harley.

You can leave anything! from a song or a prompt or a picture 🫶🏻

If your're mean you're getting blocked.

Both !readers have names in my mind and sometimes i write with those names before making the fics xyou friendly so if sometimes i forget to correct that i apologize in advance!

If you give me a fluff scenario I'll be grateful bc my brain can't come up with those but if you ask for angst I'LL LOVE YOU.

Just a heads-up! The timeline in my stories isn’t strictly realistic—things happen closer together than they would in real life. I tweak events to fit the story, so don’t worry too much about exact dates!

All works on this masterlist are my original writing. I do not allow reposting, copying, translations, or adaptations of my stories without permission. Please respect my work!

About me!

Harley. She/her. I'm 20 and english is not my first language lol and I'm not from U.S., Psychology student! big swiftie.

You had fought tooth and nail for her with the executives. They had constantly pushed to tone her down, insisting she should be... different. But you were convinced that audiences were tired of seeing the exact same type of female love interest: always sweet, eternally loving, and so gentle they wouldn't hurt a fly. Not your “Woody,” as you had affectionately named her. Maybe, just maybe, someone out there would watch her and fall in love with how beautifully impulsive and violent she could be.

The season wouldn't start airing for another couple of months, and the rest of the cast still had weeks of intense filming left. Even though you were just passing through, they had gladly welcomed you into their universe—everyone from Thomas and Shemar to Paget and A.J.

Well, when it came to Matthew, the story was a little different.

After you casually slipped him your number on set, the text messages had started. And honestly? Neither of you had been able to stop since.

Between his grueling shoot schedule and endless rehearsals, finding a free evening felt nearly impossible—a frustrating barrier to going out. As friends, naturally. Yet the shameless way he flirted kept you surprisingly grounded, even as it sent a nervous flutter straight to your stomach. At least it offered quiet reassurance that you were both reading from the same page.

On camera, the spark between you was electric, bordering on absurd given that your characters currently loathed each other's existence. Which was good for the audience, the show and the executives. But bad for you when you only wanted to talk to him without a script dictating your next move. 

Being away from home was a nightmare. Four years in New York City is a privilege when you’re navigating its grid, but it ruins you for anywhere else. Just when you were finally earning your stripes—complete with a designated bodega and a go-to coffee order prepped the second you walked through the door—you were dumped in an unfamiliar city for two weeks, stripped of your rhythm and relegated right back to feeling like an out-of-place tourist.

That left you entirely at his mercy when it came to picking a spot for a proper date. Sure, you could type "nice restaurants in LA" into a search bar, but that would only yield the hyper-visible celebrity haunts where privacy went to die. While you had slowly learned to tune out the press—relegating their relentless speculation to harmless background static—it was still just that: a grating, unpredictable noise that could turn deafening for anyone not used to the spotlight.

“So, are you two turning green from drinking organic shit yet, or what?” Ashley teased through the FaceTime screen as you and Jack squished into the frame together.

“Oh, shut up,” Jack grumbled, throwing his hands up in defeat. “They hyped this place up like paradise, and the big, crown-jewel tourist attraction is literally just a pink wall and a sign I could’ve photoshopped from my couch in ten seconds.”

“Come on, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Nate said, stepping into view behind her as the sudden voice of reason. “Maybe try some yoga, align your chakras, and it’ll all look a little better,” he teased, a smirk clearly visible in his tone.

“I need yoga like I need a hole in my head!” Jack shot back instantly, tossing his hands up in mock exasperation.

Nate leaned over Ashley’s shoulder, grinning into the camera. “Careful, Jack. One more week of raw juice cleanses and sunshine, and you’ll be wearing linen pants and hosting a sound bath.”

“Don’t manifest that for me,” Jack groaned “At this rate, I think I actually miss Times Square.”

“Honestly, same,” you agreed, slumping down on the coch. “I need the neon billboards burning out my retinas just to feel alive.”

“Oh my god, take that back right now!” Ashley gasped, looking genuinely horrified through the screen. “Did you seriously just say you miss Times Square?”

“Setting aside those disturbing declarations,” Nate cut in, smoothly yanking the phone from Ashley’s hand so he could inspect you up close, “why the heavy mood? Is everything actually okay?”

“This fair maiden doth pine in agony,” Jack proclaimed with a hand slapped dramatically against his forehead, “for her beloved lacketh the hour to escort her upon a proper courtship!”

“He’s busy,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Between shooting and rehearsals, he barely has time to breathe. Besides, if we were in New York, the roles would probably be reversed—I’d be the one completely consumed by work.”

“You did not fly across the entire country just to rot on a couch, acting like some damsel in distress waiting for a man to grant you an audience,” Ashley declared, her authoritative tone booming over the speaker. “I am not hanging up this phone until you two step foot outside work at least once!”

You frowned, sitting up. “What do you mean ‘hanging up’? You said leave—leave where?”

Right on cue, the chime of the front doorbell echoed through the apartment.

“Open up!” Ashley’s voice sang through both the phone speaker and the front door simultaneously. “Mama’s got work to do!”

Fast forward through the chaotic reunion: as it turned out, they’d flown clear across the country to LA “just because we wanted to,” in Ashley’s words. But you knew the truth. They missed the two of you way too much to stay away—and the sheer thrill of chasing a story they’d be recounting for years to come drove them harder than logic ever could.

Before you could even process their arrival, the three of them had pooled their collective brainpower to draft a text from your phone. It was a carefully curated message, tweaked down to the exact letter count and tone to project effortless, unbothered cool—just enough to get Matthew’s attention without giving away the game.

You do u know any cool parties around west hollywood tonight?

Matthew GG A couple friends of mine are throwing one tonight  you should come over, it’ll be fun :)

An hour later, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor in a plush robe, surrounded by a chaotic sea of palettes, brushes, and scattered makeup products while Ashley worked her magic on your face, with rihanna playing in the back. 

“You have such pretty eyebrows—please promise me you’ll never let anyone pluck them,” she demanded, expertly blending out your eyeshadow and making you chuckle. “I’m totally serious! I’m convinced they’re at least fifty percent of why you’re such a good actress.”

“Stop flattering me,” you laughed, squinting up at her. “I already told you I’ll wear whatever outfit you pick out without complaining.”

You knew her far too well.

“You’d better,” Ashley hummed, leaning back to carefully inspect the symmetry of her handiwork with a critical eye. “Otherwise, my masterpiece won’t be complete—and we can't have you showing up to West Hollywood looking anything less than devastating.”

““By the way, how did you even convince Nate to fly out?” you questioned, wincing slightly as she tapped highlighter onto your cheekbones. “New York is already an endurance test for his yeehaw soul, but LA?”

Ashley shrugged, a surprisingly soft look flickering across her face for a fraction of a second. “He just… missed you. I didn’t have to do much convincing at all. You know how he is...”

Before you could dig any deeper into that, a steady knock at the door saved her.

“Is everyone decent in there?” Nate’s voice muffled through the wood.

“No! We’re having a naked pillow fight!” Ashley yelled back without missing a beat, not even pausing her mascara wand.

You burst out laughing and called for them to just come in. The door pushed open, revealing Nate carrying a pair of drinks, with Jack trailing right behind him balancing a tray of finger foods and snacks they’d clearly door dashed. 

“Booze and fuel for the ladies,” Nate said, walking into the room with that easy, slow stride of his and handing you each a frosty glass.

“See, this is exactly what I mean when I say I like my boys well-trained,” Ashley said with a satisfied grin, taking a slow sip. She set her drink down and turned her sharp gaze back to you. “Now go get changed so I can do the final tweaks once I have the full picture.”

You grabbed the pile of clothes she tossed your way and headed into the bathroom. On your way, you tried—and miserably failed—to resist checking your phone, secretly hoping Matthew had sent a follow-up text other than the address of the party. Nothing. A tiny sting of disappointment settled in your chest, but you quickly shook it off as you pulled on the outfit.

You mentally thanked Ashley for choosing something that actually felt like you. The hem was the perfect length, and the dark top was comfortable without feeling overly exposed or making you worry about a wardrobe malfunction with every step. Though, true to Ashley's style, she couldn't resist adding a dramatic open back with thin, delicate straps. Realizing you couldn't reach the ties yourself, you opened the door slightly to call for her.

“She and Jack went down to the kitchen to prep a round of pre-game shots,” Nate’s voice drifted over from where he was leaning against the wall. “Do you want me to go grab her?”

“No, it’s fine,” you said, stepping out into the bedroom. “Just help me tie this up, please?”

You turned your back to him as he stood up from the bed. Four years of deep friendship and shared apartments meant you knew how to read each other in a single glance. It was second nature for all of you. 

“Is it tight enough?” he asked, his voice low and close.

You’d be lying if you said the warmth of his breath against your neck didn't have an immediate, dizzying effect on you. He kept carefully working on the ties as you gave a quiet nod.

“What’s making you so anxious?”

“Right now? Everything,” you admitted, staring at your reflection as his fingers moved against your skin. “I can’t believe I’m going to some random party just to hopefully run into a guy I work with. What am I even supposed to say when I see him?”

He let out a low hum, listening as you kept rambling. “And what if he isn’t even there? What if the party completely sucks? I don’t want to drag you guys out to some boring, pretentious LA nightmare.”

He had already tied the straps, but he didn't pull away. Instead, the weight of his hands rested gently on your bare shoulders—a grounded, steady pressure that felt like an instant unlock to your brain.

“And what else?” Nate asked softly, his fingers shifting down to secure the final knot at your lower back. “Because I don’t believe all this panic is coming from just that.”

“Well… I—” You sighed, the defensive posture melting out of you as you dropped your gaze. “I had a meeting with the executives for Criminal Minds earlier, and basically… they’re not convinced by the character I wrote.”

Nate paused, his hands stilling against your back. “Wait—aren’t almost all your scenes already shot?”

“Yes!” you said, your voice cracking slightly before you forced it into a steady tone. “Which makes it worse. They can still edit them down, or completely cut them out… I don’t know. They just said she’s not what the audience wants. She’s not likable enough. And now I just—”

You squeezed your eyes shut, desperately fighting the prickle of hot tears. Crying right now would make everything ten times worse, and ruining Ashley’s carefully blended makeup was the absolute last thing you needed.

“I just keep thinking maybe I’m not good enough for this,” you whispered, your throat tight. “They probably know better than I do. At the end of the day, they’re the experts, and I just can't stop feeling like maybe this is just not my thing. I'm not good and I don't want to keep making a fool of me.”

“HHey, hey, no—come on,” he said softly, wrapping his arms securely around your chest from behind and pulling you flush against his chest. He squeezed you tight, a firm, grounding hug that held all your broken pieces together. “You are brilliant in everything you do. Everyone is so damn tired of seeing the same bland, cookie-cutter characters over and over again. You know what you’re doing, and if they can’t see that, it’s entirely their loss.”

You took a slow, deep breath, concentrating on the rise and fall of his chest against your back, desperately willing yourself not to let a single tear fall.

He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his strong grip keeping you anchored. “I mean it. We're going to go out tonight, and we are going to have fun because when have we not?  And you are going to find this guy and have a nice time and forget about all of this. Deal?

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, nodding against him. “Deal.”

He gave you one final, firm squeeze before letting his arms slowly slide away. Ashley and Jack entered the room cheering, she was already changed in party clothes. Her glittery dress caught the light as she walked to you and grabbed your hand to turn you over 

“Ugh! Look at this gem! Now you drink this while I finish my work,” she said, thrusting a shot glass into your hand. “And you two, get out of here—I like dramatic makeover reveals,” she added, pointing sternly toward the guys.

Nate and Jack threw their hands up in mock submission, laughing as they backed out of the room and shut the door behind them.

Ashley popped open her little heart-shaped jewelry box, instantly going to work—layering delicate chains around your neck and holding up various earrings to see what caught the light best. You took the shot without arguing, feeling the sharp burn of the tequila trace a fiery line down your throat as she worked her magic.

The alcohol hit fast, taking the edge off your lingering anxiety.

“There’s no way this man isn’t going to wish he finished the night with your chains hitting his face,” Ashley hummed wickedly, stepping back to admire the way the shine caught the light against your bare skin.

You chuckled, shaking your head as she finished adjusting a sleek, low-slung belt around your waist. “It’ll be a miracle if I even end up talking to him for more than five minutes, let alone anything else.”

“Oh, please,” Ashley scoffed, placing her hands on your shoulders to turn you toward the full-length mirror. “Look at yourself. I know I’m good, but you are literally the best canvas in the world.”

