lila★*•°

He let your hair slip slowly through his fingers as you squinted at the collection of rings on your dresser. As you pondered, Spencer took the time to truly admire you. You were beautiful, and a part of him was still humbled with disbelief that you were allowing him back into your life.

He’d been floating somewhere around cloud seven for the past forty-eight hours, buoyed by the memory of your kiss and the feeling of your weight against him as you slept.

But he also knew his time had to be different. He would be different.

Which is why, as you slid a ring onto your finger, he broke the silence.

“The museum we’re going to… I used to go there with my mother when I was younger.” He saw your hands still in the mirror, your eyes lifting to find his reflection. “It has a lot of older paintings. my mother… she was an English professor. She always enjoyed telling me about them.”

He moved to your closet, his fingers brushing past fabrics until he found your coat and a scarf. You finished with your rings as you turned to face him fully. The morning light caught the hearts dangling from your ears, making them swing gently.

He helped you into the coat, his hands gentle as he guided it over your shoulders. “We didn’t go often because it was so far away,” he continued as his fingers worked the buttons from the bottom up. “But whenever we did, we had a good time.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” you said softly, tilting your head up to watch his expression as he fastened the top button just under your chin.

“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement. He then took your scarf and looped it around your neck, mindful to tuck it carefully so it wouldn’t catch or tug on your hair. His knuckles grazed your jawline.

“I can’t wait to hear you tell me about the paintings,” you said, your voice muffled slightly by the fabric as he arranged it.

He finished by giving the ends of the scarf a gentle pat over your chest. “You’re going to be sick of me,” he teased gently, thinking about his habit of rambling.

You reached up, adjusting the scarf just slightly, your eyes locked on his. “Don’t think I ever could be.”

His smile widened. Without a word, he framed your face with his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, and pulled you gently forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

Pulling back, he took your hand, his fingers lacing securely with yours, and led you from the bedroom toward the front door. There, by the entrance, was your little wooden bench where you always kept your shoes. He guided you to sit.

Then, he went down on one knee before you. He picked up your pair of boots and carefully slipped the first one onto your foot.

Your fingers found the chestnut curls at the crown of his head. You began to toy with them gently, twisting a strand around your finger. “God, I love your hair,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

He had finished with the first boot and was securing the second, a small, knowing grin appearing on his face as he kept his eyes on his work. “I'm well aware.”

With both boots snugly on, he lifted his hand and took the one that had been playing in his hair, turning your wrist gently and pressed a kiss to the delicate skin there.Then he stood and offered you both his hands. You took them, letting him pull you up from the bench.

When he slipped into the driver’s seat, you simply buckled your seatbelt beside him, gazing out the window at the passing streets. You didn’t comment on him driving. You didn’t offer a hesitant, “Are you sure?” or watch his hands with worried eyes. You barely acknowledged it, and that, to Spencer, was everything.

Inside the museum, he was in his element.

He led you from room to room, his hand in yours. Before each painting, he would stop, and the words would begin. He spoke of brushstroke techniques and artistic revolutions, yes, but he also wove in the stories his mother had told him.

At one point, you turned to him and asked softly. “Which one is your mom’s favorite?”

The question was so perfectly you that Spencer felt his entire being warm from the inside out. He didn’t even need to think about the answer.

You listened, your head tilted, your eyes on the painting, but your entire focus on him. The admiration in your gaze was so intense, it almost hurt him to meet it. It felt like looking into the sun.

After some time, you spotted a bench nestled between two archways and gently tugged him toward it. You sank down with a tired sigh and you let your head fall to his shoulder.

“Feels like a first date all over again,” you mumbled.

Spencer pressed his lips to the top of your head. “That’s the point,” he whispered against your hair.

You turned your head, resting your chin on his shoulder so you could look up at him. He tilted his head down, his nose nearly brushing yours.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” you whispered, your breath a soft caress against his skin. “And for telling me about it.” Your gaze flickered briefly, noting the near-empty gallery, just an elderly couple whispering a few feet away, lost in their own world.

Spencer’s hand, which had been resting on his knee, came up to gently cradle the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else,” he whispered back.

A smile bloomed on your face. You let your cheek drop back to his shoulder, nuzzling there briefly as you closed your eyes. Above you, Spencer let his own head rest gently against yours.

At home, you had invited Spencer to stay over. And he had happily, so happily, agreed. During your relationship before the break, you’d almost always stayed at his place. The nights at your apartment could be counted on one hand. He’d guessed it was a mixture of things. Your fear of getting too used to his constant presence in your space, and a more vulnerable fear of him seeing too much of you within your own walls.

Now, he was in your kitchen. The smell of garlic and basil filled the air as he stirred a simmering sauce. You sat perched on the countertop, legs swinging gently, watching him as you chattered away about the day’s office drama.

“Although I don’t think Luke should’ve said that, because Garcia just got even more mad at him. Which was also, let’s be honest, extremely unreasonable,” you reasoned, ticking points off on your fingers. “I mean, come on? All he did was talk about her collection of trinkets?”

Spencer chuckled along, his focus divided between your story and the pot of water he was waiting to boil.

“Anyways, I think he’s trying to make amends. He told me he’s getting her a box of that limited-edition trinket series she’s been obsessed with.” You leaned back on your hands, watching the steam curl up towards the ceiling. “I told him to try that little store around the corner from her favorite coffee spot. That’s usually where she hunts for that kind of stuff.”

“Sounds like a good way to make it up to her.” Spencer smiled, giving the sauce a final stir before needing to grab the salt grinder from the other side. He moved past you, but as he did, you reached out. Your fingers curled gently into his cardigan, and he stopped immediately, turning into your touch.

You smiled, looping your legs around his waist to draw him closer. “Hi.”

His hands came to rest automatically on your hips. “Hi,” he whispered back. He leaned in, meeting you halfway in a soft kiss.

When you finally parted, he kept his forehead resting against yours. “Do you think he’ll win her over?” he asked softly, his breath mingling with yours.

“Probably,” you conceded, your nose brushing his. “But she’ll never, ever admit it.” You grinned, and he couldn’t resist capturing that grin with another kiss.

