everything eats and is eaten

Late-Night Genius ❀ During a late night in the BAU, reader finds Spencer hunched over his desk muttering to himself about the deranged killer on the loose, and decides that in the midst of all this carnage, he needs someone to look after him, too.

Germaphobe, Too ❀❆♥ You hate germs more than anything else in the world, and Spencer is so very much in love with you, so he's always trying to help you in any way he can — little does he know, that maybe you're feelings about the situation are a little bit different.

How To Never Stop Being Sad ❆ After the death of your parents, you have nobody to talk to, nobody to turn to for help. Spencer wants to help, but how can he when you don't want him to?

Soft as a Feather ❀ You and Spencer have decided to keep your relationship private, but when he comes into work with a lipstick mark on his neck, everybody's asking questions he doesn't know how to answer... at least, that's until you come in and leave a strangely familiar kiss mark on his cheek.

A Little Timid ❀ You bring Spencer something for dinner during a particularly stressful case. One thing, though—nobody else knows you exist.

Advent Calendar ❀ You've always been the kind of teacher who goes out of her way to make sure her students have a good time, so it's no surprise to Spencer when he finds you awake in the middle of the night making little advent calendars for your kindergarteners.

Bloody ❀ Doctor Spencer Reid is married to a vampire.

Kiss It Better ❀ Spencer gets injured on a case. Imagine his team's surprise when they come to see him and find his nurse flirting with him.

It's Okay ❆❀ You and Spencer have to comfort a little girl after she finds her parents dead in her home, and your odd tactics work surprisingly well.

Trivia Night ❀ Garcia should've known it was a bad idea to put you and Spencer on opposing teams at trivia night, and now she's stuck with two very competitive people who will stop at nothing to win.

Big Secret ❀❆ You've tried to hard to keep your daughter a secret from Spencer after her father left, but what happens when this secret finally comes to light?

Out On The Couch ❆❀ You and Spencer have an argument, and in the heat of the moment, he says something pretty hurtful.

On Thin Ice ❆❀ After a particularly grueling case, the weight of your insecurities catches up with you. Despite years of toughening yourself against judgment, an unexpected moment of self-doubt has you questioning everything—until Spencer reminds you of your worth.

Story Time ❀ Spencer comes and reads to your students for storytime.

Think Like This ♥ Spencer can't stop thinking about you.

Now it's like he's speaking an alien language.

Though you wouldn't exactly call yourself stupid, it's often hard to feel smart when he just... knows so much more than you.

"It means the characters aren't miserable because something went wrong," he explains quickly. "They're miserable because being human is complicated and morally ambiguous."

Surely that's easy enough to understand—right? But he's speaking so fast—it goes through one ear and out the other. And there are too many ways that can be taken. People are miserable, because people are bad?

"Right," you say quietly.

"Dostoevsky believed you can't understand grace without understanding despair," he continues, just a fraction slower this time. Maybe he can see the confusion on your face. "...It's very Russian."

"Okay..."

There's a beat of silence, his eyes suspicious and fixed solely on you.

"Are you alright?" he asks finally, voice cutting through the quiet like a hot knife. He leans over, placing his book on the edge of the coffee table without ever looking away from you.

"Yes," you answer quickly—maybe a little too quickly. "What makes you think I wouldn't be alright? We're talking about a book."

"For starters, your voice got higher at the end of the sentence. That usually means you're overcompensating." Stupid profiling. And to make it worse, it sounds like he's dumbing himself down.

Where's the brain analysis? The comments on your micro expressions, how your eyelid twitched or your nostril... did something. What about how your scent changes when you're upset, like a wild animal?

"And you're avoiding eye-contact, which is a dead giveaway."

"Not it's not," you snap back instantly. You glare at him from the corner of your eye, meeting his gaze just to make a point.

Spencer raises a brow, like he already knows you're full of shit but doesn't want to say it. "You avoid eye-contact when you're upset."

Oh—because you just know everything...

"Many people say the eyes are the window to the soul." He continues after a moment, one hand gently tilting your face toward him. "That's because they often reflect our inner thoughts and feelings. So when people are upset, they'll avoid eye-contact so you can't read them."

You frown, trying initially to twist your face away. In any other case, if he knows you don't want him touching you, he'll immediately let go. He's respectful like that. But this time, he holds firm. His other hand comes up to cradle your head, index finger tapping your temple.

"What's going on in there."

The gentle touch is so soothing, so undeniably loving. Your frown deepens, and your eyes become glossy with tears. Really—it seems like a silly thing to cry about, but you can't quite help it.

"Nothing, apparently," you whisper. "Or at least, not enough."

Spencer blinks at you—just once, his eyes uncomprehending. But he's smart, so smart. It doesn't take more than a few seconds for it to click.

"Oh."

His lovely face, already so gentle with understanding and concern, somehow softens further at the realization.

"You think you're not smart enough," he murmurs. His hands remain on your face, anchoring your gaze to his.

All you can do is nod—your throat feels too tight to speak, a single tear tracking down your cheek. His thumb swipes it away, touch so soft.

"You're silly," he whispers. When he's sure you won't turn away, his hands slide from your face to rest on your shoulders. "Of course you're smart enough." "No—"

"Yes," he interrupts. It's strange; he never interrupts you. "There are different kinds of intelligence. Just because I'm an expert in one thing, doesn't mean you're less than."

He's an expert in more than one thing. Actually he's an expert in many things. But neither of you bring that up, because his point still stands.

"For example: you're great at picking up conversation cues," he says softly—though there's an almost playful lilt there. "And you're beyond extraordinary at baking cookies. We both know I suck at that."

It's funny, because he was trying to make sugar cookies. The whitest and simplest cookie there is, and he still somehow burned them to coal.

You can't help but chuckle at the memory, the corners of your mouth pulling up into the faintest smile. "You do..."

He gently strokes your cheek, clearly pleased with himself at having successfully cheered you up. "You see? Cognitive specialization doesn't imply hierarchical superiority."

Even with you laying in bed just a thin wall away, even knowing there's a chance you can hear every little sound he makes, each little whimper of your name that he tries to muffle.

As he sits hunched over in his bed with his hand wrapped tightly around his painfully hard cock, his abdomen already wet and sticky with the multiple loads he's already blown... he's thinking about you.

A string of whines and whimpers falls from his lips, precious little sounds that he doesn't even fully realize he's making.

He's completely spent—his skin dewy with a thin layer of sweat, his breath coming out in sharp pants—but the thought of your gorgeous face has him hardening once again.

Standing there, with his ever-disheveled hair and a stack of children's books in his arms, is Spencer.

He's wearing one of his signature mismatched outfits that always sort of remind you of something an old man would wear—a brown cardigan over a cream colored shirt—and the way his eyes light up when he sees you makes your cheeks flush a little.

"Hi," he says softly, like you're the only two people in the room.

"Hi," you whisper back, before stepping aside to let him in.

The kids immediately erupt into whispers and giggles. Spencer shifts awkwardly under their gaze, but he smiles warmly as I introduce him.

"Everyone, this is Doctor Reid. He's a very smart friend of mine who knows a lot about books, so I thought he'd be the perfect person to read to us today!"

Spencer waves shyly. "Hi, everyone. You can call me Spencer if you want."

Lily raises her hand without hesitation. "Are you Miss Y/N's boyfriend? Are you married? Do you have any babies?"

Spencer's eyes widen, and you feel your face go hot—really, this is something you should have anticipated.

"Lily!" you laugh nervously, twiddling your thumbs. "That's not a question for storytime."

She shrugs, unapologetic. Spencer, bless him, just clears his throat as adjusts his grip on the books.

"I bought a few options," he says, holding them up like they're treasure. "We have The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are, and The Day the Crayons Quit. Any favorites."

The room fills with an enthusiastic chorus of opinions, but Spencer handles it like a pro, tallying votes on the whiteboard until we have a winner: Where the Wild Things Are.

He settles into the big reading chair at the front of the room, his long legs awkwardly folded up beneath him, and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The kids gather on the carpet, leaning forward with rapt attention as he begins.

Spencer's voice is soft, each word carrying a rhythm that draws the kids—and you, despite the fact that you've already read this book countless times—into the story, though that might just be because you enjoy listening to his voice so much.

By the time he closes the book and sets it aside, the room erupts into cheers. "That was so cool!" Jacob shouts, jumping to his feet.

"Can you read another one?" Lily pleads, clasping her hands together and mustering up the best puppy eyes she can—she doesn't have to try very hard.

Five year olds. So easy to please.

Spencer glances at you, and you nod. "One more," you say. "Then it's lunchtime."

This time, he picks The Day the Crayons Quit, and the kids laugh hysterically at the sassy letters from the crayons.

Spencer even gets a short round of applause when he finished reading and closes the picture book, his cheeks pink as he smiles and thanks them.

"Okay, everyone," you announce, clapping your hands together. "Time to wash up for lunch!"

The kids scramble to line up at the sink, still chatting quietly with one another—partly about the stories, but mostly about how awesome Spencer is.

He stands by the reading chair, watching them with a mix of amusement and awe.

"You're a hit," you tease, stepping beside him.

"I think they like me more than you," he replies, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't get cocky," you say, nudging him gently.

As the kids settle at their tables with their lunches, you lead Spencer to your desk in the corner, where you've set up a couple of chairs. "So you're staying, right?" you ask, trying to sound casual.

"If you'll have me," he says, pulling out the chair across from yours.

Your desk is decorated with little figurines and gadgets, ranging from tiny animal toys blue-tacked down to the lid of a container, to a photo frame filled with pressed flowers, to a small collected of little painted rocks. It reminds Spencer a lot of Garcia's office. Colorful.

You hand him the sandwich you made for him earlier, and his eyebrows lift in surprise. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," you say, ducking your head. "But I wanted to."

You eat quietly for a moment, the sound of the kids' laughter and chatter enough to fill the space around the both of you.

Spencer watches them with a small smile, and you can't help but admire the way he fits so seamlessly into your little world. Most people would get overwhelmed, being in a room with so many little children—and it just so happens that your boyfriend isn't one of those people.

How did you get so lucky?

"They're great," he says after a while.

"They are," you agree. "A handful, but great all the same."

He looks at you then, his gaze soft and searching. "I can see why you love this so much. And I can see why they love you so much."

