blair.

The apartment looked nothing like it had in the photographs.

Not because the listing had been dishonest. If anything, it was almost exactly as advertised. The windows were just as large, the hardwood floors carried the same warm honey tone, and the kitchen still had the slightly dated cupboards you'd promised yourself you would learn to like. The photographs simply hadn't accounted for what it looked like when every available inch of floor space was occupied by cardboard boxes, half rolled rugs, and furniture that had been placed wherever the movers happened to set it down before leaving.

It was difficult to imagine calling it home.

For the moment, it was simply somewhere to stand.

You set another box on the kitchen counter with a sigh, flexing your fingers as feeling slowly returned to them. You had underestimated just how many books you owned. Somewhere between packing the seventh box labelled Books and sealing the tenth, you'd briefly considered donating half of them, but every time you picked one up, you found a reason to keep it.

Some had been gifts.

Some carried notes scribbled in the margins.

Some had travelled with you through three different cities and felt more permanent than any address you'd ever had.

Now they occupied nearly half the living room.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Made it in okay? your friend, Amira had texted nearly an hour ago.

You glanced around the apartment before replying.

Technically.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Disaster already?

You looked towards the leaning tower of boxes threatening to collapse beside the sofa.

Nothing's on fire..

Yet.

You laughed quietly to yourself before slipping the phone back into your pocket.

Outside, Washington moved with its usual afternoon rhythm. The distant hum of traffic drifted through the open window, accompanied by the occasional wail of a siren somewhere further downtown. It was familiar enough to be comforting without becoming intrusive. You had spent enough time in cities to know there was something reassuring about hearing life continue outside your own four walls.

Even so, the apartment felt strangely silent.

Not lonely, just... unfamiliar.

Every new place carried that feeling at first. As though the walls hadn't quite accepted you yet.

You wandered back towards the front door, stepping carefully between unopened boxes until you found the one marked Bathroom. You frowned.

You could have sworn you'd left it in the bedroom.

Then again, after six hours of lifting furniture, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs, and apologising profusely every time the movers asked where something belonged only for you to change your mind halfway through, you couldn't have confidently told someone your own birthday.

You crouched beside the box, tugging at the tape with your fingernail until it peeled away.

A knock echoed somewhere in the hallway.

Not your door.

Another followed, accompanied by the muffled sound of voices.

Neighbours, you assumed.

You hadn't met any of them yet.

The building seemed quiet enough. Older than the sleek apartment complexes springing up across the city, but well maintained. The landlord had proudly informed you that most of the tenants had lived there for years.

That had seemed like a good sign.

People generally didn't stay somewhere they hated.

You stood again, stretching the ache from your shoulders before deciding fresh air might do you some good.

The hallway was cool compared to your apartment, the air carrying the faint scent of fresh paint mixed with polished wood. Someone had recently replaced the lighting fixtures, and they cast a soft glow along the cream coloured walls.

You leaned against your doorframe for a moment, taking everything in.

Across the hall sat another apartment, identical to yours except for the dark green wreath hanging neatly from the centre of the door. It wasn't seasonal or decorative in any obvious way. Just simple eucalyptus leaves woven into a circle.

You wondered vaguely who lived there.

As if summoned by the thought, the lock clicked.

The door opened.

The man who stepped into the hallway looked as though he'd been halfway through leaving already.

A worn leather satchel rested against one shoulder, its strap cutting diagonally across a navy sweater that had clearly been chosen for comfort rather than fashion. In one hand, he carried a thick hardcover book, his thumb tucked effortlessly between the pages to hold his place. His hair curled in every direction with the sort of stubbornness that suggested it had ignored every attempt to tame it that morning.

He closed the apartment door behind him, locking it almost absentmindedly while reading something on the page he'd left open.

Then he looked back.

For the smallest fraction of a second, surprise crossed his face.

Not because you were standing there.

Because you hadn't been yesterday.

It disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

His gaze moved briefly past you into the apartment behind, taking in the stacks of boxes visible through the open doorway.

You had the distinct impression he wasn't being nosy.

He was simply observant.

There was a difference.

Neither of you spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable, there just wasn't anything to say, so you offered the polite smile people exchanged with strangers in lifts and supermarket queues.

He returned it with a small nod.

Not distant.

Just reserved.

As he started down the hallway, one of the boxes beside your door shifted.

You caught the movement too late.

The cardboard gave way with a soft tear, and before you could react, half a dozen hardbacks slipped through the opening and scattered across the floor.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment.

"Of course."

One book slid neatly across the polished floor before coming to a stop against someone's shoe.

You looked up.

He bent without hesitation, picking up the novel by its spine before brushing an invisible speck of dust from the cover with his thumb. His eyes lingered on the title for barely a second.

"You like Steinbeck?" he asked.

His voice was softer than you'd expected.

Measured.

You blinked.

"I do."

He nodded once, as though the answer confirmed something he'd already suspected, before handing the book back.

"I haven't met many people who start unpacking their fiction before their kitchen."

You looked between the novel in your hands and the sea of boxes surrounding your doorway.

"I have priorities." You smile proudly at the book collection.

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted.

It wasn't a smile so much as the suggestion of one.

The first week in the apartment was less exciting than you had imagined it would be.

Not in a bad way. In fact, you preferred it that way. After the stress of moving, the uncertainty of leaving somewhere familiar behind, and the endless decisions that came with starting over, there was something comforting about ordinary days.

Most evenings were spent surrounded by half unpacked boxes and the quiet feeling that you had made a good decision, even if you had not completely settled into it yet.

The apartment still did not feel entirely like yours. It had your furniture, your books, your things scattered around the rooms, but there was a difference between occupying a space and belonging to it. You knew that would come with time.

For now, you were still learning.