He, then, pressed a final kiss to the tip of your nose before gently extricating himself. He turned back to his task, and a comfortable silence fell. A minute later, he needed the colander from the dish rack, which meant passing by you again.

He didn’t even make it a full step before your legs hooked around him once more, pulling him back between your knees. This time, you didn’t say a word. You just smiled and cupped his face, your thumbs stroking over the apples of his cheeks.

Spencer didn’t protest. A laugh escaped him as he let the colander be forgotten. His hands settled on your waist, his fingers pressing gently into your sides. After at least four kisses, he pulled back softly, just far enough to nuzzle his nose gently against yours.

“Honey?” he said softly, and the nickname made your smile widen impossibly further.

“Hm?” you hummed, your fingers still playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“I think your kitchen is very nice,” he whispered.

You pulled your head back just a fraction, your brow knitting slightly in confusion. “Sorry?”

But you seemed caught. Spencer’s hands, which had been resting on your waist, began brushing back and forth over your hips, right under the hem of the sweater you were wearing, his sweater.

“You don’t have to worry about me not liking something in your kitchen,” he clarified. His eyes held yours, soft and understanding, and you realized that he had perfectly caught on to the reason behind your constant reach for him.

“I think it’s a very nice kitchen,” he repeated, sealing the sentiment with another soft kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, you let out a shaky breath, the defenses crumbling.

“It’s small,” you whispered. “And it’s not that organized,” you continued, your gaze darting to the slightly cluttered spice rack, the stack of mail on the corner of the counter. “And have you seen my plates?” you mumbled, your voice growing even quieter. “They’re all over the place. Not one matches the other because I break them so often. And my mugs…” You looked toward the mug tree, where a colorful assortment of ceramics stood. “They’re all silly, decorated ones. What if you think they’re weird? I mean, come on, I’m an FBI agent, but I have a mug with a cartoon cat on it. Isn’t that odd? Childish?”

You finally met his eyes again, searching for any hint of judgment.

Spencer simply shook his head slowly. “It’s very cute,” he said, the words sure. “And I love your kitchen a lot.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “And even if it’s smaller than the average size, that just means I get to be closer to you when we’re both in here.” He kissed your other cheek, his voice dropping to a whisper against your skin. “It means I can reach you from anywhere.”

He nudged your nose with his again, a silent prompt, waiting for your response.

You didn’t have words. The tight coil of insecurity that had been sitting in your stomach all evening loosened. So, you answered him the only way that felt right. You closed the distance and kissed him, pouring all your relief and gratitude into the touch of your lips against his.

“Okay,” you whispered breathlessly against his mouth when you finally parted.

A genuine smile lit up his whole face and reached his eyes. He gave your thigh a gentle squeeze before finally pulling back. “Okay,” he echoed softly.

Later, once you had eaten, you found yourself lingering at your dresser. The simple task of putting away your jewelry took long. Unusually long.

Spencer was already in bed, propped against the headboard with a book. He’d only been in your bed once before, and that had been a world ago. Now, he was here, in the space that was most intimately yours, and the reality of it was making you nervous.

You stayed there, fiddling with a tangle in a chain, until his soft voice spoke up.

“Hey. You joining me?”

You turned. He’d put his book aside, his full attention on you, giving you a soft smile.

“Yeah, of course,” you said softly, but your feet felt rooted to the spot. You just stared at him, a bundle of inexplicable nerves.

He sat up a little straighter, the sheets whispering. “Something wrong?”

You sighed, brushing a hand over your face. “Well, I—no.” You tried to dismiss it, but the words tumbled out anyway. “I just… you’re on my side of the bed. And I really don’t like the other side. It’s just a side I never sleep on, and I don’t know, I just… hate it. But it’s okay, I can sleep there, it’s fine—”

But Spencer was already moving. He shifted across the mattress, settling onto the side you’d just described with such aversion. He patted the now-vacant space beside him and gave you a reassuring smile.

“Are you coming now?” he asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

You felt a flush of embarrassed warmth. “Yeah. Sorry,” you whispered, finally crossing the room.

“Don’t apologize,” he said as you slid under the covers. “Thank you for telling me.” He waited until you were settled with your back against the headboard before he laid his own head down, right on your pillow. His eyes found yours. “Are you not going to lay down?”

“Right. Sorry,” you whispered again, slipping down to lay beside him, the mattress dipping as you moved into your familiar spot.

He turned onto his side, facing you fully. You mirrored him, the space between you feeling both infinite and unbearably small. “Are you nervous?” he asked softly.

Your eyes traced the concerned lines of his face in the dim light. “A bit,” you admitted.

His hand came up, his palm cradling your cheek. You instinctively nuzzled into the touch. “Why?” he asked, his voice barely a breath. He took the chance to slide his other arm beneath your waist, pulling you a little closer. His thumb began stroking your cheekbone.

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, and it was genuine. You really weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the terrifying feeling of getting used to this, of having him, and the fear of losing it again, except this time you’d know what it was like to have him in your bed. But then you looked at him, and somehow your fear vanished. Not just that, you also thought, so what if this was all destroyed? This moment alone would be worth it.

So you smiled softly, kicking his feet gently under the sheets, to which he responded by nudging yours back just as softly, the touch so light you barely felt it.

For a long while it was quiet and then Spencer pulled back just enough to look down at you. You smiled up at him, your eyes shimmering in the low light, and in that moment, you gifted him with words that stole the air from his lungs.

“I like letting you love me,” you whispered.

Spencer had a smile on his face that you hadn’t seen in months. “I like loving you,” he whispered back. He brushed a stray hair from your forehead. “It’s a really nice thing to do. It… calms my mind.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs brushing softly over the faint stubble along his jaw. “Really?” you whispered, your tone one of tender disbelief.

“Really,” he affirmed, nodding slightly against your palms. You smiled, and it was like watching the sun rise. He leaned in, unable to resist, and pressed a kiss to the corner of that smile. “You know,” he began, his nose brushing yours. “I think I’ve loved you since I met you. I just mistook it for an intense, professional curiosity.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I don’t believe you,” you said, the wide smile on your face betraying your protest.