Your breath catches, but before you can respond with something sappy that'll more than likely make you cry, Jacob bounds over to your desk.

"Miss Y/N, can Mister Spencer come back tomorrow?"

Spencer chuckles, glancing at me like he's looking for permission.

"We'll see," you say, ruffling Jacob's hair. "If he's not too busy saving the world, maybe he can visit again."

"Promise?" Jacob asks, directing the question at Spencer.

Spencer holds up his pinky, and Jacob eagerly hooks his own tiny pinky finger around it. "Promise," Spencer says.

As Jacob runs back to his table, Spencer leans toward you, his voice low and almost a little uncertain.

Your blouse, which you'd liked when you put it on this morning, now feels all wrong. The fabric stretches across your chest and stomach in ways that make your skin crawl.

It fits—technically—but your brain won't let you believe it. The logical part of you knows it's fine—it fits and it looks good, no one cares. But the voice in your head, the one you've spent years trying to quiet, whispers, Isn't it a little snug?

You press your palms flat against the sink, trying to steady your breathing. Why does this matter? you ask yourself. Why do I care?

You see the worst humanity has to offer every day. You quite literally deal with life and death and unimaginable grief. Your body—how it looks, how it fits into societal expectations—should be the least of your concerns.

And yet, here you are.

Maybe part of the reason everything feels to terrible tonight is because of him—Spencer. He's been talking to you heaps more lately, and though it really should make you feel better, it only deepens whatever this insecure feeling inside you is.

The way he moves, the way he talks, the way his beautiful mind works—everything about him fascinates you, and you've been harboring this ridiculous, all-consuming crush for months.

But no matter how much you try to push it down, it always creeps back in, and with it comes the certainty that you're not his type. How could you be? He's brilliant and kind and effortlessly charming in his own unique way, and you're... you. Soft in all the undesirable places, sometimes a little too loud for even yourself.

It's not that you don't think you're worth something, but when you're next to him, it's hard not to feel like you fade into the background. And you've been next to him a lot more than usual.

The mirror reflects your frown back at you, the tightness in your chest growing until it feels like you might snap. You splash cold water on your face, hoping the shock will pull you out of your spiral.

It doesn't, but you can pretend it does.

The bullpen is quiet when you step back into it, the hum of computers and the rustle of papers the only sounds. Most of the team has gone home for the night, except for Spencer.

You find him in the kitchenette, his tall frame bent awkwardly as he wrestles with the ancient coffee maker.

He glances up as you walk in, his expression softening when he sees you. "Couldn't sleep?"

Right—you were going to nap somewhere before getting back to work before you detoured to the bathroom.

You shrug, leaning against the counter. "Something like that."

Spencer nods, his focus shifting back to the coffee pot. "I think this machine predates the invention of modern technology," he mutters, earning a faint smile from you. He pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to you, his finger brushing your briefly.

"Thanks," you say, your voice quieter than you intended.

For a while, the two of you drink in silence, no words shared. None are needed. It's comforting, standing next to him in the soft glow of the kitchenette light. For a moment, you almost almost feel normal in your own skin. Like everyone else.

Except Spencer has always been too perceptive (especially when it comes to you, but you don't need to know that), and you can feel his gaze periodically flicking toward you, studying your face.

"You know," he says eventually, "it's okay to feel overwhelmed. You don't have to hold it together all the time, not when you're... in this particular profession."

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply. His expression is calm, his tone heartbreakingly gentle, but the words hit a nerve. You force a laugh, trying to deflect. "I'm fine, Spencer. Just tired is all."

He doesn't buy it. Of course, he doesn't. This is Spencer Reid, profiler extraordinaire, the man who can read you like an open book even when you think you're being subtle.

"Are you?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. His voice is soft, but there's an unfamiliar firmness to it that makes you pause.

You want to brush him off, to keep the walls you've built around yourself firmly in place. But the words slip out before you can stop them—apparently your subconscious is desperate to get it out.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just that sometimes I feel like... I don't know, like I don't belong here. Like I'm walking on thin ice, and any second it's going to crack, and I'm going to fall through."

Spencer's brows knit together, and he sets his mug down on the counter. "Why would you feel like that?"

You hesitate, the familiar shame and embarrassment bubbling up in your chest. "Because I've always been the... the fat one, okay? The one people look at and judge before they even know my name. I should be used to it by now. I am used to it, but sometimes..."

You trail off, swallowing hard.

"Sometimes it just gets to me, and I hate that it does, because it's so stupid. There are so many bigger things to worry about than how I look. People are actually dying out there, and I'm sitting here worried about my stupid blouse being too tight..."

Spencer step closer, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wonder if you've said too much, if he thinks you're being ridiculous. But then he speaks, and his voice is steady, full of quiet conviction.

"It's not stupid. What you're feeling is valid," he says. "And you're not 'the fat one.' You're you—intelligent and compassionate and one of the strongest people I've ever met. The way you connect with people and make them feel seen, even in the darkest moments of their life—that's not something everyone can do. That's you."

The words hit you like a wave, the sincerity in his tone making your throat tighten. You look down at your coffee, unable to meet his eyes.

"You don't have to say that just to make me feel better," you mumble.

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he replies. "I mean it."

He hesitates for a moment before reaching out, his hand hovering near yours. When you don't pull away—you don't think you could ever make yourself pull away from Spencer—he rests it gently on top of yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

"Thin ice can hold more weight than you think," he says quietly. "And even if it does crack, you won't fall. I'll make sure of it."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you think them away quickly. "Thank you, Spencer," you say, your voice thick with emotion.

"Anytime." He smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "And for the record, I think you're beautiful."

Your heart does a little flip, your face warming. Maybe one day you can tell him how you feel, how desperately in love you are with him.

"I don't understand why everything has to be a debate with you!" you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

Spencer's jaw tightens, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm not debating you. I'm just pointing out that—"

"That I'm wrong?" you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended it to be.

"No, I—" He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. "You're twisting my words again, Y/N. You always do this."

That does it. His tone is clipped, dismissive, and it slices through you like a hot knife. Your chest tightens to the point of pain as you glare at him, trying to hold back the sting of tears.

"Right," you say bitterly, your voice trembling. "I'm impossible to deal with, aren't I? That's what you're thinking."

It's cruel of you to say. Even in the moment, you know it's wrong. Spencer's eyes flash with irritation, and before you can take back the words, he says the one thing he shouldn't.

"You said it, not me."

The room goes quiet.

It's not the loud kind of quiet (you know), where tension hangs thick and heavy. It's the hollow kind (you know that, too), the kind that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

You stare at him, your lips parted in shock, but no words come out. He doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he does, but he's too stubborn to back down.

Instead, he turns on his heel and storms off, his long legs carrying him into the bedroom. The door shuts behind him, not quite slamming but still loud enough to echo in your ears.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he stood. The weight of his words lingers, heavier than the argument itself. You swallow hard, the ache in your chest growing as the tears you'd been holding back finally spill down your cheeks.

But you don't follow him.

Instead, you grab the old throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and curl up on the sofa. It's not comfortable—the cushions are firm, the blanket thin, and the chills of winter seeps into your bones—but you can't bring yourself to go into the bedroom.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

In the bedroom, Spencer sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

The anger that had burned so hot just moments ago is gone entirely, snuffed out like a candle. What's left is the cold weight of regret, pressing down on him like a lead blanket.

He knows he shouldn't have said what he did. He knows it was cruel, unnecessary, and completely unfair—especially when he could see the beginning of an apology on your face.

But at the time, it had felt like the only way to defend himself.

Now, with the argument over and the silence settling in, all he can think about is the look on your face when he said those words. The way your shoulders sagged as if weighed down, the way your eyes widened just slightly, as if he'd struck you.

The thought makes him feel a little nauseous.

He waits for you to come to bed, his heart sinking further with each passing minute. The silence stretches on, broken only by the faint hum of the heater kicking on in the corner.

You don't come.

Maybe at some point in his life, he'd have been grateful for the quiet. But now that he's spent almost every day with you when he's not working, listened to your quiet ramblings, it feels more suffocating than comforting.

You're comforting.

Finally, he gets up and steps into the hallway. The dimmed light from the living room spills into the darkness, and he follows it, an unfamiliar discomfort swirling around his stomach.

When he sees your curled up on the couch, trembling slightly, his chest tightens painfully.

You're lying on your side as to stay on the narrow sofa, your knees tucked up to your chest, the thin throw blanket doing nothing to shield you from the cold. He can see the way your shoulders are hunched, the way your body is curled in on itself, as if trying to make yourself small.

The sight breaks his heart.

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stir, blinking groggily as your eyes flutter open. For a moment, you just stare at him, the hurt in your gaze twisting the knife of guilt in his chest.

"What're you doing out here?" he asks, kneeling beside the couch.

You shift slightly, your voice quiet and trembling when you finally speak. "I figured you wouldn't want me in the room."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

There is nothing on Earth that could make him not want you around, not even a silly argument. Nothing that could convince him to keep you at arms length for more than a few minutes.

His breath catches, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. You don't flinch, but you don't lean into his touch like you usually would, either. The hesitation in your posture is enough to make his broken heart ache.

"Y/N," he murmurs, his voice thick with regret. "That's not true. I didn't mean what I said. I was angry, and I wasn't thinking. I... I never should have said that, I promise you're not impossible to deal with."

You don't respond, your gaze dropping to the blanket. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into his palms as he tries to find the right words. His hands somehow find your face, thumbs wiping away the dampness still there.

"I'm sorry," he continues. "I was wrong. I hurt you, and I hate that I did. You're not impossible. You're—God, you're everything to me..."

For a long moment, you don't say anything.

Finally, you sigh, your voice barely audible. "It d-didn't feel like that earlier."

Spencer's shoulders slump, his head bowing as shame washes over him. "I know," he whispers. "I was awful to you. I don't have an excuse, but I... I can't stand the thought of you feeling like I don't want you around. Because I do. Always."

You look at him then, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. "It's hard to believe that when you say things like that, Spence."

"I know," he says again, his voice breaking. "But I'll spend every moment for the rest of my life making it up to you, if I have to. If you want me to."

Your lips press together, and for a moment, he thinks you're going to push him away. But then you shift, sitting up slowly and letting the blanket fall away from your body. You lean into him slightly, nose pressing against the top of his head.

"Come here," he says softly, holding his hand toward yours.

