elle 𓇼 26 𓇼 UK

⋆.˚Pair One- The Welcome Back Socks.

The bullpen was loud, buzzing with the collective relief of a closed case. But Spencer’s desk was a quiet island of clutter. It was his first day back after a brutal, sleepless week recovering from a concussion, and he looked incredibly fragile sitting beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. 

You walked over, clutching a small, neatly wrapped paper bag. “Hey,” you said softly. “Welcome back.”

Spencer looked up. His brown eyes blinking behind a strand of hair that had fallen into his face. “Oh. Thank you. Statistically, the transition back to high-stress cognitive environments post-concussion is most successful when-”

“Spencer,” You interrupted gently, sliding the bag onto his desk. “I got you a little ‘glad you didn’t die’ present.” 

He opened the bag with precise, careful movements. Inside was a pair of thick, luxurious wool socks, patterned with tiny, anatomically correct brains and stacks of books.

“They’re… wool.” He murmured, staring at them as if they were a rare manuscript. 

“They have brains on them,” you pointed out, smiling as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and folded your arms, leaning your thigh against his desk. “Thought they might keep your feet warm in the archives. It gets drafty down there.”

“Actually, thermoregulation is vital for cognitive performance,” Spencer said, his face lighting up with that brilliant, boyish enthusiasm that always made your chest ache. “The sheep wool has natural crimps that create pockets of still air, which-”

“You’re welcome, Spencer,” you laughed, patting his shoulder as you stood. You let your hand linger for just a second too long, hoping he’d look at you, and see the affection in your eyes. 

He just beamed at the wool brains. 

Shot one, completely missed.

⋆.˚Pair Two- The Birthday Socks.

For Spencer’s birthday, the team threw a small, chaotic party in the breakroom. After the cake was cut, and JJ and Penelope were busy teasing Morgan, you nudged Spencer’s elbow and nodded toward the quiet hallway. He followed you, curious. 

“Here,” you said, slipping a small gift box into his hands. “Happy birthday, Spence.”

He unwrapped it to find vintage style socks, featuring retro, 1960’s space invaders and a blue police box. You’d spent three weeks sourcing them online. Along with it was a card that read: For the guy who’s entirely out of this world. I’m glad we share a planet.

Spencer gasped. “Are these… the original 1963 BBC licensed colour palette? The dye consistency on these is incredibly rare. They stopped using this specific thread count in the mid-seventies because of textile manufacturing shifts in-”

“Do you like them?” You asked, stepping closer in the quiet hallway. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your heart a frantic tap dance against your ribs.

“I love them,” he said softly, his voice dropping a register as he looked down at you. For a fleeting, breathless second, you thought he might actually get it. He reached out, gently grasping your wrist. “How did you find these? The probability of locating an intact pair from this batch is less than three percent.”

You sighed, a fond, helpless smile breaking across your face. “I have my ways. Happy birthday, Spencer.”

Shot two, close, but still entirely platonic in his brilliant, stubborn mind.

⋆.˚Pair Three- The Mid-Flight Constellations.

It was 3:00 AM on the BAU jet. The cabin was dark, save for the single reading light casting a warm glow over Spencer’s face. He was shivering slightly, his long legs pulled up to his chest as he tried to read a dusty volume on medieval folklore.

You unbuckled, quietly padding over to his seat. You sat in the space next to him, your thigh pressing against his as you lifted your feet to rest against the table in front of you. “The jet’s heating system relies on bleed air from the engines,” Spencer mumbled, his teeth actually clicking. “It’s notoriously uneven. I forgot my heavy boots.” 

“Lucky for you, I’m a mind reader.” You pulled a pair of ultra-plush, navy blue cabin socks from your bag. They were printed with the silver-threaded constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. “I picked them up from that store opposite the hotel. Put them on.” 

Spencer stared at them as he reached out, taking the soft fabric into his hands. “Are these… Ursa Major? And Cassiopeia?” He ran a thumb over the constellations. “These are compression-blend cabin socks. They improve venous return and reduce the risk of deep vein thrombosis during long flights.” 

“I bought them because they looked like the night sky,” you mumbled, “And because I don’t like seeing you cold.”

He slipped them on immediately, letting out a soft sigh of relief as his feet warmed up, before looking at you, his eyes incredibly dark and soft in the dim light of the cabin. “Thank you, this is incredibly thoughtful. You always seem to know exactly what I need.”

You stared at his mouth, waiting for the penny to drop. Instead, Spencer smiled warmly, wrapping his hand around yours and squeezing gently. “You should get some sleep. Sleep deprivation impairs the prefrontal cortex.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. 

Shot three, deflated.

⋆.˚Pair Four- The Good Luck Socks.

Spencer was pacing the bullpen like a caged animal. He had to testify in a high profile federal case in two hours, and his anxiety was peaking. He was reciting the chemical composition of court approved paper stock to anyone who would listen.

You walked up to his desk and slid a pair of socks over his stack of files. They were deliberately mismatched, one bright yellow with coffee cups, the other teal with Albert Einstein’s face.

“What’s this?” his eyebrows furrowed, picking them up. 

“Good luck charm,” you said, straightening his crooked tie. Your fingers brushed his collarbone, and you felt his pulse spike under your touch. You held his gaze, refusing to look away. “You’re going to be brilliant today. Just like Einstein. And you’ll be properly caffeinated. Wear them.”

Spencer gripped the socks like they were a life vest. “Mismatched socks are statistically proven to break tension in formal environments by introducing a mild element of absurdity.” He mumbled underneath his breath. “You want me to be grounded.”

“I want you to know I’m always in your corner, Spence.” You said. Your voice thick with unspoken meaning. “No matter what.”

He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Thank you.”

He wore them to court, delivered a flawless testimony, and later told you the tactile sensation of the reinforced heels kept him from hyperventilating. He thought you were the greatest best friend in the world.

Shot four, a swing and a miss.

⋆.˚Pair Five- The Valentine’s Day Socks.

It was Valentine’s Day, and you had decided this was it. The final, desperate attempt before swallowing the rejection and making an attempt to move on. Before Spencer arrived at his desk, you left a small, beautifully wrapped package. Inside was a pair of bright red socks, patterned with highly accurate, detailed anatomical hearts, complete with pulmonary arteries and veins. Next to them, you placed a card, signed with a ridiculous pun you found by googling ‘nerdy valentines day puns’ the previous night.

Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re Cu-Te!

When Spencer arrived, you watched from the breakroom as he opened the box. His face went entirely pale, then bright red. He read the card once. Twice. Three times. And then his brain completely stalled. You watched him frantically tap his fingers on his desk, his eyes darting around. He clutched the anatomical heart socks, stared at the card for a moment before stuffing it into his satchel as if it were a live grenade. He pulled the socks on, but he didn’t move. He didn’t come and find you, he just stared blankly at his computer screen. 

Your heart sank. Shot five. A disaster.

An hour later, Spencer was still staring at his screen, wearing the bright red heart socks, looking like he was trying to solve a differential equation using only his eyes. 

Morgan strolled by, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. He stopped, his gaze dropping to Spencer’s ankles. “Nice socks, kid,” he commented, leaning against the edge of the desk. “A little bold for a Tuesday, no?” 

Spencer blinked, pulling his eyes away from his monitor. He looked down at his ankles. “Actually, the anatomical representation of the left ventricle is surprisingly accurate for a novelty cotton blend. They were a gift.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. He slowly set his coffee cup down as he glanced over to you in the breakroom, washing your cup. “On Valentine’s Day?” He asked, turning back to Spencer.