Spencer pressed a kiss to your cheek, making you giggle. He shifted, lifting himself onto one elbow so he could hover over you. “You were wearing that cute strawberry clip in your hair,” he began, his memory clicking into vivid detail. “A black blazer, black slacks, and heels that made a very quiet sound on the linoleum. When you walked into the interrogation room, you greeted me with the sweetest, softest voice I’d ever heard, even though you were clearly nervous.”

He pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, making you scrunch it affectionately. “You introduced yourself,” he continued, his lips now brushing your other cheek, “and you stuttered, just a little, on saying you were a new member of the team. You were holding a file so tightly your knuckles were white.”

“Seems like something I’d do,” you whispered, your heart swelling at the detailed portrait he was painting of a moment you’d assumed he’d forgotten.

“You did,” Spencer confirmed, his voice softening. “You were kind, when you asked me about what I remembered.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “So incredibly kind. I hadn’t experienced that in… days.” He continued, a small smile playing on his lips. “You kept shuffling your feet and you kept hitting mine.”

A groan of pure horror escaped you. “Oh, God, I didn’t think you remembered that! That was so embarrassing!” You buried your face in your hands.

Spencer’s smile widened. He gently rolled, pulling you with him so you were both on your sides again, and pried your hands away from your burning face. “I thought it was cute,” he insisted, his voice warm with amusement. He placed his hand along the side of your head, his fingers splaying into your hair, turning your face back to his. “It didn’t bother me at all.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, still mortified. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled. “At one point, you hit my foot five times in two minutes, so I—”

Your eyes flew open wide with realization. “you put your foot against mine!” you blurted out, the memory crashing back with embarrassing detail. “You stopped it and just… forced my foot to still in between your feet. I thought you hated me! I thought you were just blocking my feet so I’d stop, and I was too scared to move them again for the rest of the meeting!”

A loud and genuine laugh burst from him. He rolled onto his back, his entire body shaking with the force of it, one arm thrown over his eyes.

You remained on your side, watching him, the initial wave of embarrassment receding under the warmth of his happiness. A hidden smile tugged at your lips. You’d never seen him laugh like this.

“It’s not funny, you menace,” you giggled, slapping his chest lightly.

Spencer’s laughter finally quieted into a warm smile. He turned back onto his side, his hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “It was terribly funny,” he insisted, a grin still playing on his lips. “In fact… that’s why I told Tara I wanted you to visit again.”

Your eyes widened in the dim light. “She never told me that.”

“I told her not to,” Spencer whispered, his gaze holding yours. “I didn’t want to… pressure you. Or make you feel obligated after…” His voice trailed off.

He didn’t ask for you the last time the team had come to visit. It had been the final interrogation. Emily had kindly steered you away from the visitor’s list. You’d assumed it was because you were just new. That he didn't want you to know any more awful details about his terrors. But, Spencer was, more so thinking of the moment he'd slapped his hand on the table, remembering your flinch. He was well that you said you didn't' remember it, but he did. That's why he hadn't wanted you at the last interrogation.

You could see the shadow of it pass behind his eyes as they searched yours. So, you just whispered, a soft challenge to lighten the heavy air, “That still doesn’t prove you loved me since you met me.”

His expression softened. “Well, I did,” he whispered. He leaned in, closing the small distance to press a tender kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back immediately, happily, a smile blooming against his mouth. When you pulled back, you framed his face with your hands, holding back the soft fall of his hair. He shifted, his weight settling over you and pressed a lingering kiss to your left cheek and then your cheek. Lingering and teasing kisses that made you giggle.

“You looked really attractive in my kitchen,” you mumbled as you tilted your head, giving him better access to the line of your jaw.

He paused, his lips hovering just above your skin. “You think so?” he asked, lifting his head to meet your gaze, a hint of pleased surprise in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you smiled, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “Very attractive.”

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, his body shaking gently with the quiet laugh, before he pressed an open mouthed kiss to the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “I’m glad you think so,” he whispered.

You just smiled, a contented sigh escaping you as you let your hands roam over the back of his head, your fingers tracing the soft strands at his nape. He continued his gentle exploration, pressing kisses along the column of your neck.

“Did you know that I won a baseball game once?” Spencer spoke, the question utterly random and muffled against your skin as he pressed a soft kiss to the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.

“What?” you laughed, the sound bubbling up as you finally opened your eyes to meet his gaze. He nudged your face aside with his nose and began trailing kisses down your jawline.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his lips brushing your skin with each word. “With Morgan. Six years ago.” He found that particular spot just below your ear that he’d noticed made you squirm, and he pressed a lingering kiss there, savoring your slight shiver.

“How did you win it?” you asked, genuinely surprised, trying to focus through the delightful distraction of his mouth.

Spencer didn’t reply, too busy moving to the other side of your neck to bestow the same attention there.

“Spencer,” you said, your voice laced with amusement as you framed his face with your hands, lifting his head. He let out a long sigh.

“I hit the ball and ran around the bases quickly enough, and we won,” he mumbled, offering the most bare bones explanation possible, clearly eager to return to his previous activity. He leaned in, trying to capture your lips again.

You barely responded to the kiss. “How are you telling me this just now?” you asked in genuine shock, the words coming out between the soft presses of his lips.

“Spencer, stop kissing me for one second,” you finally said, laughing as you gently pushed his face back and held it there.

He pouted adorably, then sighed, the very picture of a man being cruelly deprived. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “You said I looked nice—”

“Attractive,” you corrected, a smile playing on your lips.

“Right, attractive,” he conceded, his eyes fixed on your mouth. “So I thought I’d tell you something that might add to that quality. People consider men who participate in sports to be highly attractive, did you know that? There are numerous studies on the perceived vigor and social cohesion—”

You smiled, so endlessly endeared by the brilliant, ridiculous man on top of you that you released your hold on his face. He didn’t need a second invitation. He closed the distance instantly, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss.

In between kisses, you managed to speak against his mouth. “That’s… definitely attractive. I can’t believe I didn’t get to see that.”

Spencer hummed in agreement, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your chin, not letting you keep talking.

“Spencer,” you started laughing after a while. “What's with you right now?” you giggled, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’ve barely held a coherent conversation with me for the past fifteen minutes.”