You hesitate, but eventually, you take it. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in his embrace as if he's afraid to let you go. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, chasing away the lingering chill.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, his lips brushing against your hair. "I'll do better, I promise."

You rest your head against his shoulder, the tension in your body slowly melting away. "Please... just don't make me feel like that again."

"I won't," he vows, holding you tighter.

He'll never let you feel like this again—like you're less than enough. Like you're not everything and more to him. Like he doesn't want you around. Like he doesn't love you. Never.

It's the truth. Sort of. Work is, as always, chaotic as hell. But there's something gnawing at you, something you can't make yourself say out loud.

Spencer doesn't push, but you know he's watching, waiting for you to say more on your own. That's the thing about him—he's patient, a quality you greatly admire. But when he wants something, he tends to get it.

You've had a few drinks together after work, spent quiet hours in coffee shops, talking about cases, about books, about life. You think you're starting to let yourself like him.

You think he might be starting to like you, too, even though the lines between friendship and... something more are still blurry, and you haven't yet figures out how to cross them without making a mess.

Then, of course, there is the little secret of your daughter—the very secret that keeps you up at night, wondering if you've already ruined whatever future could happen.

"Is everything really fine?" Spencer asks again, his voice a little softer now, like he's trying to coax the truth out of me without making it feel like an interrogation. It feels like one anyway.

You nod quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Yeah. Really. Just... personal stuff."

He watches you for a beat longer, clearly not entirely convinced, but also not going to press for more. Spencer isn't like that. He respects boundaries. He respects you, in a way that makes your chest tighten every time he looks at you, like you're something he can lose if he doesn't handle you with enough care.

And maybe that's it. Maybe you're afraid of him seeing the part of you that isn't as easy to love, the part that you're still learning to love yourself.

Maybe that's why you've kept Isla a secret, but you've never mentioned her in passing conversations, or even when he asks about your life outside the job.

You want him to see you as someone who can go out for a drink after a case without having to worry about a three-year-old waiting for her mother to come home.

But that's not you. You've got Isla. You've got your little girl, and one day, Spencer's going to have to know, as terrifying as that thought is to you.

You're not ashamed of your daughter, you could never be ashamed of your little girl.

But the last man who found out about her—her own father—ran for the hills before she was even born. The thought of Spencer doing the same, of him walking away the second he finds out about Isla, has been eating away at you from the first time you went out together.

You tell yourself it's not about him being a bad guy, because he's not. Spencer's kind and thoughtful and he doesn't seem like the type of man to judge.

But it's not like you can help the fear, that he might not want a woman with a child, especially one as young as Isla. She's the center of your world, she will always come first, and you can't risk losing Spencer for the same reason you lost Isla's father.

"Are you sure?" Spencer's voice cuts through your thoughts, soft and insistent. He's still looking at you, like he's waiting for the truth to slip from your lips, like he knows it'll happen eventually. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it a little difficult to breathe. His words, so simple, so caring, somehow makes the weight on your shoulders heavier.

What would it feel like to tell him?

To let him in, to share this huge part of yourself with someone who could very well walk out of your life when he finds out?

It's easier to just nod and pretend everything's fine. It's easier to lie, to keep him at arms length, than risk him seeing who you really are—a mother, sure, but also someone who's terrified of being left again.

But Spencer doesn't deserve that. You know he doesn't deserve that, to keep wondering what's going on inside your head when he's done nothing but be there for you, day after day.

"I..." You hesitate, your breath catching in your chest. "There's something I should tell you, but it's really... it's going to complicate things."

Spencer doesn't say anything right away. He just watches you, and for a brief moment, the distance between you feels impossible to manage. You take a step forward, closing that space as best you can.

"You don't have to tell me if you're not ready to," he says finally, his voice so gentle that it almost breaks you. "You never have to feel obligated to tell me anything, I just want you to know I'm here if you wanna talk."

And right then, something shifts.

You're not entire sure what, but something deep inside wonders if maybe—just maybe—it might be time to tell him about the life you've tried to hard to keep hidden. About your precious little girl, and about her father who she's never known, and about the fears that keep you awake at night.

About the little girl who's waiting for you at home, her smile the only thing that keeps you going when everything else is so shaky.

"I have a daughter," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "She's three. Her name's Isla."

He blinks, processing, before his expression softens. He doesn't say anything at first, just watches you with (gorgeous) eyes of his that feel almost like they can see right into your soul.

You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction. You're expecting him to step away from you, to give some polite excuse and walk out the door.

But instead, he surprises you. "I'd really like to meet her, if that's something you'd be okay with."

You blink at him, feeling your heart skip a beat. "You... you would? You want to meet Isla?"

Spencer smiles, just a little, but it's blindingly bright in your eyes. "Of course, I want to meet the little girl who obviously means so much to you."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You stand outside your apartment door, fingers nervously playing with the strap of your bag, suddenly feeling like you're about to do something you can't undo.

Which, you are, but that doesn't stop your heart from thumping uncomfortably, or your stomach from fluttering with anxiety.

Spencer's standing beside you, his eyes scanning the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks calm, maybe even a little curious, but you can tell he's waiting for you to make the first move, to invite him inside where everything will change.

It helps knowing that, if you happen to change your mind, he'll leave the second you ask him to.

The familiar hum of the building's old pipes is the only sound between you. You're about to let Spencer see Isla. You're about to let him into this part of your life you've kept so carefully hidden. And it is terrifying.

It's one thing to share a drink or talk about drinks. It's an entirely different thing to show another person the most vulnerable part of yourself.

The next door over swings open, and your neighbor, Maria, steps out. She looks up from her phone when she spots you, waving with the hand that's holding Isla's favorite stuffed bunny—she probably left it there at some point.

"Hey, just finished feeding her a few minutes ago," Maria says with a smile, but there's a hint of urgency in her voice as she checks her watch. "I was just 'boutta call you, gotta head out. You good here?"

You nod, forcing a smile as you take Isla's stuffed animal from Maria. "Yeah, thanks. She's been good today?"

"She's always good, she's a sweetheart," Maria says before turning on her heel, heading towards the stairs with quick steps. She glances back at you once to make sure you're alright before she's gone.

You watch her go, your breath catching in your throat as you unlock the door.

Every part of you is screaming that this isn't a good idea, that you're making a huge mistake by letting Spencer in, but you push those thoughts away as best you can, forcing yourself to step inside and gently pulling him by the sleeve of his jacket.

"Come on in," you say, trying to sound casual, but the words sound all wrong in your own ears, and they surely sound the same to Spencer.

Spencer hesitates for a moment before stepping through the doorway. The second his foot crosses the threshold, something in the air shifts, though neither of you can name what it is.

Isla's small shoes are lined up neatly by the door beside yours, and you can hear her humming softly from the living room. It's the sound of home.

Some of the anxiety fades away. It's more strange than anything to have Spencer here, where it's all real and in front of him.

You move towards the living room, trying to steady your breath. There, sitting on the floor with a coloring book spread out in front of her and a variety of markers and pencils at her side, is Isla.

Her hair's a bit messy, the way it always gets after a nap, but her wide eyes light up the moment she notices you.

"Mommy!" Isla calls, her little face breathing into a grin as she scrambles to her feet. She's barely two and a half feet tall, one of her little hands clutching her stuffed bunny tightly, the other wrapped around your legs.

You plop down on the sofa and ruffle her hair affectionately, a soft smile gracing your lips.

And then, she sees Spencer.

For a moment, Isla just stares at him, wide-eyed and quiet. Spencer's already crouched down, his hands resting gently on his knees, not moving, simply waiting for her to decide if she'll approach him or not.

You hold your breath, watching the moment unfold in real time—you've never had to share this part of your life with anyone. You've never had to share her with another person. And for a brief moment, you're more worried about how she'll react.

And then, like she's made up her mind, Isla takes a few tentative steps toward Spencer. She looks up at him, her face a picture of innocent curiosity, and before either of you can say anything, she reaches out, quickly offering him her stuffed bunny.

Oh, thank God.

Spencer looks at the bunny, then back at her, his expression softening. "Thank you," he says, his voice gentle, as it's as if a part of you clicks into place. Like he's not only accepted you, but now, he's accepting Isla, too.

He's accepting your baby, and you feel like you're going to cry.

She smiles up at him, and for a second, it feels like everything's going to be okay. He doesn't look at her like she's an obstacle, or like he doesn't know what to do.

He looks at her the way he always looks at you—with patience, and something else that you have a hard time naming.

Isla giggles, her small hand still holding the bunny, as then she shyly crawls into your lap, hiding her face against your chest.

Spencer chuckles, the sound low and warm, as he sits down beside you, observing the interaction. You rub your hand up and down Isla's back and press a firm kiss to the top of her head.

After another quiet moment, Isla crawls off you again, sitting back on the floor in front of her coloring book.

"So, uh, do you like coloring?" Spencer asks, his voice carefully light, as he looks over at Isla, who's now holding a crayon like it's the most important thing in the world.

She nods solemnly, but then grins up at him. "I like pink," she says, matter-of-factly, and then she goes back to her drawing.

Spencer's eyes twinkle with amusement. "Pink's a great color," he agrees, and you can't help but smile.

"Alright, everybody!" Garcia chirps, standing at the front of the room with her clipboard. "Trivia night rules are simple: answer correctly, earn points; answer incorrectly, face public humiliation—kidding, sort of. Now, let's keep it light and friendly, okay?"

Spencer casts you a sly look from across the room, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Light and friendly," he echoes. "Got it."

You meet his gaze with an arched brow. "Sure, as long as you don't cry when you lose, Doctor Reid."

A ripple of laughter goes through the team, but Garcia sighs, already regretting her decision. "Why did I think this was a good idea?" she mutters to herself, scribbling a quick note to never pair you two against each other again.

The first few rounds go smoothly enough. Questions about geography and pop culture and history fly by, each team racking up points. You nd Spencer trade victories, but the air between you grows increasingly charged with every answer.

"You didn't even buzz in for that one!" you accuse after Spencer correctly answers a particularly obscure literature question.

"Because the answer was obvious," he replies smugly, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh, it's on," you mutter, cracking your knuckles dramatically, much to the amusement of the rest of them.

By the time the final round rolls around, the room is split between two factions: Team Spencer and Team You. Everyone else has resigned themselves to the sidelines, content to watch the show. Even Garcia has given up trying to referee, instead leaning against the bar with a drink in hand.

