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He learns you the way he learns everything else: with relentless, obsessive devotion. But where his mind usually files away data for analysis, here he archives only for the sake of remembering. He catalogues the tremor in your thighs before you crest, the way your fingers twist and release the sheets in a rhythm only he can decipher, the soft, broken sound of his name falling from your lips like a confession he never expected to hear. He knows the exact flutter of your lashes that precedes a gasp, the precise arch of your spine that means he has found the angle that makes your mind go blissfully, beautifully blank.

He has memorized the delicate geography of your pleasure with cartographic precision: the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver, the hollow of your throat where he can feel your pulse racing, a frantic bird against his tongue, the dip at the base of your spine that makes you arch into him like a bow drawn taut. Every sound you make—the soft, breathy whimpers, the broken, desperate moans, the way your breath catches and stutters when he whispers your name against your collarbone—is a data point in the vast, intimate library he keeps of you.

But this is not cold analysis. There is no detachment here. This is worship, documented not in notebooks or files, but in the language of his hands, the reverent press of his lips, the quiet, trembling whispers he leaves against your skin like benedictions. When he moves inside you, it is with the patience of someone who has waited his whole life to be this close to another person. He watches you with those wide, dark eyes—eyes that have seen the worst of humanity—and in them, you see only wonder. Only you.

Until one night, a small, incidental variable is introduced.

It happens in the space between one breath and the next—a moment so fleeting, so unremarkable in its origin, that neither of you could have predicted the seismic shift it would cause. You are lost in the overwhelming sensation of him, the sharp, building tension coiling low in your own gut, when he reaches for your hips. The movement is meant to pull you closer, to deepen the connection, to anchor himself in the dizzying warmth of you. But his grip—usually so measured, so deliberately gentle—is unconsciously firmer than he intended.

His fingers bite into the soft flesh of your hips as he guides your rhythm, a subtle but undeniable directive in his hold. There is a quiet authority in the way he moves you, a flicker of something primal that slips past his usual careful restraint—a crack in the veneer of his control that he didn't even know was there. It is not cruel. It is not demanding in the way he fears. It is simply certain. A wordless claim, an unthinking possession, a momentary forgetting of his own carefully constructed rules.

Your head falls back, your fingers fisting in the sheets as the sensation ripples through you like a stone dropped into still water. A sound escapes your lips—not the soft, breathy whimpers he knows so well, but something deeper, hungrier, a sound that seems to surprise even you. Your hips roll against his grip, not pulling away, but pressing into it, chasing the delicious pressure of his hands, the unexpected thrill of being held so firmly.

Spencer's entire body goes rigid.

His mind, which has been blissfully quiet—a rare and precious thing, that silence, the only silence he has ever truly craved—suddenly snaps back to hyper-focus like a rubber band pulled taut and released. His hands on your hips freeze, his movements ceasing entirely as if someone has pressed pause on the world. The heat between you lingers, suspended, but the air in the room changes, thickens with the weight of his sudden, sharp awareness.

His eyes, dark and glazed with passion just a heartbeat ago, now sharpen with an almost forensic intensity as they search your face. He is reading you the way he reads a crime scene—every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes, every shallow, uneven breath. The flush on your cheeks. The parted swell of your lips. The way your chest rises and falls in quick, uneven pants. He catalogues it all, his brilliant mind racing through a thousand calculations in the span of a single, suspended second.

But this is not a crime scene. You are not a victim. And the evidence he is gathering is not of trauma, but of something far more complicated.

He sees it now—the way your pupils are blown wide, dark and wanting. The way your body is still pressed against his, not recoiling, but seeking. The way your hips shifted against his grip, chasing the pressure of his fingers. The way that sound—that raw, desperate, beautiful sound—still seems to echo in the space between you.

He blinks. Once. Twice. The gears in his mind are audibly turning, cross-referencing, running a rapid-fire comparative analysis against every single data point he has ever collected on you.

"That," he breathes, his voice a little unsteady, still rough around the edges from the pleasure you had been building together. His throat works as he swallows, trying to recalibrate. "That was... new."

You feel a blush creep up your neck, spreading across your chest like warm honey. Embarrassment mingles with the lingering aftershocks of pleasure, leaving you warm and flustered beneath his intense, searching gaze. His eyes have not left your face—they are fixed on you with the kind of focused attention he usually reserves for cold cases and impossible puzzles.

"What was?" you ask, though you already know. You can still feel the echo of that sound in your own throat, the way it had surprised even you.

"That sound," he insists, his brow furrowed in genuine, scientific confusion. There is no accusation in his tone, only the desperate, almost frantic need of a man who has encountered an anomaly he cannot immediately explain. "You've never made that sound before. I would have remembered."

He says it with such certainty, such unshakeable confidence, that there is no room for argument. And you know he is right—of course he is right. He has filed them all away: every gasp, every sigh, every broken moan that has ever fallen from your lips, neatly organized in the vast, intimate library he keeps of you. Your pleasure is his favourite area of study, his most cherished collection. He knows the precise pitch of your breathy whimpers, the way your voice cracks when he hits that perfect spot, the shuddering exhalation you make when you finally let go, the soft, almost surprised laugh that sometimes escapes you in the quiet aftermath. He knows them all, has committed them to memory like verses of poetry he never wants to forget, like the lines of a book he could recite in his sleep.

And this—this low, guttural hum, this sound of startled surrender that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in your chest, raw and unfiltered and utterly unguarded—is entirely unprecedented.

His brow furrows deeper, and you can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He is running diagnostics. He is comparing this new sound against the archive, searching for a match, finding none. The absence of precedent is clearly troubling him—not because he dislikes the sound, but because he did not predict it. Because it suggests that there are still corners of you he has not yet mapped, still responses he has not yet learned to anticipate.

And for a man who has built his entire identity around knowing, around understanding, around being prepared for every variable—that is a deeply unsettling thought.

He looks down at his hands, still gripping your hips, and for a moment, something flickers across his face. Surprise. Uncertainty. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the very spots where his fingers had pressed too hard, a silent apology in the gentleness of the gesture. The contrast is striking—the firm grip that had sparked this entire revelation, now softened into something almost penitent.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice softer now, the analytical sharpness giving way to a thread of genuine concern. It is the voice he uses when he is afraid he has made a mistake, when the fear of causing you pain overrides every other impulse in his body.

You shake your head, still breathless, still riding the lingering waves of sensation. "No. It was... it was good. Different. But good."

His eyes search yours for a long, suspended moment, weighing your words against the data of your flushed cheeks, your still-racing pulse, the way your chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths. He is reading every micro-expression, every subtle shift in your features, looking for any sign that you are hiding discomfort behind a brave smile.

But all he finds is truth.

His hands are still on your hips, but they have gone still now, frozen in place like a man who has suddenly realized he is holding something infinitely precious and infinitely fragile. He stares at you, and you can see the war raging behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to retreat into the safety of what he knows, and the part of him that is undeniably, irresistibly curious about what else he might discover if he lets himself be surprised.

You can almost hear the whir of his thoughts, the rapid-fire cross-referencing of variables, the way he's deconstructing the last ten seconds with the same forensic precision he'd use to crack an unsub's pattern. He replays the moment in his head, frame by frame, searching for the anomaly. The change in angle? No. The increase in pace? Unlikely. It was the pressure—the feeling of being anchored, of being taken. His fingers had dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and somewhere in that unconscious assertion of control, he had unlocked something he hadn't even known was there.

You watch him work through it, fascinated despite yourself. There is something almost unbearably endearing about the way he approaches your pleasure like it is the most important research project of his life—because, in a way, it is. His lips move silently, forming words he is not quite speaking aloud, testing hypotheses against the evidence of your flushed skin and ragged breaths.

You can see the moment he isolates the key factor—the pressure of his grip, the unconscious assertion of his own wanting, the way he had held you not like something precious to be protected, but like something his to keep.

There, you think, watching his eyes sharpen with recognition. He found it.

"Pressure," he says aloud, testing the word, letting it settle in the air between you. "The variable is pressure. Not just physical pressure, but—" He pauses, searching for the right terminology, his brow furrowing deeper. "The pressure of... of intention. Of certainty." He looks at you, his gaze searching, almost vulnerable. 

And then, a second later, something shifts.

A slow, predatory smile—something you have never seen before—curves his lips. It is not the soft, boyish smile he gives you over morning coffee, nor the awkward, self-deprecating grin he wears when he's rambling about something obscure. It is not the gentle, wondering expression he wears when he watches you sleep, or the shy, almost surprised smile that appears when you tell him you love him.

This is different.

This is the smile of a man who has just found the solution to a complex equation, who sees the answer laid out before him and cannot wait to test his theory. There is a spark in his eyes, a glint of something almost primal, and it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. It is the smile of someone who has spent his entire life in his own head, analysing and overthinking, and has suddenly discovered that his body has its own intelligence—and that intelligence knows exactly what it wants.

"Okay," he says, his voice dropping an octave. It is lower, rougher, stripped of its usual academic cadence. The careful enunciation is gone, replaced by something rawer, more immediate. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin, and you feel the words more than you hear them. "Let's run this experiment again."

He doesn't ask permission. There is no hesitant pause, no gentle inquiry of "Is this okay?" The question has already been answered—by your gasp, by the way your body arched into his grip, by the sound you made that he is now determined to recreate. 

He simply repeats the motion, but this time with intention. This time with purpose.

His hand roams your hip, his fingers splaying across the curve of your waist, spanning the soft flesh with an ownership that makes your breath catch. 

His grip is firm and unyielding as he pulls you down to grind on him, controlling the rhythm with a confidence that feels almost foreign on him.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp exhale, morphing into that same, low, surrendering hum. The sound vibrates through your chest, your throat, spilling out of you like you have no choice in the matter, like your body has decided to speak a language your mind has never learned. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into him, anchoring yourself to him as the world tilts dangerously off its axis.

Spencer's eyes darken at the sound. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He lets out a shuddering breath, and for a moment, his composure wavers—the scientist eclipsed by the man, the observer becoming the participant. His carefully constructed walls, built brick by brick over a lifetime of feeling too much and being too much, crumble in the space of a single heartbeat.

"There it is," he breathes, his voice rough with something like wonder. "That's the variable."

He does it again, adjusting the angle of his hips, the pressure of his fingers, testing the boundaries of this new discovery. His thumb presses into the hollow of your hip bone, a small, deliberate point of contact that sends a jolt of sensation through your entire body. He watches your face with rapt attention, cataloguing every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breathing. His eyes are dark, focused, alight with the particular intensity of a man who has found something he did not know he was searching for.

He is no longer simply making love to you; he is studying you, learning you anew, rewriting the data he thought he had memorized. The archive he has built of your pleasure—once so carefully curated, so lovingly preserved—is now being expanded, updated, transformed by this new variable he has discovered. And he is thrilled by it. You can see it in the way his lips part slightly, the way his brow furrows with concentration, the way his breathing has quickened to match the pace of his thoughts.

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traces the curve of your lower lip, feather-light, almost reverent—a stark contrast to the firm grip of his other hand on your hip. The duality of him, the gentle and the commanding, the scholar and the man, exists in perfect balance in this moment.

He does it again, adjusting the angle of his hips, the pressure of his fingers, testing the boundaries of this new discovery. His thumb presses into the hollow of your hip bone, and he watches your face with rapt attention, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breathing. He is no longer simply making love to you; he is studying you, learning you anew, rewriting the data he thought he had memorized.

"This is fascinating," he murmurs, half to himself, half to you. "I've spent years analyzing behavioral patterns, but I never considered..." He trails off, his grip tightening fractionally as he pulls you into another thrust. "...how much variation exists in a single reaction."

You can barely form a response, your thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. But you manage a breathless, "Spencer..."

He pauses, his eyes snapping to yours. The analytical sharpness softens, just slightly, replaced by something warmer. "Too much?" he asks, his thumb tracing a soothing circle on your hip. "Do you want me to stop?"

It is such a Spencer question—so careful, so considerate, even now. Even when he is on the verge of unraveling something new about you, he still needs to know that you are with him, that you are not just an experiment.

You shake your head, your voice barely a whisper. "No. Don't stop."

His smile returns, softer now, but no less determined. "Good," he says, and there is a thread of relief in his voice, a quiet gratitude that you are willing to let him explore this with you. "Because I'm not done with this hypothesis yet."

And then he proves it, testing the variable again and again, mapping the contours of your pleasure with the same devotion he once reserved for the most complex of cases. He is not just learning about you—he is learning about himself, about the parts of him he has kept carefully contained. And in the quiet, sacred space of your shared bedroom, he discovers that sometimes the most important discoveries are not found in books, but in the trembling surrender of the person who trusts you enough to let you take control.

Damn it. Now you want to cry again, not tears of sadness, no– but in pure joyful emotion. You had married a man who noticed even the slightest change of your eyes or or an off breath. 

“I’m more than okay,” you manage to whisper but it comes out more like a choked out wobbly breath. “I just– the way you're looking at me. The way you looked at me. I’ve never felt so much love.”

Spencer leans down to press his forehead against yours as the elevator steadily climbed to the hotel's top floor, the warmth of him flooding your system. 

“I love you,” he whispers firmly. “With everything I am, with every breath I take. I’m so happy you’re my wife. I know you know but I need to tell you it again and again. I can’t stop saying it. I’ll always look at you like this because you’re my love. Every chamber of my heart beats in unison for you.” 

Just before you could fully burst into tears at the sweetest words you had ever heard and wash off all the makeup that you had spent hours applying this morning, the elevator beeped and opened revealing a long, elegantly styled hallway.

“Cmon, angel,” Spencer murmured softly, his breath caressing your ear. “I want to show you our honeymoon suite,” He tugs on your hand and you giggle at the way he practically drags you down the hallway like an overeager puppy, stumbling beside him. 

When you make it to the door at the end of the hallways, Spencer suddenly stops to face you. You open your mouth to speak and then—

“Whoa,” you gasp as he picks you up, his lean but strong arms sliding under your back and your knees to form the classic bridal style hold. “Baby what are you doing?” you giggle into his shoulder, filled with elation. You’re pretty sure you know what he's doing, you just want him to say it. 

Spencer smiles down at you and it feels like the warmth of ten thousand suns shining down on you, and healing every emotional wound that ever hurt you. 

“I am carrying my very beautiful bride across the threshold of our honeymoon suite, and then I am going to spend the entire night worshipping her.”

You immediately turn that familiar pretty shade of pink that Spencer loves, still not used to hearing him talk like this—even after all this time together. 

“You look impossibly pretty like this,” he smiles as his gaze traces the features on your face. “You don’t even know how much.”

Before you can respond with a doubtful quip disguised by humour, he maneuvers you in his arms so he can push the hotel room door open.

Your breath catches.

“Holy shit.”

His eyes fill with pride and you can feel his spine straightening. The room was absolutely gorgeous. The room was lit, not harshly bright, yet light enough so you could see everything. The large windows had the curtains pulled back to reveal the glistening lights of the city. In the center of the room was a king bed, draped with silk sheets and piled with fluffiest pillows you had ever seen. The sheets were covered with rose petals scattered about, and at the foot of the bed sat a basket filled with champagne and other things you couldn’t make out. 

“I called a week ago and asked them to set all this up. Penelope helped me find your wedding pinterest board and I wanted to make tonight special, especially since you planned the wedding so beautifully,” he smiles at your wide eyed expression as he puts you down from the bridal carry and kneels down to remove each one of your beautiful but painful heels that had been pinching your toes for hours. “You do so so much, and I'm not the most creatively inclined but I wanted to do this for you. I know I’m about to show you how much I love you physically but I  wanted to show you a different way too. I…I hope you like it.” 

This. This is why you married him, you thought as he removed each heel— pressing a kiss to each knee through your dress. Not for his incredible profiling skills, not for his astonishingly high iq of 187, not for his tall stature, or his beautifully sculpted face, or his brown doe eyes or his pretty pink lips or his messy brown locks but this. How much he cared. How he remembered the details, like you offhandedly mentioning your pinterest board. How he didn’t mind sleeping with a nightlight on during storms because he knew you got scared. Every single note filled with a fun fact a day left in your lunch. How he would listen to you ramble on and on about your favorite shows that other boys might laugh and call too girly, but he made a detailed chart with you on whether Jess or Logan was Rory's soulmate in Gilmore Girls. You married him for him. For the way he loved you in a way you thought was only possible in fairytales. 

“Spencer,” you breathe out shakily as his eyes lock onto yours, looking impossibly soft. “I don’t even know how to describe how I’m feeling right now. I love you. I love you so so so much. I can’t believe you asked Penelope for my pinterest board. I can’t believe you even remembered me mentioning it. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Of course I did…I love you,” he smiles gently as he tugs you closer, his hand wrapping round your waist. “I’m going to be doing things like this for you forever. It’s the least I could do. You are the most incredible girl in the entire universe,”. He smirks as he leans his forehead down to touch your own. “And that's saying a lot because the universe is actively expanding and actually the rate at which it’s expanding is accelerating which means—”

“Wait,”. He suddenly stops and takes a breath. “I’ll tell you about galactic redshift later because I’m getting too distracted by how you look in this dress,” His lips slightly turn up as his voice lowers. “And how much I want to see it on the floor.” 

You can feel your face heat up for like the ten thousandth time today and you groan, pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear.

“You can’t keep saying these things,” you pout and he quickly leans down to press a quick peck to your lips. “I can’t help blushing. I think I have a chronic blushing problem.”

He laughs as he picks you and gently sets you amongst the flower petals on the silky bedspread, putting the basket on the floor before tossing his suit jacket aside. 

“Chronic implies that it's long lasting which in this case I think is ideal,” he kisses your forehead in between words as he sits beside you on the bed. “You look too cute blushing— I don’t ever want it to go away.” 

You giggle until his lips brush yours and every other thought melts from your mind. He kisses you so gently at first, like you’re porcelain on the verge of shattering. One of his hands reaches up to cup your face, while the other one settles on your waist—contentedly drawing little circles into the fabric of your wedding dress with his thumb. You sigh against his mouth as every nerve ending in your body seems to spark to life all at once. 

