You might not like him but you aren’t blind. Underneath his terrible haircut he has an objectively nice looking face. Sharp jaw, strong chin, pretty round lips…

It just doesn’t make sense.

“Why are we here?” He doesn’t mumble but he does whisper. 

“I told you, I wanted to talk.” You pour your creamer into your coffee, trying to keep your tone light.

“I get that part but why? We’ve never hung out before, you ignore me at after work functions, and you obviously don’t like me. You make a conscious effort to let everyone know you don’t like me. I just don’t understand why you’d want to spend one of your rare days off bickering with me.” The look of concentration on his face tells you he’s genuinely struggling to understand your motive.

You’re struggling with that yourself right now. 

You don’t want to lie. But you also don’t want to outright say, “because I want to see if you’re hot for me.” Because you aren’t really sure why it’s so important for you to know that in the first place.

“I- I don’t know.” Is finally the answer you settle on.

“Are we allowed to give super vague responses that don’t actually answer anything?” He almost smiles as he says it, it helps you relax again.

“How about we each get a pass?”

“Well that’s not fair, I would have used mine if I knew that was an option.” You love that tone of voice, argumentative and louder, more confident but without the seriousness that was starting to settle onto your conversation.

“Well now it is, and I pass, you get one too.”

“Fine, why did you stop having sex? At one point I assume you really were taking men home while you were out with Emily, otherwise you wouldn’t have earned your nickname. So, you stopped two months ago, why?”

Now you wish you hadn't used your pass. 

“I just… needed a change. I wasn’t satisfied by the-” You struggle to find the words to accurately explain the feeling. Once again, you don’t want to lie but you aren’t entirely sure of the answer. “I… stopped having fun. So there really wasn’t a reason to keep doing it if I wasn’t having a good time.”

It’s objectively true. 

You don’t mention that you stopped feeling the spark you used to get. You don’t feel that pang of arousal in your stomach when you’re with a partner anymore. 

You stopped getting butterflies. 

He nods, both of you taking long sips of your water and sitting in silence as you hear the kitchen door swing open, both of your breakfasts are brought out. You’re thrilled to have a reason to sit and think, even if it’s just for a moment as you cut up your pancakes. 

“Why haven’t you just gotten it over with? You’ve had options, I’ve been on cases with you where women are giving you the time of day.” You wave your fork in his direction before sticking it into a strawberry.

“I have standards, you know. Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I want to stick it into the first person that offers.” There’s a harsh snap to his voice that is reserved just for you, familiar and engaging as he takes a bite of his eggs. 

“I’m not saying you should fuck anything with a pulse, I’m saying that there have been plenty of pretty, nice women, who I’ve seen hit on you.” 

“I’m fully aware of that, but I wasn’t interested in them.”

“Why not? You clearly don’t want to be a virgin, so why not just get it over with?” You reach across the table for the syrup, coating your pancakes.

“Like I said, I have standards. I might be a virgin-” He whispers it, looking over his shoulder as if the diner isn’t still empty. “But I know what I like and what I want.”

“Hmm.” You hum around a bite of your pancakes. Fuck this place has good food, you’re gonna have to come back here.

“You asked two questions so now I get two. What is fun to you?” He tilts his head to the side, with an air of confidence you don’t normally see from him when sex is the subject matter.

“Hmm?” You hum around your fork.

“You said you stopped having fun, what’s fun? Shouldn’t all sex be fun?” 

Oh you sweet summer child. 

“What’s the second question?” 

“Depends on your answer.” One good thing about Spencer is how engaged he is in every conversation he has. 

“I like to try new things.” You tilt your head a bit to the side.

“Like what?” 

“You’ll need to be more specific if you want a specific answer.” You love the way he hangs off your every word.

“What was something fun you wanted to do, that one of your partners turned down?” The smile you get from him as he says it is unlike anything you’re used to from him. You like this side of Spencer, you much prefer this Spencer. 

This is like chess with him but better because you actually stand a chance of beating him. 

This conversation just got fun. Any dread you felt when you first arrived is gone. 

“I wanted him to beg for it.” When you see your server step out of the kitchen you smile and wave at her as she heads in your direction to refill your coffees. “I wanted him to ask nicely, and use his manners. He didn’t want to, he puffed out his chest like the big strong man he thought he was and told me that he doesn’t do that, because he expects it. So I kindly asked him to leave.” You continue to speak as she fills both your mugs. “Thank you.” You give her another big smile as she leaves.

“And what do you expect? What requirements do your partners have to meet?” He doesn’t seem to even notice that she came and went, he’s too focused on you now.  

“My standards are high these days, begging is obviously the bare minimum, which is probably why it’s been two months.” You pick up your mug, feeling the warmth beneath your fingertips. “It’s important to me that my partners feel grateful when they’re with me.” 

“Doesn’t seem like you’re asking for too much.” It’s your turn to almost spit your coffee out as he says it so casually. 

Clearing your throat you set the mug back down.