"This question," she announces, "is for the win."

You sit up straighter, your focus narrowing. Across the table, Spencer mirrors your intensity. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened—classic signs of a man in deep competition mode.

"What is the capital of Bhutan?" Garcia asks, her eyes flicking between the two of you.

Your hand slams down on the buzzer half a second before Spencer's. "Thimphu!" you shout triumphantly.

Garcia checks her clipboard, nodding slowly. "Correct."

You throw your hands up in victory, earning cheers from your teammates. Spencer, however, is already leaning forward, his expression incredulous.

"That was a reflex," he argues. "She didn't even think about it."

You smirk, holding your hand up for a high-five from Morgan. "Or maybe I'm just faster and smarter than you, genius."

Spencer narrows his eyes. "Faster, maybe. Smarter? That's debatable."

The room erupts into laughter as you two go back and forth, your playful banter quickly escalating into a full-blown debate over split-second reaction times and the nuances of trivia strategy.

"Alright, alright!" Garcia finally intervenes, clapping her hands to get your attention. "We're calling it there before this turns into a break up. Trivia night is supposed to be fun, remember?"

You glance at Spencer, who's still staring at you like you've personally insulted his entire academic career. Despite his faux-annoyance, there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Truce?" you offer, extending your hand towards him.

He considers it for a moment before shaking it. "Truce. But don't think this means I'm letting you win next time."

"Next time, you'll have to try harder," you reply with a wink.

As the room starts to clear now, you linger by the bar, waiting for Spencer to join you. When he does, he's holding two drinks—one for each of you.

"Good game," he says, handing you the glass.

"You're not mad I beat you?" you tease, taking a sip.

"Mad? No," he replies, leaning against the counter. "Impressed? Maybe. I didn't think you'd know the capital of Bhutan."

You grin, nudging him playfully. "I'm full of surprises."

Spencer chuckles, his gaze softening as he looks at you. "You know, Garcia's probably ever going to let us be on opposing teams again."

"Probably not," you agree. "But it was fun while it lasted."

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the earlier competitiveness melting away. Despite the antics, it's moments like these—when you're teasing each other, laughing, and completely at ease—that make everything worth it.

"By the way," Spencer says after a moment, his tone casual but laced with mischief, "you buzzed in half a second early. Technically, you cheated."

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn't fade. "Technically, I still won."

"Technically," he echoes, his lips quirking into a small smile.

You glance at Spencer, your expression heavy. This is always the hardest part of the job: dealing with the survivors, especially ones this young and scared. Spencer offers you a faint nod, his own nerves masked by his calm demeanor.

You open the door slowly, kneeling down to meet Harper's line of sight. "Hey there," you say softly, careful not to startle her. "I'm Y/N, and this is Spencer. We're here to help you."

She doesn't answer, her tear-filled eyes darting between the two of you. Your chest tightens as her tiny frame trembled, her grip on the stuffed animal tightening further.

Spencer kneels beside you, his voice just as soft and measured as he addresses the young girl. "We promise, we're not gonna hurt you. We're here to keep you safe."

Her bottom lip quivers, but she doesn't speak. You can practically feel the weight of her fear, and your usual comforting words don't seem enough right now. You briefly look at Spencer, then back at her—time to get a little creative.

You stand and cross the room, kneeling again when you're right in front of her.

Reaching for your holster, you carefully pull out your sidearm and hold it up in a non-threatening way, your finger nowhere near the trigger. "Do you know what this is, Harper?" you ask, your voice calm and steady.

Please don't backfire on me...

Her sobs pause for a moment, her wide eyes fixed on the gun. "A... a gun?" she whispers.

"That's right," you say, your tone light as if you're discussing her favorite toy. "It's my job to use this to protect people, to keep them safe. And right now, I'm here to keep you safe. Me and Floppy," you add with a smile, nodding toward her bunny.

Spencer glances at you, his eyebrows raises slightly in surprise, but he doesn't stop you. You know what you're doing—or at least you hope you do.

"Can I see it?" Harper asks hesitantly, her curiosity momentarily overpowering her fear.

"Not this one—it's very grown up," you say with a small chuckle, slipping the gun back into its holster. "But maybe someday, when you're older and want to be a hero too. For now, just know that it's here, and it'll keep you safe."

Harper blinks, her tears slowing as she processes your words in her little six year old brain. "You'd use it for me?"

"Absolutely," you say firmly without hesitation, leaning in a little closer. "You're really important to us, Harper. We're going to make sure nothing bad happens to you."

Spencer finally chimes in, appearing beside you, his voice gentle but slightly amused. "And I can vouch for Y/N. She's a very good shot."

The faintest ghost of a smile crosses Harper's face, and your shoulders relax slightly. "You're like superheroes," she says, her voice so quiet you would've missed it if you weren't paying so much attention.

"Exactly," you say, grinning. "Superheroes with badges and really big teamwork. And guess what? Superheroes are really good at making sure kids like you are okay."

Harper nods, her fingers loosening their death grip on Floppy. "Okay," she murmurs, edging closer to you, "but I'm still scared."

"That's okay too," you assure her. "Being scared just means you're brave enough to face things that are hard. And right now, you're doing and amazing job, Harper."

She hesitates, then leans forward slightly, her small frame still trembling but no longer frozen in fear. She wraps her little arms around your waist, face pressed into your stomach. You take her into your arm, tracing shapes on her back with your pointer finger.

You glance at Spencer, who's watching you with a mix of admiration and mild disbelief. He mouths, Really? The gun?

You shrug subtle in response, your lips quirking up.

After a moment, Harper looks up from your stomach, her eyes still red but clearer now. "Will you stay here?" she asks.

"We'll stay as long as you need us," you answer instantly, tone as warm and reassuring as you can make it. "You're not alone anymore, Harper. Are you tired?"

She nods, so you lift her up off the floor and lay her down on her bed, only laying beside her when she gently tugs on your shirt. She immediately snuggles up against you, clutching onto you with one of her death grips, but you don't care.

Her breathing starts to even out, and for the first time tonight, the tension in the room begins to lift.

When Morgan peeks into the room a few minutes later to check in, he raises an eyebrow at the sight of you—Spencer sitting at the end of the bed, you actually laid down with Harper's arms wrapped tightly around you, tight enough to actually make breathing a little difficult.

"You two good?" he asks, glancing between the three of you.

"Superheroes don't leave their missions unfinished," you reply with a wink, gently stroking Harper's hair, and Morgan shakes his head, muttering something about your methods as he leaves.

One Harper is finally asleep, Spencer leans towards you, his voice low. "You know, not every kid finds guns comforting."

"Worked on her, didn't it?" you whisper back, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Spencer rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile on his face. "Only you would use a weapon as a comfort object."

"She needed to feel like we can keep her safe," you reply, looking down at Harper's peaceful face, "and I think we nailed it."

He chuckles softly, his hand brushing against yours for a brief moment. "You're not wrong." A brief pause. "Wait, how'd you know the rabbit's name?"

You glance up at him, a brow raised. "Spencer, you've been here three times in the last two months. At this rate, I should really just set up a reserved bed for you."

"Maybe I just like the company," he quips, and now it's your turn to blush slightly.

"Flirting isn't gonna get you out of a lecture about taking better care of yourself," you reply, tying off the final stitch and cutting the rest of the thread off. "There we are. Good as new."

Spencer watches as you peel off your gloves and toss them into the bin. Everything you do seems to catch him off guard, even after months of... well, whatever this thing between you two has become.

"You're amazing, you know that?" he murmurs.

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. "I just stitched up a cut. Pretty sure that doesn't qualify as amazing."

"To me, it does," he counters, his gaze soft as he watches you walk around the room. "You're brilliant and kind and—"

"—And wondering why you're still sitting here," you cut him off with a grin, moving back to your previous spot between his thighs and holding the back of your hand to his forehead. "Don't you have a team to get back to?"

As if on cue, the door swings open, and a group of people spills into the room, their voices a mix of concern and exhaustion.

"Reid, how's—" a man with a shaved head starts, but immediately stops again, his eyes narrowing slightly as they dart between the two of you.

The room grown awkwardly silent as they take in the scene: you standing between Spencer's legs—closer than any medical professional should be with their patients, his unbandaged arm hung loosely around your waist.

"Oh," says a woman with dark hair and a wicked smirk. "This is interesting."

Spencer shifts uncomfortable but doesn't quite move away. "Guys, this is—uh—this is Doctor L/N. She was just... patching me up."

"Patching you up, huh?" the man from before drawls, a teasing lilt in his voice, his grin widening. "Looks like a little more than that to me."

You straighten and take a step back, trying to maintain your professional demeanor despite the heat crawling up your neck. "Doctor Reid is in good shape now. He'll need to keep the stitches dry for a few days, but the cut wasn't too deep."

The blonde woman in the back raises an eyebrow, clearly biting back a smile. "Thank you, Doctor L/N," she says politely before her attention shifts to Spencer. "Though I have to admit, considering his arm got cut open, this is the first time we've seen him quite so... comfortable."

Spencer groans, his head falling slightly forward. "Can we not do this here? Please?"

"Oh, we're doing this," the dark-haired woman says, crossing her arms. "How long has this been going on?"

"Emily," Spencer pleads, his voice laced with something somewhere in-between exasperation and resignation.

You glance between then, suddenly feeling a little like a deer caught in headlights. "I'll just—uh—leave you all to it," you say quickly, stepping toward the door.

Spencer's hand shoots out, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. "Wait—"

But you shake your head with a small, reassuring smile. "It seems you've got enough explaining to do without me making it harder."

As you slip out and shut the door, you hear the inevitable teasing start.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The hallways is surprisingly quiet compared to the chaos inside, and you take a moment to collect yourself. You've grown used to Spencer's shy smiles and occasional compliments, but seeing him surrounded by his team—people who clearly adore him and who are incredibly perceptive—feels like stepping into a spotlight you hadn't anticipated.

You're about to head back to the nurses' station when the door opens again, and Spencer emerges, wearing all his clothes and his cheeks still faintly red.

"They're never going to let this go," he says, running a hand through his hair.

You bite back a laugh. "I can see why. You should've warned me they'd be so observant."

"I was trying to keep things simple," he admits, stepping closer, "but apparently, we weren't as subtle as I thought."