At your sigh, his breath hitches and his tongue slowly slips into your mouth at the given opportunity. The hand that was against your cheek slides to cup the back of your head as he gently lowers you to lay back against the pillows. Your hair splays out, and he raises up from your lips to stare down at you adoringly. 

“My beautiful wife,” he breathes out as his eyes trace your every feature. He lowers his lips to barely brush against yours once more. “My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

Before tears of emotion could fall from your eyes, he's kissing you again, and you can feel how much of himself he’s putting into it. He’s kissing you like your lips are what will save him from an incurable disease. Your wedding dress is twisted and flowing around the both of you, and his hands slide under you to fiddle with the delicate buttons on the back. 

He raises his head once again and smiles at you, and everything that is outside of the little bubble the two of you created disappears.

“Can I take this dress off baby?” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“Yes please.”

“Your wish is my command,” he winks and you giggle, amazed at the way he can turn everything from serious and deeply intimate to funny, and yet still make the silliest of things romantic. “Sit up a little for me, angel.”

You obey him and his soft voice without question. His long fingers begin to attempt to unhook each button. Keyword… attempt. 

He huffs with a slight pout as his nimble fingers fail to get a grasp on even the first button. 

“I have an IQ of 187 and yet these buttons seem to require one even higher. Why are they so tiny? I mean they're beautiful… but Vera Wang certainly doesn't design with efficiency in mind.” 

“You should send them a letter.”

“Haha… very funny,” he pouts again as he finally manages to unhook the first one. “I have half a mind to.”

Suddenly his face brightens and his eyes get that twinkling look again.

“I have an idea,” he grins as he leans down towards the buttons. “Kisses for good luck.”

You smile and start to giggle again until you feel the press of his lips to each button through your dress. The butterflies come to life in your stomach again and begin to fly in dizzyingly fast circles. 

“There we go,” he murmurs as his lips brush each button and somehow…they unbutton as he tries his hand at it once more. “Told you. Kisses are good luck. Scientifically proven now.”

“You don’t believe in luck,” you whisper as his fingers unhook the last of the buttons.

“I do when it comes to you,” he breathes out as he gently pulls the sleeves of your dress down your arms, and lays you down to pull it off the rest of your body. 

Damn, you’re blushing again. And you don’t think it will ever go away as long as Spencer is alive to make you feel this way. 

Once the dress is all the way off, you hear Spencer's breath catch, and you look up at him shyly through your eyelashes. You were in wedding lingerie, that this morning your bridesmaids giggled and complimented as they helped you dress. The lingerie was white and lacy, delicate edges against your skin. 

“You,” he leans down to kiss you between each word. “Are..” Kiss. “So…” Kiss.” Pretty…” Another kiss. 

“Do you like it?” you murmur, stealing another kiss as he lifts his head once more. “I wanted to look pretty and special for tonight.”

“Like it?” he blinks like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Angel…like is too insignificant a word for how I feel about you in this. Like… is used for saying you like a drink or dessert. Like…is a widely disproportionate word for how I feel about you. I feel like love is even too small to describe it.”

He exhales and leans down to kiss the lace of the bralettes edge, murmuring sweet things that you could barely make out. 

“Hey,” you murmur as you reach for the buttons on his white dress shirt. “I can’t be the only one half naked.”

He grins as he raises his head, and now it's your turn to fumble with buttons.  

“Here,”  he whispers, as his larger hands cover your shaky ones and begin to help undo the buttons on his shirt. Once he reaches the end, he shrugs off the shirt and tosses it on the floor, not caring where it lands. 

You let out a soft breath as he lets you gaze upon his chest. He was so handsome, so pretty. He wasn’t built with bulging muscles or a wide chest. Instead, he was built especially for you. He was lean yet defined, strong without being crushing.  

You didn’t have any words so you said the only thing that really mattered. 

“I love you, Spencer Reid.”

He leans down, and right before his lips meet your own you catch the mist that begins to cloud his eyes. 

“I love you,” he murmurs as he kisses your lips and then begins trailing his own lips down your neck. 

“I love you,” he repeats again as his lips latch onto that special spot on your neck, the one he's studied thoroughly and knows it’ll make you squirm. Your hips slightly arch to meet his as he sucks and gently bites at the skin, marking you as his own. You can feel the length of him, a not so subtle hardness pressing against you. 

You let out a whiny whimper and you can feel his smile spread across his lips as he keeps kissing his way down to your lace covered breasts. 

He kisses all around the lace edge and then reaches both hands up to cup them, marveling in how they fit within his palms. 

You whine again as he gently squeezes and begins to knead them, the sensation shooting down between your legs. 

“These are so pretty,” he mutters in a low voice as he stares at them. “So perfect for me, look at how they fit in my hands.” 

“Oh…god,” you let out in a breathy little moan, the feeling and the sight of him playing with your breasts causing the damp patch on your panties to grow even damper.

“Mm-mm,” he tuts gently. “I don’t think a deity is making you feel like this right now baby.” He grins as you let out another soft little whimper. “Who’s making you feel this way right now? Cmon…you can say it.” 

“Spencer!” you cry out as he rolls his hips against yours while he continues playing with your breasts, the friction causing a delicious pleasure to flood your senses. 

“Thats it angel,” he whispers against your lips with each slow roll of his hips. “Good job… I knew you could do it.” 

The praise he lavishes you with goes straight to your core, while he simultaneously reaches around to unhook the lacy bra, this time his fingers not fumbling at all. As it falls off he stares once again for a moment, before lowering his head to attach his lips around one peak while his hand paid attention to the other breast so it wasn’t neglected. He gently sucks and laves his tongue over it causing an exorbitant amount of high pitched noises to leave your lips. 

He detaches for a moment to gaze up into your eyes. 

“Is this good, angel? Do you want me to keep going or do you want something else?”

“It's so good,” you manage to choke out as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “But can…can you use your mouth and fingers on me?” 

Of course, your cheeks pinken again and he grins. 

“Where do you want them baby?”

“You know where.”

“Uh-uh” he shakes his head, trying to hide the slight smirk that begins to form across his face. “I need you to say it. Do you think you can do that, huh? Tell me where you want my fingers and mouth. I need to know exactly.” 

“I want them…down there,” you manage to squeak out. 

He sighs as he shakes his head again.

“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific, beautiful girl,” he crawls down the length of your body. “‘Down there…,’” he leans down, his breath ghosting above your knee, “could be anywhere.”

He presses a kiss to your kneecap and then the side of it as you pout.

“Did you mean down here?”

“No…”

He grins and brushes a kiss to your inner thigh. 

“Then did you mean right here?”

“Spencer!” you whine again, looking down at him petulantly. 

“Tell me where, angel. Use your words,” he whispers looking up at you with soft eyes this time. “You can say it, it’s just me. I’m your husband. Don’t be embarrassed.”

You inhale softly, swayed by the love in his tone and the truth of his statement. 

“Can you use your fingers and your mouth…” your eyes duck down as your voice gets incrementally lower with every word that escapes your lips, “on my…on my pussy?”

Your voice comes out in the softest shyest whisper on the last word, but he still smiles gently.

“Of course baby,” murmurs and inches up a little bit to play with the little lace bow at the top of the edge of your panties. “Good girl, I’m so so proud of you for saying it.”

He presses a kiss to the bow, his lips skimming the lace and his fingers brushing over the wet patch that was increasingly becoming wetter. 

“You’re already so wet for me,” he says in a low tone, with a hint of pride. He begins to slowly inch the panties down your thighs and legs, like he was unveiling the most precious treasure in the world. “Look at you…” he breathes out, “so pretty and perfect. My wife. Made just for me.” 

You let out a breathy little gasp as his long fingers part your folds. He lowers his head so that his warm breath ghosts against your clit, and you whimper as you helplessly squirm. As you looked down upon his head between your legs— his hair fell in front of his forehead making him look even more handsome in the low lighting. 

He swipes his thumb against your aching clit, making you cry out as he relieves some of the tension. Your hips jump and he laughs softly and then... 

“Oh—” you gasp as his head finally lowers and he flicks his tongue against your clit, his hands gently holding your hips down in place. “Spencer I— ah!”

He continued licking at your clit, and then gently sucked at it, raising a high pitched sob from your throat. You could feel him alternate between flicking his tongue and suckling, the combination leaving you squirming and whimpering under his touch. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any more pleasurable, he gently slipped a finger inside of you, moving it very slowly at first, and then finding a comfortable pace after he felt your walls adjust around him.

“Spencer it feels—” your words were cut off by the moan that you couldn’t help.

“Yeah baby, I know…it feels so good, I know,” he murmurs as he looks up then leans back down to suckle at your clit again. “You don’t have to say it, just let me keep taking care of you.” 

He continues to pump his fingers in you, adding a second one— then a third when he feels you’re ready. You could hear the obscene sound of your wetness as he licks and moves his fingers in and out, curling them until he hits that spot inside you. That spot that he knows will send you to the highest of heavens.

“Spence…mm..” you whimper. “M’close.”

He doubles down his efforts, but what sends hurtling over the edge of your orgasm was his whispered ‘I love you’ against your clit.

You shake and tremble through the waves of pleasure as he continues between your legs, licking and sucking as you ride out your orgasm.

When you finally lay panting, he presses one last quick kiss to your clit, the sensitivity making your hips slightly buck again and a soft whimper to leave your mouth. He makes his way back up to look into your eyes. 

“Hey,” he breathes out. “Are you okay?”. His eyes search your own. “You did so well, looked so beautiful.” 

“I’m good,” you whisper shakily, looking into his adoring gaze. “I…wow.”

He smiles gently and begins covering your forehead and cheeks in soft pecks.

“Do you want a hug?” he says softly, looking back up into your eyes. 

“Yes please,”  you whisper, wanting so desperately to be in his arms before he enters you again. 

He lights up, and pulls you into a hug, his lips brushing the top of your head. 

“I love you so much,” he hums out, rubbing your lower back. 

“I love you too,” you whisper back into his bare chest. 

He holds you tight for another minute, whispering soft ‘I love yous’ ever so often.

“I’m ready,” you whisper against his chest and he knows exactly what you mean. 

He kisses your forehead and sits up, beginning to slide his boxers off. You watch in soft adoration as they fall to the floor, and his pretty cock comes into view. You’ve never thought a cock could be thought of as pretty, but Spencer has proven you wrong time and time again.

You reach out to wrap your hand around it, but he gently catches your wrist in his own hand and holds it away.  

You begin to speak but he gently shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes.

“I want to make love to you now,” he breathes out as he eases you back onto the bed. “I want to be inside you and if you…touch me now…I might not last.”

When you're laying flat against the pillows again, his hands come up to hold onto yours beside your head. His eyes lock onto yours and you can feel all the love he has for you in his gaze. The emotion builds and builds in the silence until a lump forms in your throat and suddenly your eyes are stinging.

“Hey…hey,” he exhales, pressing his nose to yours, as you feel a drop of water make its way down your cheek. “Don’t cry, angel. I love you so so much. I’m right here. We’re married now,”. He swallows and now you can see that he’s on the verge of tears too. “You’re…You’re my wife now.”

He quickly swipes at his eyes before reaching back down to interlock your fingers again. He kisses each salty tear away with the aching tenderness that makes your heart squeeze. 

“I love you so much,” you breathe out as he reaches down to position the tip of himself against your entrance. 

“Love you back…my perfect girl…my wife,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead gently, then sweetly pecking your nose. “Ready, baby?” 

You nod, unable to speak, because if you do you might start crying again. 

He gives you the most gentle, the most impossibly sweet smile before he begins to sink into you. You squeeze his hands tight as he presses deeper slowly, taking his time to savor the first moment you are connected as husband and wife.  

You gasp as he goes as deep as he can go, his cock kissing the most inner parts of you. His forehead pressed against yours, and his eyes were closed. This was it. You felt every emotion spiral through you, both of your souls swirling and dancing around each other, connecting in the most intimate of ways. 

“God…” he breathes out, his voice trembling. “I love you with everything I am. You feel so good around me. You’re a perfect fit, like always. I don’t–...I can’t—,” he chokes out, taking another breath before continuing, “Every part of me belongs to every part of you.”

A tear rolls down your cheek, one that you both don’t bother brushing away. 

“I’m your girl forever,” you say shakily. “I want to be like this always. I never… I never want to be without you, Spencer,” You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him closer, his chest, pressing against your own. “You’re my other half.” 

He swallows back the lump in his own throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, before he smiles softly and kisses your forehead.

“Us forever,” he whispers into your ear, then draws back to lock eyes with you, as he begins to thrust slowly. “It’s you and me.”

You gasped as his cock brushed against the most innermost part of you again and again. Every part of you was connected to every part of him. Each slow stroke sent sensations throughout your whole body— echoing into your bones. You clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare skin as he made love to you.

“That’s it, angel,” he whispers into your ear. “You’re doing so well. There you go,”. He looked at you with the kind of reverence one would show a religious landmark. You were the temple that he worshiped at. 

His thrusts remained slow but deep as he looked into your eyes— hitting that spot deep within you that made your whole body tense and clench around you. 

“Is that it?” he murmurs, reaching down to rub slow circles on your clit in tandem with his purposeful strokes. He smirks as you let out a high-pitched ‘ah’—hoisting your legs around his waist to pull him in deeper. “Yeah… that’s it.” 

"You don’t have to be so smug about it,” you manage to choke out between high pitched gasps. “I-oh,” your voice dissolves into the prettiest moan Spencer has ever heard. 

Spencer's breath hitched—any confident remark he was about to fire off gone as he felt your walls clench tightly around him again. He gazes at you like you were a miracle that he was somehow lucky enough to stumble into because, to him, you were. 

Spencer?” you whimper into his shoulder, as he adjusts your hips so he can hit that glorious spot each time. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Harder…please.” 

Spencer's breath stutters at your whine, and you can hear the soft inhale he takes in your ear before he nods, adjusting his weight above you and starts to firmly thrust into you. The sound of the headboard rattling against the wall above you was almost erotic in its own way— knowing that Spencer was putting that much effort into bringing your pleasure that a whole king sized bed could shake. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes out as you clutch and cling to him, sensing you nearing the edge. “You’re my wife…my perfect girl.”

He keeps circling your clit, building you up through a steady rhythm instead of quickly trying to get you to your peak. As your body started to tense and tighten, he pressed kisses all over your cheeks and face, light brushes that were so light they felt like a feather caressing your face. 

“Baby, I’m close,” you whimper as your hips lift, chasing the friction of his hand as he thrusted. 

“I know,” he breathed out, kissing your collarbone. “You’re doing so well. Let me take care of you, I’m gonna get you there.” 

As he murmured sweet nothings in your ear, the waves of pleasure grew and grew until they reached their crest— and you shattered around him with a broken moan. 

“Spencer!” you cried as your body trembled and he held you so close it almost hurt but you didn’t care. 

“Let go baby,” He whispered as he continued with slow strokes as you rode out your orgasm. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. We have this forever.” 

You pant softly as you come down, him still thrusting gently trying not to overstimulate you as he reaches his own peak. 

“Fuck— baby,” he gasped out as you felt him tense then spill into you. “I love you.”

As you both catch your breath together, you look up into his eyes, a post orgasmic haze hovering around the both of you. Your hand lifts, trembling a bit, and you push the soft curls back from where they were hanging over his forehead into his eyes so you could have a clearer view. 

“You okay?” he whispers, studying every inch of your face to make sure there was no lingering soreness. “I went a little harder towards the end there. Was that okay?”

You smile because this was Spencer. Soft and sweet and yours. Always checking in and returning his gentle self after taking control and giving you the most pleasurable sensations you’ve ever felt in your life.

“Spencer,” you breathe out, pulling his head closer to yours to steal a kiss in between words. “That was amazing. Best wedding night ever.”

He presses another peck to your lips, then raises his head to look into your eyes with a silly smile forming on his lips. 

“Best wedding night ever?” he laughs, poking the tip of your nose. “This was your only wedding night ever.”

You giggle as you reach up to poke his nose back. 

“Yeah, but in my imagination if I had ever had any other wedding nights, this would be the best.” 

He caught your wrist before you could poke his nose again, and a slow smirk spread over his face before kissing your forehead over and over again. 

“I guess we just have to get married over and over to each other so we can have more wedding nights and do a comparison of all of them,” he smiles as you begin to giggle again, warmth from the sounds of your laugh spreading throughout your chest. “That way I can run a statistical analysis.” 

“Only you would suggest analyzing our wedding night for science,” you smile as he continues pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead. 

He smiles as he leaves one more peck on your nose, before rolling off you and standing up.

“Where are you going?” you pout, the warmth that had been present only seconds ago now gone cold.

He smiles as he reaches down to stroke your hair.

“I am going to get something to clean you up,” he whispers, “and then…we’re going to order so much room service.”

You perked up immediately. 

“Room service? Can we get whatever we want?”

He laughs as he comes back with a warm washcloth, sitting beside you on the bed again. 

“Whatever we want, angel,” he says softly as he leans down to gently clean you between your thighs. His touch was so soft, wiping away whatever remained and soothing any lingering soreness. 

After he finished and quickly disposed of the washcloth, he lay back beside you and you immediately found yourself back in his arms— like you were two opposite ends of a magnet. 

“I love you,” he murmured against your forehead. “My lovely, perfect wife.”

You looked up from your cocoon in his arms, and met his eyes, overflowing with adoration.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, eyes fluttering as you tried to force yourself to keep them open— not wanting this night to end quicker than it had to.

“Hey,” Spencer breathed against your forehead, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes, “you can go to sleep…I’ll be here. I’ll always be here. We have tomorrow like this, then our honeymoon… then forever.”

Your stomach flipped again at the mention of forever, as his breath warmed your ear. You were plastered to him, like you were an extension of his body. 

“Don’t let go,” is the only thing you come up with to whisper back, because if you tried to say more you might start crying from emotion like earlier. 

He immediately shakes his head, like even the notion was absurd.

“Never ever” he whispered back with one final sleepy kiss to your forehead.

You fall asleep mid mumble of ‘I love you’, and he just smiled against your forehead, squeezing even tighter. 

You didn’t have to finish the sentence. He already knew. You had forever to say it again, anyways. 

****

Then—Bang.