She picked up her own glass and pointed it at you. “Now, grab your drink and sit down, because Jack is going to spend at least thirty minutes styling his hair in the main bathroom, and I have to tell you what I overheard my agent saying on the phone earlier.”

You grabbed the first glass the guys brought you and sank onto the edge of the bed, feeling the cool liquid settle the last of your frayed nerves. 

Like an hour and a half later, her own makeup and hair were finally done, and the pregame had already taken hold—just enough to make your head feel pleasantly light and your shoulders drop their tension.

“Are you two divas ready?!” Ashley shouted out into the hallway.

“We’ve been waiting on you!” Nate’s voice echoed back from the living room.

Ashley grabbed a small, sleek clutch from the vanity and handed it to you. “I put some cash and your ID in here. Slide your phone in too. Oh, and I threw in a condom—because in LA, you literally never know.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you chuckled, sliding your phone into the purse as she headed toward the door first.

Stepping out onto the landing, she threw her arms wide, her voice swelling with theatrical flair “Hark, good sirs! Unclose thine eyes and behold, for here before thee stands beauty itself, made mortal!”

You played right into the part, stepping out of the room with a slow, exaggerated strut and a hand on your hip. You heard Jack whistle, and you could feel all six of their eyes locked on you. As much as you felt like an animal being dressed up for the slaughter—nervous, exposed, and heading toward a high-stakes party for a guy who hadn't even bothered to text back—you were overwhelmingly grateful that you at least had three people cheering you on like you were walking a runway.

Jack nodded as if he thoroughly approved. “He definitely doesn’t stand a chance,” he said, solemnly shaking hands with Ashley like two high-powered executives sealing a multi-million dollar contract. “We should be on our way in 5, so do a shot and grab your stuff.”

“I’ll be the sober dummy tonight, so you guys just go have fun,” Nate said, his eyes never leaving yours as he put one his brown jacket over the black shirt he was wearing. You knew it was his unspoken way of telling you to relax—that no matter how overwhelming the night got, or what happened with Matthew, he was watching your back. 

A couple of years ago, the four of you had instituted a strict pact that consisted in a few rules to keep all of you safe and sound in a lot a ways, one of them being whenever you went out to an unfamiliar place to have fun, one person was designated to stay completely sober to navigate, keep tabs on the group, and make sure everyone got home safe. 

You knew better than to argue with him once he made up his mind to play the protective dad of the group. When Nate decided he was looking out for you, there was no negotiating—and if you were being completely honest with yourself, a quiet part of you didn't want to.

You took a long, steadying breath in through your nose and let it out slow, trying to center yourself as he held the door open for you. Sliding onto the cool leather seat of the Uber, you scooted over as Nate climbed in the driver's seat, closing the door behind him and sealing the four of you into the dimly lit car. And just like that, you were heading straight into the Hollywood jungle.

To be honest, you had tried not to load this party with high expectations. You tried to think outside the box, promising yourself you wouldn’t get blindsided by LA stereotypes. But the short trek through the hallways of the hillside mansion did absolutely nothing to help your case.

The moment you crossed the threshold, every single cliché hit you all at once.

First, it was the suffocating smell of cheap weed mixed with expensive Le Labo cologne that could practically knock you off your feet. Then came the sheer, exhausting sight of a room full of people who looked far more invested in aggressive networking than actually having a good time. You couldn't take more than three steps without overhearing someone loudly brag about the absurd amount of PR packages a brand had just sent them, or listen to a self-proclaimed producer passionately break down their "next big indie project" to a girl who was blatantly looking past his shoulder for someone more famous to talk to.

The four of you had slowly separated from each other—Ashley slipping off under the pretense of leaving you alone so you wouldn't "scare the hoes away," and Jack eagerly diving into a heated conversation near the DJ booth about synthesized ambient beats and indie label contracts. Nate had only left your side when you finally insisted you were fine on your own, having spotted a tall, curly-haired guy near the pool that you recognized.

Thing was, that was a tall curly-haired guy, but he wasn’t your tall curly-haired guy. Not yours, really—that was just a stupid way of thinking about it. At the end of the day, he was single, you were single, and he’d only invited you to this party because you’d explicitly asked him if he knew of anything going on tonight. That didn't mean he was holding a torch for you, or that he owed you anything, or that—

“Thought I saw you out here!”

The smooth, familiar voice cut clean through your spiraling thoughts as you stepped into the overly-marbled kitchen.

You turned around to find Matthew leaning back against the island, holding a drink. He was wearing a crisp shirt and tie, a sharp, cinematic look that almost made you feel like a director was about to yell “Cut!” from somewhere in the corner of the room.

His eyes swept over you, taking in the full-length look “Look at you,” Matthew said, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face as he pushed off the counter and stepped into your personal space. “Damn. If I knew you were going to show up looking like that, I would’ve come down to pick you up myself.”

“Hey, Matthew,” you managed to say, in the sultriest smile you could pull. “Long time no see.”

“Too long,” Matthew hummed softly, taking a step closer and reaching out to lightly catch one of the chains hanging near your collarbone between two fingers. “You look absolutely stunning. Seriously. I’m glad you came.”

“Well, I couldn’t leave this place without getting the full experience,” you said, leaning back against the marble island with a casual air you didn't entirely feel.

“If that’s your goal, then I have the solemn obligation to help you achieve it,” Matthew said, a charming grin breaking across his face. Without waiting for a response, he slid his arm around your shoulders, tucking you flush against his side as he began walking you out of the kitchen and back into the endless labyrinth of the mansion. “Let me find my friends—they’re going to absolutely love you.”

You felt utterly doomed as the warmth of his arm settled against your bare skin. It felt so right—the exact kind of effortless, electric closeness you’d been replaying in your head for weeks. “Is this place from one of them? It’s so…”

“Energetic right?” he completed before you could find the right word. “It’s from a friend of a friend. I think their cousin owns it, but honestly, nobody really lives here,” he said, leaning down close to your face with his eyebrows scrunched up slightly, looking a little dizzy from his own drink.

“Yeah, so many people!” you agreed, feeling a sudden urge to find another shot just to force yourself into his wavelength. “This place is huge, though. I actually came over with my friends, but I lost them in the process.”

“Just don’t leave my side and I’ll be your guide,” Matthew murmured smoothly, his arm tightening around your shoulder. “I know it can get loud down here, so there are some more chill rooms upstairs. Just tell me, and I’ll get you there.”

Before you could say anything else, a group of people clustered around a massive velvet sectional cheered loudly at his arrival.

“Matty! Finally!” a guy with slicked-back hair called out, waving a bottle of tequila in the air.

Matthew grinned, steering you right along with him into the center of the circle. “Look who I found,” he announced proudly, introducing you to the room as he sank into the plush cushions and pulled you down right beside him. His arm never moved from around your shoulders, tucking you firmly against his side like a prized trophy. 

You tried to follow the chaotic conversation bouncing around the couch, but every time Matthew leaned in to laugh or murmur something in your ear, his head rested against your shoulder. The soft brush of his caramel curls tickling the bare skin of your neck sent a sharp, electric shiver straight down your spine. In the hazy, alcohol-softened corners of your mind, it felt almost natural—like something that was meant to be.

Taking a slow breath, your eyes wandered past the blur of people to scan the rest of the room.

Off in the far corner, near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, you spotted Ashley. She was leaning against the frame, completely wrapped up in a lively conversation with a gorgeous ginger girl, flashing that magnetic, confident smile of hers that meant she was having the time of her life.

Further across the room, your eyes landed on Nate. He was standing over by the DJ booth, totally entranced by the DJ who was wildly gesturing toward his laptop. Nate had his hands shoved into his pockets, nodding along with that quiet, intense focus he always had when someone talked about music. For the first time all night, he looked relaxed—like he was actually enjoying himself instead of playing security guard.

Matthew shifted beside you, his weight pressing warmer against your side as he laughed at a joke someone across the table made. His hand was making slow movements on your arm that felt like a hypnotic trick “You’re really quiet,” Matthew murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so softly it made your breath hitch. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, I was just watching the room,” you smiled down at him, a warm flutter blooming in your chest as his fingers found yours, interlacing over your shoulder.

“Forget the room. I’m right here,” he smiled back, his gaze softening as he held your eyes. He gestured toward the empty table with his free hand. “Do you want a drink or something?”

“Honestly, a glass of water would be amazing,” you confessed with a soft laugh, feeling the heat of the crowded room starting to catch up to you.

“Water it is. Stay right here, I’ll be back in two minutes.” Matthew gave your hand one last squeeze before untangling his fingers from yours. He pushed himself up from the sofa and began navigating the sea of bodies heading toward the kitchen bar.

Ten minutes bled into fifteen, and the glass of water Matthew had promised was nowhere in sight. You had tried to make conversation with the girl sitting next to you on the couch, but every attempt felt like auditioning for a table where you weren't on the guest list. The tight, suffocating knot in your chest felt embarrassingly familiar—like being fifteen again, standing on the perimeter of a high school party while everyone else spoke a secret language you hadn't been taught.

Scanning the sea of faces, your stomach sank further. Ashley had disappeared completely into the crowd, neither Nate or Jack were nowhere near the DJ booth. None of the messages on the group chat were being delivered, maybe the amount of people affected the signal. You were completely on your own, swallowed whole by the thumping bass and the overwhelming roar of a hundred conversations you weren't part of.

You started going upstairs, thinking maybe an elevated view would help you spot any of them in the sea of people below—or at least lead you to a balcony where you could finally catch a clean breath of air.

As you reached the top of the landing, you realized the architecture up here was weirdly disorienting. Every single bedroom door along the dimly lit corridor was painted a different bold color, like some high-end, twisted hotel. And from behind almost every one, a distinct variety of muffled sounds spilled out into the hall—a sudden burst of sloppy laughter, heated muffled arguments, and other noises that left you with absolutely zero curiosity to find out the source.

A deep blue door at the end of the hall seemed to be quiet enough for you to finally catch your breath and calm down. You knocked twice, holding your breath, and when no answer came through the heavy wood, you slowly pushed it open—only to regret it three seconds later.

Through the hazy, alcohol-clouded corners of your mind, the scene inside took a moment to fully register: two couples were tangled together on an impossibly large, three-meter-wide bed, wearing very little clothing and completely unbothered by the intrusion.Your face burned in an instant heat as you slammed the deep blue door shut, taking a hasty, stumbled step back into the corridor. It felt like the absolute last straw. Whatever fragile composure you had been clinging to completely snapped, and the entire hallway suddenly felt like it was tilting up and down.

“Woah, woah—you okay?”

A guy walking past caught your shoulder before your knees could give out, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.

“I—I—yeah, I just... do you know where a bathroom is?” you stammered, your voice rising with a pathetic edge of desperation as you tried to steady your breathing.

“Yeah, right over here,” he said softly, steering you down the last few feet of the carpeted hall. He reached out and pushed open a door, revealing a spotless, softly lit marble bathroom that felt like absolute heaven.

“Here,” he said, lingering in the doorway. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

His clear blue eyes scanned your face, taking in what probably looked to him like a crazy girl on the verge of passing out.

You nodded quickly, clutching the edge of the sink to keep your hands from shaking. “Yeah. Thanks...”

“Sebastian,” he completed with a small, reassuring smile.

“Thanks, Sebastian,” you managed to whisper.

“Take your time,” he said gently, stepping back and pulling the door closed until the latch clicked into place.

Once the door shut down the music got muffled and the pressure in your chest eased. Thankfully, L.A. people were slightly more hygienic than New Yorkers when it came to bathrooms. There was no immediate sign of stray cocaine or burnt plastic on the counter, which would have made everything a whole lot worse.

A splash of cold water on your face and a little on the back of your neck was all it took to somewhat piece yourself back together. That, and a plan to get the hell out of there as soon as humanly possible. Maybe a ridiculously long shower would get the smell of secondhand pot out of your hair, assuming you let yourself soak long enough to drown the scent.

A sudden knock on the door, followed by the aggressive jiggle of the handle, shattered your fragile peace.

“Busy!” you shouted, hoping they’d take the hint and wander away.

“Bitch, open up, it’s me!” Ashley’s voice muffled through the wood.

You unlocked the door without a second thought, grabbing Ashley’s arm, pulling her inside, and slamming the door shut behind her.

“This place sucks!” you blurted out.

“I know!” Ashley threw her hands up in exasperation, resting her back against the marble counter. “I feel like I’m fifteen again and everyone else is—”

“—a bunch of insecure teenagers in a popularity contest!” you finished for her, the shared frustration spilling out all at once.