"Subtle?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You were practically glowing in there, Spencer! You were quite literally holding onto me."

He grins sheepishly. "I can't help it. You make me happy. I like being close to you."

Your heart does a little flip at his words, but you roll your eyes for his benefit. "Well, now that they know, I'm sure the rest of your team will, so I guess our secret's out."

"They'll adjust to the idea," he says lightly. "And for what it's worth, I don't mind them knowing. I'm proud to be with you."

You smile, reaching out to brush your fingertips against his. "I'm proud to be with you, too. Even if it means getting interrogated by the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Spencer laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "They'll get over it. Probably."

"Probably?" you echo, laughing with him as you start walking back to the nurses' station.

He shrugs, his hand brushing against yours as he keeps pace. "I think Morgan might take longer. But that's okay. I'm not in any hurry."

If someone had told Spencer three years ago that he would be happily married to a vampire he would have laughed in their face.

Yet here he is, holding his beautiful wife in his arms, and he can say for sure that he's never been happier.

How the two of you met? Well, that's something for another day, but to make a long story short, you found him while he was seconds away from being stabbed in the back of the neck by a psycho stalker.

"You awake?" he asks in an almost inaudible voice. Spencer feels the faint brush of your lips against his neck as you nod, leaving the softest of kisses against the delicate skin. It makes a shiver run down his spine, and he knows you can hear the increase of his heartrate.

Though you don't make any noise, he can feel the cool air on his neck as you let out a silent chuckle.

"Still hungry?" he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, his fingers pausing their tracing for just a moment.

You pull back slightly, your crimson eyes peeking up to meet his hazel ones, glinting faintly in the dim light. There's a softness there, a warmth that doesn't quite match the traditional tales of your kind, and one that only Spencer can see.

"Not for blood," you reply, voice laced with teasing affection. "I'm more interested in the genius who's letting me hog all the blankets, even when he knows I don't need them in the slightest."

Spencer lets out a soft chuckle, brushing a loose strand of your hair back behind your ear. "I think 'genius' might be overselling it. Most people would call this situation irrational, maybe even reckless."

Neither of you mention how nobody would even believe him, if he were to tell then he's married to a vampire.

"Most people don't know you like I do," you counter, resting your head back onto him, this time on his chest. "You're not reckless, Spencer. You're... curious. And kind. That's why you didn't run when you figured out what I was."

He smiles faintly, the memory of the night you met briefly flashing through his mind. It wasn't every day you met someone who saved your life and then casually admitted they'd (technically) been dead for centuries. "I'd like to think the profiling helped with that," he jokes.

"Oh, definitely," you tease, drawing lazy patterns on his shirt with your pointer finger. "Nothing screams 'trustworthy' like a man reciting the statistics about violent crime to a vampire."

He laughs softly, and you join him for a moment, the sound mingling in the otherwise quiet room. Spencer's laughter fades as his eyes drift back to yours again, his expression growing thoughtful. "Does it still bother you?" he asks gently.

You know what he's referring to without needing clarification—the sunlit mornings he spends alone most of the time, the quiet ache of being different, the things you've done to survive.

"Sometimes," you admit, your voice quieter now. "But being with you makes it easier. You remind me that there's light, even for... someone like me."

Spencer leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "You're my light, too," he says softly. "Even if you do steal all the blankets."

You smile against his chest, your pointed teeth peeking out ever so slightly. "I think I'll keep you around, Doctor Reid. You're pretty good at this whole 'marriage' thing."

"Good," he murmurs, holding you tighter, "because I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."

"I think it's more like you're stuck with me," you correct gently, "you know, considering I'm the predator in this scenario. You're my prey."

The faintest creak of the floorboards across the room pulls your attention away from the paper reindeer, fingers freezing mid-glue as you look up and settle your gaze on Spencer.

"Don't mind me," he says, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "I'm just observing a master at work."

You jump to your feet, cheeks already heating. "What are you doing here?" you question frantically, wiping your glittery hands on your shirt—something to worry about later.

He holds up the spare key, his lips twitching into a small smile. "You mentioned you were doing something for your class. Thought I'd stop by to check on you."

"Check on me, or make fun of me?" you retort, brushing a stray bit of glitter off your face—though it only works to smear the sparkles further, eliciting a frustrated groan from the back of your throat.

"Both, maybe," he teases, stepping closer and tucking the key safely into his pocket. His gaze quickly sweeps over your workspace—the piles of tiny candies, neatly folded ribbons, and mismatches piles of construction paper. "You really go all out for your kids, don't you?"

It's not even really a question, because Spencer already knows you do. This isn't the first time he's visited you in the midst of creating something special for your students.

You shrug, the defensiveness melting from your voice. "They deserve it," you murmur as you drop back down onto the couch. "It's just... nice to give them something to look forward to. Some of them don't have the same privileges as others."

Spencer nods, his expression softening as he kneels to your level, inspecting the chaos. "You've got paint in your hair, by the way. And glitter," he points out, lightly tugging at a stray, glitter-dusted lock.

"Great," you mutter, grabbing for a damp cloth you set aside in advance, but Spencer stops you with a chuckle.

"Leave it. It suits you."

The warmth in his tone tends a flutter through your chest. He reaches past you to pick up one of the fifteen half-finished advent calendars, his long fingers careful not to smudge your work—and a lot of work it is. "You know, statistically, kindergarten teachers are some of the most dedicated professionals in their field."

You laugh, rolling your eyes. "And statistically, how often do FBI agents barge into their girlfriends' apartments in the middle of the night to watch them drown in glitter?"

Spencer grins, setting the drying calendar back down. "I think you're a unique case."

You narrow your eyes at him in mock offense, but the smile forcing its way onto your face gives you away.

"Well, don't just stand there and watch, Doctor Reid. Grab some scissors and glitter," you say, resuming where you left off on the little paper reindeer. "If you're going to interrupt, you might as well help."

His eyebrows lift in false surprise, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he plops down beside you on the sofa, his own hands soon joining yours in the mess of paper and glue and glitter.

It's quite different for him, being a federal agent and such, working with sensitive subjects and often in harsh environments, so you suppose it does make sense that he would want to keep you away from all that. Still, you can't help but feel a little hurt and slightly embarrassed every time he denies your requests.

And yet...

"You sound tired," you comment softly, stirring the pot of chicken soup in front of you.

"Mhm."

"Have you eaten anything yet?"

There's no response, which is answer enough for you.

"Lovey, you need to eat," you say with a sigh, putting down the spoon you were stirring with and lean back against the counter beside the stove.

"I know," he mumbles quietly.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes turned down to the ground. "I'm making chicken soup, I could bring you some for dinner, if you'd like?" you suggest weakly. "And some of the bread I finished making earlier. You know, I could sit with you for a while."

Before he's even responded, you're bracing yourself for rejection.

"That would be nice," he sighs.

Immediately, the tension in your body melts away, a tiny smile making its way onto your face.

"You want me to bring one of those cinnamon rolls you like, too?"

"Yes please..." His voice is so quiet, you're sure he's practically falling asleep at his desk.

"Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Spencer doesn't really think about much when he hangs up the phone. Only that he's really hungry right now, and that he really likes your chicken soup.

The fact that his coworkers don't even know you exist doesn't cross his mind once. Only when you're actually walking into the bullpen, does he realize he should've given them a bit of a heads up, because everyone is looking at you now.

No horrible looks, of course, they're only curious of who you are and why you're here, but you've never particularly liked people looking at you. It makes you feel all anxious and jittery.

Your eyes quickly scan the room (definitely taking note of all the people watching you) and when you finally find your target, a small smile makes it onto your face, despite the discomfort.

He pulls another chair over to his desk as you make your way over, walking just a little faster usual, and place one of those reusable supermarket bags in front of him.

"Hey there," you murmur, bringing his hand to your face so you can press a soft kiss to the back of it. This time, he doesn't even mention how many stupid pathogens can be passed through your hands.

"Beautiful girl," is all he says, quiet and uncharacteristically drowsy, as he reaches into the bag and pulls everything out. Two perfectly warm thermoses, a brown paper bag with some of your fresh bread inside, and two saran-wrapped cinnamon rolls that you've already heated.

You chuckle softly, taking your share of the food and offering him a hunk of warm bread.

Spencer bites off a chunk of the bread and really takes a look at you, now that you're distracted with your own soup. You're wearing a baby pink milkmaid dress, the same one you wore to your sisters baby shower last year, and a white cardigan with little flowers embroidered all over it.

He gifted you the plain cardigan, you were the one who added all the flowers and personal touches.

"I really appreciate this," he hums, finally opening the thermos of soup and spooning some of it into his mouth with one of the metal utensils you brought with you.

"I'm always happy to bring you food when you need it, lovey. Even when you don't necessarily need it, I'll come running," you say in a low voice, sipping your own soup straight from the thermos. "I wish you'd let me do it more. Even when you're not starving and sleep deprived."

He chuckles at the playful lilt in your voice, but knows you're actually being completely serious. "Maybe we can make this a more regular. On the nights I can't be at home—"

"And who might this be?" someone asks, appearing suddenly enough for you to jump a little.

You turn your head the smallest fraction to find another man leaning against Spencer's desk, a (seemingly permanent) smirk breaking through the tired, clouded expression everyone here is sporting.

"Uhm—hi—erm..."

You glance over at Spencer, who is, for the most part, paying no attention to the encounter, simply sipping on his soup and gnawing on his bread like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

"I'm Y/N," you manage, in a voice soft enough to bring serial killers to their knees (now there's an idea), wiping your hands on the fabric covering your thighs and sticking one of them out.

The man hums, eyes flicking between yourself and the man seated beside you. "I don't think Spencer's ever mentioned you before."

Your smile falters slightly, but doesn't disappear completely. "I'm his girlfriend," you say, "and I never really expected him to talk about me here. He said he wouldn't, anyway."

"Girlfriend?" he asks, as if it's the craziest thing he's ever heard. "You. Are Spencer's girlfriend? Spencer has a girlfriend?"

That seems to grab the aforementioned mans attention.

"Morgan. Is it really so hard to comprehend," he asks, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close—as close as he can, with the chairs in the way, "that I could find a beautiful woman to love me?"

Ah. Derek Morgan, that explains it.

