Landshark Fandom Trash

You've always been a Type A. You love getting up early on Sunday mornings for a long run. Afterward you grab fresh croissants from the bakery and eat them, freshly showered, with your mom's homemade jam. That doesn't just sound like a good weekend to you — it is your peace.

During the week you study while working part-time at an architecture firm. A demanding job, an even more demanding degree, and a career that genuinely fulfills you.

You liked your life — and you didn't care if other people found it "boring."

So how, exactly, did you end up in the middle of the hottest club in the city?

The bass pounded in your ears while the ecstatic pulse of the crowd pushed you side to side in a steady rhythm.

You were hot, sweat already sliding down your inner thighs — even though you'd deliberately worn your shortest shorts and dug a brown lace halter top out of your closet for the occasion. Your black cowboy boots clicked along to the beat, your wavy hair bouncing with every step.

You might not be a party girl — but you knew exactly how to dress to feel good in a club. And this fit? Earned a solid 100 points on the hot-and-confident scale.

"You good?" your roommate and best friend Lia screamed into your ear.

The two of you led pretty different lifestyles — but somewhere over the past year of living together, you'd learned to love that about each other. It at least gave you something to talk about over lunch (breakfast, for Lia). You filled her in on the latest work gossip; she filled you in on the finer details of her one-night stands (your highlight: the guy with the unapologetic foot fetish).

You nod in agreement.

"Is your babe up soon?" Lia's voice shrilled in your ear again. You roll your eyes.

"1:30's his slot, we've still got a while," you try to yell over the thumping bass.

The reason you were even here was, for once, not one of Lia's schemes — it was entirely your own idea.

You loved listening to music while studying. Radio used to be enough, until the endless ad breaks and hosts recycling the same jokes wore you down. Then a coworker recommended SoundCloud — and that's where you found your new obsession. It only took a few weeks before the best DJ sets and mixes started flooding your For You page.

Including an artist called NO1.

You followed plenty of talented artists, but NO1 had really gotten under your skin. Beyond the high-energy mixes, what set him apart was that he sang or rapped over his own tracks. Producing good music is one thing — but performing on top of it, and sounding that good doing it? That's rare.

So NO1 didn't just soundtrack your studying — he soundtracked cleaning, grocery shopping, working, jogging, every moment you wanted headphones in and the world tuned out.

And if you were being fully honest with yourself, you might have developed a small crush on him. Nothing serious — the kind you get on a celebrity who's completely out of reach.

Except NO1 wasn't out of reach. He was in this club, tonight.

He'd announced it, mysteriously, on Instagram: just a black background, today's date, and the club name written in white font.

NO1 was known for keeping his fans in the dark. Until recently he hadn't even posted a photo of himself — the only way to know what he looked like was to actually go see him play live. In his small but devoted fandom, knowledge of his face was treated like sacred information.

Just recently he'd let one detail slip: a video from a set he'd played in a luxury loft. All you could see was the LA skyline, his DJ setup arranged on top of a pool table, and his back reflected faintly in the window glass.

You were hoping tonight would be the first time you'd see his front.

"I think I have to pee!" Suddenly yanked out of your thoughts, you remember where you are — and that Lia is still yelling into your ear.

"Okay! I think," you swallow, your throat starting to go hoarse from all the screaming, "I'll stay here, the set's about to start!"

Lia rolls her eyes. She knows perfectly well you'd never abandon your spot right in front of the DJ booth this close to his set — Type A, remember?

Before you can even mutter a quiet "sorry," Lia pats your shoulder gently, winks, and starts making her slow but steady way toward the club bathroom.

Okay, maybe you did have a big fat crush. Just the thought of finally seeing the musician who'd been brightening every single day for weeks was enough to send butterflies looping through your stomach.

That's cheesy and ridiculous, you tell yourself, trying to get your feet back on the ground and calm the butterflies down.

I refuse to be embarrassed about my fictional crushes! you counter, out of a feminist reflex.

Suddenly the lights cut out.

A ripple runs through the crowd, a few panicked yelps mixed in. Before you can even start to worry what it means, a familiar beat kicks in.

While you and the rest of the crowd are still trying to process what's happening, a low, deliberate sound of someone clearing their throat crackles through the massive speakers, directly in front of you.

Was that—?

"NO1, off the leash I’m on the throne"

At the sound of that familiar opening line, a huge grin spreads across your face. His voice was powerful, confident, unmistakably him. He sounded good. Even better than the recording that had been topping your favorite playlist for weeks.

Before you can fully process that it's really him, the club lights flare back on, spotlights slamming onto the DJ booth. The beat builds, his voice booms through the club, and the hype in the crowd ratchets up until people are jumping, screaming, singing along.

Then he steps out onto the stage — and he's standing directly in front of you. Not just that — your eyes lock onto his, intense and unfiltered.

His gaze is sharp, fixed on yours. But what really threw you was the crooked grin. He looked far too confident, far too cocky, like he already knew exactly who the star of the night was: him, obviously.

He looked like he was buzzing with energy while he kept singing into the mic, head tilted down. His pointed shoe tapped the beat of his own song while his hands worked over the countless knobs and switches on his setup.

Sure, you'd wanted to be right up front — but now it felt almost too close. The DJ booth was his territory, and you felt like you were stepping into some mystic space, becoming part of his attention.

While he focused on transitioning into the next track (only after you'd screamed along to your favorite line — „she’s screamin’ out my name, I got them girls feeling holy!“), you finally took him in properly.

His short red hair was the first thing you'd noticed. Even in the dark, shifting club lighting, it practically glowed.