You were learning which floorboard near the bedroom door creaked when you stepped on it. You were learning that the kitchen window let in just enough morning sunlight to make coffee there feel like a better idea than drinking it at the table. You were learning that the heating took longer than expected to warm up and that the shower needed a few extra seconds before the water became hot.

Small things.

The kind of things you only noticed when a place started becoming familiar.

You had met a few people in passing, though you would not have called them neighbours you knew yet. There had been polite smiles in the hallway, a brief conversation with someone holding the lift open for you, and a friendly greeting from the woman who lived downstairs when you both happened to arrive at the building entrance at the same time.

Everyone seemed nice.

Just not familiar.

That would come later.

For now, most of your attention was focused on work, unpacking, and trying to remember where you had put things. You had already accepted that some boxes were going to remain untouched for longer than planned. The ones labelled with vague descriptions like random stuff and important things were particularly unhelpful, mostly because you had no idea what version of yourself had thought those labels were useful.

The man across the hall was still the only person in the building you recognised properly.

You had seen him a handful of times since moving in.

Never for very long.

He seemed to have a routine, although you knew better than to assume you understood it after only a few days. He left early most mornings, usually carrying the same dark satchel over one shoulder, and he returned in the evenings when you'd usually take your nigh walk, with the same thoughtful expression he seemed to wear constantly.

Some nights he doesn't come home.

You had noticed that he always looked like he was halfway through solving a problem.

Even when he was simply unlocking his door.

It was difficult not to be curious.

The only thing you really knew about him was that he worked for the government, overhearing it from his conversation with Lucy, who lived on the floor below.

You had considered asking , but it felt strange to question someone you barely knew. Besides, he did not seem like someone who offered information simply because there was silence to fill.

He was polite.

That was enough for now.

On Thursday morning, you left your apartment slightly later than planned.

You had underestimated how long it would take to find your keys, despite having placed them in what you believed was a logical location the night before. Unfortunately, the logical location turned out to be inside the pocket of yesterday's coat.

By the time you locked your door, you were already checking the time on your phone.

The hallway was quiet.

You had just started walking towards the lift when the door opposite yours opened.

He stepped out, adjusting the strap of his satchel as he closed his apartment door behind him. He looked almost exactly as he had every other morning when you pass by him. Neatly dressed, slightly distracted, and carrying the expression of someone whose thoughts were already somewhere else.

When he noticed you, he gave a small nod.

"Morning."

"Morning."

The lift button was already lit, meaning someone else had called it from another floor. You stood beside him, waiting.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

It was not uncomfortable. You were both strangers, after all. There was no expectation that you should suddenly have a conversation just because you happened to leave at the same time.

Then he glanced towards the cardboard box still sitting outside your apartment door that you trusted to keep out until you sorted out the books already laying around your apartment.

"You still have books to unpack."

You looked over.

"I do."

He nodded as though he had confirmed something.

"I assumed you would."

You smiled slightly.

"Because I had a lot of them?"

"Because the box was labelled 'books' and it has been there for several days."

There was something about the seriousness of his answer that made you laugh quietly.

"I forgot it was there for a bit."

"I thought that might be the case."

The lift arrived before you could respond, and you both stepped inside.

It was the first time you had shared the small space together without another person around. You noticed that he seemed perfectly comfortable with silence. He did not reach for his phone or pretend to be busy. He simply stood there, hands relaxed at his sides, waiting for the doors to open again.

It was oddly refreshing.

Most people seemed determined to avoid quiet moments.

He seemed perfectly content with them.

The lift reached the lobby, and you stepped out into the entrance of the building together.

The morning air was cooler than you expected, and you pulled your coat closer around yourself.

"Have a good day," you said.

He looked at you for a moment before replying.

"You too."

It was a simple exchange.

Nothing significant.

You still did not know his name.

He still did not know yours.

But as you walked in opposite directions, you found yourself thinking that maybe the first step of knowing someone was not a long conversation or some dramatic introduction.

Maybe it was just becoming familiar enough that their presence stopped feeling unfamiliar.

By the second week, the apartment no longer felt quite as temporary.

You still had a few things left to unpack, but the urgency had disappeared. The boxes no longer felt like obstacles waiting to be conquered, and instead they had become part of the background, easy enough to ignore when there were more important things to do.

You had started leaving your shoes by the door instead of placing them neatly away every time you came home. Your favourite blanket had found a permanent place on the sofa, and the small plant you had nearly forgotten about during the move had finally been placed by the window where it could get some sunlight.

It was a strange thing, how quickly little habits formed.

A few days ago, the apartment had belonged to someone else. It had been clean and empty, a space waiting for a person to arrive. Now there were signs of you everywhere. A mug left beside the sink. A book open on the coffee table. 

A jacket hanging over the back of a chair because you had been too tired to put it away.

It wasn't perfect. But it was yours.

The building was becoming slightly less unfamiliar too.

You still did not know your neighbours well enough to call them friends, but you had started recognising people when you passed them. You knew which faces belonged to which floors, even if you did not know their names. You'd always have a chat in the lift and quiet greetings with whoever you shared a space with.

You had learned that the lift occasionally took longer in the mornings and that the front door needed to be pulled firmly before it locked properly.

Small details.

The kind of things you only noticed after spending enough time somewhere.

The man across the hall remained the one person you saw most often.

Not because you spoke much.

You didn't.

Your interactions were still limited to brief greetings and the occasional polite exchange when you happened to leave at the same time. He was friendly enough, but there was still a certain distance between you. Not an unpleasant one. More the natural space between two people who were still strangers.

When you struggled with the heavy door carrying groceries, he had held it open before you even asked. When you mentioned the lift being slow one morning, he had nodded and mentioned how slow or fast the lift came the next morning.

He paid attention.