Spencer finally, reluctantly, rolled back onto his side, but he kept you pulled close against him. An utterly smitten smile spread across his face as he brushed your hair back from your forehead, his gaze tracing every feature of your face. “Sorry,” he whispered.

You just smiled as you leaned up on your elbow to look down at him, your other hand coming up to brush your fingers across his cheekbone.

“I just missed you,” he whispered again, eyelashes fluttering at your gentle touch. “A lot.”

“I know,” you whispered back, your thumb stroking his skin. “I missed you, too.”

Spencer’s answering smile was bittersweet. He turned his face into your touch, his eyes closing for a brief second as if savoring it.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, the words feeling almost too small to hold the magnitude of what you meant.

His smile widened then and he grabbed the hand that was caressing his face, lifting it to press a kiss to your palm. Then, as if he couldn’t bear another moment of separation, he lifted his head from the pillow, bridging the small gap to kiss you again.

You melted into it with a sigh, smiling against his lips in sheer delight.

Spencer had unofficially moved in, and you’d unofficially decided you never wanted him to leave. Which is why, one quiet afternoon, the air in your bedroom felt so unnervingly still.

You’d dozed off curled against him. Your nap was brief, barely twenty minutes, but you woke not to the sound of his reading, but to a heavy silence. Blinking away sleep, you found his side of the bed empty and the sheets cool.

“Spencer?” you mumbled, your voice thick with drowsiness. You pushed yourself up on your elbows.

And there he was. Sitting on the floor, his back against the bed. All you could see from the mattress was the crown of his head, the soft chestnut curls mussed from your earlier cuddling.

“What are you doing?” you asked softly, kneeling on the mattress, peering down at him.

He didn’t answer immediately. Your gaze followed the line of his focus to his hands, which were stilled in his lap. Between his fingers, you saw the porcelain fragments of your bunny figurine. Your heart gave a little twinge. The little white rabbit, no bigger than your thumb, had sat on your nightstand for years.

“Nothing,” he finally mumbled, the word clipped. He still wouldn’t look at you. You watched, your eyes softening as you understood. He was trying his best to fit the tiny shards back together.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His eyes remained fixed on the pieces in his hands. “I… I hit it. I was trying to grab my book.” He took a shaky breath. “You were asleep on my chest, and you looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you, so I just… reached. My elbow caught it. I heard it hit the floor.”

He gave up then, the fight draining from his posture. He softly gathered all the pieces, onto the open page of the book he’d been trying to reach. He stood up, placing the little pile back on your nightstand. Only then did he finally meet your eyes. His were wide, hazel pools of pure remorse.

“It looks expensive,” he said quietly. “And the fact that you kept it right here, next to where you sleep… it must have been important. It was important. I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it. I’ll find the right adhesive, I’ll study restoration techniques. I can—”

You were still kneeling on the rumpled sheets as the words continued to spill from him, but they began to fade into a distant hum as your eyes drifted from the broken rabbit to Spencer. “It was already broken,” you whispered.

Spencer didn’t hear you as he kept apologizing.

You didn't repeat yourself instead your eyes traced the lines of his profile, the furrow of his brow, the tight set of his jaw. Then, as if he’d suddenly sensed the shift in the air, his words trailed off. His gaze lifted, slowly, and met yours.

Silence settled. The afternoon sun poured through the window, painting a halo of gold around his disheveled hair, illuminating the tired lavender smudges beneath his eyes. Just last night, you’d fidgeted with that very bunny for nearly an hour, rolling it between your fingers as you talked, and he had simply watched you, a soft smile on his lips, letting you have your comfort.

His eyes, now fixed on you, were slightly red rimmed. But they were clearer than they’d been months ago. “They’re better,” he’d confessed one night in the dark, his lips against your temple. “All because of you.”

This also reminded you how just two nights ago, you’d sat perched on the bathroom counter, your knees bracketing his hips as he’d stood between them. You’d carefully guided the razor over his jaw. He’d been so terribly nervous, but happy, so happy just to have you with him.

Your eyes held his beautiful hazel ones, and the truth, which had been living quietly inside your ribs for weeks, finally found its voice.

“I love you.”

Spencer’s entire body went rigid. His eyebrows drew together in a look of pure shock. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared, his mind seemingly stalled on the three syllables you’d just given him.

Before your own heart could finish its frantic terrified lurch against your ribs, he was moving. His arms were around your waist, pulling you from the bed and into him. You melted into the embrace, your own arms flying around his neck, clinging to him. You could feel the wild rhythm of your own pulse, convinced he must feel it, too, hammering against his chest where you were pressed together.

“I love you too.”

You tightened your hold, burying your face in his cardigan. A wave of terror washed over you, followed immediately by a profound sense of rightness. You had handed him the final piece of your heart and officially confirmed that you would allow yourself to be utterly his. There was no taking it back.

And Spencer, as he always did, understood. He just tightened his arms around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other spread across your spine.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to see your face. He could still trace the faint tremor of vulnerability in your expression, the shock of your own courage. He gave you a soft smile, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of your cheeks where his hands still cradled you. “You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice a little unsteady. “I think so.”

His eyes held yours, and they were shining with a love so pure it took your breath away. You blinked quickly, dispelling the last of your sleepiness and the warm prickling of tears.

Spencer’s smile widened, transforming his entire face, but as you looked closer, you saw the glimmering sheen over his own hazel eyes.

“Spencer,” you whispered. “Why are your eyes wet?”

A soft laugh escaped him. “Sorry,” he murmured, blinking rapidly. He swallowed hard. “I just—” His voice cracked, and he let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head as words failed him for one of the rare times in his life.

“Spencer,” you whispered again. “Now I’m going to cry,” you joked weakly, your own vision swimming.

He chuckled again as he framed your face more firmly. “I’m so proud of you,” he said quietly. “And I know how hard this was for you.”

You opened your mouth, an instinct to gently correct him, to say it wasn’t hard, that loving him was the easiest thing you’d ever done, but he stopped you.

“I know,” was all he said, smiling. “And I'm still so incredibly proud of you,” he repeated.

A tear finally escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. “I love you,” you whispered again, the words easier this time.