His high cheekbones. The sweat already dripping from his temple. And above all — that damn grin, dripping with self-assurance. NO1 was hot.

You couldn't hold back your own grin, because one clear thought cut through everything else: you'd known it all along. How else was the man who'd been running your playlists for weeks supposed to look?

He blended every song into the next seamlessly. Beats that made your body move almost on instinct, rhythms layered together in ways you'd never heard before.

Lost in the colored lights, you forgot everything. Every move felt unbelievably right, every roll of your hips landing perfectly with the song — you even surprised yourself. But you and NO1 seemed to be perfectly in sync.

Almost in slow motion, you look back up at him — and your eyes meet his again. Intense, hungry, blunt. You couldn't look away, held by his gaze. His grin stayed. Slowly, he dragged his eyes down your body, head to toe. Eyefucking you, slow, deliberate, with no rush.

So his confidence wasn't just about the music, then.

Seconds stretched into what felt like hours — and you let yourself enjoy his gaze on you. Your movements got more sensual, more deliberate, bolder with every passing beat.

If he wanted to stare, fine — you'd at least give him a good look at exactly how hot your ass looked in those micro shorts.

His hour-long set flew by.

The crowd moved with him, ecstatic. In between songs you tried to spot Lia in the crowd but gave up fast — the club had gotten too packed. You hoped she was having as much fun as you were.

"Thank you!" he growls into the mic, and vanishes from the stage as fast as he'd appeared.

Slowly the crowd around you settles, and your own high starts to fade with it. That was it, then. You'd seen NO1 live.

Something to tell your kids one day, when they ask if you were ever actually "cool" in your twenties.

The crowd starts to thin — people going to find friends, or hitting the bar for a cold drink. But you? You just weren't ready to let go yet.

Even as the next DJ took the stage and started an equally insane set, you couldn't bring yourself to move.

You keep replaying every moment your eyes met NO1's — him staring you down, undressing you with just a look. Did he do that with every girl dancing up front for him? You'd rather not know.

Until a tap on your shoulder pulls you out of your head.

"That was insane, Lia," you sigh, dramatically, loud enough to carry over the music.

"Thanks," says a much deeper voice than you'd expected, directly behind you.

You spin around — and find yourself staring straight into the eyes of the man you'd spent the last hour drooling over.

His eyes crinkle into half-moons, his grin no longer cocky — just joyful. He looked genuinely pleased by what you'd said. Didn't people tell him that constantly?

"Oh," is all that manages to escape you. Great job, Y/N. Really impressing the man of your dreams, you think sarcastically.

"I'm glad you had a good time. I figured you did," his smile widens, his nose scrunching, "but I always love some direct feedback."

His genuine expression made you bolder.

"The middle section could've used some work," you fire back, unable to fully suppress your grin.

"Oh, please, enlighten me!“

He raises both hands playfully.

"I would, but it's way too loud in here!" you shout, deliberately loud enough that the three people standing nearby turn and stare.

Instead of backing off, his gaze goes darker.

He leans in slowly, close to your ear — and you feel the butterflies in your stomach start looping in anticipation — and murmurs, just loud enough for you alone to hear:

"Can I take your hand?"

That, you hadn't expected. After an hour of eyefucking, you'd have believed him capable of something filthy, or at least a sorry excuse of dirty talk — not something this innocent.

Your grin got bigger. You raise your right hand demonstratively, tap it repeatedly with your left index finger, and arch your eyebrows, as if to ask: "This old thing?"

Even a famous DJ's patience apparently has its limits, because instead of humoring you further, he reaches out and takes your hand — firm, but gentle.

Like you'd known each other for years, your fingers slot together automatically. With his other hand, he gestures behind him — toward the black door he'd walked through for his set. That had to be the backstage area. He raises his eyebrows, a question.

You scan the club one last time, hoping to spot Lia. Before you disappeared into a backroom with an internet celebrity, your plus-one should probably know about it.

You find her near the bar, deep in conversation with a purple-haired woman but her eyes are locked on yours — like she'd been watching this whole time.

As subtly as you can manage (you hope), you tilt your head toward the backstage door. You hope she gets it.

Her eyes go wide, disbelieving, like she's asking: "Is that HIM?"

You nod slowly, eyes wide, in a bit of a daze yourself.

Impressed, Lia's mouth curls downward — her universal sign for "not bad."

Before you can finish the silent conversation, you feel his gaze on you again.

Judging by his grin, he'd caught the entire exchange. Great, Y/N. Nothing says not a complete freak like conducting eye-contact negotiations with your best friend mid-flirt.

But instead of running, he quickly turns towards the direction of your friend, giving her a questioning look and a thumbs up. 

She couldn’t help laughing - obviously giving you two the okay he has been asking her for. 

Then he pulls you slowly through the crowd toward the black door, straight into the backstage area.

Everything's different back here. The soundproofed door reduces the club's noise to a dull thump in the background.

The long hallway leads to what you assume is a fire exit out of the club, with two side doors branching off it. One leads to the room where the other DJs wait patiently for their sets — the other, NO1 pulls you into with total certainty.

Was it weird that you'd followed a man into a backstage area without actually knowing him? Maybe a little.

Technically, though, he wasn't a stranger — you followed him on multiple social platforms, and you weren't above handing that information over to the authorities if things went sideways. You were safer than on every blind date, you told yourself smugly. 

As if he'd had a similar thought, he lets go of your hand and sits down, deliberately, on one of the speaker crates in the corner of the room. Giving you space — making sure it didn't look like he'd dragged you out of the club for a quick hookup — which makes you grin, pleased with yourself.