The unsub screams. Blood splashes your legs as Morgan tackles him from behind. The blade clatters to the pavement. You’re released, and you stumble forward, into the only arms you know will catch you.

Your dad’s.

You bury yourself into his chest as he cradles you, as if you’re five years old again and nothing could ever touch you. He keeps asking questions—if you’re hurt, if he touched you, if he’s the one who’s been threatening you—but all you can do is sob.

“She needs to go home,” Hotch mutters to the team. His voice is thick with restrained rage. “Reid, take her. Stay with her until I get back. Don’t leave her side.”

He doesn’t even look at Spencer when he says it.

Spencer nods and gently touches your arm. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

You curl into the front seat of Spencer’s car, hoodie over your scraped knees, throat raw. The whole ride is silent—except for the music he puts on, quietly. Something soft. Piano, maybe. You don’t realize you're crying until you feel his fingers brush the tears from your cheek at a red light.

When you get to your apartment, you wordlessly let him unlock the door. The second the door shuts behind you, your composure shatters.

You’re in his arms. You’re sobbing into his chest. Your fingers grip his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the planet.

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. Presses your face into the crook of his neck. His heart is pounding too fast, too loud.

You finally whisper, “He wanted to—he said he thought about—what he wanted to do to me—”

Spencer’s jaw clenches against your forehead.

“I should’ve told someone,” you breathe. “I should’ve told you. But if I told you, I’d have to tell him. And then he’d hate me. And I—I just—”

You’re cut off by his mouth on yours. Spencer kisses you. Hard. Desperate. You whimper against him, still trembling, your body pressed against his like you’re trying to crawl inside him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters against your lips. “You hear me? You were scared. You didn’t ask for this.”

“I wore shorts.”

“I don’t care.” His voice is rough. He cups your face. “If anyone looks at you like that again—talks about you like that again—I swear to god, I’ll kill them.”

That shouldn’t make you ache. But it does.

“Spence,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I need you. I need to feel something that isn’t fear right now.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure? You’ve been through a trauma—”

“I’m sure.”

His hands are on you in an instant.

He pushes you back against the wall, kissing you with feral need, his fingers digging into your thighs as he lifts you. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, letting him carry you down the hallway to your bedroom like you weigh nothing.

He kicks your door shut behind him without looking. The second your back hits the sheets, Spencer is on you, your fingers fumble with the hem of his sweater, shoving it up his torso, your nails dragging across the soft ridges of his stomach. He’s lean, but the tension under your hands is all wiry strength and frayed nerves. He doesn’t stop you—just watches, eyes blown wide with need

You slide your hand between your bodies, gripping the hem of his shirt. “Off,” you whisper, tugging. “I need all of you.”

He pulls back just long enough to strip, shirt over his head, belt unbuckled, pants shoved down with haste. His cock is already hard, flushed, aching against his stomach—and your mouth waters just looking at him, even through the haze of adrenaline and leftover terror.

But he slows again, kneeling between your legs, just looking at you.

“You’re my entire goddamn world,” he whispers. “You know that?”

You nod, voice gone.

“I mean it. I would’ve let him kill me if it meant you got away.”

“Don’t say that,” you breathe, tears pricking again.

He leans down and kisses the corners of your eyes. “Then don’t make me live in a world without you.”

Your hips arch as he lines himself up, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds. You’re already soaked—wet from the adrenaline, from the fear, from the overwhelming need to feel him, to claim him, to be reminded that you’re alive.

He pushes in slow. Your head falls back against the pillows, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He’s so deep, and you’re so tight around him—every inch of him pushing into you like he’s trying to fill the ache in your chest.

Spencer curses under his breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck—so good. You’re perfect.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Move. Please.”

He starts slow, thrusts measured, letting you feel every roll of his hips. But it doesn’t stay slow for long. The fear that drove you both is still clawing at your ribs, begging to be drowned out.

His rhythm picks up, hard and deep, the bed creaking beneath you. He grips your wrists and pins them above your head, his mouth crashing back to yours as your bodies slap together.

“I need you to know,” he gasps, dragging his cock deep enough to make you cry out, “I would burn the world down for you. Even if he wasn’t the unsub. Even if he wasn’t hurting other women. If he touched you—just once—I’d kill him.”

You moan, thighs shaking around his hips. “You’re mine, Spencer.”

He bites your neck. “Say it again.”

“You’re mine.”

And it’s possessive now—the way he fucks you like he’s branding you, claiming you in every thrust. He fucks you through your first orgasm, and doesn’t stop until he’s coaxed a second from you, your nails clawing down his back as you scream his name.

When he finally comes, it’s with your name on his lips—broken, hoarse, sacred.

You stay tangled in each other after, his body half-crushing you, your fingers drawing patterns into the sweaty skin of his back.

Eventually, he lifts his head and looks at you, still breathing hard. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… let me protect you next time.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “You already do.”

There’s a pause. Then, softly: “I love you.”

You open your eyes and smile. “I love you more.”

You’re still trembling, even in the afterglow. Spencer presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hairline—like each one is an apology for not saving you sooner.

Your body’s wrecked, exhausted from adrenaline, fear, and the sharp release of being his again. You feel safe. Finally. And then you fall asleep.

Spencer watches your face—relaxed for the first time in hours—and he knows he can’t stay like this.

Not when your father is about to walk through the front door.

Carefully, he slips out from under the covers, grimacing as he moves slowly, not wanting to wake you. He leans over and tugs the blanket up over your shoulders, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek before he quietly starts pulling his clothes back on.

His shirt smells like you now. He tries not to think about it.

There’s a knock at the door—three steady raps. It’s unmistakably Hotch.

Spencer runs a hand through his hair and exhales slowly, making sure his tie is straight. He opens the door just enough to step outside, closing it behind him like you’re just sleeping peacefully in the next room.

Hotch is standing in the hall, dressed down from the case but still looking sharp, jaw tight. “How is she?”

Spencer softens his voice. “She’s… okay. She was still shaken up, obviously. But she let me stay with her until she fell asleep.”

Hotch glances toward the bedroom door. “Did she talk at all?”

“No. Just needed quiet. I think it helped, being with someone familiar.”

Hotch nods. “I’ll check on her, but I’ll let her sleep.” He looks at Spencer and for a split second, his gaze lingers—fatherly suspicion flickering for just a second—but then it’s gone. “Thanks for staying. I knew she’d be safe with you.”

Spencer swallows, trying not to flinch at the irony. “Always.”

“Go home. Get some rest,” Hotch says, stepping past him.

Spencer lingers for a second longer, eyes flicking to the door where you sleep, still wrapped in tangled sheets that barely hide what they just did.

a/n: he almost lost her. so yeah, he had to hit. sorry not sorry.

Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.

Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.

Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel. 

You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.

“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.

“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.

With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.

He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.

“…hey.”

“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”

You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”

Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”

“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”

“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”

His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.

“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”

You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”

“Is it not true?”

“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”

“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”

You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”

“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”

“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”

“Intense, short-term relationships.”

“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”

“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”

“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”

Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”

“You so were.”

“It was hot.”

“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”

“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”

Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.

You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”

“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”

“You’re a profiler,” you say.

“And you’re beautiful.”

He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.

You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”

“Only yours.”

Yup, definitely trying to kill you.

“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.

Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further. 

You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”

“The wedding?”

“Mhm.”

“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”

“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”

He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”

“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.

“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”

“Sadist.”

“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”

You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”

“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”

The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.

“And I want to show off, just a little.”

He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.

“…just recite the damn vows.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything for my beautiful wife.”

“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 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”

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.

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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“I really didn’t think we’d get caught in the rain,” he was saying, grabbing the throw off the couch and walking over to wrap you up in it. “I knew I should’ve gotten us to leave earlier, but that classics section was like a wormhole. A-and to be fair, I was only looking for Moliere because I thought you’d like his work—”

“Spencer, breathe,” you reminded him, trying not to laugh as he zealously rubbed your arms to warm you up. “It’s rainwater, not acid.”

Spencer pouted but did as he was told. He did have a tendency to ramble, he’d been trying to tone it down for a while now. He settled for running his hands over your arms and then pulling you just a little closer in the hopes that his body heat might just help to warm you up a bit faster. “You’re shivering,” he muttered.

"I think I'll survive," you said, voice muffled against his chest.

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around your middle and pulling you as close as humanly possible, letting you bury your face in his chest. “We should probably get you out of those wet clothes,” he said.

"Bet you say that to all the girls," you said into his chest.

“Ha ha,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes. “You’re hilarious,” he said, although he couldn’t help the smirk that was spreading over his face, and the way his arms just held you that little bit tighter at your comment. You raised your head, tipping your chin up so he could kiss you.

He obliged, tilting your chin up even farther until he met your lips in a soft kiss. His arms wrapped even further around your waist, his palms splaying out across your lower back, holding you to him as his lips slowly moved over yours.

Spencer gently backed you up until your the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch, at which point he used that as leverage to push you down onto the couch. He ended up on his knees, breaking away from your lips to pull your boots off.

"You think of everything, don't you?" you asked softly, letting the throw fall away and smiling at him.

"I’d like to think so." He smirked at you, arranging your shoes on the floor beside his bag. His knuckles brushed over your skin as he lifted your bare foot into his lap, fingers working to slowly peel your stockings down your leg from your thighs.

"Or maybe this whole thing was planned," you continued, grinning at him. "Wine and dine your girlfriend, buy her books, get her caught in the rain and then have your way with her."

Spencer was in the middle of tugging your other stocking down your leg, the smooth fabric gliding under his fingers, and he paused, looking up to meet your gaze, an unamused but still playful look on his face. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

"I'm just saying, I'd be impressed," you said, shrugging before reaching out to smooth back damp curls from his forehead.

Spencer chuckled, leaning forward and pressing his lips to the side of your knee, his hands sliding up your leg, pushing the now discarded stocking out of the way. “Can’t a guy just be sweet sometimes?”

"Sure. But you're sweet all the time, which is suspicious," you replied, watching him.

“So, what? I have ulterior motives now?” His hands slid higher up your thighs, now completely discarding the stockings and moving to push up the hem of your dress, up your calf.

"I'd be a little disappointed if you didn't think about it at all," you said, your voice dipping lower as his hands drifted higher, still on his knees in front of you.

“Never said I didn’t think about it at all,” he said, fingers tracing over your skin, his gaze now lingering over your thighs. It was subtle, but he could feel his jeans getting a little tighter as he slowly pushed your skirt up further. “I’m only human, after all.”

You tutted playfully. "And here I thought you were a robot."

He let out a huff, shaking his head. “You’re so mean to me,” Spencer said with a small pout that you know is an invitation for you to kiss away. His lips are soft, if a little chapped, and cool against yours, your hands sliding over his jaw.

“Would it help if I told you that you look very good on your knees like this?” you asked softly and he hummed a little in response.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he whispered, kissing you again, hands firmly placed on your soft thighs, grunting a little against your lips as your hand threaded into his damp hair. His hands cupped the back of your knees, pulling you closer and your legs apart. His tongue broached your bottom lip, seeking permission for entry, and when you part your lips for him, his tongue sweeps over the roof of your mouth. The hand holding your knee comes up to cup your jaw, kissing you until his lungs ached for air. Even then, he can’t stop himself from pressing a few more soft brief kisses to your reddened lips. When his eyes meet yours, there’s a charged moment, as if debating internally whether it was too soon to take this inside.

He looked at you, his thumb tracing softly over your cheek. His breathing was a little ragged, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away just yet, his grip on your thighs still keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. His gaze was half-lidded, almost lost in you, but he snapped out of it when a shiver shot through your body, only realising that you were still in soaked clothes. He cleared his throat. “Jokes aside, you need to get out of those clothes.”

"Yeah," you murmured, still slightly dazed, either by the intensity of the kiss or by the lack of air to your brain, but you need a moment to come back to yourself. "Um... clothes?"

He chuckled again, the sound soft and low in his throat. “Yes, those.” He moved to help you up off of the couch, taking your hand in his. “I’ll lend you some of my clothes for now, and you can worry about yours later.” He pulled you along with him toward the bedroom.

You smiled, unable to help the playful tone in your voice, “I knew it, this was all just a ploy to get me alone.”

“You caught me.” His arm looped around your waist, his lips finding the juncture between your neck and shoulder to place a kiss there. “I’m just an evil mastermind, really.”

“Truly the worst,” you murmured, your hand running over his neck and cupping the back of it as he unzipped your dress, pressing soft kisses to your jaw and cheek. He can never seem to stop himself when it comes to you, years of repressed yearning from afar rushing out. But it’s new, this thing between you, and he never wants to push you too far, worried that the bleeding heart on his sleeve would scare you off.

“Want me to stop?” he asked softly, begging in his head for you to say no, relief settling in his chest when you shake your head and he can kiss you again, peeling off the wet fabric and Christ, you take his breath away, in more ways than one. He’s intimately aware that he’s wearing too many layers, rectifying the matter as quickly as he could while also guiding you to the bed and you have to stifle a giggle as his hand gets caught in his shirt trying to tug it off.

“Don’t laugh,” he whined, pouting a little.

“I’m trying,” you reply, defensive as you chase his lips, hands helping him work off the drenched shirt. He sighed into your mouth as he freed himself, hands returning to cup your face as he kissed you, slow and languid, taking his time. You shifted, sliding your hand over his side, shivering as his hand drifted down your neck as you lay back against the pillows. His thumb traced your clavicle, trailing his lips down your jaw again, warm and open-mouthed.

His touch is gentle, reverent, as his lips and tongue move over your skin. His hand on your side begins to trace over the smooth skin there, his thumb grazing the underside of your breast. His lips continue to move in a slow, torturous path down your neck and over your collarbone. As his fingers skim the underside of your breast, he feels you shiver beneath him and he pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you.

Your skin is flushed as you shift beneath him, your pupils slightly dilated. He watches your breath hitch as his gaze lingers over your face, and he feels his heart flutter as your lips part softly. He feels a little heady as he takes you in, the way your hair is splayed over the pillow behind your head, the way your hands cling to his forearms, the way your body is so perfectly molded to his, and he has to swallow before he speaks. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, voice soft and barely above a whisper.

"So are you," you murmured back, smiling at him. He returned the smile, his cheeks flushing a bit at the compliment. His hand moved in time with his mouth, skimming across the curve of your breast and down your stomach. He could feel your breath quickening, your body arching up into his touch, the way your eyes fluttered briefly and it sent a shiver down his spine. His fingers broached the border of your underwear, dipping under the lace, torturously slow.

His touch is slow and careful as his fingers trace over the lace of your underwear, the pads of his fingers grazing over the sensitive skin of your hip. He watches the way your body reacts to his touch, the gooseflesh that pricks up on your skin, the way your breathing becomes uneven, the way your hips shift up just the smallest amount as if asking for more. His fingers linger at the waistband of your underwear, hovering for a moment before tugging them down past your hips.

You shift your hips to help, swallowing as he settled between your legs, his hands pushing your thighs apart a little more. "Please," you murmured quietly, none of the prior teasing on your tongue. It's slightly embarrassing how badly you want him.

He was a little taken aback by the pleading note in your voice, but his hands gripped your legs and tugged you closer. “Christ,” he mumbled, his brain to mouth filter taking a backseat. “Begging already?”

"I take it back, you're awful," you said, but he cut your words off as he pressed his lips to your stomach. He laughed softly against your skin before he continued his path down your body, placing soft kisses over your stomach and thighs, drawing out every touch until you were squirming beneath him. He peppered kisses higher, higher, higher until he was finally right where he wanted to be. He looked up at you for a moment, taking in your ragged breathing, your flushed skin, the way your eyes were darkened and your lips were slightly parted, all because of him.

He lowered his head, lips grazing over your hip, and it felt like you might combust as his mouth traced your skin, closer, closer to where you want him. A small noise escaped you as your body writhed from anticipation, and he chuckled against your skin. “Impatient.”

“Tease,” you retorted, receiving a soft squeeze under your thigh before he dragged his tongue over your folds, guiding one leg over his shoulder, warm, wet pressure taking away any ability you had to form words. He flattens his tongue against you, lapping in long, slow strokes that make you squirm for more, his hands drifting from your thighs to your hips to hold you in place. He flicks his tongue over your clit, taking his time, wanting to hear the noises you make, the way your body moves against his face, desperate for release, and God, he could do this for hours. He can feel his own arousal building, hard against the mattress.

You can feel the way he grinds against the mattress, desperate for some friction, but he doesn’t break his rhythm, tongue still sliding over you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, and he could feel how close you were, the way you were trembling beneath him, the way your hands clenched at his hair, and he knew that you were right there, just needing a little more, and he wanted to hear you say his name in that breathless tone, but he was also worried that it would make him combust right then and there.

“Spencer.” The name falls from your lips in a breathless, wanton moan, and it’s all he has to hear. He redoubles his efforts, his grip on you tighter than before, and it’s too much, too much, and finally, your body comes apart, your vision going white and blank, your chest heaving as you ride it out, his name still on your lips and if he wasn’t completely gone for you before, he is now.

You lay there, boneless and panting. He pulls away, shifting up and crawling over you, body hovering above yours as he stares down at you. His mouth and chin glistened with you, and if you weren’t already spent, the sight would have done it. His pupils are dilated, his hair a mess, the flush on his cheeks obvious as his breathing becomes a bit uneven. You can't help yourself, reaching up to wipe his chin away and pull him closer to kiss.

He went easily, leaning down to meet your lips in a brief but passionate kiss, groaning into your mouth as he settled his body over yous. One of his hands moved up to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair as his hips rocked against you, desperate for any kind of friction as his jeans grew even tighter. Your hands drift to his jeans, popping the button and unzipping the rain-soaked denim for him, hand slipping underneath to palm his arousal.

He cursed into your mouth as your hand wrapped around him, and he has to break the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as his breathing becomes ragged and he rocks into your hand. He’s trying his best to hold back, but it’s hard when you feel so good, when he feels like he’s gonna explode the moment he touches you. His gaze locks onto yours as he tries to hold himself together. “Please,” he rasped. “Please, I need you.”

You did your best to tug his jeans down, Spencer doing the rest of the work. He kicked off his jeans, leaving him free to press his now bare body against yours, both of you groaning as the skin-to-skin contact sent sparks through your nerves. He’s pressed fully against you, his body flush against every inch of you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way, even more so when you shift beneath him, the contact making him swear. "I don't think I've ever heard you swear," you murmured, one hand caressing his side.

