robbie

On the coffee table sat a discarded notebook filled with Spencer’s neat, meticulous handwriting. You didn't need to read the pages to know what was on them, statistics on developmental psychology, age stratified parental success rates, lists of neighborhood school districts. He was dreaming out loud again.

"Spencer," you said softly, your voice cutting through the hum of the refrigerator.

He looked up from his mug, his warm brown eyes instantly softening as they landed on you. "Yeah? Are you coming to bed soon? I was just reading a fascinating study on bilingual acquisition in early childhood-"

"We need to talk about it. Really talk about it."

The soft, enthusiastic light in his eyes dimmed just a fraction, replaced by the familiar guard he put up when he sensed an impending storm. He set the mug down slowly. "About children."

"About the fact that you want them," you said, sitting down across from him, keeping your hands tucked tightly in your lap so he wouldn't see them trembling. "And I don't. Spencer, I really don't."

He opened his mouth, his brilliant, analytical brain immediately shifting into problem-solving mode. "People's perspectives evolve over time, statistically speaking-"

"I’m not a statistic, Spence. And I’m not going to change my mind," you interrupted, the guilt in your chest tightening like a vice. "You’ve wanted a family for as long as I’ve known you. You want to teach a kid how to read, take them to museums, give them everything you felt like you missed out on. And every time you look at a baby or talk about the future, I feel like I'm holding you hostage."

"You're not holding me hostage," he said quickly, leaning forward, his fingers reaching out to find yours.

You pulled back slightly, and the rejection flickered across his face like a physical blow.

"I am," you whispered, tears finally stinging your eyes. "I love you so much it physically aches. But staying with me means sacrificing a huge part of the life you pictured for yourself. You deserve someone who shares that dream with you, Spence. You deserve to be a dad. Knowing I can't give you that... keeping you here feels selfish. It feels like I'm stealing your future."

Silence stretched between you, long and excruciating. Spencer pulled his hands back, lacing his long fingers together as he stared down at the table. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head, processing the logic, weighing the emotional variables, running through every possible scenario.

When he finally looked up, there were no tears, no grand outburst, just a deep, unwavering clarity in his expression.

"Do you know what the probability is of finding someone who truly understands you?" he asked quietly, his voice steady. "The statistical odds of finding a partner who tolerates my rambling, who knows exactly how I take my coffee, who stays up with me after horrific cases, and who makes me feel anchored in a world that constantly feels overwhelming?"

You swallowed hard, unable to answer.

"It's functionally impossible." He answered for you.

He stood up, crossed the small gap between you, and knelt beside your chair. This time, he didn't ask permission, he took both of your hands in his, holding them firmly against his chest.

"I spent a long time imagining what my future might look like, yes," Spencer said, searching your eyes. "And for a while, that included children. But when I pictured that, I was imagining a hypothetical concept. I was dreaming about an idea." He squeezed your hands, his thumb gently tracing your knuckles. "You aren't a concept. You're real. You're my home. I don't love the idea of a hypothetical family more than I love the concrete reality of you. If I left you to chase a life with someone else just to fulfill a mental checklist, I would be miserable. A future with kids but without you isn't an upgrade, it's a downgrade."

"Spencer, I don't want you to resent me in ten years," you choked out, a tear finally slipping down your cheek. "I couldn't bear that."

"I won't," he promised, reaching up with one hand to brush the tear away with his thumb. 

"Resentment comes from sacrifice forced upon you. This isn't a sacrifice, it's a choice. I am actively choosing a life with you. Just us. Our books, our late nights, our quiet mornings. That is more than enough for me. You are more than enough."

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of cedar and old paper that always meant safety. The crushing guilt that had been building in your chest for months finally began to break apart.

"Are you sure?" you whispered against his skin.

Spencer let out a small, breathless laugh, his lips brushing against yours. "I'm a genius, remember? I'm almost never wrong about these things.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get you someday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

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

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

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

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

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

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

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

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

He simply has always gotten it right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

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

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

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

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

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

Immediately, his body stiffened.

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

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

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

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

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

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

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

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

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

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

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

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

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

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

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

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

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

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was kind of embarrassing. 

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

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

Oh.

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

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

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

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

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re tired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted you to mean it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

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

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

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

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

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

Well, for no reason but you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

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

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

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

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

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

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

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

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

“I’m counting on that.”

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

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

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

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

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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As you looked up in the mirror, suds and water ran down your face. Your mascara was smudged under your eyes, but it only took a damp cotton pad to wipe it away. The day had been long, and you were ready to shower, eat, then go to bed with your boyfriend.

Speaking of dinner and your boyfriend, you needed to talk about what you would have and who was cooking it. “Jake,” you called, hoping he could hear you from the living room or wherever he wandered off after you meandered to the bathroom on tired legs. You chuckled as you turned the faucet off and tossed the cotton pads into the trash, hearing Jake run down the hall.

“Yeees?” He cooed as he caught himself in the doorway, not missing the chance to run his eyes up and down your backside before you turned around. He leaned against the doorway as you faced him, crossing his arms over his chest and resting on his shoulder.

You smiled widely at him, shamelessly dragging your eyes over his distressed form. His fluffy hair, flush chest adorned with deeper red scratch marks trailing down the middle. You lingered on his abs, your stomach fluttering at how they still glistened with sweat and arousal from when you used them to get off after walking through the door before.

Jake had caught you staring, not that you bothered to hide it, and smirked as he walked over to you. “You like what you see?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, biting your lip as you turned to the sink to wipe it down. “Always do.”

He chuckled and stood behind you, gripping your hips and dipping his pinkies under the waistband of his shorts you snatched from the pile of clothes he had been folding. “You must really like me today. Barely said hello before ordering me around as you shed your shirt and took your pants off.”

You stood up straight with a teasing smile, pressing back against him as his hips pressed forward. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it. You were so complacent, laying on the floor like a good boy while I worked off my frustration with those Greek god abs of yours.”

His growl rumbled against your back, the grips on your hips tightening as he lowered his head into your neck. “Oh,” he rumbled, the sound vibrating down your spine and nearly making you whimper in response. “I enjoyed it. Being a plaything for my girl is one of my favorite things. Though, I was ready for her to ride me ‘til I saw stars.”

Your knees nearly went weak at his accent thickening. He knew what he was doing; you did, too. And you weren’t going to stop him.

Jake’s lips trailed up your neck, nipping at your jaw and ear before inhaling deeply, groaning softly at the scent of your perfume on your pulse point. “You up for round two? We can save water, shower together.”

You giggled, your head falling back onto his shoulder, nipping at his earlobe. All thoughts of supper had been tossed the moment he’d touched you, so what was the harm? “Turn on the water,” you whispered, loving the shiver you pulled from the pilot.

He grinned against your skin, stepping back to turn the water on before returning to you. His hands took their rightful place on your hips as you made eye contact with him in the mirror. “Do I get to top this time? Or are you still in charge?”

One of his hands moved, pulling your gaze to it immediately. You swallowed, nodding, keeping your eyes on it as you tried to find the words. It drifted down, making you suck in a breath-

“Words, baby, I need words.”

“You, you’re in charge, Cowboy. Take me,” you managed in an exhale as his hand disappeared under the waistband.

“Fuck,” he huffed out, his breath fanning across your collarbone as his fingers found your soaked underwear. Your face and chest flushed red, slightly embarrassed but extremely turned on.

His other arm wrapped around your front, holding you upright as he gently bit the shell of your ear. He gently rubbed your clit through your panties, his feather-light touch making you squirm and whimper breathlessly.

“Oh Darlin’, these can’t be comfortable,” his voice dropped, raspy and deep in your ear.

You shook your head, nearly panting. “They aren’t.” They really hadn’t been, but you hadn’t paid them much attention until now.

Jake kissed your jaw as he removed his hand, smiling as you leaned forward to grab the counter. He slipped his thumbs into the waistband of both the shorts and your panties, kissing your shoulder before pushing them down your legs.

He helped you step out of them, tossing them blindly toward the laundry basket before biting the flesh of your ass and soothing the sting with a kiss. His lips and tongue marked a trail up your back, stopping to playfully pull at your bra with his teeth.

His hands followed him up, his blunt nails gently scraping up your legs and large palms groping at your thighs and hips.

They ghosted over your waist before undoing your bra clasp in a quick twist and tossing it in the same direction as the other clothing items, and thankfully, you had chosen to go with a strapless bra today. Lips met your neck, kissing and sucking, marking your now sweat-damp skin in purple splotches as you gasped at the feeling of your nipples being exposed to the chilly air of the bathroom.

He gently pulled your headband off, tossing it on the counter as you turned to face him. Before the soft smile can bless your eyes, you grabbed his face and kissed him, desperate to have his lips on yours.

A chuckle rumbled against your mouth as his hand buried itself in your hair, the other pulling the ponytail out and sliding it onto his wrist. He gently massaged away the tension in your scalp as his hips pressed against you, pushing your ass against the counter top.

You let a hand trail down, slow enough to allow him to stop you, but he just smirked and deepened the kiss. Jake’s tongue dragged along yours, moaning as you palmed him through his boxers. You whimpered a little as his pleasure rumbled in your throat before you pulled away.

He looked at you through hooded green eyes as your breath brushed his lips as you panted. “You’re overdressed.” You weren’t whining, but your neediness was evident in your voice.

“You’re so right,” he said, tone bordering condescension but playful as his eyes never left your pouting face.

You bit your lip, tracing the elastic before snapping it against his Adonis belt. “Would you like some help with that?”

“I would love some help. Thank you, Darlin,” he said, dropping his voice to let his accent rumble out of his throat. He couldn’t stop the smirk as your mouth fell open and your brow furrowed as you moaned softly.

God, how you adored his accent.

You lowered yourself to the bathmat, sighing softly as your knees sunk into the padding. Staying high on your knees, you pressed long kisses to his hip bones, peppering little ones to map the space between them. You looked up at him beneath your lashes, pulling a winded growl from his throat.

Excitement fluttered in your stomach, pressing your legs together as he gripped your chin, holding it firmly between his knuckle and thumb. “Don’t keep me waitin’, Sugar.”

Jake smirked as you nodded, immediately tilting your head down to kiss the pad of his thumb and pulling his boxers down to his ankles.

He loved this perspective: you on your knees, looking up at him with a doe-eyed expression as your mouth nearly waters at the sight of his cock. Not to say he didn’t love the others. He loved you at all angles. But other than looking up from between your legs to see you grip the headboard as you pulled his hair, this was his favorite.

Your hands blindly traveled up his legs, squeezing his thighs in comfort before resting on his hips. He had to swallow the groan as you looked up at him, desperation and hunger in your eyes. But you were waiting patiently, your thumbs rubbing back and forth on his hips as you waited for his consent.

It never mattered how deep into a moment you both were; consent was a priority. You and Jake had discussed it in depth when you began to get serious. This was very important to you both.

Jake’s cock was half-hard, but he was aching and needed your attention. He threaded his fingers into your hair, his thumb rubbing the crown of your head as he smiled down at you. “Take what you want, sweet girl.”

Immediately, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, gently squeezing as your other hand moved between your legs. “Jake,” you keened. He gently tugged your hair, pulling a soft yelp from your lips.

“What do you wanna do, Sweetheart?”

He knew what you wanted. He just wanted to hear you say it.

You whimpered, and he watched your throat move as you swallowed. “May I touch myself?”

A pleased groan fell from his lips as he leaned over to grip the counter. “You may. But you’re not allowed to cum.”

Your eager nod would have made him laugh if you hadn’t flattened your tongue on the underside of his dick, drawing a husky sigh from him instead.

The sound went right to your core, pulling the knot in your stomach tighter. You always loved how vocal Jake was. Top or bottom, he always lets his pretty sounds reach your ears. Whether they’re whiny pleas or raspy praises, occasional degrading if you asked, he made sure you heard them.

Gently kissing the tip of his cock, you hummed at the taste of him. “Yes, sir.” The title drew another groan from the pilot as he twitched in your hand, and his abs tensed in restraint. You giggled, biting your lip as you ran your middle and ring finger through your folds, gathering just enough of your arousal to coat your hand.

Bringing your hand back up, you wrapped your kiss-bitten lips around his tip as you wrapped your slick-covered fingers around his shaft. You watched his jaw clench through slightly hazy eyes as he realized what you had done.

“Oh, fuck, Honey. That’s fucking hot,” he swore, feeling the silky stickiness of your desire coat his dick as you pumped your fist. Your eyes fluttered closed at his praise, and your tongue swirled around his tip.

A gentle tug on your hair made you open your eyes again, looking up at him as you took more of him into your mouth. You moaned around his cock as you tasted yourself mixed with the precum lingering on your tongue.

Jake’s grip on your hair tightened as he clenched his jaw. He relinquished his grip on the counter to brush your cheek, “Good girl.” The hand gripping your hair served more as an anchor rather than a guide, keeping your head angled up so Jake could watch your face as you sucked his cock.

“You -fuck- you treat me so well, Darlin’.” He continued to praise through gritted teeth as he held back the urge to fuck your face. A drawn-out swear left Jake’s throat with a low groan as his head dropped back, his eyes squeezing shut to control himself.

Humming around him, you seized the opportunity to take his length fully. You relaxed your throat as your nose pressed against his pubic bone.

Jake’s knees nearly buckled when you swallowed around him, his hips bucking forward for a split second. “Shit, Baby, give a guy a warning,” he huffed, raking his unkempt hair out of his face as his flushed chest moved with his panting breaths.

You sat back, taking him out of your mouth to catch your breath. You grinned up at him, a small giggle escaping at the sight in front of you. You loved how you could render him a mess even when he was in charge.

Before you could speak or enjoy the weight of him on your tongue again, he pulled you to your feet. He pressed you against the counter, the hand not in your hair roaming your body.

“Let’s get in the shower, Sweetheart. You’ve had a long day, and it’s ready,” he whispered against your lips as he let go of your hair. You hadn’t noticed until now that the heat on your skin wasn’t just from you being hot and bothered by the man in front of you but also the steam rolling out of the shower.

You nodded and moved past him to get in the shower, earning a playful smack to your ass as he followed you – sliding the door closed behind him.

Wincing at the temperature, you quickly adjusted it before facing your boyfriend. As you did, you caught him sitting on the built-in seat. You arched a brow, chuckling as you let the water run over your shoulders. He patted his thigh, grinning up at you.

“C’mon, take a seat, Darlin’.”

You brought a hand up to your mouth, unsuccessfully stifling your laugh. But it didn’t matter, as he was laughing with you – his smile making his eyes crinkle in triumph.

Something about intimacy with Jake was just so… different. Like right now, you were laughing. But the tension, the desire, never faded. If anything, it was amplified – because you were so comfortable with him. Sex wasn’t always so serious with Jake, unlike other partners. You could laugh and moan in the same breath, not worried about running the moment. Sometimes, his goal was to make you laugh, to have you burying your face in his neck as you giggled.

Stepping forward, you let your hand trail over his shoulders, giggling as he flexes a little under your touch. Your smile never fades as you tilt his chin to look at you. “You’re so silly, Lieutenant.”

He let his large hands come up to encase your waist in a soft grip, his eyes twinkling at the compliment.

Your other hand braced itself on the unoccupied shoulder, keeping you steady as he guided you into his lap. Thankfully, you lucked out with a shower just wide enough that your knees slotted into the space on either side of his thighs. Though, your feet and ankles had to rest just behind your butt above his knees.

“This doesn’t hurt, does it?” He asked softly, adjusting his position out of habit. His pupils were blown out, and the sliver of his pasture-green eyes no doubt mirrored his patience to be inside you. But your comfort always came first.

You shook your head, “A little uncomfortable, but I don’t think we’ll be sitting like this for too terribly long.” Your hands moved to the sides of his neck, thumbs grazing the stubble growing in on his jaw and gently scratching the back of his neck.

“That’s the hope, Sweetheart,” he confirmed, his breath dancing on your neck and jaw at this angle. The rasp in his voice went straight to your pussy, and you clenched around nothing before pressing your lips to his.

He moaned against your lips as he positioned you over his cock, hesitating in order to check for consent to continue. You only deepened the kiss, lowering your hips on your own to get your answer across.

He hummed and took the reins, gripping your waist as he lowered you onto his cock.

You pulled back from the kiss. Soft whimpers and tiny pants left your lips as he stretched you. A shuttered moan left your throat as the back of your thighs met the tops of his. “Oh my… fuck, Jake.”

A gentle smile spread across his lips as they kissed down your neck, and he felt your voice vibrate against them.

He took his time, placing languid kisses on your neck and shoulders. His lips detoured across your chest, nipping at the skin and chasing water droplets with his tongue. Warm hands caressed the curves of your body his lips couldn’t reach. He knew the map of your figure like he knew the blueprint of his jet, expertly pressing buttons and flipping switches to make you purr for him.

His lips trailed up, nipping at your jaw before kissing the corner of your lips and chuckling playfully as you chased him for a proper one.

“Now, now,” he hummed, his palms trailing up to rest flat on your shoulder blades. “We’re gonna stay right here, like this, until we get your hair washed. Think you can handle it?”

You pressed your forehead to his, your nails gently running through the short hair at the back of his head. A whimper tumbled from your lips as you nodded against him, a hum of agreement.

He smiled and pecked your lips before helping you lean back. His hands splayed out on your back for support. You tipped your head back just a bit farther, letting the warm water soak your hair and trickle down your face.

The slight change in angle made your stomach lurch, and a soft squeak left your lips. The sound elicited a smirk from the man holding you before his hips shifted.

“O-oh shit,” you moaned softly, followed by a whine as you squeezed his shoulders. “You ass.”

He chuckled, helping you sit up straighter. “I was just shifting to get comfy,” he said, the smirk still on his lips as he slotted them over yours.

You rolled your eyes, pulling back from the kiss. “Yeah, sure. We’ll go with that.” He chuckled and squeezed your hips, leaving a fleeting kiss on your lips as you sat up on your knees to grab your shampoo.

Jake hissed a little as he gripped your hips to steady you. “Shit, baby.”

You sank back down, biting your lip to hold back the moan as you giggled at him. “I was just getting my shampoo.”

He gave you a look, pinching your thigh as he took the bottle from you. “Little minx.”

Giggling, you held your palms out for him to give you a dollop of shampoo. But he just shook his head, pushing your hands down as he opened the bottle.

“Nope, I’m washing your hair. You just gotta sit there and look pretty.”

You smiled and gently ran your nails up his torso, brushing his nipples lightly before resting your forearms on his shoulders. “I think I can manage that.” He grinned at you, pecking your lips before squirting shampoo into his palm.

It was a little awkward if you had to be honest. Warming his cock while he did his best to work the shampoo into your roots. But it felt nice. His strong fingers massaging your scalp, being nestled against him in the warmth of the shower.

You let your eyes flutter closed, a soft moan escaping your lips, lost in the bliss of the moment.

A gentle press on the back of your head guided you forward, suds slipping over your shoulder before lips caressed yours. You smiled into the kiss, your nails dancing up his back and into his hair.

Jake’s other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you to him as his tongue swiped across your lips. The action pulled a desperate whimper from you as your hips rolled forward against his. A groan rumbled against your lips as he fought to keep himself still underneath you.

He pulled back, pressing his forehead against yours as he panted. “As much as I love this-” He swallowed, his eyes fluttering open to look at you. “-we need to move a little faster. Please.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his before pulling back. “Yes, sir,” you purred, letting the title roll off your tongue to remind him that he was in charge.

The hand in your hair moved down and across your back, wrapping around your ribs to keep you steady as you leaned back. As you rinsed your hair, massaging it in a bit more than he had, he placed long, exploring kisses to your sternum. His hips shifted, body leaning forward to allow you to comfortably lean back without the fear of falling. Not that you ever were afraid; Jake had you. He always had you.

Your stomach fluttered, a warmth spreading from your gut to the rest of your body as Jake indulged himself. Kissing all over your sternum, mapping out the new planes of your torso that he hadn’t had access to earlier, his lips dipped into the valley between your breasts before going over the peaks.

A soft moan slipped from your lips as you let a hand card through his short hair, the other gently ridding your hair of excess water. He kissed a trail up your chest to your neck, his nose bumping your jaw.

“I know the next step is conditioner, but Sweets, I can’t wait anymore.”

You leaned down, a dangerously sweet smile on your face as your lips hovered over his. “Then don’t.”

A low groan vibrated against your lips before he devoured you in a kiss, nipping and licking into your mouth. You welcomed him eagerly, your own impatience mounting with every swipe of his tongue before he pulled back with your bottom lip between his teeth.

Jake’s heavy breaths fanned across your cheek as he brushed your nose with his. “I’m gonna stand. Do you need to get up?”

You swallowed, shaking your head. “I think I’m alright.” He nodded and pressed a kiss to your nose before adjusting his grip. You wrapped your arms around his neck, securing you to his front, as both of his hands moved down – one supporting your ass and the other gripping your thigh.

You leaned forward a little, lifting your hips enough to give him room. A shaky sigh left your lips, a whimper following it as your walls fluttered around him with the motion. Your face buried itself in his shoulder, bracing yourself as he stood up. You knew the transition wasn’t going to be completely comfortable.

Grunting a little, Jake stood up carefully, kissing the juncture of your shoulder and neck as you bit down on his shoulder. A soft cry hit his ear, and he squeezed the flesh of your thigh in response. “I know, I’m here. I got ya, Darlin,” he soothed as your legs wrapped around him, ankles hooking at his lower back.

He pressed you against the wall, using it to support you as he turned the water off. He looked back at you, chuckling at your quizzical look as he adjusted you.

“What? California’s in a drought.”

You snorted, leaning forward on his shoulder as you both laughed. Your smile widened at the sound of his laugh, looking up at his side profile to catch the way his eyes crinkled in the corners as he did.

You giggled, pressing tender kisses along the taught muscles of his shoulders. His laugh rumbled against your lips as you trailed up his neck to his jaw, nipping at it before leaning back to look at him.

Your index finger traced the hinge of his jaw, crooking to drag your knuckle across his chin as you admired him.

The gentle touch drew his gaze back to you. His eyes opened, smile softening as he looked at you. He hummed thoughtfully, sighing deeply before he surged forward, claiming your lips with his.

It was passionate and hungry. A gentle dominance only Jake seemed to find the balance in. He could pick you apart with fleeting touches only to devour you like a man starved.

You could feel his nose scrunch, his teeth baring into the kiss as he gripped your thigh. His other hand slid up the wall, forearm pressing against it as his hip rolled up – pushing himself deeper into you.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, pulling back from the kiss.

Jake groaned deeply, his chin tucking into his chest before falling back. “Shit, Sweetheart, you feel so fucking good.” Despite the desperate rasp of his words, he made no effort to continue thrusting yet.

A small whine left your lips and your hips rolled down instinctively, wanting more. You leaned forward, cradling the back of his head to bring him to you and press your foreheads together. You both stayed like that, breath mingling between your bodies until one of you spoke.

“Jake, I need you to move.” Your voice was hushed but dripping with want. “Please.”

A grin split his features, and he let out a gravelly chuckle, “As you wish.”

He looked down, gaze moving to where you were connected as he drew his hips back. With your legs wrapped tightly around him, his range of movement was limited but he would make it work. He always did.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice husky and low.

You followed his eyes, watching, and feeling, the slow drag of his cock as he pulled out. "Oh god, Jake," you whimper. Your heels pressed into his back, your cunt fluttering around what was still inside you. You pant softly, trying to catch your breath. "Your cock is perfect."

His jaw clenched as he grunted at the praise, hips tensing with restraint. A gravely chuckle falling from his lips as the hand on the wall moved to rest on your ribs, thumb rubbing back and forth. "Honey, I'm trying to make gentle love to you, and you're makin' it difficult to do that."

A shiver ran up your spine at the deep drawl, accent think as his eyes met yours. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you slowly brought your hand down, dipping into the contours of the muscles of his shoulders. "Mmm, I'm sorry, Love. Do your thing."

He nodded, humming in approval as he leaned in, "Thank you, Darlin'." His lips connected with yours, hips following suit to meet yours as he gripped your thigh.

The surprised yelp you let out was muffled as he moaned against your mouth before your head fell back against the wall. Jake's eyes followed you, torn between watching your breasts bounce with his thrusts or your throat move with the moans he's drew from you.

"Keep makin' those sounds for me, pretty girl," he rasped out, adjusting the angle of his hips slightly, pulling a gasping moan from you. "Yeah, that's it. Tell me good you feel, Sweetheart."

Your nails dug into the muscles of his back as you arch yours. "Fuck! So good, s'good, baby," you managed, gripping him tightly.

Jake trailed his lips over your shoulders and neck, the kisses sloppy and wet as he kept his pace controlled. Your moans and whimpers vibrated against his lips before they reached his ears, his hips faltering in their rhythm ever so slightly as your sounds wear down his resolve. He paused on your pulse point, letting your heartbeat thrum against his lips.

The slow pace was torturous, dragging you to the edge and holding you there as you tried to run to the end. Your thighs were shaking, aching for a blissful finish. Whimpering, you pulled him even closer with your trembling legs. Your palm was flat against the back of his head, heels pressing into the small of his back as you began to roll your hips.

"O-oooh fuck, Jake!"

A broken, high pitched moan fell from your lips and he bit down hard on your shoulder, soothing it with his tongue and a soft chuckle. But despite your attempts for more friction, Jake kept his pace.

He smirked against your skin as his voice rumbles from his throat. "I know, Darlin'. I know."

His hands trailed across your skin, leaving a new fire in their wake. The hand on your thigh blindly groped and squeezed whatever it could reach, keeping that leg supported on his hip at the same time. However, the hand on your ribs had a plan. It moved up, cupping and kneading at the breast closest to it. He massaged you, his thumb brushing over your nipple occasionally before he ducked his head and wrapped his lips around it.

His name fell from your lips in short, airy pants as you tugged his hair and continued to grind down on him. Kisses marked his path across your chest, his hand not far behind, as he nipped and sucked at your other breast.

The hand detoured, moving up to rest against the front of your throat. Not squeezing, just resting. But you leaned into it, giving him the permission to tighten his grip a bit.

A groan met your ears as his hips snapped forward, pulling a gasp from you again.

Jake slowly moved his hand to cup your jaw, his thumb gently pressing against your parted lips but not invading your mouth. You swiped your tongue over the pad of his thumb, before letting it fall onto it. Your head bobbed lazily, hollowing your cheeks around the digit as you swirled your tongue around it.

His breath caught in his throat as he looked up at you. "Shit," he grunted, gripping your thigh harder. He nipped at the lobe of your ear as he pressed deeper and harder into you.

You mewled around his thumb, hips grinding harder and faster on him, attempting to work his cock faster than it was working you.

Hot breath fanned on your neck as he moaned with you. "I'm close, Sweetheart. M'real close." He pulled back to look at you again, his thumb pressing onto your tongue to open your mouth. You obeyed, playfully biting the tip.

He huffed, his brow pinching together as you giggled. He pulled you forward and removing his thumb from your mouth before replacing it with his tongue.

Being distracted by his mouth, you barely felt the feather light touch as Jake's hand moved down to where you were connected. His thumb found your clit with ease, pressing down on the bundle of nerves and rubbing tight circles.

Your mouth fell open, a strangled and surprised moan pushing from your throat as fire licks in your stomach. Your pants and curses brushed across Jake's lips as his jaw clench, teeth grinding together, as you clenched around him.

He finally began fucking up into you, picking up his paced as he neared his own climax. His thrusts punched moans out of you and you found coherent sentences difficult to form. The circles on your clit were pulling the knot in your stomach tight, pulling you to the finish line with your lover.

Jake pressed his forehead against yours, drinking in the sounds you were making. "M'right there, Sugar. I know you are, too. Cum with me, baby." His eyes met yours, watching you closely, "Let go, Sweetheart. I'll catch you. C'mon." He gently brushed your nose with his.

A whimper fell from your lips before your head thumped back against the tile, legs shaking and pulling him close. Your nails dragged across his back as you brought a hand to grip his shoulder. The hand in his hair scraped down the back of his neck, leaving angry red trails on his skin. He dipped forward, pressing kisses to your damp skin, feeling your chest and throat rumble with the long low moans that echoed off the walls.