You let out a heavy, shuddering sigh, running both hands through your hair to pull it off your face. “Matthew literally dragged me over to his friend group, used me like some cute accessory on the couch, and then completely ditched me. He had me sitting there like a child waiting fifteen minutes for a glass of water that never came.”

Ashley’s eyes went wide, her jaw dropping in immediate outrage. “What?! How could he just leave you all alone like that? But he seemed so—”

“Yeah, i know!” you muttered softly, the sharp sting of reality settling back into your chest. Exhausted, you slid down the tile wall to sit on the edge of the sleek bathtub. “What about you, though? What happened? I thought that gorgeous redhead seemed fun.”

“Don’t even get me started,” Ashley said, her hands flying wildly through the air as she paced the small space. “We were having a great time, right? She takes me back to one of the mllion rooms of this place, and just as I am about to take my bra off, her fucking boyfriend walks in!”

Your jaw dropped. “What?? Did she use you to make him jealous?”

“No! I wish!” Ashley scoffed, pacing the small length of the marble floor with dramatic flair. “He wanted us to put on a show for him or something. I might be an actress on a mattress, but that doesn't make me a mattress actress!”

“Shit, Ash, I’m so sorry,” you said, reaching out to grab her hand to comfort her.

“It’s fine… can’t believe I almost showed my tits to a man like that for free,” she sighed, finally calming down. She dropped onto the edge of the tub right next to you, leaning her head against yours. “We should just—”

Another sharp knock interrupted her.

“Busy!” Ashley barked at the door.

“Ashley?!”

Recognizing Jack’s voice, she leaped up and whipped the door open. He quickly scrambled inside and let out a massive, soul-crushing sigh. “Please tell me we can leave. These people are so aggressively boring!”

“I know, right?” you and Ashley chimed in at the exact same time.

“All they care about is followers, views, and engagement! What the fuck does that even mean?!” Jack’s voice got faster and more high-pitched with every word. “I tried to impress someone by mentioning I’m going to be interviewed by Lin-Manuel fucking Miranda, and they seriously looked me dead in the eye and asked, ‘Oh, I don't know him, what kind of content does he post?!’ He wrote Hamilton for fucksake!”

“No way!” you shouted, genuinely horrified.

“Yes way!” he pointed an accusatory finger at the door. “Please get me out of here. This is truly, deeply not my crowd.”

“We were just saying the same thing. We just have to fin—”

Your sentence was cut short as your phone started buzzing with Nate’s ringtone. You quickly swiped answer and slapped it onto speakerphone.

“Dude, where are you guys?” Nate’s voice cut through the speaker, competing with the exact same thumping bass that was vibrating through the bathroom walls. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere in this madhouse. Someone recognized me from the show and people started screaming about a talent agency contract, and asking if I had a connection to a netflix director. The whole thing was a nightmare.”

It was definitely not your night. Or anyone's night, for that matter.

“We’re in some bathroom on the second floor, right wing,” Ashley called out toward the phone.

You suddenly remembered the layout of the hallway and panicked. “Not the blue one! Nate, don’t op—”

Before you could finish, a chorus of loud, unmistakable moans erupted from the other end of the line, abruptly cutting off as Nate presumably slammed a door shut.

“Too late,” you heard his deadpan voice through the speaker.

The line stayed open, and Nate's exhausted voice cracked through the speaker. “Yeah, I’m definitely done with this place. Can we—”

The bathroom door clicked and swung open, revealing Nate standing on the threshold, phone still pressed to his ear. “—please get the fuck out of here?”

“Fuck yeah,” you all sighed in unison.

The glowing red-and-yellow neon of the In-N-Out drive-thru hummed against the dark California night, washing the interior of the car in a warm, welcoming light. It was finally your turn at the intercom. 

Nate sat in the driver's seat, one hand resting casually on the top of the steering wheel, while an absurdly enthusiastic Ashley was practically hanging half her body out of the back window.

“Welcome to In-N-Out, order whenever you’re ready,” a crackly, distorted voice buzzed from the speaker box.

“Hi! Yeah, hi!” you heard her place s massive order and enthusiastically saying yes to every single extra item, sauce, and customized upgrade the intercom offered her. She ordered Double-Doubles for everyone—all in the largest meal sizes available—along with an absurd stack of Animal Style fries and extra shakes.

“Can you throw in like a dozen extra salt packets, please?” Jack chimed in from the back seat, leaning over Ashley’s shoulder toward the window. “I need enough sodium to dehydrate and erase the lawn-clipping taste of whatever organic kombucha they handed me back at that house.”

As the static-filled voice over the drive-thru intercom rattled off your total, you pulled up to the pay window, the low rumble of laughter from the backseat drifting up to the front. You couldn't help but chuckle to yourself, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of everything that had transpired over the last four hours.

“What’s got you laughing, star?” Nate asked, leaning past you to tap his phone against the payment terminal.

“Just… what the fuck was that?” you admitted, shaking your head as a genuine laugh escaped you.

Nate chuckled, opening his mouth to reply, but the sudden, sharp buzz of your phone cut through the quiet cabin. You looked down at the glowing screen.

Matthew GG Calling…

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

“Do not answer that! Hang up right now!” Ashley hissed from the back, sounding far more indignant on your behalf than you even felt.

“Well—maybe something came up!” you tried to defend, clutching the phone tightly. “Maybe he had to leave or something happened!”

“Oh, please! Someone back me up on this!” she demanded, looking to the side for reinforcements.

“She might be right,” Jack offered carefully, attempting to play the voice of neutral reason. “We don't actually know what happened.”

“He’s calling for a reason,” you insisted.

“There is no reason—he’s just a man!” Ashley shot back.

The phone kept vibrating against your palm, the timer ticking down before it drifted straight to voicemail. You knew you only had seconds to make a choice.

Nate turned his head, his quiet, perceptive eyes locking onto yours as he pulled up to the final window. “Pick it up,” he said softly, his voice grounded and steady. “At least then you’ll have all the facts before you decide what to do.”

Bracing yourself, you swiped the screen to answer and brought the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey—god, I’m so glad you answered,” Matthew’s voice tumbled through the receiver, breathless and frantic, like he’d been running. “I am so, so sorry for disappearing. One of my friends started feeling dizzy and I couldn't just leave them, but I promise I ran straight back for you! You were already gone and nobody knew where you went. Are you even still nearby?”

“I—um... no,” you stammered, scrambling for an excuse as three pairs of eyes locked onto you in the quiet car. “I wasn't feeling great, so I just decided to head out.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he sighed, his voice softening with genuine guilt. “These things can be a lot, and I shouldn't have left your side. Honestly, I don't even like these parties. I rushed here straight from set, didn't even get to change. But listen... I have to be in New York in a couple of weeks, and I would really love to take you out. Properly.”

“Well, I—” The sudden shift caught you completely off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.

“If you don't want to, it's totally fine, I get it,” he added quickly, the nervous rush returning to his tone. “I just... I really enjoy spending time with you. And you’re so absurdly talented—that script rewrite you did was genius and if you ever write something else I would love to direct it.”

A small laugh broke through your surprise. “You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you?”

“I swear I’m not even trying,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register that made your stomach do a familiar flip. “It's just... after seeing you tonight, you looked so beautiful. If there's even a tiny chance you'd say yes, I can't let it pass me by.”

A helpless, hopelessly giddy smile spread across your face as you looked out the windshield.

“Well...” you murmured into the speaker, trying to sound as unbothered as possible. “Let me know when you’re in New York, and maybe I’ll squeeze you into my schedule.”

“I’ll take whatever time you give me,” he answered, a clear, relieved smile in his voice. “Thank you.”

You hung up the phone and set it on your lap, the screen fading to black in the quiet interior of the car. Almost instantly, the car erupted into a chaotic barrage of questions.

You didn't care. The relentless interrogation washed right over you, completely drowned out by the gentle, persistent warmth blooming in your chest. His words lingered like a sweet, steady hum—breathless, earnest, and undeniably real.

He liked you. Honestly, genuinely liked you. And as you leaned your head back against the seat, watching the city lights blur across the window, a quiet truth settled deep in your heart: God knows you wanted so much more than just a quick kiss and a rushed goodbye.

Spencer would argue it was necessary to avoid the incessant teasing. He’d made peace with affectionate nicknames like “pretty boy” and “kid,” but whatever was blooming between the two of you felt far too fragile for the team's teasing radar. It was new, unlabelled, and entirely undefended.

He desperately wanted to ask you to be his girlfriend, but his own perfectionism had completely paralyzed him. The mathematical probability of rejection, however small, loomed large in his mind. And you had every right to say no—he’d defend your right to say no in a heartbeat.

God. If asking for a simple label made his throat constrict so tightly he had to loosen his tie, what was he going to do if he ever proposed? Not that he was thinking about marriage yet. Absolutely not. That would be completely premature. But dreaming just a few steps ahead wasn't a crime… was it?

You, on the other hand, preferred not to overthink what the two of you were. By any standard definition, two people who went on dates, held hands, kissed, and slept together were a couple. Though you usually knew better than to wear your heart on your sleeve, Spencer was the exception to every rule you’d ever set for yourself.

He was so… him so nice, so gentle, and patient and kind and just… him. Of course you wanted to be his girlfriend, but if he wasn't ready to initiate that conversation, you were content to just act like a couple for now. Pushing the labels back a few more dates wasn't going to hurt anything.

When he asked you to keep things quiet—not from the whole world, but specifically from the BAU team—you agreed without hesitation. You were naturally private, but more than that, you understood. You knew what it felt like to be the youngest person in the room most of the time; you shared that struggle with him. The only difference was that while nobody really dared to pick on you—with the single exception of Austin—Spencer had always been an easy target for the team's relentless lighthearted teasing.

Because you didn't spend quite as many hours surrounded by a group of master profilers—and because hiding your true feelings was practically second nature to you—watching Spencer struggle to keep up the charade was nothing short of entertaining.

Take, for instance, the morning he arrived at the office exactly eight minutes late. It wasn't enough time to warrant a formal reprimand from Hotch, but it was certainly enough for Emily to call him out on it.

“Trouble picking out a vest this morning, Reid?” she teased, holding two coffees as she leaned against the railing.

“Just a minor delay at the train station,” he muttered, darting to his desk and sitting down while silently praying she wouldn't notice how ruffled his hair looked.

The "delay" had actually been the distance between his place and your apartment—and perhaps his total lack of willpower whenever you pulled him back into bed in the morning. But Emily didn't need to know that.

Then there was the day he showed up in a dress shirt two sizes too large. Even wrapped in one of his usual sweater vests and coats, the visual was unmistakable: he looked like a little kid playing dress-up in his deadbeat father's closet. To Spencer, it felt obvious, but to Rossi, it was a crime against fashion.

“My ancestors would disown me if they saw the drape on that collar, kid,” Rossi sighed, looking at him with the horrified intensity of a traditional Italian tailor. “I’ve got a fantastic seamstress in the city. Let her alter your shirts so you actually look like a grown man.”

Spencer had merely swallowed hard, offering a weak smile. “I think they gave me the wrong size at the store and I didn't even notice until this morning,” he lied.

In reality, he had spent the night at your place. When it had gotten late, you’d offered to let him stay—and that supposedly impressive 180 IQ had proved entirely useless, because he’d agreed without a single thought about having no clean work clothes. When you'd handed him an oversized shirt left behind by your male best friend, well… it was a well-established fact that Spencer couldn't say no to you. But Rossi didn't need to know that. Though, judging by the older profiler's raised eyebrow, Rossi was probably convinced the kid of the team was swinging for the other team.

Maybe the worst moment came when he needed Garcia to run a quick background check for a profile. As he leaned over her desk to point at the monitor, his loosely wrapped scarf slipped off his shoulders and hit the floor, followed immediately by a dramatic, gasp from the tech analyst.

“You!” she accused, her eyes wide behind her colorful glasses as she pointed a manicured finger at his exposed neck.

Spencer panicked, his hands flying to his throat as he scrambled to scoop his scarf off the floor. “Garcia, it’s not—it’s a dermatological reaction! A contact dermatitis from a new laundry detergent—”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” Garcia gasped, placing a hand over her heart as a scandalized, triumphant grin spread across her face. “Do not try to science your way out of a hickey! Who is she? Who has corrupted my favorite sweet boy? Is it someone in the building? Oh my god, is it someone on the team?!”

“No! No one on the team!” Spencer squeaked, his voice pitching high as a fierce blush consumed his face. “And I am not discussing my private life in the middle of the bullpen!”

“So there is a private life!” she squealed, already tapping her keyboard with terrifying speed. “Don't make me use my powers, Boy Wonder. I can trace your credit card receipts, your GPS, your—”

“Garcia, please,” Spencer pleaded, dropping his voice to a desperate whisper and wrapping the scarf so tightly around his neck he could barely breathe. “If Morgan hears about this, I will literally have to transfer to the Seattle field office.”