That was probably the thing you noticed most about him.

On Tuesday evening, you arrived home later than usual.

It had been a long day, the kind where you were tired enough that even taking your coat off felt like a task. You dropped your keys into the small table by the door as you stepped it and noticed a small envelope resting on the floor outside your apartment.

You picked it up without thinking, but as you take a small glance at the name written across the front, you realised you did not recognise it. Your apartment number was not listed, and after checking the address again, you realised it belonged to the apartment across the hall.

You glanced towards the other door.

For a moment, you considered leaving it outside and mentioning it the next morning if you happened to see him. It was late, and you did not want to disturb someone you barely knew.

Then you noticed the corner of the envelope was slightly bent, and you remembered how frustrating it was when your own things were misplaced.

It would only take a second.

You stepped across the hallway and knocked.

For a few moments, there was no answer.

You were just about to assume he was not home when you heard movement from inside.

The door opened.

He looked slightly different from how you usually saw him.

Not dramatically.

Just more relaxed.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hair was slightly messier than usual, and he wore a pair of glasses that you had not seen before. A book was held loosely in one hand, a finger resting between the pages to keep his place.

For a second, he looked surprised to see you.

Then his expression softened.

"Hi."

"Sorry," you said, holding up the envelope. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything. This was left outside my apartment, but I think it belongs to you."

His eyes moved towards the envelope before looking back at you.

"Oh."

There was a brief pause as he seemed to process what had happened.

"You're not interrupting anything."

The answer came quickly, almost as though he wanted to reassure you before you had the chance to apologise again.

You handed it over.

"It was just sitting outside my door. I figured it had probably been delivered to the wrong place."

He looked down at the label, checking the address.

"That happens sometimes."

"Does it?"

"Occasionally. The delivery system for this building is not always consistent."

You smiled slightly.

"That sounds like a very polite way of saying the mail gets lost."

A small expression of amusement crossed his face.

"I was trying to be fair."

"To the delivery system?"

"Yes."

You laughed quietly.

"I don't think it needs defending."

He looked down at the envelope again, turning it over in his hand.

"I should probably update the delivery instructions."

"You probably should."

"I thought I already had."

There was something about the mild frustration in his voice that made you smile.

"Maybe it just hasn't caught up yet."

"That is possible."

He said it so seriously that you almost laughed again.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there.

Not awkwardly.

It was simply the first time you had actually had a conversation that lasted longer than a few seconds.

Before now, he had only ever been the person across the hall. Someone you recognised, someone you exchanged polite words with, but still someone you knew very little about.

Now you were standing in his doorway, having a conversation about missing mail.

It was not exactly a dramatic introduction.

But it was a start.

"I appreciate you bringing it over," he said.

"Of course."

You glanced briefly at the book still in his hand.

"I hope I didn't pull you away from reading."

His eyes followed yours.

"I was reading, but I wasn't doing anything urgent."

There was a small honesty to the way he said it that made you smile.

"Still, sorry."

"You don't have to apologise."

There was another quiet pause.

Then you realised something. You mentally hit yourself for not paying attention to the name on his mail.

Despite seeing him almost every day, despite knowing where he lived and what he did for work, you still did not know his name. You didn't read the name on the mail.

"You know, I just realised something."

He looked up.

"I don't actually know your name."

For the first time, he seemed genuinely caught off guard. Not uncomfortable, just surprised. As if he had not considered that two people could share a hallway for almost two weeks and still not properly introduce themselves.

Then he shifted the book slightly in his hand and offered a small, polite smile.

"I'm Spencer."

The name suited him somehow.

You nodded, finally putting a name to the face you had been seeing every morning.

You smiled before introducing yourself.

He repeated your name quietly, as though committing it to memory, giving a small nod when he was satisfied he'd said it correctly.

Something about the way he said it made the moment feel less like a simple introduction and more like the beginning of something neither of you knew yet.

Then he stepped back slightly, realising he was still standing in his doorway.

"Thank you for bringing this over."

You smiled.

"Goodnight, Spencer."

"Goodnight."

The door closed gently behind him.

You stood there for a moment before walking back across the hallway.

It was a very small thing.

Learning a neighbour's name.

But somehow, the hallway felt a little less unfamiliar than it had before.

Sleep refused to come.

You had been lying awake for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling as the numbers on your bedside clock crept further into the early hours of the morning.

2:13.

You closed your eyes again, willing yourself to drift off.

Nothing.

With a quiet sigh, you rolled onto your side and reached for the book resting on your bedside table. You managed half a chapter before realising you had read the same paragraph three times without taking in a single word.

That wasn't going to work either.

The apartment felt unusually still.

During the day, there was always something to distract you. The sound of traffic drifting in through the window. Someone walking through the hallway. Doors opening and closing somewhere else in the building.

Now there was nothing.

Just silence.

You slipped out of bed, pulled on a hoodie over your T shirt and quietly made your way into the kitchen. A glass of water turned into making tea, and making tea turned into standing by the window watching the empty street below.

Washington looked different at night.

The city had not stopped moving completely, but it had slowed down enough to breathe. Cars passed every so often, their headlights sweeping across the road before disappearing around the corner. Somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed briefly before fading away again.

You glanced at the clock on the microwave.

2:31.

You should have been asleep hours ago.

Instead, you found yourself slipping on a pair of trainers and grabbing your keys from the table by the door.

You remembered noticing the rooftop balcony when you first moved in.

At the time, you had barely paid attention. There had been too many boxes, too many things to organise, too many small decisions that needed making before you could even think about exploring the building properly.

But you remembered the view.

You remembered thinking it looked like the kind of place people went when they needed a moment away from everything.

Fresh air couldn't hurt.

The hallway outside was just as quiet as your apartment.