“Yes,” Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly finding a paperclip on his desk very interesting. “She also gave me a card, with a… a cute little science pun.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing,” Spencer admitted, clenching his jaw and furrowing his eyebrows. “I didn’t want to misinterpret it. It could be a friendly gift. Statistically, seventy percent of non-romantic acquaintances exchange gifts on holidays to reinforce social cohesion, she’s a very empathetic person.”

“Reid.” Morgan cut him off, deadpan. “I didn’t get socks. Hotch didn’t get socks. Garcia didn’t get socks.” He paused long enough for Spencer to look at him. “She’s been buying you custom socks for six months.”

Spencer froze. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the keyboard. “What?”

“The brains? Space invaders? The stargazing ones?” Morgan laughed, shaking his head with a fond, exasperated grin. “Pretty boy, she isn’t trying to keep your feet warm. She’s trying to sweep you off them. She’s crazy about you. Go.”

Spencer’s eyes went wide. The entire puzzle of the last six months suddenly clicked together in his head. The lingering touches, the soft looks, the incredibly thoughtful, highly specific gifts. He hadn’t been receiving friendly gestures. He had been receiving a love letter, piece by piece. “Oh my god,” he gasped, his chair flying backwards as he scrambled to his feet. “I’m an idiot.”

“We’ve been waiting for you to realise that,” Morgan shouted after him as Spencer sprinted toward the breakroom. 

You were standing by the coffee maker, staring at the drip of the liquid into your cup when the door burst open. Spencer stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his hair wild, and wearing the ridiculous red anatomical heart socks with his dress shoes. 

“Spence-”

“I’m incredibly stupid,” he blurted out, taking three long strides to close the distance between you. “Well, objectively, my IQ is 187, but emotionally, in this specific department, I am operating at a severe deficit. I thought you were just being nice and then I thought I was projecting my own wishes onto your actions because I’ve wanted to ask you to dinner long before the socks.”

Your breath hitched. “You.. you have?”

“Yes! Practically since the day you started working here but I was terrified of making things awkward, and then Morgan pointed out that you were trying to sweep me off my feet, which is a highly effective idiom since you literally bought me footwear, and-”

You cut off his frantic rambling by reaching up, grabbing the lapels of his cardigan, and pulling him down into a kiss. 

He went stiff for a fraction of a second before he let out a soft, shaky sigh. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back with a sweet, desperate intensity that made your knees go weak. 

When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, and a brilliant, breathtaking smile was spreading across his face. “So,” he cleared his throat. “Dinner?”

The bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit was usually a cacophony of controlled chaos, phones ringing endlessly, papers shuffling hurriedly. But the moment the latest victim’s photograph was handed to the team, the room fell dead silent. 

Spencer Reid dropped his pen. It rolled off the edge of the mahogany table, clattering against the linoleum floor, but he didn’t even blink. Your name barely pierced through the ringing in his ears as JJ announced it to the team, his fingers curled tighter around the photograph until his knuckles were white.

“... Twenty four. She was taken from her apartment parking lot in Alexandria late last night. If the unsub’s timeline holds, we have less than six hours before he-”

“Four hours.” Spencer interrupted. His voice was hoarse, but it cut through the room like glass, his eyes still didn’t lift. He stood so fast that his chair scraped violently against the floor. 

Hotch’s eyes locked onto him, “Reid, what do you mean?”

“The geographical distribution of the dump sites indicates a comfort zone with a radius of no more than twelve miles, but the escalation in his cooling off period suggests a severe increase in his disorganized erraticism," Spencer rambled, his eyes still locked onto your photograph, your smile, your bright eyes. “He isn’t going to keep her for twelve hours like the others. He’s spiraling. He’s going to kill her in four. Maybe less.” 

Gideon leaned forward, his dark eyes studying Spencer’s erratic pacing, the way he hadn’t looked away from the photograph in his hand once since JJ had given it to him. “How do you know her?” He asked in his calm, quiet tone.

Spencer’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, a shocked silence settling over the group as his eyes finally lifted to Gideon. 

“She’s… She was my girlfriend.” He said, the word sounding foreign yet heavy on his tongue. “In Vegas, before Caltech.”

A look exchanged throughout the room, one of understanding as Morgan stood, placing his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, he flinched gently under the touch, and lifted your photograph to look at your smile again. “You never…”

“We broke up because she was… she got into her dream program, I got into Caltech,” He swallowed, a hard lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t want to hold her back.”

Hotch caught up with Spencer as they walked towards the jet, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. His face had drained of colour, pale and terrified. Hotch was trained to look for cracks, and right now, Spencer was fracturing right in front of him. 

“Reid,” his voice dropped to a low and steady tone. “If you’re too close to this, I need to know now. I can’t have you in the field if you’re compromised.”

“I’m not compromised.” Spencer shot back instantly, his voice rising a pitch, he looked around at the teammates ahead, his chest heaving. “I’m the only one who can do the probability modeling on this unsub’s geographic regression fast enough. I know her baseline behavior. I know how she reacts under stress, she’s highly resilient, she won't panic immediately, which means she might buy us time, but we don’t have time. If you sideline me, you’re losing thirty percent of your analytical speed!” 

Silence settled between them, Hotch held his gaze, Spencer’s chest heaving. “I won't miss anything.” He said, his voice cracking as his brows furrowed, almost pleading, “I promise you. I won’t miss a thing.” 

Hotch swallowed, before nodding once. “Okay.” He said calmly, patting Spencer’s shoulder before the two of them jogged to catch up to the others. 

Spencer’s fingers leafed through the crime scene photos, the photograph of you safely tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. He was running numbers, calculating probabilities, mapping the unsub’s previous movements with frantic energy. 

“Reid, you need to take a breath,” Elle said gently, “We’re going to find her.”

“I can’t breathe, Elle,” Spencer said, his voice cracking as he looked up, his wide brown eyes swimming with a rare, raw terror. “Do you know what she did when I was twelve years old, and the kids at school zip-tied me to a goal post? She didn’t laugh. She sat on the grass next to me and read me The Count of Monte Cristo until the janitor came with a wire cutter. She saw me. Not a freak. Just me.” He gripped his hair, pulling slightly as if he could force his brain to work faster. “Now he has her. If she dies because I was too scared to-”

“Hey. Look at me.” Morgan said, leaning over the table to force Spencer’s eyes to him. “That is not going to happen. Focus. What is your brain telling you about this guy? Where is he keeping her?”

Spencer forced his eyes closed. He shut out the rumble of the engine, the flicking of pages and murmuring of agents, the phantom scent of your perfume and feel of your hair in his hands that always seemed to linger in his memories. 

Think.

“Police sent over the security footage from her apartment complex. The abduction took less than forty seconds. He was waiting for her.” Hotch said as he scanned the file in front of him, his eyes momentarily flicking to Spencer, his knee anxiously bouncing and his jaw tight as he stared out of the plane window.

“Did he target her specifically, or was it a crime of opportunity?” Morgan asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Opportunity.” Spencer said, taking a deep breath in before turning to Morgan. “He doesn't know me, and he doesn’t know her. The previous three victims all shared the same physical profile and were taken from transit points within a three mile radius of the interstate ninety-five corridor. It’s random. It’s entirely random… The unsub uses a white van with rusted wheel wells,” Spencer murmured, his thoughts tumbling out. “The soil transfer on the victims shoes was rich in iron oxide.”

Hotch stared at Spencer for three long seconds, the tension in the plane palpable. Finally, he gave a single firm nod. “Alright, you stay on the geographical profiling, JJ, get on the phone with local field office and pull every traffic camera feed within five miles of her apartment. Gideon and I are going to her place to walk the scene.”