“I expect devotion.” 

“And what do these men get in return?” He’s like an interviewer. His questions come quickly, as if he has them written down.

“That would be your third question, Doctor.”

“I’m trading in my pass for an extra question, since we’re allowed to make up rules whenever we want.”

You pause for a moment, trying to meet his gaze as he avoids yours. 

“They get me.” You smile as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes are still down on the swirling of his coffee. 

Oh, you could absolutely pull the trigger on this if you want to. 

That’s the question you need to ask yourself. Do you want to? If you look at this as an abstract concept where he’s just a guy in this diner and not Spencer, he’s the perfect choice. 

And Emily’s right, he doesn’t even know it. You’ve never properly looked at his body language but he leans into every word that falls from your lips. He isn’t so brazenly staring at your chest today but he certainly steals glances. Even if parts of him hate you, that’s fine, parts of you hate him. But there’s an undeniable fascination for you that you’d never noticed before today.  

What’s the worst that could happen?

“My turn. Do I live up to the high standards of Dr. Spencer Reid? Would you have sex with me?” 

“Now you’re just being mean.” His confident tone falters a bit as he continues to stare down, tucking his hair behind his ears. 

You can’t exactly blame him for that reaction, You’ve spent the last year teasing him relentlessly. You’ve taken every opportunity handed to you to embarrass him, after the first month you stopped with the pleasantries. What reason would he have to assume this was anything but a cruel joke. 

You grab his mug, pulling it across the table so it’s in front of you. You take a handful of sugar packets as well, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Remind me, how many sugars do you take in your coffee?”

“Six, I can do it myself.” Jesus, he likes his sugar. He starts to reach towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You just click your tongue in response.

“No, no I’ve got it.” One by one you rip open each packet, when you empty the sixth one you look up to find he’s watching you closely. You lean over the mug, your tongue poking out from between your teeth as you spit into his coffee before you slide it back over to him. 

“Come on, seriously-”

You shake your head as he starts, effectively shutting him up.

“It’s still my turn, would you have sex with me if you could? Since you’ve played so nicely I won’t even make you say it out loud if it’s too embarrassing. You can just enjoy your coffee and I’ll know the answer.” Your tone is still teasing but you look at him with a fondness that is unfamiliar to him. 

He stares down into his coffee, his cheeks are red, and that squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it’s about to pop.

Okay maybe this was a step too far. 

But you seriously doubt you misread this situation, your entire job is to read situations. 

You watch with bated breath as he hesitantly lifts his mug. And just like that, the biggest germaphobe you know takes a long sip of his coffee. You can’t help the smile that plays on your lips. 

“What about you?” He mumbles, staring down like he doesn’t want to see your reaction. 

Hook, line, and sinker.

You take your mug, holding it out towards him, his eyes look like they might pop out of his head. 

“Go ahead.” Your smile only grows as he chews his lip. 

Tentatively, he leans forward, his every move is unsure but he spits into your cup, finally looking you in the eye. You don’t break eye contact as you take a sip of your coffee. 

He looks enamoured by you.

“You know… I’ve been thinking, I think that our work is being affected by our antagonistic relationship. Hotch is always telling me that I should be nicer to you. And I don’t know about you but I know that my current lack of… sexual fulfillment has made me irritable and distracted. Has it made you feel that way?” You brush the tip of your shoe against his ankle, immediately he jolts up, his knees hitting the table. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” You can feel his leg bouncing under the table again as he groans, taking another sip of his coffee, as if more caffeine is going to soothe his nerves.

“It isn’t your turn.” You click your tongue. 

“Fine.” He grumbles. “I don’t let this kind of thing get in the way of my work.” His fingers flex around his mug. “Can we just be done with this game?”

“I want one more question.”

“Better make it a good one.”

You intend to.

“Do you beg when you want something?” You figure you’ll floor him with that one.

He catches you off guard with an immediate whispered response. 

“Only if I want it badly enough.” This conversation has been full of surprises.  

“Your turn.”

“If I were to beg, would I get what I want?” There’s no confidence behind his voice anymore, he doesn’t even try to sound sure of himself.

Emily was absolutely right in every regard. He’s perfect. You don’t bother concealing the wild grin that you know is creeping across your face.

“If you want it badly enough.” 

He takes in a shuddering breath, his lips parting slightly as he stares at you. He looks like he’s still waiting for you to pull the rug out from under him. 

“You said you don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend right? Other than your chess thing?” 

“My schedule is empty.” He says it just like the eager puppy Emily claimed he was, his tail might as well be wagging for a treat. 

And it’s only Thursday. 

This might be the best long weekend Hotch has ever forced you to take.

“You know, I get a little nervous with the maintenance people coming over when I’m home alone. Would you want to come over tonight and maybe stay for the weekend? I could order us a pizza.”

“You hate red sauce.” He says it like he’s found the missing piece of a puzzle, like this is a break in the case that proves this is all some big plot against him. 