The overhead lights cast a warm glow across the carpet as you made your way towards the stairs. You considered taking the lift, but the building was so still that even the sound of the doors opening felt too loud.

The stairs gave you something to focus on.

When you reached the top floor, you pushed open the door leading to the rooftop balcony.

The cool night air immediately surrounded you.

Washington looked different from up there.

The city had not disappeared, but it felt further away. The noise was softer. The lights seemed less overwhelming. From that height, everything looked calmer, almost as though the world had slowed down.

You stepped further onto the balcony, expecting to be alone.

You weren't.

Someone was already sitting near the railing.

A familiar figure sat with a book open in his hands, his attention focused on the pages in front of him.

You stopped.

For a moment, you considered turning around.

Then he looked up.

Moonlight caught the frame of his glasses.

Recognition crossed his face, followed by a small hint of surprise.

"You couldn't sleep either?"

You let out a quiet laugh.

"Is it that obvious?"

He glanced down at the book in his hands before looking back at you.

"It's two thirty in the morning."

"I suppose that narrows the possibilities." You let out a laugh.

"It does." He smiles at how the is going conversation.

There was a brief silence.

Not awkward.

Just the kind that came naturally when neither of you felt the need to rush into conversation.

He shifted slightly in his chair, glancing towards the empty seat beside him.

There was enough room.

The invitation was there if you wanted it.

You hesitated for only a second before walking over and sitting down beside him.

For a few moments, the two of you simply looked out over the city.

"You couldn't sleep as well?" you asked after a while.

"I rarely do."

The answer was so matter of fact that it almost caught you off guard.

"You say that like it's completely normal."

"It is for me."

There wasn't any self pity in his voice. No frustration. Just acceptance.

You nodded slowly.

"I've never been very good at sleeping in a new place."

He glanced towards you. "Even after nearly three weeks?"

"I've moved around enough to know it usually takes me a while."

He thought about that for a moment. "I suppose unfamiliar environments keep your brain more alert."

"You make it sound scientific."

"It is."

You smiled into your cup.

"I should've known you'd have an explanation."

"I usually do."

You looked at him.

The way he said it wasn't arrogant.

If anything, it sounded faintly apologetic, as though he knew people often mistook confidence in facts for showing off.

"I don't mind," you said quietly.

"What?"

"The explanations."

He frowned slightly. "Most people do."

"Most people aren't me I guess."

For just a second, something in his expression shifted.

It was subtle enough that you almost missed it.

Surprise, perhaps.

Or maybe relief.

He looked back down at the pages of his book, though you noticed he hadn't turned one in several minutes.

"You know," you said, breaking the silence again, "I don't think I've ever met someone who reads as much as you do. Every morning and night I see you, you always have a book in your hand."

That earned the smallest smile.

"I've heard that before."

"I don't think I've ever seen you without a book." You squint your eyes, smiling while your fingers scratching your head.

He lets out a little laugh at your actions before responding, "I don't think you have."

You laughed quietly.

"So it isn't just my imagination."

"No."

He closed the book gently, resting it on top of one knee.

"I usually carry one with me."

"Why?"

He looked out over the city instead of answering immediately.

Then, after a thoughtful pause, he said, "Because eventually I'll have to wait for something."

You frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"A train. An appointment. Coffee. Someone running late." He shrugged lightly. "Most people spend those moments looking at their phones."

"And you read."

"And I read."

You found yourself smiling.

"That actually makes a lot of sense."

"I think so."

Neither of you said anything for a little while.

The silence settled naturally between you, interrupted only by the occasional car passing somewhere further down the street. It was strange how different the city felt at this hour. Washington never truly slept, but it seemed quieter now, as though it had finally given itself permission to slow down.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The tea had already begun to cool, though neither of you seemed particularly concerned with drinking it.

Your eyes drifted back towards the book resting in his hands.

"I have to ask."

He looked up.

"What are you reading?"

He glanced down at the cover, absentmindedly running his thumb along the edge of the page before answering.

"It's Cosmos. Carl Sagan."

The title meant something to you, though you couldn't quite place where you'd heard it before.

"I've heard of it."

He nodded.

"I'm not surprised. It's probably one of the best known science books ever written."

His eyes dropped back to the page for a second, almost as if he were collecting his thoughts.

"The interesting thing about it isn't really the science itself. That's obviously fascinating, but that's not why people still read it decades later."

You stayed quiet.

He continued without noticing.

"It's the way he writes. He manages to explain incredibly complicated ideas without making them feel inaccessible. Most people think simplifying something means leaving parts out, but that's usually not true. It actually takes a much deeper understanding to explain something well."

He paused briefly, looking at you as you hummed at what he had to say, trying to think through his words and perspective.

"I've always thought that's a sign of intelligence."

Another pause.

Then he looked at you and blinked.

"I've been talking for a while."

You smiled into your mug.

"Sorry. I tend to..."

He hesitated, searching for the right word.

"...continue."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"Continue?"

"It seemed like the most accurate description."

"I was going to say ramble."

"I was trying to be optimistic."

That caught you off guard.

Not because the joke was particularly clever.

Because you hadn't expected it.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he realised you'd laughed at something he had to say.

"I don't mind," you admitted.

"Hm?"

"The rambling."

He tilted his head slightly.

"I asked, so I'd rather hear the answer than the short version."

For a second, he simply looked at you.

Not intensely or awkwardly. Just with the faintest trace of surprise, as though he was trying to decide whether you meant it.

"You'd be in a very small minority."

"Really?"

He nodded once.

"Most people ask because it's considered polite, they don't listen or ask out of interest."

"I asked because I was curious."

"I noticed."

There was something about the way he said it that made you smile.

It wasn't flirtatious.

It wasn't loaded with hidden meaning.

It was simply an observation.

He had believed you.