"You know that's not what I mean," Morgan argues, the smile not leaving his face. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll be around. Telling everyone. That you've got a gorgeous girlfriend, and kept it from us."

Neither of you have a chance to argue before he's gone. You're honestly surprised he didn't ask exactly how long it's been, but you're sure he wouldn't have liked the answer, so you don't push it.

"...this is great soup, by the way. I love you."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, leaning forward and leaving a tiny peck on the tip of his nose, "I didn't mean to wake you, sweetheart."

"Didn't wake me," he tries to argue, but the sleep in his voice suggests otherwise.

You're a profiler, he should know by now that it's practically impossible to lie to you, especially since you know him like the back of your hand—better than the back of your hand, maybe.

"Whatever you say, Spence."

Unwilling to break the peaceful quiet you're both submerged in, you watch him a moment longer, before finally forcing your eyes away.

Spencer opens his eyes, watching as you push the blankets off yourself and get to your feet. "What're you doing now?"

"We do have a job to get to, Spencer," you remind him with a little chuckle.

He groans and rolls onto his back, stretching out his limbs. "Can't we just call in sick and stay here all day?"

You shake your head and hand him a pile of clothes before beginning to dress yourself. "Remember that huge case we need to get started on today—the one Hotch called about last night?"

Spencer sighs heavily, but nods and crawls out of bed, pulling on the clothes you've chosen for him. You've already left by the time he's finished getting dressed, standing in the kitchen and hurriedly trying to pour coffee into two travel cups.

"We'll need to leave now if we wanna get to work on time," you mumble as you hand him one of the two travel cups—the one with the little blue flowers printed along the bottom.

You press your lips firmly to the skin beneath his jaw, then again to his lips before practically flying out the door.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

"Has our pretty boy finally found himself a pretty girl?"

Spencer flinches at the sudden voice beside him, turning to look at the smug grin on Morgan's face.

It wasn't like you and Spencer really wanted to keep your relationship a secret from your friends, but it was so much easier without the teasing and word-twisting that would surely come from Derek.

"What's this about Spencer having a girlfriend?"

Garcia suddenly appears beside Morgan, tilting her head curiously before her already-wide eyes widen further, nearly bulging out of their sockets.

"I don't know where either of you are getting that idea, but it's unprofessional in the workplace," Spencer mutters, his mind briefly flicking back to you.

You haven't come in yet, usually waiting a few minutes after Spencer goes in to avoid any suspicion.

"What's unprofessional is the—"

Morgan is abruptly cut off by your arrival, bursting through the doors in a flurry of positivity.

You don't say anything as you drop your things off at your desk and casually stroll over to where everyone's huddled. "There's a party at Spencer's desk, and I wasn't invited. I'm crushed, you guys!"

You and Spencer were close before, almost to a strange degree, which might be part of the reason nobody thought any different when the two of you got together, so nobody questions it when you lean down and leave a slobbery kiss on his cheek.

Nobody questions it, until you pull away from him, leaving behind a reddish-brown lipstick print on his cheek.

One that matches the one on his jaw perfectly.

Garcia's jaw drops in shock, and Morgan looks overjoyed. For selfish reasons, of course, but overjoyed nonetheless.

"When were you going to tell me you two were dating?" Garcia demands, almost angrily as you wipe away the print with a tissue from your pocket.

Both you and Spencer immediately freeze. You look like you've seen a ghost, all the color drained from your face, and Spencer is quite the opposite, his face red and hot. So... like he's seen a living person?

That makes absolutely no sense.

"What are you t-talking about?" he manages, frantically looking between the two gawking agents. Even if it weren't for the lipstick, the slight stutter in his voice was enough to give him away.

Neither of them say a word, but Morgan gestures to his own jaw with a finger. There is a lipstick print there from this morning, one that neither of you had noticed, identical to the one you've just wiped off Spencer's cheek.

Well shit.

"Uhm... we were going to tell you," you try to reason, but they've already left, telling everyone within ears reach (and still further) about what they've just found out.

"We should probably go tell Hotch before they do," he suggests weakly, getting up from the chair.

I was on my lunch break when I got the call. My parent's car had driven off a bridge into a river. My dad was intoxicated so he didn't see the truck driving head-on at them until it was too late to do anything but swerve off the road, and they found that my mother had a substantial amount of heroin in her bloodstream.

Enough to overdose, had she not died in the accident.

It's not my fault, I know it's not my fault...

But I can't help but think that maybe if I had been a little more clear about what I wanted from them, or better yet, sucked it up and stayed in contact, things might've turned out a little bit differently.

Growing up with a drunk dad and an addict mom was never easy, and it was a relief to leave home the moment I turned eighteen and move across the country, but they're dead now. They're my parents.

They were my parents.

What kind of girl kills her own parents?

Now I just try not to think about the bad stuff. Pretend that they're safe at home in Washington, still distanced from me, but breathing.

But they're not. Now they're just hunks of decomposing flesh six feet underground, like they never even existed in the first place.

Trying to convince myself otherwise only makes it hurt more.

Keep listening to the mixtapes they made you Overanalyze every single word you hear 'Was this a sign that things were going wrong?' No, no, you were the one that cared too hard, not them

My mom was much like me in the way she never really had any friends, partly because she didn't want to burden them with her addiction issues, but mostly because she never had the time.

'Hi, it's Rachel. I can't answer the phone right now, but please feel free to leave a message after the beep! BEEP — only kidding, that wasn't the real beep."

She sounds so chipper in her voicemail, but I know the truth. I was there when she recorded it, sitting right next to her on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, she was high out of her mind the entire time.

It's one of my best memories of her — the only fond memory I have, actually, because it was the first night since I was a toddler she actually realized I was even in the room with her.

A low bar, but one I happily set for her.

I was a child, after all, what else was I supposed to think? All I knew was that Mommy was finally paying attention to me.

'Hi, it's Rachel. I can't answer the phone right now, but please feel free to leave a message after the beep! BEEP — only kidding, that wasn't the real beep.'

'Hi it's Rachel. I can't answer the phone right now, but please feel free to leave a message after the beep! BEEP — only kidding, that wasn't the real beep.'

'Hi, it's Rachel. I can't answer the phone right now—'

She may have been a terrible mother at times, but God do I miss her voice.

And sometimes I wonder if this little moment together was the real her breaking through the drug-induced haze she seemed to be in at all times. I wonder if this was a sign that she cared enough to make some changes for my sake, possibly run away from Dad with me.

For the love of her only child — her daughter.

But I know that's not the truth. I was always the one who loved her, not the other way around, and that's the way it always has been.

She was just a little delirious.

Stay up every single night staring at your phone Either attempting to gather up the courage to turn these demons, These constant reminders of your loneliness Into nothing more than a bad dream Or praying just for one second You could feel the warmth of equally returned love

Most nights I don't even go to bed anymore. Instead I lay on the bathroom floor with the light switched off, the bright light of my phone illuminating my face.

I'm not doing anything on it, just staring at my home screen, as if that'll fix all my problems for me.

I think I'm too far gone to even be fixed.

Maybe it would be better if I just... didn't exist anymore.

It's a thought that frequently crosses my mind. My coworkers never speak to me enough to be considered my friends, yet they're the closest thing I have to them. My parents never had another child, and they themselves were only children, so I have to family I can talk to.

Really, when you think about, there's not that many people that would care if I were to die tonight.

But I'm already shattered beyond human comprehension. I don't want to be seen as weak, too.

So here I am — not religious in any sense of the word, but silently praying to anything that might be listening as I stare blankly at my phone screen. To bring anyone along that'll keep me from being completely alone, anything that'll give me a reason to continue living.

A person to love me. Just for a moment or two, just enough to keep me here a little while longer. To free me of the burning chains shackling me down.

Only God could relinquish these demons, is the conclusion I come to, and for a single, morbid moment, a thought crosses my mind —

What if that relinquishes me, too.

Go out for coffee four times a week by yourself Always bring your notebook, never stop writing Leave little comics and thank you notes with your tip Watch them smile as you get in your car

Coffee doesn't mix very well with the antidepressants I'm on, it makes me all anxious and jittery. But the pain of the adrenaline racing through me at all times, it's like an addiction.

I hated coffee when I was younger. Still do hate the bitter taste of the stuff, but the effects it has on me are like a drug.

Coffee doesn't mix well with the antidepressants I'm on, it makes me anxious and makes it harder to sleep at night. But the pain of having to keep my eyes open, it's like an addiction.

I hated coffee when I was younger, and I still do hate the bitter taste of the stuff, but it's effects are like a drug.

The worn pink notebook in front of me is open, its pages filled with my thoughts and whatever random ramblings I come up with that I have nobody to share with.

It's the only way I can properly get my thoughts in order, having them written down. It's what my therapist suggested I do. Not going out for coffee, but sitting down and journaling. And she said that being kind to others might lead to more self-acceptance.

It won't, but surely there's no harm in trying.

Lately, I've been leaving little thank you notes with my tips as I leave the café I frequent. I have to admit, it lightens my mood a little to see the smile on the workers' faces as they tuck the little pieces of paper into their pockets, but I wouldn't say it makes me feel any better.

Not about myself, anyway.

Still, I continue to leave them on the table for whoever cleans up my mess to find, car idling out front until the smile brightens their face.

Talk down to yourself whenever possible 'My life is shit because I deserve it, right?' You must have done something really bad It's nearly impossibly for you to cry now

There are times that I wonder if I'm worth all the trouble.

I'm so battered and damaged and broken, there's really not much point trying to put me back together.

There's this one man I work with — Spencer — who I think is trying to undo all the hurt. He's extremely intelligent and a profiler, so I think know he can see everything that's wrong with me.

And I hate it, more than anything.

I hate being so vulnerable in front of someone, that's the one thing he doesn't seem to realize. The discomfort I feel when he watches me, peels my psyche apart piece by piece like I'm some kind of project.

But the thing I hate the most is how much I enjoy his presence. I've had friends in my life, but they're few and far between, and they almost never want to deal with me.

Spencer is unlike anyone I've ever met. He doesn't seem to mind the extra weight I carry on my back or how it's often hard for me to communicate — doesn't care that I'm practically never okay.

I've told him so much about myself, more than I've ever told anybody before, practically everything I can think of. Never having someone to talk to leads to major oversharing, but he doesn't complain, just quietly listens.