So he wasn't just a great DJ — he was also a decent guy. Damn it.

"You were incredible out there on the floor," he murmurs, much quieter now that he doesn't have to shout over the music.

"Are you kidding? YOU were the one who was incredible out there!" it bursts out of you. "The way you completely owned that room. Everyone was dancing, completely under your spell. I've never experienced anything like that in a club before!" You notice yourself getting carried away, fully into it.

Your enthusiasm doesn't pass him by unnoticed — his gaze, warm and open, meets yours.

"You know, when you play a different place every weekend, it can start to feel a little routine," his expression turns more thoughtful. "My job is to give people a good time. And when I manage that, it stops feeling special — I'm just doing what I'm supposed to."

Before you can respond, he keeps going. "That's why nights like tonight matter so much." His eyes flicker, distant for a second. "The way you danced tonight — so lost in it, so carefree. That's exactly why I love making music."

You feel warmth spreading through your body at his words. You hadn't expected your own happiness to be that contagious for him. Suddenly he doesn't feel like a celebrity. But breathtakingly human.

You take slow steps closer as he keeps talking.

"You were like my sun out there tonight. Whenever I was unsure, I looked for your face to reassure me. When a song landed, your smile told me I was doing something right. And every time you closed your eyes and just danced, lost in your own world — like it was just the two of us in that whole club... fuck. That was incredible to watch."

Now you're standing barely a foot away from him, and he can watch exactly how his words are landing on you.

"Are you blushing? Do you like it when I tell you you're gorgeous?"

He noticed his effect on you. Shit.

"I don't hate it," you manage, trying to hold onto your composure.

"I like how you think." He arches an eyebrow, challenging. "What's your name?"

You don't hesitate. "Y/N. And you? NO1 sounds cool, but there's no way that's actually your name."

He rises off the crate and steps closer. You're playing with him exactly as much as he's playing with you — he feels safe closing the distance.

"If I tell you my real name, you have to promise to keep it to yourself..." he murmurs, close to your ear, „perks of a secret identity, right?“ His warm breath sends goosebumps down your neck and your thighs pressing together on reflex.

You meet his eyes and nod.

"Kim Hongjoong," he whispers, low and rough, right into your ear. "You can call me Hongjoong."

Two could play this game.

Slowly you raise your hand to the back of his head, running your fingers carefully through the short hair at his nape.

„Nice to meet you," your voice comes out raspy.

At the touch on his neck, Hongjoong's expression shifts — hungrier, more intense. 

"And what do you do, when you're not flirting with women backstage?" you ask, challenging him back.

His face drifts closer to yours, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth.

"You probably won't believe me, but I'm actually a really boring person, off-stage," his voice drops lower, rougher, with every inch he closes.

"Lucky for you—" your hand stays anchored in his hair while your other hand's index finger tips his chin up, just enough that you're looking down at him.

"I happen to like boring men."

"Mm, I can see that," he murmurs, before closing the last of the distance and pressing his mouth softly to yours.

It was a careful kiss. One that asked permission. One that waited until you were ready — that left you every opportunity to pull back. And that contrast — his cocky attitude against this obvious gentleness — turned you on even more.

You wanted to be satisfied with the soft kiss — but the ache building low in your belly demanded more.

Gently you part your lips — and with a low groan your tongues meet.

The kiss shifts from soft and careful into something hotter, more intense.

Hongjoong's hands wander over your body, curious. Tracing your arms, sliding along your waist, gripping your hips, finding their way to your ass, mapping out every inch they can reach.

You're still holding onto him as he turns you gently, until the backs of your thighs press against the speaker crate. Almost on reflex, you sit down — and now, for the first time, you're at eye level.

Hongjoong doesn't seem any less into you for being taller than him — if anything, he was completely under your spell.

He steps between your legs, decisive, and kisses you deeper, more intense than before. Your bodies press together and your ankles lock behind him on instinct.

He's close enough now that you can feel exactly how hard he is. You want more — so you grab his ass and pull him harder against you. The friction feels incredible, pulling a shared gasp out of both of you.

Almost surprised by your boldness, Hongjoong breaks the kiss for a second and looks at you. Not uncertain — just direct.

"Is this okay?" It feels like the question is aiming at something else. A possibility that more could happen between you two tonight.

"Yes. More than okay," you answer immediately. A soft relief floods his expression, and he continues kissing you.

He presses against you with more purpose now, and you savor the warm friction. If this already felt this good — what would even more feel like?

His kiss turns demanding, wilder — the longer your mouths stay locked together, the more everything happening between you feels simply, undeniably right. Your rhythm, your movements, in perfect sync — the same way you'd fallen into sync moving to his music on the dancefloor.

The thought that you two were somehow made for each other is such a cliché you want to shove it aside immediately. But the wetness gathering between your legs tells you exactly how you actually feel about it.

As if Hongjoong felt the wave of arousal himself, he pulls back from the kiss and looks at you, soft, for a moment. "You even taste like the sun," he blurts, and looks almost surprised by his own words. "No idea if that makes sense. But I had to say it."

"What does the sun taste like?" Your curiosity wins out.

He thinks it over for a second.

"Warm. Like being alive. Like a spark — or a soft tingle." His expression turns serious as he answers.

"Then you taste like midnight," it slips out of you, not embarrassed by your words. 

"And what's that like?" A joyful spark lights up in his eyes.

"Like excitement and calm, at the same time. Like a secret place. Does that make sense?" You laugh.

"It does," Hongjoong whispers, gently, his eyes locked on yours.