“Are you really gonna pick on me right now?” he mumbled huskily, his hands gripping your thighs and lifting them to wrap around his waist. The contact is too good and he can’t help the way his body rolls against yours, letting out a ragged gasp.

"Pretty much," you mutter.

His head dropped to the crook of your neck, nuzzling the sensitive skin there as he grumbled a little. He took a moment to compose himself before he lifted his head to glare down at you. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

"Yet, here you are, suffering," you retort, smiling at him in satisfaction.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance in the gesture. He was too distracted by the way your body felt against his, the way your legs were wrapped around his waist, the way your hands were roaming over his sides, and he knew he was done for when you smirked up at him in smug satisfaction. “Yeah, whatever. Shut up.”

Despite his words, he shifted, lining himself up with your entrance, his gaze locked on your face to make sure you were still okay with this. He was so close to losing the last of his control, but he was willing to wait if you weren’t ready, but then you were nodding, and then he was pressing into you, and it was all at once intense and hot and overwhelming and he had to shut his eyes and drop his head onto your shoulder.

It took him a moment to adjust, every feeling heightened and overwhelming, and he had to take a deep breath before he could move, carefully pulling out and rolling his hips forward, slow and measured until he found a rhythm that made your head fall back against the pillow, a soft sigh escaping your lips. He leaned down to press a kiss to your jaw, your neck, any skin he could reach, wanting to memorize the way you sound and move and feel beneath him, wanting to brand the image into his mind, needing this to last for as long as possible.

He picked up the pace, his hands moving to grip your hips, pulling you even closer. His head is lowered, lips against your neck, your shoulder, his ragged breaths against your skin sending little chills through your body. You feel like you can’t catch your breath, like you’re drowning in the feel of him, the sounds he’s making, the way he surrounds you, and you desperately cling to him like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to him so you don’t drown.

His name is the only thing you can manage to moan and he is so gone, his heart pounding like a drum, breath ragged, and he feels like he’s gonna shatter into a million pieces, and it’s you, it's you, he needs you, and he can feel the way you’re clenching around him, close, so close. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place so he can give a hard thrust, and you cry out in pleasure, your hands clenching in the sheets, his name pouring from your lips like a prayer, and he’s right there.

He loses what bit of control he had left after that, a strangled moan escaping him as his rhythm falters, his body moving harder, faster, and he can’t think, can’t form words, he can’t do anything except feel. It’s too much in the best way, and he’s right on the edge, about to fall. “I’m so close,” he mutters, his voice ragged and breathless. “I just, I just need, god, I need you, so bad.”

"I’m right here, let go, angel," you murmured, clutching at him, one hand on his side, the other at his neck. He let out a ragged groan at the feeling of your hands on him, your touch on his skin and your voice in his ear, it’s the last straw, and suddenly, he’s tipping over the edge. His body clenches, his brain shutting everything off but you, all of his focus and attention on you as the orgasm rocks through him. He presses himself as close to you as he can, his arms wrapping around you tightly, his face buried in your neck as he trembles through the aftershocks.

He was shaking, breath ragged, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, he just held you close, his grip still tight as he tried to re-remember how to breathe, how to think. He stayed like that for a moment, before he finally lifted his head, looking down at you with an expression that was a mixture of awe and love and exhaustion, his hair mussed, sweat on his brow, and damn if he wasn’t beautiful.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," you breathed out, running a hand back through his hair.

His cheeks flushed, and he leaned into your touch, letting his eyes close for a moment before he looked at you. “Pot calling the kettle black,” he muttered lowly, his hand moving up to cup your face, thumb tracing your skin with a gentle touch. “That was… god, that was something else.”

You hummed in agreement, kissing him briefly. "You're something else." He returned the kiss, lingering for a moment before he settled beside you, tugging you close and nestling you against him. He was still catching his breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and he let out a deep exhale, his body finally starting to relax.

“I don’t think I can move,” he mumbled against your skin.

A chuckle rumbled through your chest, leaning on your elbow to look at him. "No?"

He gave you a tired look, eyes still a little glazed over. “No,” he affirmed, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you down into laying with him, not willing to release you just yet. “You’ve broken me. I have no motor functions.”

"Poor baby," you mocked.

“Hey now,” he grumbled, his tone more playful than annoyed. He pulled you a little closer, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I just did a lot of work. I deserve a break.”

"Yeah, you did," you murmured, sincerely this time. "Seriously, I would have asked you out a lot sooner if I'd known you were this good."

His cheeks flushed at your comment, a mix of pride and embarrassment on his face. “Don’t say that,” he protested weakly, trying to feign nonchalance, but your praise made him feel a little giddy. “I haven’t, y’know, done it in a while. I might be a little rusty.”

"Liar," you claimed. "No way you haven't practiced that."

He scowled at you, the expression falling flat due to his flushed cheeks. “I’m serious,” he insisted, his arms tightening around you. “And I wasn’t ‘practicing,’ that’s a weird term.”

"What would you call it?" you asked, raising a brow.

His brain sputtered for a moment, caught off guard by the question. What was the right answer to that? “Well… I just had… needs…” His explanation sounded stupid in his head, and his cheeks only grew hotter. “God, why do you make me say this stuff?” he muttered.

You can't help but laugh into his shoulder, your body shuddering against his. "You're so cute."

He let out a scoff, half-offended and half-embarrassed, but your giggles made the feeling vanish. He couldn’t stay annoyed when you laughed like that. “Just… stop teasing me,” he grumbled, even as he pressed a kiss to your hair.

"Never," you replied, looking at him again, bright eyes and fond features.

He feigned a look of annoyance, but couldn’t keep up the expression when faced with your gaze, and his irritation quickly softened. He let out a sigh, but a small smile was starting to form at the edges of his mouth. “You’re a menace,” he said, voice low and affectionate.

"M your menace," you murmured, kissing him gently.

He’d drawn the orbit on the plane of your stomach, relishing your soft squirming. You were adorable in your post-sex haze, too serious when you were out of it. He makes the most of it anyway. “How awful,” you had posed, “to have a single day go on for… how many hours is 176 days?”

The math had been the easy part - 4224 hours. The hard part was explaining how to him, his day starts and ends with you. Which may as well be 4224 hours. 176 days. One day on Mercury.

Spencer was always amazed at your willingness to learn. He had grown used to no one caring when he spoke his mind, and while you didn’t always understand everything, it was endearing that you tried. The little scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow when you were trying to work out what he was saying; to him, it was adorable. You were adorable.

This whole thing had started out as pain relief — you recovering from an old gunshot wound, being forced to share a room with him, and one thing had led to another and you had crushed your lips against his, barely able to mutter out the apology before he returned it, clutching your jaw and sinking into you. Better than a needle, he had rationalised, to give you something to focus on other than the dull throbbing in your side; the lingering thought of a bullet lodged in your body.

He’d kissed you back passionately, gently pulling himself on top of you before trailing kisses down your body, pausing on the scars left behind by the metal. 88 days from then, he knew your body almost as well as he knew his own, and he knew exactly which spots would make you gasp, make you whine, make you mewl. How you liked him to take you and when you needed what, all of it in the back of his head.

He knew your body better than anyone else ever had; the spot on your ribs that made you squeal when it was poked, the soft moan that only came about when he lightly trailed his hand up and down your spine. How easily you responded to being touched, how pliable you were in his hands. Every whimper, whine and gasp was perfectly catalogued in his genius brain.

“It’s called spin-order resonance,” Spencer explained, his spindly fingers still circling your navel like Mercury orbits the sun, like he orbits you, two fingers dragging over your flushed skin, spots of darkness where he’s left his marks on you. “One side of Mercury remains in sunlight for the first 88 days, and then in darkness for the next 88 days,” he explained. His fingers continued to map the soft flesh of your stomach, his touch soft and gentle, feeling you shiver and squirm underneath him. It’s because of the gravitational pull of the Sun, he’s about to say before you kiss him and he sinks into you, your gentle force tilting him on his axis.

When your mouth met his, the words he was about to mutter died on his lips, replaced with a moan as he leaned his body over yours, pinning you gently to the bed with his weight. The kiss is fierce, needy. He’s desperate for you, wanting to be as close as possible, his mouth exploring your jawline hungrily. The sun doesn’t set. Not for 88 days.

It’s suggested, he thinks as you shield your eyes from the glare of the sun while getting coffee for the team, that Mercury was formed from a solar nebula before the Sun’s energy had stabilised, initially twice its current mass, melted by the heat of a young star. He notices you waiting on the curb while the barista makes the half a dozen drinks, the crowd in the cafe unappealing to you. The sunlight makes you glow as you tilt your head to the sky with your eyes closed, letting the rays soothe your irritated eyes. His solid silicate crust finds it’s melting point in your smile as he joined you again with the tray.

He found himself smiling back as he approached you, handing you your coffee. Your fingers brush his as you accept it, continuing to talk about the case like you hadn't paralysed him where he stood. You keep pulling him in. Again and again and again. And every time, he fell deeper, further, faster.

All his genius amounted to nothing when you looked at him that way, and you were so oblivious. It was like you didn’t even realise the effect you had on him - the way you knocked the breath out of him, the air buzzing around him, grasping onto you like air to his lungs. But why would you? What’s Mercury to the Sun but the first in a long line of planets? Mercury, with all its craters and wrinkle-ridges, all its highlands and plains, is nothing compared to the stunning Venus, to Earth that brims with life, to Saturn’s gorgeous rings, and Jupiter’s 12 moons, or the cold beauty of Uranus and Neptune. He’s just the one that’s closest to you.

He was the tiny rock that rotated around you, drawn in effortlessly by your gravity, desperate for you. He knows you didn’t realise the effect you had on him - the way you simply existing made his heart pound, like he’d just run a marathon. How long until his orbit completes and he’s forced to spend another year in darkness? How long until the sun sets?

You avoid the conversation, like you can tell that he’s hurtling to his wit’s end, unable to just be a source of pain relief anymore, pulling your shirt on as he calls your name from bed, with his pleading hazel eyes and sweet lips. He wants to pull you back into bed with him, to trace his fingers over the soft flesh of your body, but knows you wouldn’t let him.

"I can't do this anymore," he tried, unashamed of how desperate he sounds. "I... I need you. I need more." The words spill from his lips desperately, his fingers gripping at the bed sheets so he doesn’t reach out and grab your hand to yank you back towards him. He can’t just be a distraction anymore.

"We talked about this, Spencer," you said, trying to hold fast as you pull hair out of the neck of your shirt. It was for the best.

"This stopped being just sex a long time ago and you know it,” he replied. "Don’t act like you don't know how I feel about you."

"It would never work," you said, your words weak to your own ears.

He rolled his eyes, scoffing slightly. "Oh, and why’s that?" He asked, his voice tinged with anger.

"Because you deserve better," you said simply.

This time, he actually laughed. "Better?" He repeated mockingly. "I don’t want ‘better’. I want you."

"We're friends, Spencer," you insisted. "We're good like this. Why does anything have to change?"

"Because this isn't normal!" He protested, his voice growing louder. "I'm not a normal friend, and you're not a normal friend. This-" he gestured to the both of them, in his bed, "This isn't what normal friends do."

"You're right," you said, letting out a quiet sigh.

That gave him pause. He didn’t expect you to agree with him. He’d expected you to argue back - the way you always did. To fight your case, to defend yourself. He’d never even entertained the idea that you’d be the one to apologise.

"I thought..." You let out a breath, closing your eyes. "I was in pain, and I wasn't thinking, and I let this get out of hand, and I'm sorry, Spencer."

His face fell, any anger he had previously felt melting away, replaced with hurt. He knew he shouldn’t have got too attached, knew it would only end in heartbreak. Hearing you say it - that you regretted this entire thing, and it was nothing but a mistake for you - left his chest feeling tight.

The phone buzzed on your nightstand and you grabbed it, checking the text. "I have to go. Crime scene."

"Just leave it," you told him, kissing his cheek, your lip balm sticky against his warm skin. Even now, 6 months into dating, his cheeks flushed at your kiss, and he looked down at you, chasing your lips, his hands finding your cheeks, fingers equally sticky with icing. It was always so earnest, filled with as much longing as the first time you'd kissed him. He doesn’t want to let go when he pulls away, but then there's a streak of icing on your cheek and he can't help a wince.

"Sorry," he said, oblivious to your dazed look, moving to wipe his hands and you let out another soft groan of protest at the loss of him, only for him to come back to gently wipe your cheeks clean. "Can I tell you something?" he asked, looking at you intently.

"Always," you replied with your sweet smile and adoring gaze.

"This is the best Christmas I've ever had," he said, putting the cloth away, and you wished you could express how much you loved him in this moment, but you've never been as articulate with your affection as him. So you do what you know best; you tugged him closer, kissing him. You could live in this moment forever, his lips on yours, sitting on the floor of your apartment. Spencer pressed you back against the couch, his hands seeking your jaw, his tongue darting to your lower lip. He's always careful with you, slow and thoughtful, his thumb gently angling your chin higher.

You parted your lips, his tongue languidly exploring your mouth. His hand carefully slid down your neck, his thumb finding your pulse and he broke for breath, placing warm gentle kisses along your soft jaw. "My sweet girl," he murmured, reaching your ear. "I could do this forever."

Your heart fluttered the way it always did. He’d called you his since the beginning, sweet girl. He’d say it often, a gentle declaration of his affection. His hand slid down, thumb tracing the collar of your sweater, his face buried in your neck as he left his own mark on you, teeth grazing gently against the soft skin and your breath hitched. “God, Spence…” He felt you shift underneath him, already overwhelmed by his touch. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging a little when he mouthed at your neck. One of his hands rests on your hip, his thumb brushing the skin under your sweater.

He couldn’t help himself. You felt so warm and soft, so lovely wrapped in his arms. He pushed your sweater up gently, baring more of your skin, his touch warm, and light. He could spend hours just tracing his fingers across your skin. You tasted sweet, like sugar and vanilla, and he shifted, adjusting to slide between your legs. You tilted your head back, looking up at him, your eyes slightly unfocused, lips parted with your heavy breaths. His head dipped, mouth leaving marks along your neck as he pushed your sweater up again, just over your ribs, your breath stuttering as his teeth grazed over the sensitive skin. Your hand fisted in his sweater, a needy whisper escaping you, "Spencer..."

"Let me take care of you," he murmured against your shoulder, pushing your sweater high enough for you to wordlessly lift your arms so he could toss it to one side, and he needed to catch his breath as he looked down at you. He’d seen you a hundred times before, all those soft smooth curves, your soft sighs and breathless gasps that he lived for. You were so trusting in his arms, the way your fingers threaded through his hair, your back arching when his mouth found your stomach, kissing reverently at your soft skin. “So perfect,” he murmured.

You don't have the brainpower to spare to respond with anything other than his name, said so many times that it should have lost its meaning by now, but it never does. The way it came out all breathless and needy, desperate and reverent, the way you’d call his name as he pressed you into the couch, body over yours, pinning you in place as his mouth found your skin, tracing a path along your hip. You pulled uselessly at his sweater, biting your lower lip. “So impatient, my sweet girl,” he murmured, and your whine sent a spark straight through him.

"Want to see you, angel," you pleaded and he couldn’t deny you, even if he wanted to, not when your hands already reached to push under his sweater, your hands warm on his skin and he pulled back, pulling the offending garment off completely. You smiled, looking at him fondly. "Much better," you murmured, shifting up to kiss him again, your warm lips meeting his.

He met you readily, pressing you down again, his body covering yours, a warm comfortable weight. He could never get enough of how you fit against him, the feel of your soft skin against his fingers, the way your mouth moved against him, sweet and willing. The way your legs moved to wrap around him. "Okay if I take this off?" he whispered, hands finding the waistband of your pyjama pants, beige with little cookies printed over them, hot breath fanning over your face, eyes watching you as you nod. He slid the soft material down your legs, leaving you bare before him. It was a view he loved, all your bare skin, all his to touch and explore.

Your breath hitched as his hands gently nudged your thighs further apart, and he slowly sank onto his knees between them. You let out a small groan involuntarily, just at the sight of him between your thighs. "Angel..."

He shushed you gently, fingers tracing circles on your thighs, so close to where you wanted him. His eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail, your breathing and the way your legs twitched. “Just relax, my sweet girl,” he murmured, his thumbs rubbing soothing strokes across your skin.

"You're not making it easy," you muttered back.

He couldn’t help the smile at your comment, his hands slowly shifting your legs, lifting them to pull off your panties, and he could feel the way your breath caught, your body shifting slightly to help. He was so close to you he could practically feel your heat against his face. He was still gently running his fingers over the skin of your thighs, trying to keep you calm. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice impossibly soft.

His warm breath against you made your head spin, and you were too lost in the feel of his hands and mouth to do anything but gasp his name and tilt your head back. You were so wet, so needy for him, and you couldn’t help the way your legs shifted, pleading for more. He gently nudged at them, spreading you open further for him. He looked up at you, eyes dark with desire, the sight of you underneath him, leaning back against the foot of the couch, your chest heaving and your body tense, just for him.

He leaned in, and he didn’t miss the way your body jolted when his tongue licked over you, and he hummed against your skin. You tasted so sweet, so perfect, and he was slowly getting addicted to the taste, his hands holding your thighs in place as he slowly explored you. He’d wanted to make you fall apart, the way you’d done so many times for him, bringing him to the knife’s edge before pulling him over. But he couldn’t wait long, and he pushed forward, his tongue circling before he suddenly thrust forward, tasting as much of you as he could.

The effect was instant, and he felt you jerk against him, your gasp turning into a long moan. The sound made his hands squeeze at your thighs, wanting you closer. You were always so responsive to him, so sensitive, and you were already on edge from his light teasing. He loved the sounds you made, all those soft noises that you seemed unable to help when he was like this. He loved the way your skin felt under his hands, the way you would pull and tug at his hair when he was teasing you. He loved the way you felt, warm and soft all around him. He loved you, and he wanted you to fall apart. He was almost relentless, tongue working over you, delving into you, wanting you to come completely undone.

