despair

By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.

First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.

Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.

And third:

You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.

The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.

At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.

He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.

You notice because of course you do.

Not in a normal way, either.

In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.

“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”

A beat.

Then he glances back toward the class.

“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”

A few students laugh.

You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.

There it is.

That tiny spark of recognition.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.

Which is worse.

Much, much worse.

Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.

Since then, you’ve been doomed.

Utterly doomed.

You try to focus on the lecture.

Really.

You do.

But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.

It should not be attractive.

And yet.

Here you are.

Again.

Second semester.

Same problem.

Maybe worse.

“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”

Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.

His handwriting is terrible.

Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.

You stare at it anyway.

Fondly.

Which feels like a personal failing.

He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.

You should be taking notes.

Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.

Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.

Oh no.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.

Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.

The slacks help.

Which feels hostile, honestly.

You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.

Focus.

Academic environment.

You are a serious student.

A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.

Jesus Christ.

“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”

A few tired chuckles.

Then the clock clicks over.

Immediate chaos.

The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.

You stay seated.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.

At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.

You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.

It’s difficult.

Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.

“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”

His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.

God.

You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.

Probably.

He’d know it.

The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—

You.

And him.

The room feels different when it empties.

Too large. Too quiet.

Rain patters softly against the windows.

Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”

Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.

Perfect?

There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.

Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.

You plagiarized accidentally somehow.

You cited the wrong edition.

You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.

You’ve been academically excommunicated.

“Me?” you say brilliantly.

Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”

Excellent start.

You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.

The sound echoes.

Violently.

You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.

Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.

Your paper.

You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.

“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”

The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”

“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”

There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.

You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.

“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”

Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.

Because this is the problem.

Not just that he’s attractive.

It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.

“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”

“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”

You nod slowly.

He looks delighted.

Actually delighted.

Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.

“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”

You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.

“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”

He flips another page absentmindedly.

“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“…you noticed my citations?”

Dr. Reid looks up.

There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”

Well.

That’s going to live in your skull forever now.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.

Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.

“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”

The room abruptly feels too warm.

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.

Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.

“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”

Silence.

Tiny.

Strange.

His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Rain rattles softly against the windows again.

And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.

Dangerous situation, truly.

Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.

His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.

Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.

You watch his hand move despite yourself.

When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.

“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”

You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.

Electricity.

Actual cinematic electricity.

You almost drop the paper.

Humiliating.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.

“Mhm.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Not enough to mean something.

Just enough to notice.

Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.

You look down automatically.

At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.

Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.

I think you’re asking the right questions.

— I remain yours sincerely,

Spencer Reid, PhD

Your pulse trips over itself.

Because who signs feedback like that?

Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?

And worse:

Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?

The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.

Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.

You barely notice.

Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:

I remain yours sincerely.

Who writes that.

You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.

By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.

You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.

Like an addict.

Like a widow rereading war letters.

“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.

You drop your bag onto the couch.

Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.

You read the signature again.

And again.

And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.

Spencer Reid, PhD.

The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.

God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.

did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly

You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:

worse

Three dots appear immediately.

what happened

You look down at the paper again.

At the stupid signature.

At the devastating little yours.

Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.

There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then:

OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS

You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.

The phone buzzes again.

“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR

Another buzz.

he wants u biblically

“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.

Your phone immediately lights up again.

u kept the paper though didnt u

You freeze.

Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.

Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:

Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.

The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.

You close your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.

Another text arrives.

DID U KEEP THE PAPER

You type back:

not officially

Maya responds instantly.

that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard

You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.

Then you sit there alone for a moment.

Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.

The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.

He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.

That’s the real problem.

Not the cardigan.

Not the hands.

Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.

It’s the attention.

The terrifying sincerity of it.

Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.

And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.

Too honest.

Too close to something real.

You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.

Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.

No.

Absolutely not.

You stare at it.

Then at the paper.

Then back at the phone.

“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.

Silence.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.

You look at it through the clear plastic.

Immediate stomach flip.

“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.

But unfortunately:

you’re smiling.

By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.

If anything, it’s evolved.

Dangerously.

Because now there is routine.

Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.

Now there are tiny things.

Tiny, lethal things.

The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.

It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.

Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.

You don’t mean to time it like this.

It just… happens.

The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.

And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.

Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.

Erasing.

Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.

He doesn’t look over immediately.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.

You clear your throat.

Soft. Careful.

“Dr. Reid?”

The eraser pauses mid-swipe.

Then stops completely.

He turns.

And there it is.

That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.

“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”

Again.

Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”

“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”

Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.

None of them survive the trip to your mouth.

“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”

He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.

You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.

“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”

Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.

“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops.

“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”

“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”

That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.

“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up.

“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”

Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.

You swallow.

“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.

A beat.

Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.

“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”

The room feels warmer again.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.

“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.

Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”

There it is again.

That attention.

Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.

You hesitate.

Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.

But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.

“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”

Dr. Reid stills for half a second.

Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But you’ve started noticing everything.

“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.

Your grip tightens on your notebook.

“Even when they know better?”

His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.

“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”

A quiet beat stretches between you.

Too quiet.

Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.

Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.

Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.

Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.

And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.

You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.

“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door.

Toward freedom.

Toward escape.

Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.

But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.

Concern.

Not suspicion. Somehow worse.

“Are you alright?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.

Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.

“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”

You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.

His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”

“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”

Wrong choice.

Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.

Soft. Brief. Real.

It hits you directly in the bloodstream.

You need to leave immediately.

“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”

Brilliant.

Academic titan.

Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.

“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”

You turn too fast.

Your bag catches against the side of a chair.

The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.

You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.

Papers explode everywhere.

For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.

Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.

“Oh, here—”

You both crouch at the exact same time.

Of course you do.

Naturally.

Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.

Your foreheads nearly collide.

You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.

“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.

But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?

Your phone.

No.

No, no, no.

Time slows with cinematic cruelty.

The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.

And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—

his signature.

And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

None.

You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.

Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?

No one, that's who. Just you.

Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.

Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.

Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.

Then another.

His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Realization.

And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.

Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.

You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.

“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.

Can you?

Absolutely not.

But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.

Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”

Excellent.

Wonderful.

You briefly consider faking your death.

He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.

And then, very softly:

“You kept it.”

Not teasing.

Not judgmental.

Which almost makes it harder.

Heat floods violently into your face.

“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.

“I didn’t say it was creepy.”

“It’s objectively creepy.”

“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.

You stare at him in horror.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.

And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.

His own handwriting.

His own absurdly formal sign-off.

When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.

“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”

You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”

“That somehow feels less reassuring.”

His eyes flick back to yours then.

Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.

“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.

There’s no ego in the statement.

Just observation.

You swallow hard.

“Yes.”

The room goes still around the answer.

Not awkward exactly.

Just aware.

Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”

You stare at him.

“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”

The sentence escapes before you can stop it.