“Why do you know that?” He shrugs as you roll your eyes. “I don’t like certain red sauce pastas, I like it a specific way. I still like pizza.” 

“Okay.” He nods, and a part of you knows he’s cataloging that information away somewhere in a mental folder with your name on it.

“And you understand why you’re coming over?” You say it slowly, nodding as you do. 

“I assume when I get there you’ll have a bunch of your friends over so they can point and laugh at me for thinking this was actually happening.” His tone is only half joking. 

“This is gonna be a lot of fun if that’s the mindset you’re in.”

“I’m not sure what other mindset I could be in right now, this has all been very… confusing.” And no one hates to be confused as much as Spencer does. 

“What do you think the chances are that this is real? You have a statistic for everything.” 

“I’d say about five percent.”

“That’s higher than I expected.” You bump his leg with your shoe again, he flinches but he stays in his seat.

“As unlikely as all of this is, I don’t think you lied to me at all. I think that you’re lonely, and unsatisfied. And that might just be enough for you to settle on a sure thing.”

Lonely and unsatisfied.

No reason to deny that, you wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case. 

“You’re a sure thing? Even with five percent odds?” Your smile only grows. A sure thing.

“I’m a sure thing with one percent odds.”

“So you’ll come over?”

He chews on his lip as he nods. 

You eat the rest of your breakfast in silence, he seems to be lost in thought and you don’t want to say anything that’ll make him change his mind.

When your server returns you reach for your wallet but before you can he hands her some cash, telling her to keep the change. You don’t object, you just stare at him.

“Thank you.” Your smile never falters as you finish your coffee. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Are you ready to go?”

“Mhmm.” He hums and as he stands you join him, following him out to the parking lot. He walks you to your car, watching you lean against the driver side door. You take a moment to look him up and down.

You immediately find yourself staring at the tent in his pants. Good lord he’s like a teenager. You can’t remember the last time you were able to get a guy this worked up just with a conversation.

“Jesus, are you okay to drive like that?” You flick your eyes downwards.

“Shut up.” He gets so red so easily, you can’t wait to find out how low that red goes. 

“Seriously, are you sure that isn’t like, distracted driving?” 

“It’s human nature, if you spend an hour throwing yourself at me I’m going to have a physical reaction.”

“And throwing myself at you? That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.”

“If you say so.” He fidgets with his car keys. 

“Does six thirty work for you?”

“Six thirty is perfect.” Something tells you any time you offered would have been perfect. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He feels like he might pass out.

What the fuck just happened?

Once your car is pulled out of the parking lot he palms himself through his slacks, hissing as he finally relieves a bit of the pressure that’s been building for the last hour. 

Is it possible that you killed him at the bar last night and this is all some fantasy he’s having as he bleeds out on the floor? 

He still isn’t convinced that this isn’t just some kind of joke. 

You can have your pick of any guy.

You’ve had your pick, and he’s heard the descriptions of these men, they aren’t like him. They aren’t lanky, greasy, guys who can’t last more than thirty seconds.

He doesn’t really care if it is a joke at this point, if it’s a joke he might as well get what he can out of it, maybe he’ll get to see you with your shirt off before you laugh in his face and send him packing. 

The parking lot is empty, it’s a Thursday before noon in the middle of nowhere. 

He should wait until he’s home. 

But you were true to your word, and you wore that shirt again.

He has to stop at the drugstore before he heads home. He’s never done anything like this before but he’s pretty sure the guy is supposed to bring the condoms.

He can’t go to the store like this. 

The smart thing to do would be to just handle it here.

He doesn’t bother unbuttoning his pants, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even get that far. 

Pressing his palm against the bulge in his pants he imagines it’s you, in the diner, brushing your foot up against him. He would have told you every single embarrassing secret he had if you’d have slid your foot up the length of his pants and pressed down. 

He’s practically drooling at the thought of being in your apartment. It’ll smell like you, he’ll be alone with you. And god willing, you’re going to touch him.

He feels like he won the lottery.

He got caught following you to leer and you and he’s being rewarded with the possibility of finally losing his virginity to the hottest person he’s ever met. 

With a whimper he rests his head on the top of his steering wheel as he makes a mess out of the inside of his pants. 

Hopefully you aren’t depending on him to last any longer than it takes for him to get inside of you. 

He’s glad he wore dark colored slacks. With a turn of his key he starts his car.

For the first time in his life he’s going to buy condoms. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The knock on your door makes you jump. 

Shooting a glance towards your clock tells you that it’s only five minutes after six. 

Yet there he is when you open the door.

Thankfully you spent the day cleaning and picked up the pizza a few minutes ago.

“I thought we said six thirty?” You don’t bother greeting him, you’re already irritated enough by the fact that he’s in the same clothes and you’re in your PJs.

“On time is late, early is on time.” He is quite possibly the lamest person you’ve ever met. 