Garcia paused, eyeing his sheer desperation. Her expression softened into a smug, maternal smile. “Fine. I’ll hold off on my official investigation. But you owe me all the details the second you make it official.”

“Deal,” Spencer exhaled, grabbing his case file and retreating toward his desk before she could change her mind.

He did not had the heart to tell you to stop giving him hickeys on his neck, especially because he enjoyed them. A little goo much to be honest. It wasn't clear if he enjoyed more getting marked by you or just letting you do anything you wanted with him just for the sake of having your whole attention. But Pen didn't need to know that.

Your absolute favorite moment, however, was when the team called you up to the bullpen for a quick legal consultation. Once the official business was efficiently settled, Diva Morgan didn't waste a single second diving straight into the office gossip.

“I bet you wouldn't believe me if I told you Reid has a girl who’s got him completely out of his mind,” Morgan said, leaning back against his desk with a smug grin.

You could very much believe him—mostly because you could still feel Spencer's fingers tangled in your hair from last night, setting the pace of your mouth. But Morgan didn't need to know that.

“I'm sure you're just exaggerating,” you said, flipping through a folder and keeping your tone casually disinterested.

“The kid’s showing up late to work, his clothes are all disheveled, and I swear—I swear—I saw a hickey on his neck the other day,” Morgan tried to convince you, leaning in like he was dropping top-secret state intelligence.

You suppressed a smug, prideful smile before it could reach your lips. “So Spencer’s having some fun. Is that all you’ve got?”

Morgan looked at you as if you’d just turned down a million dollars. “Oh, come on! That’s Reid we’re talking about!”

“Morgan, you wouldn't last a day with the sheer volume and level of gossip that courthouses and police stations handle,” you said smoothly, tucking your files under your arm and turning toward the glass doors.

“Oh, yeah? Are you part of all that?” he called after you, raising an eyebrow.

You turned back, giving him your best mischievous smile. “Please. I know better.”

Crossing through the glass doors and stepping into the elevator, you offered a polite smile to the agent already inside. Tapping the button for the lobby, your mind drifted back to Morgan’s words—specifically the part about the mark on Spencer's neck. You made a mental note to tone it down with the hickeys, especially considering Spencer was always thoughtful enough to leave his in places easy to hide.

Just before the elevator doors slid shut, a slender hand caught the edge. Spencer slipped inside, offering a quiet, professional nod to you and the other agent as the doors sealed shut.

You always strove to keep things strictly professional within the walls of the BAU. But the moment the elevator stopped a floor down and the second agent stepped out, leaving the two of you alone, Spencer proved he wasn't playing by those same rules today.

The instant the doors closed, his hands were on you, gently pinning you against the back wall and spinning you around so your back met the mirror.

"Spencer," you gasped softly, a breathless laugh escaping your lips as his arms boxed you in.

"Morgan was talking to you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of his usual hesitant flutter. He leaned down, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and rare, quiet possessiveness. "What did he say?"

“Just that his favorite genius has been looking a little... distracted lately,” you said, unable to hide your smile as your eyes darted from his gaze down to his lips. “Apparently, someone has you wrapped around her finger.”

He groaned softly, his eyes flicking up to the digital floor indicator, silently counting down the seconds before the elevator reached the lobby and praying no one else got in. “I swear, he and Emily could run a secret intelligence website about everything that goes on in this building.”

“So he wasn't lying?” you asked, tilting your head to the side with a small, knowing grin.

“All I know is that I have dinner reservations for that new restaurant you mentioned wanting to try this Saturday,” he answered, a subtle flush creeping up his neck.

Your eyebrows shot up. “That’s a really nice place, Spencer.”

“Yeah, well… a nice occasion requires a nice place,” he said, shifting his weight as he fought down a sudden surge of nervous anxiety, doing everything in his power not to implode right then and there.

“Is it a nice occasion?” you asked softly, leaning into his space just a fraction more.

“It could be,” Spencer murmured, his fingers tightening gently against your waist. “If you say yes.”

Before you could ask him to clarify, the elevator let out a quiet chime and slid open to the bustling main lobby. Instantly, Spencer stepped back, smoothing down the front of his shirt with practiced discipline, though the flustered rosy tint on his cheeks gave him away entirely.

You stepped out beside him, adjusting your folder under your arm and matching his stride toward the glass doors leading to the street.

“You know,” you said under your breath, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead so none of the passing agents would suspect a thing, “I haven't even heard the question yet, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer ducked his head, a genuine, dazzling smile breaking across his face as he pushed open the exterior door for you. “I’m working on the delivery. I have three days to make sure the probability of a positive outcome reaches one hundred percent.”

“Well,” you whispered, brushing past him into the afternoon light and catching his eye for just a split second, “your odds are already looking pretty good.”

To be fair, maybe if you spent as much time with the team as Spencer did, they would’ve picked up on your mood just as quickly. Just like your best friend Austin had, all the way back when you had your very first date with Spencer.

“So, how long have you been screwing the fed guy?” Austin had asked out of nowhere, leaning against your office doorframe.

You couldn't have been more obvious if you tried. Your pen stilled over your paperwork for a fraction of a second before you shook your head, forcing a neutral expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well, next time try not to wear two different shoes,” he said casually before pushing off the frame and walking out of your office.

You prayed he was just teasing you—just making a ridiculous joke at your expense. It was bad enough he’d already noticed something was going on when you and Spencer were barely even a thing yet. But you didn't dare look down at your feet for the rest of the day, desperately trusting that your suit pants were long enough to disguise the mismatch.

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For once, the world had slowed down. No deadlines, no crime scenes, no frantic calls. Just a quiet evening, unhurried.

A half-finished bottle of wine sat between you on the coffee table, something the two of you had started sharing on nights like this — a ritual that had grown into its own small kind of comfort.

“God, I’ve missed you,” you sighed, glass in hand, letting your gaze linger on his kind eyes.

Spencer’s lips curved, soft and a little dazed from the wine. “Well, I’ve missed you too. It’s been a while since we—”

“Had real sex?” you cut in, eyebrow raised.

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I was going to say relax properly… but maybe that too.”

The look he gave you then — those dopey, wine-softened eyes and the faint flush on his lips — made your stomach flip.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t been together in that way at all. But lately, it had been rushed — quick, desperate moments snatched at the end of long days, more about channeling the stress somewhere than about sinking into each other. 

“Although the good thing is…” he murmured, taking your hand in his, “I’m all yours for the rest of the week.” He kissed your palm first, then trailed slowly upward — your wrist, your arm — until his lips brushed your shoulder and continued slowly to your neck. 

You let out a content sigh, tilting your head as a second nature to give him more access. “Three full days of unlimited Spencer Reid? I should really buy a lottery ticket while my luck’s this good.”

He gave you that lopsided, wine-soft smile. “Lottery tickets are chance. This—” he whispered in your ear and left a soft kiss under your lobe, “—is guaranteed.”

You arched a brow, smirking. “Unlimited access, huh? Do you come with a user manual?”

Spencer chuckled, leaning closer. “I thought you liked puzzles.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it faded quickly when his lips hovered just shy of yours, warm breath ghosting against your mouth. For a moment, he waited — always giving you the choice, even when you were already leaning in.

You closed the gap first.

The kiss was soft at the start, a slow reacquainting. Then his hand slid along your jaw, steadying you like he was terrified of losing you, and the sigh that escaped you seemed to undo him completely. He deepened the kiss, careful but hungry, and you tasted the faint sweetness of wine on his lips.

Your glass clinked against the coffee table as you set it down blindly, hands finding his shirt, tugging him closer. His dopey, wine-flushed smile melted into something needier against your mouth, and when he pulled back just barely, his voice was already wrecked.

He began asking “Do you want to go to—”

“God, yes,” you cut him off, way too fast, way too breathless to care how desperate your voice sounded.

You barely made it down the hall, lips still pressed together, stumbling into walls and laughing between kisses. His hands framed your face, then slid down to your waist as if he couldn’t decide where he needed you most.

By the time you reached the bedroom, Spencer was just as breathless as you were — too caught up in you to care about anything else. He fumbled with the door, kicking it closed without breaking the kiss, and then took your face in his hands again like he couldn’t stand to let go.

Your laugh hitched against his mouth, muffled by how hungrily he kissed you back. “You’re supposed to be careful,” you teased between breaths.

“I am careful,” he managed, voice wrecked, “just… not right now.”

He walked you backward until the back of your knees bumped the edge of the bed, lips still on yours, hands never straying too far as though he was terrified of losing the contact even for a second.

“Do you want to try… what we talked about?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant but full of need.

“Yeah,” you breathed, heart racing. “Sounds good.”

He grinned, just the tiniest bit dopey, and leaned in again, hands already roaming, like he couldn’t wait another second.

Just before this pseudo dry spell, you two had talked about trying something new — sensory deprivation. You’d been the one to suggest it, admitting you weren’t exactly sure what you wanted, just that you were curious. Spencer, ever the meticulous planner, had done all the research for you, carefully noting your absolute no’s, what to avoid, and how to make it safe and enjoyable.

The idea was simple: you’d wear a blindfold, letting him guide you entirely with his hands, his voice, and subtle touches, so you’d always know where he was without seeing him. He promised to keep talking to you the whole time, grounding you, making sure the trust and closeness between you stayed front and center.

Your shirt was already gone, his too, and the warmth of his fingertips felt like little sparks igniting trails of fire across your skin. Every touch made your pulse jump, every brush of his hand fanning the slow burn building between you.

He slid your pants down with deliberate care before pausing, reaching for one of his ties. He held it in his hands for a moment, almost contemplative.

Despite all his meticulous research — every article and forum he’d read about safety, about what materials were best — you’d insisted on the tie. Not because it was ideal, but because of the way his expression had shifted when you’d first mentioned it, something dark and hungry flickering in his eyes. You’d wanted that, wanted him in this moment, and he hadn’t argued.

Still, even now, his gaze searched yours as if asking for permission one last time.

You nodded, excitement bubbling in your chest as he slipped the tie over your eyes and tied it behind your head with deliberate care. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against your hair as though the smallest tug might hurt you.

“Is it too tight?” he asked softly, his voice low and cautious.

“No,” you reassured quickly, wanting to ease the tension you felt in him. “It’s perfect.”

He exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, then pressed a tender kiss to each of your cheeks before finally claiming your mouth with an intensity that left you dizzy. His hands slid down your sides, firm and grounding, like he wanted you to feel him everywhere all at once.

You smiled against his lips, the blindfold already shifting your world into something sharper, every brush of his hands magnified.

“See?” you whispered between kisses. “Told you I’d like it.”

Spencer let out a shaky laugh, the sound vibrating against your mouth. “You’re not even giving me time to prove myself.”

“You’ve already proven yourself,” you murmured, fingers finding his hair, tugging lightly until he groaned.

You could feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears, excitement coursing through you as Spencer guided you back onto the mattress. You wanted this — wanted to enjoy it. The idea of trying something new hadn’t just come out of nowhere. A while back, JJ had confided that she and Will had hit a dry spell, routine wearing them thin until they almost came undone.

Maybe you and Spencer weren’t anything like JJ and Will, but the thought had stuck with you. What if you two fell into the same trap? What if the stress, the cases, the exhaustion chipped away at what you had until there was nothing left? You’d told yourself you wouldn’t let that happen — that you’d work on it, keep the spark alive, make sure you didn’t break.

So you let him keep kissing down your neck, lower, his lips igniting every nerve in your skin. It did feel good — more than good — but somewhere between the thrill and the unfamiliarity, something shifted.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment excitement blurred into anxiety, or when the tension in your body stopped being about anticipation and started being about agitation.

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging the way they always did, only this time it wasn’t out of passion — it was grounding, desperate. You wanted to like this, so you let him keep kissing you, his hands almost sliding your bra off. You had already said yes, and it had been so long since you’d been truly close like this, and—

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft but steady.

He’d caught it. Of course he had. The way your lips stayed pressed shut, refusing to part for him, betraying the storm in your chest.

Normally, you sighed against his mouth, or let out little hums he cherished, every sound a quiet confirmation of closeness. But now, silence sat heavy between you.

“Y-yes… just keep going,” you stammered, trying to steady your voice. You didn’t want to ruin the night, the mood, or disappoint him.

Spencer paused, his hands still on your waist, eyes searching yours behind the blindfold. “Maybe… we should stop,” he murmured, pulling back just slightly, sensing the tension in your body.