Spencer closed his eyes at the sound. It was as if he were physically relishing the words, letting them sink into his bones. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled at you before pressing a kiss to your wet cheek. You just smiled, before eagerly burying yourself in his embrace again. Your arms wound around his neck.

Spencer couldn’t believe it, couldn’t fathom that he was the one you had entrusted with those words. After everything you had chosen him.

He was lucky. Impossibly, undeservedly lucky.

Those three words. He hadn’t thought he needed to hear them. And he didn’t, not truly. His love for you was a fact, independent of vocal confirmation.

But now that you’d said them?

It felt like nothing in this world could ever truly harm him again, not when he was shielded by the certainty of this. His heart, so often a repository of heavy knowledge and darker memories, didn't feel burdened. It felt full. Full with pure adoration for you.

He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“I love you so much.”

It made you clutch him even tighter, a happy sound escaping you as you couldn’t stop smiling.

After a while, Spencer lifted you and settled you back onto the rumpled sheets before lowering himself over you. His face now nestled against your collarbone.

“You’re clingy,” you mumbled into the softness of his hair.

“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement. “I know.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. He was smiling at you and your heart swelled. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his right cheek, then his left, then the bridge of his nose. Spencer watched you, his eyes half-lidded as your fingers brushed through the curls at his temples.

Finally, you closed the last bit of distance and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He smiled against your mouth before kissing you back, just as gently.

But then you felt warmth radiating from his skin. You pulled back slightly, just enough to study his face in the afternoon light.

“You're blushing,” you whispered, your thumbs stroking the sides of his neck where your hands rested. “A lot.” A delighted giggle escaped you.

Spencer’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he let out a flustered groan, burying his face completely in the crook of your neck. The move only made the warmth more pronounced.

Your laughter was soft as your hands slid back into his curls, gently cradling his head. You pressed a trail of feather-light kisses to whatever part of him was closest, his hairline, the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder where his shirt had slipped aside. Each kiss seemed to make him melt further into you.

And Spencer loved it. He loved the way he could soften in your arms. Here, he was just Spencer. Lovesick, cherished, and blushing like a teenager over the simple joy of being kissed by the woman he adored. It was a feeling so foreign and so profoundly healing. He’d never had a proper adolescence, never known the uncomplicated thrill of a crush or the giddy embarrassment of being teased by someone who looked at him like you did now. With you, it was as if you were gently healing pieces of a childhood he’d missed out on.

He tightened his arms around you, holding you as close as physically possible, and smiled into your hair.

You were glued to each other’s sides. If you weren’t at work, you were together.

Spencer practically moved in, unofficially. Extra cardigans and socks spawned into your dresser drawer. A second toothbrush stood in your holder, and his favorite tea had taken up residence in your cabinet. He had a key, but he rarely used it to leave.

You'd asked him once if he wasn't too tired of your place but he'd told you that he preferred being with you. Your noise.

Leaving felt like voluntarily stepping back into the silence, and he refused to do it unless absolutely necessary. You never complained. You loved him in your space, the way his books piled next to yours, the scent of him lingering in your sheets.

You filled your newfound time with dates. Coffee shops, quiet walks and lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed.

A major milestone was meeting Diana. You’d been a bundle of nerves, your hands clammy as you clutched a carefully chosen bouquet. “What if she thinks I’m not smart enough? What if I say the wrong thing?” you’d fretted in the car.

Spencer had just taken your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “She’s going to love you,” he’d said certain. “Because I love you. And she’ll see how happy you make me.”

He was right. Diana’s eyes, so like his but softened by time and struggle, had lit up when she saw you. She asked about you, your work, what made you laugh, how you took your tea. By the end of the visit, she was holding your hand and Spencer watched with a heart so full he thought it might burst.

Seeing the two most important people in his world connect was a joy he hadn’t dared to imagine.

Later, you introduced him to your parents. He arrived with a neatly wrapped book for your mother and a handshake for your father. Over dinner, his natural politeness and surprising wit won them over completely. Your father, teasing, had raised his glass. “To you two. We’ll start looking at wedding venues soon, eh?”

You’d felt your face flush, but you didn’t shut it down. You didn’t change the subject. Instead, you’d glanced at Spencer under your lashes and simply… smiled.

The only asymmetry that remained was in the words. He said “I love you” constantly. When you passed him the salt at dinner. When you settled down on the couch next to him. When you woke in the morning and your eyes met his already awake ones.

Your response in those early moments was usually a wordless grumble, burying your face into his chest to escape the morning light. You were not a morning person, and he adored that about you. He’d just hold you closer, press a kiss to your messy hair, and whisper, “I love you,” into the quiet room, content to simply have you there. And after thirty minutes of napping, you'd wake up and mumble an “I love you too.”

Tonight, the two of you were crosslegged on his couch, facing each other over a small bunch of colorful buttons. He had asked about the little button bracelet you often fiddled with at your wrist. You’d brightened immediately. “I’ll teach you,” you’d said, and now here you were.

“You see? You take the needle and go through the back of the first button, then loop it around the thread…”

Spencer was holding his own needle and a purple button, but he was staring at you. On the way your tongue peeked out slightly when you focused, on the way you kept smiling when you perfected one button.

“Spencer,” you sighed, not looking up from your work. “You’re not even looking.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, a grin spreading across his face as he was caught. He dutifully redirected his eyes to your hands.

“Okay, so then you loop it through here, like a little knot, but not too tight,” you continued. “Your turn,” you mumbled, finally turning your eyes to his work.

He carefully mimicked your movements. His brow furrowed as his tongue caught between his teeth. Slowly, he guided the needle through the second hole and executed the loop.

“You’re a natural!” you beamed.

A wider smile bloomed on Spencer’s face as he successfully fixed the first button. He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. “What do I get as a reward?” he grinned, tilting his head.

“Nope!” you replied, fighting your own smile. “You have to loop all the other buttons. Then you’ll get a reward.”

He gave you a pout, his lower lip jutting out just enough to make you laugh before he turned back to the bracelet. In what felt like record time, all buttons were fixed. He looked back at you, cocking his head in a distinctly arrogant manner, his eyebrows raised as if to say, See? I’m a genius.