“Twenty five minutes early is early. Sounds to me like maybe you just couldn’t wait.” You grab his arm, pulling him into your apartment. He’s still in a brown blazer and a dress shirt with a fucking tie, who dresses like this for a hookup? “Are you seriously still dressed like that? “Go change, I can’t have a conversation with you like this.” 

“How else would I be dressed?” Thank god he has a backpack with him.

“I hope to god you brought something other than business attire. Put on some pajamas or something.” You point him towards the bathroom as you split off towards the kitchen to grab plates. 

You quickly sort yourself out in the reflection of your microwave. You kept it casual, you’d hoped he would too but that was clearly wishful thinking. Your favorite pajama pants with Snoopy on them and a tanktop. Simple, classic, easy enough to take off. Not so obviously revealing that you can’t sit and have a conversation with him before you do whatever it is that the two of you are about to do. 

You straighten up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. 

Returning to the living room you watch as he sets his sneakers down by the door. He stands straight, holding his arms tightly to his body like he’s worried about taking up any space. 

You can work with this. 

Especially with him dressed like that. 

He’s got a black caltech shirt on with a pair of grey sweats, and of course, his mismatched socks. He’s always got so many layers on at work, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him in just a t-shirt and you’re liking what you see.

He almost looks like a normal person now. 

Okay. 

Time to rip off the band-aid. This shouldn’t be so hard, you both know why you’re here, you’ve already had one awkward conversation, what’s one more? 

You sit on the couch, patting the spot next to you as you open the pizza box on your coffee table. As he sits beside you, you set a slice on a plate before handing it to him. Doing the same for yourself. 

“I think we need to lay down some ground rules before anything happens here.” Your voice cracks a little as you clear your throat. Jesus, pull it together.  

“I completely agree.” Thank god he sounds nervous too.

You shouldn’t be nervous, you do this all the time. 

“Let’s start with the obvious, you can’t tell anyone about this. If you did I would vehemently deny it and of course whatever was happening between us would stop.” This can’t ever get out. Emily and Derek would never let you live it down. 

“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes as he takes a bite. 

“No offense intended, it’s not a personal thing, it’s a professional thing, for the sake of my career and yours.”

“Sure.”

“Did you bring condoms?”

He nods, unzipping his backpack he hands you a Trojan value pack, there’s four different options. 

“Forty condoms?” You stifle a laugh as you pass the box back to him. His cheeks burn red, making him blush might be your new favorite thing to do. 

“I wasn’t sure what your preference was or how many was normal. And I didn’t want to run out.”

“Run out!” You set your plate down as you laugh, you're too nervous to eat. 

“I don’t know how many is normal!” You can’t blame him, he really doesn’t know any better.

“That’s fine, you know what, forty is fine. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to anyway. I’m on birth control and I got tested a month ago. And I know you obviously don’t have anything.” The second you say it the condoms go back in the bag. 

“Anything else?” He cocks an eyebrow at you.

“As far as commitment goes there is none. If either of us decides we’re done then we’re done.”

“Sounds about right for you.” He scoffs. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re scared of commitment, everyone knows it.”

“Not wanting commitment in a fuck buddy scenario is not the same as being scared of commitment.” This isn’t an argument you want to have right now because he is technically right. 

“Anything else?”

“No, your turn.” You grumble. 

“I don’t want you seeing other guys while we’re doing this.” Of course mr. commitment doesn’t want you seeing anyone else. 

“I will not engage in sexual activities with others but I’ll still have to flirt with guys when I go out with Emily.”

He frowns.

“We can work out the logistics of that later.” 

“Whatever, sure.” Another argument you don’t want to have right now. 

“I’d like for us to be honest with each other, even if it’s uncomfortable.” 

“Give me an example.”

“Like if I asked you about how many people you’ve slept with.”

“Does that matter?” You lean away from him as you cross your arms over your chest. 

“Not at all, I’m just curious. And you don’t have to answer, I just ask that if you do that you don’t lie.” You drop your guard a bit at that, he seems genuine.

“Around twenty, maybe twenty five.” You don’t know the exact amount but that sounds right.

“That’s it?” The ever distrustful Spencer Reid. 

“Tales of my sexual exploits have been greatly exaggerated.” You lean back against the couch, sighing. 

“I’ll also obviously answer any questions you might have with complete honesty as well.” 

You're eager to test the extent of that honesty. 

“Do you ever think about me when you jerk off?” You sit back up, smirking at him. 

“Usually.” He shrugs, reaching into his backpack he grabs a glasses case, he must have taken out his contacts in the bathroom. You watch as he puts on a pair of horn rimmed glasses. 

That changes things. 

This must be how he feels when you wear a low cut shirt. 

He blinks, adjusting to them. You tilt your head, holding your breath as you stare at him. They sit so nicely, high on his nose. Something about the round frames accentuate the sharp features of his face. The thick tops of them stand out against his pale skin. You’re slowly getting the sexy librarian appeal. 

Oh my god, pull it together.  

“How often?” You cough the words out, trying to regain the air of confidence you had when you asked the question. 