Silence detonates instantly afterward.

Your entire nervous system flatlines.

Because you did not mean to say that.

You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.

Dr. Reid goes completely still.

His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”

But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:

he never ignores important things.

And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.

“You have a crush on me,” he says.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I currently have.”

You expect discomfort.

Distance.

Professional correction.

Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.

And then, to your complete horror, he says:

“I thought there was a possibility.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.

Tiny. Visible.

It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.

“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.

You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”

That almost earns another smile.

Almost.

“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”

You stare at him.

“You noticed,” you say faintly.

Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.

“You keep every note I give you.”

Well.

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.

“I didn’t think you knew that.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.

“I do now.”

You cover your face with one hand.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”

A pause.

Then, very gently:

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”

Something changes in the room after that.

Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.

The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.

Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.

Your fingers brush again.

And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.

It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.

Enough to feel intentional.

Enough to ruin you permanently.

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”

You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.

“You’re my student.”

The words land carefully. Reluctantly.

Like he hates them a little.

“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.

That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.

Because that’s not rejection.

It’s worse.

It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.

“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”

Your breath catches.

The words land between you with astonishing softness.

Not a proposition.

Not quite.

Just a door left cracked open in the dark.

Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.

“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”

You stare at him.

Then laugh suddenly.

Not nervous this time.

Real.

Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.

The sound seems to catch him off guard.

His shoulders loosen a fraction.

And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.

Something warm.

“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.

Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.

You don’t.

Because of course you don’t.

It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“Good.”

The hallway outside your apartment smells faintly like someone’s overcooked dinner.

Normal. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

It feels strange after fluorescent lights and monitor beeps and the steady gallop of your daughter’s heart filling an entire room.

Spencer takes your keys and unlocks the door for you without thinking about it. He’s done it before—hands full of case files, takeout balanced precariously in his arms—but tonight there’s a carefulness to the way he moves. Like the floor might tilt if he isn’t paying attention.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside. Too quiet.

The paint cans are still stacked against the wall near the nursery. A roller tray sits abandoned on a flattened cardboard box. The faint scent of sage green lingers in the air.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Spencer lingers near it, watching you in that way he does when he’s trying not to hover but absolutely hovering.

“You should sit,” he says.

You glance at him. “I just walked in.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “And you’ve had uterine activity.”

The phrasing makes you huff out a small laugh despite yourself.

“They said it was fine.”

“They said it was likely fine,” he corrects gently.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just softness.

“Okay,” you say, stepping out of your shoes and nudging them toward the wall with your toe. “I just want some tea.”

He nods immediately, like that’s a mission he can complete. Something concrete. Measurable.

“I’ll make it.”

Of course he will.

He steps further into the apartment, then pauses—glancing at the couch. Not dramatically. Not pointedly. Just a flick of his eyes. A quiet suggestion.

You follow the look.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“You’ve had uterine activity,” he repeats, as if that explains everything.

It does, apparently.

You sigh, but you cross the room and lower yourself onto the couch anyway. The cushions dip beneath you, familiar and forgiving. Your body sinks deeper than you expect—adrenaline finally bleeding out of your system now that the crisis has officially been downgraded to just a scare.

You rest your hand over your stomach, palm warm against the gentle curve.

“Tiny menace,” you murmur under your breath.

There’s a soft shift beneath your hand. Not quite a kick. Just movement. Present. Unbothered.

In the kitchen, Spencer laughs softly.

“I heard that,” he calls.

You smile.

Back at the hospital, when the doctor had said you could go home, he’d cleared his throat and said, almost too casually, “I’ll stay tonight.”

Not as a question. Just a statement.

“Just in case,” he’d added quickly.

You’d agreed before he could brace for resistance.

You saw the way his shoulders had been set—ready for you to argue. Ready to be told he was overreacting. Ready to retreat if you insisted.

But honestly… you wanted him to stay. So you’d just said, “Okay.”

And something in his posture had softened so fast it almost hurt to look at.

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen.

A moment later, the soft clink of ceramic. A spoon against the inside of a mug. The rustle of a tea tin being closed with careful precision.

You can picture him without looking—reading labels, scanning ingredients, mentally cross-referencing anything that might even hint at uterine stimulation. Eliminating peppermint. Double-checking chamomile.

The scent reaches you before he does—warm and floral with something faintly citrus underneath.

Spencer steps into the living room holding a mug in both hands, as if it’s fragile. As if you are.

“Okay,” he says softly, crouching slightly as he hands it to you. “It’s chamomile and lemon balm. Chamomile has mild sedative properties—nothing dramatic, just enough to promote relaxation. Lemon balm can help reduce muscle tension. I added a little honey for glucose and a pinch of sea salt.”

You look up at him.

“A pinch?” you repeat.

“For slow electrolyte absorption,” he says, almost apologetically. “It’s not enough to taste. Probably.”

You take the mug from him. The ceramic is warm against your palms, heat seeping into skin that still feels faintly chilled from the hospital.

You take a cautious sip.

It’s soft. Lightly sweet. Bright at the edges from the lemon balm.

“You can taste the honey,” you say.

His face falls for half a second. “Too much?”

“No,” you murmur quickly. “It’s perfect.”

He studies you like he’s evaluating the truthfulness of that statement, then seems to accept it.

“Good,” he says.

He doesn’t sit right away. He lingers near the arm of the couch, hands flexing once at his sides like he isn’t sure where to put them now that they’re empty.

“You should drink it slowly,” he adds. “Rapid ingestion can—”

He pauses, recalibrating mid-sentence, like he’s editing himself in real time.

“—cause mild gastric discomfort,” he finishes instead. “Which we would like to avoid.”

You take another sip.

Warm. Sweet. Calming in a way that has nothing to do with the herbs and everything to do with the person who made it.

He keeps going—because of course he does.

“Hydration is important right now. Even mild dehydration can increase uterine irritability. And fatigue. And stress. Which—” his hand lifts in a small, uncertain gesture toward the general concept of today “—you’ve had.”

You nod solemnly into your mug, like you’re attending a very serious lecture.

“Also,” he continues, settling a little more into the rhythm of explaining, “the uterus is essentially a large smooth muscle. Smooth muscle can respond to hormonal fluctuations, electrolyte balance, and mechanical stimulation. Which is why—” a small breath “—why what you experienced is relatively common in the third trimester.”

You hum softly.

He glances at you, checking that you’re following.

You are.

You’re following the cadence of his voice more than the content now—the gentle way it rises and falls, the slight quickening when he gets into a topic he understands, the careful softening when he remembers he’s talking to you, not presenting at a conference.

It’s… nice.

Comforting in a way you didn’t expect.

He shifts his weight, finally lowering himself onto the edge of the couch beside you—careful to leave a respectful amount of space, like he’s still trying not to crowd you even though you can feel the quiet gravity pulling you toward him anyway.