“No, no… come on,” you insisted, forcing a smile, your voice a little too eager. “I’m enjoying this. I swear.”

But your chest tightened with every word, a heaviness you couldn’t push away. The lie slipped out of necessity — not malice — because you wanted this, needed it, but your body was screaming in quiet panic.

He untied the knot on the blindfold with ease, knowing that if he looked at you now, you wouldn’t be able to deny him anything.

The blindfold slipped away, and the first thing you saw was him — eyes soft, worried, and completely focused on you. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe properly. 

Spencer leaned in slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in his chest. “I… I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said firmly, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his.

“But I have to like this,” you blurted, trying to explain yourself, your voice tight.

Spencer frowned slightly, tilting his head. “You don’t have to like anything. Why do you think that?” he asked, gentle but pointed at the word you’d chosen.

“No, of course I know that,” you rushed, shaking your head. “It’s just… I don’t want us to get boring without realizing it. I don’t want routine to eat us alive.”

His expression softened instantly. “Well… statistically, around 62% of long-term couples worry about ‘getting boring,’ but the research shows that the majority of them actually build deeper intimacy over time. Desire changes, sure, but it doesn’t disappear — not when there’s trust, not when there’s us.” He brushed his thumb along your cheek, grounding you. “Boring isn’t our problem. Disconnection would be. And we’re not disconnected. Not even close.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to ease the tightness in your chest as your fingers absently played with his silky curls. Numbers might not lie, but somehow you always found yourself believing you’d end up the exception — the one who fell on the wrong side of the statistic.

“Is that why you wanted to try this?” he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.

You hesitated, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean… not entirely,” you admitted, voice low. “But it sort of came up after I talked to JJ. She mentioned how she and Will went through this dry spell and how it almost pushed them apart and…” You trailed off, embarrassed. “I guess it stuck with me more than I realized.”

Spencer tilted his head, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at his lips. “You and I are nothing like JJ and Will,” he said softly, brushing a loose curl behind your ear. “Not even close. But… I get why it stuck with you. You want to make sure we don’t slide into something we don’t notice.”

You nodded, fingers still tangled in his hair, heart slowing a little under his steady gaze. “Yeah… I just don’t want us to… fade into routine or something.”

“Routine doesn’t scare me,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your cheek. “You don’t scare me. And… we’re capable of more than we give ourselves credit for. Nights like this, trust like this… it proves that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “You make it sound so… simple.”

He chuckled softly, lips brushing yours. “It isn’t simple,” he admitted. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it. And if I have to use statistics, analogies, or bad metaphors to convince you, I will. Every single time.”

The tension in your chest eased further, replaced by warmth, by the undeniable pull of closeness. And for the first time since the panic hit, you let yourself believe it — just for a moment — that it really could be safe to feel, to trust, to be with him.

You felt a little ridiculous — sitting there in just your panties and an undone bra after nearly having a breakdown — yet the skin-to-skin warmth pressed against you was something you would never trade for anything in the world.

“I’m sorry for… ruining the mood,” you murmured, letting your head fall back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Who said anything about ruining anything?” Spencer replied, lifting both of you carefully and turning so his back rested against the headboard, with you straddling him, giving you all the room in the world to not feel encaged by him. 

“Oh, come on,” you laughed nervously. “I doubt you want anything after that.”

“All I know is,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as his hands adjusted your bra again, “we still have some wine.” He nuzzled your neck, the kiss gentle, almost a caress. “And I brought you dark chocolate from Chicago. Plus,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “there’s this article I’ve been dying to tell you about.”

You shivered at the mixture of warmth, softness, and playful intimacy. Even after the panic, even after everything, Spencer had this effortless way of grounding you while keeping the connection electric.

You grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “Chocolate and articles, huh? You really know how to woo me.”

Spencer laughed softly, eyes twinkling. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

“And wine,” you reminded him, teasing.

“Never underestimate the power of a good malbec,” he replied, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You both laughed, the tension of earlier completely dissolved, leaving only warmth, teasing touches, and the easy, electric closeness that had defined your night. For now, nothing else mattered — just the two of you, the wine, the chocolate, and that perfect mix of comfort and playful desire that always seemed to find its way back.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

Because his thoughts weren’t paranoid. Because you’d done dangerous things before when he wasn’t looking. Because you’d stopped thinking clearly and started acting on the noise.

He was scared you might crank the hot water until it scalded your skin. Or let your fingers drift too close to the candle you’d lit under the excuse of trying to relax. Or scrub at your arms until the skin was raw and furious. Again.

Because Spencer Reid, who knew every corner of your mind and every dark hallway you tried to lock up, understood that sometimes the only thing you could seek when your brain betrayed you… was pain.

And he hated that he understood that.

You felt guilty. You always did. Guilty for being such an inconvenience. For needing him to sit behind you like a sentry while you disassociated in warm water. For the way his hands moved with silent purpose, kneading the tightness out of your back, the sponge in his palm soft and patient against your shoulder blades.

Every gentle touch was a reminder of how deeply he loved you, and how powerless love felt when your own mind turned violent against you.

“work today?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

But he asked anyway. Because he’d rather hear you scream than say nothing at all. Because silence was the thing that scared him most.

You didn’t answer right away.

The words got stuck somewhere between your lungs and your teeth, and instead of speaking, you let your head fall forward, tears slipping down your face before you even noticed them.

He had read countless studies on high-functioning depressive episodes. He could recite them from memory—statistics, symptoms, even emerging treatments—and still, it never felt like enough. Not when you were slipping through his fingers in real time. Not when all that knowledge just sat there in his chest, inert and useless, while you drowned in plain sight.

He’d suggested—gently, then not so gently—that you take a temporary leave. Time off. Just a few weeks to breathe.

You had shut him down immediately.

Because “work makes me feel normal.”

He suspected it was more about control than comfort. That courtroom confidence, that fire in your eyes when you argued a motion—it was the only space where your mind couldn’t betray you. In front of a jury, you could pretend the shadows didn’t follow you home. You could keep the mask on a little longer.

He didn’t push after that. Not because he agreed—but because he knew what it felt like to need control more than comfort. He had lived there once, too. And maybe still did.

But watching you now—barely holding it together behind your perfectly sharpened eyeliner and ironed blazers—he wasn’t sure how long “functioning” could keep disguising the “depressed” part.

He finished rinsing the last suds from your shoulder, fingers gentle as they traced over the outline of your clavicle, the water now lukewarm and your skin wrinkled from how long you’d stayed in. Without a word, he reached for the softest towel he could find—the one he’d bought months ago after reading a journal article that claimed sensory comfort could help with depressive episodes.

He guided you out of the bathroom with the same tenderness one might use with an injured bird—slow, silent, no sudden movements. You didn’t resist when he sat you down in front of the vanity. You couldn’t muster the energy to resist anything tonight.

Without a word, Spencer reached for the hairbrush before you could. You lifted a hand, instinctively.

“I can do it,” you muttered, your voice flat and unfamiliar in your own throat.

“I know you can,” he replied softly, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “But I like doing it.”

It was half the truth.

The other half was the fear you’d yank the brush in frustration, pull too hard on your scalp until your skin stung. That you’d dig your nails into your scalp the way you sometimes did when the thoughts got too loud. That something so simple—so mundane—would become a reason to unravel.

So he did it for you.

Each stroke of the brush was slow, careful, following the rhythm of your breath. You stared at your reflection in the mirror—blank eyes, damp lashes, skin pale beneath the warm towel. You looked like someone else. Someone broken in places even you couldn’t reach anymore.

You felt like a doll. But not the kind little girls dreamed of being. Not porcelain or precious.

Just something that needed to be taken care of. Constant maintenance. Fragile in all the wrong ways. A responsibility, not a person. A ticking clock of disaster that couldn’t be left alone for fear of self-destruction. Even your death, you thought bitterly, would be a burden to someone else.

And he was a liar. A liar for lying to you about not being a burden. A liar for saying he loved you. A liar for pretending to like take care of. 

You turned abruptly, reaching for the brush with too much force—both hands clamped down like yanking it from him could prove something. That you were still functional. That you weren’t a doll. That you didn’t need to be managed or handled like something fragile.

But maybe because he was smarter. Or maybe because he’d seen the micro-expression on your face a second before you even moved. Or maybe because he knew you—down to the exact rhythm of your panic—

He stopped you.

Spencer’s hand clenched around the brush, holding it just firmly enough to keep it from slipping out of his grasp, and his other hand reached for your wrists—gentle but fast—fingers curling around them in one practiced movement.

“I said I can do it!” you bit out, eyes shining with unshed tears, almost tussling to get to the damn brush.

Your fingers clashed with his, frantic and shaking. It wasn’t about the brush. Not really. It was about control. Dignity. Proving—if not to him, then to yourself—that you weren’t completely lost.

He threw the brush somewhere out of reach, then quickly grabbed each of your wrists in his hands. He wished—more than anything—that he could shake some sense into you, if only it were possible.

His fingers tightened—not to hurt, never to hurt—but just enough to still your trembling hands, to anchor you from the edge he could feel you sliding toward, even as you fought him with useless resistance.

You pushed against him, half-hearted and wild-eyed, breath sharp and uneven.

“Just—let me—” you gasped, but the sentence cracked apart before you could finish it.

Let you what?

Let you hurt yourself? Let you scream? Let you get to the brush like it could somehow untangle the knots in your mind? Let you have one second of control, even if it came at your own expense?

He didn’t know.

You didn’t either.

“Stop it,” Spencer snapped—not loud, but with an edge. Not angry. Just terrified.

There was a shake in his voice, like he was teetering on the edge—somewhere between begging and breaking.

“I know you’re going through something,” he said, breath catching halfway through. “And I promised I’d be here for you.”

His eyes searched yours—desperate, exhausted, pleading.

“But just—” he paused, jaw tightening, the words fighting their way up through his throat like they were splintered glass. He swallowed hard, getting to your eye level and resting your hands on his forehead.

“I love you,” he said, finally looking you in the eyes. And it wasn’t soft—it was clear. Like he needed you to hear it without question. “I truly do. Nothing that has to do with you will ever be a burden to me.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to cry—but he kept going, not with force, but with insistence.

“And if I have to repeat myself a hundred times, I will. I’ll say it a thousand if that’s what it takes. Every damn day if I need to.”

Your lip trembled, and he saw it—that flicker of guilt, or maybe recognition, or maybe just pain that had nowhere else to go.

“I know,” he said softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye again. “I know these are all pretty words that don’t get into your head. That bounce right off the part of you that believes you’re unlovable.”

His voice cracked, and he let out a breath through his nose, trying to steady it. Because he had to be strong for both of you. Because you would do the same for him. 

“And I know you love me too, despite not saying it in a long time.”

His words were calm, steady—but the weight behind them pressed against your ribs.

You blinked. Had it really been that long?

You hadn’t realized. You didn’t remember much these days—days bled into nights, and weeks stacked like forgotten papers on your desk. You remembered to do tasks. You remembered deadlines. You remembered how much your knees hurt in the morning and how the mirror made you flinch. But you didn’t remember when you last told him you loved him.

And that realization landed hard in your chest.

Your eyes dropped to his hands still wrapped gently around your wrists. His fingers were so careful. Always careful.

That cracked something open inside you. So sharply, so suddenly, that a sob erupted from your lips before you could stop it.

He let go of your wrists instantly, arms circling around you without hesitation, drawing you in. Your face buried itself into the crook of his neck, and you gripped the fabric of his shirt like it could hold you together. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your back, grounding you while your tears soaked through his clothes.

“I don’t like being like this,” you choked out between sobs. “I do love you, I promise. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I—”

“Shh,” he murmured against your temple. “Nothing is wrong with you.”

You cried harder, like the words hit a place inside you that hadn’t been touched in years.

“You’re struggling. That doesn’t make you broken, it makes you human,” he whispered, his voice low and steady, even as his own eyes welled. “And I’m not going anywhere. No matter what version of you wakes up in the morning. I love all of you.”

You clung to him like he was the only tether left between you and the void. Because in many ways, he was. Your fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, desperate, terrified—not of him, but of yourself. Of what more damage the darkness curling inside you could still do. What it could make you say. What it could make you stop feeling.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. One arm wrapped firmly around your back, the other cradled the nape of your neck, fingertips threading through damp strands of your hair with gentle insistence.

“You’ll get better,” he whispered, and there wasn’t a single crack in it—just quiet, absolute certainty. “It will take time. And effort. And probably more bad days than either of us want.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, almost bracing for the but that usually followed.

But it never came.