The conversation drifted for a while after that.

Not in any particular direction.

He found himself explaining why he preferred paperbacks over hardbacks because they were easier to carry during long days, which somehow led to a story about buying a first edition for far too much money, before immediately correcting himself by explaining that, statistically speaking, it had actually been a reasonable price considering its condition.

And you listened. You responded, asked more and responded with stories of your own.

You laughed halfway through his explanation.

"What?"

"You've somehow turned buying a book into a mathematical argument."

"It was."

"No, it wasn't."

"It objectively was."

"It absolutely wasn't."

"It involved percentages."

You shook your head.

"I stand corrected."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

It was softer than before.

Less hesitant.

You noticed he laughed differently to most people.

There was never any performance to it.

No loud reaction.

Just a genuine moment that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

"I think," you said after a moment, "you might genuinely be the only person I've met who gets excited talking about the condition of old books."

He looked down at the worn cover in his hands.

"I just think books are... important."

The sentence came more quietly than the others.

"They outlive people."

You looked at him.

He wasn't looking back.

"They're one of the few ways someone can leave a piece of how they thought behind. You can read something written hundreds of years ago and realise the person who wrote it worried about exactly the same things you do."

He smiled faintly. "I've always liked that." The words hung there for a moment.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly, like he’d said something he hadn’t really meant to think out loud.

You glanced down at the book again, seeing it a little differently now.

"I never really thought about it like that."

"Most people don't." He said it simply, without any edge to it. Just matter of fact, like it was something he’d noticed a long time ago and stopped expecting anyone to disagree with.

You took another sip of your tea before speaking again.

"So... have you always lived here?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"How long?"

"A little over a year."

"So you're practically an expert."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"You found the best coffee place yet?"

"I have." He replied quicker than before.

Your eyebrows lifted. "You answered that very confidently."

"Because I'm right."

"You can't know that."

"I've compared eight."

You stared at him for a second.

"You compared coffee shops?"

"I made notes."

"You made notes."

"They were mostly mental."

"That somehow doesn't help." You laugh.

The corner of his mouth lifted again, just like yours.

"I didn't realise that was unusual."

"I'm starting to think your definition of normal is slightly different from everyone else's."

"I've been told that before."

The words could have sounded sad, instead, they were delivered with quiet acceptance.

As though he'd made peace with it a long time ago.

You looked at him for a moment before smiling. "I don't think it's a bad thing."

He looked over.

"No?" 

"No."

You shrugged lightly. "The world would be pretty boring if everyone thought exactly the same."

He held your gaze for only a second before looking back towards the empty street. "That's true."

The conversation carried on without either of you noticing.

One topic gave way to another so easily that neither of you could have said how you got there. Books became films. Films became music. Music somehow led to childhood memories of long car journeys, then back to books again after he insisted that audiobooks and reading weren't exactly the same experience, despite enjoying both.

You challenged him on that.

"I don't see how they can be that different."

"They activate different cognitive processes."

You smiled.

"I should've known there'd be science behind it."

"There usually is."

"I walked right into that one."

"You did..."

Spencer presses his lips together, looking at you while you're squinting your eyes at him, before you both burst out in laughter.

The longer you sat there, the more you noticed the little things about him that had gone unnoticed before. The way he absentmindedly adjusted the sleeve of his cardigan whenever he was thinking. The way his eyes drifted somewhere distant whenever he was trying to find the right words. The way he looked down for a brief second after making a joke, almost as though he wasn't entirely sure whether he'd actually been funny.

He had.

Every time.

Not because he was trying to be.

Because he wasn't.

"You've been looking at me like that for the last thirty seconds."

Your head snapped up.

"I have not."

"You have."

"Oh?"

He nodded.

"You've looked at my left sleeve four times."

You blinked.

"You counted?"

"I notice patterns for a living."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"Of course you do."

"I wasn't intentionally counting."

"I think that sounds even more concerning."

A faint smile appeared.

"I get that a lot." He frowns looking down.

You couldn't help laughing again at his serious tone, making him let a laugh out too.

It surprised you how comfortable it felt.

When you'd first moved in, you'd assumed he was difficult to read. Quiet. Reserved. Maybe even a little intimidating.

Now, sitting beside him in the early hours of the morning, you realised he wasn't difficult to understand at all. People might just misunderstand his intentions behind his words.

He simply paid attention in a way most people didn't.

To details. To habits.

To things others overlooked.

It wasn't intrusive, if anything, it made you feel listened to.

Your conversation drifted again, settling this time on the building itself.

He told you which washing machine in the basement always seemed to finish five minutes later than the timer claimed. Which stairwell door had a habit of sticking whenever it rained. Which apartment had a dog that barked precisely three times whenever the post arrived.

"You've really noticed all of that?"

He looked mildly puzzled.

"I live here."

"I live here too."

"Not for as long."

"Yeah.."

He glanced towards the entrance of the building before looking back at the quiet street.

"I think you start noticing things when you spend enough time in the same place."

You found yourself nodding.

"I've started noticing things too."

"Oh?"

"The woman on the third floor waters her plants every morning at exactly eight."

He smiled slightly. "Eight oh three."

You frowned. "No."

"She leaves her apartment at eight." He spoke with complete certainty. "The watering starts at approximately eight oh three."

You stared at him for a second before laughing. "You timed her Spencer?"

"I didn't, I just observed." His voice goes high at the accusation making you hold back your smile.

The tea had gone cold some time ago, forgotten beside you. His book remained closed in his hands, one finger still tucked between the pages where he'd left off hours earlier.

Your eyes wandered towards the street.

Something looked different.

It took you a moment to realise what it was.

The darkness wasn't quite as deep as it had been. In fact you could barely call it darkness anymore.

The sky above the buildings had begun to soften, the black fading slowly into muted shades of blue.