“Twice a day.” He answers much more comfortably than he did in the diner. He doesn’t twitch, he’s found a sense of calm here. 

“You jerk off twice a day?” You squeak out. 

“I jerk off while thinking about you twice a day.”

“Wow.” You wanted someone obsessed, you aren’t going to find anything better than this. 

“Oh I know. You’ve become a real problem for me.” 

“How do you want to do this? It’s your first time, it should be special.” As much as you’d love to tear into him right now and find out what makes him tick, that isn’t what tonight's about. You’ll have plenty of time for that later. 

“I could care less so long as it happens, I feel like I’ve dug myself into a pretty embarrassing hole if I’ve come all this way and said all these things just to not have sex.” He scratches the back of his neck as he gives you a sheepish smile. 

“I know a part of you still thinks this is some evil plot on my end of things but I promise I’m not joking.”

“I’ll believe it when you actually start touching me.”

You’re suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you’re sitting rather far away. You’ve both retreated to the furthest edges of the couch. 

You set your plate down, taking his and doing the same before you scoot over. You pull him closer as you throw your legs over his lap. 

“Believe it yet?” You speak softer now that you’re right next to each other. 

“I’m starting to. What are your limits? What do you want to avoid?” He keeps his tone sarcastic but this close to him you can see the way his blush creeps down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. 

“I don’t think there’s anything.” You’re practically whispering now, you’re so close to him. 

“That seems a little extreme.” His brows furrow. 

“If you do something I don’t like you’ll know. We can settle on a safeword but I’m also very comfortable simply telling you to stop if I don’t like something.”

“So… anything’s on the table.”

That’s the goal. 

“Anything you can think up in that big, perverted brain of yours. We can do whatever you want.” 

He swallows loudly. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides, usually in this position the guy would touch you but not him. He doesn’t even know that’s an option. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” You’re trying to think of ways to make him more comfortable but you’re coming up empty. Should you offer him a book to consume? He isn’t like your usual partners, normally you’d put on a movie or a show to pretend to watch before you get started.

“I’d rather not.” He stammers, his fingers tap against your ankle rhythmically. 

“What do you want to do then?”

“You can’t seriously be asking me that right now.” 

“Well I don’t know, I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything, I figured you’d want to be eased into this.” 

“We can do whatever I want, that’s what you just said, right? Because if that’s the case then I’m certainly not going to start by watching a movie.”

“It helps to set the mood.” You roll your eyes. 

“My mood doesn’t really need any further setting. Does yours?”

Nope. 

“Do you want me to take the lead?” You give him a genuine smile, not your usual predatory grin. 

“I will do literally anything you ask me to do right now.”

Perfect, perfect Spencer. He is exactly what you needed to end your dry spell.

“Why don’t we start by going to my room.” You stand, holding your hand out to him. It’s quite possibly the first kind gesture you’ve ever made towards him. 

He nods as he takes your hand, letting you guide him down the hall and into your room. You take a seat on the bed but he doesn’t follow. Instead he stands in the doorway, robotic in the way he examines every detail. 

“You have more stuffed animals than I thought you would.” It’s the first thing he says once he steps into the room. 

“How many did you think I’d have?”

“None.”

You’ve got a lot more than that, a mess of them are strewn about your bed, you’ve got a few on your nightstand as well as a net mounted to the wall that holds a pile. It crosses your mind to be embarrassed about it but you’ve never let it bother you before, why would you start now. You kick most of them off the bed as you lay back against the pile of pillows against your headboard. 

You don’t want to rush him, tonight isn’t about you, even if you have big plans for him in the future. Right now you want him to be comfortable and happy.

He takes a hesitant step forward, not towards you, just further into the room. He faces away from you as he stares at your walls and shelves. You have photos with friends, and a few little paintings you found at thrift stores. His eyes linger on a picture of you, Emily, and Derek, out at the bar.   

Eventually he turns to your bookshelf. 

Whenever he’s reading he gets that look in his eyes, like he’s devouring the words rather than reading them. 

“Have you read all of these?” He murmurs. 

“Most of them, everything on the bottom shelf is stuff I still need to get to.”

“I haven’t heard of most of these.” His fingers linger over Ice Planet Barbarians. 

“I would be concerned if you had.”

He nods, turning to you at last as he steps forward, running his fingers across your comforter. 

“I always imagined your room being… scarier.” The fact that he imagined it at all only serves to sustain your smile. 

“Scarier?”

“Black and red, chains and whips.” Your room is a lot of things, but it isn’t dark and scary. Your sheets are a patchwork mix of colors, your walls are painted a soft green. 

“You imagined my room like a dungeon?” You cock an eyebrow at him. 

“Something like that.” He sits, facing you, the bed gently sinking against his weight.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You seem a little on edge. We can do something else for a few minutes if that’ll help.” You’re a little worried he’s about to turn tail and run based on the way he’s eyeing your door. 