“I’ll be here,” he continued, pressing his lips to your temple, voice steady, grounding.

When you finally calmed down, Spencer gently finished brushing your hair, his movements slow and careful like he was threading peace back into every strand. He helped you slip into your softest pajamas—loose, comforting fabric that wouldn’t irritate your sensitive skin.

Then he handed you a small glass of water and a soft, weighted blanket. One of those designed with deep-pressure therapy in mind. A little ridiculous, maybe, but there was research behind it. Weighted stimulation had been shown to activate the parasympathetic nervous system, reducing cortisol levels and helping with emotional regulation. He’d read three papers on it before buying the damn thing.

He would never stop fighting for you to be you again— not just the version the world saw, but the one buried beneath all the pain and silence. Because to him, you were worth every battle, every sleepless night, every whispered promise.

And no matter how long it took, he would be there—steadfast, unwavering—holding the line until you found your way back to yourself.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

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There was always music playing in the background—something moody and danceable. This time, it was That’s Life by Frank Sinatra. You pulled the chain hanging from the ceiling, lighting the bulb. And just like always, you were faced with a pair of eyes.

Eyes meant to be seen. Eyes meant to be enjoyed—for their fear. If they even felt it. 

Sometimes they were black. Sometimes crystal blue. Sometimes green. Most of them dead—not dead like corpses, but dead like something twisted and hollow inside. And you were always glad there were no mirrors in this dream. Seeing those eyes reflected in your own would be the end of you.

Anyway, tonight, the eyes belonged to a man you had prosecuted two weeks ago. He’d walked away from the charges—murder and rape of three children.

He had even winked at you when the judge read the verdict.

All because the only witness you had was an undocumented immigrant—someone who had wished you luck with all the sincerity in the world, but couldn’t afford to help. Not when speaking up could cost her everything.

Something that changed from dream to dream was the weapon.

Sometimes it was a gun—clean, distant, and too quick. Sometimes a bat, which felt cliché, but you welcomed it anyway. You’d gone through all of them, really: a hammer, cold and heavy; a tire iron, a kitchen knife. Once, it was a length of barbed wire, wrapped around your wrist like a ribbon. Another time, a fireplace poker, glowing faintly at the tip. You’d used a pair of pliers. A crowbar. A wrench. A meat tenderizer. A belt. A broken bottle. A screwdriver. A corkscrew. 

You picked the weapon on duty up from the workbench with the casual grace of always. The music swelled again—Sinatra’s voice looping back as if the record were scratched: “That's life, that's what all the people say...”

Do you need more details about what happened during the dream?

Well, if you really want to know—sometimes there was a little dialogue. Conversations not meant to be remembered word for word, but heavy with meaning. About how fascinating it was to test the edges of your own morality. To push until the idea of guilt felt like something distant, almost fictional.

How far could you go without feeling ashamed? Without feeling any guilt at all?

Maybe it was because you knew it was a dream. That’s what kept you from crossing a certain line. Or maybe it was because they were always the same type of man—rapists, abusers, pedophiles, molesters, traffickers, predators, monsters. 

Sure, justice with your own hands wasn’t justice at all. But the swing of your arm, the impact against flesh, and the splash of blood on your clothes—it all felt like justice.

The moans of pain and cries for mercy always came. They never stopped you. Sometimes your hands looked like they belonged to your childhood self, small and trembling. Other times, the faces you struck shifted endlessly—replaced over and over by ghosts from your past. 

Eventually, you stopped—exhausted, breath ragged, your hands crimson red, some of the blood soaking into your clothes, sometimes more than others. You wiped the thin layer of sweat from your forehead as Sinatra’s voice floated through the room. “Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart won't buy it”

The man in front of you was nothing but agonizing, bloody, unrecognizable pulp—one blow away from death. With a final swing, just before your weapon connected, you woke up softly.

Spencer shook you gently. “Get up, heavy dreamer. You’re already ten minutes behind.”

He kissed your forehead as you groaned, stretching slowly, waking beside the man who always pulled you back from the edge.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, adjusting his purple tie.

“Good,” you said with a loose smile. You’d never told him about the dream—and doubted you ever would. But every time you dreamed it, it was a good night of sleep.

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With a sigh, you dropped your head to the desk, forehead meeting wood with a soft thud in your shared apartment’s quiet study. You didn’t even flinch when you heard Spencer’s footsteps behind you.

His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders. “Come on,” he said softly, thumbs beginning to knead the tension in your muscles. “You should take a break… or call it for the day and eat something. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You didn’t lift your head, but you leaned back into his touch with a quiet groan, letting him work the stress from your neck and shoulders.

“I can’t,” you mumbled into the desk. “I have three pre-trial motions, one defense strategy to dismantle, and a prosecutor who thinks citing Latin makes him clever.”

Spencer huffed a small laugh, his fingers expertly working over the tight muscles in your shoulders. “Fiat voluntas tua—let it be your will,” he murmured near your ear, the Latin smooth and affectionate on his tongue.

You barely registered the kiss he pressed to the side of your neck, but you did feel the warmth of his hands as they slipped lower, gently untucking your shirt from the waistband of your slacks with quiet precision. The kind of slow, deliberate movement that said he wasn’t rushing—he was inviting.

“Come on,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “let me help you relax.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment you hesitated. The weight of the day still lingered in your mind—but his voice, his hands, the warmth of his body close behind yours… it was so easy to melt into it.

He felt your body begin to soften beneath his touch, the tension bleeding away as your shoulders lowered, your breath deepened. He knew he’d convinced you—not with pressure, but with patience.

Spencer gently helped you rise from the chair, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as his hands found the first button of your blouse. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you let him walk you slowly back toward the bedroom, one step at a time, his fingers working open the buttons with a kind of reverence. He took his time, eyes flicking up to yours between each one.

Your legs bumped the edge of the bed and you sat with a quiet exhale, letting yourself surrender to the moment. He knelt in front of you without a word, a quiet offering of himself, and leaned in to kiss along your stomach as he helped slide the shirt from your shoulders. You moved in tandem, undoing your pants, lifting your hips to slide them off with his help.

He was still in his slacks and dress shirt—no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows—but he hadn’t made a move to undress. This wasn’t about him. This was about giving you space to breathe. To let go. To be taken care of.

Spencer pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his hands steady on your hips. “Lie back,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft. “Let me take it from here.”

Spencer reached for a pillow, his touch gentle as he slipped it beneath your hips, easing the familiar ache that often settled in your lower back after long hours at your desk. His fingers hooking into your panties and sliding them down with care, kissing a slow, reverent path along your thighs as he did. Each kiss was soft, warm, almost worshipful—like he was reminding you how deeply he adored every inch of you.

Once you were bare, he moved back up, the heat of his body hovering over yours as he kissed you fully, deeply. His mouth moved with purpose, tongue slipping past your lips to meet yours. There was no rush—just the steady, grounding rhythm of him.

As his mouth explored yours, his fingers found the last item still clinging to your skin—your bra—and he unhooked it with ease, sliding the straps down your arms with a touch so careful it felt like a promise.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but burning with focus, with care, with want. His fingertips brushed down your side “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky but patient.

You nodded. “Yeah,” you said softly, knowing he liked hearing the words. Spencer gave you a small smile before dipping his head, returning to the trail of kisses he’d started earlier. His mouth found the curve of your neck, warm and deliberate, moving slowly down to your chest.

He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking gently over it before sucking, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. His free hand cupped your other breast, thumb and forefinger teasing the nipple with practiced, tender precision. You hummed in response, pleasure curling in your stomach as the steady rhythm of his mouth and hands grounded you.

He gave both of your breasts equal attention, switching between them until they were perfectly perked, glistening faintly in the soft light of the bedroom from his mouth. The sight made something flutter deep inside you—how focused he was, how thoroughly he worshipped every inch of you.

Once satisfied, he kissed his way down your body, slow and deliberate—along your sternum, across your stomach, pausing just above your navel to savor the way your skin trembled under his lips.

He adjusted his position, settling in deeper between your thighs, looping them over his shoulders like it was second nature. His hands gripped your hips just enough to anchor you.

Then he leaned in—his tongue pressing flat against your pussy, collecting the slickness there and spreading it with slow, purposeful strokes. The warmth of him sent a pulse through your core, each pass of his tongue both soothing and electric.

He liked taking his time with you — licking and sucking slowly at your clit, his tongue teasing between your folds with deliberate care. The way your thighs gradually relaxed, your fingers threading softly through his hair, told him everything he needed to know. He felt the weight of your legs draped over his shoulders, the warmth of your skin against his cheeks as he moved with purpose, circling his tongue with gentle precision.

You weren’t the type to moan — not loudly, not for show. Instead, you gasped, breath hitching in your throat, soft huffs slipping out as your fingers combed slowly through his hair. There was something grounding about the way he ate you out — like he wasn’t just chasing your pleasure, but studying it, learning you.

Maybe it was the warmth of his tongue, the way it moved with purpose. Or the wet, open-mouthed kisses he left on the insides of your thighs, patient and steady. Whatever it was, it made your body soften beneath him, made the tight coil of tension you always carried begin to unravel. With him between your legs, everything else quieted.

His mouth closed over your clit, kissing and sucking with slow precision as one hand slid back upward, finding your breast. He cupped it gently, his fingers teasing the hardened nipple beneath his touch, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

There was something deeply satisfying about going down on you — not just for the physical reaction, but for what it meant. It wasn’t instinct or biology driving him. There was nothing reproductive about it. Having his mouth buried in your wetness felt intimate, intentional — almost sacred. A quiet act of trust that he didn’t take for granted, not for a second.

He loved sucking on your clit until it was puffy and swollen, flushed red from the attention. Every nerve ending — all 8,000 of them — was his to activate, to light up one by one until pleasure rippled through you like a current he was controlling with care.

“Spence,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut, voice barely more than breath.

He answered by squeezing your thigh, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you. His tongue circled your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes, and the bridge of his nose brushed your clit with every movement. 

Your hands tangled deliciously in his hair, pulling gently as the pleasure built inside you. His hand remained on your breast, teasing your nipple with slow, deliberate strokes that added to the growing heat. The pillow beneath your hips eased the tension in your back, giving him perfect access as he flicked his tongue over and over.

His rhythm was steady and unrelenting, driving your thighs to press instinctively against his head. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost drowning out your breathy moans, was pure heaven for Spencer. His free hand spread your folds wide, fingers exploring your entrance with tender insistence.

Wet noises and soft, ragged moans filled the bedroom, wrapping around you like a warm, intoxicating cocoon.

“Don’t sto—p,” you moaned, your voice trembling as the knot in your stomach tightened. One of his fingers slid inside you slowly, curling upward toward that spongy spot Spencer knew so well.

He felt your body tense, your legs trembling slightly as he added another finger, moving with steady precision. His tongue flicked pointedly over your clit, circling with deliberate intent.

As you neared the peak of your pleasure, waves crashing through you one after another, both your hands gripped Spencer firmly against your core. His tongue never faltered, keeping its steady rhythm as you rode out your release.

Maybe you started grinding against his face at some point, riding the waves of pleasure washing through your body — that delicious, liberating tension gathered in your stomach and spilling over.

His thumb traced slow circles on your thigh as his tongue continued to taste you softly, flattening against you with tender persistence. His fingers pumped slowly, caressing the sides of your body, steadying you as you rode out your orgasm.

When the waves began to subside, he eased back gently, planting soft kisses along your thighs—slowly moving down, almost reaching your knees as he settled back onto his m, eyes searching your face for the quiet relief and love he saw reflected there.

“Better?” he asked softly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness that lingered in the room.

You hummed in response, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. Your hand reached for his cheek, brushing it gently. He leaned into the touch, kissing the inside of your palm before slowly rising from the bed.

You reached for his pillow, nuzzling your face into it. His scent—warm, familiar, his shampoo and something uniquely him—wrapped around you like a blanket.

In the distance, you heard the faucet running as he rinsed his hands and mouth, then wet a towel with warm water. A few moments later, his quiet footsteps returned, and you felt the gentle touch of his fingertips on your arm as he opened your hand—the one you’d used to hold him—and wiped it clean with care.

“Can I?” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

You nodded without opening your eyes.

His hand moved slowly between your legs, gentle and respectful. He liked taking care of you—not just before or during, but after. Especially after. He knew how much you hated the feeling of being sticky, and this small gesture was one of many ways he showed you he was paying attention.

When he was done, he folded the towel neatly and set it on the nightstand, the silence between you both tender, as you abandoned the pillow to hug him, laying over his chest. 