He didn’t want to pull away, wanted to keep going, to take you as close as he could, but you were already teetering on the edge, so close to climax. He loved how responsive you were, how he could pull those sweet moans and gasps so easily from you with just a few caresses. He wanted to see you come, wanted to feel your body shaking against him. He pulled back for a second, breathless, his voice already wrecked from how sweet you sounded, “Come for me, my sweet girl."

Your fingers scrabbled for his hair, needing something to hold onto as he brought you through your climax, his tongue not leaving you until you were begging him to stop, your body sensitive and overwhelmed. He let his hands gently trail across your thighs as you fell back onto the couch, boneless and still quivering. He couldn’t help a little smile at how wrecked you looked, your hair falling over your eyes, your body trembling. And yet you still looked beautiful, your bare body on display for him, your skin flush and warm. He shifted forward, his lips gently kissing your stomach and travelling up your body, until he laid down on top of you, his weight carefully resting between your legs, his head buried in your neck.

"I love you," you whispered, holding him, your fingers trailing over his back.

He lifted his head at your words, still so touched by your sweetness. After all this time, you still managed to surprise him. He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at you, his gaze soft and adoring. “I love you more,” he murmured, reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair out of your eyes, fingers tracing the line of your jaw.

"Not possible," you murmured.

He smiled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Agree to disagree,” he teased, his hand gently caressing your hair, fingers carding through the messy strands. He liked you like this; soft and pliable in his arms, your body still trembling from your orgasm. His fingers traced down the side of your face, before his knuckles grazed gently over your collarbone, tracing the line of your shoulder.

"You were right," you murmured, looking at him. "Best Christmas ever. Even if I can't build a gingerbread house for the life of me."

His mouth trailed up to her ear, feeling her shiver, and then a jolt of pain stabbed through his tongue, catching on the back of her piercing. He let out a slight hiss, drawing back. “Ah…” Spencer’s hand lifted, gently dabbing at his tongue, the pain spreading across his mouth.

"What happened?" you asked, looking at him, concerned, tucking strands of hair behind your ear.

“Your earrings…” Spencer ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, his face twisting at the lingering sting.

You tutted, sitting up. "Show me."

Spencer obeyed, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue to show her. A small bead of blood pooled in the centre, a testament to the tiny yet rather painful wound.

"Hold on, I probably have some glycerin somewhere," you said, shifting off his lap and towards her wardrobe, rummaging through a drawer.

Spencer raised a quizzical eyebrow at her, slightly amused despite his uncomfortable injury. “What kind of person just has glycerin laying around?”

"The kind who eats pizza too quickly when it's hot," you replied, returning with a small bottle and a cotton bud. "Open up."

Spencer’s mouth curled up in a smile, which was quickly interrupted by a brief wince as she used the soaked cotton bud to apply the glycerin. “Well, at least it’ll taste good this way…” he teased, poking his tongue back out.

You chuckled as you dabbed at the cut, and their phones rang simultaneously, making your shoulders sag.  "With that kind of unity, it must be Hotch."

Spencer grumbled slightly, reluctantly leaving the bed to reach for his phone on the nightstand. “I was hoping for a quiet Saturday…” he mumbled, lifting his phone. Sure enough, Hotch’s name was on the caller ID.

"Ha, no such thing," you scoffed, grabbing your own phone and answering JJ as you grabbed an outfit from your closet.

Talking hurts. In fact, everything that hits his tongue sends a sliver of sharp pain, and so he's uncharacteristically short with everyone, which raises more than a few eyebrows in the briefing.

"No statistic on that to bring up?" Emily asked, her smile teasing and even Derek's got a laugh that he's masking.

"Didn't seem relevant," he said quickly, withholding a wince, and it was like you could sense the danger of getting caught when you brought up a question to Rossi to bring attention back to the case. If only that had gotten the them off his back.

Derek cornered him in the kitchenette, smirking as he sauntered over. "What was that in there? Cat got your tongue?"

On another day, he would have launched into a story of how the phrase originated from the cat o' nine tails, and so saying it meant that you had been flogged into submission, or from the Middle Ages where it was believed that witches would allegedly steal tongues and it transferred onto the black cats that accompanied them as familiars, or that ancient Egyptians who worshipped cats would punish liars and blasphemers by feeding their tongues to cats. Instead, all he said was, "Just didn't feel like it," and continued stirring his coffee.

Derek immediately noticed the lack of a long-winded, completely off-topic, but fascinating rant. And that caught his attention. It was even more suspicious when he couldn’t even look him in the eye, instead keeping his gaze firmly on the coffee maker.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Derek pressed, moving so that he was standing just behind Reid. Derek knew from experience that, if you wanted to prevent him from making a run for it, you had to block his path before he thought to try and escape.

"This kind of behaviour is exactly what gets you in trouble with HR," Spencer pointed out, then winced, his tongue flaring with pain.

Derek’s eyes narrowed as he observed Reid’s face, noting the subtle wince. Something was definitely up. “What’s wrong with your mouth?” he asked bluntly, his eyes now drifting over his face as if they would somehow be able to glean some sort of answer from his expression.

"Nothing," he replied, his voice hitting a higher pitch, a flush colouring his cheeks.

He’s lying. “Bullshit,” Derek said bluntly, his arms folded. “Every time you open your mouth, you wince. So just tell me. What happened?”

"I just burnt my tongue, that's all," he mumbled, hoping Derek would leave it.

Derek’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. It seemed like a flimsy explanation, and he wasn’t going to let this go. Spencer was hiding something. “You burnt your tongue? How?”

"O-On coffee, I forgot it was hot," he said. God, he should be better at lying than this.

Derek’s frown deepened at his answer. “And you’re sure that’s it? No other reason why your tongue would hurt when you talk?”

"What other reason would there be?" Spencer asked, sipping stale coffee.

Now they were getting somewhere. Derek couldn’t help but notice that his cheeks had turned a light shade of pink. “That’s what I’m asking you, pretty boy,” Derek said, folding his arms across his chest.

"What's it matter to you anyway?" Spencer asked, trying to make his escape.

Derek moved to block his path once again, his eyes watching his friend closely. Something wasn’t right here. “It matters because you’re hurt,” Derek pointed out. “So, just be honest and tell me the truth. What really happened to your tongue?”

Spencer groaned. "I... cut it this morning..." he said, halting and hesitating.

Derek’s eyes narrowed once again at his words, instantly sceptical of his answer. “You cut your tongue?” he repeated, his tone clearly indicating that he didn’t believe him. “And how exactly did you do that?”

"Morgan," he pleaded, protesting.

Derek’s eyes remained locked, searching Spencer’s face for any hint of dishonesty or a lie. “I want the truth, Reid. How did you cut your tongue?”

Spencer's entire neck had become flushed now. "On a piercing," he muttered quietly.

Ah. Derek’s eyes grew a fraction wider, his arms now dropping to his sides as everything clicked into place. That’s why he’d been trying to avoid talking this whole time. “A piercing…” he repeated, a smirk beginning to edge onto his face. “Specifically, whose piercing?”

"Does it matter?" Spencer asked, trying to escape him again and Derek blocked him too easily.

Derek’s smirk widened as he watched Reid begin to squirm under his gaze, and it was clear that he had hit the target.

“Yeah, it does. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so reluctant to tell me, pretty boy.” A thought suddenly occurred to him, and Derek’s smirk curled into a grin as he studied Spencer for a long, calculated moment. “Wait a goddamn minute. Is this Cupcake's doing?”

"No!" he squeaked.

Derek’s grin widened at his reaction, which immediately told him that he was correct. Bingo. “Oh god, it is…” he said, his tone a mixture of delight and disbelief. “It was her piercing, wasn’t it?”

"What! I never said that!" Spencer cried and his obvious fluster told Derek all he needed to know - he’d hit the mark.

“You didn’t have to say it. You just confirmed it,” Derek drawled. “You can’t hide anything from me, pretty boy. And that means you were with her this morning -” He leaned in, his grin widening a fraction more. “- weren’t you?”

"I- You can't prove anything!"

“Oh, this is priceless…” Derek was clearly enjoying this, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he watched Spencer begin to panic.  “So, let me get this right: you were with your girlfriend this morning - on your day off - and, somewhere along the line, you cut your tongue on her earrings.”

"You don't know it's her," Spencer tried to bluff.

“Dude, you’re blushing like a schoolboy,” Derek pointed. “And you’re being so damn defensive. Put two and two together, genius. I’m not judging, Reid, just wondering - how exactly did you slice your tongue on her earring, anyway?”

"How do you think?" Spencer muttered.

Derek smirked, his eyebrows lifting. “You’re telling me that you were making out with your new girlfriend, and you accidentally cut your tongue on her piercings?”

"I'm not telling you anything!"

Derek’s smirk just grew wider, as he could practically see the thoughts swirling through Spencer’s mind. He absolutely loved getting to him like this. “You could have just told me that it was from making out with your girlfriend, pretty boy. I’m not gonna make fun of you for that. Although, I’m impressed that you somehow managed to cut your tongue in the process…”

Spencer groaned, lowering his head in shame.

Derek chuckled in delight, thoroughly enjoying watching Spencer getting all worked up.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, man,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “As long as it was a good time, a few marks here and there are worth it.”

"Can I go now?" Spencer asked, mortified.

⋆ he’s a cuddlebug in the most extreme and literal sense.

⋆ like he can’t get enough, he’s constantly touching her.

⋆ if they’re holding hands and she needs to pull away to do something, he’s whining and wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her close.

⋆ if he needs to pull his hand out of her grasp, he’ll hold it with the other hand, or wrap her arm around his waist, or place her hand on his arm to maintain the contact.

⋆ she wasn’t sure how he’d be about pda, especially around his coworkers, but he’s completely insatiable with his touches and kisses.

⋆ obviously he loves kissing her on the mouth the most, but he loves kissing her forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, anywhere and everywhere he can reach.

⋆ he’d even ask her to give him a forehead kiss when he’s feeling especially needy (always).

⋆ he loves wrapping his arms around her waist from behind her, fusing his chest to her back. he’ll dip his hands under her shirt or her waistband, just wanting to feel her skin.

⋆ when they’re at home and he’s reading next to her on the couch, he’ll try to keep a hand on her leg, but it’s easiest if he just lies with his head in her lap. this way he can hold his book properly and still be close to her. she’ll play with his hair and his eyes will start drooping and he loooves falling asleep like that. he’ll turn to press his face into her stomach and wrap his arms around her waist in his sleep.

⋆ in his sleep he still tries to get as close to her as possible, enclosing her waist with his arms and nuzzling his head into her neck.

⋆ obviously spooning her is his favorite, but she’ll wake up on her back or stomach with him all over her in any way possible, even if it’s just his legs tangled with hers.

⋆ he encourages her to lay completely on top of him.

⋆ he’ll even wrap his arms around her thigh and hold it to his chest when they’re lying together, just constantly holding her in any way possible.

⋆ he loves cuddling with her on the couch the most because of the forced proximity.

⋆ if she’s across the couch from him, he’ll pull her feet into his lap, wrapping a hand over her ankle and running his hand up and down her shin as they watch tv together.

⋆ they are absolutely that couple that sits on the same side of the table at restaurants.

⋆ god forbid he has to sit across from her for any reason, he’s playing footsie with her under the table: linking their ankles together and holding one of her feet between his.

⋆ and she worries about him when he leaves for cases and he has to sleep all alone, so she sends him with a sweater that smells like her. she jokes about making him a build-a-bear with the voice recording device inside so he can still have a piece of her when he’s away.

he doesn’t realize that she’s kidding and nods excitedly, wide-eyed, because ultimately him being away so often is one of the main reasons he needs to be as close to her as possible when he is home.

⋆ (oh and nothing is better than naked cuddling with her. he neeeeds the skin-to-skin contact.

⋆ he’s absolutely into cockwarming and fingerwarming(?): he’ll keep his fingers inside of her, not moving them, just feeling her, until she’s begging and whining and grinding on him.

⋆ if he finds her lying on her stomach, he’ll lay his head on her ass. she’ll ask him if he needs something, and he’ll say nope. eventually, he’ll start playing with her waistband, needing to get his head between her thighs. you know, just to get even closer to her.

⋆ he loves having her sat between his legs, his chest to her back, as he slowly toys with her breasts and pussy. he’ll wrap his legs around hers to keep her even closer to him and to spread her open for him to play with.)

Spencer thinks absolutely nothing of the prospect of having sex with her when she’s on her period; it’s just a natural bodily function. He’s entirely unaffected. 

They’re lying on his couch, evening light dispersing through the curtains and painting everything a soft golden. Lying horizontally and facing each other, faint conversations turned into soft kisses that tumbled into something sensual. 

Her fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer to her. His hand raises to rest on her cheek, angling her neck upwards to grant him easier access to her.

Their tongues tangle and slide together; the moist sound blends with their quiet sighs. The documentary on his TV has long been muted.

His hand trails down her arm, leaving sparks under her skin in its wake. His palm lands on her hip and firmly tugs her lower half closer to his. The feeling of his growing arousal is present against her thigh: thick and warm.

“I’m on my period,” she warns him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. 

“Yes?” he already knows this. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t have her cycle memorized? He knows exactly when to estimate the start of her menstruation, and can feel the tension increase in her body in the preceding days. How else would he keep her favorite ice cream stocked in his freezer for her to delight in?

“So, we can’t.”

“Well, we can,” he smirks, “but not if you don’t want to.” His eyes are intensely earnest.

“I always want to, but what about the mess?” Her gaze meets his, and she looks so unassuming and adorable; he needs her so badly.

“Let me worry about that.”

As he presses his lips to her neck, “orgasms can help alleviate your cramps. The hormones released after are natural painkillers.”

He’s the only person who can extract her thoughts from her head simply by being close to her; he knows this. He’s turned her stiff body into putty, and she’s on her way to being a liquid for him. Her eyes flutter shut, and she exposes her throat for his access, instinctively.

As his lips part and he starts to draw in her skin, “Oh- okay… Wait, I need to go to the bathroom and…” she gestures at her pelvis while biting on the inside of her cheek. 

His lips twitch into a smile, “Of course, baby, I’ll get us set up on the bed.” He’s so amorous for her that he would’ve worked around a pad or removed a tampon for her without question. He has to suppress a laugh at his own desperation. 

She tentatively untagles her limbs from his and rises from the couch to scamper into the bathroom.

After she leaves, he rolls onto his back and gazes at the ceiling, trying to pull himself together. He’s always eager to be intimate with her, but the anticipation of getting to see her during such a private epoch has his mind reeling. He thought he’d be impervious when the thought first occurred to him, but as the idea settles in, eagerness begins to hum under his skin. 

His most beloved part of making love to her is getting to see the proof of their arousal on their skin. When they’re glistening with juices, sweat, and spit, he can barely contain himself. She has the ability to turn him into a person that he didn’t know he could be. His carnal desires transform into something almost animalistic, just for her.

Eventually, he rises from the sofa and gathers a large towel, a glass of water, and her favorite chocolate bar to bring into his bedroom. He assembles each piece with careful precision. The towel is layered over his bedsheets, and the water and chocolate get placed on the nightstand.

He takes pride in his penchant for taking care of her and foreseeing her needs. Like a scout, he needs to be prepared for anything: if she gets light-headed or changes her mind.

He strips down to his boxers and settles onto the edge of the bed as she emerges from the bathroom. Gaze slowly descending her body, taking in the sight of her clad in just her black bra and matching underwear, his breath catches in his throat. As she tangles her fingers in front of her stomach, he rises from the mattress and extends his hand toward her. 

“C’mere, baby.”

Palms settling on her hips as he draws her in, their bodies connect like moths to a flame. His thumbs rub soothing circles on her skin, relieving the pressure she carries there. His touches always unravel her.

“Hi,” she whispers, coyly.

“Hey, beautiful.”

He lowers his head to nuzzle his nose against hers. His breath fans in soft streams against her face. Her eyes close intuitively, and she angles her neck upward. She feels like candlewax melting near an open flame. 

Finally, their lips meet again. The way he tugs her body towards his is reminiscent of the way he did so on the couch, but this time, they meet core to core. The soft, warm heat of him at her lower stomach mitigates the deep tightening that’s lived there for days. 

Their lips fit together like puzzle pieces: delicate, but firm. They’re still damp from their earlier ministrations on the couch. He gently pulls her upper lip between his. The kiss is soft and velvety, and it perfectly toes the line of being exactly what they need and not enough. 

He leaves a hand on her hipbone and brings his other to rest on her cheek, expertly tilting her head backward to deepen their kiss. Tracing her bottom lip with his tongue, her hands rise to find purchase on his chest. 

The hand on her hip circles around to her ass, and his gentle squeeze allows a soft gasp to escape her. A knowing smirk rises on his lips as they turn upward against hers. He knows exactly how to reduce her to warmth and instinct, and he revels in that feeling.

Her parted mouth allows him to properly slide his tongue against hers. For a moment, she forgets where they are and what’s occurring in her panties. All she can feel, smell, and touch is him. 

He knows this; he’s felt all of the tension unravel in her body, so he seizes the opportunity to rotate their bodies so the backs of her legs make contact with the mattress. 

He regretfully separates from their kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “Are you sure?”

It reminds her of their very first time together. His earnestness is familiar in the sense that he gives it to her constantly, but right now it feels different. It feels deeper and heavier.

She nods her head and hopes she’s conveying her genuine sincerity in her eyes, “I’m sure.”

There’s a thrill in knowing that they still have milestones to discover together. They both hope that the list never ends. They intend to spend the rest of their lives learning and relearning how to make the other tick. 

He flattens her onto the bed, on top of the soft towel he placed before. The stiff, bone-deep ache in her spine dissipates as she settles into the mattress. She’s surrounded by softness; his skin presses into her front, and her back is cushioned by the plush towel.

Positioned on top of her with a knee between her thighs, he leans over her. He curls an arm around her head as he leans in to slot their lips together again. He’s less patient than he was previously, and he wastes minimal time before slipping his tongue back into her mouth. 

His other arm grazes her upper arm and shoulder-blade, and he sensually slides her bra strap down. She knowingly arches her back so he can reach under her to unclasp it. He’s done this for her so many times before that he’s able to unfasten it with one hand, and without his mouth faltering on hers. 