“Braxton Hicks contractions,” he says, softer now, “are sometimes referred to as ‘practice contractions.’ They don’t cause cervical change. They’re irregular. Often more uncomfortable than painful. They can be triggered by physical activity, dehydration, or—” a faint flicker of a smile “—overenthusiastic nursery painting.”

You huff a quiet laugh into your tea.

“Hey,” you murmur. “It was a very nice shade of green.”

“It is a very nice shade of green,” he agrees immediately.

You sip again.

The room settles around you—the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint tick of the cooling kettle, the soft rustle of his sleeve when he shifts his arm against the couch cushion.

He keeps talking, gentler now, slower.

A fact about hydration percentages. A note about magnesium levels and muscle relaxation. Something about circadian rhythms and why resting now might help reduce uterine irritability later tonight.

The words blur at the edges.

Not because you’re not listening. But because you are—just… differently.

You’re listening to the way he’s here.

In your apartment.

In your kitchen, making you tea. On your couch, explaining things like this is where he’s always been. Like this is normal. Like this is where he belongs.

You set the mug down on the coffee table.

It makes a soft ceramic thud against wood, louder than it should be in the quiet.

Spencer’s eyes track the movement immediately.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

Of course that’s his next variable.

You shake your head, leaning back into the cushions. “No. I’m just… tired.”

The word feels heavier than you expect. It settles in your bones.

He nods once, absorbing that like data. “Today was a lot.”

A soft laugh escapes you, breathy and disbelieving. “It really was.”

He looks down at his hands for a second, fingers lacing and unlacing like he’s rehearsing something internally.

“I was actually hoping to talk to you about something,” he says, voice careful. “In the morning. If that’s okay.”

You lift a brow.

“In the morning?” you echo. “Why in the morning? Why not now?”

His gaze flicks up to yours, then away again—brief, thoughtful.

“Because you need rest,” he says. “Physiologically, sleep reduces cortisol levels and—” He stops himself. Tries again. “You’ve had enough stress for one day. I don’t want to add anything else stressful to it.”

You squint at him, suspicious but amused.

“Honestly,” you say lightly, a small smile tugging at your mouth, “you’re probably making it more stressful by telling me about it.”

His lips press together, fighting something that almost looks like a smile.

“Not stressful,” he corrects. “Just—important.”

You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

Instead, he straightens slightly, like he’s come to a conclusion.

“You should go to sleep,” he says, gentle but decisive. “I can clean up the nursery. The paint trays are still out, and prolonged exposure to—”

You glance toward the hallway. Toward your bedroom.

Then back at him.

“Actually,” you start.

Your voice comes out thinner than you expect.

He pauses immediately. “Yes?”

You fiddle with the edge of the couch cushion, thumb pressing into the seam.

“I was going to ask if you’d…” You swallow. Try again. “If you’d lay with me.”

He goes still.

“…Lay with you?” he repeats.

Not teasing. Not dismissive. Genuinely confused.

You nod, already feeling heat creep up your neck.

“Yeah. Like—” you clear your throat, suddenly fascinated by a nonexistent speck of lint on your leggings “—maybe, um… cuddle?”

Silence.

You risk a glance up.

He’s staring at you.

Not in horror. Not in rejection.

Just… staring. Processing.

“You want me,” he says slowly, like he’s translating a foreign language in real time, “to cuddle you.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of baffled verification.

Your cheeks burn.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” you rush to add. “It’s just—I’m tired, and today was weird, and I just thought maybe—since you’re staying anyway—and it’s not a big deal if you don’t want to, I just—”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to.”

That stops you.

You look at him.

He’s still looking at you like the concept itself is destabilizing.

“I just,” he continues, a little breathless now, “want to ensure I’m understanding the parameters.”

“The… parameters.”

“Yes.” He nods once, very serious. “Spatial configuration. Duration. Expectations.”

Despite yourself, a small laugh bubbles up. “It’s not a contract negotiation, Spence.”

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then something in his shoulders drops—just a fraction—as if he’s come to a conclusion he can live with.

“…Okay,” Spencer says.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Okay?”

“Yes.” A small, careful nod. “Yes, I can—” he pauses, like the word still feels new in his mouth “—cuddle you.”

A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. Soft. A little shy. You nod back.

“Okay,” you echo.

He clears his throat, already shifting into motion again, defaulting to something he understands—steps, structure, preparation.

“I’ll—uh—get ready in the guest bathroom,” he says, gesturing vaguely down the hall. “Just to… change. And—brush my teeth. That seems appropriate.”

“It does,” you agree, warmth threading through your voice.

You push yourself up from the couch, slower now that the adrenaline is gone, and cross to your room. The familiar space greets you—lamp still on from earlier, the corner of a book you forgot to finish, the soft dip in the mattress where you usually sleep.

You pull on soft pajama pants, the fabric warm and worn-in, and a loose t-shirt that hangs just right over your stomach. You stare at your reflection as you brush your teeth—flushed cheeks, tired eyes, something else flickering there you don’t quite name—and then you turn off the light and step back into your room.

Spencer is already there.

Standing beside your bed.

So still it’s almost comical.

He’s changed into sleep clothes—simple, soft, familiar—but he’s standing like he’s been placed there by someone else and told not to move. Hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, posture straight, gaze fixed on a very specific point on the wall like if he looks anywhere else he might combust.

You have to bite back a laugh.

“…You look like you’re about to give a presentation,” you say gently.

His eyes flick to you immediately, relief and nerves colliding in the same breath.

“I wasn’t sure if I should sit,” he admits. “Or wait. Or—” he gestures vaguely at the bed “—prepare the… arrangement.”

The laugh slips out, soft and warm. “Right.”

You move past him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. He goes very still at the contact, like his nervous system just rebooted.

You reach for the lamp on your nightstand and switch it off.

The room falls into warm darkness—only a thin stripe of hallway light slipping in beneath the door. The kind of low light that makes everything feel closer. Quieter.

You slide into bed, easing yourself carefully onto your side. The mattress dips beneath you, familiar and welcoming. You tug the blanket up over your hips, then your shoulders, settling in with a small sigh you don’t mean to let out.

There’s a beat.

“Spencer,” you say gently into the dim.

“Yes?” he answers immediately. Too immediately.

“You can lie down.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.”

The mattress shifts as he lowers himself onto it—careful, controlled, like he’s trying not to disturb the structural integrity of the entire bed. He lands flat on his back, arms at his sides.

Stiff.

Like he’s awaiting further instruction.

“…You can get under the blanket,” you add.

“Oh.”

There’s the soft rustle of fabric as he lifts the edge and pulls it over himself. The blanket settles across his chest with a quiet whisper.

He goes still again.