The air in the concrete cell grew colder as the afternoon bled into evening. 

Your head throbbed, a dull, agonizing pulse behind your eyes. You tried to shift your weight, but a sharp spike of pain in your ribs made you gasp, the sound muffled by the rough rope tied around your mouth. Through the high, barred slit near the ceiling, the weak Virginia sunlight was beginning to fade, casting skeletal shadows across the damp brick walls. Three hours. By your own estimate, you had been in this room for at least three hours. In the next room, the pacing had stopped, replaced by the heavy, dragging sound of metal scraping against concrete. You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the ceiling, on the rhythmic, maddening drip of water. One drip every four seconds, you calculated, your mind clinging to the structure of the math because it was the only thing keeping the terror from consuming you entirely. It was a habit you picked up years ago, from a boy who used to explain the mathematical probability of rain just to calm you down during summer thunderstorms in Nevada. 

“If you look at the cloud density and the barometric pressure, it’s actually a beautiful equation,” his voice echoed in your mind, so clear that it made your chest ache. 

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the kiln chamber creaked open. Your breath hitched, your eyes squeezed closed for a fraction of a second, then you forced them open, you wouldn’t let him see you vulnerable. He stepped into the room, large, imposing, with clothes stained with grease and dried mud, his eyes vacant and deeply bloodshot. He didn’t look angry, he looked frantic, his hands shaking as he carried a heavy roll of wire and a rusted iron pipe. His movements too fast, his breathing too shallow. He stopped in front of you, staring down with an unsettling, detached curiosity. He reached out, his dirty thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and you flinched away, your teeth clenching. “You aren’t screaming. Why aren’t you screaming?”

You glared at him through your tangled hair, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you kept your gaze steady. The man grunted, a dark, frustrated sound, and raised the heavy iron pipe. “We’ll have to fix that.”

“She lived alone, but she didn’t live isolated.” Gideon murmured, tracing his fingers along the edge of a neatly arranged bookshelf. “She was organised, careful, The neighbours said she kept to herself, but she was always polite. She moved here six months ago. Why Alexandria?”

“Maybe a fresh start.” Hotch suggested, stepping into the small hallway that led to the bedroom. “Had a break-up, fell out with a friend.” He theorised. The bedroom was modest. A neatly made bed, a dresser with a few framed photos of your family, a small writing desk near the window. Hotch approached the closet, pulling it open, while Gideon walked over to the bed. He knelt, his eyes catching on something tucked just beneath the dust ruffle. He reached under and pulled out a faded, purple cardboard shoebox. 

“Hotch.” Gideon called out softly.

Hotch turned, watching as Gideon sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the lid. Inside the box were dozens of envelopes, bundled neatly with a blue piece of twine. Gideon slid the top envelope out from under the string. The paper was slightly worn at the edges, handles many times. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the postmark.

Pasadena, CA. October 2000

Then his gaze fell on the sender’s handwriting. It was incredibly precise, small and frantically slanted. “Reid.” Hotch murmured, stepping closer. It wasn’t a question. He recognised the erratic, rapid-fire flow of the penmanship instantly. Gideon untied the string and opened the most recent letter in the pile. It was dated nearly four years ago. He skimmed the page, his eyes softening as he read the dense paragraphs, a dizzying mix of complex astrophysical theories, ramblings about Caltech’s library, and, woven between the lines, a profound, aching vulnerability. 

…I tried to calculate the probability of us staying together despite the geographic distance, but the variables are too volatile. I don’t want to be the gravity that pulls you away from your own orbit. You deserve to fly. But please know that even if the universe expands forever, my coordinates will always find yours.

“She kept every single one of them.” Gideon said quietly, folding the paper back into its creases. “He stopped writing because he thought he was protecting her.” He paused as he looked at Hotch. “She moved here to be closer to him.” 

“But she never called him,” Hotch observed, his voice tinged with a rare touch of solemnity. “She wanted to see if he would reach out first.”

Before Gideon could reply, Hotch’s cell phone rang, cutting sharply through the quiet apartment. Hotch held the receiver to his ear. “Hotch.” 

On the other end, Morgan’s voice crackled through, thick with urgency. “Hotch, we have a location. Reid cracked the soil analysis. The iron oxide and calcium carbonate point to the old Lorton Brickworks kiln chambers, right off Interstate ninety-five. We’re five minutes out.”

“We’re on our way.” Hotch said, his eyes locking onto the purple shoebox. “We’ll meet you there.”

The sirens of the local police cruisers wailed in the distance, but the tactical team moved in absolute, synchronized silence. 

The old Lorton Brickworks loomed in the gray evening light, a crumbling monolith of rusted steel and decaying masonry. Heavy rain began to pelt the concrete as the SWAT team, flanked by Morgan, Elle, and a visibly trembling Spencer, stacked up against the primary entrance to the underground kilns.

“Breaching in three… two… one…”

The heavy iron door was blown open with a deafening metallic screech. Spencer didn’t wait. He pushed past the tactical shield, his flashlight beam slicing frantically through the darkness of the subterranean corridor, screaming your name into the abyss, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. The team swept through the chambers, the beams of their flashlights illuminating nothing but empty space, piles of discarded gravel, and decades of undisturbed dust. There were no chairs, no ropes. No signs of recent life.

“Clear!” a SWAT officer shouted.

“Clear!” another echoed from the back.

Spencer froze in the center of the main kiln chamber. He shone his flashlight at the ground. The dust on the concrete floor was thick, even, and completely undisturbed. No footprints.

“No.” Spencer murmured, his eyes wide and frantic. “No, no, no… this is wrong. This is all wrong.”

Morgan stopped at his side, his hand landing on his shoulder. “Reid, talk to me. What do you mean it’s wrong? The soil report-”

“The soil report in Sarah Jenkins’ shoes had calcium carbonate-” he paused, bending to run his fingers through the soil, “but the Lorton Clay Pit has a high concentration of alumina.” He rambled, his voice climbing to a panicked breathless pitch. He stared at his dirty fingers as if they held every answer he was looking for. “Aluminia is acidic. But the soil on Sarah’s shoes was alkaline. The calcium carbonate wasn’t from the clay itself… It was a shifting agent from limestone runoff. From the Occoquan River.”

He scrambled backward, pulling his folded paper maps from his pocket with shaking hands, tearing the edges. “The Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory,” Spencer gasped, a tear of pure horror spilling over his eyelashes. “It’s six miles south. It closed in ninety-four when the quarry flooded. It’s the exact same architectural layout, built by the same parent company, but the geological runoff is entirely different. I miscalculated the geographic regression because I assumed he was staying close to the interstate corridor, but he isn’t trying to stay near the highway, he's trying to stay near the water.”

Hotch and Gideon sprinted into the chamber, their faces grim. “Reid, what is it?” Hotch demanded.

Spencer looked up, his face entirely drained of colour. “We’re in the wrong place. He has her at the Occoquan facility. It’s twelve minutes from here.”

“How much time do we have left on your timeline, Reid?” Gideon asked, his voice steady but urgent.

Spencer looked at his watch. The ticking of the second hand felt like a physical hammer to his skull. “Eight minutes.” Spencer whispered, his chest heaving as he stared at Gideon. “In eight minutes, he kills her.”

Twelve minutes of driving had to be forced into six. The black SUV roared down the rain slicked, winding roads toward the Occoquan River, tires skimming over deep puddles. Inside, the silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the furious, rapid-fire tapping of Spencer's fingers against his knees. “Four minutes,” Spencer murmured, his eyes fixed on the dashboard clock. “We have four minutes.”