“Don’t give me that look,” you mumbled, but you were already leaning in. “Don’t drop it,” you whispered against his lips, knowing his habit of cradling your face the moment his hands were free.

Spencer didn’t reply. He simply took the kiss he’d been wanting and earned. He hummed, just before his lips met yours. The kiss was sweet and lingering and he nibbled softly, playfully at your lower lip before pulling back, his smile softer now, satisfied.

He gave you one more kiss to your temple, before resuming his work. You settled back, tucking your feet beneath you, and simply watched him.

After about twenty minutes of comfortable silence, Spencer had the process down to a science. You had shifted, leaning your weight against his side, your head resting on his shoulder as you watched him.Every so often, your hand would reach out, your fingers gently brushing his to correct a slight twist or to guide the needle at a better angle. Each time you did, he would tilt his head, and press a grateful kiss to the crown of your head.

He was tying off his last button as he told you about the new puzzle he’d brought over. The two of you had meticulously planned this date night. You would teach him your craft, he would later spread his puzzle across the coffee table, and you’d work on it together, likely late into the night.

You were listening intently, your chin on his upper arm, your eyes following his hands as he worked.

Then, both of your phones rang.

You practically froze against him, your body tensing in an instant. Slowly, you lifted your head. Both of you reached for your phones with dread. Before answering, Spencer turned and pressed a kiss to your temple, a silent apology for the disturbance. He then grabbed his phone and moved to the kitchen, giving you privacy in the living room.

The call was brief. A new case. When he ended the call and walked back into the living room, he found you sitting very still. Your phone was face down on the couch beside the forgotten bracelet, and the look on your face confirmed your disappointment.

Spencer sighed, just as disappointed and crossed the room, reached for your hands, and gently pulled you to your feet.

He was surprised, but didn't say a word, when you wordlessly settled into the passenger seat of his car. How would it look, arriving together at the BAU, leaving for the jet together? But then again he was too delighted to have you here with him, so he didn't say anything.

Sitting around the table in the conference room, you were quiet. As maps and crime scene photos were passed around, you simply listened, your gaze fixed on the grim visuals, your arms crossed tightly over your chest.

Emily’s sharp eyes flicked to you more than once, her brow slightly furrowed with concern. But she let you be, not just because she wanted to give you peace, but because she could see that someone else was already taking care of you. Spencer had taken your notebook and was jotting down the notes you usually took, quietly doing it for you.

The first night in the hotel, a soft knock sounded on your door. You opened it to find Spencer and so, you didn't bother to hide your, still disappointed, expression.

Spencer had to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a fond grin. “Hi, pretty,” he mumbled softly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. His arms went around your waist, pulling you into a hug.

“Pretty?” you mumbled into his shoulder as you hugged him back.

He pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands, his thumbs stroking over your cheeks. “Would you prefer I call you ‘grumpy’?” he asked, grinning. “I think both adjectives are currently applicable.”

“You suck,” you mumbled, your pout intensifying even as it threatened to turn into a smile.

Spencer smiled as he bent down to wrap his arms around you again, this time lifting you clean off your feet. You let out a small squeak of surprise before instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you the few short steps to the bed.

He laid you down carefully, then followed you down, bracing himself on his forearms to tower over you. “Want to tell me why you’re so moody?” he whispered, using one hand to brush the hair away from your forehead.

You looked up at him and bit your lip to keep it in check. He saw the gesture and immediately dipped his head to press a chaste, soothing kiss to your lips.

“We were having so much fun,” you whispered, the words filled with disappointment. You knew you sounded petulant, childish even.

Spencer shared your sadness, but beneath that he felt a sense of being wanted. Not for his mind, not for his skills on a case, but for his presence on a couch.

He smiled softly “I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered.

Your hands, which had been resting on his back, drifted up to thread into his soft hair, your fingers lightly scratching at the base of his skull, right behind his ears. Spencer immediately melted into the touch like a cat.

“You don’t have to do anything, Spencer. It’s not your fault.”

He pressed a trail of light kisses along the line of your jaw, moving up towards your ear. When he reached the sensitive spot just below your ear, a spot he knew made you shiver, your hands tightened almost imperceptibly in his hair. You let out a soft gasp and wriggled under him.

“Okay, okay,” you conceded. “But theoretically… how would you make it up to me?” you asked, your tone sheepish, a little embarrassed by your own eagerness.

He chuckled, the sound a warm puff of air against your skin. He lifted his head, looking down at you. “Theoretically,” he began. “I’d take you to your favorite bookstore first.”

Your smile widened. You reached up, gently tucking a curl behind his ear so you could see his pretty face better. “Yeah?”

“And then,” he continued, his gaze holding yours, “I’d get you a sampling of every one of your favorite bagel flavors. And the biggest, most decadent cup of hot chocolate they sell, with the extra whipped cream.”

You were smiling fully now, forgetting about your earlier disappointment. He leaned in, pressing ar kiss to your other cheek. “And then,” he whispered, “I’d take you to that new shop around the corner from your apartment.”

You lit up, your eyes sparkling. “The one with the really cool buttons? The ones in the glass jars?”

Spencer just nodded, a smile on his face. He’d noticed you peering in the window last week, when he drove you home.

“Oh my god,” you smiled. “Okay, yeah. I’ll let you make it up to me.”

To your luck, the case was resolved in under seventy-two hours.

You were curled in your seat, absorbed in the book Spencer had pressed into your hands just before takeoff. In the rushed departure, your own go-bag had been packed with lots of things, but you’d still neglected small comforts. You were getting better at remembering, but he never forgot. He’d slipped into your hotel room as you zipped your bag and wordlessly placed The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde on top of your folded sweater.

Now, you read, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration, one finger unconsciously finding its way to your mouth, worrying at the edge of your nail.

Spencer, from the seat beside you, watched the familiar gesture from the corner of his eye. He took a subtle glance around the jet, seeing the coast was clear, he reached over without looking up from his own book. His hand closed around yours, guiding your finger away from your lips. His thumb stroked over your knuckle before he let go.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. A soft smile touched your lips, before you turned back to your book, your hand now resting calmly in your lap.