She sighs in relief as the restrictive fabric loosens, and he pulls the article off her body before tossing it to the floor. His lips trail from the corner of her mouth to her jaw, cascading down her neck. His mouth is moist with a mixture of their saliva. 

As his hand cups her newly exposed breast, a timid moan escapes her. She’s always so reactive and sensitive to his touch, but right now her body is on fire for him. She feels heavy and full in his hand. He softly squeezes her as he sucks a mark on the junction where her neck meets her shoulder. 

“Spence…” she emits during a long exhale.

“I know, baby, let me take care of you.”

His thumb brushes around the edge of her nipple, easing her into his ministrations. He continues the descent of his mouth down her chest, kissing and leaving pink marks on her skin. 

He tends to her dense breasts reverently. He uses both hands to squeeze the fullness of them, lightly skimming circles on her nipples. The relief she feels is already euphoric, and he hasn’t even touched her where she’s aching and pulsing for him. 

The knee between her thighs drifts closer to her damp, aching core. She just barely feels the ghost of his kneecap against the apex of her inner thighs. Rutting her hip downward towards him, she feels pleasantly dizzy and can’t control the tilt of her head against the pillow or the air that escapes her lungs.

She’s so sensitive, it’s like he has direct access to her nerve endings. When he flattens his tongue over her nipple, she gasps and arches her back sharply. He rolls her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger ever so slightly, before alternating his touches. 

He retreats from her just enough to see his saliva glistening around her areolas and bites his lower lip in pleasure at the sight. The curve of her breasts is slightly swollen from her menstruation, and he feels so fortunate to have this access to her.

He returns his lips to hers and lightly caresses one hand down her arm to her hipbone. His other hand comfortingly strokes her hair. He’s being so soft and gentle with her, like her skin is glass. 

His thumb rests on the skin of her hipline, and his palm feels warm and firm. He lets his thumb brush underneath the elastic of her waistband, and he slowly eases his hand inside of her panties. His body shifts to create easier access to her.

She separates her thighs and pushes her hips upward as a means of telling him where she needs him. Her arms rise to cup his face with her hands, pulling him even closer to her. 

His palm slides down her center, and he dips his middle finger into the wetness that has accumulated at her core. 

“Oh, baby.” He whispers against her lips. She’s completely drenched in a mixture of blood and arousal. She feels so warm and so so wet; he’s enraptured by the feeling. A low keening noise emits from low in her throat.

His finger glides with ease through and around her folds. When the tip of it grazes her clit, her hips jerk involuntarily. She feels so sensitive and vulnerable. She feels charged and heightened, like a livewire. He maintains eye contact with her as his finger enters her slick hole. He can feel the heat emanating from her. She feels like soft, silken sheets in the summertime. 

He leisurely pumps his fingers, and they can both hear the squelching noise of her moisture. It’s already so lewd. She’s soaked down to her inner thighs.

He studies her face as he easily inserts a second finger alongside his first. There’s barely any stretch, and her hole pulls his fingers deeper on its own accord. A gravelly moan escapes her against her will.

His fingers seem to be reaching the low and constant ache that resides deep inside of her. Each pump of his fingers chips away at it, while introducing a new, more pleasant pressure for her to focus on.

He curves his fingers to stroke her most sensitive spot with each thrust. Her hands shift to his neck, pulling him against her so she can bury her face in his chest. Her deep moans reverberate against his skin. 

He wants to tell her how badly he needs to be inside of her, but he doesn’t want to pressure her. He wants to give her space to change her mind, if she wants. 

It’s all he can think about, though, as her drenched, silky pussy envelopes his hand. He can barely wait to get his cock wrapped in her tight, warm, wet heat. If he were a lesser man, he’d pull her panties down right now.

As he continues fingering her, her nipples feel electric as they pleasantly press against his chest. The smell of him travels up her nostrils and seems to blanket her brain. He smells crisp of cedar and coffee.

He raises his thumb to roll over her clit, and her body shudders against his. 

“Oh, fuck, Spence,” she whines.

“Yeah, baby? How’s that feel?”

“So good, Spence. I need you inside me.”

“I will, baby. Just relax for me, I wanna make you cum before I do.” He leans down to kiss her again, sensually sliding his tongue inside her mouth. Her moans vibrate between his lips and onto his tongue. He tangles a hand in her hair, not pulling, just holding her. 

As he gradually increases the speed and pressure of his fingers, the squishing noise between her thighs grows louder. 

A low moan escapes him as she clenches around his fingers. Her thighs tremble, and her jaw goes slack against his. Soft whimpers enter his mouth, and her back arches slightly off the bed.

“There you go…” He mutters as he watches her head tilt back, and her eyes squeeze shut.

She feels the white-hot pleasure of her orgasm rolling through her. She feels like a struck match that’s slowly burning down to nothing. Sparks glow behind her eyelids.

Spencer continues the movements of his fingers until her thighs start to close around his hand and her hips squirm away from him. He then removes his hand from her panties and rests it back on her hip. His fingers are warm and wet and sticky on her skin.

She’s completely breathless, and as she opens her eyes, her vision is blurred at the edges.

He litters kisses down her neck, to her chest, and back to her breasts, sucking one of her nipples back into his mouth. Her hands tangle in his hair to attempt to pull his mouth back to hers, but he groans in pleasure at the feeling of her touch and maintains his hovering position over her tits.

He lets a slow string of spit fall from his lips and land on her red, swollen nipple. She whines as it makes contact with her overworked skin. He watches as his saliva settles into her skin with a focused gaze.

He lets his gaze fall to his messy fingers, and his brain short-circuits when he sees the proof of her stained all over them. Underneath them, her hip is red with his fingerprints. 

He loses himself in the sight of it, and she starts fearing that he’s disgusted by what he sees. 

“Spence? Do you still… want to?” 

His head snaps back to her face, where he finds her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, and a soft crease has formed between her eyebrows. 

He uses his dry hand to pull at her bottom lip, and it forms into a pout. He kisses the crease between her brows and softly grinds his hips against her outer thigh.

“Yes, baby, I absolutely still want to.” 

She feels the proof of his statement in the warm, hard pressure against her leg and sighs in relief. He maintains eye contact with her as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, sexily licking them clean of her blood and arousal.

Her jaw slackens in shock at the sight of him like this, and his eyes close in pleasure as he tastes her. She tastes both familiar and entirely new. He then winks at her. Her concerns regarding his desires fall away. 

His fingers remain somewhat stained, and a red spot is left on his bottom lip.

As he moves down her body, he sucks her nipple into his mouth and rolls it between his lips. She whimpers and places her hand on the back of his head. He releases her with an audible ‘pop’ noise and kisses slowly down her stomach and to her waistband. He now has a perfect view of the mess that’s grown along her inner thighs. 

He places tender kisses along her lower stomach, exactly on the places where her cramps typically form. Following his lips comes the weight of his palm, which caresses her softly.

He understands her well enough to know that her first orgasm softened her nervous edges enough for him to remove her panties, but he still looks up at her in question as he hooks his fingers into them. 

She nods enthusiastically, and he smiles as he tugs them down her legs. 

They suction to her cunt on the way down, and her slick mess is slowly revealed to him as if he’s unwrapping a present. In a way, he is; getting to be with her at all is a gift.

After carefully folding her panties and placing them on the edge of the towel, his gaze meets her exposed cunt. He’s completely entranced by the red smears that paint her inner thighs and pelvis. He impulsively bends her legs to set her feet flat on the bed, granting him an even better view of her soaked core.

Seeing her blood-smeared pussy, exposed just for him, a low and desperate groan escapes him. Blood trickles through her folds and onto the towel beneath her.

Spencer needs to get inside of her. He needs to feel her warm lubrication wrapped around his cock. 

He leaves a quick kiss on her inner thigh before sitting up to hurriedly push his underwear down his legs. He barely has the wherewithal to get them off his feet. 

He gathers some of her bloody slick with his fingers and strokes his throbbing cock to lubricate himself. Repositioning himself on top of her, he draws one of her knees against his waist and props himself up with the other by her head. 

For a moment, all he can see is the pink and red and maroon that litters her body. Pink are her cheeks. Red are her lips, the marks he left scattered over her neck and chest, and her bitten nipples. Maroon is the handprint he left on her hip. 

“Thank you for letting me have you like this. You look absolutely divine, baby.” 

The pink on her cheeks blossoms into a red. Only Spencer would take the time to compliment her so dearly before he’s about to fuck her into the mattress. Only Spencer would abandon his own needs to provide her with this tender moment.

Their pupils are equally dilated and expanded, matching each other in darkness and intensity.

He slowly drags his tip through her slickness, mesmerized at the way her blood catches and stains his smooth skin. She gasps and jerks her hips upwards as he contacts her clit with each slide. 

He’s completely painted with her from tip to base, smeared into the soft hair that’s littered there. 

He lowers himself down to kiss her as he lines himself up with her entrance. She gasps into his mouth at the ease with which his tip slides inside of her. He has to stop himself from gliding all the way inside of her to the hilt. She’s so slick and so wet that he could do so with ease, but he won’t before she’s ready.

She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him in to the hilt; she can’t wait anymore. She craves the feeling of him deep inside of her. The impact punches the air out of both of them. The descent was completely frictionless; they could feel her walls softly stretching to accommodate him.

“Fuck-” He moans at the feeling of her completely enveloping his cock: thick and warm and wet. 

She can feel him pulsing and throbbing inside of her. She reaches for his shoulders to hold him for purchase, her nails pushing into his skin.

The biting sensation of her nails brings him back to reality, and he realizes he’s been stagnant inside of her for an unknown amount of time.

As he starts moving, it’s nearly impossible for him to control his thrusts; everything is so slick and slippery. Each thrust is filthily easy with wetness and moisture. Each slap of their hips produces an obscene, wet smacking noise.

Each drag of him along her sensitive walls has her writhing and arching underneath him. Her sopping pussy pulls him in even deeper with each thrust.

Spencer is enchanted. Normally, he treasures having eye contact with her during sex, but he’s fascinated by the sight of her smearing all over his cock. His eyes are wide and round, and his mouth falls open in shock. 

He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed by the sight of her like this, but he didn’t expect his attraction to her to grow impossibly stronger. 

His eyes are locked on where they meet, gaze laser-focused on her. His grip on her thigh tightens with each thrust of his hips.

“Look at you, baby. You’re making a mess all over me.” He sounds as fascinated as he looks. His eyes are full of devotion.

She sits up to meet his eye line where his core slams into hers. As she shifts, she unconsciously clenches against him, and her greedy walls suction him in even deeper. Her nails dig deeper into his shoulders.

Her upright position makes them moan in tandem. Her eyes widen as she sees her smearing blood on his pelvis and V-line. It’s collected around the base of his cock and has spread through his pubic hair, gathering in the soft strands. Her inner thighs are coated with a crimson stain that ascends to her lower stomach. 

The sight of him pumping in and out of her makes her head spin on a normal day, but this vision has her entire body tingling with desire. It awakens something deep and carnal inside of her. 

For a moment, all she can see on him are the red details. His lips are kissed red. Her nails have left red crescents on his shoulders. His chest is flushed a reddish pink. His pelvis is painted red with her. With each thrust, she can see the blood that has accumulated around the base of his cock. It tapers out into his soft, curly pubes and has started collecting in the groove of his hip.

She feels a feral sense of pride brewing in her stomach at the sight of what she’s done to him.

Her gaze flitters over to the faint fingerprints he left on her hip, and her jaw falls open in a pleasant shock. 

“So pretty like this, baby, so so pretty.” The repetitiveness of his adjective is a testament to how far gone he is. His grip on her thigh tightens as his thrusts become more and more rigorous. 

“Oh fuck me.” Her head tilts back, elongating her throat. He surges forward to suck more marks on her smooth skin, darkening the ones he’s already left there. 

Her veins are so flooded with pleasure that she falls backwards onto the pillow, dragging him down with her. One of her hands tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, needing something to hold on to. 

With the new angle, she can feel his tip kiss her cervix with each thrust; she emits low moans, “ah, ah, ah,” like a prayer with each penetration.

His hand that was propping his body up now slides down the sheets to grab hers, intertwining their fingers like he can’t get close enough to her; as if being inside of her and covered in the evidence of her biology isn’t enough. She grips it like it's her lifeline, and he can still feel the pleasant sting of where her fingernails had done the same into his shoulder and upper back.

“Shit- you feeling okay?” his head is burrowed in the crook of her shoulder, and his breath collides with her heated skin. 

“Mhm,” she emits a high-pitched moan, “feels really good.”

His voice is wrecked, “Good, baby, let me take care of you. Feels so good for me too, you always do.” His hand spans her thigh as he lifts it high above his waist, opening her up even further. She can feel a new wave of blood and fluids gush out of her as he spreads her open. 

She’s clenching around him with a tenacity that would normally push him outward, but she’s so drenched that it seems to only draw him in further. The blood-slick glide feels phenomenal for both of them. Breathless gasps intersperse with deep moans that blend with the squelching noise at their cores. It creates the most erotic melody they’ve ever heard.

He lifts his head from her bruised neck, watching her facial expressions as his cock punches into her again and again and again. Up close, the vision of each other’s glistening lips is too tempting to resist. They can see the evening sun filtering in through the curtains out of the corner of their eye, and it’s now painting the room with an alpenglow. The sides of their faces are backlit by a heavenly light.

They’re so intensely attracted to each other, and the light only strengthens their desirability. Their mouths crash together into something wet and desperate. Tongues slide with a frenzy. 

Running out of air in his lungs, Spencer just slightly pulls away from the kiss, so close to her that she’s somewhat blurry. A string of spit connects their mouths, and he closes his eyes with a low groan that comes straight from his chest.

He likes his sex messy. He never thought he would, but being with her has made him obsessed with the sight of her sheer sweat, their glistening saliva, and his milky cum painting her skin. Her bloodstains hit him deep in his stomach. The obvious proof of what they’ve done has his dick twitching in excitement.

She thrusts her hips up to meet his, smearing more and more of her around his pelvis and hipline. The thrusts become deeper and faster and even messier. The pressure of him in her stomach seems to be canceling out any pressure from her uterus. 

This entire experience is so erotic that Spencer can barely keep himself together; he’s a ball of yarn being slowly unraveled. She’s so plush, pliant, soft, and warm underneath him that he wishes he could stay like this forever. Rough groans that seem to be coming from his stomach sound foreign to their ears; he’s never sounded so pleased or satisfied.

Each point of contact with his skin feels heightened and hums beneath hers. She feels akin to a tree without its bark, raw and exposed. 

The clenching of her walls falls into a steady rhythm, and the thigh he’s been holding against his side trembles beneath her skin. Her writhing hips become erratic. 

His fingers untangle with hers to fit his hand between their bodies. Just the feeling of him hovering over her clit has her jittering. When he connects with it, drawing slow, wet circles on the nub, she knows the fire that's been growing inside of her is about to explode; his touch is the gasoline. His fingertips slip and slide with ease.

“I’m close,” she whimpers into his ear.

“I know, baby, let go for me. I need to feel you cum around me like this, please.”

Her veins feel like a lit stick of dynamite as she approaches her climax, slowly burning into an explosion of sparks and fire that spreads up to her eyelids. It blazes through her, leaving none of her atoms untouched. She’s left as a pile of embers as it dissolves.

He can see the fireworks boom behind her eyes, and her chest arches up into his. They’re so slick with sweat that their torsos glide together.

Her walls pulse as her orgasm descends, causing his to follow behind it after a handful of haphazard thrusts. He buries his cock to the hilt, cumming deep inside of her.

He collapses on top of her body, nuzzling his head into her neck. She can feel his hot air against her skin and the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers. 

Her hand sticks to the strands of hair at the back of his neck, also moist with perspiration. The room is humid and smells of sex and something that’s distinctly them. The last traces of the sunset are starting to transition into night.

“Wow.” She manages to say between gasps for air. 

“I know.” He mumbles into her neck; the vibrations of it are almost too much for her sensitive nerves.

Some time passes where they lie in a comfortable silence. Needing to regain control of their breathing and not wanting the moment to end. 

Eventually, his head rises from the home it found on her shoulder. His eyes are glazy with passion and affection. Hers are half-lidded and adoring.

Her body feels gelatinous, but she manages to lift her head enough to press a firm kiss to his mouth. His reaction is slightly delayed, as if everything is moving in slow motion. 

After they break apart, her lips brush against his jaw, down to the sweaty moisture that’s started to dry on his neck. He smells so palpably like himself there that she can’t help herself from darting her tongue out to lick at the dampness.

His head falls back in pleasure, and a guttural groan escapes him. If there’s anything Spencer loves more than his saliva spreading on her skin, it's hers connecting with his.

His hips shift against hers instinctively as a chill almost meets the surface of his skin.

This reminds both of them that his cock is still buried deep inside of her. She envelopes him in a warm and wet heat that he doesn’t want to pull away from.

“Oh my god, you’re gonna get stuck in there.” She jokes with a tired giggle.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Like that’s not exactly what I want.” He smirks, and she affectionately rolls her eyes at him.

He carefully extracts his hips from hers. The blood that's collected there has started to dry into something slightly sticky. The squelching sensation blends with the faint clinging of their skin.

Both of their pelvic areas are completely painted red and crimson with her blood. It’s like various red wines have been spilled and left to absorb into the fibers of their skin. 

The feeling of his cum dripping out of her entrance blends with trickles of blood. It feels like a gutter emptying after a heavy rainfall. The heat under her skin slowly retreats as the air conditioning breathes over her damp body. 

He can’t stop his temptation to see his cum mixed with her blood, so he shifts his body down the bed until he’s positioned between her thighs. It drips out of her as a soft pink before it combines with dark red. He’s so intrigued that he can’t look away.

“How’s it look, Doctor?”

“Completely marvelous, my love.” The air from his speech makes contact with her folds, making her shudder.

He lets a long string of spit fall from his lips and watches in wonder as it softly lands in her folds, making her whimper.

He licks a firm, wide stripe from her fluttering hole to her clit. He meant to ask, not wanting to cross any of her boundaries, but it’s like her cunt and his tongue have a magnetic pull. 