His hand drifted slowly down your spine, fingers tracing each vertebra with quiet intent—S1, L5, L4—counting them silently like a litany. A methodical ritual, grounding him. He continued upward, naming each one in his mind until he reached the delicate curve at the base of your neck—C1.

He paused there, fingertips resting against your pulse point. Your heartbeat thudded gently beneath his touch, still slowing from the high. He counted the beats, calculating your heart rate—just a little elevated, but still within normal post-orgasmic range. Around 92 bpm, he estimated.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over the nape of your neck, where skin met spine. He wasn’t sure if he was studying you or holding on to you—but maybe they were the same thing.

His mind recorded everything—the rhythm of your breath, the warmth of your skin, the subtle shift of your shoulder blade beneath his palm. At the end of the day, every sound, every word, every scientific detail got etched into his memory like ink on paper. But his skin would always crave yours.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

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JJ had great stories about high school—being the captain of her football team, those wholesome, small-town moments straight out of a coming-of-age movie. Emily had the wildest stories—traveling the world, the chaos of never staying in one place, and even the ones that made you feel something, like how badly she just wanted to fit in.

It started with the urgent case the BAU was handed—students linked to an elite Harvard secret society were disappearing, their bodies found staged in ritualistic ways. As the case unfolded, Spencer turned to you, his voice a little more cautious than usual.

“Do you know anything about some Seraphic Circle?”

You didn’t need to think. You’d heard plenty about them. Too much, really. "I’ve heard of them," you said, your tone dripping with disdain and rolling your eyes. “Rich kids with too much money and power. Half of them don’t even deserve to be there, but their families pay for their spot.”

You were reluctant towards accepting going with them to Massachusetts, too much memories and teh constant fear someone might recognize you and call you out for past decisions that maybe weren't the best. Maybe they were worse than you wanted to confess and might even scare Spencer away. 

Still, he had asked you to accompany them. “Do you think they will remember you?”

“Nah… i don’t think so, they have tons of law students per year so…” maybe your words were right, but the higher thn usual pitch on your tone gave you away to spencer, that only he was able to detect, of how you weren’t saying all the true

Long story short, that's how you end up where you are right now, walking behind de BAU towards the Dean of Harvard office, with Spencer by your side. 

You reach the office just as Hotch shakes the dean’s hand, introducing each member of the team. “SSA Jareau, SSA Morgan, and Dr. Reid,” he says, gesturing to each of them in turn. “We also brought—”

“Woodvale.”

The dean’s voice cuts through the room the moment his eyes land on you, recognition flickering across his face. Not even a hundred years would be enough to erase your name from his memory. He didn't like you back then. 

An almost cynical, carefully polite smile curves your lips as you extend your hand. “Dean Langford.”

He grips your hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Seems like you’ve come a long way from that time your burned one of my students”

The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, tension crackling like a live wire. But you don’t let it show, ignoring how he didn’t consider you a proper student. Instead, your voice remains cool, measured.

“Those accusations were debunked after no evidence was found,” you say smoothly. “Unlike the very real recordings and witness statements I had of that same student saying—” you pause, tilting your head slightly, your smile sharpening, “women became hysterical when it came to sexual crimes.’”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Emily and JJ smirking, while Langford’s expression hardens.

The dean's smile barely falters. So, he does remember you. Not surprising—back then, you were even more impulsive than you are now. And that says a lot. 

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Don’t ask how, but somehow Garcia had dug up records that gave the team a list of names tied to the so-called “secret society.” Ironically, when the BAU interviewed students about it, everyone seemed to know what it was—just not anything useful.

“They sacrifice animals.” “A bunch of douchebags with too much money.” “They run everything. If you’re one of them, you’re untouchable.”

“Do any of the names look familiar?” Rossi asked, sliding the list toward you.

You scanned it, then shook your head. “Only the last names. But that’s not surprising—most of them come from old money.”

Garcia had also uncovered some interesting financial records. One name stood out: Andrew Carrington, former lawyer at his family’s prestigious Massachusetts firm. A-class dickhead.

“He’s got buildings in the city,” Garcia said, displaying files on the computer. “But his family’s the real power—deep pockets, old money. There are even a couple of campus buildings with their name on them.”

Rossi raised a brow. “Legacy admission?”

“More like a blank check.” You leaned back. “Everyone knew he bought his way in.”

“Any possibility he’s involved?” Hotch asked.

You considered it for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think so. Back then, this club was his pride. These murders? They only drag its prestige through the mud.”

“So… this Seraphic Circle thing,” Emily said, tilting her head. “Were you ever part of it?”

The police station buzzed around you, a low hum of voices and ringing phones, but your focus was on the files in front of you. Spencer sat beside you, skimming through pages with his usual quiet intensity. Neither of you was big on PDA—no hand-holding, no lingering touches in front of the team—but subtlety was an art you both had mastered. Your elbows brushed as you shifted in your seat, his knee resting against yours, the quiet pressure grounding.

“Not really,” you answered finally. “They claimed you had to have a big name in law, but what they really meant was that you had to be rich—and if you were a man? Even better.”

Morgan flipped through a file. “But you do know this Carrington guy.”

Before you could answer, Spencer’s fingers brushed against the side of your knee—a light touch so subtle no one else would notice. A quiet signal. He’d felt your tension the moment Morgan had mentioned Carrington.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah… It was hard not to know someone like him. He’s got that whole ‘king of the school’ vibe, but honestly, he’s not capable of something like this.” You spoke nonchalantly, but your voice betrayed a hint of discomfort.

The team shifted focus to the next lead, moving on to analyze the unsub’s possible personality traits. After a few more exchanges, the decision was made to call Carrington in for questioning tomorrow—there was no use doing it this late. The discussion had settled, but Spencer’s fingers brushed against your knee again, just enough for you to catch it. He was still attuned to your every movement, a silent understanding between the two of you.

After that, Hotch made the call for everyone to get some rest. One by one, the team decided to call it a night, heading out to their respective rooms. You and Spencer lingered behind, both of you wrapping up the last of your thoughts on the case.

Spencer was the one to break the silence. He looked around the station, then at you. His eyes softened for a moment before he spoke. “Enough for tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”

You nodded, thankful for the break. As Spencer found your coat, you dropped the files onto the nearest table. You stood still as he slid the coat onto your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your skin. As he did, you both made the mistake of letting your hands touch—just a fleeting brush—but it sent a warmth through your chest.

The walk to the motel was calm, with the quiet night air wrapping around you both. Spencer felt a strange mixture of calm and anticipation swirling in his chest, emotions he didn’t usually indulge. It wasn’t something he had the vocabulary for, not in his usual clinical sense. For once, there wasn’t a need for facts or equations to understand the feeling that settled inside him.

His fingers, almost absent-mindedly, curled into yours. It was a subtle movement, but the softness of it caught him by surprise. His thumb traced small, slow circles over the back of your hand, a tender rhythm he couldn’t quite explain. For someone who usually lived in the world of patterns and logic, this was unfamiliar territory. But the simple touch, the way your fingers fit together so naturally—it felt right.

In a world where everything was either solvable or predictable, this felt like the exception. There was no analysis needed. No need to question why it felt so much like a moment he wanted to hold onto. Maybe it was the quiet between you two, or the way everything around you seemed to fade as his thumb ran over your hand. All Spencer knew was that in that moment, nothing else mattered.

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The next morning, Hotch had sent Morgan and Prentiss off to speak with students on the campus, while he and Rossi took over the interrogation. The room felt different now, quieter—like the calm before another storm. 

Andrew Carrigton settled into the chair like he was sitting at a country club luncheon rather than an interrogation room. His suit was crisp, his cufflinks glinting under the fluorescent lights. If he was rattled by the fact that three of his former society’s members were dead, he didn’t show it.

Hotch sat across from him, his expression unreadable. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Mr. Carrigton,” Hotch began, “we’re investigating the murders of three students, all of whom were members of the Seraphic Circle. You were one of its founders. We need information.”

Carrigton exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Tragic. Truly. But I haven’t been involved in years. You’d be better off asking one of the new recruits.”

Hotch didn’t budge. “We’re asking you.”

Carrigton smirked, tilting his head. “What do you want me to say? That it’s a secret society? That we have rituals and secret handshakes?” He chuckled. “Come on, Agent. It’s a networking club. A prestigious one, sure, but hardly the Illuminati.”

Rossi let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. “Right. A ‘networking club’ where only the rich and powerful get in, and anyone who doesn’t measure up gets chewed up and spit out.”

Carrigton raised an eyebrow. “That’s life, isn’t it?”

Hotch didn’t rise to the bait. “The night of the first murder, there was an event. Who was in attendance?”

Carrigton hummed, tapping a thoughtful finger against his jaw. “Hard to say. The Circle’s grown since my time. Dozens of faces, most of which I wouldn’t recognize.”

“You’re still connected. You know the leadership.”

Another lazy shrug. “I might know a few names. But as I said, things change. The president rotates out, always some eager young thing desperate to prove themselves. They run the show until the next one takes over.” He smirked. “I imagine the current one is quite overwhelmed.”

“Who’s pulling the strings?” Hotch asked.

Carrigton chuckled. “You give us too much credit, Agent. It’s not some grand conspiracy. It’s a club. People join, people leave. Some do well, some don’t.”

“And the ones who don’t?”

Carrigton waved a dismissive hand. “They drop out. Go on with their lives. Or—” he smiled, sharp, “—they stew in their resentment, blaming others for their own failures.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s what happened here?”

Carrigton leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “I think it’s always the same story. Someone on the outside looking in, bitter that they weren’t enough. And now they want to take it out on the ones who were.”

Hotch’s voice was cold. “That’s a convenient theory. But it doesn’t answer our questions.”

Carrigton’s smirk widened. “Then maybe you’re asking the wrong ones.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Carrigton with growing irritation. He was the same smug, arrogant bastard you remembered from college, only now it was worse. His attitude hadn’t changed a bit, and neither had his ability to waste everyone’s time with his deflections.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he ran his mouth, completely ignoring the fact that three people were dead, his precious club possibly involved. He was too busy leaning back in his chair, playing at some sick power game.

You glanced at JJ, your patience already hanging by a thread. “There’s no cameras here, right?”

JJ, clearly thrown off by the sudden question, gave you a puzzled look. “No… why?”

Without answering, you turned your focus back to Carrigton and felt your hands tighten into fists. His polished smirk made your blood boil, his greasy hair gleaming under the lights. Your shoulders squared, the weight of your frustration making your movements sharper. You ignored Spencer’s curious glance, his quiet scrutiny as he watched you.

You didn’t have time for any of this.

You walked to the door and knocked once, the sound sharp in the sterile room. Before anyone could respond, you turned the handle, stepping into the interrogation room.

Carrigton’s eyes locked onto you the second you walked in. His gaze flickered briefly, a subtle but noticeable flash of discomfort before he quickly masked it with that same patronizing grin.

“Well, well,” he sneered, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he was trying to put some distance between himself and the real world. “I didn’t realize the FBI was hiring gutter rats now.”

Spencer tensed from the other side of the glass, his expression hardening as his frustration mounted. He was clearly growing angrier at Carrigton’s smug demeanor, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little fazed. You simply smirked and kept your focus on the man sitting in front of you.

Carrigton’s glare never left you as you stepped closer, your tone ice-cold. “This ‘gutter rat’ is about to charge you with obstruction of justice if you don’t start talking, Andrew.”

Carrigton's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a sneer. “That’s blackmail.”

You didn’t flinch. “And if you keep dragging your feet, that’s another charge—contempt of court. Trust me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” You leaned in just enough to make sure he heard you loud and clear. “You want to keep playing games, or you want to start answering questions?”

Carrigton shifted in his seat, the cockiness starting to waver, but he still clung to that arrogance like a shield, gripping it with white-knuckled desperation.

“I want my lawyer,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even.

You scoff, tilting your head as if you were genuinely considering his words before your lips curled into something sharp and ruthless.

"Is that your way of admitting you’re not a good enough lawyer to defend yourself?" Your voice was smooth, razor-edged silk, venom threaded through every syllable. "Start talking."

His nostrils flared, a flicker of something—hesitation, anger, maybe both. It was barely a breath, but you caught it.

"From what I know, the admission process has gone to hell," he sneered, grasping at arrogance like a lifeline. "I spoke with their president last week about it. I'm not throwing my money at that place just for them to start letting in anyone."

Rossi’s eyebrows lifted as he slid the crime scene photos across the table, each image a stark, undeniable truth. “Are these people just ‘anyone’ to you, Andrew?”

For the first time, Carrigton’s arrogance fractured. It was subtle—the flicker of his gaze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for the photos.