His hips faltered, the rigorous new pace grinding to a halt as he came with you. He buried his face into your chest, unpinning his hand from between you to brace against the wall and hold you both up.

He gently rolled his hips again, working you through the aftershocks of your orgasm slowly before coming to a complete stop.

Your short breaths fanned across his forehead as your slightly shaky hands moved to cradle his jaw and tilt his head up to look at you. Jake's eyes met yours and all you could do was smile, words failing you in the moment — but you didn't need them anyway.

Both of you leaned in, resting your foreheads against each other as you both caught your breath, basking in the afterglow.

With a gentle peck to your nose, Jake carefully moved, pulling out of you but not pulling away. The hand on the wall slipped into the curve of your back, holding you against him to keep you warm. You smiled and buried your face in his neck, weakly trying to wrap your legs around him tighter.

He smiled, kissing the side of your head as he rubbed your side.

"You okay?"

His voice was soft and raspy as he gently broke the silence.

You hummed and nodded, still trembling slightly from the intensity and overstimulation from your second orgasm of this afternoon. You kissed his shoulder, fingers tracing over the read welts on his skin that you left behind. "I'm sorry about your back," you mumbled softly. "They'll sting when you sweat." You turned a bit, angling your head to look at his profile.

Jake chuckled, and you could see his eyes crinkle in the corner. "I'll survive, Honey. Plus, I like the reminder."

You rolled your eyes, swatting his shoulder as you leaned back to look him in the eyes. You bring your hands up to cradle his jaw, your fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. "You're something else, Jake Seresin. A babbling bottom one minute and a doting top the next." He smiles wide and you mirror it, your thumbs gently rubbing the hinge of his jaw. "You make my head spin."

He squeezes your thigh, brushing his nose against yours again. "I live to please."

"And you are living life to the fullest," you giggle before pressing a kiss to his chin and then his nose.

A gentle, tired hum left his lips before he kissed you, lowering you to the ground slowly before holding the nape of your neck and pulling you close with the arm still wrapped around you.

This time the kiss isn't rushed. It's not hot and heavy like before. It's languid, deep, almost tired, as the air around you began to rapidly cool.

He pulled away first, pecking your lips a few times before moving back a step. His chest moved slowly to keep from panting in your face.

"You're shivering, Darlin'. Let's get you warmed up," he said softly as he reached to turn the water back on.

You nodded, now realizing the goosebumps covering your thighs aren't just a reaction to the fleeting touches of your partner. You wrapped your arms around Jake, nestling close and not moving. He radiated warmth and his strong gentleness created a safe place, a peaceful place, that you needed. And it was a place you never wanted to leave.

He kissed your head and reached over, grabbing your conditioner. "It could be a minute. Should give you long enough to let it sit before rinsing." He felt your smile and nod, hearing the soft 'yeah' as you nuzzled his chest.

He smiled, getting the right amount of conditioner before working it carefully into your ends — staying away from your roots as best he could. He scrunched it a bit before carefully twisting it up into a lose bun to get it off your back and shoulders.

Your stomach flipped and your smile widened. You rambled about your hair routine one time on the phone with your best friend and he'd been in the room. That was back when you got together, it gave you butterflies to know he remember.

You cuddled closer, shivering a bit as the chill settled in.

"You okay?" Jake asked softly after a few minutes.

"Hmm, mhm," you nodded again, resting your chin on his chest as you looked up at him. "Just trying be close and leech all the warmth from you."

He hummed and kissed the top of your head, trying you wrap himself around more before reaching over to feel the water.

Feeling that it was warm enough now, he carefully walked you back to be under the water.

You hummed as the water hit your back, the muscles relaxing a bit.

Without saying anything, he carefully pulled your hair out of the bun, putting the hair tie on his wrist again. He gently ran his fingers through the strands, working it smooth as the warm water washed the product away.

It was very soothing. The calming silence almost lulled you to sleep as his motions massaged your head and his heartbeat sang in your ears.

You decided not to break it, melting into your boyfriend as he took care of you.

You could talk about dinner later.

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“Spooky,” you murmured, leaning back against a filing cabinet. “Either you’re about to murder me, or this is some weird new foreplay game.”

“What? N-no. Nothing like that.” He shook out his hands, wired tight in a way he usually isn’t with you anymore.

“I’m going to ask you something,” he said. “And I need you to know before I ask that you can say no.”

“…Okay.”

“And I mean it, because I know if you feel cornered or rushed you’ll just…” He trailed off. “You know.”

“Run?” you offered.

He flinched. “Yeah.”

“Why’s the word ‘run’ suddenly impossible for you to say?”

“Because I don’t like thinking about you running from me, much less saying it.”

Oh. That hits you square in the chest.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Just ask whatever you need to ask, and I promise I’ll hear you out.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he said, eyes wide and devoted. “I told myself I’d wait until you felt—” He searched for the right word. “Steady. With me. Which is why I thought, maybe, I could ask you now.”

He was right — you are steadier now. You don’t pretend not to want his hands on you. You don’t pretend you don’t sleep better with his heartbeat beneath your ear on his couch than you do alone in your bed. He knows that.

“Ask me what, Spencer?”

He swallowed hard. “I would like to…to take you out. For a date. Not a night hidden in my apartment or a walk we don’t label. I mean a real, proper date where we both wear something nice and I pick you up and we eat in an actual restaurant and it’s—” a nervous pull of his mouth, “—just us being on a date. Together. Because we want to be.”

You stared at him.

The first thing that hit was a familiar panic, because dates mean something official. Dates are tangible and meaningful and real. But the second hit, right behind the panic, was a deep, quiet ache. This is Spencer, who brings you coffee the way other people breathe. Spencer, who falls asleep sitting up because your head is on his shoulder and he’d rather get pins and needles than wake you. Spencer, who never assumes, never takes, always asks. Spencer, who looks completely wrecked right now because the idea of pushing you too fast physically hurts him.

You could have run. Or said “not yet,” and he would’ve nodded and smiled understandingly and you’d’ve gone home hating yourself for making him wait for something you already know you want.

“Okay,” you heard yourself say before you could even realize you were saying it.

He blinked. “Okay what?”

“Spencer,” you laughed. “Okay. As in, yes. You can take me on a date.”

There was a beat where he went sincerely, scientifically stunned into silence. “Saturday?” he managed eventually. “Can we do it this Saturday?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “It’s a date.”

Spencer’s face did something you weren’t prepared for. Relief, obviously, and joy, yeah, but also a grateful softness like you’d just granted his every wish.

You looked away because if you held that look any longer you would’ve done something reckless, like kissed him in an FBI supply closet.

“Saturday,” you said, reaching out to straighten his tie before heading to the door. “Don’t be late.”

—

You smooth your dress, check your lipstick once more, and grab your bag just as three careful knocks land on your door.

Spencer is five minutes early.

Of course he is. You knew he would be and factored it into your getting ready timeline.

You watch from the peephole as he shifts his weight in the hallway outside your apartment, fingers flexing like he’s working up the nerve to knock a second time.

You open the door before he has to.

“Hey,” you say, casual.

He looks at you and absolutely forgets how to be alive.

His whole system just… shorts. His eyes go wide, drag down, come back up slowly like he can’t decide where to land.

You’re wearing a dress, which is not unheard of for you, but isn’t your default outfit choice either. It hits high on your mid-thigh and clings like it was made for you, with a neckline that would definitely not pass Bureau dress code. Your usual leather jacket’s draped over it. Sheer black tights—not fishnets this time—with pointed-toe stiletto boots. Your lipstick is your classic vampy red and you did your eye makeup a tad more shimmery than usual.

“Hi,” Spencer manages to choke out.

You lean against the frame, pretending your pulse isn’t in your throat.

“You look—” He swallows. “Wow.”

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, so you smirk to cover it. “Gonna finish that thought?”

He blinks, gaze dropping again — slower this time, more shameless. “You look beautiful,” he says. “Really, really beautiful.”

Your stomach drops in a way that feels a little like vertigo. It’s not that you don’t know you’re hot, because you do. You’re well aware of the effect you have on people. But the way Spencer says it makes your heart twist.

“Yeah?” you say, trying for light. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” You’re underselling it, if you’re being honest. His suit is black, not brown or gray like usual, and the difference is obscene. His shirt is also dark, paired with a deep burgundy tie. His hair is actually tamed like he tried, but not enough to hide the curls completely. He smells like soap and something faintly warm that you determined long ago is just how his skin smells close up.

You let your gaze drag, slow, just to watch him flush.

“Trying to impress me, Reid?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says automatically, smiling sheepishly.

You laugh. “Okay. Points for transparency.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping in that way you’re addicted to. The tension in his jaw eases.

“Ready?” he asks.

You step out, locking the door behind you. “Ready.”

He offers you his arm as you walk down the hall. It’s such an old-fashioned, earnest gesture that for a second you just stare at it before sliding your hand into the crook of his elbow.

Finally, you feel him breathe.

—

It’s not just a casual night at the museum. You figure that out the second you see the line out front.

The building glows. The facade is lit up in warm gold against the evening sky, banner flags hanging off the columns. People in suits and dresses mill under string lights, badges on lanyards. There’s a registration table, which cements even more that this night isn’t just to “wander around the Smithsonian.”

You glance at Spencer as you walk up. “You brought me to a gala and I didn't even get a warning?”

“It’s not a gala,” he explains nervously. “It’s a fundraiser-slash-preview for a new exhibit. Guest list is by invitation, but it’s not— it’s not black tie, it’s—” He catches your expression, swallows, and recalibrates. “Is this okay?”

You bump his arm. “Yes, Spence. I like it when you show off.”

He swallows. “Right. Okay. Good.”

You tip your chin up to squint at the banner over the doors. FORENSIC SCIENCE ON TRIAL: FROM CRIME SCENE TO COURTROOM.

His eyes spark, quick and pleased. Nerd.

You huff. “You brought me to a homicide exhibit.”

“It’s a historical forensics exhibit,” he corrects. “They’re debuting a collection of crime evidence and investigative tools like autopsy photography, ballistics comparisons, blood spatter analysis, courtroom transcripts — those kinds of things — from across the last century.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, almost shy: “I thought you’d like it.”

You stare at him.

Because he picked this, for you.

Not dinner and a movie. Not “I heard normal couples go bowling.” He picked an after-hours event full of weapons evidence, postmortem bruising documentation, and archaic crime lab methodology because, in his brain, that’s romance for you.

And he’s right.

“Spencer,” you say. “If this is an attempt to seduce me with photographs of blunt force trauma, it’s disturbingly effective.”

He makes a desperate little noise like he just swallowed a live wire. “I— that’s— I didn’t— that’s not—”

You grin. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“I really did think you’d like it, though,” he says, softer.

You can’t deal with the way he says that, so you nudge him forward. “Well. Are we going in, or are we just loitering on the sidewalk so all the rich donors can judge us?”

“Right. Yes.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out two badges on lanyards, Your name is printed on one — your name, not “Guest,” which means he must’ve set this up long before he worked up the nerve to ask you on this date three days ago.

You blink at it. “Did you register me in advance?”

“Yes,” he admits. “Otherwise you would’ve just gotten a sticker badge, and I know you hate the way they always roll at the edges. And everyone else has these ones, so I didn’t want you to feel—” He falters. “—out of place.”

It hits you, stupid and hot, that he really did think of everything. You hook the lanyard over your head before you can say anything dumb about it.

Inside, it’s all low light and glass cases and soft instrumental music. There’s a roped-off display under a spotlight featuring a lined-up series of early police-issue sidearms, each labeled with case numbers, photographs of recovered bullets, and blown-up comparison images of rifling patterns.

You whistle under your breath. “Sexy.”

Spencer laughs softly. “Right? Look at that one. Analysis of the land & groove impressions helped scientists to identify exactly who fired it during a 1923 standoff between—” He stops himself and glances at you, almost sheepish. “Sorry. Too much?”

You shake your head. “Keep talking.”

You drift together through the first room, then the second. He doesn’t lecture at you — it’s not like that. He just leans in close, mouth near your ear, and shares details like he’s letting you in on secrets.

You hate how your skin reacts to the warmth of his breath. You also shift a fraction closer. Accidentally, obviously.

The next gallery is framed black-and-white morgue photos — bruise mapping, pattern analysis, angle-of-impact diagrams with neat arrows.

You linger on a forearm mottled with crescents. The placard under it explains inaccurate bite-mark comparisons done in the 1980s.

“Ask me how many convictions based on bite marks have been overturned,” he says, voice low.

“How many?”

“Thirty-six, at least.”

His knuckles brush the back of your hand where it rests on the case glass — barely there, and somehow everything. Your pulse gives you away.

“This is good,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stay on you. “It feels like a date.”

A soft laugh slips out. “That’s because it is one.”

Before you can spiral at your own honesty, you push off the case and nod toward a side hall marked Restricted: Staff Only.

“C’mon.”

You can practically hear him internally litigating trespass statutes as he follows you into the dark.

The little alcove you duck into is out of sight from the main gallery, lit only by the glow at the end of the hall. You can hear the murmur of voices from the exhibit space, but it’s hushed.

Spencer steps in after you and, for a second, just looks.

He takes you in from this new proximity like he’s cataloging a miracle. His gaze flickers down slowly, then drags back up, and by the time he hits your mouth again he looks a little wrecked.

“What?” you ask softly.

He swallows. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He huffs. “You’re just— very distracting.”

“Good,” you murmur.

Something in his face flickers, then he does that thing you still haven’t built up immunity to: he lifts one hand and touches you like you’re precious. Just a gentle thumb along your jaw, a question he still asks even though you’ve already answered it a hundred times.

You lean into it before you can pretend you won’t.

It’s almost absurd, you think — barely ten yards from autopsy photos and here you are in an off-limits corridor with Spencer Reid looking at you like you’re the most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened to him.

Your voice comes out low. “Are you gonna kiss me, or are you just planning to stare at me like I’m Medusa until I turn to stone?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Medusa didn’t turn herself to stone, she—”

You pull him down by his tie. “Spencer.”

He grins, hovering a breath from your lips. “Yes. Yes, I’m going to kiss you.”

His mouth is warm and careful when it finally meets yours, then warmer, then just on the edge of not careful. His free hand slides to your waist, and yours stays in his tie without thinking. You like the feel of it against your knuckles, and you like the way his breath catches when you pull.

When you break, it’s only because you need air and not because either of you wants space. He stays close — forehead almost against yours, breathing a little uneven.

“I can’t believe I convinced you to kiss me in the restricted section,” you murmur, just to hear him laugh. “It’s like Harry Potter if it wasn’t a kids’ movie.”

Spencer breathes a chuckle against your cheek. “I think you could convince me to do almost anything.”

A shiver runs through you at that, and you turn your head to steal one more kiss. “Telling me that is a dangerous game,” you tease.

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, and you see that look again — the glassy, stunned, happy one he gets when you show affection like this. You’re almost getting used to seeing it. Almost.

“Dinner?” he asks, soft. “I, uh, I made a reservation.”

You nod. “Lead the way, genius.”

—

The restaurant looks like somewhere you only get into if you “know a guy.” Low light, white tablecloths, real candles, wood-paneled walls crowded with black-and-white photos, quiet jazz. It smells like garlic and butter and something slow-simmered with wine.

Spencer is trying so hard to act normal.

You can see it in the way he hovers half a second like he’s debating whether to pull your chair out — he wants to, you can feel it — then aborts at the last second, second-guessing himself.

“You can pull it out, you know,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him. “It’s not gonna bite.”

He exhales, embarrassed. “Right. Yes. Sorry.”

He moves the chair for you and you let him, because you are soft for him in disgusting ways you refuse to examine. When he takes his own seat across from you, you watch him fold his napkin once, too precisely, and line his fork up like symmetry might steady him.

There’s already water at the table, bread, a saucer of olive oil that smells peppery and clean.

“Spence,” you say, leaning back a little, crossing your legs under the table. You let your heel graze up his calf to watch him almost drop the bread knife. “Traditionally, on dates, you’re actually supposed to talk.”

His mouth twitches. “I know, I’m just— I believe I have about a seventy-three percent chance of saying something right now that’ll make you roll your eyes at me.”

“Mm.” You tear off a piece of bread and drag it through olive oil. “And what’s the percent chance of you saying something that makes me want to make out with you in the bathroom?”

The tips of his ears go pink. “Seventy-eight.”

You grin. “Seems accurate enough.”

That gets the first real exhale from him since you left the museum. His eyes go a little soft as they settle on you in the candlelight.

“I like this,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?” You pick up a menu mostly to avoid having to look directly at the way he’s looking at you.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I like… you here.”

Against your will, heat climbs up your throat.

“You feeding me pasta is a strong survival strategy, I’ll give you that.”

“In my defense, it’s excellent pasta.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once,” he admits, a little shy. “With Rossi.”

That tracks. Rossi “knows a guy” everywhere up and down the mid-Atlantic.

“He said if I ever brought someone here that I ‘actually gave a damn about,’ I should ask for Giuseppe,” he adds, looking down at his napkin like he didn’t just say that sentence out loud in front of you.

Your pulse stutters, but you try for casual. “Will Giuseppe judge me if I order something with enough garlic to kill a man?”

“He’s Italian. I think he’ll judge you if you don’t.”

That earns a real grin out of you.

A server appears at your elbow, and the way he greets Spencer — “Dottore Reid!” — tells you this is definitely Giuseppe.

“Can I start you two off with anything to drink?” he asks with a robust Italian accent.

Before you can open your mouth, Spencer answers for you. “She’ll have a martini, extra dirty. Grey Goose if you have it.”

Your eyebrows go up.

Giuseppe claps once and winks at you. “And Signore, for you?”

“Just club soda with lime, please.”

You glance at him across the table, one brow still arched.

“Antipasti?” Giuseppe asks. “Chef Bruno is doing arancini tonight, and we also have a—” he pauses to kiss his fingers “— burrata with roasted figs and balsamico.”

“Both,” Spencer says without hesitation. “Please.”

When he leaves, you lean in, elbow on the table and chin in your hand. “So,” you murmur. “You planning to order for me all night like we’re in a mafia movie, or was that a one-time performance?”

Color blooms high on his cheekbones. “I just— you love martinis, and I know you always ask for them extra dirty and get annoyed if they use cheap vodka because you say it tastes like floor cleaner. And you always want to order appetizers for us to share when we get takeout, so I— I thought it would be easier. Not in a weird ‘I speak for you’ way.” His mouth quirks. “I wanted you to know I pay attention.”

“Hey,” you say, and he looks up quick, like he’s braced for teasing. “I like you knowing what I like.”

He goes a little wide-eyed, like you just palmed his heart. His thumb traces a slow circle in the condensation on glass, like he needs sensory grounding.

“I like knowing,” he says quietly.

Okay. Well. Now your pulse is in your throat.

Your martini arrives — cloudy, salty, cold with three plump olives — and his club soda in a short glass with extra lime. You clink a tiny “cheers” without making it a big production. His eyes crinkle when you do.

He watches your lips wrap around the rim of your glass when you take a sip and immediately looks down to pretend he’s studying his napkin again.

You could laugh, but you don’t. You’re too busy staring at him and having a small internal crisis.

Because sitting across from him like this is doing something to you that you weren’t prepared for. You knew you were in trouble, but you didn’t realize how much until he recited your drink order like he’s been rehearsing it for weeks.

“Tell me something,” you say, mostly to get air.

He looks up fast. “Anything.”

“How long have you had this planned?” You swirl the stem of your glass between two fingers.

“A while.”

“A while,” you echo, amused.

He glances down at the table, then back at you. “I, uh, made the dinner reservation two weeks ago,” he admits. “The museum took longer. Those passes were… not easy to get.” His smile tugs, crooked. “Rossi might have helped.”

Of course Rossi did.

“So you were just… sitting on this? For over two weeks?” you ask. “What would you have done if I said no?”

“Canceled the reservation and the passes,” he says, earnestly confused as to how that isn’t the obvious answer. When you raise your brows, he scrunches his and adds, “I’m… not really sure I understand the question.”

“You put all this effort into tonight and would’ve been perfectly okay with canceling if I’d said no?”

“It wasn’t that much work,” he mumbles shyly. “But yeah. If you weren’t ready, I would’ve just canceled and waited to plan something else when you were.”

It blows you a little sideways, the simplicity of it. He spent days developing a plan for the perfect first date, asking Rossi for advice and begging to use his connections for the museum passes, making restaurant reservations and arranging for the owner to be your waiter and getting his best suit drycleaned, but he would’ve canceled it all in a heartbeat if you told him you needed more time.

You try to play it off. You really do. You nod, lean back in your chair, cross your legs so your boot slides along his calf again. It doesn’t matter. You can feel it in yourself anyway. The slide. The fall.

This is what scares you — this exact feeling. Sitting across from someone who looks at you like you hung the stars and realizing in real time you’re losing ground because you want him, and you trust him, and that trust is starting to come easy. You don’t usually get easy. Easy, historically, has cost you.

Your stomach is in a knot and it still feels… good.

Disgusting.

“Spencer,” you say, just so you can feel his name in your mouth.

His eyes flick to yours, helpless, and you wonder what you look like to him right now. You wonder if he’s thinking about your mouth from the museum hallway. You wonder if he’s imagining you in his bed. You’re imagining you in his bed.

“Yeah?” he says softly.

You’re about to tilt this deeper — say something you can’t unsay, slide your foot higher, lean across the table and tell him you’re going home with him after dinner — in the real way — when both of your phones start buzzing on the table at the exact same time.

You don’t move for a beat. Neither does he. You both just stare at each other like maybe, if you wait long enough, the world will do you a favor and stop existing.

It doesn’t.

You reach for your phone. Spencer reaches for his.

Hotch’s voice hits your ear: “We’ve got a case. Serial in Florida. We’re wheels up in ninety, so I need everyone in Quantico within the hour.”

JJ’s voice is audible from Spencer’s side of the table, low and urgent. “Sorry to interrupt your night, Spence. We’ve got a case. How soon can you get to the BAU?”

You keep your own voice steady. “I’ll be there,” you tell Hotch.

Spencer hasn’t said a word into his phone yet, and you hear JJ through his line after you hang up. “You good?” she asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he says softly into the phone, but you can hear the lie in it, see the devastation written all over his face. “I’ll be there soon,” he adds before ending the call.

“Okay,” you say. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’ll take me to my place first, then we’ll swing by yours so we can each grab our go bags, and then we’ll drive in together.”

He blinks. “Together?”

“Yeah, together,” you say. “We’ll just stagger a few minutes between our entrances. You’ll go in first, I’ll come in five minutes later. No one will know.”

His mouth twitches. “Rossi knows.”

“Well, he hasn’t ratted us out so far, so we’re fine,” you say. “Point is, you’re not just dropping me at home and then brooding alone like a sad Romance-era poet. We’re riding in together. Got it?”

“Got it,” he says, quiet.

You stand. He’s on his feet instantly, hand already on his wallet. He flags down Giuseppe with an apologetic wave.

He’s moving with his usual efficient purpose, and trying very, very hard not to believe his one shot at this got ruined.

You hate that for him so completely it scares you.

You step close while he tucks his wallet away, close enough that your arm brushes his sleeve.

“Hey,” you say.

He looks at you.

“Don’t look so defeated. We’ll just raincheck the rest of the night, okay?”

He nods tightly. “Okay,” he says, clearly not convinced he’ll ever get a real chance to redeem that raincheck.

In the car, when you slide into the passenger seat and he reaches over to rest his hand on your knee — just enough pressure to say I’m still here, are you still here? — you cover his hand with yours and squeeze.

—

Quantico on a Saturday night always feels hollow.

JJ’s standing with a half-open folder at Emily’s desk, Morgan’s braced over the briefing table, Rossi’s tapping a pen. No one’s smiling. No one looks surprised to be here.

Spencer’s talking to Hotch, and if you didn’t know him the way you do, you’d think everything was fine. But the thing is, you do know him. You know the tell in his mouth when he’s holding something back, the way he goes a hair too still when he’s quietly upset.

He’s wearing that stillness like a pressed shirt.

JJ looks up as you round the corner and hands you a folder. “Victims so far: three men, thirties to forties, bodies dumped near interstates.”

The briefing takes five minutes, then you scatter: Emily grabbing her go-bag, Morgan snapping his file shut, Rossi sliding his notebook away. You sweep your hair back with an elastic from your pocket.

Spencer doesn’t move though — not right away at least. He’s standing at the end of the table with his bag strap across his chest, folder in hand, eyes dropped to the case notes.

“Walk with me,” you murmur, angling your body so it’s private.

He falls in at your side like it’s gravity. You talk through the case, and by the time you hit the main doors and push out into the night again, some of the edge has worn off. Not gone, just softened.

Good. You can work with softened.

—

The hotel is the usual Bureau special: anonymous beige, humming AC, bed that looks fine from the doorway but will feel like you’re lying on plywood in three hours.

You put your bags down, sit on the edge of the mattress, and pull your phone from your pocket to send a text:

my room, 20 minutes. mandatory attendance. don’t ask questions

Spencer types back almost immediately:

Okay.

Well, it’s not the most enthusiastic response, but he’s coming, so that’s enough for you to get to work.

First thing: lights. You kill the overhead and turn on the bedside lamp instead. It throws the room into a hazy amber that can almost pass for mood lighting if you don’t look too hard.

Second: table. The sad little round one in the corner with two even sadder chairs gets dragged to the middle of the room. You pull the chairs in close, almost touching.

Third: centerpiece. There’s a vase with a single plastic lily in the hallway by the elevators. You steal it and set it in the middle of the table.

Fourth: food. You raid the lobby vending machines: two bags of chips (plain for him, spicy for you), a sleeve of Oreos, mini M&Ms, one little pack of shortbread cookies, a Kit-Kat, two cans of Ginger Ale, and one of those vacuum-packed “charcuterie snack packs” with four sad salami coins and six baby cheese rectangles.

You plate your vending machine haul as nicely as you can manage and pour the ginger ale into glasses, then you step back and look at the setup.

It’s tragic, and it’s perfect.

You’re still re-centering the stolen flower vase when you hear a soft knock.

Spencer’s suit jacket’s a little rumpled from travel, tie loosened. He must’ve combed a hand through his hair at some point; one curl has fallen loose in a way that makes your fingers twitch.

He gives you a half-hearted smile, but then his eyes slide past you and land on the table.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even breathe.

You feel weirdly naked, which is hilarious, because you are fully dressed and the most indecent thing in this room is a two-dollar meat-and-cheese kit.

“Reservation for two,” you say, because if you don’t talk you might actually start vibrating. You tip your head toward the setup and let yourself smirk. “Dr. Reid, your table’s ready.”

“Did you—” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat and tries again. “You did this? For me?”

You shrug, casual, but your heart’s doing sprints. “It’s called improvising, Spencer. You should try it sometime.”

Then it really hits him — the stupid flower, the chairs pulled way too close, the ginger ale. You watch it wash through him: surprise, then delight, then something else that just about guts you: shaken, stunned gratitude.

“Hey,” you say lightly. “You coming in, or are you planning to stand out there in the hall so Morgan can walk by and see you making heart eyes at me?”

That jolts him. He steps in fast, closing the door behind him.

Up close he looks a little dazed. You like that more than you should.

“Sit,” you tell him. “The sommelier recommends the ginger ale. Notes of corn syrup and airplane.”

He huffs a laugh and sits. “You’re ridiculous,” he says softly.

“You’re welcome,” you reply.

He looks at you then — really looks.

“You did this for me.”

“Yeah,” you say. You clear your throat and immediately ruin the sincerity with attitude because that’s who you are. “You were being a sad little puppy about our ruined evening. Couldn’t just let you mope.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping. When he looks back up, he’s still pink. “Thank you,” he says.

You reach for the ‘charcuterie.’ “So. We left off right before you got to tell me how long you’ve been pining over me. You were about to say ‘a while,’ and then Hotch cockblocked us.”

He drags a hand down his face, fingers hooking over his mouth in that trying-not-to-smile way you’re addicted to. “That’s not exactly where we left off, but…yeah. I had… talking points.”

You almost choke. “You had talking points?”