Spencer turned back to his book. Well, your book. He was reading your annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice. He’d asked, a few nights ago, if he could borrow it, his curiosity piqued by the colorful tabs and crowded margins. You’d handed it over with a shy smile. Now, he was mostly reading your annotations rather than the familiar book. Your underlined passages, your scribbled notes in the margin, your doodled hearts around certain lines of dialogue. It felt profoundly intimate.

Beneath the small table between your seats, your foot suddenly found his. Your brown ballet flats began toying with his black vans. Feeling your pressure against his ankle, Spencer smiled down at his book. He shifted his foot and tapped the tip of his shoe against yours. Once. Twice. Three times. I love you.

You kept your eyes firmly glued to your book, fighting the wide smile that threatened to give you away. With careful nonchalance, you shifted and tapped back. One. Two. Three.

And all while, he was reading Pride and Prejudice, he read your book over your shoulder as well. He watched the slight tilt of your head when you encountered a particularly funny phrase said by Algernon, the way your thumb gently smoothed the corner of a page you particularly liked or the way your eyebrows furrowed when Lady Bracknell showed up.

For about ten minutes, the jet was quiet. Then, Luke walked from the small kitchen area to the plush seat directly across from you. You glanced up, offering him a smile before starting to retreat back into your book.

“You okay?” Luke asked, making you look up again.

You stared at him confused. But then, understanding dawned on you. You had been uncharacteristically quiet over the past three days, of course they'd notice.

You shifted nervously in your seat, but then, beneath the table, Spencer’s foot found yours again. He tapped your foot softly as if to say, It’s fine. Everyone has bad weeks. Don’t be embarassed.

That gave you the courage to meet Luke’s concerned gaze. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice soft. “I think I was just having a rough time with this case. But I’m feeling better now.” You paused, tapping on the book cover. “I guess I just really hate having my plans interrupted.”

As you finished, Spencer’s foot tapped against yours again. Good job.

A delighted grin threatened to burst across your face. You pressed your lips together, fighting it back.

“Been there,” Luke said, smiling. With that, he leaned back, pulling out his phone.

You went back to your book, but then suddenly Emily spoke up. “What plans?”

You stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Oh,” you mumbled as you kept your eyes down, focusing on your book. “I had plans with my boyfriend.”

Luke, who had just settled back, slowly straightened in his seat, his phone forgotten in his hand. Tara’s head, which had been bent over a tablet, snapped up fast. Even Rossi, who had been pretending to sleep in the far seat, opened his eyes.

Spencer felt his own heart perform a bizarre leap against his ribs. His mouth went dry, then fell slightly open. He hadn’t been prepared for this. His eyes darted to your profile, searching for a sign this was some joke.

“What?” Tara leaned forward in her seat. “Your what?”

You bit your lip, a flustered expression forming on your face. Spencer’s eyes dropped from your face to your hands. They had abandoned the book and flown to the chain around your neck, your fingers nervously toying with the moon pendant.

At the same moment, Spencer felt the familiar weight of his own necklace, the matching star, cold against his sternum. Or it had been cold. Now, it was rapidly warming, heated by the blush he could feel creeping up his own chest.

“Boyfriend,” you repeated, slightly stronger this time, though your gaze remained fixed on your lap. Your fingertip tapped the moon pendant.

Spencer saw Rossi’s eyes narrow. They darted from your flustered face, down to the nervous gesture at your neck, and then lingered.

“Did you know about this?” Luke blurted out, swiveling to stare at Spencer, his own mouth agape.

Spencer’s head jerked toward Luke, panic flashing behind his eyes for a split second. But Luke, blessedly, was too stunned to actually expect an answer.

“Hold on, rewind for a second.” Tara held up a hand, her gaze locked on you. She unbuckled her seatbelt and moved to stand in the aisle next to your seat. “Since when do you have a boyfriend? And who is he? Have we met him?”

You took a shaky breath, still looking down. “Almost a year,” you mumbled, so softly they all had to lean in to hear.

Almost a year.

You weren’t counting from the end of the break. In your mind, you had never stopped being together. And that distinction, that refusal to invalidate the hard months alongside the good, meant a lot to Spencer. His vision swam briefly, and he had to blink hard, looking down at the annotated pages in his lap to hide the sudden rush of emotion that threatened to show on his face.

“A year?” Rossi’s voice cut through the stunned silence. JJ, who had been watching the exchange with growing fascination, finally found her voice, her mouth still slightly agape. “Who is he?”

From the sidelines, Luke shook his head slowly. “Garcia’s gonna kill me for knowing before her.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers finally releasing the moon pendant. You raised your head, meeting the intense stare of your team. Then, you lifted your hand and simply pointed your thumb, directly at the man sitting beside you.

Spencer felt his own jaw go slack. He was vaguely aware of every single head in the cabin swiveling in unison towards him.

You finally turned your head, meeting his wide eyes. You shrugged one shoulder and shot him a grin that was equal parts apologetic and utterly fond.

“I’m… sorry?” Luke finally breathed out. He was looking at Spencer as if he’d just sprouted a second head.

“You’re dating,” Rossi stated and then he took a long gulp of his drink, his eyes never leaving Spencer’s crimson face. “You've been dating. For a year?”

You fell silent, pressing your lips together. It was your way of telling Spencer that it was his turn to speak.

Spencer swallowed, his throat dry. “Uh. Yeah,” he managed, the syllable cracking slightly. Under the table, his foot found yours and tapped it rapidly. Please. Speak. Help me.

“How?” Luke blurted out.

You glanced up.. “How?” you repeated, mirroring his tone with a teasing grin.

Luke shook his head, flustered. “You know what I mean! I mean… how? When? What… what even…”

You looked down at your hands, which had begun tracing the letters on your book cover again. Your voice, when it came, was softer. “Happened after I got stabbed,” you said, your eyes flicking to your thigh. “Spencer took care of me. Stayed with me. Made sure I was okay” You shrugged your shoulders. “That's how.” You mumbled the last words, too flustered to meet everyone's eyes.

All eyes swung back to Spencer. He had ducked his head, staring intently at his own lap, where his hands were clenched tightly around your copy of Pride and Prejudice. The blush that had been creeping up his neck had now fully consumed his face and the tips of his ears.

He didn’t need to look up for them to know it was true.