“I’m driving as fast as the road allows, Reid,” Morgan growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp, blind curve.

“It’s not fast enough!” Spencer suddenly yelled, a rare, uncharacteristic burst of anger cracking through his panic. He slammed a hand onto the dashboard. “He’s going to kill her, Morgan! He’s going to kill her because I spent three years hiding from my own feelings in California!” 

No one in the car spoke. Elle reached forward from the backseat, gently squeezing Spencer’s shoulder, but he was too far gone to feel it, drowning in the mathematics of his own failures. Up ahead, through the heavy downpour, the dark outline of the Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory finally broke through the trees.

Inside the concrete kiln, the shadows had stretched so long that they swallowed the room. Your chest burned with every shallow breath. The pacing in the corridor had stopped. There was only the low, wet drag of boots stepping through the shallow puddles of groundwater on the brick floor. You pulled against your bonds, the harsh rope tearing through the skin of your wrists, but the knots were professional, unyielding. The heavy metal door of the chamber groaned on its hinges. The man stepped inside, carrying the same rusted iron pipe. The weapon scraped against the wet brick with a high pitched, metallic screech that made your stomach roll. “The water’s rising.” He muttered, his voice hollow and frantic. He looked up at the ceiling, then back at you. “They’re close. I can feel them. They’re trying to take you away from me, but I have to keep the sequence clean. Three, then four. It has to be complete.”

You didn’t close your eyes, staring straight at him, your jaw trembling but your gaze fierce. You thought of a boy under a starry Vegas sky. 

The pipe began its downward swing-

The SUV hadn’t even fully stopped before Spencer threw his door open. He hit the gravel running, his boots skidding as he sprinted toward the gaping, dark mouth of the Occoquan kiln entrance. “Reid! Wait for tactical!” Hotch’s voice echoed through the storm, but Spencer couldn’t hear him over the roaring of his own pulse.

Spencer burst into the cavernous, pitch-black underground network. His flashlight beam swept wildly over crumbling brick arches and deep, stagnant pools of flooded water. The labyrinth of identical corridors stretched out before him like a physical manifestation of his worst nightmare. He stopped, holding his breath, desperately trying to listen over the sound of the rain hammering the roof above. A muffled, metallic clang rang out from the deep left corridor. 

Spencer took off. He rounded a corner, his foot catching on a piece of debris, sending him crashing hard onto his shoulder against the wet brick wall. Pain shot through his arm, but he barely registered it. He scrambled back to his feet, throwing his weight against a rotting wooden door at the end of the hall. The door splintered inward. 

The beam of his flashlight caught the terrifying tableau in an instant, the unsub, the raised steel pipe, and you. Tied to a chair, eyes wide with terror.

“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Spencer screamed, his voice raw, completely devoid of his usual restraint. 

The unsub swung around, his face twisting in rage as he charged at the lanky agent with the pipe. Spencer didn’t retreat. He didn’t wait for Morgan, or Hotch. With a desperate cry, he tackled the larger man, the two of them slamming violently into the muddy floor. The pipe clattered away into the dark as the unsub clawed at Spencer’s face, pinning him down, but Spencer fought back with an agonizing, furious strength, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs. Just as the unsub grabbed Spencer’s throat, Morgan and Hotch burst into the room. Morgan threw himself onto the suspect, ripping him off Spencer and slamming him face first into the wet brick to cuff him. 

Spencer lay on the ground for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, before scrambling on his hands and knees over to your chair. His hands shook violently as he pulled at the knot around your wrists. “I’m here, I- I’m here, I’ve got you.” He choked out as the knot came free. The moment your arms were free, you threw them around his neck. His hands moved to the rope at the back of your head and pulled, releasing the gag from your mouth as you collapsed against him, sending him back to the floor. “Spencer-” You sobbed, your voice a broken whisper against his ear. His long arms wrapped around you, burying his face in your wet hair as he cradled you in his lap, holding on so tightly it felt as if he were trying to pull you directly into his chest, away from the cold, away from the horror, away from the years you had spent apart. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes swimming with tears when you pulled back to look at him. They flicked over your face, the lines of grease and dirt where the unsub had touched you, the drip of blood from a cut above your eyebrow, the skin rubbed raw by the rope gag around your mouth. “I’m so sorry, I- I…” His hand moved from your head to your jaw, his thumb gently tracing your cheek. You leaned into his touch, a small, bruised smile pulling at your lips. “Are you okay?” 

Paramedics rushed in, sirens wailed in the distance. “Let’s get her to the ambulance, Reid.” Hotch said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let the EMTs look her over.” 

The back of the ambulance was relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the storm outside. The rain hammered a steady, muted rhythm against the metal roof. The doors were pulled shut, leaving the two of you in the warm, sterile glow of the interior lights. You sat on the gurney, a heavy, orange blanket dread over your shoulders. The paramedic had finished cleaning the cuts on your lip and eyebrow, and bandaging the raw, chafed skin of your wrists, leaving you with a small cup of water before stepping out to give you some space. Spencer stood just inside the doors, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. He had a white blanket wrapped around his own shoulders to combat the chill of his soaked clothes, his wet hair curling at the ends. He stared at his mismatched socks, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, and very lost. 

“Spence?” You said, your voice soft and scratchy. He looked up, his brown eyes wide as he walked over to the edge of the gurney, his movements hesitant, as if he were afraid to startle you if he moved too quickly. 

“Are you… are you okay?” He asked, gently settling next to you on the edge of the gurney. “The medical examiner- I mean, paramedic said your ribs are only bruised and not fractured, and your wrists…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the white gauze wrapping your wrists. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I miscalculated the Lorton put. I should have realised the soil runoff variable sooner. I cost us twelve minutes. I almost-”

“Spencer.” You reached out, your bandaged hand cutting off his rambling as you gently took hold of his fingers. “You saved my life.” He let out a shaky breath, his fingers slowly curling around yours. “And with a hell of a tackle too.” You added, smiling gently. He looked down at your joined hands as he let out an exhale that could have been a laugh if not for the circumstances, and the dam finally broke.

“I was so scared.” He murmured, his voice cracking. “When JJ handed me your photo, my entire brain just… stopped. I’ve spent years training myself to be objective, to compartmentalise, to analyze everything through mathematical probability. But the moment I saw you, the math didn't work anymore. I couldn’t breathe.” He swallowed, eyes locked on the way your fingers slotted perfectly between his. “Gideon found the letters under your bed.” He confessed quietly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, swimming with tears. “He showed them to me while they were…” He gestured at your wrists with his free hand. “I… I stopped writing because I thought I was doing the logical thing. I thought I was saving you from having to choose between your dream and a boy who was too weird, too complicated, too… broken to keep up with you.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but you didn’t look away. “Spence…” You whispered. “I moved here because I hoped that if I was close enough, maybe the universe would find a way to slide us back into the same orbit. But I was… I thought the letters stopped because you had moved on.”

“I could never move on from you.” He answered instantly, reaching up with his free hand, his long, slender fingers trembling as he gently brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass. “I love you. I never stopped, not for a single second.”

A soft smile broke through the pain on your face, watching as a tear finally fell over his lashes. “I never stopped either.” You whispered, watching his whole face soften, his shoulder turned as he moved to face you. He was still trembling slightly, the residual adrenaline of the rescue humming through his veins. He looked down at you, the shadows of the ambulance cast soft lines across your face, highlighting the dark bruise on your cheekbone, the spit on your lip. To anyone else, you looked battered, the victim of a terrible crime. But to Spencer, you were the same girl who had sat in the dusty desert grass, holding his hand when the rest of the world felt too loud.  There was no hesitation, no distance of four lost years, no unanswered letters between you anymore. Just the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed. 