“I’m ready, I just…” He stares at his hands, a look of concern that you’re all too familiar with after a year spent working together flashes across his face. “I’m a little worried this is all some kind of prank. That Emily and Derek are gonna jump out and laugh at me for thinking that this was ever really happening.” 

“Emily and Derek aren’t even in the state, Reid.” You reach out, touching his arm, a zap of static electricity makes you flinch before you rest your hand on his forearm. 

“I thought of that too, and then I thought about you going in on Monday and telling everyone everything. I can see it now, Derek will ask you how your weekend was and you’ll give everyone a theatrical retelling of how you tricked poor Spencer into coming over to your house. You got him to spill his guts and then you got him to strip down to his underwear before you kicked him out.” His voice sounds so small when he says it.

“You really think I would do that to you?” You didn’t know it was possible for you to feel bad for the boy genius but right now you do. You’ve seen him as Hotch’s spoiled prodigy for a long time but right now he’s… vulnerable.  

He scoffs.

“You know, when I was in high school, there was a girl I liked. She asked me to meet her at the football field, she wasn’t like the other kids, she was nice to me, and I liked her, and she was the prettiest girl in school, how could I turn that down?” You’ve heard lots of Spencer’s stories, directly from him, in passing, or from the rest of the team, but you’ve never heard this one. “I couldn’t believe she was actually there when I got there. I was even more surprised that the entire football team was there.” He doesn’t look at you, instead he looks straight past your head to the wall behind you. “They stripped me down and tied me to the goal post. I begged them to stop and not one of them listened to me, no one helped me. Even after everyone left, no one ever felt bad and came back for me, I had to get out myself.”

His gaze is unfocused as you give him a look that could only be described as pity. 

“I thought you graduated high school when you were twelve?” You whisper, it’s the first time you’ve ever wanted him to correct you, instead he gives you a sad smile.

“Youngest in my class.”

You feel a fondness for him that you haven’t previously. Here, in the dim light of your room, dressed in normal clothes, picking at his nails, he becomes someone different from the man you see in the office everyday. That man quite literally knows everything, the man in your bed right now knows nothing. 

“Come here.” You lean forward, pulling him close so he’s kneeling on top of you.

“Are you gonna make me beg for it?” You know without a shadow of a doubt that he would if you wanted him to. 

“Not this time.” You tangle your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Let me know if you want to stop.” You murmur as you pull him closer.

“If I ask you to stop, something has gone seriously wrong.”

Much to your surprise he’s the one to close the distance between you, there isn’t any indecisiveness in his actions now as his lips press into yours. Warm and soft, and tasting like coffee with too much sugar. 

And for the first time in months you get butterflies, low in your stomach, in a place that you thought might be broken inside you. You feel a fluttering as his hands hold your hips with a tightness that tells you he’s worried you might disappear. 

You’d convinced yourself you might not ever feel like that again.

Thank god Spencer Reid loves to prove you wrong.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a/n : i plan on doing things to spencer reid in the next chapter that he has never even heard of. anyways, sorry for teasing y'all for one more chapter before they doink lol

i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for fic updates!!

You have a P.O. box for fan mail, but these letters came straight to your house, no return address or stamp. Ramblings of a stranger, someone who has read every one of your books, who seems lustfully inspired by your fantasies spilled onto the professionally published pages.

“It may sound silly, but the way you pour your heart out on these pages makes me feel like I know you. I can feel your desperation, sense how badly you want to be loved. And I can give that to you.”

 You’re not surprised when the local police do nothing. No one’s harmed you, physically, but you’re on edge all of the time now. You’re triple-checking locks, looking over your shoulder. You’ve made your Instagram private, but with your thousands of followers, there’s no telling if you’ve shut out the culprit or not.

And then, David Rossi comes to town.

His books are published by a friend of your agent, and the two of you end up at the same dinner. He’s talking about his job with the BAU, the horrors he sees.

“Do you ever deal with…stalking?” you dare to ask, gripping your glass of champagne like a lifeline.

“Occasionally,” David replies. He’s a profiler, and you can feel the way his eyes observe your every move, can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. “Why?”

The conversation among the rest of the table has moved on. Only Aleena knows what’s been going on with you, and you wonder if she invited you here on purpose, so you could speak with him. By the way she’s excitedly flashing her engagement ring to keep the attention on herself, you figure that’s exactly why you’re sitting at this table, in an uncomfortable outfit, eating overpriced food with strangers.

“I’ve been receiving letters,” you manage to spit out. “Creepy, disgusting letters from some man that has read my books. He sent flowers once, too. Last night, I found a cake. My book just became a New York Times best-seller. He said it was to celebrate.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Let me guess: Local police told you they can’t do a thing until he escalates.

You nod, feeling your throat get tight. You refuse to cry here in this fancy establishment, in front of a man you hardly know.

David pulls a business card out from his wallet and slides it over to you. “I can’t make any promises, but give me a call tomorrow. I’ll see if my team can take a look.”