You frowned slightly.

"Has it... always been that light?"

He looked up.

For the first time all night, he checked his watch.

"Oh."

"What?"

"It's nearly six."

You stared at him.

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

You reached for your phone.

Sure enough.

5:53 a.m.

You let out a quiet laugh.

"I swear we only came out here for ten minutes."

"So did I." He sounded almost surprised by it himself.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You both looked towards the horizon as the first hints of sunrise began to creep between the buildings.

The city was waking up.

Delivery vans rumbled quietly along the roads below. A cyclist passed on the opposite side of the street. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once before another answered.

It was peaceful.

"I've never actually watched the sunrise here," you admitted.

"Neither have I."

You looked at him. "Really?"

He nodded. "I would have gone back inside a long time ago."

You smiled.

"I'm glad you didn't tonight."

The words left your mouth before you could think about them.

For a second, you wondered if you'd said too much.

Then he smiled, small, but unmistakable. "So am I."

The simplicity of the answer settled somewhere warm inside you.

After another few quiet minutes, he looked down at the book resting in his hands.

"You should borrow this."

You looked over. "The Sagan book?"

He nodded.

"I think you'd enjoy it."

"you're willing to lend me one of your books?" You look at him observing his expression.

"I am."

"What if I ruin it?"

"I don't think you will."

"You sound very sure."

"I am." He gives boyish smile.

You laughed softly.

"That's surprisingly trusting."

He considered that for a moment.

"Yeah I.. I don't lend books to many people."

Something about that made you hesitate.

"Then are you sure?"

He met your eyes.

"Yes."

There wasn't a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Just quiet confidence.

You smiled, accepting the book as he held it out.

"I'll take good care of it."

"I know."

You stood together, brushing the dust from your clothes as the cool morning air settled around you.

The walk back inside was unhurried.

The hallway looked exactly the same as it always had.

The same cream coloured walls.

The same patterned carpet.

The same two apartment doors facing one another.

And yet, everything felt subtly different.

You stopped outside your own door, the book still tucked carefully beneath your arm.

"Thank you."

He glanced at the book before looking back at you.

"You're welcome."

A brief pause settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just comfortable.

"I'll bring it back."

"Whenever you're finished."

You smiled.

"I'll probably have questions."

"I was hoping you would."

That made you laugh.

"I'll see you around?"

"You will."

With one final smile, you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you looked down at the book in your hands.

It wasn't really about the book.

It was about the fact that somewhere between a sleepless night and an unexpected sunrise, the person living across the hall had stopped feeling like a neighbour.

He had become your friend.

A/N = Hello... I feel ashamed posting after months.. 🙂 But here it finally is! After editing my next fic today, I will post it ASAP!!

Spencer packed like he was preparing for impact.

Everything had a place. Everything had weight. He pressed his palm flat against the inside of the suitcase before zipping it, testing the distribution as if turbulence might rearrange the laws of physics mid-flight.

The bedroom light was too warm. You’d mentioned it before. It cast a honey-colored glow over the walls and made the space feel smaller than it was. He didn’t change it. He rarely changed small discomforts. He endured them.

You stood near the dresser, arms folded loosely, watching him move.

Three days, he’d said earlier. Possibly four.

Possibly.

He adjusted the strap on his satchel and paused, a small motion that betrayed his nerves. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew him well enough to feel the weight of that silence.

“You didn’t tell me it was solo,” you said, low and careful.

He finally looked at you. “It was decided this afternoon.”

Information delivered in fragments. Clean. Efficient. Minimal.

“You’ll be alone with local PD?”

“Yes.”

You nodded, but something tight coiled in your chest.

Cases had been heavier lately. You could see it in him. The way he lingered in the doorway before coming inside. The way he washed his hands longer than necessary. The way he stared at nothing while you spoke, then blinked back into the room.

He hadn’t been cruel. Not distant in any obvious, dramatic way.

Just thinner.

Like parts of him were being rationed.

The quiet stretched.

“Spence,” you said softly.

He looked at you, fully. That guarded layer was there. Not cold. Not unloving. Just protected.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately." you said.

His jaw shifted slightly. “Work has been intense.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when the cases were bad.

“I just,” You hesitated. “I don’t want to feel like I only get what’s left.”

That landed.

He straightened slightly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“I’m not saying it is on purpose,” you whispered.

Silence.

“You think I care more about the job,” he said quietly.

“I think the job takes more from you than you admit,” you said.

He swallowed. His shoulders tightened.

“I don’t know how to do this differently,” he admitted.

Your chest ached.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. “I don’t need you to be different. I just need you to let me see you.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I am letting you see me.”

“Not the hard parts,” you said.

A long pause stretched between you.

“I leave at six,” he said softly. Not leaving yet. Just stating the fact. But not facing the full truth.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he murmured.

You nodded.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

The air between you held the shape of words neither of you spoke.

You went to bed together later, the weight of unspoken things hanging heavy but familiar.

He pulled you close, arm around your shoulders. You fit against him, hand resting lightly on his chest.

You held each other to sleep.

And for now, that was enough.

Tomorrow, at six, he would leave.

But tonight, you were here. Together.

It had been two days since Spencer left. Two days since he stepped out at six in the morning leaving you with a kiss on the forehead and left the apartment feeling impossibly empty.

You sat on the edge of the bed, a stack of his folded sweatshirts in your lap. Each one carried the faint scent of him. Soap, his cologne, the warmth of his body lingering in the fabric. You pressed one to your cheek and closed your eyes, letting memories drift through you like pages in a book.

The night before he left, the quiet weight of the apartment had been different. You remembered the way he’d kissed your temple softly, how he’d murmured he’d call when he landed.

You remembered holding him to sleep afterward, the familiar press of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing against your hand.