“Oh! Spence!” she exclaims, arching her back and gripping his hair 

He pulls back slightly, lips and chin already smeared with red. “I’m sorry.” Lips pursed and shifted to one side. “I should’ve asked first. Can I?”

“I’ll never say no to that, but you really don’t have to. I’m sure it tastes like pennies.”

He shakes his head, accompanied by quiet laughter, “Not at all. You always taste so good,” and dives back between her thighs.

He has to clean her up; he always does. He continues licking wide stripes up the expanse of her pussy, flicking at her clit on the way up each time. Her body jerks each time he does it, the line between overstimulation and pleasure softening with a blur. 

She does have a slight metallic taste, but it makes him think of beautiful things like jewelry. She’s still sweet and tangy underneath it, a flavor he’s addicted to. 

He wraps his arms around the underside of her thighs, opening her up just for him to explore. 

“I’m so lucky to see you this way.”

He hopes that nobody has ever had her like this before. He knows it’s territorial and possessive to think that way–maybe even slightly problematic–but he’s never felt intimacy like this with anyone else. Regardless, he hopes he can do this with her every month for the foreseeable future.

As he sucks and inserts his tongue into her hole, his nose grazes her puffed clit until she’s writhing underneath him. Her soft whimpers and whines are music to his ears. The corners of his lips turn upward as his grip on her thighs tightens. 

He’s drowning in her juices, his cum, her blood, and his saliva. He’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Spence,” she whines. The distant sound of her voice mixed with the squelching in his ears creates the most wonderful song he’s ever heard. 

He licks wider stripes up her pussy, and he briefly wonders how much of a mess he’s making on his own face in the name of cleaning her. He loves seeing her arousal glistening around his mouth and chin when he normally does this. The thought of the proof of her pleasure being even more prominent has his stomach doing somersaults. 

He shifts his mouth to meet her clit, softly sucking it into his mouth. Her whines tumble into proper moans, her grip on his hair tightens, and her thighs push against his arms.

He releases one of her thighs to push his pointer finger inside of her. He softly caresses her satin walls, ensuring to make contact with her most tender spot with each thrust. A low moan releases from her throat, and her newly freed thigh closes on the side of his head. He can feel it trembling against his cheek and can see her lower stomach tensing. 

The experience has him letting out a low and soft moan that vibrates against her skin. Pleasuring her satisfies something deep within him.

The expanse of his devotion has warmth growing behind her eyes. Nobody has ever been this committed to taking care of her in any aspect. She’s never gotten close to trusting anyone to this extent, with her body completely at their mercy.

She feels the knot in her stomach tighten until it snaps, like a pulled thread. The oscillations of his voice are what drive her over the edge. Her orgasm tangles and rolls through her. He pulls at her seams until she comes undone, unraveling her completely.

He continues his ministrations until her grip on his hair starts pulling him away from her core. He sees her eyes squished shut, and her hair has formed a halo around her head on the pillow: perfectly accessorizing her angelic body.

The rapid rise and fall of her sweat-coated chest makes him want to rise to lick it all off of her, but he prioritizes her sensitivity over his own desire. 

She looks down at him and gasps, wide-eyed, and covers her mouth with her hand. 

“Oh my god, honey, you look scary.” She laughs into her palm.

“Scary?! That’s not nice,” he mockingly pouts at her. “So I can’t have a kiss?” he purses his red-stained lips at her. 

“Just a little one,” she concedes and gestures with her thumb and forefinger, showing him the gap between them. He laughs and shakes his head at her, ascending her body to press a soft and brief kiss to her lips. She tries to lean forward to meet him halfway, but she’s still enduring a deep tremble that seems to be coming from her bones. Her limbs feel soft and melted.

“You do taste like pennies… and keys… and nails.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he teases, eyes fused to her red-stained lips. “Should I be worried about your dietary habits?”

“See, I was wondering if I should be worried about yours. You’re not secretly a vampire, are you?” Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she playfully squints at him.

He just laughs and shakes his head at her before leaning down to steal another brief kiss.

He considers wiping himself with the edge of the towel underneath her, but decides against it in favor of seeing her mess all over him in the bathroom mirror. Her blood has mostly dried and begun settling into his skin, anyway.

“Shower?” He asks her.

“Definitely.”

He rises from the mattress and helps her sit up enough to sip the glass of water he prepared for her. The moisture glossens her lips, collecting in the corner of her mouth. A droplet dribbles down her chin and to her neck, so he leans down to kiss it off her. 

“Is that for me?” she points at the chocolate bar resting unassumingly on the wooden nightstand, looking up at him wide-eyed and curious, biting on her lower lip to subdue a smile. 

“Oh, no… I got this for me,” he teases with a sly smirk, as he picks it up and holds it to his chest, in jest. She justs her lower lip out at him and gives him doe-eyes, sending a jolt to his chest. He’d do anything for her regardless, but that look could convince him to follow her into a collapsing, burning building. 

He tears the package open and places a piece between her lips. As she nibbles at the square, his eyes scan her debauched body. Various red stains litter her skin in marks on her neck, chest, and breasts, all leading down to the red sea that laps her hipline, pelvis, and thighs.

He finds her utterly ethereal. Being intimate with her was already the most sacred experience in the world, but this experience is ineffable. He’s so grateful to have her, and he’s so thankful that she trusted him to do this with her.

He reluctantly leaves her side to pad over to the bathroom to start the shower for them. After twisting the handle, he finally turns to see his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes widen, and his lips separate at the vision of himself. The entirety of his lower face is coated with evidence of his debauchery. It surrounds his mouth, chin, and there’s even a smear on his cheek from her thigh closing in on him. 

His gaze filters lower on his body, where he finds more confirmation of their activities together. The blood that surrounds his pelvis has dried into a deep maroon and mahogany. He’s frozen in place, in awe of the contrast of it on his pale skin. Her blood blooms and spreads from his softened cock to his pubic area, hips, and to his lower stomach.

He doesn’t want to wipe any of it away. He wishes he could tattoo it onto himself to admire for the rest of his life. 

Ultimately, he rinses his face in the sink and watches mournfully as the diluted blood flows down the drain. A red tint lingers on the skin surrounding his mouth. 

As he reenters the bedroom, she tells him, “I don’t know how I’m gonna get to the shower.”

“I’ll take you.” He replies with ease, tucking his arms under the towel, then under her knees and upper back before she can even ask what his plan is. 

He holds her body close to his chest and ducks down to kiss her properly. Her arms tighten around his neck as she sighs happily into his mouth. The love they have for each other is so full that it could spill out of their bodies.

He carries her into the bathroom and sets her gently onto the shower floor, ensuring her legs are steady before he releases his arms. The towel gets crumpled, mess side inward, and tossed toward the bathroom corner. 

She’s already started rinsing herself when he steps in behind her. They watch as the blood fades into a pale stream down her thighs, legs, and to the drain. Minimal words are shared as they clean each other off; they don’t need to. They can feel the adoration emitting from each other's bodies, and it can be seen in the recesses of their eyes. 

The water runs steadily around them. Periodically, they lean into each other, her head to his chest and his arms around her waist. There are soft kisses and even softer whispers. Nothing is rushed or demanded. They bring each other comfort in the small space. They stay there longer than necessary.

Afterward, Spencer gathers clothes for her and helps her prepare her menstrual product. He cooks her an iron-rich meal that he knows she will like, and they eat it while curled together on the couch. As a movie plays on the TV, he finds his mind drifting to replay the memories of their time together over and over in his head.

-

New York at this time of year wouldn't seem so terrible if it weren't for the case the BAU is currently working on.

After all this time on the team, you can say you've seen a lot of awful things, and just when you think nothing can surprise you anymore, another psychopath shows up to prove you wrong.

This is one of those cases.

But despite the brutal setting, you trust your team and your shared commitment to working hard to catch the bad guys and make the world a little safer.

In that same spirit, you find yourself in the meeting room the NYPD set up for you two hours ago when you arrived at the precinct.

“Okay, so what do we know so far?” Emily, your unit chief asks, her eyes fixed on the board with photographs of the victims and the locations where their bodies were dumped.

“Six murders in less than two weeks,” says JJ, reading one of the files in her hands.

“The victimology isn't clear,” Spencer interjects, “there's no clear pattern of age, ethnicity, or social background.”

“Finances?” Rossi prompts, and that's when Luke pipes up.

“Nothing that places them in the same location or links them to a particular person.”

Everything seems too random, but if there's one thing you've learned after 5 years in this line of work, it's that randomness rarely prevails in these cases: there's always a connection, it's just sometimes hard to uncover.

"What about the abduction days?" you ask, having a hunch about some kind of unseen patterns.

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday," Tara replies after checking another file open on the room table.

“What are you thinking?" Emily turns to look at you and listens to one of your possible theories. 

"Nothing conclusive, but if the victimology doesn't fit, then there's something about his routine that could be interpreted as opportunity." 

Spencer hums in agreement. "But even if there is an opportunity, something makes him choose them beyond being at some specific time and place."

“That’s exactly my point, Dr. Reid,” you smile at him, acknowledging the implicit sync Spencer tends to have with your train of thought.

Spencer smiles back, cheeks a bit pinker from your words.

Luke groans. “Oh, come on. If the lovebirds want to bounce theories to flirt with each other, get a room.”

JJ and Tara giggle, while Rossi looks more amused than pissed off. Emily glares at Luke with a clear message: don’t go there and focus on the case.

Hiding your smirk behind the rim of your coffee cup, you subtly wink at Spencer, who has to do everything in his power not to burst into laughter.

You and Spencer have been used to this dynamic for a while now. It wasn't long after you started at the BAU before you connected with the resident genius and became inseparable. First as colleagues, then as friends, and now as a couple.

Spencer has been your boyfriend for a year now. It was something the team said was 'meant to happen,' but neither of you was willing to admit it until denying it became ridiculous and futile.

And you couldn't have wanted it any other way. Spencer is the most attentive, loving, and caring boyfriend you've ever had. And, according to Spencer himself, you are all that and so much more to him.

One of the things you decided when you opened up about your feelings was to take things slowly, without pressure or rushing to take the next step. That's why, although you've talked about it, you haven't moved in together yet. Similarly, you both agreed not to mix your personal and professional lives. While you allow jokes and comments about yourselves from the team, personal problems and displays of affection stay outside the workplace.

And this case isn’t the exception. As soon as Emily assigns tasks to everyone, you focus on doing what you were asked to do.

Everyone was working against the clock, but the hours were passing without any clear leads. Without realizing it, you’ve been working nonstop for over a day, and although Emily had tried to ensure everyone got some rest from time to time, the exhaustion was starting to show.

-

An hour earlier, you were sent with JJ to interview witnesses at the last dumping site, but it didn't go as you'd hoped.

When you return to the station, Emily, Rossi, and Spencer are in the briefing room discussing the geographic profile.

Seeing you enter, Spencer immediately gives you a tired smile, indicating that there hasn't been much progress on this front either.

"We couldn't get much," JJ says.

"The geographic profile is also too vague," Rossi adds. 

"Okay, but we can't stop there," Emily points out. "Lieutenant Ryan is already nervous about this, and the press will leak in any minute."

Emily now assigns JJ to help Tara with the medical examiner, while she and Rossi go to get more information from the victims' families. She leaves you with Spencer to continue reviewing the geographic profile.

Once you’re alone in the room, you point out the obvious. “Emily looks more frustrated than usual.” Spencer nods in agreement.

“Well, Lieutenant Ryan wasn’t much help when he came and questioned Emily for the lack of progress.”

“Asshole,” you mumbled under your breath. Spencer chuckles, knowing that’s exactly what you would say at that.

Spencer shrugs. “He is frustrated. Everyone is at this point.”

You hum in agreement, glancing at the whiteboard where the photos of the new victims are displayed. Spencer knows you're trying to focus, even though you look just as exhausted as he does. 

"Hey," he calls your name. "How about a coffee and some fresh air before we continue?"

You turn to him, and your face lights up. That's exactly what you need before you keep going.

"I knew you were more than just a pretty face," you joke, and Spencer grins.

"Good thing we’re clear on that now. Let's go to the coffee shop on the corner; I don’t think I can stand another one from the vending machine here."

The trip is quick but lets you get some fresh air. Spencer, being the attentive boyfriend he always is, knows exactly which coffee you need. Meanwhile, you complain about the weather and how cold the police station is.

As you wait for your order, Spencer explains how old the buildings in downtown New York are and how their insulation systems work.

“Upgrading the system with the appropriate materials would take a long time and be quite expensive. And well, given the NYPD's infrastructure budget, it's not feasible in the short- or medium-term,” Spencer says.

“Or at all. And I get it. I don't want to be flippant and say it's a priority compared to other things, but I think about all the people working there all day, and, yeah, I feel like the damn privileged federal agent that I actually am. No wonder why they look at us with disdain,” you point out, grabbing the two coffees from the counter and handing one to Spencer.

“They don’t look at us that way,” he starts to argue, taking a sip of his beverage. “I mean, they sure are equally frustrated as we are due to this case.”

And probably he’s right, but you know the glances the local forces tend to give you everywhere you go across the country. The feds aren’t welcomed in most places, and you understand why.

“Well, more reason why we need to catch this bastard soon,” you add as you both walk out of the coffee shop. Spencer nods in agreement, following you on the sidewalk.

“And we will. We just need to refocus and-”

“Spencer? Is it you?”

His speech is suddenly interrupted by a voice calling his name from behind.

“Who’s-” Spencer begins to ask, but he stops himself once he turns and realizes who is the person calling his name. You do the same, only to find a smiling woman approaching. You don’t think you know her, but apparently, she knows Spencer, and judging by the way Spencer’s eyes widen, he knows her.

“Maeve? Wow.”

Two things immediately catch your attention. The first is that you're sure you've heard that name before. The second is that since you met Spencer Reid, you can count on one hand the number of times you've seen him speechless. This is one of those times.

“What a coincidence to find you here!” the brunette chirps. She looks very pleased with this encounter. And Spencer looks... starstruck?

That’s when it hits you. No. It can’t be, you think at first. But you can’t be mistaken, she is Maeve Donovan, Spencer’s ex.

“Yeah. I - I’m working on a case here in New York,” Spencer clarifies, fumbling with his coffee cup, and taking a step forward so he can talk easily to the woman. You stay frozen in place, watching as the interaction unfolds.

“Of course, I should have imagined something like that,” the woman chuckles. “It’s been a while, uh?”

“Six years, three months, and four days.”

Are-You-Fucking-Kidding-Me? You’re sure your brain short-circuits when you hear Spencer. Of course, everyone keeps track of how long it's been since they last saw their exes. You begin to feel discomfort in your stomach. You rationalize the fact that Spencer has an eidetic memory, but that's not enough to justify why the count came from his mouth.

“I’m not one bit surprised you know that,” Maeve concedes. “How have you been?”

Even though you never met Maeve, you do know the story. Spencer himself told you this even before you two started dating. And to say it left you speechless and incredibly frustrated by how badly Spencer got hurt is an understatement.

Spencer told you how he started suffering from severe migraines and how that led him to consult a prominent geneticist, Maeve Donovan. You also know how their conversations became increasingly frequent, leading to a relationship even though they had never met face-to-face.

You remember how he recounted that Maeve had a stalker and refused the BAU's help. Until it was too late, and she was kidnapped. Spencer's heart nearly broke at the thought that he would never be able to see her in person.

The BAU worked tirelessly until they located her. But upon entering the abandoned garage, they found Maeve being held at gunpoint. And if it weren't for Spencer, she would have died along with her stalker, who ultimately took her own life.

It was obvious that after that experience, Maeve and Spencer would take their relationship to the next level. And they did. Spencer accompanied every detail of Maeve's healing process after her near-death experience. And for her part, Maeve gave Spencer the love he so desperately craved.

Everything seemed to be going well between them—a happy couple after such adverse circumstances. But as the months passed, Maeve began to resent Spencer's constant work trips and questioned his devotion to the BAU, arguing that he could do better in academia.

Spencer wasn't sure if Maeve ever cheated on him while they were together, but the emotional and physical distance between them became increasingly evident. One day, after returning from a case, Spencer arrived at their shared apartment to find Maeve waiting with her suitcase already packed. Saying she couldn't take it anymore, she broke up with him and left without further explanation. And two weeks later, Spencer finds out she started a relationship with her ex-fiancé, Bobby.

It took Spencer months to recover from that. While he didn't give you details about that period, you know from JJ and Penelope that Spencer suffered from a major depression, which almost led him back to the addiction he had overcome years before.

When you joined the team, all of that was supposedly behind him, but it wasn't unusual for you to see Spencer be more withdrawn at times. After learning his story, you understood why he acted that way back then.

That’s something you’ll never forgive Maeve for. And it's itching your skin to see how polite Spencer is behaving with her right now.

“Good. Pretty good, actually. I didn't know you left DC?”

In addition to the grudge you held towards Maeve for what she did to Spencer, you now have the feeling of being totally forgotten by your boyfriend. Well, you suppose once the pleasantries end, he will introduce you as he should.

“Remember when I told you I wanted to apply for funding to do a neuroscience lab? Well, I got it two years ago and moved to New York. Now I have a whole team working with me.”

“Wow! That’s great. Really, really great.”

As the seconds and minutes tick by, you grow more impatient. Their conversation continues, and neither of them seems to notice you're there. Maeve is all smiles, and you're almost certain Spencer is blushing, his voice betraying his obvious nervousness.

Should you say something to stop her blatant flirting? It's completely inappropriate, considering the place and the situation. Sure, maybe if she knew who you were, she'd be less obvious. But your boyfriend is doing little to nothing to let her know.

You've never considered yourself a jealous woman. In your past relationships, you've always built them on trust. And with Spencer, it's been no exception. But right now? You're not sure you're immune to that feeling.

Perhaps you should make your presence known by introducing yourself. But two reasons hold you back: first, that would be unprofessional, and second, it's not your job to do so.

“Yeah. It is. And we've made some really significant progress in research, with several articles published. I'm sure you'd be interested in reading them.”

Rolling your eyes, you think the only thing missing is for her to tell Spencer she's already won the Nobel Prize in neuroscience.

“Oh, I definitely would.”