Social skills have never been your strong suit, but you don’t care if it makes you look weird when you throw an arm around his shoulders and give him a brief hug. If it bothers him, he doesn’t show it.

/

Your conversation with Rossi gives you a glimmer of hope. The letters started coming two months ago, and you’ve been on edge ever since. The money from your books is technically enough for you to relocate, but you’re worried that won’t stop it. You can hardly sleep, and you’re completely unable to work on the draft for your next release.

After scanning all the letters and emailing them over to the team liaison, Jennifer Jaraeu, you sit and wait restlessly to hear back.

Rossi calls you an hour later: The team is in, and they rest of them will fly out tomorrow.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Then, your doorbell rings. The sound makes you jump, heart racing. You aren’t expecting any deliveries, and the idea that it’s him…Your fingers hover over your phone screen, ready to dial 911 if needed as you creep towards the front door.

You peer through the peephole to see a coffee cup from a local café sitting there, with a note taped to the top: “Your usual” with a winky face.

And the hope flickers once again.

/

The coffee cup you left to rot outside is now being placed in an evidence bag by a local cop.

Rossi, and two other agents who were introduced to you as SSA Emily Prentiss and Dr. Spencer Reid are standing in your living room.

You feel suddenly self-conscious of your space, the brightly-colored knick-knacks and shelves and shelves of books—some classics, some non-fiction, but an over-whelming amount of them are romance. Romance as a genre is so often ridiculed, and so you rarely share your enjoyment of it, let alone your career with people you aren’t close to.

You tell all the details, everything you can remember since this started.

“So these quotes in the letters, they’re from your books?” Emily asks.

Feeling shy, you nod. “They’re full of references to them, too.”

“How do you mean?” Spencer asks.

Your face burns. “Well, I write…what people refer to as dark romance books. The plots usually revolve around… toxic relationships. The things he says about being obsessed with me, wanting to protect me, to own me…It’s rhetoric I use in my writing.”

“So, the unsub has definitely read all your books. That’s interesting, because men usually only make up about 15% of romance readers, and even then, it’s more likely for those men to be gay and reading about queer relationships rather than heterosexual ones,” Spencer rattles off. “Sometimes, stalkers become obsessed with the work of an artist, which leads to an obsession with the artist themselves—I wonder if the opposite may have happened here.”

“Like, he was already stalking me, and found out what I do for a living?” you ask.

 “He read your books to feel close to you,” Emily states. “You’re writing these books that center on love, and sex”—You squirm uncomfortably under her gaze—“so he thinks that the men in your books are the type of man you want.”

“It’s not,” you find yourself needing to say.

“We understand that, and we’re not trying to judge you,” David says. “We don’t mean to imply that you brought this on yourself. Stalkers, they become obsessed with the smallest, simplest things. Maybe he took your order at a restaurant, and when you tipped him well, he interpreted it as flirting. Or you held the door open for him at the store. It wasn’t your fault.”

And so, the investigation officially began.

With a list of all your known acquaintances, the spots you frequent, and the list of all your social media followers, the team set to work combing through your life.

And, to your horror, your books.

Dr. Spencer Reid could apparently read at a superhuman speed, and had not only been tasked with staying with you in your home for protection, but with reading your books to help “understand the unsub’s psyche”.

It was impossible to concentrate with him around, feeling so vulnerable and exposed: A stranger in your house, combing through your sexually-charged writings—a very attractive stranger to top it all off. The writer in you couldn’t resist the thought spirals: A hot detective, protecting the innocent victim, alone in her home. She puts on her tiniest nightgown before telling him she’d feel so much safer if he watched over her while she slept. He knows it’s wrong, but he can hardly help himself as he crawls into the bed beside her, and his fingers find their way inside her…

Although his presence was meant to reassure you, it only made you feel more on edge.

He had already finished your first novel, Demonology, about a woman who sells her soul to find true love—only to fall in love with the demon she made the deal with. In that one, the demon, Dante, is who Hazel loses her virginity to, and with a raspy laugh, he declares that she’s let a demon steal her purity, like the filthy slut she is.

Now, he’s halfway through The Stranger, about a camgirl whose new boyfriend is suspiciously similar to her number one fan. That’s the one where the male main character, Ravi, fucks Willow on a livestream, telling her to show all her fans who really owns her.

God, this poor FBI agent must think you’re a fucking pervert.

You find yourself tiptoeing around him as you make yourself dinner, wearing baggy clothes and avoiding eye contact. You try to write, but the only characterization you can come up with for a new love interest is a geeky, long-haired law enforcement agent, and so you shut your laptop in frustration.

You overhear Spencer take a phone call.

“What is it? Okay. Yeah, I’ll ask her. I’ll call you back. Bye.”

You peek your head out of the kitchen to where he’s sitting.

“Our technical analyst went through all of the accounts that follow you on various social media platforms, and there’s one account that stuck out to her—It’s a private account with no profile picture. The username is sir.drsle. Those letters, those are the first letters of the names of all the male love interests in your books, right?”