And then he left.

You tried not to think about him. Tried to keep busy. But every folded sweatshirt pulled you back to him. One was soft, stretched slightly at the sleeves from where he tugged at it when he was thinking. Another smelled faintly of his shampoo from the shower.

You pressed them to your face, smiling despite yourself, thinking of quiet mornings, shared coffees, his careful explanations of obscure statistics, the way he’d brush hair out of his eyes when he was nervous.

You sighed.

You couldn’t wait for him to call. There were days you weren't able to contact him during cases, you knew that. But you couldn’t let this drift. Not when your chest ached for him, not when your mind rewound every word you’d left unsaid.

You stood, stretching, sweatshirts still in your hands.

“I’m going to call him,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “I’m going to fix this. I have to. Because I love him too much to wait.”

You dialed. Your fingers shook slightly as the line rang.

The sound of his voice when he answered made your heart stutter.

“Hey.” he said, quiet, tired.

“Hi.” you breathed.

“Are you okay?”

You smiled, a little sad, a little relieved. “I’m better now. I missed you.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then his voice, soft, careful, like he was trying to measure every word so he wouldn’t break. “I missed you too. I’ve been thinking about you so much.”

You sank back onto the bed, holding the phone close. The world had fallen away. It was just you and him.

“I’ve been thinking too.." you said, voice low. “I don’t want us to drift like that again. Especially not before your cases.”

“I don’t either. I hate leaving you with bad thoughts about us,” he murmured. There was a faint smile in his voice you could hear, a warmth that made your chest ache and lighten all at once.

You laughed softly, relieved, your hand pressed to your chest. “I love you, Spencer.”

“I love you too,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

And for the first time since he’d left, the knot of worry in your stomach loosened, just slightly. You could picture him on the other end of the line, sitting somewhere alone, probably holding his own hand over his heart, thinking of you too.

The call was spent softly and carefully, laughing over tiny jokes, reminding each other of moments only the two of you shared, and it mattered more than anything.

By the time you hung up, the apartment felt fuller again, alive with his presence even though he was miles away.

And you were still worried. How could you not? But you felt closer than you had in days. You felt ready to fight for this, for him, for the quiet love that held you both together even when the world tried to pull you apart.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The absence of Spencer made every sound sharper. The hum of the fridge, the creak of the floor, even the shadows felt heavier.

You moved through the room lightly, almost embarrassed at how much hearing his voice had lifted you. Even over the phone, it lingered in your chest. His soft tone. The careful cadence. That faint laugh you could still hear in your head.

You replayed it while brushing your teeth. The tilt of his head. His fingers fidgeting. You smiled, fragile but real. Relief that was temporary, but enough.

Back in bed, for the first time in two days, you slept without waking every hour. Without counting minutes. Without imagining him alone. You felt comforted.

Then the phone rang at 2am.

It wasn’t him.

Your heart stopped.

“Hello?”

“Is this…?”

It was Agent Jareau.

She never called you directly. Not at this hour.

Your stomach dropped.

“There’s been an incident,” she said carefully.

Your chest tightened.

“What kind of incident?” you asked.

“An explosion at the site they were investigating,” she explained.

While you slept. While you dreamed. While you were thinking of him.

“He’s missing."

A/N = sorry for no posts...

You were on the couch.

Bonnet on.

Face mask fully applied; green, thick, unmistakably alarming.

Wrapped in his oversized hoodie and a fluffy robe like you were preparing to hibernate.

A candle flickered on the coffee table beside a mug that smelled faintly like chamomile.

Silence.

You looked up slowly.

Your eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, immediately slapping both hands over your face. “No. Nope. You were not supposed to see this. Spence, please pretend I’m not here.”

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…Is that.." he said carefully, "A bentonite clay mask? Or charcoal?”

You made a muffled noise through your hands that might’ve been a scream. “Why are you like this.”

“I’m just asking,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, voice gentle but curious. “Charcoal is better for oil absorption, but clay masks tend to-"

“Reid.”

“Yes?”

“I look like a swamp creature.”

He tilted his head, studying you in that familiar, earnest way that made your chest ache. “I wouldn’t say that. More like… someone engaging in restorative self care rituals.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “You’re not weirded out?”

“Why would I be?” He shrugged out of his coat, setting his satchel down.

“Statistically, people who maintain routines like this report lower stress levels. Also,” his lips twitched "it’s kind of… nice.”

Nice.

Your embarrassment softened into something warmer, quieter.

“You’re allowed to laugh..." you muttered.

“I’m not laughing,” he said immediately. “I mean I admit.. I didn’t expect to come home to… this.” A beat. Softer. “But I like that you feel comfortable enough to do it here.”

You dropped your hands fully now, resigned. “I’ve got ten minutes before I can wash it off. If you make fun of me, I will never recover.”

He glanced at the mask, then at the small timer on your phone. “Actually,” he said, pulling out his watch, “most masks shouldn’t exceed twelve minutes. I can set a timer if you want.”

You stared at him.

Then smiled.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

He sat beside you, careful not to touch the mask, shoulder brushing yours.

And just before the timer went off, he added softly,

“If it makes you feel better, I wouldn't mind.. participating in your self care next time...”

Two weeks later, the bathroom looked like a crime scene of self care.

Two robes, Two face masks; yours a pale pink, Spencer’s a dubious grey that made him look like he’d lost a fight with wet cement.

Lotions, creams, a diffuser humming softly on the counter.

Spencer stared at his reflection, blinking slowly. “I look… unsettling.”

You glanced at him from where you were rubbing lotion into your arms. “You look relaxed. And slightly haunted.”

He exhaled. “That tracks.”

You shuffled closer, bumping his hip with yours. “Okay, lotion step. Don’t rush it. You have to warm it up first.”