On his back, hands folded neatly over his stomach. Every muscle visibly braced.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was posing for a very polite coffin.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing again.

The room hums softly around you—the distant sound of a car passing outside, the faint tick of cooling pipes in the walls. His breathing is shallow. Measured.

“Spence,” you murmur.

“Yes.”

“You’re very rigid.”

A small exhale. “I am attempting to minimize movement.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I don’t want to jostle you.”

“You won’t.”

Silence again.

He doesn’t move.

You shift onto your other side so you’re facing him now, propped slightly on your pillow. In the dim light, you can just make out the line of his profile. The slope of his nose. The way his lashes cast faint shadows against his cheek.

He’s staring straight up at the ceiling.

“…You can turn,” you say.

“Turn.”

“Toward me.”

There’s the faintest hitch in his breath. “Oh.”

Slowly—like he’s diffusing a bomb—he turns onto his side to face you.

Now you’re close.

Not touching.

But close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him through the space between you. Close enough that you can see the uncertainty in his eyes adjusting to the dark.

He swallows.

“Is this—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Is this within acceptable parameters?”

You can’t help it—you again laugh softly.

“Yes,” you whisper. “This is acceptable.”

He nods once.

You study him for a moment. The careful distance he’s maintaining. The invisible line he clearly doesn’t want to cross without permission.

Your chest tightens a little at that.

“Spence.”

“Yes.”

“You can… put your arm around me.”

The words feel heavier than they should. Vulnerable in a way that surprises you.

“My arm,” he repeats quietly.

“Yes. That’s typically how cuddling works.”

He huffs the smallest, almost embarrassed breath.

“Right. Of course. I knew that.”

There’s a brief hesitation—just enough to make your heart stutter—

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully.

His arm lifts and settles around your waist, light at first, like he’s giving you room to object. His hand rests against the curve of your back, warm and steady.

You shift closer instinctively.

The space between you disappears.

Your forehead nearly brushes his collarbone. Your knees bump lightly against his legs beneath the blanket. The contact sends a quiet ripple through you.

He inhales sharply. Then exhales—longer this time. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Closer.

You nod before remembering he can’t see it clearly in the dark.

“It’s good,” you murmur.

You let your head settle fully against his chest.

His arm tightens—just slightly—when you relax into him. Not possessive. Not restrictive.

Protective. Careful.

Like he’s holding something fragile and important.

You feel his hand shift once, adjusting at your back. Then stillness.

The stiffness begins to melt out of him by degrees. His shoulders lower. His breathing evens. The hand at your back starts tracing absentminded patterns—barely-there movements through the fabric of your shirt.

He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Your body responds before your brain does—another inch closer, your hand sliding lightly against his side, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

He stills for half a second—just enough to notice—then his hand resumes that slow, absentminded tracing against your back.

The room is quiet.

Your voice comes out soft against his chest.

“Hey, Spence?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, his voice low enough that you feel it more than hear it.

“I just want you to know,” you murmur, picking at a loose thread on his shirt, “I’m definitely overthinking whatever you want to talk to me about tomorrow.”

There’s a beat.

Then a small, surprised huff of laughter leaves him—warm, a little breathless, like he hadn’t expected that.

“Actually,” he says, the word brushing the top of your hair, “I was going to talk to you today.”

You tilt your head slightly against him. “Today?”

“Yes.” His hand stills for a second, then resumes its gentle path. “But then everyone showed up. And then there was—” a faint exhale “—the hospital.”

You hum softly. “Yeah. That.”

A small silence settles.

“Okay,” you admit, quieter now. “Well… I was also going to tell you something today.”

His hand pauses completely this time.

You feel the shift in his chest as his breathing changes—just slightly.

“You were?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm.”

“What… stopped you?”

You can’t help the soft smile that presses into his shirt.

“The same parade of federal agents, mostly.”

That earns you another quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.

“Well,” he says after a moment, voice thoughtful, “then I suppose we can both spend the night worrying about what the other one wanted to say.”

You let that sit between you for a second.

His arm around you. Your hand in his shirt. The steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.

The quiet hum of everything you almost said earlier.

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“Or…”

His fingers still again at your back.

“Or,” you continue, barely louder than the sound of your breathing, “we could just… say what we were going to say.”

“…We could,” he says.

Soft.

Careful.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close you are. How warm he is. How easy it would be to just stay here and not say anything at all.

His fingers rest still at the small of your back, like even they’re waiting.

You stare at the dark fabric of his shirt, at the slow rise and fall beneath your cheek.

“I’m not sure,” you begin quietly, “what I’ve been scared of.”

The confession slips out softer than you expected. Almost weightless. But once it’s there, it doesn’t take itself back.

His hand tightens—barely.

“I understand,” Spencer says.

It’s so quiet you almost miss it. The words brush the crown of your head like breath.

You swallow.

The words don’t line up neatly after that. They spill.

“I just—” you start, and already you can hear it happening. The rambling. The detour. “You’ve just… been here. For everything. The appointments. The nursery. Tonight.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt.

“You didn’t hesitate,” you continue, quieter now. “At the hospital. You answered everything. You stayed. You didn’t make it about you being scared. You just—” your breath stutters faintly “—you were steady.”

His hand at your back has gone completely still.

“And I keep thinking,” you add, words picking up speed like they’re afraid of being interrupted, “that whoever gets to do this with you—like really do this with you—is going to be so lucky. Because you’re patient, and you’re thoughtful, and you notice everything. You notice when I’m tired before I say it. You make tea with electrolyte ratios. You—” a soft, breathy laugh “—you research paint fumes.”

His chest shifts under your cheek. A deeper inhale.

“You’re a great man,” you say, the sentence landing more firmly than the others. “You’re going to be a great dad. You already are.”

“And you’re my best friend,” you add quickly, because suddenly that feels important to clarify. “You’re—you’re such a good friend. And I know you’re a good enough person that if I say something stupid right now, you won’t react badly. You won’t make it weird. You won’t disappear.”

Your voice thins on that last word.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt me just because you don’t feel the same,” you finish, softer. “You’re not built that way.”

There it is. The possibility laid gently between you. His hand flexes once at your back.

“…What,” Spencer asks quietly, carefully, “are you trying to say?”

The question isn’t sharp. It isn’t impatient. It’s precise.

For a second, you consider retreating. Laughing it off. Blaming hormones. Claiming exhaustion-induced sentimentality.

Instead—

You lift your head.

The room is dim, but not dark enough to hide in. You can see him clearly now. The faint crease between his brows. The way his lips have parted slightly. The way he’s watching you like you’re about to hand him something breakable.

Your face burns immediately.

This is mortifying.

You are in your bed. In your pajamas. Curled halfway into his body. His arm around your waist.