Spencer makes a face. “Not a script or anything,” he says, embarrassed. “I just— I thought… if you got nervous, or if you thought you should run, I wanted to make sure that the things I actually needed to tell you got said.”

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. “Okay. Tell me, then.”

He blinks. “What?”

“We’re here,” you say, gesturing at the table. “We made it to dinner. So. Talk to me. Say your things.”

You watch his throat move.

“Spencer,” you add. “I’m not gonna bolt.”

He nods once, slow. He takes a breath.

“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly, “that tonight wasn’t about… proving anything. Or locking you into anything. I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me because I made a reservation and put on a tie.” He keeps going, eyes low, words careful like he’s laying them down for you to pick up at your own pace. “I just wanted to give you something that wasn’t reactive. Because… we’re always reacting, you know? To the job, to whatever gets thrown at us, to—” he huffs out a breath, “—near-death experiences, occasionally. So I wanted something you could step into on purpose. Something that was just… ours.”

You feel floaty for a second. Untethered.

He doesn’t notice. He’s looking down at his hands now, thumb rubbing over his knuckle. “And then,” he says, softer, “I was going to ask you some things. I—I read up on a lot of lists of good first date questions, but most of them were terrible so I made my own list and thought I’d try a few.”

You stare at him. “You made a list.”

Color climbs back up his neck. “Yes.”

“Of first date questions,” you say.

“Yes,” he says, shy. “Adjusted for the fact that I obviously already know you, of course. I just…” His mouth pulls. “I really wanted it to feel like a normal date between two normal people. We could ignore all the complicated things for one night and just…talk.”

You swallow. “Alright, Doctor. Hit me with a question.”

He draws a breath. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself. Then: “What was your favorite part of today? Before the call.”

“Wow,” you chuckle. “Starting light, huh.”

He looks worried. “I can do a different one.”

“No,” you say quickly. You reach under the table and put your hand on his knee, palm warm through his slacks. It shuts him up mid-panic. “No. I like that one.”

You could say the hallway at the museum, because obviously. You could say the few minutes at the restaurant you did get, because watching him across that table felt incredibly right.

What comes out instead is, “You at my door.”

His eyes flicker. “When I picked you up?”

You nod. Your thumb rubs once, slow. “You in that suit, looking like you were gonna throw up because you thought I might bail. You were… happy, and nervous, and so stupidly handsome I almost shut the door just to collect myself for a second.”

He just stares at you. You don’t usually hand him things like that.

“Okay,” he says after a second. “Okay. That’s… that’s a good answer.”

You squeeze his knee and take a sip of your ginger ale. “Next question.”

“If you weren’t doing this — the BAU, I mean — and you couldn’t pick law enforcement at all, what would you do? What would you be doing on a Saturday night if you weren’t about to go interview a coroner at seven in the morning?”

You lean back a little in your chair, but you leave your hand on him because it’s as much for you as it is for him at this point. You let your eyes drift to the sad little plastic lily.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “That’s a bad answer, but I don’t. I’ve spent so long doing this and bleeding for it and being good at it that it’s kind of… part of me. I don’t know who I am without it.”

He nods. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t say you could do anything. He just listens. Which is… worse. Or better. You don’t know.

“But,” you add, softer now, “if you mean like tonight — like what I’d want to be doing if I wasn’t on the clock? That’s easier.”

His gaze sharpens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “That answer is I’d still want to be with you. No guns. No jet. No serial killers. You and me and nowhere to be in the morning.”

For a second he looks so undone you almost look away for him, just to give him cover.

“Spencer,” you say quietly. “Breathe.”

“Okay.” His voice is so soft you barely catch it. “One more?”

You nod.

He wets his lips. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come back to my place afterward. Not—” He rushes that part, flustered. “Not… not like that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t expecting anything, obviously, I just— it’s Saturday, and on Saturday nights we usually hang out at my apartment, and I thought maybe I could ask you to stay on purpose this time. Not like you ‘fell asleep on my couch by accident,’ just… do you want to come home with me and stay until tomorrow.”

That lands so stupidly you actually have to laugh, soft and breathless, just to keep from making a sound you’ll regret. “You romantic menace,” you tease. “Trying to take a girl home on the first date.”

His ears go pink. “It’s not— that’s not—”

“I know,” you say, and your voice cuts under his, low, honest. You lean in, crowd his space a little. “I know what you meant. I get it. And for the record, I would’ve said yes.”

You hold his gaze and just let it sit there, let him feel it.

“Well,” you add after a second, clearing your throat. “You said your things. You asked your date questions. You didn’t combust. See? Totally nailed it.”

He huffs out a soft sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and you feel yourself smiling.

Silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. Your knees are still touching. Your hand is still on his leg. You’re so close that you could lean forward and kiss him from here.

“Can I ask for one thing back from tonight?” he says, breaking the quiet.

You tilt your head. “Depends what it is.”

His eyes flick briefly to your mouth and then back up. “I know it’s stupid,” he rushes. “It’s just — after dinner, before we went back to my place, I was planning to ask you to walk down by the river with me, and then I was going to ask if I could… uh, dance with you.”

You stare at him.

He winces. “That sounds ridiculous out loud. Never mind, please forget I said that, that’s—”

“Spencer.”

He goes quiet.

“That is, without a doubt, the corniest shit anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I know,” he says miserably, hiding his face in one hand.

You pull it away gently and tilt his chin up to look at you. “I didn’t say no. I just said it was corny.” You smirk a little, then hold your hand out for him. “C’mon, Romeo. Before I change my mind.”

His face does something you’ve never seen it do before. He stands too fast and almost trips on his own feet, because of course he does. “Graceful,” you tease, and he huffs a quiet laugh.

You meet him in the narrow strip of beige carpet between the table and the edge of the bed.

There’s no music, and you don’t bother putting any on. The lamp throws warm light across his jaw, his collarbone, the loose line of his tie.

He hesitates a second, like he’s not sure what the protocol is. You save him from short-circuiting by stepping in first, sliding one hand up under his open jacket and flattening it against his dress shirt.

His breath stutters.

“Here,” you murmur, lifting your other hand.

He takes the cue. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers warm and careful. The other laces your fingers with his.

You start to sway.

It’s not even really dancing. It’s just the two of you moving slow in this ugly room, pressed close enough that your body lines up against his. You lean your head against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. His chin dips until it grazes your hair.

“This is so cheesy,” you mumble into his shirt.

His laugh rumbles against you. “We can stop if you hate it.”

“Shut up,” you tell him, which is code for I don't hate it and don’t you dare stop.

His grip tightens the tiniest bit, and you feel his thumb stroke once along the curve of your waist. He breathes you in and you let your eyes slip shut because it’s suddenly too much to look up at him looking at you.

This is the part that scares you more than any gun in your face ever has: this stupid slow sway, your cheek against his chest, his heart under your ear, his hand holding yours. It’s terrifying.

You let yourself have it anyway.

“Hey,” he says after a while. His voice is low, muffled in your hair. “One true thing?”

You feel yourself smile against him.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Hit me.”

He’s quiet for a second. When he speaks, it’s barely above a breath. “I was happy with you tonight,” he whispers. You squeeze his hand. “At the museum. At dinner. In the car. Here. All of it. I was just… happy.” His voice catches, then steadies. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen for me a lot, not like this. I really, really needed you to know that.”

Your fingers curl in his shirt and you breathe him in.

“My turn.” You swallow. “I didn’t say yes to this date just to make you happy or because you were nervous when you asked me or anything like that. I said yes because I wanted to.” Your voice drops. “I wanted tonight. With you. I wanted all of it.”

Spencer doesn’t move for a long beat.

Then you feel it — the way the tension bleeds out of him. The way his shoulders drop. The way his grip on your waist tightens, just slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer.

“Okay,” he whispers. It comes out wrecked and grateful in a way that makes your throat sting.

You tip your head back because you need to see his face. He looks undone in the lamplight. Soft at the edges. Warm-eyed. His mouth is a little parted, like you keep catching him right before a confession.

You go up on your toes and kiss him.

He makes a soft, helpless sound in the back of his throat that you’re going to replay in your head for the rest of your life. His free hand slides up, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. And when you finally break, you don’t step back right away. You just rest your forehead against his jaw and breathe him in.

“This counts,” you tell him quietly. “First date. I know it wasn’t entirely what you planned, but it still counts.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough and honest. “It does.”

You let yourself sit in that for one more long, slow breath.

“Alright, Romeo,” you murmur, stepping back. “We’ve got, like, four hours before Hotch starts banging on doors. You should go back to your room and get some sleep.”

He doesn’t move at first. He just looks at you.

You cross your arms, pretending your pulse isn’t still in your throat. “Spence.”

He smiles. Small. Wrecked. Yours. “I’m going,” he says, and his voice is warm in a way you’re going to feel later, alone, when you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling. “I’ll— I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Bright and early, Dr. Reid. Don’t be late.”

He lingers one more second at the door. You almost think he’s going to say something else, but instead, he just reaches out, takes your hand, and brings your knuckles to his lips. It’s barely even a kiss — just a press, a gratitude thing — but it hits you so hard you actually forget to breathe.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs softly.

Then he’s gone.

You stand there in the dim lamplight for a second, barefoot on ugly carpet, his warmth still on your skin. It’s terrifying, how full your chest feels. It’s also steady.

You know, certain in a way that’s getting harder to deny, that you’re in deep with this man.

And you’re kind of okay with that.

ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.

Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.

Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.

Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.

But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.

Damn.

“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.

You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.

JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.

Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”

Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”

“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”

JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”

JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”

Oh.

You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”

“What? I do not,” you protested.

Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”

“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”

“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”

JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”

“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.

You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”

Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.

“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”

Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”

“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”

Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”

Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”

Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”

You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.

Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”

You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.

By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.

This was a campaign.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”

You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”

What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.

And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.

Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.

“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”

You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.

And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,

“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”

The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.

JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.

“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”

Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”

Your laughter never came.

Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.

You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.

He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.

Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”

“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”

JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”

Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”

You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”

Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”

“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.

Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”

Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.

JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”

Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”

“He deserved it.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”

You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”

“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”

Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”

“Domestic,” Emily said.

The table erupted in laughter.

Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”

JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”

Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.

“Is it?” JJ asked softly. “Because every reason we’re giving you…you already know.”

For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.

Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”

Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.

If they only knew that you already were.

That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.

You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.

Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.

And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.

The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.

The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.

Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.

And then you froze.

There was a light on in the living room.

Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.

Spencer was there.

He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.

“Hey,” he said softly.

The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.

“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.

Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”

know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”

You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Something in you melted completely.

You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.

“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.

Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.

It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.

He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”

You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.

“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”

He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”

You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.

While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.

“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”

He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”

Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.

“They were talking about you all night.”

Spencer paused mid-motion.

The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.

“Oh,” he said.

You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”

That did it.

His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.

“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.

You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.

“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”

He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“Were they…logical?” he asked.

You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”

That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”

“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”

He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.

“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.

Spencer’s brain left the building.

He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.

“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.

You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”

He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.

“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.

“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”

He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.

“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his.

“I know ghosts technically aren’t real, however I did sort of expect them in a graveyard,” you said with a chuckle. “It’s literally Halloween.”

The streets leading from Rock Creek Cemetery were dimly lit by streetlights, a very slight fog in the air, appropriate for the holiday. The two of you were slowly heading back towards the main streets, your hand clasped in his, which you were swinging back and forth.

“I did warn you that it was unlikely we’d see any ghosts,” Spencer pointed out with a fond smile. “And while the general scientific opinion is that ghosts are simply optical illusions, there’s such an extensive history of hauntings that it would be foolish to completely rule their existence out.”

You turned to him with a soft smile. “Spoken like a true man of science.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, gently tugging your arm to prevent you from crossing the road just as a car came past. “I’m also disappointed at the lack of ghosts. This was supposed to be a Halloween date afterall.”

“I like this one better than last year’s,” you said. “I’d much rather be in a cemetery alone listening to your detailed description of Rosalie Poe’s life and works than walk around a supposedly ”haunted“ museum with a bunch of oldies.”

The streets were slowly getting more and more crowded the further towards the city centre you walked. Annual trick-or-treating was in full swing, and even in the relatively quiet suburban street Spencer chose to direct you down, you could see a flock of brightly dressed children a couple houses down. The houses were somewhat decorated, nothing extravagant, the orange lights giving the street warm glow.

“Oh, look, it’s another anatomically incorrect skeleton spider!”

“Angel, please, the dog was bad enough-”

You laughed, throwing your head back, cheeks pink in the chilly air. “The dog was so bad - why on Earth were the ears made of bones- oh my god!”

The sound of your sudden exclamation had Spencer alert in an instant, his head whipping around for whatever had startled you. Instead of a murderer, or a rabid animal, or even another wildly illogical skeleton decoration, there was a… ghost?

Spencer blinked rapidly - of course it wasn’t a ghost. It was a very small person covered in a white sheet.

“Hi, there,” you said, having recovered from nearly bowling over the tiny human. You crouched down to their height, with a soft smile on your face Spencer was positive he had never seen before. “Sorry about that, sweetie, I didn’t see you.”

The child remained silent, blinking at you through holes in the sheet.

“What’s your name?” you asked, trying again. “Did you get separated from your friends?”

After a rather long pause, the child finally spoke.

“Sadie,” she said.

“Well, Sadie,” you replied, still smiling that sweeter-than-honey smile as you introduced yourself. “And this here is Spencer.”

Spencer gave the girl a small smile of his own. Unable to see anything more than her eyes, it was unclear how Sadie felt about the two of them, though clearly she liked you, enough to reach out and take your hand through the sheet, seemingly wanting you to walk with her.

You stood up, glancing at Spencer with a worried expression. “Did you see any parents nearby?” you asked in a low voice as the now three of you continued down the street.

Spencer shook his head, eying Sadie with concern. Given her limited vocabulary, voice and height (short), he estimated she couldn’t be older than four. “Perhaps she was with those children up ahead?”

“They’re practically on the next block, I doubt they’d have gone that far without realising she was missing.” you guessed, smiling at Sadie when she looked up.

Turning to look at you was a poor choice, as she promptly tripped on the edge of the sheet, only avoiding a skinned knee due to Spencer swiftly grabbing her before she hit the pavement. “Careful, sweetie,” he said, easily adopting the pet name you’d used, picking her up. “I think your sheet is a little long.”

Sadie’s big brown eyes sparkled, and despite her earlier silence, she let out a happy squeal at suddenly being hoisted onto his hip.

You laughed, watching as Sadie happily cuddled against Spencer’s chest, content with no longer walking. “Alright, we can’t just wander the neighbourhood all night,” you said, glancing around. “What do we do?”

“I’m not sure-”

“Spencer isn’t it literally your job-”

“No, returning errant ghost children to their parents most certainly isn’t within my job description,” he replied, earning a giggle from said ghost child. Whether she understood him or not was unclear. “But I’d say it’s unlikely someone her age and size would have been able to get far from home without getting tired or noticed by another parent.”

You were frowning at the buildings as you slowly walked down the street - unfortunately the streetlamps and few Halloween lights didn’t help distinguish between the various cookie-cutter houses.

“Hey, Sadie, I have a question for you,” you said after a moment. “Do you know where home is?” Pointing up the street, you smiled. “Is it that way, or-”  You pointed down the street. “Is home that way?”

Sadie, who to her credit, did ponder the two options for a quite a while, could only reply with one word.

“Punnkin!”

Spencer huffed out a small laugh. “Pumpkin?”

Sadie nodded. “Punnkin!”

You frowned, glancing around once more, while Spencer carefully shifted the girl to his other hip.

“I reckon there’s a pumpkin somewhere near home,” he said. “It has to be close-by, she’s not even wearing shoes.”

This was true, he’d noticed it as he picked her up. Giving her a small smile, Spencer used his other hand to lift up the sheet.

“Sadie, sweetie, where are your shoes?”

Sadie shrugged. “Punnkin,” she repeated. “Big punnkin.”

“At what point are we supposed to call the police?” you asked nervously. “What if we’re taking her further from home?”

Spencer paused in the street. “You’re right, moving isn’t logical.” He glanced around, then up at the house they were standing in front of. Walking towards the front porch, he beckoned you to follow.

There was a lackluster amount of decorations on the porch, just a cardboard graveyard, a bright red bowl of mostly picked through sweets, and a rather bored looking teenager sitting on a fold-out chair.

“Hey, you can just take whatever you want,” the boy muttered as the three of you approached. “I don’t really care.”

“I’m Dr Spencer Reid,” Spencer said, slipping easily into his agent voice. “I’m an FBI agent, do you know this girl?”

The boy glanced up, sceptical but intriguing. “Shitty costume, you don’t even have a badge.”

You scoffed, barely letting Spencer get a word out. “It’s not a costume, we just found this girl wandering alone on the street. Do you know her?”

Spencer watched the boy cower slightly under your accusatory gaze, mentally reminding himself to suggest the FBI as a possible career move for you, before hastily lifting the sheet off Sadie.

Under the sheet, she was dressed in pyjamas, barefoot and her gingery blonde curls just reached her shoulders. The boy squinted at her, a vague recognition crossing his face.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her, I think she lives a few houses down?” he said, pointing the way you two had been walking.

“Alright, so we’ve asked at least three houses and either Sadie here really is a ghost, or she has terrible neighbours,” you said fifteen minutes later, frowning at the most reccent house you’d visited. “What now?”

Sadie had since decided she’d rather be carried by you than Spencer, and was now contentedly snoozing against your chest, the sheet now used as a shawl of sorts.

Spencer sighed, pulling out his phone. “I’ll see if Hotch is available, maybe we could get some agents from CASMIRC-”

“Punnkin!” Sadie’s excited voice startled you both. She was staring at something over your shoulder, a wide smile on her face. “Punnkin!”

Spencer followed her gaze, confused. “What pumpkin, sweetie?” he asked.

You turned to look behind you, frowning, only to gasp just like Sadie had.

“Spencer, pumpkin!”

Bewildered, Spencer barely had time to reply before you were walking back the way you’d came. He jogged after you, watching as you made a beeline for one of the house’s you’d skipped, and laughed when he saw it.

A large tree on the front lawn, glowing with various pumpkin-shaped lanterns.

Spencer joined you on the porch as you knocked on the front door, which flung open.

“Oh my god, Sadie!”  The frazzled woman exclaimed, practically sobbing in relief. “I have been looking for her everywhere, I was just about to call the police-”

You quickly handed the girl over with a warm smile. “We found her almost a street away,” you said. “Figured she couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Thank you so much,” Sadie’s mother said, clutching her daughter in her arms. “Her brother was out trick-or-treating with their other mum, and I was on door duty and she must have slipped out since the door was unlocked.” Pushing hair from her face, she wiped her eyes. “I’m so terribly sorry, thank you so, so much.”

After thoroughly turning down any sort of repayment from Sadie’s mother for her safe return, you followed Spencer down the driveway, a satisfied smile on your face.

“Guess we got to see a ghost afterall,” you joked, linking your arm around his and leaning into him. “This has got to be one of the more eventful dates we’ve had.” Spencer laughed, pausing at the tree of pumpkins. “I’d say so. You handled it so well, I was half expecting Sadie to have bolted when we ran into her.”

You shrugged, that same soft smile appearing. “She really liked you. You’re good with kids, Spencer.”

Spencer shook his head. “Hardly as good as you were. You seemed so…” His voice trailed off as he chose his next words. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful smile.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by his words, cheeks flushed not only due to the cold. “Really?”

Spencer nodded earnestly, pulling you closer to him, his eyes molten with adoration. “I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you, in that moment.”

Now those words weren’t thought out. He watched as you froze instantly, and for a split second, he felt an icy cold trickle of fear down his spine, that perhaps there really was some chance you didn’t feel the same.

Then your face broke into a smile.

Spencer was wrong. The smiles you’d given to Sadie, while sweet, were no where near as sweet as the one you gave him, under a tree of paper pumpkin lanterns. He swallowed, unable to keep those thoughts to himself.

“I don’t just mean that in a family way, as in seeing you acting maternal awoken some primal thing inside,” he began, his words fast and frantic. “I have only ever loved someone romantically once, and it was so short-lived I’m not sure if was even love, however I do know that the love I feel for you is different, I don’t believe I could ever forget it.” Spencer took a breath, then continued. “The love I feel for you is like a toothache, it settles in my jaw and stays there, and if I’m completely honest, I think I’ve always loved you-”

“Spencer,” your soft voice interrupted him, which was fortunate given that what he’d said had barely scratched the surface. “I love you too.”

And under the orange glow of those pumpkin lights, you kissed him, and Spencer knew he’d never lose that toothaching pain for you. He also knew that there were very few universes out there where he’d want it gone.

It turned out you had to take a work course in another city, and your cat couldn’t stay alone in the apartment. The idea of leaving him in a boarding place seemed cruel, so you turned to the most reliable person you knew: your best friend.

“Please, Spencer. It’s just a week. He needs food twice a day, clean water and… well, company. It’s not that complicated.”

He frowned, as if you had asked him to decipher a dead language. You knew Spencer had never felt a special affection for felines; in fact, he sometimes gave the impression that he hated them. You never knew exactly why. Maybe he just had more affinity with dogs… or, deep down, maybe he didn’t like animals at all.

“Cats are unpredictable. They have claws. And did you know they can transmit more than sixteen different diseases? Bartonellosis, toxoplasmosis, pasteurellosis—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted him, crossing your arms with feigned patience, “it’s a domestic cat. Vaccinated. Neutered. Clean. The only thing he transmits is cuteness. I’m begging you; I don’t want to leave him with anyone else.”

For a moment, you thought he would refuse. But then he sighed, defeated.

“I’ll do it… because it’s you,” he murmured.

You gave a little jump and ended up wrapping him in a hug, your arms over his shoulders. Spencer chuckled while holding your waist carefully.

“But for the record, this doesn’t mean I like cats.”

The first days were tense. Spencer followed the instructions you had left him as if they were part of an FBI protocol. He measured out the exact amount of kibble, changed the water at the same hour, cleaned the litter box with latex gloves. And yet, he kept his distance.

The cat, on the other hand, seemed fascinated by him. He followed him from one room to another, climbed onto the bookshelf to stare at him while he read, with those green eyes and huge pupils. He even settled on his desk just as he was trying to concentrate.

That first night he wrote you a message: “Your cat is watching me from on top of the bookshelf. He hasn’t blinked in seven minutes. I think he’s planning something.”

The next day, another message: “I don’t know how, but he opened the pantry door. I’m sure he’s smarter than he looks.”

And one more, with a photo attached: “He’s on my jacket. He doesn’t want to get down. I need evidence that I’m not exaggerating.”

Needless to say, the whole thing amused you greatly, because picturing a literal genius feeling threatened by a small and harmless kitten was definitely funny.

By the third day, the routine had changed. Spencer still said he didn’t like cats, but he treated him like a colleague in an investigation: he spoke to him in a low voice, tried to negotiate.

“I need you to understand limits,” he told him while pointing at his laptop, where the cat had made himself comfortable on the keyboard.

It was the third time he tried to make progress on a report Hotch had asked for, and since he already hated technology, the interruptions didn’t help much. But every time he tried to make him understand, the animal ignored him completely, purring shamelessly.

In the end, Spencer clumsily picked him up and placed him on a blanket. Five seconds later, the cat was back in the same spot.

“I can’t work with you here,” he complained, dragging his hand down his face.

Milo, however, just stared at him with his head tilted; as if it were all a game. Reid exhaled, resigned, until suddenly his fingers ended up scratching the little feline’s head.

He fell silent for a moment, captivated by the way the animal closed his eyes and stretched to keep being caressed.

“Though, to be honest, I don’t even want to deal with this right now…” he confessed, smiling despite himself. The cat, as if rewarding him for the decision, rubbed against the hand that was petting him. “You win. But this doesn’t mean I like you.”

In secret, he began to investigate: he researched games to entertain indoor cats, checked which treats were safe, and even purchased a small toy mouse.

He justified it mentally with phrases like: I don’t want the animal to get stressed. That would be irresponsible. But the truth was, deep down, he was already growing fond of him.

He began to find a certain peace in those bursts of black fur running across the apartment, and although the cat could be a whirlwind in one second, the next he would be fast asleep in any comfortable corner.

He also grew accustomed to the sound of tiny paws tapping against the floor when he chased after nothing in particular, or when he discovered him stalking forgotten pens on the table as if they were prey. He had even stopped grumbling when he found him sitting on his books or when he discovered a few hairs embedded in his coat; on the contrary, now he just looked at him with a mix of feigned annoyance and warm resignation.

The turning point came on the night of the sixth day. Spencer came home late, exhausted after a day of cases and paperwork. He dropped his jacket on the couch and sank into the cushions, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had barely closed his eyes when he felt a light weight on his lap.

He opened one eye slowly. The cat was there, staring at him before curling up, purring with a deep, steady sound that vibrated against his abdomen.

“Seriously…” he muttered, but his voice faded as the vibration enveloped him completely.

He had read that purring could reduce stress and blood pressure, but he had never experienced it firsthand. His hand moved on its own, petting the soft fur with clumsy strokes at first, then more confidently.

The cat closed his eyes, pleased, and Spencer stayed still, as if not wanting to break the moment. Against all odds, he felt… at peace.

“I had a bad day today,” he confessed softly, as if the cat could keep the secret. “Although, come to think of it, it wasn’t that serious… just one of those bad days that feel heavier than they are.”

He sighed, and his fingers followed the rhythm of the purr.

“I lost my favorite pen twice, and the coffee machine only gave me hot water. Oh, and someone left all the case files upside down, can you believe it?”

The cat responded with a brief snore, as if it all mattered deeply, and Spencer let out a soft laugh.

“I guess it wasn’t that terrible after all. It’s… strange, but it feels good to have you here. Like, somehow, she’s here with me too,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Spencer leaned down a little, just enough to brush the top of the cat’s head with a clumsy, fleeting gesture, as if it were too delicate a secret to repeat.

“But don’t tell her, okay?” he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

The last morning, Sunday, he woke up to a familiar sound: purring. Still drowsy, he turned, and there was the cat, curled up against his chest. Spencer stared in disbelief, trying to convince himself it was a coincidence.

But when the animal snuggled even closer, he realized he had lost the battle.

“I can’t believe this,” he murmured, though he didn’t move.

Instead of pushing him away, he stayed still, his hand resting gently on his back as he tried to fall asleep again.

When you came back from your trip, you expected to find Spencer complaining about the animal or, worse, an apartment turned upside down. Instead, you found him on the couch, with the cat asleep on his chest and one distracted hand petting his fur.

You leaned against the doorframe, smiling.

“So you didn’t like cats, huh?”

Spencer lifted his head, startled, as if you had caught him in an illegal act.

“You’re back,” he murmured, though it was obvious. “This… isn’t what it looks like.”

“It looks exactly like what it looks like,” you replied with a laugh, dropping your suitcase to the side. The cat didn’t even move, too comfortable where he was.

Spencer sighed, defeated.

“Fine… I like, just a little, this specific cat.”

You stepped closer, taking the animal into your arms before showering him with kisses and hugging him like someone who had missed him for an entire week. Your unconditional friend let himself be pampered without any complaint.

“Did you hear that, Milo? You just won over the sweetest grump of them all,” you said aloud, as if he could understand you.

“I’m not a grump,” he huffed, “and your cat didn’t win me over.”

“Our cat,” you corrected softly.

Spencer rolled his eyes, but didn’t move the animal from his lap. And you knew, with certainty, that the cat had won the game.

To the average bystander, the two of you might look like any young couple on a night out, but you knew better than to think of you and Spencer as anything more than a mutually beneficial arrangement. You needed to remind yourself of that when he told you about his tickets to the symphony. You needed to remind yourself of that when he asked you to see the show with him.

It wasn’t a date, merely a means to an end. To Spencer, going to the show with you meant a reason for you to end up in his apartment, with your naked body beneath his. Eventually, you’d forget about the regret, fading away into a pleasure filled oblivion while you meant nothing more to him than sex. At least, that’s what you needed to convince yourself of, because the slightest hope that Spencer thought of you as anything more than a sexual companion would just twist the knife embedded in your chest. 