“I know,” he said defensively, rubbing his hands together a little too fast. “Friction increases-"

“-blood flow, yes, I know,” you laughed. “But gentle, Spencer. You’re not polishing a table.”

He tried again, slower this time, carefully smoothing lotion over his arms with intense concentration. You watched him for a second, smiling.

“You’re taking this very seriously huh?"

“Well." he said, earnest even through the mask "if we’re doing it together, I want to do it correctly.”

Your heart did a small, stupid flip.

Once you were both sufficiently moisturized, you reached for the spray bottle and curl cream. “Okay. Hair time.”

His eyes widened. “Hair time?”

“Yep. You said you wanted to see why I take so long.”

“I didn’t realize it involved… techniques.”

You guided him to sit on the edge of the tub while you stood between his knees, gently misting his hair. “You have natural waves. You just don’t treat it right.”

“That’s… not the first time I’ve heard that..." he murmured.

You raked curl cream through his damp hair, scrunching gently. He flinched at first, then visibly relaxed as you moved onto the mousse.

“This feels… nice..." he admitted, his hands pulling you closer by your waist.

“See?” you said softly. “No brushing. No aggressive towel drying. We diffuse, we scrunch, we let it live.”

He tilted his head as you worked, face mask cracking slightly when he smiled. “You’re very… confident about this.”

“I’ve suffered enough trial and error for the both of us.”

When you finally stepped back, you both caught sight of yourselves in the mirror with matching robes, matching masks, his curls starting to form, your bonnet already on.

There was a pause.

Then Spencer said, very quietly,

“If anyone at work could see us right now…”

“They’d never believe it." you replied.

He huffed out a laugh, reaching for your hand. “Good.”

You leaned into him, foreheads touching carefully so the masks didn’t smear.

Domestic. Ridiculous. Perfect.

“Okay,” you said, peering at his hair like a scientist examining a rare specimen. “Now we diffuse.”

Spencer stiffened. “The… machine?”

“The gentle airflow device,” you corrected solemnly, lifting the diffuser. “Very important. Very serious.”

He watched you attach it to the hair dryer with suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You turned it on low heat because you were both very intentional people and began hovering it near his curls, scrunching softly. The noise filled the bathroom, but Spencer’s grin was unmistakable even under the mask.

“This feels like being petted,” he said once you turned it off.

You gasped. “I was going to say pampered.”

“I don’t object to either.”

You laughed, full and unfiltered, nearly dropping the dryer. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet" he said, standing and gently tugging you closer by the sleeve of your robe, “you’re still doing my hair.”

“Because you’re compliant.”

“Because I trust you.”

That did it. You felt your cheeks warm as you reached up to adjust a curl that had flopped dramatically over his forehead. He watched you with that soft, open look that made everything feel smaller and safer.

“Do I look different?” he asked.

You tilted your head. “You look… cozy.”

He smiled. “I feel cozy.”

You both caught sight of yourselves in the mirror again, and this time you couldn’t help it, you snorted.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We look like we’re about to host the world’s calmest podcast.”

“Or join a very specific cult,” Spencer added thoughtfully.

You doubled over laughing. “Stop-my mask is cracking!”

He reached out instinctively, thumbs hovering near your cheeks. “Don’t move. If it dries unevenly-"

“It’s fine!” you giggled, swatting his hands away gently. “It’s just a mask.”

He paused. “Can I-"He gestured vaguely. “Boop?”

“…Boop?”

He nodded seriously. “Just once.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “Okay. One boop.”

He tapped your nose carefully, mask and all, then immediately flushed. “That was… better than expected.” You adore his fascination by the masks.

You laughed again, leaning into his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you, robe sleeves bunching awkwardly, face mask cool against your temple.

You stayed like that for a moment, swaying slightly, giggles fading into soft breaths.

Then the timer on your phone went off.

You both groaned in unison.

“Mask removal already?” Spencer sighed. “We were in a good phase.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Next time, we add under eye patches.”

His eyes lit up. “There are patches?”

You grinned. “Oh, Spencer. You have no idea.”

By the time you both crawled into bed, the apartment felt quieter somehow. Calmer. Like the world had finally agreed to leave you alone.

Spencer lay on his back, hair mostly dried now, curls doing exactly what you promised they would. You turned onto your side to look at him, chin propped on your hand, smiling without even realising it.

He caught you.

“…What?” he asked, already smiling back.

“You." you said simply. “Your hair worked.”

He lifted a hand, touching a curl cautiously, like it might disappear if he acknowledged it. “It’s… softer than usual.”

“Told you.”

A beat passed. Then another. The kind that felt warm instead of awkward.

You scooted closer, tucking yourself into his side, your head resting against his shoulder. He adjusted immediately, arm curling around you like it had always known where to go.

“This was a good night right?" he said quietly.

“Yeah," you agreed. “A really good one.”

He tilted his head so his temple rested against yours, noses brushing just slightly. You both smiled again, small, sleepy smiles that didn’t need words.

“You make things feel…” He paused, searching. “Normal. In a good way.”

Your chest softened. “You make things feel safe.”

His thumb traced absent little circles on your arm, slow and gentle. “We should do this again.”

"The masks or the cuddling?”

“Hm? Don't we cuddle every night already?” he questioned, a little shy.

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I suppose you're right.”

The room dimmed as he reached over to turn off the lamp, but even in the dark you could feel his smile when he pulled you closer, your legs tangling naturally.

No rush. No noise.

Just the steady rhythm of breathing and the quiet certainty of being exactly where you were meant to be.

And before sleep took you both, Spencer murmured, barely above a whisper,

“Goodnight.”

You smiled into his chest.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

A/N = Thank you for the request, it's so adorable I can imagine Spencer being such a caring boyfriend. 🥹