Whatever this was between you — it was something. It didn't have to mean anything. But it deserved to be enjoyed.

He doesn't break eye contact as he sinks to his knees in front of you.

What is happening? 

Decisively, he hooks his fingers into the belt loops of your shorts and pulls you to the edge of the crate. Before you can even think to protest, his hands are already at the button of your shorts. Before he undoes it, he looks up at you with a mix of a genuine question and bold cockiness that leaves your brain producing nothing but yes, yes, yes.

Instead of telling him ‚yes‘, you just show him.

With quick, sure hands you pop the button on your shorts and push them, along with your underwear, straight down to your ankles. Confidently, you show yourself — why play games when you both already know exactly what you want?

A huge grin spreads across Hongjoong's mouth, followed by an awed "Wow."

"I'm gonna assume you want this as much as I do?" he asks, his tone dripping with confidence.

"You want it in writing?" you fire back, playful.

With a low groan, he stops holding back and licks a fat stripe up your pussy.

His movements are soft but passionate at the same time. He devoured you the same way he made music — explosive, joyful, savoring every second of it.

A warm and tingly feeling spread through your abdomen, flowing through your belly, up through your chest, all the way to your fingertips.

He can't help but hum, pleased, when he hears you moan. The thought of holding back doesn't even cross your mind — who's going to hear you in this muffled backroom anyway? And even if they did — it's a club, for god's sake. The whole point is people having fun and getting laid.

And getting laid, you were.

Hongjoong's movements pick up speed, your moans get louder, your head starts falling back.

The tension builds, and you can feel your orgasm approaching fast.

Hongjoong must feel it too — feel your thighs tensing, starting to close around his head.

Before you can say a word, he beats you to it — and stops.

You stare at him, stunned.

And there it is again — that cocky grin, wrecking your ability to think straight.

„Is it that good?" he asks, eyebrows raised, like he's teasing you.

"Can you finish what you started, or are you tapping out already?" you ask, feigning disapproval.

Now he looks a little less confident. You grin, satisfied, to yourself.

Let him feel it — that you had him wrapped around your finger, even with his face mere inches from your pussy.

"Oh, you're gonna regret that—" he groans, and the next second you feel two of his fingers slide inside you. Filling you out deliciously, grazing that spot that has you moaning within seconds.

He isn't just full of passion now — his movements feel like delicious frustration, like a man with something to prove.

What could you say? You liked your men a little desperate.

His fingers move in perfect rhythm with his tongue circling your clit. Your head falls back, eyes rolling, your moans getting louder, fully lost in it.

Matching your energy, low groans keep escaping him — clearly enjoying this more than he’d like to admit.

You feel your stomach clenching in anticipation, that familiar edge approaching again — even more intense than the one he'd ruined before.

"Hongjoong, I think I'm—" you gasp, trying to warn him.

"Let it all out. I want to hear you," is all he says, before going back to devouring you like a starving man.

Your orgasm hits immediately. Your whole body tenses, pleasure rippling through you, loud gasps tearing out of your throat. You can’t help moaning his name repeatedly.

He licks you through it, letting you come down slow and soft.

You keep your eyes closed a few extra seconds, trying to process what just happened.

You just got tongue-fucked. By your favorite musician. And... it was incredible.

Lia would never believe you if you told her this over breakfast.

When you finally open your eyes, Hongjoong is already standing in front of you. Eyes bright, mouth glistening with your wetness, he holds his hand out, gentle.

Carefully, he helps you down off the crate. As you pull your underwear and shorts back up, you hear him clear his throat.

"My hotel's five minutes from here."

Was that an invitation?

You can't hold back your grin.

"I could order us some food, and we could shower there — get rid of the club smell," he murmurs, voice soft.

He almost sounds a little shy. Which can't be right — this is NO1 we're talking about.

Almost on autopilot, you take his hand. It still fits perfectly in his.

Damn cliché.

"Let's go, then."

That's all you say. And his wide grin, along with the way his eyes darken again, tells you he's nowhere near done with you.

Most times, it’s nice having his own personal studio in his and Jeongin’s dorm. Most times, he doesn’t have to remind himself that dousing the whole thing in lighter fluid would mean his bed also goes up in flames. 

He presses play, and the chorus is still missing something he can’t quite place. The beginnings of a migraine twitch behind his eyes. 

He can buy a new bed pretty easily. 

The fact you haven’t responded to him for the worse part of seven hours has absolutely nothing to do with his obsession over creating something within his control. Those are two separate issues that he is handling perfectly, thank you very much, and he’s succeeding at not thinking about you. Or what you would think of this song. Or whether or not he did something to cause you to ignore him.

Before he can act on his arsonist fantasies, Jeongin raps his knuckles on the familiar doorframe. “How’s it going?” the youngest asks, fully aware of the answer by the deep set shadows under Chan’s eyes. He doesn’t wait for a response before continuing, “Your favorite member is here to detach you from your laptop.” 

Without looking, Chan chucks the nearest object that won’t actually hurt – a stuffed plushie no bigger than his hand – at his voice. He grins at the thud of it hitting Jeongin square in the chest. Then, purely to add insult to injury, “Oh, is Felix here?” 

Chan expects to be conked in the head with the same plushie, or with Jeongin’s fist, depending on his mood. If living with Jeongin for so long has taught him anything, it’s that he will not let that slide. The youngest has been much more dramatic over much less – he distinctly remembers Jeongin threatening to “live somewhere I’m appreciated” when Chan once tried to wake him up ten minutes early. 