The one thing I don't bring up much is my childhood, but I'm sure he can deduce that it wasn't very good, from the things I've already said.

'Sometimes, I wonder if maybe I deserve this,' I told him once, face blank of any emotion as I typed on my computer. He never commented on that, but responded with a non-question of his own.

'You never cry when you talk about this stuff,' he'd mentioned one time while he was sitting in my office with me, eating his lunch as I worked. 'Generally speaking, when someone's talking about something that upsets them, the natural reaction would be to cry.'

I wanted to tell him that nothing about me is natural.

'Suppose I just don't have any tears left.'

And in true Spencer fashion, he rattled on about how you physically can't just run out of tears.

Avoid your friends for weeks even though They're the only sense of consistency you have left in your life If they really wanted to see you they'd come, but they won't Who cares?

Spencer is my friend, there's not doubt about it. He does his best to make me feel better about myself when I'm down, which is all the time, and horrifyingly enough, it works.

Horrifyingly enough, I hate the feeling of it.

So, for that very reason, I've been avoiding him whenever possible. It's been weeks now, and the only time I've seen him is when he shows up at my office before I can rush out for my lunch break. His sad puppy-dog eyes only work to make me feel worse, as I leave.

My address is with the rest of my information, which is (strangely) quite easy to access. Admittedly, I've been hoping that he'll find it and show up at my door. That he'll care enough to make sure I'm okay. That he likes being around me enough to come see me himself.

But he never does.

I can't really blame him for that, though. I think I would do the exact same thing, if I were in his shoes.

The truth is that I miss him, more than I've missed anyone before. I miss his constant ramblings about things too complicated for my understanding, and the sympathy he shows me when I share just a little too much about my life. It's comforting, and that disturbs me.

Why does that disturb me.

I don't want his comfort to disturb me as much as it does.

Allow yourself to lose interest in the things you love Watch as you begin to take a backseat To the world around you, don't fight it Become a secondary character in your own motion picture

Spencer is standing outside my front door.

Why is Spencer standing outside my front door?

"Why are you here?" I ask, more snap in my tone than I mean to have.

He doesn't flinch at my hostility, holding something out towards me with a small smile on his face. "I thought you could use the company, so I brought you some food," he replies, as if it's the most casual thing in the world for him to be here. "We don't have to talk, but I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone."

I'm always alone, though.

The hidden meaning in his words is not lost on me, but I don't say anything about it — I don't want you to do anything to yourself, so I'm here to keep an eye on you whether you like it or not.

I hesitantly take the warm dish into my own hands and step aside so he can come in. My apartment is a mess, enough to color my face with embarrassment, but he says nothing as he sits on my couch and looks around the place. He's never been here before. Nobody's been here before, nobody except myself.

So just... nobody, then?

Spencer is the first person here, ever.

It's clear when he spots the easel in the corner, a half-finished painting on the canvas upon it.

"I didn't know you like to paint," he says softly as I sit on the couch beside him, peeling the foil off the top of the ceramic dish. I'm not quite sure what it is, but it looks homemade, and smells better than any of the takeout I've been eating recently.

He watches me curiously as I stand to grab two plates and two forks from the kitchen.

"I used to like doing a lot of things," I mutter, dropping back down beside him and handing him a plate and a fork. "There's not much I like doing anymore."

Painting, reading, writing — you name it and I've probably enjoyed doing it at some point in my life.

"That's understandable. You've been thorough a lot," he says. A faint smile flits across my mouth before it evaporates again. I place my plate onto the table, appetite next to gone, and let myself curl up onto a ball, pressing my face into my knees as I begin to silently cry.

I have been though a lot, but I barely ever cry about it anymore.

This is the first time I've cried in months, and it's in front of Spencer, the only person I have left now.

I don't want to scare him away.

He doesn't say anything, gently rubbing my shoulder for a short moment before removing it and (presumably) putting some food onto his plate. I want him to touch me again, to comfort me.

"You should eat something," he says, using his thumb to carefully lift my head and handing me a plate. I'm not hungry, but I take it from him anyway and place a small bite into my mouth.

But most importantly Drown every single one of your feelings in old stolen rum Learn to love the taste of it dripping down your throat Find comfort in the warmth coming from your stomach You're drinking bottled love now

It was never my intention to end up in the same situation that my father found himself in most nights, laying limp in an armchair with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in my hand.

As a child I'd promised myself it'd never get to this point — promised myself that I'd never turn to alcohol like he did, scared to hurt the people I love the way he hurt me.

But here I am, and I'm ashamed of myself.

Spencer is standing across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. I don't know why he's even still here. Most people would run for the hills the second they hear how messed up I really am, let alone when they actually have a chance to see it.

He's probably so disappointed in me — isn't everyone? Disappointed in the... miserable creature I'm turning into.

It's not like I can stop, though. The fuzzy feeling in my head is the only thing that can take me away from it all nowadays, the warm tingling in my stomach bringing me more comfort than anybody in my life ever has.

Not for the first time, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be loved.

"It's a bad idea to mix drugs and alcohol," he says. I don't know why he cares so much about what I do. Nobody ever has before.

"It's none of your business," I slur, words barely coherent.

"Mixing antidepressants and hard liqueur increases the risk of overdose and blackouts," he sighs, pushing off the wall and stepping towards me, "so it actually is my business."

'Please help me,' my mouth begs to say. 'Please don't let me end up like him.'

Anger bubbles up inside me instead. "Piss off, Reid."

And for some reasons beyond my comprehension, he doesn't.

Spencer doesn't leave.

And I think I might be kind of in love with him.

Which is why it really shouldn't have seemed like such a secret, shouldn't have shocked everyone as much as it did, that Spencer was absolutely and irreversibly smitten with you.

At first, it was just little things like watching you from across the room with this strange look on his face — he was just watching the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things!

When he started spending more time around you than anybody else at work, and when it became apparent that he preferred your quiet company, it was just because you showed some similar traits to him, right? Nobody thought anything different, because come on, this is Spencer we're talking about here.

But in truth, Spencer is beyond mesmerized by you, the most beautiful woman he's ever met, and so kind to everyone even though they clearly treat you different to your other coworkers.

The poor man doesn't think he could ever admit this to you, though, considering he's a blabbering mess of hot skin and stutters every time he talks to you. So instead of further embarrassing himself (and giving Morgan ammunition to tease him for the rest of eternity), he shows his affection towards you in other ways.

Spencer himself is not a big fan of germs, so he can understand, to an extent, how you must feel most of the time. You've explained it to him before, while he was standing beside you at your desk, watching as you wiped the surface down with an antibacterial wipe.

"I know it probably seems like I overreact, but it's not something I can just turn off," you'd said to him in a whisper once. "I don't do this because I want to annoy people or make life harder. It's just... if I don't, I feel like I'll unravel."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Sometimes it feels like the world is too loud. A stranger is screaming in your ear, you can't see them or touch them, but they're there; there's a bee buzzing in front of your face, but you can't swat it away.

How are you supposed to get rid of something you can't see?

You can't — it's as simple as that, but you can try you're very best.

As if sensing that your thoughts are headed somewhere unsavory, Spencer appears beside you on a rolling chair, as he does most days.

Out of all your coworkers, he's the only one that doesn't poke fun at you behind your back. That's how it's been your whole life, people testing your boundaries and teasing you for something you have no control over, so it's... a nice change of pace.

"Good morning, Spencer," you say softly, offering him a warm smile before turning back to your work. "How are you today?"

"Good—um, good morning," he responds awkwardly, smiling even though you're not looking at him anymore. You see it out of the corner of your eye, his little smile and his firetruck-red face, smiling faintly to yourself as you type away on your laptop.

You ignore how he completely dismisses your question, knowing he'd probably just say the same thing as always — 'Yeah, I'm doing great, thank you. As—as long as you're doing alright.'

He always gets so strange around you, and while you try your best to ignore it most of the time, it still irks you.

No, he doesn't join the teasing with Morgan and Jareau when they think you can't hear them, but he still treats you differently.

"I got you something," he says in a quiet voice, reaching into his bag and pulling out a book. You eye him nervously as he carefully places it onto your desk, using one finger to push it towards you. A tiny smile pulls at your cheeks when you see it's encased in a protective plastic film, but it quickly drops when you see what the actual book is.

'Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: A Journey to Recovery' by David Veale and Rob Willson.

You peel the plastic away, tossing it into the little trash can under your desk and sanitizing your hands before picking up the bright yellow book, opening the front cover with a blank expression.

It's not like you aren't grateful he's trying to help, of course you're happy he cares so much. But a book isn't going to fix your problems, despite what he may think at times. And right now he doesn't feel like a friend, he feels like a doctor, and you feel like a patient laying on a lab table, vulnerable and stripped bare for the world to see.

For once, you just want to have a normal conversation without it turning into some kind of therapy session.

"Thank you, Spencer — um..." You voice shakes ever-so-slightly as you put the eyesore book in your bag. "I will be reading that tonight, that was very kind of you."

You know you'll probably put that book in a box and never look at it again. He doesn't seem to pick up on your unease, smile widening at your apparent acceptance of his gift.

"Actually," you continue softly, in a voice so quiet it's almost silent, head bowed forward, "I'm actually not feeling too well right now, think I might head home for the day."

The smile on his face falters slightly as you push away from your desk and stand up, packing your things away into your backpack. "Is everything — would you like me to drive you home?"

It's not unusual for your mind to trick you into thinking you actually are sick, but on the off chance that you really are feeling something, he doesn't think it's a good idea for you to drive yourself home.

"You know, about twenty-one percent of fatal car crashes involve tired or impaired drivers."

"I'll be fine," you reply blandly, though those statistics do alarm you mildly, stepping around him and walking in the direction of Hotch's office. "Thank you, though, Spencer."

As you disappear into the Unit Chief's office, Morgan give him this curious look from across the room, eyebrow cocked in question, but all Spencer can do is shrug, his own face twisted with confusion.

Usually when you get like this, there's some kind of trigger that sets you off, like a chain reaction of sorts, but right now, he can't for the life of him come up with something that might've set you off.

You're only in the office for thirty-seven seconds (Spencer was counting) before you reemerge, your head still bowed as you rush out of the bullpen, like there's something chasing you away.

"What'd you do to get Miss Sunshine all blue and teary-eyed?" Morgan asks mockingly when you're out of earshot. "She looks like you just kicked a fluffy little kitten in front of her!"