His fingers gently cradled your jawline, so careful, his thumb lightly tracing just below the bruise on your cheek, treating you like something infinitely precious. When he leaned down, you met him halfway. 

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if he was terrified of hurting you. He pressed his lips to yours with a quiet, aching reverence, a silent apology for every day he had spent letting the silence stretch between you. But as your hand moved to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, the hesitation dissolved. He let out a shaky, ragged sigh against your mouth, deepening the kiss. It was a chaotic rush of warmth, of relief, of a profound love that had survived years of distance and the brink of death. He pulled you closer, his other hand splaying flat against your back, holding you to him as if to convince himself that you were truly here, safe and alive. 

When you finally parted, neither of you moved away. Spencer rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space. He smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “My heart rate is currently one hundred and forty-two beats per minute,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion but carrying a hint of his familiar, nerdy charm. “Which is physiologically consistent with acute cardiovascular arousal, but I’m fairly certain ninety percent of it is just because of you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes shining with fresh tears as you pulled on the back of his neck again. “Shut up.”

“Okay.” He mumbled against you as you brought his lips back to yours.

He reached for his phone, flipping it open and blinking in the light from the small screen as his thumb pressed down on the button to move through his contacts. There was Morgan, who probably fell asleep hours ago after picking someone up from the bar. Then Hotch, who was almost definitely asleep next to his wife. His thumb stopped when his eyes scanned your name, realising that you might be the only person that he couldn’t be sure what you were doing. The probability that you were asleep was high, and that the phone call would wake you up before a long day did cross his mind. He didn’t want to wake you, he didn’t expect you to answer, he just needed to feel, even for a moment, that someone might. His thumb pressed onto the phone button, and held the phone to his ear, counting the rings as they vibrated against him. One. Two. Thr-

“Spencer?” 

Your voice was quiet, sleepily soft and raspy, his back straightened at the sound of it. His chest tightened with guilt, immediately regretting his decision, that he had interrupted your night’s sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he cursed his insomnia fuelled decision making. “I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m so sorry, I just… I couldn’t sleep, and my probability calculations for waking you were much lower than reality, and I should let you go back to sleep-”

“Hey, Spencer… breathe,” you interrupted gently, and he could hear the shifting of your comforter as you sat up against your pillow. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No… Physically, yes. Cognitively, I’m at a standstill.” He murmured, dragging his hand down his face as he flopped back against his bed, his free hand resting on his stomach. “It’s been four days. I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Your heart dropped at the profound exhaustion in his voice, the tremor of defeat that bled through. Spencer had opened up to you about his insomnia before, and you recognised how bad it had gotten. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” You said, pinning your phone between your ear and your shoulder, already pulling on your sneakers.

“Wait, no it’s-” He sat upright, his fingers curling into his t-shirt as he heard the jingle of your keys through the line. “It’s past three in the morning, the safety risks of driving at this hour-”

“I’ll lock my doors. See you in fifteen, Spence.”

The call ended with the dial tone and he pulled it away from his ear, staring down at the phone as he flipped it closed. A warmth spread through his chest as he realised how quickly you had helped, without even needing to be asked. And the way you had called him “Spence”.

When you arrived at Spencer’s apartment twelve minutes later, he opened it after your soft knock, and your heart ached a little at the sight of him. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, his hair mussed at the back where he had been tossing and turning against his pillows. His eyes dropped to your pyjama pants, green and white striped with little cartoon characters dotted around the fabric, and the oversized hoodie that hung from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to come.” He said, though he stepped aside to let you in, his eyes fixed on you as if you were a holy being. 

“Well I’m here now.” You smiled softly, setting your keys on the counter as he closed the door with a gentle click. “You eaten anything? Had something to drink?” 

“I had tea. It didn’t help.” He said, shuffling awkwardly behind you as you moved to his worn velvet couch. He sat down stiffly beside you, his hands tucked between his knees, looking like a nervous guest in his own home. 

“Talk to me.” You said. “Or don’t. You don’t have to explain anything.” 

Spencer looked at you, his brown eyes wide, and glassy with fatigue. He paused for a moment, his shoulders losing some of their tension as he watched you sitting comfortably in his apartment, as if you belonged there. “Can I just…?” He gestured vaguely towards you, a rare moment of hesitation from someone who usually had all the words.

You nodded, lifting your arm along the back of the couch. He didn’t need to be told twice. Spencer shifted, sinking sideways against you, hesitating for a fraction of a second before letting his head drop onto your shoulder. His long legs tangled awkwardly on the small couch, but as your hand dropped back down to his shoulder, you felt him sigh, finally letting go of the tension he’d been holding onto for days.

“Your heart rate is remarkably steady,” Spencer mumbled, his eyes drooping slightly from the warmth of your body, the comforting scent of you enveloping him. “It’s roughly sixty-five beats per minute.” You smiled at his calculations, even when he was suffering with insomnia, his mind still wouldn’t stop noticing things. “It’s very soothing.” He added quietly, almost as an afterthought. 

“Good.” You said gently, resting your cheek against the top of his head, tracing slow, lazy patterns against his arm, just below the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. “Focus on that.” You hummed. 

For a few minutes, he kept talking in a low, drowsy monotone, his voice vibrating softly against your collarbone. “There’s a biological phenomenon known as physiological synchrony.” He mumbled, his eyelids fluttering as he fought to keep them open. “When two individuals are in close physical proximity, especially during moments of shared trust… their autonomic nervous systems begin to mimic one another.” He paused as your hand moved up into his hair, slowly brushing your nails along his scalp. “Your steady heart rate is effectively acting as an external pacemaker for my overstimulated amygdala… lowering my cortisol levels… by approximately…”

His voice trailed off, the precise percentage losing its battle against his exhaustion. The spaces between his words stretched longer, turning into quiet, shallow breaths.

“...it’s very…efficient.” He sighed deeply. You held your breath for a moment, listening. The frantic, nervous energy that usually radiated off him had completely evaporated. His breathing had deepened, turning into a rhythmic, peaceful rise and fall against your chest. He was asleep. Truly, deeply asleep. 

You gently leaned back, holding his head in careful hands as you maneuvered it into your lap, his cheek pressing against your thigh as you let go. You ran your fingers through his hair again, looking down at him, completely safe, using you as a pillow. And you had no intention of moving until morning.

The pale glow of afternoon light filtering through the blinds was what finally woke Spencer. He didn’t move at first. His brain, usually firing at a mile a minute from the second he opened his eyes, was blissfully quiet. He became aware of three things in record timing, even for his brain: the heavy weight of exhaustion lifting from his chest, the faint scent of familiar perfume, and the fact that he was still completely sprawled against you on his narrow couch. You were awake, propped up against the arm rest, your eyes watching the muted TV while your hand was still tangled in his hair. 

You looked down as Spencer slowly lifted his head from your lap, and let your hand drop from his hair. He looked away as his cheeks flushed, finding the textbook on the coffee table more interesting than it should be. You pushed yourself more upright from the slouched position you had been in for the last ten hours. “How are you feeling?” You asked, leaning forward slightly in an attempt to catch his eyes, but they were fixated on the book. 