“Yeah, it is. That username rings a bell…”

“He’s commented on almost every post you’ve made on Instagram in the past few months. They’re innocent enough comments. When you posted about your latest books’ release, he commented ‘Can’t wait!’ and you replied with a heart emoji. That was the day before you received the first letter.”

A shiver went up your spine. “Can you track it?”

“My team is on it.”

“Thank you,” you said.

Spencer gave you an awkward smile.

“I mean, if you guys are getting close, I guess that means you don’t have to sit through any more of my writing,” you joked, trying to ease the tension.

He furrowed his brow. “I was actually planning to finish, just to make sure our profile is thorough. The account could be a dead end; it’s just the first lead we’ve gotten.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not to say you shouldn’t have hope, I just mean—Sorry, this is why the team doesn’t usually leave me to do the socializing,” he said, flushing pink.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not great with people, either.”

“That’s interesting. The way you write…You’re very perceptive. I mean, your characters are incredibly fleshed out.”

“Really?” you asked. “I mean, thank you, I guess…I didn’t think you were paying that much attention.”

“I have a eidetic memory. Once I read something, I don’t really forget it. Even if I were just skimming, I’d still have processed the majority of the information,” he explained.

“Well, I’m still sorry that you have to read it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s…well…”

“I’ve read decades worth of sexual fantasies from deranged serial killers. This is tame to me,” he interrupts you with a little smile.

You smile back.

By the time you go to bed, Spencer’s started your third book, The Pact, about a girl named Clementine who gets married off to a mob boss to repay her father’s debt. You set up the couch for him to sleep, but when you go back downstairs in the morning, it doesn’t seem like he’s rested at all. He’s nursing a mug of coffee, and is now nearly finished with book number four, Blood Hungry, about a vampire named Lucien and the hunter who falls in love with him, Gemma.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

Spencer shrugs. “Most of the team don’t sleep much during an active case. Time is precious in our line of work.”

“I could make you breakfast, if you want.”

“That’s okay, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Well, you already helped yourself to my coffee machine,” you tease.

Spencer looks like there’s an apology ready on his lips before he catches onto the fact that you’re joking. He nibbles at the end of the toast you made him as he begins your latest book, the one that seemingly started this all.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after his plate is cleared.

“Go ahead.”

“What is it about…these topics that seem to draw you in? Or, I suppose, the people that read it? I really don’t mean to judge, but as someone who works in the criminal field, I understand the psychology of why women fall for toxic men—daddy issues, thinking they can fix him—all those tropes. But you don’t play into those. Your female characters are usually just as toxic as the men. Take Clementine, for example: She knows that her husband is involved in organized crime, but she doesn’t ever try to talk him out of it or bring him into the light. She loses herself in his world to prove to him that’s intelligent and indispensable to him, and…”

He notices the amused curl of your lips and stops rambling. “Sorry. Uh, I guess my question still stands, though.”

“I think, for me at least…When you grow up as the girl that nobody seems to notice, when you don’t stand out in a crowd, you don’t get asked out…You develop this fantasy about how it feels to be wanted. And there’s something alluring about the idea of a guy who is willing to break social norms for you, to break laws to be with you. When most guys don’t offer you a second glance, you start to crave the other end of the spectrum: obsession. And obviously, I know it isn’t healthy—I wouldn’t want a relationship like any of the ones in these things I write. But there’s something enticing about the taboo of it all.”

Spencer nods. “I think I understand what you mean.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? I’m sure women give you their phone number wherever you go.”

He flushes. “Definitely not.”

There’s a thick, awkward silence that lingers for a second, before Spencer’s phone rings.

He steps out of the kitchen to take it, and although you want to follow, you wait. You can hear his muffled voice through the wall, but can’t make out any words.

He comes back a few moments later and asks, “Our analyst, Penelope, was able to track the account—Does the name Justin Carpenter mean anything to you?”

You let out a small gasp. “Justin? Yeah, we used to work together. Just after my first book got published, I was working at a grocery store a few towns over. I cut my hours since I was getting some money from my contract, and they hired Justin to fill my spot—I trained him a little bit.”

“Was there anything about him back then that gave you a bad vibe?”

You frowned. “A lot of the people that worked there weren’t very nice to him. He didn’t have very good hygiene, and he wasn’t a fast learner. I felt bad for him, I thought he was clearly struggling and I…I tried to be as friendly to him as I could. He was a little shy around women in general, but I didn’t take it as a red flag.”

“Did you ever exchange phone numbers, hang out outside of work? Did he know about your book?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, he might have overheard a conversation between me and a friend of mine who worked there, about the book, but I definitely never hung out with him or gave him my personal details.”

“Okay, well if he has tried to leave you a note in the past day or so, he would have likely noticed the police presence and been scared off. Right now, all our evidence is circumstantial—I hate to say this, but now all we can do is wait.”

“For what?”