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Spencer's never been to your apartment before — nobody on the team has, the only reason he's standing here now is because your address is on your information.

It feels a bit like an invasion of your privacy being here when he's not even supposed to know where you live, but Morgan was right. You did look like Spencer smushed a kitten under his shoe as you were leaving, and he couldn't in good conscience not check on you.

He reaches a tentative hand up, hesitating for a (very) brief moment before knocking thrice.

There's some muffled shuffling behind the door before it opens, revealing you, wearing a cream colored cardigan with delicately embroidered flowers on it. And while you're still neatly put together, there's a more casual air about you now, like you're more relaxed.

"Oh — Spencer, what're you doing here?"

Your voice rasps slightly, and when he takes a closer look at your face, Spencer finds that your eyes are a little red.

"I was just..." He pauses, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed upset when you were leaving work."

You purse your lips and give him as once-over, then shift out of the doorway — inviting him inside? You close the door behind him once he's inside, guiding him towards the living room with a gentle hand on his back.

It's shocking, to say the least, that you're actually touching him right now, but he doesn't say a word.

"Would you — um — like some tea, or something?" you ask awkwardly, pushing him to sit on the sofa. "Or — or some water?"

"No, but thank you for offering."

You leave the room for a few minutes, presumably to make yourself something to drink, but come back with two steaming mugs, placing one in front of Spencer regardless of what he said.

Another couple of minutes pass where neither of you say anything, sipping on tea and glancing at each other every now and again. He's pleasantly surprised to find that you've used lavender tea.

Your apartment is very clean, looking more like a set you'd find at a department store than anything, but it's still so warm and inviting. You have a couple of candles lit around the place, and Spencer's fighting the urge to warn you about candle safety.

"I don't want you to try and fix me."

Spencer turns his head away from the tall bookshelf across the room to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Fix you. What do you mean, he's trying to fix you?

"The book," you reply meekly, "I don't want you to try and fix me."

That catches his attention, the emphasis on that one little word — it's not that you don't want anyone to help, you just don't want him to help.

You must see the flash of hurt cross his expression, because you're rushing to elaborate, stumbling over your words.

"It's just that — um — I really like you, Spencer, and — uh — when you're giving me stuff like this..." You gesture to the coffee table, where the yellow book he'd given you is sitting. "I don't know, you kind of make me feel like I'm a patient in a lab. Something to be studied and prodded at and — and fixed."

"There's nothing about you that needs to be fixed," he murmurs, trying his best to ignore what you said — 'I really like you, Spencer.'

You place your half-empty mug of tea onto the coffee table and pull your feet up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them.

"I wasn't trying to fix you — everything about you is perfect," he says, quiet and without thinking. "You just seemed so uncomfortable at work all the time, and I wanted to help you out."

"Why, though?" you ask sadly, a faint heat rising to your cheeks. "Why not just join in on all the teasing and mockery? It would be easier than dealing with me all the time."

"Because..." You raise an eyebrow at his entire face quite literally turns the same shade as a tomato. "Because I really like you, too. I didn't think about how it might come off, and I'm so, so sorry for—"

You hold up a hand to shut him up, leaning a little further towards him than he would have thought you'd like.

"Spencer, it's alright," you assure him, placing your hand on his knee, much to his surprise (and embarrassment). "You didn't need to worry, though — you're really the only person at work I spend much time around, and I'm not uncomfortable around you."

"You're... not?"

A soft smile graces your lips. "Not even a little bit. Not even at all."

Spencer deflates into himself, every inch of his his skin uncomfortably hot — this is news to him.

"That's a relief."

Your voice takes on a teasing lilt. "Why? Because you really like me?"

And just like that, his face gets infinitely hotter, but he gives you the tiniest nod, knowing that if he said anything, he would fumble.

"I don't understand why you're embarrassed," you whisper fondly, "I am the one who said it first, after all. You should be teasing me."

He might be the only one you'll accept it from, just like how he's the only person you'd ever accept physical contact with, the only person you'll ever trust enough to put your mouth near him, like right now."

Spencer has to restrain himself from physically recoiling in shock when you press the softest of kisses to his blazing cheek.

Your instincts are screaming on the inside, but if you're being honest, you couldn't care less.

This isn't a stranger, you assure yourself, this is Spencer, and he could never make you sick.

Spencer could never make you sick.

"Is this alright?" you ask as you press another slightly firmer kiss to the skin under his jaw, your voice dripping with something unfamiliar.

Unable to form a single word, Spencer nods, reaching to place a hand on the back of your neck, gasping when your teeth nipped at the sensitive skin.

It's a complete one-eighty from the shy, germ-conscious girl you usually are, but he can't find it in him to complain.

The girl of his dreams, the one who can't even bring herself to touch his hand at work, currently has her mouth on him, she's biting him, and his mind is in a frenzy.

"I'm not gonna freak out if you touch me, Spence," you tease lightly, lips fluttering over the space just beside his mouth. As if to prove your point, smirking against his skin, you take his hand in yours and settle it on the space just below your breasts — under your clothes.

Where you're not wearing a bra.

His mind reels and melts into goo at the feel of your bare skin against his hand, so soft and warm.

An embarrassingly loud whine escapes his mouth as you bite down on his neck again, sucking the skin into your mouth. His hand drifts slightly upwards, brushing against the supple skin of your breast and gently grabbing onto it.

Your breath hitches as he gropes at your chest, lips pulling off his neck with a little pop and head resting against his shoulder.

"Can I take your shirt off?"

Your question leaves him speechless, but he nods nonetheless, reluctantly letting go of you to help you get his shirt over his head.

The sigh of his bare chest has your mouth watering, and you want nothing more than to leave a trail of hickeys down his stomach, but first, you press your lips to his, hands threading through his hair.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs into your mouth, hands resting on your hips as you grind down onto him. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, whimpering as your hips wildly buck down on him. You've never been like this, desperate for the touch of another person, let alone a touch so intimate.

Spencer's grip on you tightens some, and he uses this new leverage to guide your hips, carefully pressing you clothed heat against the hardness straining against his pants.

"P-please," you choke out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, gripping him for dear life as he moves you.

"Hm?" he hums quietly, shifting the angle so he's rubbing right up against your covered clit.

"Please," you breathe out again, clenching around nothing. "Please, Spencer."

You're not even sure what you're begging for, only that you want — no, need more of this stimulation.

He seems to understand what you need better than you do, gathering your body to him and laying you on your back.

Your thighs automatically fall open for him, allowing his body to fit between them, one hand holding himself up. He presses himself against you again, drawing a desperate moan from the back of your throat as he works on undoing the buttons of your cardigan, letting the fabric slide off your body and pool at your sides.

The hand he's not using to support himself reaches for you, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple. The corner of Spencer's mouth twitches upward as you arch up against him, eyes screwed shut.

"You like that?" he asks genuinely, doing it again. You nod frantically, mouth dropping open, but no sound coming out of it.

"Yes," you pant, bottom lip catching between your teeth. "Yes, I like that — please."

"Please what?" His mouth descends upon your neck, fingers continuing their attack on your sensitive nipple, clothed cock still rubbing up against you oh-so wonderfully.

"Please... please touch me," you beg, unable to stop your hips from bucking up against him. "I need you to touch me, Spencer."

Such vulgar words coming out of your mouth. It shocks the man, but he complies, shifting his body backwards so he can pull your skirt and underwear down your legs.

The sight between them is magical — your folds glistening in the soft light of the room, you writhing in anticipation in front of him — and something he has, admittedly, thought about once or twice.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, running his middle finger through your slick and pressing down gently on your clit. You shake your head lazily, face screwed up in pleasure, a sight Spencer will cherish forever.

A strangled moan rips out of you as Spencer presses a finger against your hole, thumb rubbing soft circles on your sensitive bud, and enters you with little resistance.

"Neither have I," he admits sheepishly, pumping his finger in and out of you rhythmically, curling it until he finds that spongey spot within you that has you crying out his name and spilling over his hand.

"Two virgin germaphobes," you mumble jokingly, trying to wiggle closer to him again. You fumble with his belt, somehow managing to pull it through the loops, and toss it on the ground carelessly.

He helps you to push his pants down, just enough for his cock to slip out.

"Two virgin germaphobes," he agrees quietly, adjusting your bodies so you're both in a more comfortable position, sliding his heavy tip through your slick folds. "Are you sure—"

"I'm sure, Spence," you abruptly cut him off, running your fingers through his hair, subconsciously pulling him towards you. "Please just — just fuck me."

Spencer doesn't need to be told twice, slowly pushing into you, gasping as your warm walls suck him in, gripping his cock like a vice. He holds his breath, trying not to immediately blow his load.

You're writhing, gasping, clawing at his back, whispering his name out into the air, and it only works to make him more hungry for you. But he stills one he's fully sheathed inside you, giving you time to adjust.

"Does it — uh — does it hurt at all?" he asks in a whisper, directly into your ear.

"N-no," you gasp back, the small pain slowly morphing into one of pleasure. "It doesn't hurt, you can — fuck — you can move, when you're ready."

He doesn't think he'll ever be ready, with how tightly you're gripping him, but he still finds himself pulling out until only his tip is nestled in you, and slowly pushing back in all the way. You hum shakily, trying to press yourself closer to him as he repeats the action, then again.

Already so sensitive from your first orgasm, you know you're not going to last long with his slow movements, thighs clenching around his. Pressure grows in your abdomen as he thrusts back in, slightly harder this time, grunting into your neck.

"God, I'm already so close," you choke out, head thrown back, sounds you didn't even know you could make raking out of you. Spencer can't get enough of them, leaning down and catching one of your nipples in his mouth, gently sucking on the sensitive nub.

Without warning, you're spasming around him, drool dribbling out of your open mouth as you come, body going slack against the couch.

"W-where do you want me to—"

"Inside," you mumble incoherently, biting your lip hard enough to leave marks, tears building on your waterline. "Please, Spence, I want you to come inside me."

Your words alone are enough to have him spilling inside you, thrusts sloppy and unrhythmic. Your hum in content, clinging to him like a koala as he gently pulls his softened cock from inside you, rubbing soft circles onto the skin over your breastbone. It's comfortably quiet.

And then...

"Hey," you whisper in a tired voice, "you wanna go on a date with me?"