And you’re blushing like you’re confessing in a high school hallway.

You let out a small, nervous breath.

“I have feelings for you,” you say.

It comes out more awkward than you planned. Less cinematic. More human.

You wince faintly at yourself.

“I—um.” You swallow. “Romantic ones. Obviously. That feels redundant to clarify, given the… circumstances.” Your gaze flicks briefly to the fact that you are, in fact, actively cuddling him. “It’s a little odd to feel this awkward telling you that while we’re in my bed.”

A tiny, helpless laugh escapes you.

“And you’re holding me.”

Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire now.

“But yeah,” you finish, softer. Honest. “I have feelings for you. More than just friend feelings. And I’ve been trying not to. Because timing and work and the baby and—everything. But they’re there.”

Your fingers loosen slightly in his shirt, giving him space to pull away if he wants to.

“I don’t expect anything,” you add quickly, because of course you do. “I just—I didn’t want to keep pretending it was small. Or temporary.”

Your heart is beating loud enough that you’re convinced he can feel it through your ribs.

You brace yourself.

For the gentle letdown.

For the careful kindness.

For the “you matter to me, but—”

Spencer inhales. Slow. Deep.

“I've been trying to tell you since… well, since the party, I suppose,” he says, and there’s no rambling now. No lecture cadence. Just him. “That I am in love with you.”

Not crush.

Not feelings.

Not maybe.

Love.

You stare at him.

He doesn’t look embarrassed. He looks certain.

“I've been trying,” he continues, the faintest flicker of self-awareness in his eyes, “to find the right moment. And the right phrasing. And thinking about the potential impact on your stress levels. Which are already elevated in the third trimester.”

Despite everything, a breath of laughter slips out of you.

He huffs softly. “But I've known I'm in love with you for months.”

Your chest feels tight. Full.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to complicate your pregnancy,” he adds. “Or make you feel pressured. Or—” his jaw shifts slightly “—risk losing what we have.”

His thumb shifts gently against your back again, almost absentminded now.

“I love you,” Spencer says again, quieter this time. Like he’s testing the shape of it in the dark.

Your eyes sting.

“This is,” you murmur shakily, “objectively the worst timing.”

He exhales a soft laugh against your hair. “I disagree. It seems statistically consistent with our pattern of emotional escalation under stress.”

You snort, half teary, half incredulous. “That is the least romantic framing possible.”

“And yet,” he says softly, “you’re still here.”

You are.

Very much here.

His hand slides slightly, more secure now at your back. Yours shifts too—flattening against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm.

Not frantic.

Not uncertain.

Steady.

“You’re in my bed,” you say faintly, almost dazed. “We’re cuddling.”

“Yes.”

“And you just said you love me.”

“Yes.”

You let out a disbelieving little breath.

“…Okay.”

His mouth curves faintly at that. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and this time when you settle back against him, it isn’t tentative. It’s sure.

Your leg hooks lightly over his beneath the blanket. His arm tightens instinctively around you in response.

No stiffness now.

No careful inches of space.

Just warmth. Contact. Chosen closeness.

After a moment, Spencer presses the softest kiss into your hair. His palm drifts instinctively toward the curve of your stomach, resting there gently. Protective. Reverent.

He exhales.

“I love you,” he says again, quieter now. Almost to himself.

And this time, when you answer—

“I love you too.”

—it doesn’t feel awkward at all.

Teaching higher education does have a tendency to be slightly more lenient on these things. You know professors who do it. Higher than you in the hierarchy. Figures of authority, respected people, not just the slacker newbies or the lazy hotshots.

But you love being in class. You love physically standing in a room and coaxing ideas and participation from your students. You wouldn't be in this field, barely making money doing this if you didn't.

And most days, that love and passion is enough to push you forward, even when you're swamped. Even when it's socially acceptable to take the time off to catch up on research or grading, the same way some students will skip one class to prepare for another.

Today is not one of those days.

Last night, you'd received two emails back to back, both of which contain bad news. You'd lost several minutes just staring before gathering enough courage to read, and even then, you're convinced the universe is conspiring against your academic career.

Rejected for a scholarship grant from a few months ago—the one you had been hoping would allow you to teach a lower course load for the next semester.

As if that isn't enough, your PhD. advisor returned your initial data findings with a very succinct note on top of the document: Insufficient. Stop skipping over steps and go back to close reading the material before applying theory. And then, beneath it, a long list of suggested books to add for your related literature.

You thought you'd gotten over it last night—already spent an embarrassing two hours just sobbing over the amount of work you'd have to do. Woken up to disgusting, puffy eyelids in the morning, the color of an angry rash.

But no, this morning, somewhere between your coffee and brushing your hair, the tears inevitably started to fall again. Creasing the impeccably applied makeup that was meant to hide the evidence of your tears last night.

Despite your notes being in perfect order, and your discussion outlines ready to go, you do not feel like you're in any state to be seen in public, much less teach, so you do something you've never done before in your four years of teaching: you cancel your classes. For attendance, you place a discussion board up and ask them to submit a 200 word discussion about the poetry reading assignment you had previously assigned.

It's early enough in the morning that none of your students would have been in class yet, though some early risers reply with thoughtful platitudes. You'll deal with the rest of the paperwork later.

With that taken care of, you take the biggest, most grounding inhale before dealing with the brunt of your work: your dissertation.

Insufficient data. It blinks up at you like a curse, and you almost want to throw your laptop out of rage. Right, because reading through six books isn't enough. Like your advisor hadn't looked through your proposal, and fucking accepted it before you started in earnest.

The rest of the day is a haze. Truthfully, you don't get anything done, simply staring at the words before you as if they've somehow transformed into an incomprehensible language. You try searching for the reference recommendations, intending to make some headway through the readings, but only find half in the local libraries. Some bookstores carry the titles, but between the shipping and the prices of each book, there's no way you could afford all of them. You're too tired to try searching through the annals of the internet.

By the time night arrives, your vision has started swimming. No amount of blinking makes the stinging in your eyes go away. Possibly a mixture of strain and the excessive crying you've done all day. There's a dull throb by your temples and the space between your brows feel like something's trying to push from inside out. You haven't had anything to eat.

Still in this frustrating, zombie-like haze, you sent and email the classes you have tomorrow and cancel them too.

Two canceled classes in a row. That's a new record.

With a sigh, you force yourself to eat a couple of crackers until the pain in your stomach subsides and your apartment stops swimming whenever your gaze lifts from your laptop. Sleep tugs at you, sweet and insistent, just as the last of your laptop's battery drains.

You wake up to knocking. Sunlight drenches your apartment in brilliant gold, harsh in its brightness, which tells you it's late in the morning. Possibly noon. The screen of your laptop remains blank when you press the power button, indicating it's dead, so you reach for your phone to check the time.