Nothing comes flying back at him. Jeongin stays firmly in place, keeping his knuckles to himself. “Nope,” he says, popping the p, and Chan doesn’t need to be looking at him to know he’s grinning. His tone is too I’m-happy-to-watch-you-dig-your-own-grave for Chan’s comfort.

Chan finally looks up, pushing his headphones all the way off his ears and blinking through his eyes adjusting to the dim light. 

Jeongin stands in the doorway, as he expected, sporting a shit-eating grin to end them all. 

You stand behind him, the subject of his unrequited love and picture of perfection, watching their exchange with amusement glittering in your eyes.  You’re clutching the plushie. 

Chan stands up so fast his head rushes. The wired headphones clatter against the ground. He’s acutely aware he hasn’t touched a hairbrush today – or yesterday, if he can figure out what time it is. He briefly considers if it’s too late for him and Felix to debut as a duo. 

To make matters worse, you just say, “You threw this at me,” and toss the stuffed animal back at him. He doesn’t catch it. It fumbles from his grasp, and lands with a humiliating thump right next to his headphones. Your resulting giggle will be the death of him. Or Jeongin. Quite possibly both. 

Chan does his absolute best not to succumb to mortification right then and there, and instead asks, “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t meet your eyes. 

“Innie texted me to come over. He said it’s important I see you.” Still smug as hell, Jeongin nods. “And you didn’t answer my texts, so I wanted to see if you’ve eaten. Hold on.” You disappear from the doorway, leaving just Jeongin, mischievous and defenseless. 

Chan pounces. “Dude,” he hisses through his teeth, “what happened to the ten-minute warning before they see me?” The standing agreement exists to give Chan time to get his heartbeat under control. He hasn’t even had time to use his emergency travel-sized mouthwash (just in case, you never know, and he prides himself on being prepared). 

Jeongin, of course, ignores him. “Dude,” he mocks, “Why don’t you answer your texts?”

Your words come back to him. And you didn’t answer my texts. 

Huh? He grabs his phone off the desk, tries to turn it on, and is only met with a black screen. It’s dead. 

It’s dead! 

You answered him, and he just didn’t see it. He could cry. 

When you appear back in his sight, you’re carrying an opaque container, no doubt containing a homemade meal. He could cry again; he doesn’t know the last time he ate anything that didn’t come out of a wrapper. Jeongin gets out of your way so you can step into the room with Chan – who kicks his discarded hoodie under the desk and prays you didn’t notice to whatever god that hasn’t given up on this entire situation. 

Once he’s in the living room, Jeongin catches Chan’s eyes and smiles at the back of your head. Oh no. Much like how animals can sense incoming weather, Chan can sense when Jeongin’s about to pull some terrible cretin shenanigans. He is correct. With all the subtlety of a flare gun, Jeongin begins horribly, slowly, obnoxiously making out with the air behind your back. Apparently, people are allowed to still do that past middle school. He’s dangerously close to getting to second base with an oxygen molecule. 

Chan, subtle as a brighter flare gun, shoots Jeongin a withering glare over your shoulder. If looks could kill, Stray Kids would be a seven-member group right now. Fat lot of good it does anyway, because Jeongin’s eyes are scrunched shut as part of his whole routine. 

Chan forgot that you can actually see him trying to mentally will Jeongin to burst into flames – and, in the worst moment of his life, you turn around to see what’s so distracting.

Your body freezes. 

Oh God. 

This is it. This is the end of Chan. He has to bury himself alive once this is all said and done. There’s just no other dignified option.

Like the car crash of a person he is, neither one of you is able to tear your eyes away from Jeongin’s one-person show. 

Where’s the lighter fluid when you need it? The next time he’s out – which, if he’s honest with himself, isn’t as soon as anybody would hope – he’ll have to remember to buy a bottle. 

Jeongin cracks one eye open, and is met with both you and Chan wearing the exact same horrified expression. He doesn’t look nearly as scared as he probably should be, considering Chan is mentally planning his funeral. There will be lilies and carnations. No roses, he doesn’t deserve them. 

He finally straightens out his posture. “Well, I’ll leave you two to…” he winks and Chan decides in that moment to outsource his eulogy, “Talk.”

Chan waits until he hears the lock of Jeongin’s bedroom door clicking shut before he breathes again. A wet blanket of silence settles over the room. From two walls over, he can practically hear Jeongin heel-clicking in joy at being the root cause of All of Chan’s Problems. 

You swallow, the gulp audible in the quiet, and Chan prays the ground would open up and swallow you two whole while you’re at it. Dimly, the not-evolved-from-monkeys part of his brain wonders what else you swallow, but there’s no way he’s letting himself follow that train of thought. Last time he followed that train of thought was when you licked vanilla ice cream from the side of your mouth, and Hyunjin kicked him in the shin so hard he had a bruise for two weeks. 

He’s weighing the pros and cons of just walking out and starting a new life. Stray Kids? Never heard of ‘em. 

A small infinity passes before you both speak at the same time, because good lord of course this situation needs any more awkwardness. “You go,” Chan digs the toe of his shoe into the hardwood floor. 

Your voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it. “Sorry about him,” you say. Chan’s head snaps up. Oh, Jeongin better count his days for making you feel the need to apologize. “He’s always,” you take a deep breath, like you’re stalling saying something big. Despite himself, Chan leans forward. “He’s always making fun of my feelings for you.” 

“What,” Chan croaks. Then, because his brain still needs time to catch up and denial is easier, he so matter-of-factly states, “You don’t have feelings for me.”

Confusion laces your expression, which, fair. “I - what?” 