“Yeah-” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head in embarrassment before trying again. “Better. Um… I’m sorry for essentially using you as a human sedative and trapping you against the couch.” He said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“There are worse places to be.” You laughed softly. That made him look at you, his eyes quickly moving between yours as if trying to deduce a deeper meaning from your statement. “Besides, you desperately needed sleep.” 

His fingers twisted together between his knees, and his gaze dropped to his fidgeting hands. His lips pursed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, his brows creased in thought. The blush on his cheeks didn’t fade, if anything, it crept down his neck. Finally, he spoke. “I didn’t just sleep because I was tired.” He murmured, his voice dropping to that quiet, vulnerable tone he rarely used.

“What do you mean?” You asked, meeting his brown eyes as he looked back up at you, searching your face with the analytical precision of a profiler, but stripped of all professionalism. “I’ve tried prescription medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, white noise machines, sleep deprivation techniques…” He said softly, gesturing his hand as he listed his methods. “Nothing overrides the hypervigilance. But last night… my brain calculated the highest probability of safety simply because you were in the room…” He looked down at his hands again, swallowing thickly. “Because I was holding onto you.”

You felt your breath hitch a little, your eyes darting between his. “Spencer… you don’t hav-”

“No, I-” He started, running his hand through his hair before realising how abruptly he had cut you off. “Sorry… I just- I noticed it months ago, how my anxiety decreases significantly whenever you’re around, how my heartbeat increases when I can see you from afar,” he continued, taking a slow, shaky breath. Unconsciously leaning in a fraction closer as his thumb picked at the skin around his finger. The slight shift had the space between you feeling charged, and you dipped your head to attempt to meet his eyes. He noticed, and lifted his eyes to you, they moved slower than usual, lingering on your mouth before finally meeting yours. “There was nothing statistical about the way you comforted me last night.” He admitted, the honesty of it hung in the quiet afternoon air. 

The corner of your mouth lifted slightly, watching the way Spencer anxiously chewed on his lip. Your arm lifted, reaching out to brush your fingers against his jaw, before your hand settled against his face. “Spence..” You murmured, your eyes dropping to his lip as his teeth finally released it, his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his lips parting as he leaned forward another inch. His skin goose-pimpled underneath your fingertips as you mirrored the action, bringing your faces inches apart. His eyes fluttered closed, and nose brushed yours as his head tilted slowly, your breaths mingling in the minimal space between you. His lips brushed yours gently, not a kiss, but more of a question, asking for permission. Your fingers moved into his hair as you finally closed the gap, sliding your lips between his. The sigh that he let out against you was one of relief as his hands moved to cradle your head, his long fingers holding you against him as if he never wanted to let you go. 

The way his lips slotted against yours grew more heated, his fingers curling into your hair as his apprehensive trembling faded. He gasped as your tongue flicked against his, one of his hands moving from your hair to the back of your neck, before his fingertips moved down the line of your spine, the motion sending a shiver through you. You began to lean back, using both  arms wrapped around his neck to pull him down with you. He scrambled against the couch to a more comfortable position as he leaned down over you, the hand that had been tracing your back dipped underneath your hoodie, his thumb gently brushing your hip, as he braced himself on the other arm to hold himself above you. His tongue traced against yours, letting out a soft hum in satisfaction of the feeling of you against him. 

Your hands tugged at his hair softly, tilting your head as your lips moved against his in a slow, sensual rhythm. His lips pulled away momentarily as he repositioned his head, his eyes stayed closed, his nose brushed against yours, his breath hitching as he leaned back in. His hand traced up your side, his thumb gently caressing the dip of your waist as his body settled flush against yours, melting against you. “Spence.” You mumbled against his lips between kisses. He pulled back, his brow furrowed in concern, his mind racing with the possibilities of what you were about to say, had he done something wrong? Had he taken it too far? 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” He panicked, his voice quivering with both want, and nerves. You smiled gently, tucking a stray hair behind his ear before resting your palm against his face. 

“Nothing.” You shook your head, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth, watching his eyes drop to the movement, his pupils dilating and his breathing growing more laboured. “Just wondering if you own a bed, or whether you just sleep on the couch every night.” You hummed, twisting his hair around your fingers absently. He let out an amused exhale, half his mouth lifting into a sheepish smile, ducking his head and squeezing one eye closed as he nodded. 

“Yeah… Yes I-” He sat back, letting his thumb brush against your waist slowly. “Yes, I own a bed.” He finished, his voice dropping to a quiet, almost shy tone. You stood from the couch, Spencer's hand still on your waist, tilting his head to look up at you for a moment before following suit. 

His bedroom was what you would call an organised mess. Books scattered across every surface, empty abandoned mugs around the room. The glow from behind the orange curtains made his features look softer, and the smell of a burnt out candle enveloped you, comforting and warm. Spencer’s hands wrapped around your hips as yours settled against his shoulders as his mouth lowered back to yours, more sure now that he knew you wouldn’t pull away. His fingers toyed with the hem of your hoodie, silently asking for permission. You broke away to pull the hoodie over your head, your shirt coming with it, leaving you in only your bra. Spencer swallowed, an involuntary, breathy “wow,” leaving his lips before he could stop it. You smiled softly, lacing your fingers through his and pulling him with you as you backed towards the bed. 

He kneeled on the bed as you lay back, pulling his shirt off before settling over you, his body between your thighs. His skin was warm against yours, his lips catching yours in another deep, deliberate kiss as your fingertips traced down his back, the contact pulling a soft moan from his throat as his hips shifted against you. His lips moved down to your jaw, pressing a line of soft kisses along your neck towards your collarbone, the soft brush of his mouth combined with his breath against your skin had your back arching, pressing your chest against his. 

“Is this okay?” He asked as his lips moved down over your chest, pausing just above the line of your bra. You nodded, lifting yourself up slightly to unclasp your bra, and pull it from you. Spencer swallowed thickly, before lowering his mouth back to your skin, slowly moving his lips down toward your nipple. He closed his mouth around the sensitive bud, his hands steady on your ribs as he dragged his tongue over your sensitive skin, his confidence growing with the breathy moans that left your lips. He lifted his eyes to watch the way your head tilted back, the way your lips stayed parted around sighs and gasps as he continued, responding to when his actions gained an arch of your back or a tightening of your fingers in his hair. 

Eventually, he brought his mouth away from your chest, only to press soft kisses along your stomach, shifting backwards on the bed as he brought his mouth lower. His shaky hands moved to the waistband of your pyjama pants, eyes flicking up again, his brow creased in a question you answered by lifting your hips to give him the space to drag them down. His tongue moved out to wet his lips as he pulled your pants down your thighs, placing them gently on the floor as if he would hurt the fabric by throwing it carelessly. He inhaled unevenly, his eyes still locked on yours as he lowered himself down towards you. His lips landed on your hip first, his fingers gently tracing your inner thigh as he moved his mouth down further with each kiss. You gasped when his mouth finally closed around your clit, a soft, gentle movement that already had your body writhing and desperate for more. Spencer’s head spun with want, eagerly obliging in your twitching hips, delving his tongue deeper through your folds. He moaned at the taste of you, a low vibration shaking through your core, his eyes closed as he focused on flicking his tongue in the way you liked. 

His fingers drew up your inner thigh until they reached where his mouth was already hungrily lapping at you. You moaned as one finger gently pressed into you, slowly at first, working you open with extreme preciseness and care as he gradually pushed it further. He crooked his finger in time with his tongue, his other hand gripping your hip as he responded to every signal your body gave him. Every moan, every tightening of your stomach, every time your fingers tugged at his hair, every time he felt his hand wet from your arousal, he studied them, locking the information safely in his brain to calculate the best way to bring you to your peak. He moaned against you again as he inserted another finger, feeling you clamp down around them as he curled them just right. 