1:26 pm.

Well shit.

The knocking persists, and you're forced to ignore the 40-something notifications on the screen in favor of whoever is on the other side of your door.

"Hold on, I'm coming." you push your glasses up your nose, blinking as the world sharpens and comes into focus, and tug a robe over yourself. There's an incessant throbbing at your temples and your legs feel wobbly. Fuck's sake.

You crack your door open with a grumpy frown.

Spencer Reid stands right outside, properly dressed and bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. His face is filled with an innocent concern that morphs to confusion, then slight amusement, before settling back to concern.

Your frown deepens. "What're you doing here?"

"It's the second day you've missed work," he says, voice low and soothing, like he's afraid you'd slam the door in his face. "Didn't return any of my texts, or Carrie Myers'. We both agreed it wasn't like you, so I came to check."

"Don't you have classes?"

"It's my lunch break." he lifts a paper bag, smiling. "I brought ramen. I figured you'd want something with a broth, in case you're sick… are you sick?"

"No," you admit, opening the door wider to let him in. "I'm not sick, it's—wait, how'd you even get my address?"

"Carrie gave it to me." He sets the food on the kitchenette in the corner. He sweeps his gaze around, studying the state of your studio, and you wince at what he might find. What he might think.

"Are you sure you're not sick? Your eyes and nose are all red, there's tissue everywhere. I was debating buying some medicine too. People tend to get some form of cold as the weather gets lower due to the—"

"I'm not sick, Spencer, but thank you for your concern." You wave him off.

"Oh… then why?"

"It's my dissertation." you force a laugh, self deprecating.

He looks at you blankly.

You stare back at him. When it becomes clear he expects more explanation, you add:

"I got my advisor's feedback for my initial findings."

Spencer blinks, like he's trying to decipher a puzzle from your words. "You skipped classes because you got feedback?"

You cheeks burn, though you're not sure if it's from indignation or embarrassment. Most post-grad students understand that 'feedback' is code for I spent the next several hours sobbing and contemplating my life choices.

"Have you never had a draft return to you with so many corrections you want to, I don't know, just throw up?" you ask instead.

It's not his fault, you tell yourself, it isn't a universal experience to have crippling anxiety over feedback, after all.

He shakes his head. "Well, no. Feedback is part of the academic process. I find it to be very stimulating."

"Must be nice." you mutter, "Really, you've never cried over a shitty draft? Or a failed test?"

"I've never failed a test." He winces as he says it, like he realizes his words would just make you feel worse right after they're out of his mouth.

And he's right. Tears spring to your eyes at the unfairness of it all. Right. Of course. At some point, you must have forgotten he's a genius. How silly of you to think you're somewhat equals, just because you're friends. No, he outclasses you in experience, education, and intellect. He doesn't struggle over this the same way you do.

"Well, fuck, good for you." you try to say it as a joke, but the words fracture around a sob.

"I meant–" he isn't able to tell you what he meant as your embarrassingly loud sobs interrupt his words, and then he's right there, crossing the space and gathering you into his arms as fresh tears streak hot down your cheeks.

The world turns to slurry when he takes your glasses off and places it on the counter. Then, ever so gently, his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you into his chest.

You don't fight it. It's inexcusable, how many times you'd cried the past two days, but there doesn't seem to be an end to your tears. Especially now, when Spencer's got you wrapped up and pressed against him like you're sacred and fragile, something he wants to protect.

Something splinters inside you, and it erupts through your tears, free flowing and spurned on by his warmth. By his comfort. No one's held you like this in ages, you realize. You shudder in his arms, suddenly cold.

"Shhh," you feel his chin pressing against your hair, his free hand rubbing circles over your back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just let it out."

You sob, half convinced you're ruining his blazer, and too exhausted to care. Beneath your cheek, the fabric grows damp from your tears, and sob even more, guilty now for dumping this on him when he was probably expecting someone delirious from fever. Instead, he's saddled with a weepy, mess feeling ashamed for being so vulnerable, and god you don't even want to imagine how you look right now.

Even more, it all feels so right, being held like this. Cocooned in his warmth and the clean, perfect smell of him, and the pressure of his arms around your body like a grounding force when you've been sick with anxiety and self doubt and stress.

"Sorry," you mumble voice thin and watery with tears.

"Don't apologize for having feelings and caring about your work." he whispers, the circles on your back continuing despite your tears subsiding. "I may not have the exact same experience, but I do understand the… the feelings of inadequacy and frustration and how overwhelming it can all get."

"No, like, I'm sorry for ruining your clothes. And making you worry."

"Don't be," you feel a deep sigh heave out of his body, the air tickling your ear. "If you're at a point where you've missed two days of work because of this, then you clearly needed a good cry, darling."

"I thought we agreed to only use that in public."

He laughs, slowly unwinds himself from you. His big hands cup your face, tilting your head up to look at him. Big, earnest eyes stare at you, the light making them glint amber. "I think we can make an exception right now."

You feel the swell of his thumbs smoothing over your skin, catching the lingering tears with a gentleness that makes you want to start crying all over again. And you must look like you're about to, possibly from a swift glassiness covering your eyes, or a quiver of your lips, because his whole face softens with even more concern.

He says your name and you watch his lips wrap around the syllables, languid and sure, like he likes the taste of them on his tongue.

Before you know it, he's pressing those same lips on your forehead, quick and chaste, leaving the patch of skin burning. His thumbs keep swiping over your cheekbone, back and forth, like it's instinct. And maybe it is. It's the same motion he does over your knuckles when he holds your hand.

You barely manage to keep yourself upright from the realization.

"I have to go back," he says, sounding apologetic, "I have a lecture at 2 that I can't miss, but I'll come here as soon as everything's dismissed, okay?"

"You don't have to." Your insistence is beginning to sound ridiculous, but he doesn't make fun, or get frustrated.

"I know." he presses his lips to your forehead again, a brief, almost noncommittal thing you're worried will occupy your mind for the rest of the day. "I know. But I want to, really."

And it's stupid, the way your chest tightens at that softness, the way you just want to sink into it and let him envelop you.

"Eat. Please." his head jerks back to the counter, at the takeout ramen he thoughtfully brought.

You nod, numbed by surprise and anxiety and an inexplicable, vague ache beneath your sternum.

You wish you could pinpoint where it is, file it as something fixable through medication or surgery, but you know deep in your gut that it isn't that type of affliction. If only it is; if only you could be rid of it through some magic pill.

Spencer looks like he wants to say more, but he lets his hands drop to your shoulders instead, squeezing there firmly, and then he's walking out the door, leaving you reeling in the middle of your messy apartment.

It takes a while before you're able to unroot your feet from the spot, blinking dumbly at the food he's set for you. Finally, you slump into your little dining set to eat, fully braced to have some cold noodles, but to your surprise, the whole thing is still warm.