His cheeks burn hotter than lava. “You can’t like me.” What happened to the confident leader of a chart-topping idol group? His mental state has apparently diminished to the sound logic of “nuh-uh”/”yuh-huh” arguments.

You set the container down in favor of crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “Well, I do.” 

“No you don’t.” Denial is not starting to feel easier. In fact, it’s starting to feel like he’s in kindergarten again, filling his school days pulling girls’ pigtails and picking his nose. He’s about three steps removed from accusing you of having cooties. 

“This is an argument between five-year-olds,” you point out. Hey, he was just thinking that. “It’s a wonder I still like you.” 

Oh yeah. The mortification isn’t gone, because what the hell Jeongin, but his stomach is starting to flutter as his brain comes online again. More than anything, he needs to navigate his response with grace to not scare you off, but his pulse is too quick and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. In a move that will haunt his nightmares for years to come, Chan stumbles over, “I like - I have feelings for you too.” 

Chan wishes he could frame the way your face lights up at his admission. He’d hang it over his bed; it would be the last thing he sees before he sleeps and the first thing he wakes up to each morning. You already are the first thing he thinks about, but it would be nice to have a picture to go along with his imagination. 

Usually, he has to do his best to squash down any evidence that your smile turns him into mush, and he’s already instinctually biting his lip, when he realizes: he doesn’t have to do that anymore. 

He pulls you into him with trembling hands. When your lips connect, it’s better than anything he has ever let himself dream about. You taste like warmth and love and a little bit like your lip balm, and Chan would kiss you forever if he could. He’d stay here, the world could pass you two by, all he needs is you holding him. 

Thank God for Jeongin texting you, the bastard. Jeongin, the best person he kno-

Wait. 

Chan pulls away. It takes every bit of willpower he can conjure up not to give in to your frustrated whine. “Did you say he’s always making fun of you?” 

“Yeah?” You bring a hand up to brush a stray hair out of his eyes, and he’s about to abandon his line of questioning entirely. Not yet, though. 

“How long has he known about it?” 

“Well,” you let your hand drop, looking thoroughly confused why he’s decided to play detective, “He officially started about six months ago, but I think he knew way before then. Why?” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Minho and Han too.” 

As a kind and benevolent leader, Chan will wait until tomorrow’s dance practice to hurt them for sitting on the biggest secret in the world for Six. Months. 

Right now, Chan has you all to himself, and he’s not leaving this room for anything in the world. He pulls you back into his arms, taking a moment to angle your foreheads together, trying to memorize every detail of your face. He’s sure you can hear his heartbeat. He doesn’t care. “No reason,” he whispers, before bringing you into him again. 

♡ note: i wrote most of this at 2 am and my nose bled 4 separate times before finishing it, so most writing & any (read: none) proofreading happened under blood loss. don't point out anything negative, ty love you.

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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Two was the standard amount, but that extra half-cube had to be snapped off by your own hand; a whole cube made it too sweet, yet two alone left it lacking that final touch. You’d tried using sugar packets, but the texture of the granules wasn't right. You craved the specific sensation of holding a sugar cube between your fingertips, snapping it gently, and watching the crumbs fall onto the rim of the cup. You couldn't quite explain why—it just felt like the only way to make it complete.

On the Wednesday of your third week, you walked into the breakroom, mug in hand, ready to go through your practiced routine: boil water, brew coffee, snap the sugar cube. That was when you saw it.

There, on the counter in the corner, sat a cup of coffee that had already been brewed. No steam rose from the rim, but the mug felt warm to the touch. Beside it sat a small dish of sugar cubes—three of them, with one snapped neatly in half.

You stood there, frozen for a good three seconds.

You glanced around; the breakroom was empty. You picked up the coffee and leaned in to smell it—dark roast beans, exactly the same kind you drank every morning. After a moment of hesitation, you took a sip.

Not scalding. Just warm. Perfect for drinking. And the sweetness level was… two and a half cubes.

Holding the mug, you stood in the breakroom and found yourself smiling, for reasons you couldn't quite name.

The next day, you arrived ten minutes earlier than usual. At eight o'clock sharp, the lights in the pantry were on, and that cup of coffee was already sitting on the counter. You reached out and touched the side of the cup—it was warm. Whoever had left it there had just departed.

You decided not to make a fuss. You picked up the cup and returned to your desk, acting as if nothing had happened.

On the third day, you arrived early, at 7:50. The coffee was already there.

On the fourth day, you arrived at 7:30. The coffee was still there.

On the fifth day, you snapped. You arrived at the office at seven o'clock sharp; the only other people on the floor were the security guard and the cleaning lady. You walked into the pantry, but the counter was completely bare—no coffee. Standing there, you felt a sudden sense of letdown. You boiled some water, made yourself a cup of coffee, broke off half a sugar cube, and went back to your desk. At 8:10, under the pretext of refilling your water, you passed by the pantry again—and there sat the coffee, quiet and still, wisps of steam rising from the cup as if it had never been missing at all.

You stared at the coffee for a long time. Then, you pulled a sticky note from your desk and, in your finest handwriting, wrote three words:

"Who are you?"

You stuck it onto the cup. The next morning, you found a new sticky note on the counter next to your coffee. You picked it up; it bore just a single line of text, written in a clean, crisp hand:

"It doesn't matter. Drink your coffee."

You stared at the words, your heart skipping a beat.

cube Il

You didn't stop. You began writing a sentence on a sticky note every day and attaching it to the cup. He replied every time—briefly, with restraint—yet his words always made you read them twice.

You wrote: "Proposal presentation today. I'm so nervous."

He replied: "I heard your last presentation. You did a great job."