You understood the appeal. You were younger, newer to the BAU, and you hadn’t known Spencer before he had spent three months in prison. The rest of the team looked at him with the slightest hint of grief, mourning the person he was before Millburn, but when you looked at him, all you saw was Spencer. There were no expectations of him. Despite that, you’d fallen in love with him. 

He made it impossible not to, passing you notes during briefings and bringing you coffee from the first brew of the day. Even now, you looked up at him, studying the soft glow of his brown eyes while he looked at you. He had this way of looking at you like you’d hung the moon, but you would consider yourself lucky if he saw you as even a star in his galaxy. “Are you alright?” He asked, looking down at your feet, checking to see if you’d rolled an ankle or broken your shoe. 

Nodding, you forced a reassuring smile on your face, “Yeah,” you lied with ease. “Come on,” you said, taking the lead, goosebumps spreading across your arm when he took your hand back in his. 

You hoped you could gain some distance from him once you were in the car, but he let you take the only open seat and stood in front of you, looping one arm around the pole so he didn’t have to touch it and resting his other hand on your shoulder. The casual dominance that used to bring butterflies to your stomach made it roil now, you peered up at him through your mascara-coated eyelashes, and he smiled softly down at you. 

Neither of you spoke the entire ride, he helped you out of the car and led you down that all too familiar path. You didn’t live there, but you could walk to Spencer’s apartment blindfolded if need be. 

Carefully, you walked up the steps to the second floor and watched him unlock the door, apartment 23. “Spencer,” you whispered when he shut the door behind you. You stared down at the floor, knowing that if you looked him in the eyes and imagined him undressing you, you’d lose all of your resolve. 

In a pattern you had memorized, his lips were on yours, the taste of the wine you had at the show slipping from your tongue to his as he pulled your body flush against his, your head spun while you relaxed into him. Letting him keep you right side up while he dug his thumbs into your hips.

You knew you were losing when you moaned against his lips, resisting the reflex you had to loop your arms around his neck. “Spence,” You tried again, breathier this time. 

His hands planted themselves on your waist, thumbing the pleated bodice of your dress while he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Yeah, baby?” His voice was sickly sweet, and you started to feel that weakness in your knees while his hands started to roam. 

On shaky legs, you stepped back, separating yourself from him. “I want to talk to you,” you told him, confidence building in your chest while you led him over to the couch, sitting him down before taking the spot next to him. “I really like our time together,” you reassured him, noticing the way his hand immediately found its way to your thigh. 

A hesitant smile bloomed on his face, probably wondering if you were working blue, “I really like our time together too.” He adopted your vernacular. 

Instinctively, your eyes lifted to meet his, brown eyes boring into yours while you prepared yourself for an ultimatum. “Spencer,” you murmured his name, leaning back on the supple leather of his couch while smoothing out the fabric of your dress. 

He looked at you expectantly, giving you the time and space that you were asking for when he clearly had other things on his mind. Flashbacks of him ricocheted in your mind, memories of him buried in you, echoes of him bringing you home after a case, kissing your neck until you lost the darkness of the world in the depths of him. 

“What are we doing?” You asked him, the pitch of your voice was ever so slightly off, and he could tell. You recognized the way his head cocked to the side, ready to be whoever you wanted him to be, just for tonight. 

He reached his hand out, fumbling at your legs until they were draped over his lap, tracing his fingertips over the hem of your skirt. “What do you mean?” 

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice, he wasn’t being dismissive or acting any kind of way, he simply didn’t see your relationship the way you did. “Tonight,” you said, evening out your tone as best you could. “I mean, the tickets for tonight couldn’t have been cheap, and I know you didn’t just come across them. Are we… did you want to be with me?” 

Spencer frowned, “Of course I want to be with you.” The words slipped so easily from his tongue, you didn’t dare get your hopes up. 

His hands on your body threatened to knock the wind from your chest, you had to close your eyes in order to continue. “Like, really be with me? Without all of the sneaking around and dark corridors, I mean. You like me, don’t you? You act like you like me. You give me gifts and when we go out, the way we did tonight, you hold my hand and treat me like your girlfriend, but when we’re with everyone else it doesn’t seem like you care about me at all.” 

“Of course I care about you,” he responded, pulling at your skirt, wanting to hold you in his arms. His candor brought tears to your eyes, the words that you’d been dreaming of him saying for months were finally real, but they didn’t mean to him what they meant to you. “You are the most beautiful, intelligent, lovable person I’ve ever met.” 

Your lower lip quivered as your eyes fluttered open, “Then love me.” You implored him, hot tears falling from your eyes as you looked at him desperately, begging him to need you the same way you needed him. 

He swallowed thickly, considering his next words before they came, “I can’t.”

The room felt much smaller, dark green walls closing in on you as you pushed away his hands, tripping over yourself while you tried to stand up. You hadn’t decided if you needed to leave or fight for what you wanted, but it didn’t seem like Spencer was interested in playing a game with you. “Oh my god,” you gasped, pressing your palm to your chest in an attempt to staunch your bleeding heart. “Please, Spence,” you begged, looking for his eyes in the evening light of his apartment. 

Spencer shook his head, looking around the apartment as if he’d rather be anywhere else right now. “I’m fucked, baby,” he bemoaned, the words devastating you. “I’ve been to places and done things you couldn’t even dream of, and I can’t put that on you.” He was trying to be the bigger person, trying to protect you from him. “I look at you and I can see just how much you deserve to be loved and cherished, but putting me with you would be… It just wouldn’t be right.” 

You watched him stand with silver-lined eyes, “I don’t care. I don’t care what you’ve done or where you’ve been, I just want you.” 

“You don’t even know me,” he responded, arms hanging limply by his sides. 

“Then let me get to know you. I want to know you,” you insisted, begging him to let you memorize him. Each curve and edge of his body had already been committed to memory, but you wanted more. You wanted to know the intricacies of his mind like the back of your hand, to fully understand what kept him up at night. There had been so many nights where you’d woken up to find him elsewhere, approaching him with questions that we quickly dismissed by his mouth. 

He shook his head again, a startling melancholy glistening in his eyes, and you wondered if it hurt him to hurt you. Spencer always seemed so infallible to you, a completely bulletproof person who couldn’t be taken down, but maybe you really didn’t know him at all. “I’m no good for you,” he whispered. 

You watched him, watched his chest rise and fall with heaving breaths while you stood a few feet apart. Part of you wondered if this was all the time he could give to you, a form of lust that was only ever made for the shadows, but there was nothing more for you. There were questions that hovered in your mind, wondering who or what had made him feel so unlovable that he couldn’t see it in the way you looked at him, or the way you watched him cook you breakfast in the morning, or the way he did his job. 

Glancing up at him, you begged his brown eyes to meet yours, but as soon as they found each other, he looked away from you. “I’m sorry,” he said, and for the first time, you heard it. Pain. 

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, but it wasn’t, not really. It would never truly be okay with you that he thought the right thing to do was to cause harm to two hearts that just wanted to be together. 

He looked troubled, messing with his jacket while he looked outside the window. “I’m just no good–” he started to repeat himself, but you cut him off.

You practically fell into him, reinserting yourself into his life before he had the chance to banish you completely. Lifting yourself up on your tip-toes, you pressed your lips to his, humming against him when his mouth quickly welcomed you home. The two of you stumbling back until he regained some self control, wrapping his arms tightly around you to keep you upright, guiding you until you were firmly pushed up against the wall. 

This felt safe, the way he pinned you to the wall with his own body, it was all so familiar until he broke away. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” he panted. 

Spencer groaned when you pulled him back to you by the silk of his tie, using the thin black fabric to bring his lips home to yours. 

His hands met yours, startling you when he pulled away again, clasping a hand around your wrists and bringing them above your head. Taking away the control you were suddenly so desperate for, but he always gave you the final call, “Do you want this?”

The question seemed so gentle when he asked it, but you felt his inquiry deeply in your chest. You couldn’t lose him to his own self doubt, and when faced with the choice of this part of him and none of him, your decision was already made. You couldn’t let him go, not when everything between you felt so heavy. Anything to keep him close to you. Anything to make him call you baby at least once more. Rapidly, you nodded, despair making room for need in your chest. “Yes,” you sighed, trying to extend your neck to find his lips again, “Please, Spence.” 

He craned his neck, capturing your lips in his, kissing you with so much pressure it felt like he was trying to keep you whole. Dropping your arms, he placed one hand on the side of your neck, keeping you steady while his other hand rifled through the fabric of your skirt. He cupped your core, applying a firm pressure that made your head spin. A whine escaped your throat while he rubbed you over your panties. “I know, baby. I know,” he murmured. 

Pushing your panties to the side, his fingers found you already slick with need. He’d already made you come once that night, but Spencer never really needed to work hard for you anyway. “Fuck,” you gasped as he slipped two fingers inside, your hands roaming over his dress shirt before you wove your fingers through his hair, your other arm wrapping firmly around his torso for stability. 

Spencer’s head drooped, finding the soft skin of your neck and suckling on it while his hand fucked you under the tulle of your dress. Your walls clenched around his fingers while he hummed, “You’re so good. Always so good for me, aren’t you?” 

Nodding, you pulled at his hair, trying to guide his mouth to yours so you could cry into his mouth while you came on his hand. He lifted up one of your legs, giving him a wider workspace to firmly press his thumb to your clit. He didn’t draw any circles—nor did he need to—he just pushed at the bundle of nerves while his long fingers slipped in and out of you.

You didn’t recognize it, but you knew Spencer did, the moment when you finally fell over that edge. You looked up at the ceiling, gasping uncontrollably while he worked you through your orgasm. Your mouth was dry while you tried to catch your breath, whining when he withdrew his hand from your cunt. His clean hand cupped your breast, massaging the flesh while he brought his slick-covered fingers to your mouth. Gratefully, you wrapped your lips around his two fingers, using your tongue to separate them in your mouth, sucking them clean from your own juices before he pulled away from you. 

He stumbled back, grinning at you wildly when he brought his hand to his own mouth, sucking the last of you from his thumb before nodding in the direction of his bedroom. 

Peeling yourself from the wall, you wandered into his room, cloaked in darkness, but you knew your way around even so. You approached his bed, tugging at the zipper of your dress before Spencer pinched it between his own fingers, dragging it down and undoing the clasp before letting the dress fall from you, leaving you with very little to cover yourself. 

Speechless, Spencer drew you into him, tugging at your waist while you tried to make quick work of his clothes. The pit in your chest was growing again, daring to take you over, so you did the only thing you knew how—you concealed the hurt with intimacy. You flung his tie across the room, making your way down the buttons of his shirt before you worked on his belt buckle, biting your lip while you stripped him, feeling overexposed in front of him while you tried to bring him to your level. 

His impatience seemed to grow more than your own, pushing you down onto the soft mattress below while he quickly rid himself of the rest of his clothes. You watched with a piqued interest while his cock stood at attention for you, the pretty pink tip glistening with precum while you watched him climb on the bed, moving you around until you were right where he wanted you. His large hand massaged your breasts, the tender flesh of them flooding between his fingers when he squeezed them tantalizingly. Spencer watched you like you were a meal, laid out as a feast for him. 

He dropped soft kisses to your lips before tracing your jawline with his lips, one arm peeling your legs apart so he could slot himself between your thighs, a moan bubbled from the back of your throat when he sucked on the skin of your chest, hard enough to leave marks while he rutted against you. The slick of your previous orgasm nearly allowed him to slip inside of you before either of you were ready, “Spence,” you whined. 

“Yeah?” He said, immediately pulling himself off of you.

You nodded softly, “I want you.”

Tenderly, he kissed your lips, giving you the space you needed to slip your tongue into his mouth, muffling your moan when he took the opportunity to slide his cock into you. He didn’t give you time to adjust before withdrawing and snapping his hips back to yours. You floated for a moment before he caught you, “Breathe, baby,” he ordered, humming when you took a deep breath. “I’ve got you,” he reassured you, waiting until you exhaled to continue moving. 

He nipped at your neck while he found a rhythm, the ridges of his cock sliding so hypnotizingly along the walls of your cunt that it took you a moment to react. You snaked your arms around his torso, steady gasps coming from your mouth as you clung to him, your nails digging into the flesh of his back and dragging down his skin while he chased his high. 

You kissed him while you did so. Messy, sloppy kisses that barely resembled anything, but any contact was worthwhile to you. Crossing your ankles around him, you clung to him while he mumbled against your lips in a lust-fueled haze, “That’s it, baby. Wrap your legs around– fuck,” he moaned into your mouth, his thrusts growing sloppy while he dropped his hand to your already sensitive pussy, desperate to bring you to a matching peak. 

“Oh,” you gasped, eyes screwing shut while he traced messy circles around your clit. “Fuck,” you echoed him.

You tightened your grip on him while you came on his cock, tight walls pulsing around him while he spilled himself into you, marking you, giving him more of what kept you coming back while he fucked into you until he was empty. Your head spun, watching the ceiling fan spin until you realized he was calling your name. You hummed curiously, and an amused smile bloomed on his face. “I asked if you were okay,” he repeated himself, dragging a knuckle down your face while he looked at you. 

He wouldn’t name the emotion in his eyes, and if you didn’t know any better, you would’ve called it love, but if he wouldn’t call it what it was, then you wouldn’t force it. You swallowed down the words that felt so normal in this moment, they choked you as they went down, and you nodded. “I’m good,” you whispered, “We’re good.” 

His head bobbed as if he needed that confirmation, pulling out of you and kissing the tip of your nose when you winced. He left the room for a split second, coming back with a dampened washcloth. He first dragged the cool cloth off over your forehead, eliciting a soft sigh before he wiped your sensitive core. “Shh,” he cooed, “I’ve got you.” 

Getting off the bed, he pulled his boxers on before climbing back in next to you. You sat up in the bed, wondering what time it was and if there was still time to take the metro home. 

Gently, he rested a hand on your bare hip, squeezing slightly so you’d turn to look at him, “Don’t go,” he whispered. 

You thought about it for a moment, but you saw it again. The look in his eyes, the emotion that he’d never name but that you felt burrowing in your chest more and more with every passing moment. In the peace of knowing how he truly felt, you nodded, laying back down next to him, and sighing contently when he pulled you close, resting your head on his chest.

You always knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Dating Spencer, that is.

You’d been friends long enough—met at a science conference three years ago, had long conversations about memory and metaphor over plastic coffee cups, and laughed over the mutual awkwardness of hotel mixers. The kind of friendship that came easy, like slipping into an old hoodie: warm, loose, no expectations. And maybe that’s why it lasted so long before either of you admitted there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Friends didn’t owe each other explanations. Friends didn’t have to arrange candlelit dinners or schedule around jet lag and crime scenes.

But love—love was more complicated. Love came with the hope of having someone there, and the quiet ache when they weren’t.

You knew what you were signing up for. You knew Spencer Reid was brilliant and kind and unlike anyone else you’d ever met. You also knew that the BAU didn’t exactly take holidays, not for anniversaries, not for birthdays, not even for Christmas. Still, you thought maybe—with enough time and care—you’d learn to live in the space between his absences.

You hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So when Spencer called to say he was back in D.C. and wanted to finally go on a proper date—just the two of you, no profile reports, no phone calls, no interruptions—you’d said yes without hesitating. You dressed up. Chose a restaurant with dim lighting and a soft jazz quartet in the corner. You smiled into your wine glass when he said you looked beautiful and teased him gently for overanalyzing the appetizer menu.

And then his phone rang. Not just a text. A call.

You saw it in his eyes before he even looked at the screen—the shift from soft to sharp. From yours to theirs.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, already pulling his wallet out, fumbling through apologies as he stood. “They need me to give an emergency lecture—someone dropped out, and it’s really time-sensitive—”

You nodded, of course. What else could you do? You kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and watched him walk out the door.

You didn’t cry, but you didn’t finish your meal either.

The second time, a week later, was supposed to be the redo. He made the reservation himself this time, texted you little updates throughout the day about how excited he was. It was raining when you met him, your umbrella half-broken and your coat damp from the metro. Still, he looked at you like you were a work of art. And for an hour, it really felt like you were getting your shot. You were halfway through telling him about a new project at work when his phone buzzed on the table.

You saw it again. That same shift. A case. Emergency flight.

He looked wrecked about it, eyes flicking over your face like he already knew he was letting you down. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I swear I didn’t know—if I don’t go—”

You stopped him before he spiraled. Smiled tightly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But this time, you didn’t wait until the server returned. You gathered your bag, kissed him on the cheek like you were still okay, and left before the hollow feeling in your chest could settle in too deep.

Over the next week, you let the space grow.

You didn’t call as often. Left his texts on read longer than usual. When he tried to video call, you said you were busy. You didn’t bring up another date. You weren’t angry—just tired. Tired of trying to schedule time with someone whose life could be pulled away from you with one phone call. Tired of trying not to make him feel bad for something he couldn’t control. So you made it easier for both of you by stepping back.

Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the shift in your voice over text—shorter replies, longer delays. The way you didn’t ask when he was coming back this time. The way your usual “goodnight” didn’t come with a heart emoji, or anything at all. It wasn’t dramatic, not even really pointed. But it was enough. It was enough to make him sit alone in his hotel room three nights into the case, phone resting in his palm, thumb hovering over your contact while he stared at the blinking cursor in the message box, unsure what to type. He’d rewritten the same sentence five different ways before giving up and pressing “call.”

He never liked making phone calls—never liked the way his voice could sound too eager or too nervous when it wasn’t in person. But silence? That was worse.

It rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey,” You sounded small. Tired in a way that didn’t come from sleep.

“Hi, love,” he breathed, sinking back against the headboard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. Your voice was quiet — quieter than usual. And cracked just barely at the end, like it had been recently worn thin. From crying, probably. He could tell. Spencer could always tell.

Still, he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I saw something today. In the bookstore near the precinct.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he waited. Eventually, your voice came, softer now. “What did you see?”

“They had a copy of The Little Prince. Original French edition.” His voice warmed a little. “It was worn, kind of falling apart. It reminded me of the copy on your shelf.”

That made you smile, just barely. He heard it. Or maybe imagined it. Either way, he kept going.

“I thought about buying it for you. But I wasn’t sure if it’d survive the flight.”

You didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It’s the thought that counts.”

And there it was again — that sadness, thick between the syllables. He could feel it, even through the phone. The weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The heaviness in your throat that didn’t need a name. But he didn’t push. That wasn’t what you needed right now. You didn’t want to talk about why you hadn’t reached out, or how this second failed date in a row had taken the wind out of your hope.

So he told you about a bakery next to the station that made bread shaped like hedgehogs. About the cab driver who insisted on giving him a playlist of 80s jazz fusion. About how the team was tired, but safe, and how JJ had threatened to confiscate his sixth cup of coffee.

He talked gently, letting his voice fill the silence so you didn’t have to.

You didn’t say much. Just murmured in agreement here and there. But Spencer knew you were listening. And you knew that he was choosing every word with care — not to avoid the topic, but to love you without asking anything in return.

Eventually, you said, “I missed your voice.”

Spencer smiled into the receiver. “I missed yours too. A lot.”

Another pause. One of those full ones.

“I think I just need a little time,” you said finally. “Not away. Just… quiet.”

“I get it,” he said. And he did. He always did.

You both fell silent again. Not the heavy kind — this one was soft. Laced with understanding.

Before you hung up, he said, “That book in the window… I’ll see if I can get it shipped. I think it’d be nice on your shelf.”

And you whispered, “Thank you,” like it meant more than he’d ever know.

He didn’t need you to say more. He already knew.

When you turned the key in the lock and tiredly kicked the door of your apartment open, you didn’t expect him to come back early. You didn’t expect to walk into your apartment and find the lights dimmed low, the smell of your favorite takeout wafting from the coffee table, and Spencer sitting on your couch surrounded by a small army of snacks, two soft blankets, and three carefully stacked DVD options: The Princess Bride, Arrival, and Dead Poets Society.

When he heard your keys jingle, he rushed from the couch to wrap his arms around you tightly — warm, steady, and there.

“Surprise,” he whispered into your ear, his voice soft enough to make your knees tremble a little. He held you for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish.

You blinked, caught between a breathless laugh and a lump in your throat. “What… is all this?”

Spencer pulled back only enough to look at you, hands still resting gently on your arms. “I figured if restaurants are cursed, maybe the third time’s the charm.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I wanted to make it up to you. I know I haven’t been here… really been here, and I hate that. I hate letting you down.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Your chest ached with too many emotions trying to surface at once. He reached behind the couch and retrieved a small paper bag. Inside were two of your favorite chocolate bars and a tiny potted plant — slightly crooked, clearly picked out with care. A label stuck out from the soil, handwritten and slanted “Date Night Survivor #3.”

Your throat clenched.

“I know it’s not exactly candlelight and violins,” he added, voice lower now. “But it’s what I’ve got. And I did it because… you deserve someone who shows up. And I want to be that person. Even if I have to keep trying until I get it right.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks before you could stop them — quiet, unannounced, like your body had decided it was safe now to finally let go. Spencer noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to the glint of moisture on your skin, but he didn’t say a word. He just reached for your hand and pulled you in again, gently, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come sit,” he whispered, like you were something precious, breakable, and not already breaking. “Food’s still warm.”

And just like that, the ache inside you softened. It didn’t vanish, but it eased. Because he was here. Because he tried. Because this — all of this — meant something.

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Mm-hm.” 

He puts one arm on the bar. You let your eyes dawdle on his hand. “Are you here alone?” 

“I was with a friend,” you confess, lifting your gaze to his, making steady eye contact for as long as he’ll allow you to. His gaze flits to your mouth as you continue. “But she met somebody. I was told not to wait up.” 

“So you’re in need of company?” 

You tip your head to give him the best glance at you, all eyes and gentle smiles as you nod. “Would that be you?” 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Cherry spritzer.” 

“Can I buy you another one?” 

“Just one, please.” You believe in the overarching reach of sexuality, of being with someone, but you don’t believe in drinking and sex, nor allowing a man to pave the way. “This is my first. If I have more than that I’ll be too tipsy to do what I want tonight.” 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

You tap your nose. The boy —the man— to your delight, seems to like the gesture very much. 

The bartender approaches. Your unknown, lovely looking man asks for a coke and a cherry spritzer, extra cherries, though you didn’t tell him too. He nods to your little plate of cherry stems and asks, “Can you tie a knot?” But before you can answer, he adds, “I’m good at it.” 

Spencer proves to be good at a few things. Kissing, touching, his face in sweet places and his spit-wet thumb to a nerve. One moment you’re sitting at the bar wondering if he’ll take you home and the next you’re taking a taxi, you’re lying in his bed being stripped of your stockings, being laid on top of. You didn’t know he had it in him, this sweaty, adoring kissing in the dark; there’s a difference between kissing for hunger’s sake and kissing with love, and for some strange reason Spencer doesn’t seem to know the difference. 

“Have we met before?” you ask, the ache between your legs sharper than ever as his hand flirts with the boundary of your stomach and the apex of you, begging to go back there and prolong what he’d started. 

“No.” His lips are on your neck, kissing as he slips a finger behind your ear. “I’d remember.”

His chest pushes into yours again, triggering a breathy gasp as the button of your nipple takes the brunt of him. He turns your face, that flirting hand abandoning your wanting cunt to squeeze at your sides, your ribs, the soft hill of your breast. 

“Do you wanna cum again?” he asks softly. The best part is that he’s earnest, not a second of bravado in it as he lays his lips against your cheek. 

You could. He’d done stuff with his mouth you’ve never experienced before, fingertips teasing your wetness as he told you something about tantrics and pleasure, his hand under your knee, holding you open. You’d felt so suddenly out of control and —and honestly, you’d thought yourself half in love with him for the way he was kissing you alone. No shyness, but softness. No rushing, no annoyance when it took you time to tip into pleasure. He’d been delighted when you seized, had sat up to draw the climax out with circles, matching pace to your rising chest. 

You slip a hand into his curls and treat him with the same sweetness he’d given you, kissing him like you love him: for whatever time this is, you really do. He’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever fucked. All it took to meet was a snowstorm and a need to escape the rigid cold. 

“I think you should fuck me now,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly, not so frantic, no more pulling. “Please.”

He kisses you, kisses your jaw, and doesn’t pretend he isn’t eager as he snatches the condom from the dresser. For a while things are giggly and breathless, nervous for a pause, then achingly tight. You stay and Spencer wraps his arms behind you, kissing your neck as you let your leg fall to the side. 

“When did you tell me your name?” you ask, breathless again as his kiss matches his rhythm, slow grinds of his hips, flirting as his hand had been, just a few inches from filling you completely. 

“I don’t remember,” he says through a kiss.

“Spencer.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I just thought I’d try it,” you say, covering your eyes with your hand as his hips flex and he touches that worst part of you over, and over, and over. 

Spencer turns your face to take your hand, slowing to a crawl. He checks your gaze, and sinks into you again. Slow fucking, long kisses, his hands rubbing up the juncture of your neck and down again, then stroking your arms, comfort for a pain you don’t feel. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly. 

“Just this.” 

“No, but what do you want?” he asks, lips pulled into a smile that didn’t quite make it into a laugh. “What feels best? I can get you there again.” 

So you end up more on your side than your back. He helps you lift a leg over his hip and then he’s back to kissing you senseless. You can’t think of anything but being kissed, being fucked, it doesn’t just feel like an okay pastime with a vaguely handsome guy heightened by a drink, it’s fucking with intent. He curls an arm behind your back to hold you against him and he lets you have everything. 

Something must give you away, a shaking leg, the way you breathe; he knows you’re ready before you do, kissing down your chest as his hand sinks between your hot thighs. Slick or not, he finds where he wants to touch, your eyes filling with heat as he slows. 

He draws it out. The second his lips find your chest you trip into cumming for the second time. You hadn’t realised he was close but you cum and he quickly follows, his nose at your collar. He sounds insane. Beggy, breathy moans, a shade from laughter.

“Can I keep going?” he asks just under your ear. 

You can’t say yes fast enough. He’s kind, ignoring your desperate tone. 

You don’t count the number of times you fuck that night. It’s not clear, really. They aren’t separate occasions. You come down and he’s stroking the skin of your neck as you catch your breath, drawing lines down your arm, murmuring, “You okay?” as you nod and slip a hand behind his back. 

He hugs you like he’s known you for years. When you kiss his blushing chest, kiss downward, he turns breathless. It goes on like that for a while. Afterwards, he situates himself between your legs and lets his weight force your thighs into your abdomen, just enough to feel the pressure, searching kisses pressed to your knee. 

It’s not that you fuck all night, it’s just different than before. And when he encourages you under his sheets to lay behind you, there’s a part of you that wants his hand to stray between your legs again, no matter how tired you are. 

“I’d say sorry for keeping you up, but you sounded like you liked it,” he murmurs in the dark, wrapping a solid arm around your stomach and pulling you tightly to him.

You have no regrets. For perhaps the first time ever, it feels as though all your gasps and teary sighs were adored, and not just smugly kept. “You didn’t notice me falling asleep?” 

He laughs at your teasing, his breath kissing the back of your neck. “When did that happen?” 

“…I don’t want to fall asleep, now.” 

“You don’t have to… I can make you a cup of tea, or…” He draws another line down your arm, ending in a swirl before your elbow. “You could shower.” 

Both sound nice, but no. Your legs are still weak from being held, the ache of a good fuck taking home in your stomach. Truthfully, nothing could make you wanna leave whatever it is he’s doing to you now. The shape of his lips warms your shoulder. 

“That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he says, wrapping you up all over again. He can’t decide how to hold you. You grab his hand and keep it there under your breasts, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

How can he say that? He has this strange way of touching that’s making you feel yards prettier than you usually do, and he’d just fucked you like a dream. You couldn’t manage that sort of pleasure alone. 

“Where have you been hiding?” you whisper, toying with his fingers. Might as well do everything you can while you can. 

“Nowhere.” 

“So where have you been?” 

He takes a breath. “Turn around?”

You begin turning and he takes you like a dance, leaning in slowly to kiss you, until his smoothness gives way to a smile. He pulls back. In the barest lick of light from the window, you can see a blush spreading across his nose. 

“Sorry. I should ask, I shouldn’t just kiss you,” he says, cupping your cheek. 

How might you go about marrying this boy? You decide to play it cool, kissing him until you fall asleep in his arms, your lips still parted for another lazy press of his as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. 