What’s wrong with Spencer? Is he feigning interest in the conversation, or is he genuinely absorbed in what she has to say? Either way, it feels bizarre to have to witness this rom-com-like reunion where your character seems to be nonexistent.

“And how has your life been these past few years? For what you said, I assume you're still working with the BAU.”

Okay, now's the time, you think. Come on, Spencer, tell her you've gotten over all the bad things she did to you, how much you've grown, and how your life is better than the one she gave you.

“Good. You know, work. Catching serial killers hasn’t changed much.”

You can't believe that's all he's going to say. It's practically saying that everything's the same, that his life isn't any different than it was when he was with her. You wonder if he really feels that way, and if he does, it makes you feel insignificant.

“So, isn't there a Ms. Reid waiting at home?”

At the question, your heart starts to beat faster. It's direct, and although inappropriate for a casual conversation between exes, it's the ultimate test of whether Spencer considers his relationship with you worth exposing.

“If I’m married? No, I’m not. Are you?”

You don't think you've felt such a profound disappointment in years. And while it's true you two aren't married, it was time to acknowledge that you, at least, existed. Now it's clear you don't even meet the ‘Maeve standard' to be shown off.

Maeve smiles flirtatiously. “No, I'm not married. Don't you think that's a nice coincidence?”

That's enough. You can't stay and listen to another word. You're not going to be the one crying in this sidewalk because your boyfriend doesn't even acknowledge you. You're better than that.

“I'll leave you two to catch up. I'm heading back to the station; Emily is asking where we are. See you there, Reid.”

Reid. For Spencer, it’s like a switch is flipped, and some kind of revelation hits him. For the first time since the whole encounter, he turns to look at you. To really look at you. You don’t ever call him Reid, and the tone? That’s enough to pop any bubble he was in.

You can’t tell if his eyes scream guilt, regret, confusion, fear, or all of them. But you’re enough pissed off to stay there to find out. That’s why, before he can open his mouth, you walk away, fishing your phone to text Emily you’re on your way. You don’t even dare to look back, walking as faster as you can.

You hear Spencer calling your name, asking you to wait for him, but you let it fade into the sound of New York traffic.

---------

When you enter the station, your chest feels tight. You don't know if it's partly from walking fast, from the cold burning your lungs, from the disappointment in your heart, or from the anger coursing through your veins. Whatever it is, you have neither the time nor the space to worry about it.

You head straight to the briefing room, where you see the whole team has already returned from their respective assignments.

Rossi frowns when he sees you. "Everything alright, bella?" You swallow hard to regain your composure.

"Yeah, just cold outside."

"And Spence?" JJ asks. And you act as if nothing that happened minutes ago actually happened. "He should be here any minute, I assume."

Emily frowns, but instead of saying something to you, she talks to all. “Okay, let’s get started. We have news.”

Five minutes later, Spencer rushes into the room, only to find the whole team - you included - listening to Emily talking, who stops when she sees him.

Great, he’s the last one arriving, and everybody notices.

“Ah, Reid. Good thing you’re here. We have enough for the profile now.”

Thanks to Luke and JJ's last findings and the new information Rossi got from the families, the pieces are finally falling into place. Emily continues her briefing, pointing out the key information they have and how it builds on what they had before. Once she’s done, the instructions come: "Okay, let's get everyone to deliver the profile.” The team already knows what to do.

Spencer's gaze travels directly to you, exiled in a corner, folder in hand, with an expression impossible to read.

As people are vacating the room, Spencer cautiously walks toward you. You’re organizing folders from the table and preparing to leave as well.

He clears his throat before speaking softly. “Can we talk about what happened?” 

You don’t even look at him, like he didn’t say anything at all. At the lack of response, he calls your name.

You’re still focused on the files. “We have nothing to talk about.” Your tone is flat, trying to sound detached, but you’re burning inside. Spencer purses his lips. He knows what you are doing.

“Please, don’t do this.”

What the hell? You're literally trying to avoid a conflict in the middle of a police station, during an active case, and Spencer wants to chastise you for it? 

“Excuse me? Don’t do what? Behaving professionally at work?”

Spencer sighs. You’re right, you shouldn’t be talking about this in the middle of the case, but he needs to say something. Anything. He can’t pretend to not acknowledge what he did, even if he doesn't know why or how to address it, for that matter.

Although starting with an ‘I’m sorry’ would have been an honest go, his mouth betrays him. “You know what I mean.” It’s a meek approach, Spencer knows it, but he can’t get the words out when he’s still assimilating the last hour.

Whatever the case may be, you’re not in the mood to make his life easier. “Actually, I don’t. And you know what? I don’t want to understand. You can go back and catch up with Maeve. I’ll keep doing my job.”

Before Spencer can even think of replying, you're already in the corridor, catching up with Luke to warn the rest of the police station about what's coming.

To say the next few hours are tense would be an understatement. You don't even bother to look at Spencer, while he looks like a kicked puppy. Of course, the team notices. Emily, at least, has had the decency not to put you two together on tasks.

You don't know if that makes things better or worse. Not talking to him has only made your insecurities fester. You don't understand if there's any logical explanation for what happened outside the coffee shop. Surely there is, but just because it makes sense doesn't mean it's good for your relationship. Maybe the idea that Spencer is over Maeve isn't true; maybe he's never stopped loving her, and that makes you feel like a replacement. And a bad one, at that. 

How could you compete with someone as brilliant as her? With her beauty and the confidence of a woman who knows what she wants and who was such an important part of Spencer's life. No, you don't measure up to that.

---------

The case hasn't given you a moment's rest. So much so that you've barely had time to go to the bathroom. Just as you manage to slip away for that, you see JJ waiting for you on the way out. Her face is the one you know so well: maternal, worried, and conciliatory.

You frown. “What? Did something happen with the case?”

She shakes her head. "Not yet, but I wanted to ask you something."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, knowing exactly where the question is headed.

"JJ, I don't think this is the time or the place," you say, gesturing to the bathroom door. JJ nods.

"That's why I wanted to suggest we go outside for a bit. And I agree that maybe talking about this isn't exactly workplace stuff, but I think it would do you good, at least, to vent a little."

Perhaps it's not a bad idea after all because you've felt choked up for all these hours. So you accept JJ's offer. You both walk toward an indoor parking lot at the precinct, where there are a few cars and very few people. It seems to be the most private place available for now.

"What happened between you and Spencer?" JJ asks immediately. Okay, straight to the point, you think. Scratching the base of your neck, you make a face.

"We went to the coffee shop around the corner, and when we came out, a woman called Spencer’s name. And guess who it was? Maeve Donovan."

JJ listens intently, though she already thinks she understands the gravity of the situation.

You let out a humorless laugh. "It was like I didn't exist. They were talking like it was the nicest thing in the world, like she'd never hurt him. He knew—and said—exactly how long it had been since they'd last seen each other! And she was blatantly flirting with him. It wasn't until I opened my mouth to say I was going back to the station that he realized I was there."

"And has he tried to talk to you about this?" JJ asks.

"Yes, when we were about to present the profile, but I can't listen to him, JJ; I'm terrified of what he's going to say," you confess, voice small and frighten.

"Why? I bet he wants to explain why he was such an idiot and apologize."

"And is it worth it? What I saw there has made me think that Spencer hasn't gotten over Maeve, and maybe he never will. That means I'm not good enough for him, and I don't want to compete for the heart of someone who will never be completely mine."

JJ shakes her head. “Don’t say that. Spencer loves you. We can all see it. I've never seen him happier in his life, not even when he was with Maeve. And yes, I understand that what he did was stupid, whatever his reason may be, but just as you need to hear his explanation, he also needs to hear how much this is affecting you. Spencer Reid may be a certified genius, but let's face it, he's a man, and he's no better than the rest of his gender exponents at reading the room.”

You let out a deep sigh. “It's hard when I can't get that image of the two of them grinning like idiots on the sidewalk out of my head. And I also don't want to make a big deal out of it when we have a serial killer to catch. It's not the professionalism we promised Emily.”

“I understand,” JJ agrees. “But if not now, you have to talk about it later. Don't let your thoughts consume you without telling him directly. He needs to know and do something about it.”

From your conversation with JJ, you can take a few things: first, it helped you vent, and second, even though JJ has been friends with Spencer since before you met him, she was honest and didn't invalidate your feelings.

When you both return to the main area of ​​the station, you can see there's a lot of activity. Police officers are moving around, while Emily calls the team to give instructions.

"Okay, we have an identity and a location. Get ready for the take-down. Rossi, you’re with Tara, Matt, and Reid. The rest are with me. Come on, let’s go.”

Everyone rushes to put on their bulletproof vests and check that their weapons are ready in case they need to be used. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Spencer doing the same, but he doesn't take his eyes off you. And although nothing between you has been discussed, much less resolved, knowing that a risky situation is devolving and that something bad could happen to one of you makes you see things from a different perspective.

Trying to keep your anger in check, you approach Spencer, who looks at you in surprise.

Cautiously but steady, your hands take one of the straps of his Kevlar, pull it taut, and secure it to his side. Spencer looks at you with rapt attention as you murmur, "Please, don't do anything stupid. I need you back, in one piece."

Spencer swallows hard and, with the same thoroughness, repeats your action, securing your Kevlar to your body. "I won't. Please, stay safe too. I promise I'll fix this."

You nod, taking in his words, before turning around and leaving with the group you were assigned to.

---------

Fortunately, the unsub’s arrest, Edgar Toller, was swift and without casualties. His latest victim was rescued with only minor injuries, which paramedics immediately treated.

Lieutenant Ryan was satisfied, and despite all the unpleasant things he'd said to Emily in past days, he thanked her profusely for the team’s help. Prentiss, ever the politically correct person, thanked the NYPD for their assistance, and Ryan left happy.

Since it was past midnight when everything was resolved, Emily decided it wasn't worth returning to Quantico and that it was better to go to the hotel and rest. You would leave New York the following morning.

Exhausted, no one wanted to argue, so you got into the SUVs and returned to the hotel.

You were the last to get out of the car, and before entering the lobby, you realize that Spencer is at the entrance, hands in his pockets, with a sheepish expression on his face, waiting for you.

When you frown at him, he hastens to speak. “I know you are tired, and maybe you only want to go upstairs to sleep, but I would really like to talk to you. But if you don’t want to, I understand. I’ll wait all the time you need.”

Spencer's voice is quiet but steady. He maintains eye contact throughout, trying to gauge your discomfort. It's clear he doesn't want to cross any boundaries you're not willing to go beyond today.

You could just skip it again and leave this conversation for when you get back to DC, because it's absolutely true that you're exhausted, but mostly scared about how it's going to turn out.

But prolonging the agony seems unnecessary, and it's not your style either. If the band-aid has to be ripped off, then it's better sooner rather than later.

You bite your lower lip in contemplation. Then decide to stop running from this. “Walk with me?” You ask. And Spencer nods immediately. He doesn't question why you don't go up to one of your rooms instead of staying out in the New York cold in the middle of the night.

This will be on your terms.

You walk for a couple of blocks in silence until you reach the entrance to a small park, where a mobile coffee stand with a couple of tables and chairs is set up. You order two hot chocolates and, once you have them in hand, you sit down at one of the tables, putting one cup in front of you and the other on the opposite side. Spencer takes his and sits in the chair in front of you.

“Okay, I’m ready to hear you,” you prompt, sipping your chocolate. Spencer nods, hands warming around the cup.

“I'd like to start by saying I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for how I behaved; I never meant to hurt you, and even though it might sound hollow now, if I could go back in time and do things differently, I would do it without a second thought.”

You can see the regret in his eyes, as if remembering what happened physically hurts him. And perhaps that's true, but it's not enough to understand, and not enough to know how to go from here.

“But why, Spencer? What was in your head at that moment?”

Spencer shrugs. “At first, I don’t know. It was kind of surreal. I never thought I would be facing Maeve after all these years.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you lean back in the chair. “Never? I mean, never crossed your mind knowing you used to live in the same city?”

You have a point, Spencer thinks. But for him, it wasn’t a concern until today. “I know, the possibility was always there, but I always assumed that if it happened, we'd both ignore each other, play dumb, avoid the awkwardness. At least that's what I thought. But hearing her call my name, actively seeking my attention? That threw me off.”

“I can understand that, but why were you so thorough with her? After all she did? Spencer, you said the amount of time since you last saw her. It's like you were keeping count of your miserable life without her!”

Spencer sighs in defeat. He knows that specific slip hit you hard, and he can’t even phantom the extent of how deep it got you.

“I have an eidetic memory. I can’t help having a count of things. I know saying it aloud is a lot different, and this time came out wrong. I’m sorry, it wasn’t what I wanted. I was nervous, and nervous me uses my brain cabinets to fill the gaps.”

“Well, if you were nervous and didn't know what to do, why didn't you lean on me? I was right there, Spencer. Ready to jump at her throat if you wanted me to. I would have stood for you.”

Spencer nods in understanding. “I know you would have. And I will never forgive myself for not acknowledging you by my side at that moment. In my brain, I only wanted it to be over, and not give more importance to the encounter.”

You want to believe it's true, but if that were the case, why didn't he just turn around and leave? Why keep talking to her?

“Dismissing what you have accomplished, and letting her think you haven’t changed at all? I bet she thought you were still wretched without her. And honestly, I thought it too.”

Spencer's eyes widen in shock. This is not at all what he was trying to project. In an attempt to downplay the situation, he just wanted to be vague in his explanations, or at least that's what he tried to do, but it clearly wasn't understood that way. You didn't understand it that way either.

“What? No! That’s not true. I’m far from miserable without her. Come on, I have you, I’m happy with you. That’s enough to feel like I won the lottery.” Spencer's eyes soften, but he never breaks eye contact with you. If there's one thing he can't afford right now, it's for there to be any doubt that what he's saying is the whole truth, and for you not to see it.

You scoff. “Is it? I don’t know. I mean, she’s Maeve Donovan, a beautiful woman, prolific scientist, destined for a Nobel Prize. We can agree on the lottery being more close to her than me.”

You don't like that your words sound like you're pitying yourself for not being like Maeve, but it's clear that you're both different, and if Spencer had the choice, it seems more obvious to you that he'd choose her over you. And it bothers you to think that this situation is undermining your self-confidence.

Spencer leans forward to find your gaze, which instinctively shifts to the chocolate cup. “No, the way I see it is not like that. Why do you think I would ever consider that Maeve can be in my life again?”

Biting your lower lip, you huff. “You haven’t thought about the possibility? Not just once? Don’t lie to me, Spencer.”

The response comes as fast as the question is out. “Never since I met you. Not once since then. And - yeah, after today, you may not believe me. I know I froze and didn’t do what I should. There were options, and I took the worst. I’m sorry.”

You let out a deep sigh as you contemplate your next words. “I can understand that she was an important person in your life, Spencer. I'm not naive. I know the story; you told it to me yourself. And I know that kind of love doesn't just disappear. It leaves scars, and I know you have yours. And even though she made your life a living hell at the end of your relationship, you always loved her, despite that. And it's normal that you feel a second chance is possible. I don't—”

“No. Don’t. Stop right there,” Spencer cuts you off, bringing his chair closer to your side. One of his arms goes to rest on the back of your chair, and the other reaches out to place his hand on one of yours that is on the table. “Hey, look at me, please.”

You do as he says, and his gaze almost takes your breath away. It's intense, direct, pleading.

“I don't want a second chance with Maeve. I don't want anything to do with her, really. I don't need a successful scientist who broke my heart once. Not for affection, not for intellectual stimulation, not to relive past loves, not for anything. And you know why?”

You timidly shake your head. A fog drifts over your senses, and the only thing you can focus on is those hazel eyes that gaze intently at you.

“Because you're the one I want. You're the one who keeps me awake when I'm not by your side and brings me back to sleep when you're with me in my bed. You're the one who has made my heart beat with happiness again. You're the reason things make sense in this world full of senselessness. It's your love, your concern; it's the way you show that you care. It's the way you laugh when I tell a joke and the way you let me hold you when you're sad. It's the way you kiss me, taking my breath away every time.”

“Spencer—” you want to interrupt him. Not sure why, but the words are getting to you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

“Please, let me say it,” Spencer breaths. And despite the cold, your body feels warm after every word that comes out of Spencer's mouth.

“Despite the emotional barrier I tried to maintain with you when you joined the team, you managed to break it down. Not suddenly, nor with fanfare, but with time, patience, support, and love. And that love? It's something I cherish with all my heart, and I've tried to show you how much I love you, even if words fail me, even if my social awkwardness gets in the way. And I'm sorry if I've failed. I failed today, I know. But never because I don't love you. Because I doubt that will ever happen, even if I tried. I'm not asking you to forgive me right now, or tomorrow, or the day after. But I swear I'll wait patiently until you're ready. And if you're not, that won't stop me from loving you.”

You don't know when the tears started rolling down your cheek, but by the time Spencer finishes speaking, your vision blurs.

You stay quiet for a moment, fingers wrapped tight around the cup.

"Spencer." Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "I need you to understand something. This was never just about Maeve."

He holds your gaze, listening.

"I know you didn't mean to hurt me. And I believe you when you say you don't want her back. But what broke me out there wasn't jealousy — it was that you looked right through me. I was standing beside you, and I didn't exist. And that's the part that's going to take me longer to shake off. To come back at feeling me like your person, the one you can lean on when you need it.”

Spencer exhales slowly, something in his expression shifting — not defensiveness, but recognition. The real kind. It’s about your feelings, about something he knows he can’t fix in one night.

"You're right," he says. Just that. No qualifier, no explanation. Just the weight of it.

You nod. You pick up your cup, and so does he, and for a while you just sit with that truth between you, letting the hot chocolate cool a little in your hands, recognizing that talking things through is an important starting point, but not the whole road.

When you finally stand to leave, Spencer reaches over and turns up the collar of your coat before you can do it yourself — a small, quiet thing, almost automatic. Like he's been doing it for years. Like he wants to do it for all the years to come.

You don't comment on it. You just start walking back to the hotel.

Spencer falls into step beside you, and somewhere in the second block, your hands find each other in the cold. You instinctively squeeze his, and he does the same with yours, acknowledging a silent agreement. A promise.

You don't say anything else. Neither does he.