Funnily enough, you don't think it's the cause of the warmth spreading through your whole body.

You apartment is a mess. Not in a quirky, lived in way either, but reaching slob levels, someone-might-suspect-you-of-hoarding kind of mess. Clothes strewn about, mixed with books and pens, stacks of papers from your students everywhere, like your small studio is a weird stew of everything that makes up who you are.

You're a little embarrassed that Spencer had to see it in this state—it isn't normally this bad, but the past few days have been so busy and then you hadn't had time to tidy up any of it. If you'd known he's coming, you would have at least hidden the worst of it. Shoved them under your bed or the closet, kept up the impression that you've got everything under perfect control.

But, having something in your stomach has given you some clarity. You move, albeit mechanically, to tidy your space, stacking back the books you don't even remember grabbing from the shelves, making your bed, clearing the takeout and other trash that might still be around.

Once your studio resembles something respectably habitable, you finally trudge to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror stares back at you, puffy-eyed and familiar, with skin that's somehow both dry and disgustingly oily. You wince.

A small part of you twists when you realize Spencer saw you like this. Unadorned, raw, not very pretty. But it prompts annoyance from a bigger, more rational part, because why the hell do you care that Spencer Reid saw you in such a state?

It's the vulnerability, you think, it's not fun to be taken by surprise when you're in such a state, especially by someone who has never seen you this way before. After all, you've always prided yourself in appearing competent and professional, so as to avoid the judgment.

The small part tells you it's also embarrassment—he just saw you without make up, held you when you hadn't even made an effort to smell nice. Tells you that, as much as you'd like to pretend you're above it—the vanity of perception, this projection of confidence—you aren't immune to it.

What the actual fuck.

You strip off your pajamas and hop beneath the spray, welcoming the cold.

It will, hopefully, jolt these stupid thoughts right out of your system. It's a quick shower, almost clinical in the order—shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Lotion when you've dried off, then you leave your hair alone, knowing you'll probably regret it later.

Dressed and feeling slightly better, you curl up with your plugged laptop, this time not bothering with the dissertation. Not yet.

Instead, you file the necessary paperwork for your sudden absence, and read through the discussion boards you've assigned for your classes. Still doing work, still being productive, but avoiding what's been causing the bulk of your stress. You'll figure it out when you're in a better state of mind.

Around six, your phone rings. Dr Four Eyes. Spencer. Calling, which he rarely does. Usually, he'll text, but seeing as you'd accidentally ignored sixteen texts from him (and even more from Carrie), he seems to have taken the more direct approach.

"Hello?"

"Hey," his voice is soft, "Did I wake you?"

"No, do I sound that bad?"

He chuckles. "You don't, sorry. I just assumed you'd be sleeping or something. Getting rest."

"I told you, I'm not sick." Besides, you've done nothing but sleep and cry for the past day, you're getting a little sick of it.

He hums like he's not entirely convinced, and you hear faint chatter in the background. Sounds of life. You wonder where he is. You wonder if you can ask. Is that something the two of you can do? If he can come over unannounced, then you're allowed to ask where he is, right?

Yes. That's how friends work. And the two of you are friends.

"Where are you?"

"At a Chinese restaurant," he says.

Oh. You thought he's coming over. But before you could dwell on the dull sting of disappointment that shoots through you, he continues.

"That's why I called. Wasn't sure what you wanted."

Oh.

"Or if you even liked Chinese food. I should've asked first. I'm still in line, it's not too late to find another place, if you want something else."

"Spencer," you laugh, interrupting him before he begins to monologue, "It's fine. I'll have some lo mein, please."

"Got it," he replies, and you could almost see him nodding in earnest. "I'll be there within the hour, hopefully."

"Okay. I'll, uh, see you."

"See you."

"And Spencer?" your voice has lowered, suddenly a little shy.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

For a moment, all you can hear are the sounds of the restaurant, conversations and footsteps and music and clanging utensils all muffled through the phone. And then, "It's my pleasure."

—

He comes as promised, looking like some sort of messy haired angel bearing more takeout and a satchel. You let him in without suspicion or confusion this time, but feeling slightly exposed.

"Have you talked to Carrie? She's been worried sick, and I didn't have a chance to talk to her after my classes."

"Yeah, I did." You'd sent your friend a very apologetic text, and then another one that simply said comments about my dissertation. Carrie had sent a throwing up emoji and said I believe in you honey, let me know if you need any help.

Spencer makes a beeline for your counter again, unpacking takeout boxes like this is totally normal.

You clear your throat, feeling awkward in your own home, and begin laying out glasses and a pitcher of cool water, "I'm sorry you're stuck with me on a Friday night."

"Please, stop apologizing for something I volunteered to do." he replies gently, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Besides, where else do you think I should be?"

You shrug. "Out. I dunno, maybe with your–"

"My girlfriend?" he looks up, grins as if to say it's supposed to be you remember, and you want to simultaneously punch those dimples off his face and press your lips on each indent.

"Your friends." you glare, accepting your takeout box of lo mein with a huff.

Spencer laughs. "I think I'm exactly where I should be—taking care of my 'girlfriend' who missed two days of work."

And you really do try not to let that affect you because you know he's kidding, this relationship is fake, but there's warmth spreading just beneath your skin until the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Do you want to talk about it? The dissertation." Spencer asks. He's sitting on the armchair across from your bed and eating the rest of the wontons with a fork.

You'd both abandoned your sorry excuse of a dining table and found more comfortable spots. You're sitting cross legged on your bed facing him, napkins laid in front of you to catch any bits of food.

"Not really." you groan, setting aside your empty carton of food. "It's nothing bad, I promise. But I didn't get the scholarship grant I applied for either and I got saw the emails at the same time, so it was like… a lot."

"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't even know you applied for a grant."

You shrug. "I passed it before I even met you. I guess it never came up. That's just how it goes, though—too many applicants, too little funding. Honestly, I'm used to the rejection, it just so happened to be one right after the other, you know?"

"It can be overwhelming." he's watching you without judgment, eyes the color of oak in the artificial light of your apartment. "If I could be of any help, you know how to reach me."

"Uh, if you happened to have eight grand lying around, I'd really appreciate it."

"I believe I'm your fake boyfriend, not your sugar daddy."

"Ew, that sounds weird coming from your mouth." you wrinkle your nose, exaggerating your disgust, just to watch him smile. "Besides, you asked how you can help."

He laughs. "I guess I could sell my first editions, if you need the money that badly."

"Oh my god, please don't. Don't think I can live with that baggage." you lay down, still on your side so you can look at him, smiling. "But now that you've mentioned it, maybe you can help me find books. For my RRL."