You stood there, stunned, holding the note. Your last presentation had been two weeks ago; you’d stood before the projector in the conference room for twenty minutes, making it to the fifteenth slide. You had stumbled twice along the way, and your palms were slick with sweat when you stepped down. You remembered clearly that a dozen people had been in the room; you had kept your head down the entire time, never once looking to see who was actually listening.

You wrote: "How did you know?"

He replied: "I was sitting in the third row, by the window."

Third row, by the window. You ran it through your mind—that was the Design Department's area. You didn't know the people in Design very well; they always sat quietly in the corner, dragging things around on their screens. You remembered one of them… You tried hard to recall: a very tall guy, thin, a man of few words, always wearing thin-framed glasses, sitting in that third-row window seat, with a desk so tidy it hardly looked like a living person's workspace.

You didn't even know his name.

You write: "Third row, by the window… are you from the design department?"

He replies: "Yes."

You write: "And what's your name?"

When the sticky note is returned, it only has one word on it:

"Guess."

You laugh in exasperation.

You started paying attention to the seat in the third row by the window.

There really was a guy there—tall, thin, wearing thin-framed glasses and often dressed in dark colors. You had never really looked at him before—not because he was inconspicuous, but because you were too busy; too busy to even remember the names of people in the team next to yours. But now, you start "accidentally" walking past the design department's workstations, "accidentally" getting water near him, and "accidentally" queuing up behind him in the cafeteria.

You notice things you had completely overlooked before.

He arrives very early every day. By the time you get in at eight, he is already at his desk with design software open on his screen and a cup of black coffee beside him—no sugar, no milk; it looks so bitter that just gazing at it makes you frown. He wears clear, thin-framed glasses; occasionally, he takes them off to rub his eyes, then puts them back on and turns his attention back to the screen. His desk holds nothing but a computer, a water cup, and a scraggly, crooked pothos plant—absolutely nothing else.

You notice he eats incredibly fast. While others in the cafeteria are still queuing for soup, he is already standing up with an empty tray, ready to leave. You notice that at three in the afternoon, he stands up right on schedule to get water from the pantry, walks over to the window to stand for two minutes, and then returns to his desk. You notice he walks softly, making almost no sound—like a cat trying to go unnoticed.

You notice that he never once looks at you of his own accord.

Every time you "walk past," his head is down, eyes fixed on the screen. When you queue behind him for food, he never turns around. When you are getting water in the pantry and he walks in, he simply stands quietly behind you and waits; he only fills his cup after you have left. At times, the physical distance between you is barely thirty centimeters, yet he doesn't spare you even a single extra glance.

You begin to wonder—could you have made a mistake? Maybe that person isn't him after all. Maybe someone else sits by the window in the third row? Maybe that sticky note was just someone's prank?

Yet, that cup of coffee appears right on schedule every morning.

You decide to change tactics.

You no longer write those questions like "Who are you?" or "What is your name?" You start writing other things instead. You write: "So tired today."

The next day, a line appears below the sticky note: "It's Friday. Hang in there."

You write: "Forgot to eat breakfast this morning."

The next day, a bag of soda crackers appears next to your coffee, a brand you've never seen before, but with a savory flavor that you like.

You write: "I have a proposal presentation next week; I'm so nervous."

The next day, the reply on the sticky note read: "I heard your last presentation—you unconsciously twirl your pen when you're nervous. Don't do that; just stop and take three deep breaths."

Looking at that sticky note, you suddenly felt like crying.

This person had noticed even that—the way you twirled your pen when nervous. And yet, you didn't even know his name. You thought back to your presentations; it was true—you would unconsciously twirl your pen, flipping it between your fingers until the cap flew off, forcing you to scramble and bend down to retrieve it. You had always assumed no one noticed. It turned out someone had.

You wrote: "You observe things so closely—do you like me?"

You deliberately used a half-joking tone, though your hand trembled as you stuck the note in place. The next morning, you flipped open the sticky note, and there it was, his neat handwriting:

"You found out?"

Three words. One question mark. Standing in the breakroom holding your coffee, your face felt hot enough to fry an egg.

You didn't press the issue further. But you started making a more deliberate effort to "pass by" the window seat in the third row.

You memorized how often he drank water; the sliver of skin visible at the back of his neck when he bowed his head; the way he’d furrow his brows slightly when taking off his glasses to rub his eyes; and how, when growing impatient with edits on a design, he would tap his pen cap lightly against the desk—three taps, then a pause, a deep breath, and back to work.

You started paying attention to what you wore. You used to just throw on a random hoodie and head out; now, you’d stand in front of the mirror, spending an extra thirty seconds deciding on your outfit. You began plotting routes through the office to engineer "chance encounters"—shifting your water-refill break from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., because that was the time he would stand by the window for a couple of minutes. You changed the time you went to the cafeteria from 12:00 to 12:10—the exact moment he would have finished eating and was getting ready to leave.

You pretended these encounters were merely coincidences. But you knew better.

There was a company dinner once at a hotpot restaurant, gathered around a large, steaming round table. You were seated quite far from him, yet he happened to be positioned diagonally across from you. While everyone else chatted, drank, and helped themselves to food, he sat quietly in the corner, peeling shrimp. You hadn't paid much attention at first, until you noticed him neatly arranging the peeled shrimp on a small plate—one, two, three… He peeled an entire platter, leaving a plate filled with pristine, shell-free shrimp meat.

Then, he stood up, carried the plate halfway around the table, and set it down in front of you. He didn't say a word before sitting back down.

The whole table fell silent for a second. Then, someone teased, "Ooh, Kang Taehyun, playing favorites, are we?"