—

You wake to something new. There isn’t a man against you hinting for a morning tryst, nor an empty bed, a note to let yourself out when you’re ready. There’s a real, gentle hand on your neck. It slides to your shoulder and rubs. 

“You okay?” a voice asks. 

You force your eyes open, blurry vision further occluded by a face. 

His hair is damp. Like he showered a while ago. Spencer’s hand travels to the back of your neck and touches accordingly. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but it’s almost one. I was worried you might be sick.” 

You close your eyes, smiling, better when he scratches the back of your neck with short nails. “I was up late.” 

“I know, I’m  sorry.” 

You wait for him to tell you why you have to leave, any manner of excuse, but nothing comes. 

“So are you? Okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’ll leave soon.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. If you’re not sick, you can go back to sleep.” 

“And just lay in your bed all day,” you murmur, disbelieving. 

“If you wanted to. Or… you can shower, and I can make you something to eat.” His thumb takes to your cheek. One night stand sex can’t be something he does often, or there’s a real possibility that he’s the first man to ever do it right.

His eyes are so much bigger than you realised. “Do you wear glasses?” 

He stammers, embarrassed, “How would you guess that?” 

You raise a hand to his face and draw a short line against his nose. “You have the marks here. Were you reading?” 

“Just while I was waiting for you.” 

“What do you do?” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t ask what you do, I don’t think we managed to ask each other much of anything,” you say, rewarded for your vulnerability with a chest-aching smile, his canine teeth peeking from under his lips. He still looks kissed, lips a shade of sore you’re sure you’d see on yourself in the mirror. 

“I work for the government,” he says, catching your hand to cradle your wrist, “for something called the behavioural analysis unit.” 

“Like, statistics?” 

He lets your hand fall against his chest, a thin grey t-shirt under your knuckles failing to hide the shapes of him, of which you’d explored at length last night. You kissed as much of his chest as you could and it hadn’t felt like enough, Spencer leaner than you’d realised with a stomach on the soft side, easy to kiss relentlessly. 

Your mouth is drying thinking about it. Spencer watches you wordlessly, before saying, “I guess it is like statistics, especially for me. We try to think about serial criminals in terms of their motives. It’s an attempt at math for something not usually quantitative.” 

“And you’re good at it.” 

“I’m good at math, yeah.” 

“Probability of a,” —your breath betrays you, slightly too hopeful as it catches— “morning kiss if I brush my teeth first?” 

His eyes light up. He leans down carefully, and gives you a chaste, firm kiss. 

You forget that you’re naked, not worried about being shy. The sheets fall away from you as you lift up to meet him. He holds them to your naked waist, the other hand skirting just below your breast. You wish he’d touch you like he did last night, but he isn’t so forward. His kiss is kind. You frown as he pulls away. 

“I had a really great time, last night,” he says, tip of his thumb setting your nerves aflame as it drifts over your skin. “Really great.” 

“Me too.” 

“And you’re okay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing hurts?” he asks. 

“No, of course not.” Your confusion clears. “No, you weren’t like that. I think my legs might be aching but that’ll go away in the shower.” 

“I can run you a bath, if you want. It’s a half bath so you might not be able to stretch out, but it’ll help.” He gives you a smile. The familiarity between you doesn’t want to ebb. 

“Shouldn’t have showered without me,” you say, soft, lest playful be something he doesn’t want on a new day. 

“My hair was greasy. Someone kept touching it.” 

You sit up. Spencer’s hands fall to yours.

It’s hard not to play with someone’s hair when it’s in their face, and when they’re trailing kisses in warm places. He doesn’t blame you really, you can see it in his eyes. 

For a pause, you just sit. 

This is nice. Not being thrown out, left with that aching gap in your chest like you gave something you hadn’t intended when it started. Sex will never be easy again, you realise, not when you know it can be good. 

“You’re not working today, are you?” you ask. 

“No, why?” he asks in turn, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Maybe we…” He waits. He’s pretty enough to force your hand. “We could get to know each other,” you say, gaze taking refuge on his hands. “If you want to.” 

”Really?” 

“I’ve never had that with someone. Maybe we’re, I don’t know, compatible in more ways than one.” You remember yourself, lifting your head, startled by the sheer want in his expression as he holds your fingers. “You’re handsome, and you seem kind. We could have fun.” 

“We could have so much fun,” he says, that flushed blush already spreading across his nose again. 

You draw a line up his chest. “I might need help getting my back, in the shower. That’s not a tight squeeze, is it?” 

“We might have to stand very close.” 

You giggle wildly as he pulls you up, worse when he drapes a sheet over you worrying about the cold. It’s treatment you could grow used to. 

— 

Spencer’s trying to figure out how he got here. You, across the bar sending him looks —Derek swore you were— and the second he got to your chair he realised you were out of his league, but he had nothing to lose beside his pride. 

Then there was you, in bed, pulling on his tie murmuring sweet somethings, sweet pleadings, really, taking another kiss as he moved as you asked. 

Then you, the morning after. You’d slept for long enough to scare him, but when you woke you were exactly the girl you’d been the night before, only slower. Ever so slightly bashful. We could get to know each other. 

Spencer’s not sure how he managed it, but you don’t go home. And on Monday you go to work and come back. On Tuesday he meets you outside of your building to take you for dinner, and you come back with him again, another night up in his arms, tangling his hair with enthusiastic fingers. The sex is good, it is, not just ‘cos his past catalogue of lays were with women who wanted casual experiences solely, or those few times with Ethan where it ended too fast and left him useless. You fuck him like you love him. It’s crazy, except he’s acting the same way. 

When you’re not fucking you’re in his lap, or sitting at the coffee table with your face on his thigh driving him crazy, or you’re laying with your feet tucked under him telling him something about you. He is desperate for the details. 

Like, this is it. You’ve pulled your chair as close to his as humanly possible and thrown both legs over his, basically sharing his seat as you laugh around a messy mouthful of Thai noodles. 

“Don’t look, I’m being disgusting–”

“You’re never disgusting, let me–”

He’s heard you pee. He’s kissed you all over. The human aspects of you don’t bother him. 

“Spence, can you–”

“It’s going up your nose–”

“–stop, holy s–”

He pinches your nose clean. “Tada. Kiss now?” 

“You wanna share?” 

“Yes!” 

“No.” You press your hand to your mouth before he can lean in.

He lets you swallow your mouthful. Your ankle is cool in his hand. When people talk about love, it’s about meeting someone, the dates and the phone calls, the big questions. Spencer didn’t know you could do it like this. Every time you go home, you’re asking if you can come back or pestering him to come your way. 

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks imploringly. 

“No, we’re done kissing for a bit. I want another one of those massages.” 

He can’t joke about it or he’ll turn crimson. You enjoyed a polite leg massage, until he got to your thighs, and things got out of hand. 

“No massages.” He taps you under the chin, letting his hand travel wherever it wants over the side of your face. 

“Fine, no massages. Unless you want one?” 

“No, we agreed tonight we’d just– sleep. My boss is onto me.” 

You wink involuntarily as he cups your cheek, his fingers pushed lightly over your eyes.

You aren’t fiends, but finding someone who matches as you do makes it hard to abstain from the fun. Last night was tame, though; he’d made sure you were happy and fallen asleep to grateful neck kisses. Tonight, he won’t say no, but these all-hours affairs have to stop. Derek’s suspicious of him, Hotch has the situation entirely sussed, he's sure, and Spencer’s sixty percent sure Rossi saw you both outside of Quantico tonight kissing against a toll booth.  

Not that it matters. Spencer has a good feeling you’re not a fling. 

“I got you some stuff earlier,” he says. 

You pull his hand from your face and ask, “What stuff?” 

“Like, stuff you need here. I don’t know what you like, but there’s a cleansing balm– are you allergic to chamomile?” You shake your head. “Um, it might be weird, I got you underwear, just ‘cos of the situation yesterday–”

“I liked wearing boxers, they were snug in a certain region is all–”

“–and some shampoo. That sort of stuff. Just so you can stop suffering with mine.” 

“You know what shampoo I use?” 

“I deduced it.” 

“Ah, yes, mister profiler,” you mumble, bending into your knees to hold his face. “If I hadn’t looked you up online I’d think you were a stalker. How can you guess my favourite ice cream flavour when I never told you?”

He smiles shyly. “I just can.”

“Is there anything else you’ve guessed about me?” 

“Every meal with you takes a half hour. You’re easily distracted.”

He laughs as you protest, “You’re distracting! You don’t need to guess that.” 

“You distract me, too.” 

You gather yourself up and stand over him to kiss his nose. “Spencer,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into his hair, “thank you. You don’t have to buy me stuff, I could’ve just gone home.”

“I don’t really want you to.” 

You raise your head to see him eye to eye. “I don't want to either. This is… I like you.” 

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. The hugs are rarer than kisses, but only because you’ve shared so many of the latter in the dark. He’s been thinking of kisses as the extension to fucking, that they’re okay as long as it’s done in bed, but the more time you stay, the more kisses you’ve shared for no reason at all. You kissed his cheek on the train earlier and he felt it like a shock, tipping his chin down to peck you on the lips, your arm curled behind his back as the traincar rattled over a bend. 

“I like you too,” he laughs. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course I do.” 

“Not just…” 

“It’s not just the sex,” he says, waving his hand behind your shoulder as you curl into him all over again. It feels amazing. 

“Should we go out, then?” 

“We do.” 

“No, should we date? We could be partners, officially.” 

Spencer can’t take it, scooping you into his lap, though you do sit obligingly on his thigh. He shifts to take the weight. 

“Please, let’s be partners,” he says softly. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t, it’s still soon.” 

“Five days and counting. That’s longer than some marriages, you know.” 

“Maybe we can be, like, tentative boyfriend and girlfriend. If you change your mind, no hard feelings.” 

“And if I don’t?” he asks. 

“Then we get married in Vegas.” 

“You could meet my mom.” 

“I’d love to meet your mom.”

“Do you really wanna be my girlfriend?” he asks. 

“I mean… there’s not such a big difference in dating and what we’re doing, right? This is relationship stuff, we just sort of skipped the awkward first dates.” 

“We did,” he says, failing to hide his grin. 

You stroke his cheek with your nose.

Your attempt at abstinence doesn’t last, but neither party is to blame. You have to celebrate somehow. So you finish your takeout dinner and wash dishes bumping hips. He locks the door for the night and you, giggling, struggle to change his A/C. When he drags you by the sleeve to the bedroom, he doesn’t intend on jumping right into it, and for a while he doesn’t. You lay on top of him between his parted legs and he spends a sluggish hour stroking your hairline, listening to you talk. But his devotion turns to your ear, and he’s kissing behind it, and you’re hitching yourself up his chest soon enough. 

“That cherry spritzer was worth it, huh?” you ask lowly, scratching his jaw as you sit over him.

You really are pretty, amplified by your syrupy smile. 

“I guess that depends what you think. Was I as good at making knots as I promised?” he asks. 

“I can’t remember.” 

“I can remind you?”

“That might be prudent, Dr. Reid.” 

“I never should’ve told you about that,” he murmurs, your lips atop his, ready to be parted. 

“I would’ve found out eventually. I’m gonna find out everything about you, honey.” 

Spencer lets his eyes shutter closed. Me first, he thinks, giving in to another endless kiss. He has the advantage, after all. 

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

This isn't one of those cases.

This one whispers.

It waits.

You don't realize how quiet the office is until your pen scratches the paper too loud. The usual background chatter-JJ on the phone, someone's footsteps across the upper level-is absent. Even the AC hums quieter.

The silence presses in as you stare at the open file in front of you.

A cold case. Or... several, technically. Five victims. Five cities. Eight years apart. All women. All vanished without warning, then reappeared days or weeks later, posed like art installations in public or semi-public spaces. Churches. Forests. Rooftops.

No blood.

No cause of death.

No trauma visible to the naked eye.

You glance again at the ME's notes. They always circle the same phrase like it answers anything:

"Exsanguination by unknown method."

It's clinical. Clean. And utterly useless.

You're not sure why Hotch handed the case to you.

He'd said it quietly, like something best not heard. "No one's touched this in years. It's unfinished. Maybe you'll see something we didn't."

He didn't meet your eye when he said it. You didn't question him. You'd thought it would be a simple review. Cross-check the old data, close it out with a shrug. But now...

Now your skin won't stop crawling.

You flip through the case files again.

The first woman was found in New Orleans, laid gently on the steps of an old cathedral. White dress. Clean skin. No footprints, no fingerprints. Her eyes were closed, her hands folded over her abdomen. It looked like a wedding photo gone wrong.

The second victim appeared on the balcony of her own apartment. The door had been locked from the inside.

There were no signs of forced entry, no evidence of restraint. Her roommate had stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and found her slumped elegantly in the patio chair, head tilted back like she'd dozed off.

But she never woke up.

Later, when you're in the kitchenette nursing a cup of over-steeped tea, Emily passes by and eyes the folders on your desk.

"Still digging through that vampire case?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Vampire?"

She shrugs. "That's what we called it. The press never caught the name, thankfully. But yeah. Bloodless, beautiful women, no struggle, no leads. The profile practically wrote itself."

You nod. Try not to let the word vampire settle under your skin like it wants to.

It's ridiculous. Folklore. And yet...You dream about cold mouths and dark rooms that night.

Over the next week, you let the case become personal.

You tell yourself you're being thorough, but deep down, you know better. This isn't protocol anymore. This is obsession.

You track flight records, weather patterns, phone data from towers that don't exist anymore. You start layering old maps with newer ones. You find the exact time the third victim's body would have been staged in a cemetery in Vermont-just before sunrise.

A death so gentle it nearly looked like sleep.

You start noticing patterns, but they don't make sense.

The victims didn't know each other. They lived in different states. No shared occupations. No obvious stalkers. No abuse histories. No inciting trauma.

But there is something.

Something... underneath. You sit with it. You let it simmer.

It's not until you wake up gasping from a dream-a voice in your ear saying lie still-that you realize what you've missed.

You're not thinking about their lives.

You're thinking about their minds.

They were all intelligent.

Not just average-smart. Gifted.

One was a PhD candidate in philosophy.

One spoke six languages.

One ran complex cognitive research for DARPA.

You pull up the notes again, now scanning for overlooked psychological details: IQ scores, test results, academic records. Every single woman had tested in the 99th percentile or higher in spatial reasoning and verbal fluency.

That's not a victim type.

That's a prey preference.

Your stomach twists. Someone hunted them because they were brilliant.

Because their minds were sharp and complex and rare.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

There's no record of a current profiler working this case who would match that pattern. But there was someone... You open the archived BAU logs. Internal assignments.

Cross-referenced names. You scroll. And stop.

One name appears again and again-on handwritten notes, post-briefing memos, early field reports. You don't recognize it.

But it's there, buried behind redacted names and outdated credentials.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

Huh. That's strange.

You should know that name. It's familiar in the way the word chapel or fever dream is familiar-meaningless but heavy, like it's stitched into the hem of something you're not ready to unfold.

You lean back in your chair and blink at the screen.

The name stirs absolutely nothing in you. Not an image. Not a memory. Not even a vague impression.

You ask JJ about him in passing, like it's nothing.

"Spencer? Spencer Reid? You never met him?"

You shake your head. "He left right before I came in, I think."

JJ frowns. "You two never overlapped?"

You shrun " don't think so Why?"

She hesitates. "You just... remind me of someone he used to know. The way you work. The way you think."

You laugh it off. But your hands are suddenly cold.

Somewhere in the night, a whisper curls behind your ear.You turn. No one's there. You check the lock on your door twice before bed. You don't tell the team what you've found.

You don't know what to tell them. You don't know why it feels like a secret. But something in you-deep and old and buried —wants to keep it that way.

The case hasn't left you alone. Not once since you took it.

The initial report was thin-three missing women, a tenuous geographic pattern, no clear signs of connection. Cold case, they said. Technically inactive.

Until the fourth woman vanished. Until you opened the file and noticed a pattern.

Now it lives on your desk. In your mind. Beneath your skin.

Victims aged between late twenties and early thirties, all professionally successful, all photographed regularly online before their disappearances-public lives, curated smiles. All gone without a sound. No forced entry. No signs of struggle. In each case, their bodies turned up weeks later, drained of blood. Pale.

Preserved. Still beautiful.

You know the Bureau doesn't want to believe in ritual killings. No one wants to say the word "vampire" out loud.

But Emily had. Jokingly. "Better sharpen your stakes.

This one's starting to feel Dracula-adjacent." It stuck with you. It was stupid. Silly.

But now, every time you open the file, the word scratches at the inside of your skull. You've been digging hard. Harder than you usually do, even for your own cases. You haven't told the team how deep you've gone. There's no need. Not yet. You aren't hiding anything. Not really. You're just... working. Quietly.

One week in, you found something. His name again.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

It came up once-buried in a cross-reference from an old forensic database note. Not assigned to the case.

No interviews logged. No reports filed. But the handwriting in the margin of one of the original files matched the signature on his archived BAU reports.

Same curl of the "R." Same careful slope in the "d."

He had looked into it. Alone. And for some reason, never told anyone. Which means he had access. Interest. Proximity. So you started researching him. His name brought up hundreds of results. Thousands.

Old cases. Lectures. Brief interviews. Then, nothing. A vanishing act. Quiet exit from the Bureau. No press. No retirement announcement.

Just... silence.

You asked about him once. Casually.

Rossi had just shrugged. "Brilliant mind. Retired early. Needed space." That was it. No photos on the walls. No old stories. No lingering ghost.

The name meant nothing to you. You were sure you'd never met him. You would have remembered someone like that.

But his name kept showing up-just faintly enough to make it easy to miss. Two victims had borrowed books from a rare library where he used to lecture. Another had interned at a university where he gave a seminar. A fourth had signed up for a night course in behavioral psych-he'd been a guest speaker that same semester.

You connected the dots. You're trained to. Still, you haven't told anyone. Not Emily. Not Tara. Not Hotch.

You don't know why.

There's no reason to keep it to yourself, but something makes you hesitate every time you think about it.

Some strange instinct. It's not fear, exactly. It's possession. You found him. This connection. This hidden thread. It's yours. And for now, you want to keep it that way.

You work late most nights, filing notes into a private drive and physically locking any hard copy evidence in your desk. You've never been secretive before. But it's easy, somehow. Natural. Like your body knows how to hide this.

The case continues to evolve in odd ways. New forensic results arrive from the oldest scene-trace cologne on the victim's clothing. Not her own.

Masculine. Expensive. You add it to the profile.

A victim's ex-boyfriend finally returns your call, swears she'd been acting strange the month before she disappeared. "Like she was in love or something," he'd said. "But there was no one else."

You nod, write it down. Love. You've profiled worse motives.

You return to the original reports again and again. They keep calling you back. The locations. The placement of bodies. It all has a rhythm, and you know if you can just sync to it, you'll see what he wants you to see.

You don't know why you think of the unsub as a he. But you do. You always have.

The first dream wakes you at 3:47 AM.

You lie there for a moment in the dark, breath shallow, sweat cooling on your collarbones.

You don't remember all of it. Just flashes. Warm hands on your hips. A mouth on your neck. The weight of a body pressing yours into something soft-a bed, maybe. Breathing against your ear. Fingers curled tight in your hair. You'd been saying something. No-moaning something.

His name? You don't remember.

The only clear moment is the very end-his teeth at your throat. Not biting. Not yet. But close. And then the sharp pierce.

Your hips had rolled. Your back had arched. You woke up with your pulse pounding between your thighs.

You pressed the heel of your palm there in the dark, trying to slow the rush of heat. You hadn't meant to touch yourself. Not for that reason. It wasn't like that.

It was just—

Your body didn't know the difference.

You showered long and hot, staring at your own face in the steam-streaked mirror.

You told yourself it was because of Emily. That stupid vampire joke. Of course your mind twisted it. You'd been deep in crime scene files, reviewing bite patterns, notes on exsanguination, toxicology panels. You weren't losing it.

It was just suggestion.

You kept telling yourself that, even when you smelled something warm and woody lingering in your sheets.

Even when you checked your neck in the mirror, just in case.

By the end of the second week, you've built a working profile of your unsub- intelligent, calculated, likely mobile, emotionally cold but capable of mirroring affection. Possibly charming. Comfortable with blood.

Comfortable with control.