He nods, the food pausing in mid-air. "Yes. Definitely, send me the titles."

"Tomorrow. I don't want to deal with it right now anymore." you squeeze your eyes shut and will the world to fall away. "I've kind of had enough of the pity party I gave myself."

"I don't think that's what you were doing."

"Wallowing in my pain isn't a pity party? Feeling sorry for myself and second guessing how I even earned my way into my candidacy isn't a pity party?"

"No." his voice gentles, which doesn't match the intensity in his eyes, "Self doubt is a human emotion, and you shouldn't flagellate yourself for needing a break once in a while."

You're quiet for a moment, but then whisper. "It feels undeserved."

"What does?"

"All this… cancelling my classes, not doing anything."

"You mean taking a break?" his brows furrow, and you're not quite sure what to make of the expression on his face. It's more intense than you're used to, like he's ready to begin arguing.

"This—I don't need a break. Nothing about what I do warrants something as dramatic as this."

"You're a Phd. candidate, doing research for your dissertation, writing and publishing shorter articles, all on top of teaching—what is it, three? Undergrad courses." Spencer points out.

You look down pointedly, lips pulled in a tight line. It's not really something you like discussing out loud, precisely because most people always sound so horrified.

You get nice things when you've accomplished something.

A break has to be earned. So does respect, and your position at the university, and your dissertation.

Which makes this impromptu vacation so much more guilt consuming. You hadn't done a good job. You'd been rejected. Rebuked, on two different instances. And yet you'd spent the last two days at home, crying like an idiot.

"Hey," Spencer says again, gentling his voice, "I'm sorry. You said you didn't want to talk about it. We can… I'll drop it for now."

For now. Hopefully, his eidetic memory fails him and it never comes up again (unlikely, but a girl can dream). You smile, eyes flicking up to meet his tentatively. "Thanks."

You watch him, sitting in your armchair. He seems so painfully right, limbs arranged in that haphazard way you've come to learn means he's relaxed, and you have to fight the urge to reach over and poke him, just to make sure he's real.

"What?" his brows have met in the middle again, but this time out of self consciousness, "Sorry, did you want more?" he angles the carton to you.

"No, it's okay. Don't feel like getting up."

"Oh. Well, here," he spears a wonton with the fork and stands, the food held aloft like an offering.

There's too little time to do anything but blink and accept, mouth parting for the food, eyes fixed at his ankle, which you judiciously decide are the most interesting thing in the room. And you thank the heavens that they are. Interesting, that is.

Otherwise, your mind would have done something unreliable and silly, like linger on how long his fingers are, and wonder what it would feel to trace the veins that crisscross over the backs of his hands and crawl up beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt.

But you are rightfully distracted by what peeks from his very professional dress pants—some very fun, very mismatched socks.

You reach out, hand curling around his forearm, both to stop him from going back to the armchair and to hoist yourself up for a better look. Black with robots on one foot, blue and gray stripes on the other.

"You do know socks typically come as a pair, right?" you say around the mouthful of food.

He shakes his head, settling on the edge of your bed, tentative as if he's afraid of imposing. "I'm aware. This is a deliberate choice."

Like a fool, you scoot to give him more room. More encouragement. Spencer takes the hint and fully situates himself by your legs.

"I didn't realize the great genius doctor Spencer Reid had such strong fashion choices." you grin when he laughs.

"It's a… thing. A luck thing."

"A luck thing?"

"Bad things tend to happen when I wear matching socks."

"That's oddly superstitious for a man of science."

"It's not superstition if it's backed by statistics."

You fully sit up now, grinning, eager to prod at his hypothesis. "Do you mean to say you've conducted enough research to reach this conclusion?"

"Indeed. I'm 81% more likely to stumble when my socks match."

"You don't think you've just conditioned yourself into being more clumsy on those days, just to subconsciously prove a point?"

Spencer shakes his head defensively. "The clumsiness isn't the only manifestation. A bad exam result–"

"I thought you'd never failed a test."

"A bad result doesn't always mean a failed one," he counters, smirking.

Your eyes roll at his smug expression, but the smile twitching at your own lips makes the action comes across fond. "How long ago is this data? I doubt you've taken any recent exams."

"Old… it started when I was young."

"How young?"

"Six." He says, laughs at the look of incredulity on your face. "Maybe it's outdated data, but the socks stuck."

"Mhm, FBI agent, professor and a fashion icon. What can't you do?"

Spencer laughs, and you have half a mind to record him, just so you can replay it over and over again. He offers another bite to you, and you've relaxed enough to accept it, though your gaze is still fixed on his silly socks.

He's quiet for a moment, wiggling his ankles to make you chuckle.

"You know, while it may be true that I've never failed an academic test, I have also failed others." he murmurs.

"Like?" you sit up, knees tucked to your chest, arms banded around them. You're on one end of your bed, and he's sat on the other. Casual, intimate.

Platonic, you tell yourself.

"Gun qualifications. I was really bad at those. Physical exams–oh, I had to be in remedial for those." he smiles, gaze dropping to the patterns on your bedspread. "Honestly, in my first few years with the FBI, my mentors had to write multiple letters vouching for me before I could be allowed on the field."

"So what I'm learning is you're a teacher's pet."

He laughs. "I'm just saying. I've… Earlier, when I said I've never failed one. I misspoke. I'm sorry I upset you."

"No, don't," you sigh, resting your chin on your knees. "It's okay, I was already upset. Anything would have set me off."

"Even so. I don't want you to think I'm unfeeling, or insensitive. I—it's hard for me to read the room, sometimes." he reaches out, gently takes one of your hands.

You have the urge to pull away, only because it feels good and you want him to keep doing it. Doing this, even when the two of you are alone and there's no need to act like a couple.

You squeeze his hand instead. "I don't think that about you at all."

He smiles, soft and warm and not the first time, you feel utterly doomed.

"Maybe not, but I'm still sorry. And… well, yes, I do know how it feels to be so anxious over something it makes me physically ill." he squeezes your hand back and doesn't let go. "And if that's how you've been feeling since yesterday, then you shouldn't feel guilty for missing a couple of days to sort yourself out."

"You said we wouldn't talk about it anymore." you remind him with a pout.

Spencer chuckles. Squeezes your hand again, thumbs moving in slow, absentminded circles like it's second nature, "All right, I'll stop. What do you want to talk about instead?"

"I dunno. Maybe nothing." you admit, feeling scraped raw. He honors it, staying quiet and holding your hand, until you add, "I don't want to keep you."

He shakes his head. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Even if you're just sitting with me, doing nothing?"

"I'm holding your hand." he says, tightening his palm around yours with a soft smile, "That's not nothing."

And maybe you've done nothing to deserve his kindness, or his company, but you smile and let yourself enjoy it all the same.