He kept his head down, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, as if stating something entirely unremarkable:

"ln has a cut on their hand."

You looked down at your hands. There was indeed a tiny scratch on your right index finger—a nick from a cardboard box edge while opening a package a couple of days prior. It was as fine as a strand of hair; no one would have noticed it unless you pointed it out. You looked down at the plate of shrimp; every single one was perfectly peeled, without a trace of shell left behind.

You whispered a quiet "thank you." He nodded, picked up his glass of water for a sip, and didn't look at you once.

But you saw it. The knuckles of the fingers gripping his glass had turned white.

half-a-cube

You decided to stop hiding.

That night, back home, you sat on your bed and read the words "You noticed?" on that sticky note over and over again—probably eight hundred times. You decided to go straight to the breakroom the next day and wait for him. No more passing messages via sticky notes, no more pretending to run into him by chance. You were going to stand right in front of him, look him in the eye, and say a proper "Good morning."

You woke up at 6:30 the next morning. After washing your face, you stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes—wondering what to wear. Dark colors? Light colors? Trying too hard isn't good, but being too casual won't do either. In the end, you chose a clean white shirt, tidied your hair, and headed out.

You arrived at the office at seven sharp. The entire floor was quiet; only the light in the security booth was on. You walked into the pantry, but the counter was bare—you were too early; even that cup of coffee hadn't appeared yet. You stood there, your heart pounding wildly. Then, you heard footsteps coming from the end of the hallway. Light. Steady. Step by step, moving toward the pantry.

You took a deep breath.

The moment he walked in, you were facing the counter, pretending to look at the coffee machine. He paused as he pushed the door open—clearly not expecting anyone to be in the pantry at that hour. You turned around. He was standing in the doorway, wearing thin-framed glasses and a dark coat, holding a box of sugar cubes. He froze when he saw you, then tilted his head slightly, as if trying to confirm something.

You spoke up: "Morning."

He was silent for two seconds. Then he said, "…Morning."

He walked in, and you stepped aside to make room. He walked to the front of the table, opened the box of sugar cubes, and began to repeat the same routine he did countless times every morning—taking out three cubes, breaking one in half, and putting it into a cup. You stood nearby, watching him. His fingers were long, and his movements as he snapped the sugar cube were gentle—as if he were afraid of breaking something precious.

You couldn't help but ask, "You realized it was me?"

He stopped and turned his head to look at you. Through the thin lenses of his glasses, his eyes were dark and calm. He didn't answer your question. Instead, he said, "You look… really good today."

You were taken aback for a moment. Then you laughed—an unstoppable laugh. You leaned against the pantry counter, your shoulders shaking with mirth. He stood beside you, still holding half a sugar cube, while his ears slowly, gradually turned bright red.

You wiped your eyes and said, "You come so early every day just to make me a cup of coffee?"

He was silent for three seconds. Then he said, "I’ve noticed you leaving so late every day. The light at your desk is often the last one to go out on the whole floor. I thought… if I could get you a cup of coffee made just right in the morning… maybe your day would be a little easier."

You looked at him; the light from the breakroom cast a faint, warm glow across his glasses.

You said, "You even know what time I leave?"

He replied, "Yeah. I leave even later than you do."

You held each other's gaze for a long moment. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and something else—something nameless, something very, very light.

Finally, you reached out, took the half-cube of sugar from his hand, and dropped it into your cup. The cube hit the surface of the coffee, sending out a small ripple.

You said, "Two and a half cubes. Just the sweetness you broke off."

He lowered his head, the corners of his mouth curving upward.

You asked, not because you didn't know but because you wanted to hear it from him, "So, can you tell me your name now?"

He raised his eyes to look at you, his voice soft:

"Kang Taehyun."

You picked up the coffee and took a sip. Two and a half cubes. Not too sweet, not cloying—just right. You looked at him and said, "I'm…"

He said, "I know. It's on your ID badge. I saw it on the first day."

You glanced down at your badge—sure enough, it was hanging right there on your chest, the lettering large enough that it would be hard to miss.

You smiled.

"So, do you know I get to the office at 8:10 every morning?"

He said, "I do."

"And do you know I spin my pen when I'm presenting proposals?"

"I do."

"Then…" You looked into his eyes and spoke slowly. "Do you know that I want to ask you out to a movie this weekend?"

He was taken aback for a moment. Then he lowered his head and put the remaining half of the sugar cube into his black coffee—which he usually doesn't add sugar to. He picked it up, took a sip, and frowned, clearly not used to the sweetness.

He looked at you and said, "I know now."

You smiled again. You were fifteen minutes late that morning because you were in the break room with Kang Taehyun, finishing off that two-and-a-half-dollar coffee.

Later, you asked him why he broke a sugar cube in half—he could have just put in two whole ones.

He thought for a long time before saying, "Because I wanted you to realize that someone had broken a sugar cube just for you."

You fell silent for a moment. Then you said, "Next time you break one, you can make the piece a bit bigger."

He glanced at you. "Why?"

You smiled and said, "Because I want to taste a little more of it."

He lowered his head, his ears turning red again. He slid the box of sugar cubes toward you. You asked, "What are you doing?"

He said, "You break it. However big you break it, that’s how sweet I’ll drink it."

You took the box, picked out a cube, snapped off half, and dropped it into his black coffee. He picked it up, took a sip, frowned, and said, "Too sweet."

You leaned over and took a sip from his hand as well.

You winced, "Too bitter." Perhaps, your tastes still had great differences.

He didn't say anything. But out of the corner of your eye, you saw him smile again.