You were light on your feet as you skipped down the stairs from Emily’s office, a smile already pulling at your lips. Tara glanced up from her monitor, smiling as you breezed past her.

“Spencer!”

You came to a stop against the edge of his desk. He looked up, setting his pen down as if he’d been waiting for this exact interruption.

“She said yes,” you announced, your grin spreading wide enough to make your cheeks ache.

“Did you think she’d say no to you?” he smiled.

You shrugged as you settled against the edge of his desk, playfully kicking your swinging foot against the leg of his chair. “Well, it was a possibility.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said as his hand reached out and wrapped around your ankle. His thumb began brushing over the soft knit of your sock. No one could deny you anything, least of all Emily, who adored you.

“Either way,” you sighed happily. “We can finally go to New York!”

Two whole weeks. Fourteen days with no cases, no files, just you and Spencer in a new city. Your mind was already miles away, weaving daydreams of lazy mornings and long walks.

Spencer still couldn’t quite believe you wanted to go. Just last week, you'd finally agreed to it.

He’d woken first, as he often did, and had reluctantly untangled himself from your sleeping form. He’d pressed a silent kiss to your temple before slipping into his study, trying not to disturb your peace. You’d found him barely thirty minutes later. No greeting, just the quiet pad of your feet and the weight of you sliding sideways into his lap, displacing a stack of student papers. He’d dropped his pen without a second thought, his arms coming around you automatically, holding you close as you drifted in that hazy place between sleep and waking.

After a long silence, your voice had been muffled against his shoulder. “Let’s go to New York.”

That was it.

All that had been left was the formality of asking Emily, a task that had filled you with a nervousness he found utterly endearing. The whole drive to work you’d been terribly nervous. “What if she gets mad? What if she thinks I’m being lazy, asking for so much time?” 

He’d spent the trip soothing those fears with logic and gentle touches, until you’d finally taken a deep breath and marched upstairs.

Now, mission accomplished, you let out a happy sigh, leaning more fully against his desk. “I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I,” he replied, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.

You beamed at him. Then, with an affectionate nudge of your foot against his hand, you pushed off the desk. You bent down, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek, before turning to float back to your own workstation.

You were completely, blissfully oblivious to the soft eyes following you. To the smiles exchanged over monitors like Tara’s and Luke’s. They watched you settle at your desk, the dreamy smile still playing on your lips as you stared blankly at your screen, already a thousand miles away in New York.

At home, the next day, it was chaos. Spencer’s apartment, which now felt as much yours as his, had open drawers and half-filled bags. You were pulling favorite shirts from hangers and folding jeans into soft bundles, only to second guess yourself and start new piles.

“Spencer!” you called out, voice slightly muffled from where you were buried in the closet. “Have you seen my brown sweater?”It was your favorite sweater that you'd stolen and it smelled like him.

Spencer’s answer came from the bathroom as he opened and closed cabinet doors. “Left drawer in my closet. Top one.” He called back as he stuffed both of your toiletry bags with things you needed.

“Found it! Thank you!”

You worked for what felt like hours, but then you finally, both stepped back, surveying the two suitcases lying open on the bed.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, a tired sigh escaping you. “Do we have everything?”

Spencer wrapped an arm around you, his chin brushing your hair. “Definitely,” he mumbled as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, and you melted a little further into his side.

“Okay,” you said, pulling away with renewed energy. “Time to get dressed.”

The simple act of choosing travel clothes however felt more like a negotiation.

“No, Spencer,” you sighed. “You can't only pack three sweaters. It’s New York. What if it rains? What if there’s wind?” You were already pulling two more of his soft cardigans from a drawer and marching them toward his open suitcase.

He sighed like a man who knew he was beat but still felt the need to protest. “The average temperature for the dates we’ll be there is—”

“—Irrelevant to me, because New York weather is unpredictable,” you finished for him, neatly layering the sweaters beside his folded shirts.

He let you win on the sweaters. But when you turned to his scarf collection and began selecting four, he protested.

“Hey. No.” He moved quickly, his hand capturing your wrist before you could deposit the soft bundle. “I don't need that many scarves. One is sufficient for wind protection and heat retention.”

You tried to wriggle your hand free. “But what if you want to accessorize? Match your mood?” You made a valiant attempt to stuff them into a side pocket anyway.

This was a mistake. Spencer’s grip shifted from your wrist to your sides, his fingers finding the ticklish spots he knew so well. A startled shriek turned into breathless giggles as you convulsed, the scarves falling forgotten to the floor.

“Truce! Truce!” you gasped, but he was relentless, a grinning tickling menace until you were both stumbling backward, collapsing in a heap of laughter onto the bed, sending a pillow tumbling to the floor.

After a while, the giggles slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. You laid side by side, staring up at the ceiling. The suitcases, still half-packed, were forgotten. “Fine,” you finally whispered, still smiling at the ceiling. “One scarf. But I’m picking which one.”

Spencer let out a huff of laughter. “Deal.”

After a while, you turned your head on the pillow, your gaze finding his profile against the soft light of the room.

“Do you think we’ll need gloves?” you asked quietly.

Spencer turned his head as well. He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “No,” he grinned. “I don't believe we will require gloves in the middle of May in New York.”

You smiled. “Just wondering.”

Your hand, which had been resting at your side, reached for his. You guided his palm to your stomach, settling it there as your fingers began to trace over the back of his hand, skating over his knuckles, the fine bones of his fingers and his purple button bracelet.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, almost to yourself. “I think you’re right.”

Spencer, took the chance to close the small distance between you. He shifted, scooting closer until his hip was pressed against yours, until the warmth of his body was a solid line along your side. He dipped his head, and when you turned to face him again, his lips were so close they almost grazed yours with each soft exhale.

“About what?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you stretched your leg out, your foot seeking his. You found his ankle and gently hooked your foot around it. He smiled at the contact.

You stayed quiet as your eyes drifted down to study your joined hands. Your thumb brushed over his and finally you spoke.

“Your hands aren’t cold anymore.”

Spencer’s gaze followed yours, looking down at where your hand cradled his. He stayed silent for a long moment, just watching your thumb brush gently over his knuckles. The smile on his lips softened.

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.