“Spencer…” You moaned, the sound of his husky name from your lips sent ripples of pleasure through his body. “Right there, Spence..” You sighed, your hips bucking into his face as he continued moving his tongue over your clit. Time slowed as he watched you fall apart, the way your body clamped down on his fingers, your thighs closing around his head, squeezing him as you moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the walls. He slowed his movements, letting you ride out your high as your back arched, your fingers tightly tangled in his hair. When your moans turned to laboured breathing, he lifted his mouth away, and carefully withdrew his hand from you. 

“What that… Was it okay?” He asked softly, his brow furrowed in genuine question. You opened your eyes and propped yourself up on your elbows, he smiled at the way your hair was messed from the pillows, and the flush across your skin that hadn’t faded. 

“More than.” You said, your voice still breathy, and your chest heaving as you tried to regain composure. You watched him wipe his mouth on his arm, and you sat up fully, your hands trailing down his stomach to the top of his sweatpants. His breath hitched as your nails gently scraped his skin. “Do you have…”

“Oh, um… yeah. Somewhere. Hold on.” He moved almost immediately, his long frame extending as he leaned over the edge of the bed to rummage through his pile of clothes. He located his wallet, and pulled out a blue wrapper. “Just check it’s still…” He murmured as he turned it over in his hands to find the expiration date, it had been a long time since he needed one of these. “Yeah it’s um-” He glanced back up at you, at the way you were propped up on one arm, your hair falling behind your back, tangled around your shoulder, the light filtering through the curtains painting you as some kind of sun goddess. “You’re so pretty.” The words rushed out of him in a single breath as he moved back towards you. You smiled gently, using one leg to wrap around his hip and pull him down over you, his mouth met yours with no hesitation this time. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled, he dropped one hand to help, the other stayed in your hair as he kissed you deeply. 

Once his sweatpants were discarded, your hand moved to his cock, wrapping around the considerable length as his eyes squeezed closed. “Oh-” He rasped, his mouth staying open and eyebrows shooting upwards as your hand slowly moved. His jaw stuttered as you worked him slowly for a long moment, he finally found it within him to close his mouth, and swallowed hard. 

“Okay?” You asked, smiling when he nodded desperately, unable to form any other coherent thought than the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, moving so deliciously slow. Eventually, he fumbled with the wrapper for a moment before finally tearing it open, only then did you let go for him to roll the latex down his length. He leaned over you as you lay back, eyes flicking to yours as he positioned himself, and rolled his hips forwards. He moaned against your lips as you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his soft skin as he dropped to his elbow. “Spence-” You whispered as he pulled his hips back before setting a slow, steady pace. His breath was against your ear, his eyes squeezed closed as he let out a low groan at the feeling of you wrapped around him. 

“You- God… You feel so-” He choked out, every thought slipping his mind other than the way you felt digging your nails into his shoulders, the way your leg lifted to hook over his hip and pull him deeper, the sounds you were making every time he pushed forwards. He moved his mouth back to yours, catching your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue tangled with yours as he kept his steady, aching pace. Your chest pressed against his as your back arched, one of his hands splayed across your thigh, holding it against him as if he couldn’t bear to have any part of you not touching him. His cock dragged through you slowly, a perfectly gentle pace that had you moaning against his mouth, your hand threading through his hair. His slow, deep thrusts had your head spinning as you reached your free hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit to rub tight circles. The extra stimulation had you clenching around him already, his hips faltering for a moment as you grew tighter around his cock.

“I-” He stuttered against your mouth, “I’m gon-” he couldn’t finish his sentence as the ripples of pleasure washed through him, his stomach tensing as he came, his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes squeezed closed, and his fingers tightened on your thigh. Long, loud moans spilled from his mouth as he stilled, his breathing ragged and uneven. As his head stopped spinning, he lowered it to your shoulder, nuzzling his face into your neck as your arms wrapped around him, your fingers carding gently through his hair as his breathing returned to its normal pace. His mind was quiet, for once in his life, he could enjoy the moment, enjoy the feeling of your body under his, enjoy the-

“Spence.” Your soft voice broke his train of thought, and he lifted his head to look at you with sleepy eyes. “You might wanna take that off.” You said, at first, he furrowed his brows, unsure of what you meant, but then it registered, and he laughed softly before reaching down to pull the condom off, before rolling over to discard it in the trash by his bed. He wasted no time returning to his position with his head on your shoulder, his arm slung over your stomach, listening to your heart rate returning to normal as you traced your fingers up and down his spine. 

He could definitely get used to this cure for insomnia.

You had turned up in the middle of the night, the sound of your car pulling into the lot had made his eyes drift from the book he was reading whilst curled up on the window seat, over to where you were slamming your car door closed, attempting to balance cardboard boxes that had become damp in the rain and using your foot to push open doors with your keys dangling from your mouth. It wasn’t until he heard the boxes land on the wooden floor next door that he realised he should have helped you, offered to open doors or carry boxes or… anything really. But he hadn’t, he was too distracted figuring you out. Who you were, where you were coming from. Judging by the lack of boxes and personal belongings, he had figured you were either moving out of your parents home for the first time, or moving out from a shared home, be that with a partner or a friend. His answer came two days later when he heard your muffled voice through the wall. He couldn’t make out any words, but you sounded upset, and angry, speaking in half-choked sobs and sending your phone clattering to the floor when you hung up. 

You introduced yourself a week later. His arms had been full of mail from the mail locker in the lobby, and lifted his head at the moment you dropped from the last step, your hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket. His fingers curled around the letter in his left hand tighter as his eyes darted away from yours quickly, before he could linger too long on the shiver it had sent up his spine. He had introduced himself quickly in return, and disappeared upstairs before you could engage him in small talk and he ended up embarrassing himself by telling you a strange fact that you didn’t need to know. You had found it odd, but shrugged it off as him not being sociable, and carried on with your day. Spencer had paced his apartment until he felt like he was leaving grooves in the floor.

He had ignored you since. Not completely, but answered your questions shortly, didn’t engage in small talk, and when you had made cookies for the neighbours, he had returned the plate by leaving it outside your door, no knock, no note. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, no. It was in fact quite the opposite. That the morning after that interaction by the mail locker, he had been in the line of fire at work when Morgan had noticed his silence after having to call his name three times before he looked up. After some intense, friendly, interrogation, Spencer had caved, and told Morgan about you. His advice was unhelpful to say the least, and so he had been stuck in his head trying to figure out a way to talk to you without coming across as weird. 

The apartment settled around you a little heavier than usual, the door closing behind you sounded more dull than you ever remembered it being. Your feet dragged heavily through the apartment, not avoiding the creaky floorboard like you usually did and immediately regretting it when the sound vibrated through your bones. The couch all but swallowed you when you flopped against the cushions, staring blankly at your reflection in the black mirror of your TV screen. Today was meant to be your three year anniversary. You were more angry than sad, annoyed by the fact that you had found the evidence of Connor’s affair in your own home, angry that you were the one who had to move, angry that you were angry, angry that the cute guy next door hadn’t spoken to you in weeks. You had set out to have a good day today, to forget all about Connor, and the lipstick on his shirt, the perfume on his jacket, the women's underwear under the bed. You booked a nail appointment, took yourself to your favourite coffee shop, treated yourself to an afternoon in your favourite book store and even bought yourself two new novels. But it had still felt empty, and you were angry that doing these things for yourself hadn’t helped you take your mind off the lingering thoughts. The lingering insecurity that came with his infidelity, the shame of not recognising the obvious signs, the humiliation of having to tell friends and family that you had been betrayed in the worst of ways. Your hands pushed through your hair as you leant your elbows onto your knees, letting out a long exhale. 