And then you saw it. No matter how high his shirt collar was, it couldn’t quite hide the edges of old scars peeking out—angry, uneven marks trailing up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath expensive fabric. 

"We didn’t have anything to do with this," Carrigton muttered, his voice suddenly lacking its earlier bravado. His eyes flickered briefly over the crime scene photos, but his gaze quickly dropped.

"Who’s ‘we’?" Hotch’s voice was cold, demanding, cutting through the silence.

Carrigton didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted in his seat, hands gripping the edges of the table, knuckles turning white. He wasn’t as confident as before.

You could feel it—he was trying to hide the discomfort, but it was there. The truth always made people uncomfortable.

You pushed yourself off the wall, your movement slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving him as you circled around behind him. He tensed, just slightly at first, but it was enough.

The memory was still fresh, and you knew it. He hadn’t forgotten how you burned him—how the scalding coffee had left that mark on his neck. He was trying not to show it, but it was eating at him, that simmering, seething reminder that you’d done it and he couldn’t touch you for it.

You stopped just behind him, letting your presence loom over him like a shadow. He could feel your gaze, feel the space between you—too close for comfort, too close for someone who hated you as much as he did.

"What’s the matter, Andrew?" You leaned in, your voice low and smooth, but your words sharp as a knife. "Don’t like me standing here?"

"I told him to stop accepting anyone," Carrigton muttered, his voice tightening as he stumbled over the words. "Grayson Locke, that's his name. Legacy admission. But I had nothing to do with this. We even went through some names, cut people off."

You could feel the hesitation in his voice, the way he was trying to distance himself from the mess that was unfolding. His words were almost defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. The stammering wasn’t lost on you—it was almost pathetic.

"What names?" Rossi’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t pushing too hard yet. He was letting Carrigton sweat just a little longer, a strategy you were both accustomed to.

Carrigton's jaw tightened, his eyes darting nervously between Morgan and you. "It was a list," he said quickly, almost as though the words were tumbling out before he could stop them. "Just find him. Tell him I told you to give it to you." He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the door. "Outside of that, I don’t know anything else."

There it was. The slip. The admission that he was just as tangled in this as the rest of them. But it wasn’t enough. Rossi stepped out of the interrogation room, heading off to search for the list.

“See? Was that so hard?” You taunted, slumping into the chair Rossi had just vacated, your eyes never leaving Carrigton. His smug façade cracked, just enough for you to see the shift. The sense of discomfort that he could no longer hide.

His eyes flicked to you, venom dripping from his words. “You think you’ve won? All you are is a stray dog who’ll burn in hell.” He spat the words, his jaw tight, but beneath the bravado, there was fear creeping in.

You straightened in the chair, completely unbothered by his outburst. “And you’ll be right there with me. I guess you know a thing or two about burning, don’t you?” Your smirk was sharp, a silent jab at the scars on his neck, the ones you’d left there.

His expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make your blood run colder. Without warning, he shot to his feet, slamming his palms down on the table with a force that made it rattle. His face was inches from yours now, his breath stinking of rage and something darker—panic.

“Fuck you, you deranged bitch,” he hissed, his voice barely contained. “You’ll always be the daughter of some filthy addicts. You’ll never belong to this world. My world.”

You didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The words hit, but they didn’t land. “Did I strike a nerve?” You leaned forward slightly, your tone dropping to a razor-sharp whisper. “Or should I say... burn a nerve?”

Carrigton’s entire body stiffened, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white, veins bulging from his hands. His chest heaved with the kind of raw anger that radiated off him like a furnace. “You’re still the same bitch I met years ago.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t let his venomous words land, only smirked. “Have you learned how to make women come, Carrigton? Or are you still calling them hysterical? Is that why your wife is filing for divorce?”

It wasn’t just the words, but the sharpness of your tone, the deliberate push of your venom that made it sting even more. Garcia had provided all the dirt, the skeletons hidden deep in his closet. You weren’t above having a little fun with it, using it to your advantage. Carrigton, though, was losing his composure with every word you threw at him.

He opened his mouth to retort, but Hotch beat him to it, rising from his seat. "Enough. We appreciate your time, Mr. Carrington. We'll contact you if we need further information," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Andrew huffed dismissively, rising to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, casting one last venomous glance in your direction. "You think you’ve got a place in this world? Trust me, you don’t. People like you? They end up alone, scrambling to hold onto the little sanity they have left before it all slips away."

He didn’t wait for a response, Spencer’s gaze locked with yours the moment Andrew was out of the room. His eyes were filled with concern, but you chose not to address it. Now wasn’t the time.

Instead, you stayed silent, the words echoing in your head. Something about them stuck, gnawing at you. Maybe it was the way he spoke—like he knew something about you that you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself. Scrambling. It was true, wasn’t it? You were constantly on edge, barely holding it together, pretending that you didn’t feel like you were one step away from losing it. Maybe it would be easier to just give in, let go, and fulfill everyone’s expectations of you. Be the damaged, angry, broken thing they wanted you to be.

For a moment, you almost believed his words.

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If murdered students weren’t enough to set the rumor mill on fire, your presence definitely did. The thing about rumors is that they spread like wildfire.

“Sooo… guess what we’ve heard?” Emily’s voice broke through the room as she and the others approached, grinning like they had just uncovered the juiciest piece of gossip on campus.

“Anything useful?” you asked without looking up from the file you were flipping through. “Or is this about the librarian hooking up with students in the archives? Because if it is—old news.”

Morgan smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, actually, we heard about some girl who once got a professor fired.”

“And,” Prentiss added, leaning in with a knowing smile, “was banned from mock trial as a freshman after making another student indirectly confess he bought the answers to his exams.”

Your fingers froze for just a split second—the briefest pause, barely perceptible to anyone but Spencer, who noticed it right away.

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “People get weirdly creative when it comes to making up rumors.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “So you’re telling me,” she pressed, “that you’ve never heard of the girl who burned some rich kid’s manuscript because he plagiarized her?”

You sighed, closing the file with exaggerated nonchalance. “Sounds like a legend. And legends aren’t real.”

Emily snorted, clearly enjoying this. “Or when she threw a chair at a debate judge for interrupting her?”

Morgan gasped dramatically. “And don’t forget when she flipped a Monopoly board at a networking event after some trust fund brat said she didn’t have the ‘pedigree’ for law.”

Emily smirked. “I heard she broke his nose.”

You shrug it off. “Monopoly makes people violent. Everyone knows that.”

You knew they weren’t trying to be mean, but you’d rather die than show any hint of regret. You had made some questionable choices in the past, but those didn’t define who you were now. Right?

Morgan chuckled, crossing his arms. “Right, right. So I guess the whole thing about you making a guy cry so hard during a mock trial that he dropped out of law school is fake too?”

You were forced to pretend not being able to stop the small smirk tugged at your lips, “Okay, in my defense, that guy was pretentious and thought using big words would make him win.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, “Some student mentioned you, uh, burning people when they pissed you off.” He exchanged a glance with Prentiss, both of them catching on to your lack of eye contact. “Is that what the Dean was referring to?”

You couldn’t help but feel a slight heat creep up your neck, but you managed to keep your gaze on the desk, avoiding their eyes. You didn’t need to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothered you. “People talk,” you muttered. “But if you believe everything they say, you’re as crazy as they are.”

You could’ve fooled anyone in that room full of profilers, because hiding behind your indifference mask was something you were well-practiced at. That was, of course, if they didn’t know you deeply. If they didn’t spend weekends with you, cooking together, exchanging quiet conversations and inside jokes. If they weren’t Spencer Reid—the only one in the room who could read beneath the surface.

He noticed the way you winced when you shifted your neck, the subtle way you massaged the sore muscles with your hand, avoiding eye contact with everyone. To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing, but to him, it was a clear sign that something was off. You weren’t as fine as you were pretending to be.

"Anyone want anything? I’m doing a coffee run." You don’t wait for an answer, already making your way toward the break room. But the laughter behind you lingers—harmless, good-natured, but still too close to the laughter of your ex-classmates. It curls around your ribs like a memory you don’t want.

You don’t notice Spencer saying he’ll come with you, but you realize he’s there when you hear his footsteps—loud enough for you to hear him, deliberate so he doesn’t startle you.

At the coffee machine, you take a breath, ignoring him. You press the buttons and try to shake the feeling off, but when you glance at him, just for a second, all he sees in your eyes is guilt. Shame.

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. "You also think I’m a menace to society? They’re lucky I turned out halfway functional. Statistically, I shouldn’t have.” 

Spencer stays a few feet away—close enough, but not crowding you. The perfect arms-length distance. It was something he understood about you, something you never had to say out loud. Letting you decide if you needed space or needed closeness. Giving you control, even in something as simple as this.

"None of them think that," he says quietly. "I don’t think that."

It takes effort to look at him, but when you do, the tightness in your chest gets worse. You hate it. You hate the way it feels when you take a step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. And you hate how naturally his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair in a slow, soothing motion, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

"I didn’t mean to—God, have you seen the scars on his neck?" Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "What kind of… monster does that?"

His hand stills against you for a second.

It breaks his heart every time you talk about yourself like this—like you’re one of the people he spends his life trying to stop.

"Technically, the probability of someone from your background reaching your level of success is less than three percent. And even among that group, only a fraction manage to sustain high-pressure careers."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what’s the probability of me snapping one day and proving everyone right?"

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. "That’s not the point."

"Then what is?"

He exhales, steady and patient. "The point is that I could pull up hard data showing how statistically, you shouldn’t have graduated at fifteen. Or made it through law school on a full ride. Or become one of the best prosecutors in D.C. The odds of that happening were lower than one percent. But you did it. So if we're playing by numbers, then statistically… you're exceptional."

He pauses, watching you carefully. Then, softer "And not in the way you seem to think."

Your fingers curl into the edge on themselves, nails pressing into your palms as you process his words. You hate how much they settle into your chest, how they make something raw and aching twist inside you. You exhale, forcing out a scoff, trying to grasp onto the sarcasm that usually keeps you afloat.

"You make it sound like I'm some kind of miracle," 

"You might as well be the proof that God exists to me," Spencer says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.

Your throat tightens. You shake your head, swallowing past the lump forming there. "I hate how you do that," you murmur.

"Do what?"

"Make me feel like maybe I’m not beyond saving."

His hand stills for a moment before he squeezes the nape of your neck, grounding. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep doing it until you believe it."

And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue.

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The case wrapped up when the team uncovered that one of the students they had interviewed had been fixated on getting into the Seraphic Circle. After his rejection, it became his breaking point, driving him to kill the members in a vengeful spree.

You would have laughed in Andrew Carrington’s face and shown him just how much that exclusive little club had spiraled into something violent and twisted, you would’ve. But, of course, that would’ve been disrespectful to the victims, so you didn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself sink into that bitterness.

But, it didn’t matter in the end. When you landed back in Washington—home, dear home—it didn’t matter. The case was closed, and, for the first time in a long while, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Your past mistakes no longer haunted you, and as you stepped into the familiar rhythm of your life, you realized that, just for this moment, you could breathe.

To be honest, you weren’t the same person you were back then. The young teen you once were would have never believed, or even considered, that she could be in a loving relationship with a man who would love her unconditionally, no matter what. She never would have believed that someone like Spencer could ever like someone like you. 

"Are you hungry?" Spencer asked, his voice soft as he dropped the go-bag by the entrance of the apartment. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead "I saw this new recipe for homemade lasagna," he added, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he was excited about something. "It has layers of ricotta, mozzarella, and this really rich, savory meat sauce that I think we could definitely pull off. I thought we could make it together—maybe add a little twist of our own, like some fresh basil?"

You smiled at his enthusiasm, noticing how his fingers brushed through his hair absentmindedly as he spoke. It was always endearing to watch him get excited over the little things. "Homemade lasagna? That sounds amazing," you replied, already picturing the cozy evening ahead.

His grin widened, and he pulled his phone from his pocket, swiping through the recipe. "It’s supposed to take a bit of time, but it’s not complicated...just a lot of love and patience—so, you know, I think we can manage. Plus, it’ll give us time to talk...and eat a lot of cheese."

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. "I think I’m sold. Lasagna and cheese? Definitely the kind of night I need."

He gave a small nod, as if he were confirming his excitement to himself. "Okay, I’ll grab the ingredients. You’re in charge of setting up the music. Deal?"

"Deal," you said, already feeling that comforting sense of peace that only came from spending time like this—together, in your little shared world, filled with small moments that meant everything.

Who would’ve thought you’d be cooking lasagna with the soft crackle of a vinyl player spinning Billy Joel and Elvis Presley in the background

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