You type the name Spencer Reid at the top of the list. And highlight it in red.

~~~~~~~

The landlord had warned you not to get your hopes up.

"There's nothing in there. Cops combed it already.

Place is still the way she left it, but I haven't touched a thing. Figured it was better that way. Out of respect."

Respect. You nod, thank him quietly, and step through the door with your flashlight raised.

The apartment is like a photograph-untouched, preserved. Frozen in time.

Your boots disturb a soft layer of dust just beyond the threshold. It's thick enough that your footprints follow you across the wood flooring, quiet and solitary. The air is still. Dry. There's no hum of electricity, no ticking clock. No noise at all but the soft creak of the floor beneath your weight.

You close the door behind you, sealing the silence.

It smells like old wood, paper, and perfume that's long since faded. A shadow of who she was.

Your beam of light moves carefully across the living room-past a leaning stack of magazines, a turned-down throw blanket, a crooked wine glass half-full of air and memory. Everything is coated in dust.

Everything but one thing.

A small journal sits neatly on the coffee table, completely clean. Not a trace of dust. It's so out of place you don't approach it right away.

You circle the room first, letting your body adjust to the unease sitting low in your stomach.

Why hadn't this been tagged or logged? If it had been here before, someone missed it. Or someone placed it recently.

You reach for it eventually, gloved hand hovering just long enough to let your instincts warn you-this is something.

You flip it open. There's nothing inside but a torn scrap of paper.

Handwriting, sharp and deliberate, pressed deep into the page.

55 Forest Line Road. Cabin. No service. Ask for no receipt.

You stare at it for a moment, brow furrowing. The handwriting is unfamiliar-It has that same practiced neatness you've seen in academic files and lectures.

Could belong to a student. A doctor. Or a killer. No receipt? Was this to throw people off? or was this an innocent note.

The name Spencer Reid flickers across your mind, but you brush it aside. There's nothing linking him here yet.

Still, you tug the journal into your jacket and zip it up before moving deeper inside. The bedroom is worse somehow. Not because of the dust. Not because of the silence.

But because it doesn't feel like a crime scene. It feels personal.

The bed is neatly made. The kind of careful made that suggests ritual, not routine. There's a single pillow. A silk robe hanging on the back of the door. A smudge of old lipstick on the vanity mirror.

Your flashlight lands on the roses. They sit wilted on the nightstand, their petals browned and shriveled inward like they're still holding their breath. Next to them, you find something strange.

Slips of paper. You crouch down to look closer. They're aged, yellowing slightly, curled at the corners.

Love notes. You scan a few, careful not to breathe too close:

My beloved- Your silence is not emptiness, but invitation. I know you're listening. The moon watched us last night. She always has. You're not mine, and still you will be.

Your stomach tightens. The penmanship is elegant. Slanted. The kind of calligraphy no one writes in anymore, like the letters were inked with a quill instead of a ballpoint.

Victorian-style, but not replicas. Originals. The texture of the paper, the aged corners, the subtle scent of something musky-old books, or dried rosewater-tells you they weren't printed or planted from some cheap boutique shop.

They feel... lived in. As though they were meant for someone else entirely, and you're only intruding.

You gently replace them, leaving them exactly as you found them.

Standing in the bedroom, you try to picture her life.

The victim. The one who lived here. She had someone—Something—in her world that no one else knew about.

No forced entry. No signs of violence. Just love notes and wilted flowers.

You backtrack through the apartment, moving slower now. Listening harder. Like if you breathe just right, the walls might whisper something back.

Your hand brushes your jacket pocket, fingers curling instinctively around the journal.

The address burns at the back of your mind.

You don't know what you expect to find out there.

You only know you have to go alone.

You were about to leave.

Heels turned toward the door, hand halfway to the knob. The apartment had given you enough, you thought. More than enough, really. The journal. The address. The roses. The strange letters still clinging to perfume and old paper.

But something caught your eye.

A soft glint in the dark. Low to the floor, near the arm of the couch. Almost hidden by the hem of a blanket.

You nearly missed it. You lower your flashlight and tilt your head.

A scarf. Deep red. Satin. Slouched in a pool like it had been dropped, not placed.

It should've been covered in dust like everything else, but the fabric shone. Smooth. Clean. It shimmered faintly under the beam of your torch, catching on the grain like water.

You crouch down slowly. The silence of the apartment stretches with you, wrapping around your shoulders like something watching.

Your fingers brush it. And you freeze. You know this scarf. It's not a maybe. Not a coincidence.

You owned one just like it. Not like it-this one. Same color. Same texture. Same faint snag in the weave near the hem, where the corner once caught in your jacket zipper.

You fumble for the tag, hands suddenly clumsy with disbelief.

Maison du Noir. The brand you bought it from two years ago in a boutique in D.C. One of a kind.

You press the fabric closer to your face, inhaling instinctively.

The scent hits you like a punch to the chest. Your perfume.

Not just the same brand. Your exact scent. Warm amber and white woods with a trace of fig. The one that clings to your pillowcases at home. The one people compliment you on in elevators.

The one no one else should be wearing.

Your heart stutters in your chest, a beat too fast. Your skin prickles. The torch shakes slightly in your grip.

This woman couldn't have owned the same scarf and worn your perfume.

She wasn't you. And yet. You stand too quickly, the world shifting sideways around you. The scarf clenched in one hand, your other clutching the flashlight as you turn your gaze to the hallway.

It stretches out before you like a throat waiting to be swallowed. Narrow. Dark. Silent.

You don't want to go down it. Not really. But something pulls you forward.

You step lightly, slowly, like even the floorboards might scream if you move too fast. You pass closed doors-bathroom, maybe. A closet. The final door at the end hangs open, just slightly.

There's a table there. Small. Ornate. Covered in more dust.

You raise your flashlight, the beam cutting across cracked wallpaper and cobwebs. The smell is stronger here-faded roses and something richer underneath.

Musk. Like sweat, or sex, or something that doesn't belong.

The light dances over a frame.

You move toward it on instinct. It's a photo. And your knees nearly give out. You're in it. Smiling. Hair down. A little windblown. Your head tilted like you were laughing at something just out of frame.

Your hand is raised, frozen mid-motion, like you were reaching toward someone.But the other half of the photo is gone.

Torn away.

The edges are ragged. The paper peeled back in soft tufts like it had been yanked in anger. Someone used to be beside you. Close enough to touch.

But now there's only you. Only your smile. Only your face. You stare at it for a long time, blinking hard.

You have no memory of this photo. None. Not the moment. Not the outfit. Not the expression.

It's like seeing yourself through a window in a house you've never lived in. Your scalp tingles. Your throat closes.

You try to come up with answers. Maybe the victim knew you. Maybe this is part of the case. Maybe there's an explanation- A breath ghosts over the back of your neck.

Warm.

Too close.

Your heart lurches. You spin around, flashlight raised like a weapon, breath locked in your chest.

Nothing. No one. Just the hallway. Just silence.

But your skin is crawling. The scarf is clenched too tight in your hand, the perfume clinging to your fingers like guilt.

You look back down at the photo one last time.

You don't know who took it. You don't remember being in the location of the photo, smiling like that. Wearing that. You’ve never been here before.

But somehow- She had something of yours. And maybe—maybe you had something of hers. You drop the photo. You don't look back as you leave.

You barely remember getting back to your car. The cold night air had felt like a slap, but even then, your mind stayed inside that apartment-among the dust and ghosts and the scent of your own perfume on someone else's death. You don't turn on the radio. You don't check your mirrors.

You drive back to Quantico like you're being pulled by a string, sharp with purpose, fraying at the edges.

The Bureau never really sleeps. You pass two techs in the lobby and nod at the night guard, who barely looks up from his crossword. You slide your badge over the scanner and head for your desk like a sleepwalker.

Everything is too quiet.

You scoop the cold case file off your desk-loose papers, rough notes, the thin threadbare links you've managed to make between women who were never supposed to be found. Then the journal.

You slip it from inside your jacket and press it between the other folders as you walk, as if that'll help hide what you weren't supposed to take.

You find a quieter room-small, tucked behind a half-lit hallway near Archives. No windows. No foot traffic. Good.

You spread out the file. Flip open the journal. Your torch beam has since dimmed, but your laptop hums to life under your fingers, screen casting you in cold blue light.

You dig deeper. Victims. Timelines. A pattern that no one else had seen because no one had looked long enough. But it's there

-Whispers beneath the data, woven into the pages like a secret rhythm. There's a strange intimacy to it now. A closeness you can't explain. You know these women.

You feel them. But what unsettles you more is her. The woman whose apartment you were in tonight. There's no record of you knowing her. You scan every note, every record, every contact. Nothing connects you. You check the FBI internal systems, your own phone history, old email archives. Nothing. And yet your scarf was there.

And a photo of you. The journal lies open to the page with the cabin address, but you haven't looked at it again. Not yet. You lean back in your chair and rub at your eyes, just as the door opens.

"Hey, night owl," Garcia chirps, stepping in without knocking. Her unicorn mug is full and steaming, her cardigan clashing cheerfully with the sterile lighting of the room.

You close the journal half a second too late. Her eyes flick to the file, the map, the notes, the screen.

She sips loudly. "You're working the vampire case," she says, not even pretending to be surprised. "Spooky."

You exhale a breath, nod once. "Just following a lead." She walks closer, bouncing a little with each step, peering at the photos on your screen like she's watching a true crime show for fun.

Then she says it, so casually it almost doesn't register. "Isn't it strange how they all look like you?"

You blink. "What?"

She points a lilac-painted fingernail at the row of victim portraits. "Yeah. Hair, face shape, that whole soulful-eyed lost-girl thing." She shrugs and sips again. "Could just be my brain being weird. But it's like you're looking in a mirror from the uncanny valley. Creepy."

You hadn't noticed.

You hadn't noticed.

You stare at them now. Closer. Closer. And she's right. They do look like you. Not identical, no. But similar. Similar enough. Variations on a theme. A pattern hiding in plain sight. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Is that why you've been chasing this so hard? Why you're doing things you shouldn't-visiting closed scenes alone, keeping things off the books?

It's just a coincidence. It has to be. You weren't even on the team when most of these women died. Some cases go back years. You were given this by Hotch. Handed it like a puzzle no one else had time for.

But why you? Why now?

Garcia's still talking, something about a shoe sale at a store that doesn't ship and a pair of heels that may or may not be cursed. You nod along. But your mind has already spun off again.

The scarf. The photo. The journal that wasn't covered in dust. The way it was just sitting there, like it had been placed for you.

You hadn't told Garcia about it. You hadn't told anyone. Because, deep down, something told you not to. Not yet.

You reach for the scarf in your bag. Touch it. Still warm from your coat. Still yours. Still impossibly, unforgivably wrong.

You smile faintly at Garcia as she waves and leaves, already halfway into another conversation with herself.

Then you look down at the address again.

A cabin. In the woods. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table. You're not supposed to be doing this alone. But something about it... needs to stay secret. Like if you tell someone, you'll ruin whatever this is. Or worse-you'll be stopped. You tuck the scarf back into your bag. You'll go tomorrow. You have to.

Whatever this is—whatever's pulling you in—it's waiting. And it knows you're coming.

The Woods Don't Want You Here, You shouldn't have come at night.

Even you can admit that now, standing alone in the dark with your car a distant shape behind you and the mouth of the forest yawning open ahead. No moon. No stars. Just a worn wooden sign leaning sideways in the undergrowth, its carved arrow faded and moss-eaten.

"Cabin →"

No distance listed. No map. Just a direction.

Your boots sink slightly into damp earth as you step out past the tree line, flashlight drawn, your other hand resting awkwardly against the grip of your service weapon-not out of training, not out of confidence, but as if it might do something to calm your pulse. You've never had to shoot anyone. You don't think you could.

But right now, the weight of the gun is the only thing that feels remotely solid.

There's no path. No markers. Just uneven forest floor slick with moss and leaves and shallow roots that feel like they're reaching up to trip you. The air is damp, but your lips are dry. Every breath feels strange-too cool.

You adjust your grip on the flashlight and glance behind you. Nothing.

Just the way you came, swallowed up in black. You press forward.

The beam of light dances ahead, bouncing off tree bark and swallowing shadows. It barely seems to make a dent in the darkness. The farther you go, the deeper it gets-not just in distance, but in quality. Like even the air doesn't want to let light through. A strange thickness creeps in. It clings to your coat, your skin. It makes every footstep louder than it should be.

You tell yourself it's fine.

Your imagination. Your brain playing tricks because it's late and you're alone and the forest at night is always unnerving. The human mind doesn't like the dark. It tries to fill it. That's what you told yourself earlier, whispering aloud as you walked to keep yourself company.

You say it again, voice soft and strained:

"It's just a phenomenon. Brains fill in gaps in sensory input. Hallucinations. Illusions."

The trees don't care.

You squint downward, careful of slick stones and branches, using the light to find your footing.

Everything is wet. Even your breath fogs in front of you, though it wasn't cold before. You think of the way fog gathers on a mirror right before something steps out of view in a horror movie.

You shake the thought off.

Keep moving.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. Time doesn't feel normal out here. There's no signal on your phone. You stopped checking it after the third attempt. Your flashlight flickers, once. You slap the side of it and it steadies, but your heartbeat doesn't. It lodges higher in your throat.

Then—

A voice.

Distant. Soft. Male. Familiar and not. Not distinguishable.

You freeze. Spin around too fast, feet stumbling.

"Hello?" you call, breath catching.

No answer.

Nothing but the creak of tree branches far above and the sound of your own blood in your ears.

You turn slowly in a circle. No other lights. No movement. No beam cutting through the dark to meet yours.

Not your team. Not anyone.

Maybe you imagined it. Or maybe-maybe it was your team. Maybe Hotch sent someone to follow up on you.

Maybe Garcia flagged your searches. Maybe they're just behind the ridge, flashlights off for some godforsaken reason.

But that doesn't feel right.

Your fingers tighten on the flashlight. You press on.

There's a cold slick feeling on your spine now, like someone watching from just out of view. Not a person.

Not exactly. Something else. You shake it off and keep going. The trees grow closer. More twisted. More hungry-looking. Like they curve slightly toward the path you're taking.

You speak out loud again, needing to hear your voice:

"I'm fine. I'm just-fine. Forests do this. The isolation. It tricks you."

It's not comforting. The silence is too deep.

There are no birds. No wind. Not even insects. Just the soft squelch of your boots and the brittle snap of twigs underfoot. The forest is still. Like it's holding its breath.

Your flashlight flickers again. This time it stays on —but you notice the beam seems weaker. Or maybe the darkness just feels thicker now. Heavy like velvet. You blink hard.

Your eyes are straining. And the feeling of being watched sharpens.

Your shoulders stiffen. You glance to the right-nothing. Left-nothing. But you know. There's something.

Something in the trees. You don't know if it's an animal. Or a person. Or something else. But you're not alone. Not anymore.

Still-you press forward. You've gone too far to turn back now. You don't even know if you could find your way back. The path behind you is gone, swallowed. All you can do is keep going.

You walk faster. Then slower. Every shift in sound makes your heart stutter. Every breath of wind —if it is wind-feels like it's circling your neck.

You're not fine. And you know it. But still... the cabin is waiting.And whatever's ahead......it knows you're coming. You nearly miss it.

The trees thin just slightly ahead and you think it's another trick of your tired eyes, another shape that will disappear when you blink-but then your boots scuff against soft pine needles, and you're in a clearing.

The cabin stands in front of you.

Small. Wooden. Nestled in the clearing like it grew there. The roof slants low and leans slightly to the left, and the porch is caved in on one side like something heavy stepped too hard once and never came back to fix it. The windows are dark. The curtains behind them unmoving.

The door is ajar.

Your light stutters across the frame. You don't move closer.

Something in you freezes.

Like prey.

The air is wrong again-thick and still. Your hand moves back to your weapon, resting against it more for reassurance than function. You won't use it. You'd fumble the draw. But it makes you feel like you could do something if you needed to.

You narrow your eyes at the building.

Maybe this wasn't the cabin.

Maybe it was one of those old ruin shacks hikers stumble on in the middle of nowhere and write horror stories about.

You curse under your breath.

This was stupid.

Still, you don't turn around.

You call out instead, voice wavering only slightly.

"Hello?" No answer. You raise your voice. "Is someone inside?" The forest doesn't answer. No insects. No birds.

Nothing.

It's the kind of silence that makes you feel like the world is watching. Like the trees are holding their breath. You take a tentative step forward.

"FBI," you say, like anyone living in a place like this would care. The door doesn't move. The cabin doesn't creak in response.

You step onto the porch, avoiding the rotted plank. You breathe once, twice. You cross the threshold.

It smells old. Dry. Not quite like rot, but like paper left too long in the sun. Dust thick in the air. But not empty

—there's furniture here. A faded couch with sunken cushions. A small table. Shelves. A coat still hanging by the door. Someone lived here. You sweep your flashlight across the room, slowly.

Everything is covered in dust, but there's a strange order to it. Like whoever was here wasn't expecting to leave. Like they planned to come back.

You move down a narrow hallway, each footstep muffled. The floorboards creak only once, under your heel. Three doors. You pick the one at the end. It opens with a soft groan.

A bedroom-what's left of one, at least. The bed frame rusted, half-eaten by time. The mattress long since collapsed into itself. Curtains torn where a raccoon or something worse must've pushed through at some point.

But your eyes catch on the vanity across the room. Old. Cracked. Half-rotted. But still standing. You approach slowly.

There's something on the tabletop. Yellowed paper. Handwritten notes. Love notes. Not the same ones from the victim's apartment. But the same style. Same curling handwriting. Same aged paper, folded and pressed with care. A strange perfume clinging faintly to the pages, like they'd been sealed in a drawer for decades. You flick through them. One by one.

Poetic. Obsessive. Dark. The last one catches in your breath.

It has your name. Not your last name. Not your badge. Just your name.

Written with such achina intimacv it makes your stomach tighten. Your fingertips go cold. Your heart stutters hard against your ribs.

Then -

Creaaaaak.

Soft. So soft. But in the silence, it echoes like thunder. You whip around, breath caught in your chest. The hallway behind you is empty. Still. You strain your ears. Nothing.

But- There. At the end of the hall. Just barely visible past the cracked bedroom door- A shape. A silhouette. Tall. Still.

Perfectly framed in the jagged corner of the doorframe that leads back out into the main room.

Someone's there. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching. Your mouth goes dry.

Your light trembles in your hand. Your legs lock. You stare. And he stares back.

You can't move.

You won't move.

The shadow at the end of the hall hasn't shifted, hasn't stepped forward, hasn't breathed-but it's there.

Watching.

Leaning in. Just slightly.

Just enough to be wrong.

Your body goes rigid.

It's not the kind of stillness you choose-it's the kind of stillness that happens to you, the kind that floods your chest and locks your throat and makes your fingertips tingle with the ice of panic.

It's not a man.

You want it to be. A lost hiker. A squatter. A drifter who found a place to sleep and doesn't want to be disturbed. But you know.

In the way it's too still. In the way its head tilts— just a little too far.

In the way the light from the hallway bends strangely around it, like it's swallowing up the darkness and making it worse. It doesn't move. It doesn't have to.

You don't know how long you stand there, staring. Long enough for your arms to start to tremble.

Then, with shaking hands, you try to raise your flashlight. Try to aim it directly at the thing. But the light flickers once-then goes out. Just dies in your hand. You don't breathe. The black around you is so complete it's suffocating.

You're not sure if your eyes are open or closed. The silence bears down on your ears, crushing them, like sound itself has vanished. Your knees go weak and your back hits the wall behind you. Dry wood crumbles at the touch. Dust kicks up and catches in your throat but you don't cough, don't dare make a sound. The corners of your eyes start to burn.

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to rewind time, to go back to your car, to tell yourself this wasn't worth it, that no case is worth this.

You squeeze your eyes shut. And it's suddenly worse.

You feel it move. Not the sound of footsteps. Not the groan of wood. Nothing so obvious. But the air changes. The pressure shifts. It's closer.

Your skin tightens. The fine hairs on your arms rise like they're being pulled by a magnet. Your lungs scream for air but your chest stays locked.

You don't open your eyes. You can't. You can hear it now.The breath. Not loud-but present. Measured. Deep. Inhumanly steady. Like it doesn't want you to know it isn’t exactly human.

It smells like—You don't want to know. But you do.

Iron. And cedarwood. And something else. Cologne, faint and old, like it was worn by someone once deeply in love. And blood. Not fresh. Not sharp.

Familiar. Something brushes your cheek. Not a touch. Not yet. Just the suggestion of one. A presence. Like its face is inches from yours. You flinch, every muscle taut, heart hammering like it's going to crack your ribs open. But still-you don't look.

Something inside you knows better. Your hands are shaking at your sides. You curl your fingers into fists against the wall, splinters biting your skin.

Your mind is trying to escape you. Rationalizing.

Bargaining. Maybe this is just your imagination. Sleep deprivation. Stress. The cold case. The photos. The dreams. The perfume. The letters. Your name. Maybe none of this is real.

Maybe you fell asleep in your car and this is just another nightmare-another product of letting yourself get too close to these victims.

But the breath on your lips is real. The darkness pressing against your body is real.

Whatever is in this cabin with you — It's real. And it's waiting.

Waiting for you to open your eyes. Your eyes are still closed. Tightly. Desperately. Like if you just keep them shut long enough, this will all go away. But it doesn't.

You can feel him. He's there. Right in front of you. And then-he speaks.

"You're right, you know. The brain creates a phenomenon called the Ganzfeld effect..."

His voice is low, unhurried. Calm in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"When there's no sensory input, the mind starts to invent. Fill in the blanks. You see things in the dark that might not be there...

A pause. So still you can hear your pulse pounding in your ears.

"In your case, you just perceive." Your breath catches. You said that. Out loud. To yourself. While walking through the woods. Trying to calm down. And now someone-he-is using your own words against you.

Your chest tightens, breath shallow and sharp. He was watching you. The whole time. And suddenly, knowing he's real is worse than if he were just some hallucination. Because that voice... it sounds human. No static. No growl. No monstrous distortion.

It's a man's voice. Warm. Articulate. Measured. Like it belongs to someone who reads leather-bound books in quiet corners of old libraries. Someone who smells like cedar and worn paper and rain.

Someone you should be able to trust. You shake.

And then, because your throat is dry and your heart is climbing too high up your ribs, you whisper:

"W-Who are you?"

Another pause. A smile, maybe. You don't know why, but you feel it— like it's curling behind the silence.

"Maybe if you opened your eyes, you'd see." You flinch like he touched you.

But he didn't. You just know he's closer now.

You press back against the crumbling wall. The wood cracks behind you. You think if you open your eyes, you'll scream, and if you scream, he'll—

"W-Why are you doing this?" The words come out fractured. You hate how afraid you sound.

He exhales-soft, patient. Almost...fond.

"I missed you."

Your blood turns to ice. Your body doesn't move, but your mind does —it spins and spirals, searching for an anchor, for sense.

No.

No.

You shake your head, your fists clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

"You….. you've got the wrong p-person."

You feel his presence shift, like he's leaning closer. No contact, not yet. But the threat of it pulses in the space between you.

His voice is lower now. Less clinical. And somehow worse.

"No. I don't."

You stop breathing. Because he isn't cruel. Not yet. There's no rage in his tone. No violence. Just something slower, deeper. That quiet type of madness that doesn't need to scream to be dangerous.

He's not taunting you to scare you. He's speaking like you owe him something. Like he's been waiting. Like he's... hurt.

"You don't have to be afraid," he adds, and that's when it all starts to bleed together-

the voice, the scent, the notes with your name, the photograph, your scarf on a dead woman's couch, the whisper of your name in dreams you didn't remember having. You shake your head harder. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and you keep them closed, tighter, tighter, as if it'll protect you. You don't know this man. You don't. You can't.

And yet...

"Don't run again," he says, quieter now. "I won't let you." And your heart shatters against your ribs, because he says it like he's sad. Like he's tired. Like he's done chasing. Like you've already run before. But you haven't. You're sure of it. You have to be. You don't remember him.

Not his voice. Not his scent. Not those hands-hovering, but not touching. And yet, when he whispers-so close you feel the air stir against your ear—

"You came all this way for me, didn't you?"

—you start to wonder if maybe you did.

"Open your eyes." His voice is so close now, it's warm against your ear.

You flinch, your whole body trembling, but he doesn't touch you again-yet. You feel his breath like a pull, magnetic and wrong.

"Please," he adds, quieter. "I'm sorry I scared you." But he doesn't sound sorry. There's no remorse behind it. Just hunger wrapped in velvet.

Still, something inside you slips-maybe from exhaustion, maybe from some small and desperate need to put a face to the thing stalking your nightmares and dragging you into shadowed cabins in the woods.

You suck in a breath, chest tight, and slowly, so slowly, your eyes open. And he's standing in front of you. Just a man. Not a creature. Not a shadow. Not a demon. His silhouette isn't fractured or wrong in the light now.

He's not some crawling horror lurking at the edge of your vision. He's tall, lean, and pale in the washed moonlight filtering through the broken windows.Brown eyes. Tousled hair. A wool coat clinging to his large and lean frame. He could be anyone. He could be normal.

But he's not.

Because there's something about him that still doesn't sit right. His posture too still. His eyes too wide. Like he's memorizing you. Like he already knows what you're going to say before you say it. He's smiling. But it doesn't reach his eyes.

"I-I don't know you," you whisper, voice trembling.

His expression softens, but it's not comforting. It's... affectionate. He tilts his head, like he's sad you don't remember. "I can help you," he says gently.

You don't move. Then-his hand lifts, cupping your cheek. His touch is freezing. Your skin twitches under it, but you don't pull away. You can't.

"You want answers, don't you?"

"That's why you came to find me."

"Fate brought you back to me."

He says it with certainty. With ownership.

You think—he's insane. You think-this man is delusional. But you nod. Because... you do want answers.

"I-I need answers," you murmur, eyes on his chest now anywhere but his face. And he smiles wider. Still not reaching his eyes, That was all he needed.

He didn't tell you what it would feel like. He didn't warn you. His fingers slide across your temple-and it's like a dam breaks inside you.

The first memory hits like a brick to the skull: Him. His mouth on your neck. His voice in your ear. Your body arching under him in the dark. His fangs sinking in - You choke, stumble. But it doesn't stop. You see flashes like lightning-burned across your vision. Him. Biting you. Holding you. Whispering that you were his. Your blood on his lips. Your name on his tongue. Your blood on his lips. Your name on his tongue. You telling him you'd never leave him. Him laughing.

Your breath shudders as your knees almost give out. You. Together. Kissing like you were starving. Him saying he'd burn down the world if you asked. You laughing. Telling him he were the only thing that ever truly belonged to you. You remember everything.

The love. The hunger. The violence. And the fear. He was a vampire. You knew that once. You chose it. And you left. You ran.

Your eyes blur with tears as your present self spirals through the past. And then —

You remember his name.

Doctor Spencer Reid.

The cold air of the forest. The notebooks. The photo. The cases you thought you worked alone. He was there. You remember. Every glance. Every touch in the elevator. The way he would linger by your desk. The way your coworkers never acted like it was strange that you never mentioned him.

Because to them-you had. To them-you'd always been together. You remember asking JJ about him. You remember the way she looked at you.

"Of course Spencer... You two-your time at the BAU overlapped, right?"

You'd shaken your head. Said you never met him. But that wasn't true.

He'd erased himself from you.

The image slams into your chest again:

That photograph at the victim's apartment. The torn edges. The smile on your face. The empty space beside you. It was him. And now it's like someone turned the volume up too loud, all at once.

Memories of him press in from all sides —

His hands on your body. Your voice begging. The way he touched you like you were fragile. Like vou were sacred.

The way he fed from you. And made you love it.

Your legs finally give out and you crumple to your knees, crying, shaking, gasping for air that won't fill your lungs.

And he's still there. Silent now. Watching.

You want to scream at him. To hit him. To beg him to stop. But the memories won't.

The way you'd whisper his name like a prayer.

The way you told him you'd die for him.

The way he told you he already had. It's too much.

It's too much.

You're breaking apart and no one is going to put you back together. Not after this. You're his. You've always been his. And somehow, you ‘forgot’ . But he didn't. He never stopped watching. Never stopped waiting.

Never stopped wanting you back. You don't know how long you've been crying.

The memories still throb in your skull like your mind has been split open and glued back together all wrong.

You're on the floor of a rotting cabin in the woods, somewhere far from logic and further still from safety

—but it's not the splinters in your knees or the cold seeping into your bones that's making your hands shake.

It's him.

He crouches down in front of you, his expression soft like he's watching a wounded animal. There's nothing threatening in his posture. He's calm. Still. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment.

"There you are," he says gently.

And somehow that's worse than anything he could've done.

Like this is exactly how it was supposed to go. Like he's done this before.

Like he knew you'd remember. Knew you'd break.

You stare at him, throat too tight to speak, your chest rising and falling in panicked little jerks. There's a part of you that wants to scream. To run. But your body won't listen.

Because you know him now.

You remember the smell of his skin. The cadence of his voice when he said your name like it was holy.

The quiet hum of the world when you laid with him in that small, sunlit room he used to call home.

Home.

He says the word like a promise. Like it still belongs to both of you. "We should go," he murmurs. "It's late.

You must be tired."

"Let's go home."

And the word cracks something inside you, because -

You remember.

The apartment with the crooked floors.

The green-tiled bathroom.

The mug with the chipped rim you always stole from him.

The books piled in corners.

The way he used to curl around you in bed like he'd die if you moved too far away.

That was your home.

Your life.

And it's gone.

Erased.

You blink at him, voice hoarse.

"I don't understand..."

He reaches for you again-slow, deliberate-and brushes your hair out of your face with an intimacy that feels like a ghost wearing skin.

"I had to," he says.

And you know exactly what he means. You knew about him, you knew everything. You were a risk and he wasn't going to kill you. So.

He took time.

Years, maybe.

He ripped your memories out like weeds, plucked the roots of himself from your mind, and left your life with empty soil. You never noticed the holes. Never knew anything was missing.

Until now.

You shake your head, your voice raw and shaking.

"You had no right."

The warmth leaves his smile. He still looks calm. Kind, even. But there's a coldness behind his eyes now, like ice sliding beneath glass.

"I did," he replies softly.

No hesitation.

No shame.

You flinch at the finality of it. He believes it.

You push yourself upright, using the wall to keep steady. Your legs feel weak, like you've run through a war you didn't remember signing up for.

"You took years from me," you whisper.

And something flickers across his face-something unreadable.

But then he leans in, and kisses your forehead. A soft press of cold lips. Gentle. Reverent.

"You'll get them back," he says.

And somehow that's not a comfort. It's a threat.

Because he doesn't say how.

Because you know now—he doesn't let go.

Not when he's claimed something.

Not when he's loved something.

Not when he's bled for it.

And not when it's you.

He offers you his hand like he always used to do, like no time had passed.

"You'll understand more when we're home," he says.

You stare at his hand. The man you remember is somewhere in there. The warmth. The tenderness. The passion that used to set your skin on fire. The devotion so absolute it felt like gravity.

But now there's something else.

Something dangerous.

Possessive.

Patient.

You realize he's been waiting years for this moment.

For you.

You take his hand.

And he smiles like he's won.

Because in his mind, he has.

It's a blur. One breath, and you're in the cabin. The next, you're standing in front of a door you somehow recognise.

You don't remember the walk.

You don't remember the forest.

You don't even remember moving your feet.

Just Spencer, holding your hand like a tether, his fingers colder than they should be.

You must've blinked.

Or maybe he did it again. Stole time like it was nothing.

He unlocks the apartment door and gently ushers you inside. You're still too shaken to fight him, your thoughts scrambling to piece together what's real.

"How did we get here?"

Your voice is thin, a whisper made of panic and realization.

Spencer doesn't even glance at you. He just closes the door behind him and flicks the lock with a quiet click.

"No need to worry," he says.

And that's exactly what makes it worse. Because that's what he always says right before taking something.

He gestures to the couch, and your body obeys before your brain does. The cushions dip under your weight, and you sit there like a puppet with cut strings.

Everything looks the same.

Exactly the same. The blanket you used to curl up with.

The unread books you used to tease him for. Even the candle on the end table-half-burned, lavender and vanilla-is still there. It's like you never left. Like the apartment held its breath without you. Like he never moved on. But then the memories catch up. The ones you didn't ask for. The ones he shoved back into your mind like a cruel gift.

You remember the faces of the women in those files.

The crime scene photos.

The way their bodies were found.

The way garcia said they looked like you.

You grip your thighs like the pressure might keep you grounded.

"W-wait," you stammer. "This means... that you-you ki

You can't even say it. Not fully.

But he answers anyway.

"Yes."

And it's like the air leaves your lungs all at once.

You stare at him.

He's not pacing. Not fidgeting. Not trying to explain or deny.

He just stands there, looking down at you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Like this is a conversation.

Like it's normal.

"They looked like me," you whisper.

Your nails are digging into your legs now. You don't even feel it.

He nods. Slowly. Like he's explaining something to a child. "Yes," he says. "They did."

And something inside you breaks.

Not loudly. Not like a scream.

More like a crack in ice. A silent fracture no one can hear but you.

"Why?" Your voice is shaking. It doesn't feel like your own.

Spencer's face softens, as if the question itself causes him pain.

He kneels in front of you again, like he did in the cabin, and rests his hands on your knees. You flinch, but he doesn't move.

"I missed you," he says.

And that's not a reason.

That's not a justification.

But he says it like it's enough.

"They weren't you," he continues, his thumbs tracing slow, calming circles on your legs. "Not really. Not even close. But... they reminded me. And I was hungry. And I was lonely. And you were gone."

The words hit you like a wave of cold water.

You shake your head, your mouth opening and closing, desperate for something to say that could make sense of this. But there's nothing.

You can still see them.

The victims.

Women with your hair.

Your eyes.

Your face.

And now, the truth is here, bleeding into your lungs—

He didn't just kill them.

He pretended they were you.

"I'm not like them," he says softly, gently tilting your chin up so you have to meet his eyes. "I need more than blood. I need you. Always have."

You wish his eyes didn't look like the ones you used to fall asleep beside.

You wish his voice didn't still sound like safety.

Because it's not.

It never was.

But even now, even with everything you remember, But even now, even with everything you remember, even with the bodies, you're frozen.

Because he still looks at you like he loves you. Like you're the moon and he's been starving in darkness.

And the worst part?

Some part of you remembers loving him back. You can't breathe.

He's still kneeling in front of you, watching you like a man reunited with something sacred, like you are some lost artifact he's spent centuries searching for. His hands are gentle on your knees, his body language soft and open, not predatory. Not threatening.

But he doesn't have to be.

Because Spencer Reid doesn't need violence to trap you.

Not when he has your memories.

Not when he is one.

And worst of all, part of you is already slipping back into it.

You can feel it, can't you?

The way your skin remembers his touch, even when your brain still screams run.

It's like standing at the edge of a high ledge - you know the fall will kill you, but there's something hypnotic in the pull downward. The gravity of him.

You shake your head and pull away from his touch, standing on unsteady feet.

"I-I can't do this. This is insane," you breathe, pacing a few feet away from him. "You killed people. You killed them. You took years from me. You erased my memories. How the hell am I supposed to stay here and-"

You cut yourself off before you say it.

Before you say love you again.

But it hangs there anyway, unsaid, heavy in the silence.

Spencer rises slowly, but he doesn't close the space between you yet.

He lets the silence breathe. Lets you fill it. It's a trick, one he's always used. Give you the quiet long enough and eventually, you'll talk yourself in circles.

"Why did I leave?" you ask suddenly, voice breaking as you stare at him. "Why won't you let me remember that?"

Because that's the piece still missing. The edge of the puzzle you can't fit.

You remembered him.

You remembered you and him together.

The blood. The pleasure. The nights wrapped up in each other like a secret.

You even remember being his.

But not the part where you chose to stop.

Why?

He sighs like the question exhausts him, turning his back to you and dragging a hand through his curls. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, deliberately.

"You left," he finally says, "because you hated what you were becoming."

You blink. "What...?"

"You didn't leave because of me. You left because of you."

He turns to face you again, stepping forward with that same quiet intensity that used to undo you.

"You liked it," he says, soft, calm — like that should be comforting. "You liked watching them die."

Your stomach twists.

"That's not true," you breathe, backing up a step.

"No? You remember now, don't you? The way you'd touch me after I fed. The way your eyes would glaze when I told you what they said before they died. You used to ask me how they begged. What their blood tasted like."

He steps closer.

"You weren't afraid of me. You were afraid of how much it turned you on."

Your knees nearly buckle. Because somewhere inside you, the memory is there.

The nights soaked in blood.

The moans he dragged from you with fangs still wet.

The way he'd come back to you and you'd sink to your knees before he even said a word.

You shake your head.

"No. No, that's not-I'm not-"

"You couldn't handle it," he interrupts, voice still soft, dangerously gentle. "You looked in the mirror and didn't recognise yourself. You thought leaving me would make you clean again. Make you good."

He smiles — not with cruelty, but with pity.

"But that was your mistake. Thinking goodness was ever real. That you weren't just pretending."

He's in front of you now, close enough to touch, but he doesn't. Not yet.

"You loved what I was. The power. The danger. The hunger. You didn't want to be saved, you wanted to be devoured. And you were. Over and over again."

Your mouth opens - but no words come.

Because he's not wrong.

You did like it.

There was something monstrous in you, something you'd buried your whole life beneath the image of the good girl, the profiler, the protector. But he saw it. He fed it.

And maybe that's what terrifies you more than anything - that part of you wants to let it out again.

But you force yourself to pull back. You shake your head, desperate.

"But you-Spencer, you stole time from me. You didn't give me a choice. How am I supposed to stay if you're still keeping things from me?"

His eyes darken at that.

But his smile - it stays. Gentle. Almost sweet.

"I didn't want to lose you," he says softly. "You were going to confess. You were going to tell someone. Turn yourself in. You thought dying without me would make you pure."

His hand lifts, brushes a knuckle over your jaw. You don't stop him.

"So l made it easier for you. I took the guilt. I took the memories. I let you forget who you really are."

You feel the burn behind your eyes again.

Hot, salty betrayal threatening to spill. Your body remembers being worshipped, and your soul remembers being broken. And they're both screaming over each other.

"You had no right," you whisper.

His smile falters — just a hair.

"But I did it anyway."

And there it is.

The real Spencer. The one behind the tenderness. The one who plays the long game and still wins. The one who doesn't need to chain you to the bed — because he can chain you to your own truth.

He steps closer and presses a kiss to your forehead, just like he used to. Reverent. Like he's praying.

"You'll get it all back," he murmurs. "Every piece. Every sin. You'll remember who you were. What we were. And you'll come home to me again."

You close your eyes.

Because part of you already wants to.

And that's the darkest thing of all.

He kisses you.

Not tenderly. Not carefully.

Like you're his, and you always were.

It's not a question — it's a claim.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can think, can breathe, and the worst part is: you kiss him back. Like instinct. Like memory. Like you never forgot how.

And maybe... you didn't.

The taste of him lights up every forgotten nerve, every buried instinct you swore you didn't have. His hands grip your face like he needs to hold you together, like it he lets go, you'll disappear again.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — not scared, not asking permission, just reading you. Your lips are parted, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.

You don't slap him. You don't run. Your hands are already in his hair when you pull him back in.

You don't know who moves first — maybe both of you

- but the space between you collapses as your mouths crash together again, harder this time. You moan against him, desperate and confused, your body already betraying you.

"You remember," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hungry. "I can feel it."

You nod. You hate yourself for it. But you nod.

His tongue slips between your lips, kissing you deep, like he's trying to taste your memories through your mouth. Your hips are flush now, his hands gripping your waist, dragging you against the hardness pressing into your stomach.

The tension's not slow — it's already snapping.

He walks you back until your knees hit the couch. You fall back, and he follows, body caging yours in. His hands roam - your thighs, your waist, under your shirt, over your chest. He touches you like he knows every inch already.

Because he does. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

But you don't

Because you don't want him to.

Instead, you gasp, "Don't.""

His eyes darken. His control breaks. He lifts your shirt and pulls it off, baring you to him. His mouth is on your chest before you can breathe again, kissing and biting down over your bra, sucking the fabric just enough to leave your skin flushed and aching.

"You taste like you used to," he mutters, dragging a hand down your stomach and unbuttoning your jeans without asking. "Sweeter when you're scared."

You whimper, hips lifting into him as he slides your jeans down. You're wet. Embarrassingly so. But he's not teasing. He wants you frantic, and he's already halfway there. His mouth trails lower, but he doesn't go to your thighs

- not yet.

Instead, he leans up, eyes burning into yours.

"Take your bra off."

You obey.

He watches like it's reverent, like it's holy. Then he leans in and sinks his teeth - fangs — into the swell of your breast. Not too deep, but enough for blood to bead.

You cry out.

He licks it. Drinks it.

And moans. "Look at me," he says, voice low, commanding. "When I fuck you for the first time again, I want to see your face when it all comes back."

You do.

And he thrusts in — hard, deep — filling you completely in one motion.

You cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans into your throat, hips grinding into you like he can't get deep enough. Like he needs to be inside you in every sense of the word.

He sets a brutal pace - deep, controlled thrusts that make you see stars. One hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, just enough for you to feel the power he has. The other finds your clit, circles it in time with his thrusts.

"You left because you couldn't face what you were," he growls. "But you're mine. You always have been."

You want to deny it — but you're moaning too loud.

"Say it," he snarls, fucking you deeper, faster. "Say you're mine."

Your body's already trembling.

"Say it, or I'll stop."

You pant, desperate, right on the edge.

"I'm yours," you whisper, barely audible.

"Louder."

"I'm yours!"

He slams into you, thrusts turning savage, relentless, dragging you over the edge until you're crying out, legs shaking, sobbing his name. You're clawing at his back, at his hair, needing him closer, deeper, everywhere.

He keeps going.

"I missed you," he whispers again, mouth pressed to your ear as he grinds through your orgasm. "I never wanted to hurt you. But I will never let you go again."

You're sobbing - from pleasure, from confusion, from the intensity — but you don't stop him.

Spencer's still inside you, cock thick and pulsing as he thrusts deep, dragging long moans from your throat with every relentless grind of his hips. The couch creaks beneath you, your legs locked around his waist, your body already overstimulated - but he's not finished. Not even close.

"Fuck," he hisses into your neck, hips slamming into you. "You still feel the same. So tight, so fucking wet for me."

Your head falls back with a cry, pleasure swelling again, so intense you're shaking. He bites at your throat — not breaking skin yet - just teasing. Cruel.

"Bet you missed this too," he mutters, voice thick and low. "Missed being full of me. God, I can feel your pussy begging me to stay inside."

You whimper, his words making you clench around him.

"You want me to drink from you again, don't you?"

The question hangs in the air - condescending, smug.

Because he already knows the answer. You're too far gone to hide it.

He pulls back, his hand curling around your throat again, holding your face so you have to look at him.

"Say it," he demands.

"Say you want me to feed from

you while I fuck you."

Your lips part. You try to lie — but the heat between your legs tells the truth.

"I... I want it."

"You want me," he corrects, his cock grinding deep, making your eyes roll back. "You want this. You want me to drink from you while i fuck your brains out."

"Yes," you sob, barely able to speak. "Yes, Spencer-please-"

"Good girl."

He grins, and you're still moaning when his mouth latches onto your neck - this time hard.

His fangs pierce your skin with precision. The pain is sharp, but it fades quickly into something deeper, something raw and euphoric. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair, tugging him closer as he drinks from you - feeds from you - and still fucks you like he owns every inch of you. Because he does.

His hips snap forward in deep, punishing thrusts, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the quiet apartment. You're soaked, dripping around him, the bite sending shivers down your spine.

"Mmm, fuck-" he groans into your throat.

"You taste

like mine. You still are, aren't you?"

"Answer me," he snarls, blood wet on his lips as he pulls back to look at you. "Tell me whose you are."

"Yours!" you cry, arching under him. "I'm yours, Spencer-please-don't stop-"

Your orgasm hits fast and violent, ripping through you like a wave. You tremble and sob beneath him, completely overwhelmed - and still, he doesn't stop.

He growls something feral and spills inside you, thrusting deep to the hilt as he pumps you full, his hand tangled in your hair, his mouth back on your skin

— licking the blood like he's starving for it. "Mine," he whispers against your ear, possessive and quiet.

"Every inch of you. Inside and out."

You don't argue. Because you're home. For a moment, you almost believed it was love again—until you looked into his eyes and remembered: you’d chosen to stay, not because you forgave him, but because somewhere deep down… you wanted to be ruined.

He adjusted his coat, collar pulled high, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he wandered nowhere in particular. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Wandering. He had time—endless, gnawing, unyielding time.

After Everett Lynch, he had told himself he’d had enough. The BAU had drained him, and though no one on the team would ever truly know why he couldn’t stay—why the weight of death had finally broken him—it wasn’t just the violence of man that exhausted him. It was the violence in himself. The thing inside him that had never, no matter how hard he tried, gone away.

The thing that had once taken everything from him.

He was halfway across the block when he saw you.

You weren’t doing anything remarkable, and that was the first cruelty of it. Just standing beneath the dripping awning of a small café, fumbling with a cheap umbrella that refused to obey its hinges. But Spencer stopped dead in the street, frozen as though a hand had shot out of the dark and grabbed his chest.

Cars swept by, spraying water up onto the curb, horns blaring as he failed to notice the crosswalk light changing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He could only stare.

Because it was you.

Not you—not really, not rationally—but her. The same arch of cheekbone, the same soft slope of your nose, the same impatient little crease between your brows as you fought with the stubborn umbrella. The same exact shade of blood that rushed beneath your skin, hot and bright and intoxicating, even through the downpour.

His mouth went dry. His throat burned.

It couldn’t be. You weren’t supposed to exist.

The last time he had seen you—her—you had been lifeless in his arms, head tilted back at an angle too fragile, skin pallid, throat torn open by his own reckless hunger. He had been so young then. So utterly lost. Newly turned, freshly cursed, with instincts sharp as knives and no discipline to blunt them. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it was too late, until the taste of your blood turned metallic, the rush of it fading. Until you were gone.

He had never forgiven himself. He had never forgotten. And despite centuries, despite lovers and distractions and fleeting attempts at something like a life, he had never moved on.

And now—now you stood across the street as though pulled from the grave, as though God himself had set out to torment him.

Your hair clung to your cheeks in damp strands, rain dripping down your jaw. Your lips, flushed from the cold, parted with a frustrated little huff as you shook your umbrella. Spencer’s body reacted before his mind could argue. His chest ached with something dangerously close to longing, his fangs ached with the sharp throb of hunger.

He could smell you. Her. The same exact fragrance of blood, familiar in a way that almost made him sick. Sweet, alive, unbearably tempting. His hands curled into fists in his coat pockets to stop himself from moving, from crossing the street and pressing his mouth to the fluttering vein in your throat like a man starved.

It was uncanny. It was impossible. It was you.

His decision was instinctive. He couldn’t lose you—not again. Rationally, he knew you weren’t her, couldn’t be her, but logic had never mattered when it came to you. To her. To the ghost he’d carried like a scar through centuries.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was cruel. But the idea of turning his back, of letting the storm swallow you into anonymity—he couldn’t. Not when fate had dragged your face back into the light.

So he moved, quick and certain, weaving through the flow of traffic, ignoring the spray of tires and the curses of drivers. Rain plastered his curls to his forehead, slid down the column of his throat, soaked through his coat in a way that would chill any man. But Spencer wasn’t like other men. The only thing he felt was the pull toward you.

He cleared his throat as he reached the awning, rain dripping off his shoulders, his heart—or what passed for one—thundering. “I, uh…” His voice sounded raw, too quiet against the storm. “Sorry. Did you…need help with your umbrella?”

You looked up.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Same eyes. Her eyes. Wide and bright, carrying the same impossible warmth he had once drowned in. His body went taut with the ache of recognition, and he was grateful the rain masked the sharp tremor that went through him.

You blinked at him, then down at the stubborn umbrella, a faint smile tugging at your lips—the lips he remembered kissing, worshipping, destroying. “Actually, yes. That would be helpful.” You let out a soft laugh, self-deprecating and sweet. “Thank you.”

The sound of your laughter twisted in his gut. It was uncanny, the way it struck some buried nerve, a sound he thought had been lost to the grave.

He forced himself to smile, careful, controlled. “Of course,” he murmured, taking the umbrella from your hands. His long fingers worked at the crooked hinge, deliberate and gentle, because God help him, if he let himself touch your skin he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

A quick snap, a twist, and the metal clicked into place. He shook it once, tested the frame, then handed it back to you. “There you are.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his just slightly, warm against his cold. His stomach coiled tight.

“Thank you,” you said again, beaming up at him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

The words sliced him open.

He managed a faint twitch of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really. Not when every cell in his body screamed the opposite. He wasn’t a lifesaver. He had killed you once—killed her—and all the centuries in the world hadn’t washed the blood from his hands.

Before he could respond, you tilted your head, studying him. “Do I…know you?”

The air punched out of him. His eyes widened.

Did you—? No. No, that was impossible. Recognition wouldn’t pass across lifetimes. Would it?

“I, uh…” His throat was tight. He forced himself to look at the wet ground, then back at you, trying to read the question in your eyes. “I don’t think so?” The answer came out more like a question than he intended.

You frowned faintly, then shook your head, brushing wet hair from your face with a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that weird. You just…look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If only you knew.

Desperate to deflect, he nodded toward the umbrella. “Well…your umbrella’s fixed. That’s something.”

You let out another small laugh, and the sound pulled at every hunger inside him. “It is. And now I owe you. At the very least, your name, umbrella fixer?”

He blinked, startled by your lightness, by the way you offered him a way in so casually. His lips parted, then closed. He almost said the wrong name—her name—but caught himself.

“Spencer,” he said finally, voice low, careful. “Uh. Spencer Reid.”

You repeated it back to him, rolling it over your tongue. “Spencer.”

The simple sound of his name on your lips made his chest ache. Centuries of silence, and now here you were, saying it again as though nothing had ever been lost.

He gave the smallest nod, swallowing down everything else—the desire, the guilt, the desperate need to reach out and touch you just to make sure you were real. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s me.”

You gave him a soft, polite smile—already half turned away, already slipping from his grasp. “Well, Spencer…thank you. But I should get home.”

Something in his chest seized. You were going to walk away. Just like that. Gone, swallowed into the night. He had lost you once. He couldn’t lose you again—not to him, not to fate, not to the dark.

The words left him before he thought them through. “You’re walking?”

You paused, brows lifting slightly. “Yes?”

His mind scrambled for justification. He didn’t want to sound…what? Dangerous? Desperate? God, he already did. “It’s just—” He shook his head quickly, rain dripping from the tips of his curls. “Is it okay if I walk you? At least halfway. I don’t need to know where you live or anything, it’s just…dark.”

The plea in his voice was too naked, and he knew it. To you, he was a stranger. A drenched, awkward man you’d spoken maybe twenty words to. Jesus, what was he thinking?

You hesitated, studying him in silence. The pulse in your throat ticked steadily, betraying a little spike of caution. He couldn’t stop watching it, the way the fragile line of your artery fluttered just beneath your skin.

Then you nodded. “Okay. Halfway is reasonable.”

The tension in his chest loosened. He didn’t let it show, but inside something sharp and triumphant bloomed.

“Thank you,” he murmured, falling into step beside you as you set off down the slick, lamp-lit street.

Rain misted against your umbrella, pattering faintly overhead, while water still rolled cold down his temples and neck. He barely felt it. What he felt was you. Every inhale carried your scent—sweet, mineral, alive—threaded through with the metallic tang of blood beneath the surface. The sound of it rushing, the steady rhythm of your heart, pressed into his ears as if the night itself amplified it.

You talked as you walked. Not in the way most people did—small, cautious pleasantries—but freely, with an openness that unsettled him. You spoke the way she had: a spirit unburdened, curious, gentle.

A small detail caught his eye. Your handbag swung at your side, cluttered with dangling charms and trinkets. His gaze snagged on one in particular—a carved moonstone talisman, worn smooth by touch.

“You’re into spirituality?” he asked, his voice careful, testing.

You glanced up at him, eyes bright under the umbrella’s shadow. “Yeah. A little bit of everything, really—crystals, tarot, meditation. I like the idea that there’s more to the world than what we can see.”

His lips parted. He nearly said there is.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “That’s…interesting. Most people I know would call it unscientific.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged lightly, water dripping from the edge of your umbrella. “But science can’t explain everything. Some things are felt, not measured.” You paused, tilting your head as though deciding whether to share more. “I actually believe in reincarnation.”

The words nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Reincarnation.

The cruelest irony.

He swallowed hard, keeping his stride steady, but inside his mind was a storm. If only you knew. If only you understood what you were saying, what you were to him.

You glanced at him again, searching his face. “You probably think that sounds silly.”

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. His voice was low, rougher than he intended. “Not silly.”

Your smile softened. “Good. Most people would argue.”

Spencer forced a small smile in return, but inside his thoughts were ravenous. If you believed in reincarnation…if your soul had returned…could he tell you? Could he confess the truth—that you had lived and died in his arms, that your blood was already on his conscience, that your eyes had haunted him for centuries?

No. That was insane.

And yet…your nearness made the words itch at the back of his throat.

Your hand brushed his arm as you adjusted your umbrella, just the lightest graze. The heat of it seared through the damp fabric of his coat. His hunger flared, sharp and dangerous. The need to taste you, to feel your pulse throb beneath his tongue, pulsed through him with the same insistence as desire.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, nails biting crescents into his palms. He couldn’t let himself slip. Not again.

“Spencer?”

He blinked, snapping back to you.

“You went quiet.” Your voice was warm, teasing. “You think too much, don’t you?”

A laugh escaped him, soft and self-conscious. “Yeah. I…do.”

Your grin widened. “Good. Then maybe I won’t have to do all the talking.”

He let himself look at you—really look—and for the briefest second, he allowed himself to imagine that this wasn’t chance. That this was fate. That he was meant to have you again.

And that terrified him more than anything.

The walk stretched on, steady and quiet except for the hiss of passing cars and the rain drumming against your umbrella. Spencer had kept his hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight, his every inhale filled with you. The scent of your blood rode the damp air, subtle but sharp, winding around his senses like smoke. He could hear your heart, unhurried and steady, pulsing in time with your stride.

The question slipped from him before he could stop it.

“Do you believe in fate?”

You slowed a little, brows lifting, and glanced up at him beneath the glow of a streetlamp. To you, it might have sounded like the kind of line men on dating apps tried too hard to use. But Spencer wasn’t smirking, wasn’t charming. He looked…serious.

“Very deep conversation to be having with a stranger,” you said lightly, the corners of your mouth curling in amusement. “But…I guess the answer is yes. I believe everything happens for a reason.”

He nodded once, too quickly, like he was processing data. That was exactly what he was doing—running every possible way he could follow that answer without sounding unhinged. How do you tell someone they were the love of your life…a life you ended yourself?

“Most people don’t,” he said at last, his voice soft, careful. “They think everything is random, chaos. Statistically, chaos does make sense.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “But…I’ve seen too much not to believe in patterns.”

“Patterns?” you echoed, curiosity tugging at your tone.

“History repeating itself,” Spencer clarified, gaze fixed on the wet pavement. “The same choices made over and over. The same people finding each other, no matter the circumstances.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been. You studied him for a beat, searching his face. There was something strange about him—about the way his eyes seemed older than the rest of him, carrying centuries of grief.

You tilted your umbrella slightly toward him, sheltering him more from the rain. “You’re not talking about statistics anymore, are you?”

The gesture disarmed him. The closeness of you, the small kindness—it was unbearable. He forced a small laugh, nervous, self-deprecating. “No. I guess I’m not.”

You smiled faintly, as if indulging him. “Then what are you talking about?”

His lips parted, the truth pressing against them, clawing to be free. You. I’m talking about you. About the way I killed you centuries ago and have never stopped regretting it. About how I’d recognize your heartbeat in a room of a thousand strangers.

But he couldn’t say that.

Instead, he breathed out, “Just…that some connections feel inevitable. Like they were meant to happen.”

Your chest tightened at the weight in his voice. He sounded almost pained, as though this wasn’t a line but a confession. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but it made something in you stir.

“Do you have someone like that?” you asked quietly, surprising yourself with the softness of the question.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working. He kept his eyes on the rain-slick sidewalk. “…I did.”

The past tense sent a pang through you, though you couldn’t say why.

You didn’t push. Instead, you let your hand swing at your side, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his coat as you walked. The fabric was cold and damp, but beneath it his body was solid, unyielding. The brief contact made his breath catch—barely audible, but you noticed.

Spencer’s thoughts roared. He wanted to reach for you, to lace his fingers with yours, to feel the heat of your palm and reassure himself you were real, alive. Instead, he dug his nails into his pockets harder, grounding himself in pain.

“You think everything happens for a reason,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Then maybe…maybe there’s a reason I saw you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart stuttering at the intensity in his gaze. His eyes weren’t predatory—not exactly—but they burned, heavy and unblinking, as though he were memorizing every detail of your face. It was overwhelming.

You broke the tension with a small laugh, trying to lighten the air. “Well, maybe the reason was so I wouldn’t have to keep fighting with my umbrella.”

He smiled faintly at that, but his eyes didn’t lose their hunger.

Inside, he was screaming.

Not her. Not really. But close enough. And if fate had brought you back to him, then he wasn’t going to let go this time.

The storm had gentled to a mist by the time your street curved into view. Water dripped from gutters in a steady rhythm, pooling at the edges of the sidewalk.

You should have told him goodbye long before this point—after all, “halfway” had passed blocks ago. But something about him kept you from speaking the words.

You weren’t usually like this. You didn’t let strange men walk you home, didn’t strike up conversations in the rain. But with him…God, there was something different. Something familiar in a way that made your skin prickle, not with fear but recognition.

Earlier, you’d brushed it off by teasing him about looking like he’d seen a ghost. But as you walked, your heart only beat louder against your ribs, telling you you weren’t imagining it. It wasn’t just him. It was you too.

You knew him. Somehow.

His eyes. That was it. You knew those eyes.

Your throat tightened. Without meaning to, you broke the silence. “Can I say something crazy?”

He looked at you quickly, water still dripping from his curls, eyes catching faint streetlight. “Sure,” he said. There was the smallest twitch of amusement in his lips. It reminded you of something—or someone—you couldn’t place.

It only emboldened you.

“I know you.”

He stumbled in his step. Almost choked. His gaze snapped to yours, too sharp, too intent.

You kept going, even though the words felt fragile on your tongue. “I mean…I don’t. But I do. I don’t know how. Maybe I’ve seen you before? Served you at work? I—I run the bakery on Fifth Avenue…”

The excuse sounded thin, even to yourself. You’d never seen him before in your life. You would have remembered.

No. This was deeper. More impossible.

His pulse—if he even had one—roared in his ears. He hadn’t felt this kind of hope in centuries, not since before he’d lost you the first time. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he should keep quiet. But the storm of your voice saying I know you cracked something open in him.

He licked his lips, his throat dry, and let out a breath heavy with nerves. “Can I say something crazier?”

You tilted your umbrella toward him, meeting his eyes. “Promise not to freak out,” he added quickly.

Your curiosity sparked at the raw edge in his voice. You nodded. “Go on.”

His fingers tightened in his coat pockets until the fabric creaked. “I know you,” he said softly. Then, firmer: “I mean you. You remind me of someone I lost. Scarily so. You look like her. Act like her. And you believe in reincarnation…” His laugh was brittle, shaky. “And I never did. Not until tonight.”

The street seemed quieter somehow, the rain no more than a whisper.

You stopped walking, staring at him. “…You don’t look old enough to have lost someone and think they could’ve been reincarnated into me. I’m in my twenties. How does that make sense?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The centuries crowded his tongue, fighting to spill out, but how could he tell you everything? How could he tell you that he’d buried you centuries ago? That he had drained your body until it went limp? That every woman since had been a shadow of you?

“It’s…complicated,” he managed, voice husky. “But you feel it too, don’t you?” He took a half-step closer, his eyes almost desperate. “You said it yourself. You know me.”

You swallowed hard, your umbrella trembling slightly in your grip. His intensity should have sent you running. Instead, it sent a rush of heat through your chest, low in your belly. You hated that it made you ache.

“Spencer…” you whispered.

His name on your lips nearly broke him. He was pleading now, his voice raw. “Please. You see it too. You remember me.”

You couldn’t explain why, but you didn’t pull away. Because deep in your chest, where reason had no hold, something whispered that he was right.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Your voice soft but cutting through the silence. “My place is…right around here. Why don’t you come in?”

He blinked at you, startled. Of all the responses he’d expected, that hadn’t been one. He should have said no, should have turned and left you safe in the doorway of your life—but instead he nodded. He couldn’t resist.

You weren’t even sure why you asked. The words had slipped out, impulsive, irrational. But it felt the way it does when you stumble across an old song you haven’t heard in years and every lyric comes rushing back—you didn’t choose it, it was just meant.

The two of you walked the final stretch in silence. His coat was plastered to him, the faint scent of rain and something older clinging to the wool. When you reached your steps, you set your umbrella aside, water sliding off the stone. You pushed the key into the lock, and the door creaked open with the soft familiarity of home.

When you turned, he was still outside. Hovering at the threshold. Watching you.

You frowned. “You can come in, you know.”

The moment the words left your lips, he stepped inside—as if he had been waiting for the invitation.

Something about that pricked at your mind, but you shook it away. You reached for his coat, tugging it gently from his shoulders. It was heavy with rain. You hung it up beside your own.

He stood awkwardly in the entryway, shoulders tense, lips parted as if half a dozen confessions pressed against them all at once. He looked like he was unraveling inside his own skin.

You gestured toward the couch. “Sit.”

The room was pale and inviting—white curtains, lace-trimmed pillows, old wood softened by candlelight. A strange kind of gothic brightness, not harsh blacks but worn ivory, like faded memory.

He sat stiffly at one end, hands laced, jaw tight. You sank onto the other cushion, leaving space between you. The air buzzed with unspoken things.

Finally, you exhaled. “Why do I feel like I know you?” You turned your head toward him, searching his face. “And I think you know.”

His lips pressed together, his throat working. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice cracked at the edges. “You’re going to be scared.”

Your brows furrowed. A sane part of you whispered he was a stranger, that you should laugh, tell him to leave. But no—he wasn’t a stranger. Not to you. Something inside you believed him before he even spoke.

“Please,” you whispered, leaning toward him without realizing it. “I’ve never felt this before. Don’t hold it back.”

He closed his eyes, a trembling breath escaping. His long fingers flexed against his knees, desperate for something to hold. Anything. You.

“This is going to sound…” He swallowed hard. “It’s going to change everything about how you see the world. So just…listen. Okay?”

You nodded, pulse thrumming in your neck.

“I’m—” he faltered, almost choking on the truth. “I’m a vampire. I’m centuries old. And the woman I loved—the woman I lost—” his voice cracked. “She looked like you. Sounded like you. You. Everything about you is her. It’s like she’s back.” His gaze dragged over you, raw, starving. “You even smell like her.”

The words hung heavy in the air. You blinked, reeling, your heart stuttering.

“I’m not her,” you said quietly, voice small but steady.

His head shook almost violently. “I think you are. Somehow—you’re her. You remember me. You said it yourself. You knew me.” His voice was unraveling now, desperate, breaking. “You didn’t even flinch when I told you what I am. Because you already knew, didn’t you? Some part of you…remembers.”

Your throat tightened. His pleading eyes cut straight through you. Sadness welled unexpectedly in your chest. “…What happened to her?”

His breath hitched. His shoulders curled inward as though the memory itself clawed at him.

“I—I was new. I’d barely been turned. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t…” He shook his head violently. “I lost control. I—fed from her. From you. And I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to—”

You went still, his words burning into you. “You killed her?”

Your voice was soft, fragile, but it made him crumble.

Tears stung his eyes as he nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice broke entirely. “I didn’t mean to. I swear to you, I never meant—”

Before you could move, he was on the floor in front of you, knees sinking into the carpet. His hands hovered at your thighs, trembling with restraint. You didn’t stop him when his palms finally pressed there, warm and shaking. He bowed forward, pressing his forehead to your knee, a broken prayer spilling from his lips.

“Please. Please remember me.” His voice cracked into something between a sob and a plea. His breath trembled against your skin. “I can’t lose you again. Not again.”

You froze, every nerve ending firing. Your neck throbbed with a strange, phantom ache—like a wound reopening. Flashes stirred at the edges of your mind. Heat. Darkness. The press of lips and teeth.

Your lack of reaction to his confession should have been a red flag. Instead, it felt like déjà vu.

Maybe—just maybe—you were remembering him.

The tear that slid down your cheek didn’t make sense. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It wasn’t just him—though seeing a man like Spencer Reid, brilliant and broken, sobbing at your knees was enough to twist your chest. No, this ache came from somewhere else. A place your conscious mind couldn’t name, like grief from another lifetime pressing against the walls of your skull.

His hands trembled against your thighs, his forehead still pressed to your knee like he was bowing at an altar. His voice cracked, ragged from centuries of silence.

“Please… anything, just—remember me,” he whispered, a plea wrapped in desperation.

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to leave. But instead, your hand lifted, almost against your will, and slid through his damp hair. The strands clung to your fingers, soft despite the rain, and you combed through them gently. The motion soothed him instantly and shattered him at the same time.

He choked out a breath, his voice raw. “She… she did this for me when I got upset. When the world felt too loud, when I couldn’t control the noise in my head, she’d—”

You cut him off, the words slipping from your mouth before you even thought them through. Words that didn’t feel like yours at all.

“—let you rest with your head on her chest.”

His head snapped up so fast you startled. His wide eyes locked onto yours, searching, disbelieving. “Y-you… remember that?” His voice broke again, but this time on a note of hope.

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t even know how. I just—” You shook your head, a fresh tear sliding down. “I just know it.”

His hands tightened on your thighs, as though anchoring himself. The haunted look in his eyes shifted, softened into something rawer.

“I love you,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a line, wasn’t performative. It came out like a confession ripped from his ribcage. “I love you. God, I’ve loved you every single day since the moment I lost you. And I’m so—so sorry. A day hasn’t passed where I didn’t feel disgusted with myself, guilty about what I did. You didn’t deserve that… you deserved better than me.”

His words bled into your bones, that ache in your neck pulsing harder. You didn’t remember everything—your life, your death—but your body was beginning to.

“Spencer…” you whispered, and his name felt like something you’d said a thousand times before.

He lowered his gaze, kissing your knee softly, reverently. When you didn’t push him away, he let his lips linger, then pressed another kiss a little higher. His breath was warm against your skin, contrasting the damp chill from the rain.

Your breath hitched.

His voice dropped, shaking but deep, carrying the weight of centuries. “I shouldn’t touch you. Not like this. Not when I’ve already taken too much from you. But… I can’t stop. I’ve missed you so much, I…” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh now, the words muffled against your skin. “…I don’t know how to let you go again.”

Your hand was still in his hair, and without thinking, you tugged gently. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and endless, hunger and heartbreak tangled together.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

It wasn’t permission so much as surrender—your body answering before your mind could. Because the truth was you didn’t feel fear. Not when he said he was a vampire. Not when he confessed to killing you. All you felt was that aching familiarity, the pull in your chest, the way his touch sparked something buried deep inside you.

His fingers curled tighter into your thighs, the pads of his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was trying to memorize you all over again. “If I start… I don’t know if I can stop.” His voice was gravel, low, as though he was warning you. Pleading with you to protect yourself from him.

Your pulse stuttered, heat pooling low in your belly. The ache in your neck grew stronger, sharp and insistent. You knew what he was implying, but instead of recoiling, you leaned in slightly, your voice softer now.

“Then don’t stop.”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, his pupils blown wide. His restraint cracked in his eyes as though he were clinging to the last threads of control. His lips ghosted over your inner thigh again, higher this time, and you could feel how badly he wanted—needed—you.

The silence between you burned, alive with unspoken memory, old love, old hunger.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was ruined with want.

“I’ve dreamed of you for centuries.”

And then his teeth grazed your skin—lightly, testing—while his trembling hands gripped your thighs like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

“God, you’re—” he broke off, his breath ragged as he gripped your tights and tugged. The fabric gave way with a harsh tear, seams splitting under his long fingers. He didn’t even give himself time to regret the sound, too frantic, too reverent, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses along the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him, and his whole body trembled at the sight—at your offering. He sank lower, on his knees before you, hands spreading over your thighs like he could brand himself into the moment. You could feel the heat of him even through the damp chill of the room, his forehead brushing against your skin, his lips trailing higher and higher.

When his fingers found the edge of your panties, he hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes. Seeking permission. Begging silently.

You nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, breathless, voice barely there but enough.

That was all he needed. With a groan so low it sounded like it had been locked in his chest for centuries, he hooked the fabric aside. His gaze fixed on you—your cunt, glistening already, wet with want for him—and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“The same,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe. “God, you’re the same. Every detail. Every—” His words faltered, broken by another groan as he leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over your folds. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed this.”

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue pressed flat against your slit, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate lick. Your back arched immediately, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He moaned into you, the vibration making your thighs twitch.

“Taste—” he broke off, circling your clit with his tongue, “you taste exactly the same. Sweet, perfect, I—” Another hungry lick. “I could live on this.”

You tangled your fingers in his damp curls, tugging him closer, and he groaned again at the contact. He latched onto your clit now, sucking softly, his tongue flicking in quick, desperate movements that made you shudder.

“Oh my god, Spencer—”

He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, his lips and chin already slick with your wetness. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes fever-bright.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he said, voice rough, needy. “Do you have any idea how many nights I dreamed of this? Centuries of lying awake—imagining your thighs around my head, your taste on my tongue. And now you’re here. You’re here.”

Your hips bucked against his mouth, his words sending heat straight to your core. He groaned and dove back in, licking into you now, fucking you with his tongue. His nose pressed against your clit, grinding with each movement, and you whined, tugging his hair harder.

“That’s it,” he rasped against you between licks. “Use me. Please. I need you to come on my mouth. I need to feel you fall apart.”

The desperation in his voice was matched only by the reverence in his touch. His hands squeezed your thighs, thumbs stroking circles against your skin as though grounding himself while he devoured you like a man starved.

You couldn’t stop the sounds leaving your throat, broken moans, gasps of his name. He moaned right back, every sound you made fueling his own pleasure.

“Yes—just like that,” he whispered against your clit, flicking his tongue faster now. “You’re so wet for me. Always so responsive. I remember this. How your body knows me. How you let me—fuck—how you let me worship you like this.”

The praise sent a shiver racing through you. You could feel your climax building fast, too fast.

“Spencer—I’m gonna—”

He cut you off, pulling your clit between his lips and sucking hard, his tongue lashing it at the same time. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you still as you cried out, your orgasm crashing over you in sharp waves.

He moaned against you as you came, drinking in everything you gave him, his eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting salvation.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, trying to catch your breath, he didn’t let go. He kept his mouth on you, gentler now, slow licks, coaxing you through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his hair wild, his chest heaving. He rested his forehead against your thigh again, his voice ruined and reverent.

“I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. Not in this life, not in the next.”

His words settled into your bones like truth—like memory.

His lips crashed into yours before you could even take another breath. The kiss was messy, desperate, his hands threading into your hair like he was anchoring himself to reality. He groaned into your mouth when your tongue met his, the taste of you on his lips mingling with the taste of yourself from his mouth. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect.

“God,” he panted against your lips, kissing you again, harder. “I need you. I can’t—” His forehead pressed to yours, his voice raw. “I’ve waited too long. Please. Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” you whispered, tugging at his soaked shirt. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He hauled you into his lap, guiding you backward until your body sank into the couch cushions. Your thighs spread open beneath him, his weight pressing you down into the fabric. His mouth never left yours, kissing you with bruising intensity, his hands sliding down your sides until he hooked under your knees and shoved them wider. You could feel the thick length of him straining against his pants, grinding into you as if he couldn’t help it.

“Perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his hips rutting into you with barely restrained desperation. “You feel what you do to me? I’ve never wanted anything—anyone—like this. Except you. Always you.”

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open enough to push the wet fabric down his shoulders. He groaned when your palms flattened against his bare chest, his heartbeat pounding fast—far too fast for a vampire, like his body was betraying just how undone he was.

He kissed down your jaw, biting softly at the hinge, then dragging his lips to your throat. His breath hitched there, hovering, trembling, his fangs just grazing your skin. He stilled, fighting himself, his entire body taut with restraint.

“Not yet,” he rasped against your pulse, kissing over it instead. “I can’t—I won’t lose you again.”

Then he was moving lower, his mouth finding your collarbone, your chest, kissing every inch as he pushed you further into the couch. His hands tore your ruined tights the rest of the way off, your panties following in the same desperate motion. His own pants and boxers were gone in a blur, his cock thick and heavy, flushed dark as he wrapped a hand around the base, stroking himself once as he looked at you sprawled out beneath him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost reverent. “You’re wet for me already. Open for me.” He stroked his cock again, the head glistening, and groaned. “I’m going to fill you up, sweetheart. Finally.”

You nodded, your own need overwhelming now. “Please, Spencer—”

He lined himself up, his hand pressing your thigh open wider, and pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, stretching you, filling you in a way that made you cry out and clutch at the cushions. His head fell forward, his mouth dropping open as a broken groan ripped from his throat.

“Fuck—” His voice cracked as he bottomed out, his hips flush to yours. He buried his face in your neck, shuddering. “You’re so tight. You feel—exactly the same. It’s you. It’s really you.”

He didn’t move at first, just holding himself inside you, trembling with the effort of control. You ran your hands over his back, whispering, “It’s okay. I want you to move.”

That undid him.

He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained before thrusting back in with a force that made you gasp. He moaned into your skin, his hips beginning a steady, deep rhythm, every stroke deliberate, hitting the spot inside you that made your legs shake.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groaned, kissing your cheek, your lips, your jaw between words. “You take me so well. God, you were made for me. My perfect girl.”

Your moans spurred him on, his thrusts growing rougher, needier. His hands gripped your hips tight, anchoring you as he fucked into you, each snap of his hips harder than the last.

“I love you,” he gasped, his voice breaking, his forehead pressed to yours. “I love you—I’ve loved you for centuries. Do you—do you feel it too? Tell me you feel it.”

“I do,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “I love you too, Spencer.”

He groaned loud at that, his thrusts faltering for a moment as his lips found yours again, desperate, wet kisses swallowing both your moans.

“Gonna make you come,” he whispered against your mouth, thrusting deep again. His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, sweetheart. Please—I need to feel you come around me.”

The dual sensation—the stretch of him inside you and the pressure on your clit—sent you over the edge. You cried out, clutching him as your orgasm tore through you, your walls clenching around his cock.

The feeling broke him.

“Fuck, yes—” he growled, his thrusts erratic now as he chased his own release. “So tight—milking me—can’t hold on—”

And then his fangs sank into your neck.

The sharp pain melted instantly into white-hot pleasure, your orgasm spiking all over again as his mouth latched onto your pulse. He groaned against your skin, drinking deep as his hips snapped hard into you, his cock pulsing as he came inside you. The combination—the pull of his mouth, the flood of his release—made you arch and cry out, clinging to him as your own climax dragged on, endless.

“Mine,” he growled into your throat between swallows, his voice guttural, primal, as he filled you. “You’re mine—forever.”

When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick with your blood, his eyes blown wide and wild—but softer, too, awed. He kissed your neck, then your mouth, desperate and sweet, tasting of copper and salt and everything that was him.

And through the haze of trembling limbs and the warmth of his body pinning you to the couch, you knew: this time, there was no losing each other.

Your eyes slipped closed, your chest heaving, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks. You were limp against him, boneless from the back-to-back orgasms, your throat slick where his mouth had been.

Spencer froze.

“—no, no, no.” His voice cracked as his hands cupped your face, tapping lightly against your cheeks. “Open your eyes. Please—open them, don’t do this to me, not again.” His breathing was erratic, bordering on frantic, and for a second the world tilted for him, the memory of centuries ago flooding his mind. Her body, limp. The stillness. His fangs in her throat.

He was shaking. “I didn’t—god, I didn’t mean to—”

Your lashes fluttered, your lips parting as a breathy sound escaped you. Not death, not loss—just recovery. Your hand slid weakly over his wrist, squeezing. “Spencer,” you whispered, voice hoarse but steady enough. “I’m okay.”

His eyes closed tight, a sharp exhale breaking from his chest as relief surged through him. He pressed his forehead to yours, trembling like he was about to fall apart. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I’m here.” Your lips brushed his, soft and reassuring. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He groaned low, burying his face against your shoulder, his arms winding so tight around you it almost hurt. And still—still—he didn’t pull out. His cock throbbed, still seated deep inside you, as if his body refused to let go. He shifted, maneuvering the both of you until you were straddling him again on the couch, his back against the cushions, you in his lap, your chest pressed to his. His arms locked you there, every muscle taut with possession and fear.

“I can’t,” he whispered raggedly into your hair. “I can’t pull out. I need you here, I need to feel you around me. I need to know you’re real.”

You kissed the side of his jaw, your fingers threading through his damp curls. “Then don’t. Stay inside me. I want you there.”

His chest rose sharply, his breath unsteady. He leaned back enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, dark with love and hunger. His hands held your hips gently, reverently, his thumbs tracing circles over your skin as though he could memorize you anew.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “Every night, for so long, I’ve dreamed of this—of you. And then I’d wake up and you weren’t there. But now—” His voice trailed off as he pressed a shaky kiss to your lips, barely holding it together. “Now you are.”

You smiled against his mouth, slow and certain, your hips shifting just a little around him. The movement pulled a groan from his chest, deep and unguarded. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “You’ve got me.”

His eyes squeezed shut, a tear escaping down his cheek. You kissed it away, and he kissed you back with gratitude so raw it stole your breath.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his hands sliding up your back, holding you flush against him. “So warm, so alive, so mine. God, you feel like heaven. Do you know what you do to me? How good you are?”

You rocked gently in his lap, both of you shivering at the slight movement of him still buried inside. He hissed through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch. “Fuck—you’re still so tight. I can feel every flutter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

You obeyed, slow and languid, grinding down in his lap. The pace was unhurried, not the frantic thrusts from before—this was grounding, tethering. His hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to touch first, cupping your breasts, cradling your jaw, sliding down to grip your hips again.

“That’s it,” he panted, kissing you feverishly. “Take me. Take everything. You’re doing so good for me.”

Your moans were soft but steady, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You feel so good inside me, Spencer. I love being full of you.”

He groaned so deep it vibrated against your chest. “Say it again,” he begged, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Please.”

“I love being full of you.”

His thrust upward was instinctive, sharp, but he slowed immediately, kissing your shoulder in apology. “Sorry. I just—fuck—you saying that. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear it.”

You cradled his face, forcing him to look at you. “Centuries,” you said softly, knowingly.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, undone. And then he kissed you again, desperate, his hips rocking up to meet your slow grind, the two of you moving together in a rhythm that was more about closeness than release.

The blood on his lips had dried, faint copper lingering, but when he whispered your name against your mouth, you knew he was tasting you in every way.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, still holding you close, still buried deep inside. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Not in this life. Not ever again.”

And for the first time in centuries, Spencer let himself believe it.

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You booked the seminar room because it had the long table and the whiteboard that still took ink well. The group had been meeting there all semester, some weeks more focused than others, and tonight you were determined to keep everyone on track. Midterms had crept up like they always do. People were tired, jumpy, too caffeinated. You expected noise.

You didn’t expect Spencer to show up with a cardboard drink carrier balanced on one hand and a small paper bag of pastries already divided into napkins.

“I took a poll last week,” he said with a quick, shy smile, as if he needed permission to be thoughtful. “Two oat lattes, one decaf, one black, one with a huge amount of syrup. I guessed on the syrups.”

You laughed and took the carrier from him before someone tried to help and dropped it. He had labeled the lids with initials in his careful handwriting. He had wrapped the napkins around the hot cups so no one would burn their fingers walking them down.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said.

“I know,” he answered, the kind of simple honesty that never sounds performative when it comes out of him. “I wanted to.”

The others drifted in, some grateful, some surprised, a few already stressed enough that gratitude came out sideways. Spencer took the end seat so he could see everyone. He pulled a notebook from his bag, the worn out one, that had been in too much different rooms, and uncapped a pen like a person who believed that if he did it carefully enough, it could make sense of things.

You started with notes. He slipped into the rhythm as if he had been there with the group all along. He asked what had been hard in lecture and what had made sense. He drew a small diagram when someone couldn’t see a concept, then added a second line beneath it with the plain language version. He never used a term without giving it an explanation first. He said “good question” like he meant it each time. He paused, he waited. He let silence be a full thing so people could land a thought without rushing.

You watched shoulders drop around the table like dominos. It was a good hour.

When the questions started to thin and the sugar began to hit, someone made a joke. It was the harmless sort at first, tossed into the lull the way people throw a crumpled wrapper toward a bin. Something about him being the “resident genius,” something about how his brain must have been terrifying as a kid. Spencer smiled it off and kept going. He has a sense for when a joke is not meant to wound.

Then another voice built on it. “Seriously though,” they said, “what was that even like? Did you skip five grades? That must have ruined your social life.” Another person added, “Did your parents, like, push you? Flashcards instead of cartoons? I read a piece about prodigies and a lot of them are… well. You know.”

Someone snorted, too loud, and the conversation turned like water finding a downhill path. It was not a pile on, not exactly. It was a bunch of curiosities that had nothing to do with the midterm. It was the sort of unkindness that people excuse with a grin.

Spencer answered the first part with a small nod. “I did skip some grades,” he said. “It was complicated.” He set his pen down and folded his hands so they would not fidget. He was still polite. He always is.

The questions kept coming. Did he miss out on a childhood, was he bullied, did adults use him as a party trick, was he good at everything or just academics. Someone asked if he had ever been tested for “whatever Sheldon has,” as if diagnoses were punchlines. Someone else called him “our little Doogie Howser” and laughed at their own “joke”.

He stayed friendly. He didn’t roll his eyes. He let them finish. He tried to steer the conversation back to the notes, softly at first, then with a little more structure. No one took the cue. Your stomach went tight.

“Okay,” you said, louder than before, trying to sound firm without making a scene, “can we go back to chapter five?” You turned to the board and uncapped a marker as if the act itself could help changing the subject. “We still need to run through confidence intervals.”

“Relax,” one of them said, smiling like this was harmless, like you were the one being too serious. “He can take it. He’s FBI.”

Spencer beat you to the reply. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, even though you knew it wasn’t. He used that tone he uses when he wants to protect a room from his own feelings. “Let’s finish the practice problems.”

The rest of the session slid back into shape, at least on the surface. People wrote answers. He checked work. He praised good steps. The clock finally got you to the end, the way clocks do. When everyone was packing up, a couple of them thanked him. One gave him a light swat on the arm and called him a legend. Another asked if he would come next week.

“We’ll see,” he said, gentle as ever.

You and him walked to the car. He carried the empty cups to the hallway bin so the cleaning staff wouldn’t have to collect them later. He asked if you were warm enough for the walk to the parking lot. He drove slowly on the way home, hands steady. He kept his eyes on the road, not because he needed to, but because looking at you would make it harder to pretend he was fine.

“They didn’t mean it,” you said after a long stretch of silence. “I know that doesn’t make it better. I just want to say it out loud.”

“It’s all right.” His voice was soft, too soft, even. “It happens.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to happen to you,” you said. Your fingers found the back of his hand where it rested on the gearshift. He didn’t pull away.

He’d gone very still. When the light turned red he blinked like someone waking up in the wrong room. “I’m not twelve,” he said, and then he winced, as if he had startled himself with the honesty. “That’s the part that gets me. I’m not twelve.”

You squeezed his hand. “You never have to prove that to me.”

He made a small sound, almost a laugh. “It’s interesting,” he said softly, and when he says something is interesting like that you know it hurts. “I can talk about things that are objectively worse. Murder. Cases. Violence. I can talk about those in a way that’s almost tidy. But this—” He shook his head once. “This is stupid. It just presses on a bruise that doesn’t like to be touched.”

“You were kind to them,” you said. “You brought them coffee. You taught them for two hours for free. You made things easier. They turned you into a punchline.”

He swallowed and nodded. “It’s fine,” he said again, but the word was losing meaning as it left his mouth.

You didn’t push. You don’t push him when he is holding himself together by being calm. You waited until you were home.

Inside, you clicked on the kitchen light with the warm bulb you both liked. You asked if he wanted tea or water. He said he did not know. You took off his jacket for him and hung it carefully over the back of a chair so it would not wrinkle. He always takes care with other people’s things. You can do the same for him.

He stood by the counter like he was waiting to be assigned a task. You pressed a mug into his hands and told him to sit. He sat. He watched your hands move through familiar motions, kettle, tea bags, sugar, and tried to decide if he was being silly for letting any of this get to him. He tried to look, to himself, like a person who was fine.

The first tear fell before he could stop himself. It surprised him. He reached up like he could catch it and erase the evidence, but you were already moving. You set the mug down and crossed the small space between you and leaned into him like the only job you had was to be there.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because that is what he says when he feels he has taken up space he didn’t plan to take.

“You shouldn’t be,” you said, and your voice was steady. “You are allowed.”

He tried to speak, then didn’t. He pressed the heel of his hand to one eye and swallowed hard. He made himself breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth and you matched him for a few breaths because you have learned that bodies sometimes need another body to borrow a rhythm from. He shook once. Then twice. You put your palm at the back of his neck and felt his muscles flinch and then loosen.

He did not cry the way people cry in movies. He did not pour — it was smaller than that and more private. It was a few helpless tears that made him angry for existing at all. It was a tight chest he could not release with logic. He kept apologizing for something you would never ask him to apologize for. You kept telling him there was nothing wrong with feeling like a kid sometimes when other people insisted on treating you like one.

“I hate that it still gets in,” he said, a whisper that scraped.

“I love that things still get in,” you said, and he looked at you like he wanted to argue, then couldn’t find the energy to fight you. “You didn’t do anything wrong by being kind. They did something unkind by making you small.”

He put his forehead against your shoulder. His glasses pressed cold through your shirt for a second before he took them off and set them on the table with care. His hands found your sides. He let you hold more of his weight. You stood there until both your feet ached, because some aches are easy to choose.

The rain began while you were still in the kitchen, a steady sound on the windows that made the apartment feel cozier. He leaned back enough to look at your face and his eyes were a little red. It made him look younger. It also made him look more like himself.

“Come to the couch,” you said.

He nodded and let you guide him. He curled on his side with his head on your lap the way he only does when he is very tired or when the day has been too loud. You carded your fingers through his hair and felt the tension leave one knot at a time. You told him something small and ordinary about your day because sometimes ordinary is the safest sound. He made a quiet noise that might’ve been agreement and might’ve been nothing. His breathing evened out. He fell asleep.

You stayed where you were. You pulled the throw blanket over both of you and adjusted it until his shoulders were covered. You watched the window for a while and thought about the people in that room, the coffee cups with his carefully handwritten letters on their lids, the way a favor can be taken for granted if you let it teach someone you will do it again.

You took your phone and opened the group chat. You didn’t draft three versions and delete them like he would have. You typed what you meant and read it once to make sure the heat had not turned it into something you would regret. It had not.

You [01:07 AM]: I want to addressing tonight directly. Spencer came on his own time, brought coffee and pastries he paid for, shared notes, and spent two hours answering questions with patience and respect. Turning that into a conversation about his childhood, “prodigy” jokes, and armchair diagnoses was rude, invasive, and disrespectful. He isn’t a case study, he is my partner and a person. I don’t want to study or be friends with people who can’t extend basic respect to someone who went out of his way to help you. Spencer won’t be returning, and neither will I. Please don’t message him about this — If you have something to say, send it to me.

You hit send. You turned the phone face down on the coffee table and slid it far enough away that you would not pick it up out of habit.

Spencer shifted in his sleep, one hand moving to your hip like he was checking that you were still there. You put your palm over his and squeezed once. The rain kept at it, steady as a second clock. You lowered your head and pressed a small kiss to his hair.

He would wake up in a while and try to apologize again for taking up space. You would tell him there was nothing to be sorry for. You would make tea and tell him you are proud of the way he chose kindness when it would have been easier to retreat. You would remind him that he never has to be the bigger person in your living room. He can just be a person.

It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.

A defense mechanism.

A biochemical reaction.

But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.

And you’re not even his.

Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.

"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.

His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.

Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.

Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.

And his vision starts to blur.

“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.

“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”

“I don’t mind the travel.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”

“Stability?”

“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”

“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.

“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”

The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.

He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”

Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”

Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”

The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.

Spencer keeps his head down.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”

His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.

And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.

He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.

But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.

“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”

His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.

Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.

“So, do you?”

You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.

“No, I don’t.”

He quickly falls off your orbit.

“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”

Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.

“Sure. Seven it is.”

He stalks out of the room without a word.

Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.

At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.

At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.

At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.

At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.

By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.

It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.

You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.

There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.

A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”

Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”

Silence, then you square your shoulders.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.

“You barely know him.”

You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”

“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”

He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.

“Why are you doing this?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”

His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.

A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.

If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.

He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.

A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.

In the careful distance between your bodies.

In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.

In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.

“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”

A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.

Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”

“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”

You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"

He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.

An audible click echoes in the room.

He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.

“He’s not good for you.”

Neither is he.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

Neither does he.

It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.

And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.

But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.

“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”

Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.

Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”

"Mhm.”

He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.

“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.

“I know.”

"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.

“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.

“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”

He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.

“Should I leave then?”

He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.

He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.

But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.

He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.

There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.

His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.

He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.

The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.

He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.

He presses his middle finger inside you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.

You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.

You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.

You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.

You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.

But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.

"Don’t—"

He curls his fingers upward.

"Go—"

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"Don't want you to see him."

Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.

Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.

But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.

“Stay.”

You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.

“Spencer…”

“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”

You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.

You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.

The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.

You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.

Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.

You shudder when a finger prods your hole.

But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.

You feel quite the opposite.

The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.

“Define purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”

He hates how easily you read him.

Hates more that you’re not wrong.

“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.

He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.

“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”

Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.

But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.

His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.

“What if I am?”

Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”

The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.

Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.

He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”

True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.

“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”

You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”

A gentle slap falls onto your clit.

“Without the attitude.”

He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”

“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”

You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.

And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.

“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”

The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.

You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”

The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”

His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.

It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.

“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.

It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.

It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.

And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.

It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.

“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”

“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”

“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.

“Go on, answer it.”

“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you really want me to stop?”

The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.

You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.

The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.

“…no.”

“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”

You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.

You inhale a sharp breath.

“Detective... Palmer?”

Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.

“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”

“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”

Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.

“You might want to answer him.”

You blink hard.

“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.

“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”

You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.

Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.

Spoken by someone else entirely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.

“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”

“…yeah.”

“How about breakfast—”

The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.

“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”

You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.

But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.

00:50

00:51

00:52

By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.

And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.

Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.

The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.

And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.

You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.

“What was that?”

“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”

He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”

You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.

“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”

He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”

“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”

He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.

So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.

Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.

God forbid he stops now.

He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.

It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.

Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”

“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”

You slowly shake your head.

But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.

“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.

You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.

“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”

Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.

Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.

“Red?”

The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.

He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.

They’re still burning, nonetheless.

It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.

You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.

Your toes curl.

Your stomach tightens.

Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.

“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.

He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.

Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.

He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

It earns him a puzzled frown.

You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask.

He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”

It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”

“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”

That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.

And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.

“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.

“So it was intentional.”

“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”

You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.

You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.

The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.

But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.

You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.

Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.

The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.

He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.

Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.

Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.

The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.

Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.

“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”

His throat scrapes like sandpaper.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.

Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.

But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.

The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.

Again, he’s selfish.

Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.

You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.

Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.