The knock at the door came when you were almost finished with dinner, about to add the finishing touches to the plate when the sound rattled the door in its frame. Your brow creased, the plastic packaging of the basil rustled as you placed it down on the counter. As you made your way over to the door, you felt your stomach dropping with the weight of apprehension, as if your body knew there was something wrong behind that door. The cold metal slipped in your hand as you turned the handle, only to be greeted with an all too familiar scent that had a lump rising in your throat. The overwhelming smell of Axe body spray almost had your eyes burning when you inhaled, forcing you to take a step back, and clear your throat. 

“You gonna let me in?” Connor’s voice was lower than when he normally spoke, the tone he used when trying to manipulate you into believing him, or into forgiving him. Your jaw tensed at his words, teeth grinding against each other with the audacity he possessed to turn up at your door. 

Spencer shouldered open the door to the apartment complex, a paper bag filled with groceries in the crook of each arm. His breath punched out of him in an irritated exhale when he saw the “Out Of Order” sign hanging on the elevator door. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and began his walk up the stairs, the last thing he needed after a long day in the office. As he trudged up the stairs, the sound of muffled voices grew louder, his brows furrowed as he reached his floor, and heard the voices more clearly, one he recognised immediately as yours, the other remained unknown to him. His chest flared at the waver in your voice, like you were trying to put on a confident front while hiding how truly distressed you were. He stopped on the second to last step, the one that kept him hidden from view, and listened to the conversation, his eyes darting around as he tried to grasp the situation, 

“C’mon.” Connor said, the floorboard creaking underneath his weight as he tried to step closer to gain access to your apartment. “Just wanna talk to ya.” He pressed, bringing his arm up to lean against the doorframe above your head, always trying to dominate your space. 

You folded your arms, hoping that the action would conceal the way your hands were shaking. It wasn’t that you were scared that Connor would hurt you, although you also hadn't thought he would cheat on you and yet here you were. It was more that he was unpredictable, that you genuinely had no idea what he could want from you, and if you would be able to get him back out once he was in. 

“No.” You said, your fingers tightening on your biceps. “We have nothing to talk about.” You nodded, as if you needed the confirmation to yourself that you were saying the right thing, judging by the short exhale through Connor’s nose, he wasn’t too happy with your decision. 

Spencer winced slightly at the quiver in your voice, his eyes dropped to the floor, running over the worn carpet as his teeth worried his bottom lip, feeling his heartbeat pick up to 160bpm, his guess given by the way it was rushing through his ears. He took a breath in and lifted himself onto the last step, bringing both you and the man you were talking to into his line of view. 

“Goodnight.” You began to close the door, but Connor’s hand slammed against the wood, the bang making you jump, your eyes widening as you looked at the way his palm flattened against the door. You swallowed, and his hand dropped back to his side.

Connor’s jaw set, and he cleared his throat as he tried to look past you into your apartment, making you close your door back over a little more, trying to protect the peace you had created for yourself without him. “Nah.” He sniffed once, his fingers drumming against the doorframe, “let me in, we can talk, looks like you’ve done the place up real-”

“Excuse-” Spencer cleared his throat, and your eyes lifted over Connor’s shoulder, seeing your neighbours’ wide, brown, doe eyes through his glasses, and his furrowed brows as he shifted awkwardly, his paper bags crinkling in his arms. “Excuse me,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. “But she said she doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

You inhaled as Connor turned around to eye Spencer, your gaze softened as Spencer looked at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in support. Connor turned back to you, catching the lingering tenderness in your eyes, and his hand curled into a fist at his side. “Who’s this freak?” Connor gestured back towards Spencer without taking his eyes off you, “stalkin’ you or somethin’?” 

Spencer’s head tilted at the insult, more puzzled than offended but he stepped forward towards his own front door as he spoke. “Most stalking cases involve someone the victim already knows. Former intimate partners account for a significant proportion of reported incidents, particularly when there's a history of controlling behaviour or a difficulty accepting the end of a relationship.”  He said as he stopped just outside his door, Connor’s eyes darkened, and Spencer either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge it, his eyes moving back to you. “Persistent unwanted contact after someone has clearly asked for space is also one of the behavioural indicators professionals look for when assessing escalation risk.” He paused, his eyes meeting Connor's. “You've been asked to leave twice now.” 

Spencer finally squared his shoulders, standing a little straighter than before despite the tension radiating from the man in front of him. His gaze wandered back to Connor. “Now I believe she made her stance pretty clear?”

Connor ran his tongue over his teeth, taking a calculated gaze between you and your neighbour before he scoffed, a sharp, humourless sound. “You think you’re funny?” 

Spencer didn’t answer, letting the silence linger with a blank look which only irritated Connor further. He took a deliberate step forward, invading Spencer's space until only a couple of feet separated them. "You got a habit of stickin' your nose where it doesn't belong?" Connor muttered, his voice low. "This has nothing to do with you."

"It became my business when she told you to leave and you ignored her."

Connor scoffed. "You don't know what you’re talkin’ about."

"No," Spencer agreed evenly with a tilt of his head. "But I know enough to recognize when someone isn't respecting another person's boundaries."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you know enough?" he sneered. "You some kind of expert now?"

Spencer adjusted the grocery bag against his hip, reaching into his jacket pocket for his keys, the movement pulled the edge of his jacket back to reveal the leather badge wallet clipped to his belt caught the dim lighting. Connor's eyes dropped to it as it glinted, his expression changed almost instantly. "...FBI?"

Spencer looked down briefly, as though he'd almost forgotten it was there. "Yes." He answered plainly.

The confidence drained from Connor's face. His shoulders lost some of their rigid tension, though the irritation remained. "You could've said that."

"You didn't ask."

Connor looked between Spencer and you, jaw working as if he wanted one last cutting remark. Whatever he'd been about to say died behind his clenched teeth. After a long beat, he took a reluctant step backwards. Connor's gaze lingered for another moment before he gave Spencer one last wary look. Then, with a shake of his head and a curse under his breath, he turned and stalked back toward his car.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, pushing his key into the lock, not taking his eyes off his hand as the door opened. You cleared your throat, pushing your hair back behind your ears and nodding as you leaned against the doorframe. 

“Yeah.” You said, your voice too shaky to be convincing. 

"He'll probably come back." He said, glancing up into his apartment before finally looking at you. His expression softened when he noticed the colour drain from your face. "I don't mean immediately," he clarified gently. "But people who are used to getting the last word, or controlling how a conversation ends, don't typically accept being told no the first time. Especially if they believe they can change someone's mind." He paused, his tongue pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as if thinking, considering something. "I don't want you sitting in there by yourself if that's a possibility." He said finally.

You looked up at him.

"If you're comfortable with it..." He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can wait in my apartment for a while. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I was just going to unpack my groceries and make some tea."

You blinked, your grip finally loosening on your arms, and your hands dropping to your sides, the invitation so welcoming that it caught you completely off guard.

"I've got books," he added after a beat, as though that might somehow make the offer more convincing. "And... statistically, it's safer than you being alone if he decides to drive back."

A breath of laughter escaped you despite yourself, and Spencer looked faintly relieved.

"You don't have to decide because I offered," he said quickly. "I just thought I'd rather know you're somewhere you feel safe."

You glanced back into your apartment before looking at Spencer.

"...Tea sounds nice."

The corners of Spencer's mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile.