˚₊‧♡ 𝓢𝓲𝔂𝓪𝓪𝓻𝓪 ♡‧₊

"Had—oh God—had the best teacher, didn't I?" you retort, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure when you manage to fit the first inch inside of you, and you both gasp at the same time—you, at the delicious stretch of him, Tom, at the snug warmth of your pussy.

Your skirt is bunched up just high enough for him to see you stretch around him, to have a visual to the sensation. And fuck, does it feel good—having you struggle to take him in this position, two of your fingers not nearly having been sufficient enough of a replacement for two of his own to prepare you for him.

Is he annoyed with you taking advantage of his trust, allowing you enough time to hex him when he wasn't paying attention? Yes. Will he retaliate later tonight, perhaps keeping you locked in his bedroom for the entire weekend? Very likely. But, most importantly—will he first enjoy watching you fuck yourself on his cock like a good little slut? Most fucking definitely.

You've managed to accommodate about half of him when a slight upwards thrust of his hips makes you hiss, your eyes finding his instantly. He isn't supposed to be able to move. At all.

"Riddle, I swear— stay the fuck still." you seethe, one of your hands leaving his shoulders and curling around his throat instead, feeling his adam's apple bob beneath your touch.

But Tom—he just smirks at you, all arrogant, all self-assured. If you had a free hand, you'd use it to smack him across his stupidly handsome face. Once. Maybe twice.

"Can't even take all of me. Show me you're worthy of being my best student, sweetheart. Come on, work for it."

Three times, it is.

Your eyebrows pinch together in annoyance, but you are determined. Determined to drag this out as long as you have to for him to learn not to leave you aching for his touch again—because today, you will show him just how torturous it is to be deprived of what you need most. Release.

"You don't get to tell me what to do. You're the one tied up, remember?" you breathe, steadying yourself with both hands on his chest as you lower yourself further, nearly having fit all of him.

"Tied up and helpless while I—fuck—take what I need. What you didn't give me last time." You grit your teeth, pushing yourself to your limit to take all of him, your walls clamped around him like a vice.

You feel his scorching hot gaze on you as you struggle—really struggle—to fit all of him in this position. Most of the time when he allows you to be on top, he guides your hips, praises you, circles the pad of his thumb over your clit. But now, with his hands tied and him being awfully uncooperative with his punishment, he merely looks at you amusedly, taking pleasure in your effort.

None of that, you decide.

Your hips roll against his, letting the head of his cock nudge at your cervix—and instead of the familiar sting you expect, an electric wave of pleasure floods your core, making your head tip backwards, moaning.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth, and with the help of your hands on Tom's shoulders, you slowly, gently lift yourself about halfway off his swollen, pulsing cock before you sink back down, grinding down on him.

Tom groans. Fucking groans when he feels your velvety walls part around him again, sucking him right back into their treacherous warmth, clenching down so sweetly around him, it has stars dance in front of his vision.

"Fuck— God, you're— you're impossible."

You set a pace, then—slow half-thrusts at first, allowing yourself to explore your favourite angles and pace, your eyes locked onto the deep, dark honey brown of his own. And dark they are—especially now, when your tits bounce right in front of his face, buttons of your blouse strained, your lips parting for sweet, serenading little gasps and moans, almost like a mermaid would sing for a fisherman beneath the blanket of the starry night sky to lure him into the depths of her stormy waters.

One of your hands wanders to that aching, neglected spot between your thighs—your clit. Slowly, you begin circling your fingers around the swollen, sensitive bud, and Tom's eyes follow the movements intently, jaw clenched tightly.

God, how deeply he wishes this was his hand rubbing your sweet little pussy.

His wrists ache due to the tight, rough ropes rubbing his skin raw, and yet he cannot stop himself from trying to yank himself free. He fucking needs to touch you—needs to feel the swell of your tits beneath his palms, wants to taste the slick dripping down his cock, staining his favourite trousers.

Tom cannot bring himself to care about the latter—not now, at least. Now, he uses his special trick on you, which has almost always gotten him what he wanted.

"Please," he murmurs, softened, big brown doe eyes lifting to yours. "Please let me touch you, darling. I'll make up for last time. Make you feel so good. I promise—fuck, I will do anything, just please, please let me—"

Your muscles fucking ache, trembling with the strain of your rapid movements up and down his soaked cock—and yet, you see right through him. Through the game he's playing with you. And today, you will not lose.

The sound of skin slapping on skin and your combined moans and groans fills the large classroom, echoing off the walls, wrapping you both in a cloud of lust and pleasure. You've been trying to drag this out for as long as you can—but the overwhelming need to come overwrites any desire of vengeance, nerve endings tickling with electricity and held-back pleasure.

As if on cue, Tom's cock twitches in anticipation, wrapped snugly in between your slick, pulsing walls.

"Sweetheart, please— I—"

Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead, colouring some of his curls an even darker brown than usual, and it's truly a beautiful sight—one you'll gladly frame with gold in your mind, tucking it away safely for later use.

His pleading gaze has you huff, pressing a gentle kiss to his tense jaw.

"Whatever would your students think of you? Letting me do this to you. Letting me unravel you to the point you're begging for me. Fucking pathetic, Professor Riddle."

Your fingers rubbing at your clit speed up, pace faltering to a slow, deep rhythm that has every ridge and vein of his length massage your sweet spots, inadvertently pushing you closer to that high you've been chasing ever since you ground your clothed pussy over the bulge in his trousers around an hour ago.

"Hardly have a choice, do I?" he sneers in response, clenching his hands into tight fists behind his back, knuckles turning white from the strain. "If you don't fucking let me touch you, I pray to Merlin he has mercy on you tonight—because I certainly will not."

You pay no mind to his threat—your mind too fuzzy with pleasure, the knot inside your tummy winding tighter with each passing second.

"Shut up, Riddle," you breathe, slapping a hand over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up and take it like you were made to."

The high of your courage to utter these words plus an angry, irritated upwards thrust of his hips has you tumble over the edge. You cry out his name as your walls pulse and clench around his achingly hard cock, your whole body trembling with the force of your climax.

As the feeling slowly subsides, you curl forwards, resting your head on his chest—smiling to yourself.

Victory.

A swift look at the clock mounted to the front of the classroom has you ease yourself off him. His cock is still so hard, so swollen, tip flushed and soaked with both his precum and your arousal, now resting against his lower abdomen, twitching with neglect.

"Don't. you. fucking. dare." Tom grits out, the sheer anger radiating off him sending a vase on a nearby counter toppling over the edge and shattering on the wooden panels of the floor.

You grin at him, turning your back to him as you walk towards the exit of the Defence Against Dark Arts classroom.

"Lesson starts in five minutes. Better get that raging boner under control, professor. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect you may be doing inappropriate things in your own classroom, would you?"

His expression turns venomous, voice pure, undiluted poison. "You will pay for this. Just you wait, brat."

From a safe distance, you turn around one last time to undo his binds, and then, before he manages to fetch his own wand, you disappear behind the thick, dark oak doors of his classroom, walking back to your dorm.

Now, you're smiling with the satisfaction of having successfully given him his punishment—but later that night, you're crying big hot tears, begging him to stop making you come, begging him for a break.

Of course he doesn't give you that break. Of course, naturally, he has you come around his cock so often, you lose your goddamn mind, turning you into a blabbering, broken little toy.

And it may just be his favourite look on you—sobbing, crying out his name with each mean, deep thrust of his hips into your sensitive, dripping cunt.

His broken, dumb little brat.

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

𑁤 general taglist:

soft!dom!bucky who almost immediately sees you. he can just tell that you need someone to guide you, to support you. with just one look, he knows that you're the one he's been looking for, that your sweet nature and shining, curious eyes are going to haunt him for the rest of his life. the way you gently direct him on where boxes go, voice soft and timid, makes him want to hold you, to protect you, to let you continue looking at him like he's your savior for as long as you want.

soft!dom!bucky who considers "repayment" to be letting him cook you dinner that night. no ulterior motives, just knows that you'd probably order takeout since you haven't gone grocery shopping yet and wants to make sure you get actual sustenance. you try to decline, obviously, telling him that he's done so much for you already and you hate that you're already inconveniencing him like this, you don't want to bother him further. he lets you know that he'll respect it if you don't want to go to his place, but insists that you're not a bother, you could never be.

soft!dom!bucky who has you sit on the counter while he cooks, talking about nonsense and joking with each other until you feel more comfortable to open up to him, to show him who you really are. you've moved states, mentioned a not-supportive family but didn't elaborate, and bucky didn't push it. he tells you about himself, and you both swap little stories as the night goes on. he doesn't think he's ever felt more at peace as you sit at the table, finishing your first - and only - glass of wine, while he cleans up the mess. you offer to help, but concede easily when he softly tells you to make yourself comfortable, smiling to himself at seeing you melt so quickly.

soft!dom!bucky who knows you don't have a name for your feelings, that you haven't explored it fully. he learns this with more interactions he has with you, subtle signs here and there that lets him know you want someone to take the burden off your shoulders, but you don't have the knowledge or experience that he does. it takes quite a few meet-ups before you mutually decide that they're dates. going out to dinner or to the park more often, holding hands, cuddling on one of your couches. but you haven't kissed yet, and it's been weeks.

soft!dom!bucky who understands that you're too nervous to initiate a kiss, that you're still feeling out the relationship. he doesn't rush you, but when he drops you off at your door after a date at the carnival, he decides to make the first move. he asks, of course, a quiet, "can I kiss you, please?" that led to you whispering a pitiful, "yes, please," that led to him kissing you so softly that you barely even register his lips on yours. he rumbles pleasantly when your hands find a home on his chest, resting on his pecs as you let him slowly consume you.

soft!dom!bucky who starts introducing you to the dynamics in bits and pieces, assuring you through actions that you can trust him, letting you take the relationship at your own pace, but proving to you that he can provide for you, that you can let your guard down around him, that you don't have to worry about anything when he's around. and it works, you lean on him more, venting to him about your troubles, giving him your worries because you genuinely start to believe that he knows best, he can always help with whatever's wrong.

soft!dom!bucky who sits you down one evening, months into your relationship, and lays it all out. what it actually is, what it means for him, and what he wants with you. he just wants to let you feel at peace with him, wants to let you not think about things because you don't deserve the stress you're under, you deserve to be happy and taken care of, and bucky wants to be the person that does it.

soft!dom!bucky who has never felt happier at answering all your questions, is careful with his explanations and wanting you to fully understand how your relationship would shift. it doesn't take you too long to agree to it, seeming to be a little happier at being able to live like you always wanted to but could never explain.

soft!dom!bucky! who takes joy in pampering you. he loves watching you do face masks and only grumbles a little when you force him to join you on occasion. he loves drawing you baths, learns the perfect measurements for the epsom salts and bubbles to ensure you relax properly. he also loves cooking for you. specifically when you watch him cook. at a certain point he stops asking you what you want to eat because he knows what you like, and you trust him to make something you'll enjoy.

soft!dom!bucky who sets rules. they're mainly about your health, like drinking a certain amount of water a day, three square meals and a few snacks if you're still hungry, but no less. you have to get 8 hours of sleep, too, and you're not allowed to be on a screen of any kind thirty minutes before you're supposed to sleep. he always wants you to tell him when you're feeling down, whether physically sick or mentally drained, because he doesn't want you suffering alone.

soft!dom!bucky who, after a while, convinces you to call him Daddy. you'd mumbled it once, it was early in the morning and you were still half-asleep but bucky was getting out of bed to use the bathroom and you were pouting about it. your scratchy voice muttering, "daddy, nooooo," that had bucky diving back under the sheets and deciding he could pee later. right now, you need him. you didn't remember it when you awoke a few hours later, but had covered your face with your hands and squealed in embarrassment when he told you. it took some time and gentle encouragement, but you wake up one morning a little before him, but are content in watching him sleep. he does eventually wake up, and your voice is shy but sure when you tell him, "good morning, daddy."

“Why the hell would I be crying?” you scoff, brow furrowing. “He’s a goddamn idiot—it’s his loss.”

“You know what? You’re right,” Pen agrees, nodding emphatically. She points a finger at you, one glittery pink nail shimmering under the fluorescent lights. “Tears spilled over men are tears wasted, my love. More power to you.”

“Exactly,” you affirm. Garcia’s confident expression dissolves into one of incredulity as she blinks up at you.

“He really broke up with you over a… key?” she asks.

“No,” you deny. Before she can question your response, you clarify, “I broke up with him over a key.”

“I’m gonna need more details,” Pen declares. “As many as you can spare. I need to know exactly how icy of a cold shoulder to give the Good Doctor for hurting you.” Brow knitting, she pensively notes, “Well, I guess he’s more like the Bad Doctor now…”

If she wasn’t referring to your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, you remind yourself—you’d almost find her remark funny. You appreciate her unwavering support, but you can’t find it in yourself to laugh or even crack a weak smile at her commentary. Still, you steel yourself to relive the events of Tuesday night.

You’re in Spencer’s apartment. He’s gone to the kitchen to grab some snacks for your movie night, so you figure that now is the perfect time to kick your plan into high gear. You tiptoe across the living room, approaching his entryway table. You reach for his keys, blood thumping so loudly in your ears that you don’t even hear him enter the room.

“What are you doing?” he calls from the opposite corner. You jump and whirl around to face him, his keyring still clutched in one hand. 

“Well, I was trying to be sneaky, but I’m not the one who knows all the sleight of hand tricks,” you joke self-deprecatingly.

Spencer’s gaze falls to your other hand; the one holding a single, silver key. One that you had made specially for him. It glints from between your fingers, and Spencer doesn’t need to see it up close to realize what you’re holding.

“Is that…” he trails off, swallowing thickly.

“Well… yeah,” you shrug casually. If you’ve noticed his stiff posture or the waves of tension radiating off of him, his distress hasn’t fully registered in your mind. You excitedly continue, “I thought, ya know, we’ve been dating for a while, so I wanted to give you a key to my place. Ya know, take the next step or whatever. I thought it might be cute to put it on your keyring when you weren’t looking, so then you’d see it later and it could be some like, unspoken romantic gesture of my trust and everything, but obviously now it’s… spoken.” You loudly clear your throat, a bit sheepish now that you’ve finished your ramble. 

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. Once. Twice. He inhales deeply, and then, before he can psych himself out a third time, the words come tumbling from his mouth. “You don’t think it’s… maybe too soon for that?”

Ever the ray of sunshine, you continue to hold out hope that perhaps you’ve just caught him off-guard. Maybe he’s more excited about this development than he’s letting on. “I mean, I wondered if it was, but I did some digging—aka, I spent an ungodly amount of time browsing relationship subreddits—and it seems like the best time to do it is subjective.” You drop the key on the table and take a step closer to him, suddenly despising the distance between the two of you. “I’ve never been in a super serious relationship before, but it feels right to me,” you murmur, cracking a small smile. You had hoped that a smile might ease his nerves, that he might smile back at you, but he doesn’t. Suddenly, a heavy weight begins to press on your chest. The weight of realizing that… “You don’t… you don’t want it?”

Spencer sinks onto his couch, anxiously scratching at the back of his neck. Your feet carry you across the room, your body instinctively positioning itself beside him on the cushions. Even in disagreement, you’ve always yearned to be close to him. 

“I, um… I just feel like it’s a big… commitment?” he stammers. The words are less of a sharp sting and more of a watery, cold dread settling in your veins. The smile you had been fighting to keep on your face starts to contort, molding into a tight-lipped frown. 

“I guess, maybe, but I thought it was a more sensible step than just asking you to move in,” you say, an edge of defensiveness in your tone. You don’t think you’re being unreasonable; you love Spencer, and you want him to have this small token of your affection. Why is he reacting like you’re demanding something unfathomable of him?

“You’ve thought about that?” Spencer blurts. His eyes meet yours, and the usual warmth in his gaze has been replaced by something chilling—uncertainty. He’s always looked at you like you were the one sure thing in his life, but now he just seems uncomfortably taken aback. 

The fact that he even thought to ask that question has you stunned.

“We’ve been dating for almost a year—of course I have,” you answer, thinking that he should’ve expected this reply from you. Yet, he appears surprised. You blanch, whispering, “You… haven’t?”

“Well… no.”

You swear you can hear your heart crack.

“He seriously said ‘well, no’?” Pen interrupts, looking appropriately offended on your behalf. “What an asshole—no wonder you’re pissed!” She schools her expression into a calmer look and gestures to you with an open hand. “Sorry for interrupting. You may proceed.”

Seeing the obvious heartbreak on your face, Spencer attempts to remedy the situation by saying, “Look, it’s not that I can’t picture a future with you, it’s…”

A pause. 

“You don’t want to?” you offer. 

“I do, I just…” Spencer fervently shakes his head in response to how you opt to finish his sentence. For a man notorious for rambling, he’s at a jarring loss for words—and at the worst time. “I don’t know.”

Spencer has always been the type to offer endless words of affirmation. Unprompted, he’ll remind you that you’re gorgeous, and that he’s the luckiest man on Earth to have you by his side. He has always seemed so deeply in love with you, which makes his sudden disinterest even more confusing. 

It would be so easy to tear up at the crushing realization that he doesn’t love you as much as you love him, but you’re not too keen on getting emotional at a time when it appears that Spencer will do little to comfort you. So instead, you get angry.

“Jesus Christ, were you planning on telling me this at any point?” you snap. 

“I love you, I do, I just think… um…” Spencer wrings his hands, and the anxiety rolling off his body nauseates you. He might as well have said, “I love you, but—.” He could’ve chosen to give this relationship a quick, dignified end; instead, he’s being torturously vague, prolonging what now feels like the inevitable. 

“Think what?” you prompt, tempted to grab his hands and force him to stop fidgeting. You’re quickly growing agitated, exasperatedly scoffing, “What? That I’m not good enough for you?”

Spencer’s head snaps in your direction. 

“I didn’t say that,” he retorts, brow furrowed.

“You’re not saying much, actually,” you counter frustratedly. Something that was meant to inspire a tender moment is quickly devolving into an uncontrollable argument. Perhaps tensions have been roiling just beneath the surface for a while now, and you haven’t realized. “‘I don’t know’, ‘um…’, well? What is it?”

“I’m trying to think of the best way to say it,” Spencer replies defensively. You suppose whatever he must be thinking is pretty hurtful if even he is at a loss for words to deliver the message. The air in his apartment feels thick—unspoken sentiments threatening to suffocate you.

“Say what? That you’re just not that into me?” you supply. “My God, Spencer, it’s just a key.”

“It’s not just a key, and you know that,” Spencer rationalizes. His words are logical, but his tone is edged with some sort of annoyance. He adds, “You even just admitted to wanting more than that.”

How could this have gone so poorly? You had really thought he would be excited to take this next step with you, but now you just feel like a humiliated fool, beaten down by reality.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” you exclaim, voice wavering with emotion. “Why shouldn’t I want more than that?”

“You should!” Spencer answers, voice rising to meet your climbing volume.

“But you don’t?” you seethe, mind reeling with how badly you’ve misjudged his feelings about you. Once the words are thrown out, they reverberate in your ears. You realize how true they are. You had meant them as a question, yet you don’t truly need to hear his response—not when you’ve already received so many clues as to what’s on his mind. The scared little glint in his eyes when he saw the key, the uncomfortable shifting on his feet; even the way he’s currently positioned on the sofa, body taut like a rubber band about to snap.

He doesn’t want what you do.

“I don’t know,” he all but confirms. He says it in a low voice, almost apologetically, like he knows his words have as much of a punch as if he had outright said “no”. His eyes skirt to the floor. Once again, the onslaught of emotions threatens to drown you in sorrow, yet you refuse to appear desperate. Needy. Instead, you allow the torrent of feelings to stoke the fire rising in your chest. 

“That’s not good enough,” you say flatly, resisting the urge to yell. “You don’t know? Are you fucking kidding me? When are you gonna figure it out? Another ten months from now? ‘Cause I will happily take things slow, but I will not wait around for someone to figure out if they even want me.”

“I do want—” he starts.

“You are not acting like it,” you interrupt. You’re beyond furious at this point, but your stupid, bleeding heart yearns to remedy the situation. With one final whisper of hope, you ask, “Is it just ‘cause you’re scared to use the damn key or something? You don’t have to, ya know, you can just hold on to it.”

“It’s not just the key.” He shakes his head, the familiar motion as painful as a knife to your abdomen. So, this is really it. How long has he been playing the role of the caring boyfriend without having much interest in the part? 

“How can you say you love me when the more you talk, it sounds like you don’t even like me?” A surprisingly vulnerable question, a raw ember among the blazing inferno of undiluted pain in your heart. Spencer tilts his head toward you, and you level him with an angry glare, attempting to throw as much hurt at him as possible through one expression. 

He turns his head just so, and the light catches on an unshed tear glistening in his eye. The sight douses some of that fire within you; it’s been your gut instinct for the past ten months—longer than that, even—to drop everything to care for Spencer when he’s upset. Even when he’s hurting you, some part of you longs to care for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not even denying the words you’ve just spoken. You’re in such shock from the events of the past ten minutes, energy rapidly leaching from you, that you no longer see the point in arguing. You shouldn’t try to fight for something he clearly doesn’t want.

“For what? What are you apologizing for?” you ask instead, shoulders slumped. 

“I hate making you unhappy—I just don’t think I’m ready for this,” Spencer confesses quietly, as if afraid his words will instill the wrath of God in you once more. “And to answer your question, I don’t know when I will be ready. And I know it’s unfair to ask you to wait, but—”

“Yeah, it is unfair,” you reply flatly.

“I’m sorry—” he starts, but you promptly cut him off.

“Stop saying that. This is ridiculous,” you declare with a dissatisfied grumble. “It’s not like I’m fucking proposing to you.”

Spencer blinks harshly, paling at your rebuttal. You swear you see him recoil just a fraction of an inch away from you.

“Oh my God, just the mention of that made you look ill,” you laugh sardonically. At this point, you’re feeling pathetic and ready to mope in bed for the next year. Not even sure if you want a response, you vocalize, “Spencer, why would you even ask me to wait if the thought of a future with me is so terrible?”

Spencer gulps. 

“You just don’t wanna be alone,” you mutter. When he doesn’t correct you, you continue, “Am I right? It’s not me you’re interested in, it’s the idea of having a relationship. Any relationship. But things get real, and that’s too scary?”

“That’s not…” Spencer fumbles for a solid statement, settling on, “I am interested in you.”

“I don’t really believe you right now,” you admit, huffing bitterly. “I think you’ll say anything to keep me, but the truth is written all over your face.” You’re not sure why you’re still sitting on his couch, entertaining this conversation. Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed by the need to leave. Not just to be in the comfort of your own home, but to be far away from the embarrassment of begging for someone else’s affection. If he can’t string together a coherent reason for you to stay, then you’ll go. Rising from the couch with more confidence than you truly feel, you announce, “You know what? Forget the key. Forget the whole damn thing. I don’t exist just to satisfy your needs.”

“W-what?” Spencer stutters, clambering to his feet.

“You heard me,” you say, simultaneously heavy with the weight of this decision and lighter because of it. “Thanks for stringing me along and making me think that there was a future for us. I get it now. There’s not.”

“And then I left,” you conclude. “So.”

Penelope’s staring up at you with wide eyes and an even wider mouth, her jaw having been halfway to the floor for the past five minutes. She presses her lips into a thin line, blinking rapidly like she’s having trouble processing your story. Her eyebrows rise and fall in a perplexed—and somewhat impressed—little jump.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “You really kicked his ass to the curb.”

“Yeah,” you nod. You’re exhausted from reliving the details of the other night, and you’re half-tempted to fake an illness so you can go home and watch a comfort movie—or three.

“Have you… talked at all? Since then?” Garcia hesitantly inquires. 

“Would you talk to him after that?” you ask, hackles rising. You sigh deeply, shooting Pen an apologetic glance. You may be on edge because of the breakup, but it’s nothing you need to take out on her. You amend, “No. He’s been texting me, but—”

Like clockwork, your phone buzzes.

“I’m ignoring him.”

“That’s not gonna work forever,” Penelope says pointedly. “Hotch is a meddler. He’ll probably assign you two the same job to force you to talk.” She looks up at the corner, as if deep in thought. She muses, “I can just picture him scheming, sending you both to the M.E. and careening towards an exceptionally dramatic argument in a morgue.” 

“Ugh,” you groan at the thought. “Yeah, I know, but until that happens, I need space.”

“Sounds like you could use a distraction,” Pen concludes, perking up slightly.

“To say the least,” you huff, tilting back your head to slump against the wall. 

“Well, you know what they say,” Garcia lilts. “‘The best way to get over a man is to get under another.’” A glimmer of mischief sparkles in her eyes. “Another man, that is. Oo, or woman! You know, Emily’s single.” She wiggles her fingers, clicking her nails together in a thrilled little gesture.

“One, I know,” you reply, looking down at her with an unimpressed face. “Two, I’m swearing off dating BAU members. Clearly having a clinical understanding of psychology does nothing to foster emotional maturity in profilers.” You raise three fingers. “Three, JJ’s been giving her googly eyes for years. I wouldn’t dare interfere with the inevitable duo there.”

“Fair enough,” Penelope agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “So someone else, then?”

“Four, I doubt that a hookup is gonna be a very productive distraction,” you reason. Feeling restless, you hop off her desk, smoothing your skirt before beginning to pace the room. “Short-term, sure, but long-term, how does that help me find someone who’s interested in a serious relationship?”

You look over your shoulder expectantly. Of course, your best friend already has a pitch prepared.

“You just spent ten months with Reid,” she says emphatically, spinning in her chair to face you. “I personally see no harm in having some fun before you jump into another commitment.” Her nose scrunches. Revealing her true intentions, she adds, “And hey, maybe seeing you with someone else will open his eyes to the reality that you are a super hot catch and that he made a grave mistake getting squirrely?”

“Oh no, I’m not playing the ‘make him jealous’ game,” you deny, crossing your arms in a definitive gesture. “I need to move on, for real.”

“Alright, alright,” she concedes, nodding her approval. Meeting your eyes, she earnestly promises, “I support it, obvi.”

“Good,” you respond insistently, “because I’m gonna get over his dumb ass.”

“She just read it. She’s leaving it on read. Again,” Spencer says, slumping into his desk chair. While you and Garcia have been unpacking the breakup in her lair, Spencer and his best friend have commandeered the bullpen. The rest of the agents are effectively tuning them out; well, besides Prentiss, who offers the occasional dramatic sigh to let them know they’re being too distracting.

“Pretty Boy, she’s literally in the next room,” Derek reminds him. He clicks his pen with a flourish, crumpling a Post-It note and chucking it at Spencer’s head as he suggests, “Just go talk to her.”

For the past thirty-two minutes and seventeen—now eighteen—seconds, Spencer’s been relaying his version of events. Of course, his memory of the breakup consists of verbatim insults and eerily minute details about your physiological response to his stupidity, but it’s essentially the same download Penelope’s getting in the other room. 

While Morgan’s trying to be a good friend, he has the attention span of a house fly, and has resigned himself to doodling pictures of the not-so-happy and not-so-coupley couple. Spencer flattens out the most recent paper ball and narrows his eyes at the poorly-drawn stick figures; as rudimentary as Derek’s artistry may be, he’s clearly depicting you and Spencer kissing, a sensation of which Spencer does not need to be reminded right now.

“She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me,” Spencer pouts. Not that he blames you in the slightest for edging him out. “Plus, the door’s been closed for over half an hour. Garcia would wring my neck if I interrupted their… girl talk.”

Spencer looks longingly down the hall, remembering a time when you would have emerged from Penelope’s office with a delighted expression on your face. You’ve always been soft smiles when your eyes would find him across the room, but he’s ruined any semblance of hope that he’ll see that look directed toward him again.

“She has to come out at some point, though,” Morgan reasons, starting in on another sticky note. Distractedly, he adds, “Baby Girl doesn’t have room for her to move in.”

“What do I even say?” Spencer groans, throwing his hands exasperatedly in the air. “‘Sorry I lied to you about not wanting a future with you because I have a crippling fear of abandonment and am convinced that you would eventually leave me, causing me to push you away and force you to understandably leave me anyway’?” 

Derek looks up from his sketch.

“Well, it would be an interesting conversation starter,” he taunts with a cheeky grin. If Spencer had any hand-eye coordination whatsoever, he’d throw something at Morgan in return, but he doesn’t trust himself to not accidentally bean JJ. 

“I’m serious, Morgan,” Spencer huffs. At his pitchy exclamation, Emily lets out a long-suffering sigh. Reid lowers his voice, leaning toward Morgan and pondering aloud, “How do I beg the girl of my freaking dreams to take me back when I was such an asshole the other night? She’s not gonna hear me out. I wouldn’t hear me out.” He grimaces. “God, I’m such an idiot. I should’ve just sucked it up and taken the damn key.”

If Derek’s grin had been teasing before, it’s downright shit-eating now. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and quips, “Girl of your dreams, huh? Man, I knew you were into her, but I didn’t realize you were in love love.”

Spencer’s not even able to deny it. “Yeah, I am, and I messed it all up for what?” he asks. “I just panicked. I totally floundered.” Spencer buries his head in his hands for a brief moment before looking up with horror in his eyes as he recalls the details of his last conversation with you. “I even told her I haven’t pictured a future with her when that’s literally what I do for approximately ninety percent of my time. What is wrong with me?”

“You don’t want me to answer that,” Derek deadpans. Spencer shoots him a flat look, to which Morgan amends, “Dude, relax. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships, it’s how to perfect my groveling technique.”  He nods solemnly, vowing to assist his friend. “I’ll help you get her back.”

“How?” Spencer questions, unable to fathom any possible route resulting in you giving him the time of day. 

“Baby steps,” Morgan answers calmly. “Here’s one.” He holds up his notepad, revealing a yellow square that simply says:

TALK TO HER!

Each word is underlined several times. 

“How?” Spencer repeats dumbly.

“Easy,” Morgan shrugs. “Get Hotch to put you two on the same task on our next case. He’s a meddler, he’ll do it.”

Spencer considers this for a moment. It’s verifiable that their Unit Chief relies on the team to settle their differences the mature way—open communication. He’d never let something like this fester for too long without intervening. 

“That’s… true,” Spencer nods. Then, unsure how to proceed, he questions, “So, I just… ask him?”

Morgan reclines in his chair with a shrug, propping his hands behind his head. “Tell him you’re getting the silent treatment. If there’s one thing he values, it’s efficiency in the workplace. He’ll wanna get her talking.”

“That feels… dirty,” Spencer shudders. “Won’t she be mad that I got him involved?”

He doesn’t really need Derek to answer that question for him, of course. He knows you’ll be livid. Still, it’s something of a comfort to air out his concerns and be met with his friend’s validation. “Of course she’ll be mad, but she’s already pissed at you. It can’t get much worse.”

Spencer’s thoughts exactly, yet he rhythmically taps his fingers on his desk and murmurs, “I’m not sure I really want to test that theory.”

“But you want her back, don’t you?” Derek asks pointedly.

“More than anything,” Spencer answers easily. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do—to push you away. He couldn’t disagree with anything you said. Well, not most things, anyway. He was scared of a serious relationship; that much was true. The one thing you had really gotten wrong, though, was thinking that he would be happy with just anyone.

No, Spencer wouldn’t be content to be with any man or woman. Now that he had known what it was like to love and be loved by you, he didn’t want to experience anything different. He was determined to make his regret known, and he would do just about anything to make it up to you and earn your forgiveness. 

Morgan knows it, too. He offers a smirk and declares, “So rat her ass out.”

One look, eyes meeting across smoky jazz clubs, and suddenly you’re plucked from the multitude, from obscurity, made somehow special again. A person, alight and full of potential and energy, rather than a pawn of the city.

You've learned to tell if the glance is merely curious, simple pinpricks on the back of your neck, as fleeting as the seasons, or if there's something more.

Certain looks carry weight. Sticky and sweet like honey, but laced with just a hint of danger. Those are the ones you love, the ones that make you kick your legs a little harder when dancing. You throw your head back and bare the line of your throat, hoping to allure them with the vulnerability so that perhaps, their interest lasts for the whole night. Give you enough of a rush to tide you until the next day, head buzzing with images of the smoky clubs as you return to your work.

This familiarity is what alerts you.

Because you know someone is looking at you. You feel the similar pinpricks, hairs raising on end. It lingers, but without the heady, almost intrusive nature of those lustful looks you've grown used to receiving.

It first happened a few weeks ago, walking from theater to the parking space where you’ve left your car. It stays the whole time you're walking, gone the moment you whirled around to look.

You’d shrugged and went about your night, eager to get home.

It happens again, not even a week later. Leaving from a speakeasy, hanging from a man's arm. He hails a cab for you, and you let him, too drunk on bootleg spirits to even consider driving. You're just about to slide into the cab when you feel it again, piercing in the night. You think it's coming from the figure across the street, but then, maybe it's just a hallucinatory side effect of the liquor.

But no. It follows you the next day.

This time, you think you catch the culprit, slinking in the alley by the theater where you work. You're sober now, frowning, squinting into the dark. A tall man, slender and elegant in his bearing, looking like he belongs in wall street than ominously lurking in the shadows. Two glinting beads from the shadows catch your attention, and you know you’ve met his gaze.

He shifts.

Stephanie Humphrey, the star of the play and your friend, pushes past you to get through the door, already smelling of gin. The two of you stumble, and the moment with the stranger breaks. Stephanie holds out a cigarette. You fumble through your coat for your lighter.

“You coming with us, sugar?”

“To where?” A small fire flares, and cigarette smoke unfurls in the chilly night.

“The 300.”

You wince. Rumors of a raid had been circulating all week. “I thought Miss Guinan was in hot waters?”

“She’s always in hot waters.” Stephanie laughs, and blows out a stream of smoke right into your face.

You angle your head away to avoid a direct hit, glancing back into the streets in the process. The man is gone.

“Come on, doll, I know you like havin’ a good time!” She bumps you with her hip, before stepping clumsily down the steps. She holds out her cigarette as invitation, her red mouth slashing across the bottom half of her face enticingly.

You grin. Instantly, the strange man is forgotten in favor of the promise of fun. You accept the cigarette and follow Stephanie into the night.

Stephanie is upset over her performance today, complaining about how emotionally taxing it is to perform for both the matinee and the evening shows, so you accompany her to the 300 club for the second night in a row.

If it were up to you, you would have gone for the club a few streets away, but Stephanie feels a sense of loyalty to this establishment. The 300 is where she got discovered almost a year ago, her long nights of dancing up on the stage and flirting with customers finally reaping something tangible.

Once she did, she’d been sweet enough to drag you with her to the theater, and you were more than happy to leave the clothing factory you used to work at, in favor of something slightly more glamorous.

Truthfully, the wages aren't any better, but the working conditions are far superior. And the stage manager looks away whenever you slip a half empty case of sequins into your pockets for your own homemade dresses.

So you indulge your friend. Find a gentleman to flirt with. Giggle, sip at the gin and tonic and pretend it still burns—men love the coquettish flair, even though your throat has gotten used to the sting of alcohol ages ago. When he asks you to dance, you bat your lashes and drag him to the middle of the floor with glee.

To your surprise, you feel it again. The familiar prickle of being watched.

Not wanting to seem too conspicuous, you maneuver your partner through a series of dance steps, forcing the two of you to twirl and exchange positions. He seems too drunk to care, grinning happily as you end up on what used to be his side of the dance floor. You gain view of the other side of the room, sobering instantly as you scan the crowd.

Nothing particularly stands out. Fellow women, laughing men, the clinking of glass, a scene all warped by the smoke curling from the ends of pipes and cigarettes. There's movement everywhere, and perhaps that's how your eyes find him. In stillness.

Right there. A gentleman. He fits the figure you saw in the shadows from the night before, slender and elegant. Seated in the middle of the bar, alone when most people are in pairs or groups, motionless where everybody is frenetic.

One look from across a smoky room, eyes meeting for the briefest second, and you've got your confirmation.

His eyes are rapt on you, but not with the familiar weight of being desired.

Your partner spins you, fast enough to make it seem like the moment had been accidental. Once the song ends, however, the man is still there, casually swirling a glass of amber liquid, head down like he knows he's been caught.

Despite his height, you can tell he's used to moving unnoticed. Takes advantage of the city's natural ability to conceal individuals within its smoky, crowded atmosphere. He recognizes the power in invisibility and has cultivated it.

Too bad for him, he's tailing the wrong person.

You excuse yourself from the rest of your table, shaking your head lightly at Stephanie's pouty protests, and drift toward the bar. You stop exactly three feet away from him, but with your head tilted slightly to his direction. Open, inviting.

He doesn't take the bait, despite the obvious tension in his shoulders at your proximity.

You glance up and take in his profile up close. Handsome, yes, with a classic sharp jaw and harsh cheekbones, but also youthful, even though he's clearly older than you.

Large, owlish eyes intently staring forward, plush lips with such a natural rosiness most girls would be jealous. His hair is slicked back in typical male fashion, but they're curling at the tips, like he hadn't allowed the pomade to set properly.

He holds himself with a stiffness that suggests he isn't here for regular business—getting drunk or gambling. That, paired with the stalking tells you he might be danger. Or you might have gotten in some trouble. Immediately, your mind runs over the last few men you've given the pleasure of your company. It's possible you might have tangled with someone shady.

Excitement blooms in your chest. You tamp it down, grin up at the stranger.

“You’re terrible at this,” you say.

“At what?” he replies, keeping his gaze on the rest of the room.

“Following me.”

He still doesn't turn, or even dignify you with a response, but his brows knit ever so slightly.

"You've been doin' it all week, sugar, people are gonna start gossiping."

"Something tells me it wouldn't be the first time people gossiped about you." he finally glances at you. His eyes are the same color of his drink, possibly just as sharp.

"Oh, don't flatter me, Detective."

He blinks. "How did you know—"

You laugh, delighted. Caught him. "I didn't. But now I do, thanks for that. Huh, can't tell if a detective's better than a member from those organized gangs. That was my other guess."

"How did you know?" he repeats, seemingly forgetting about his original reason for coming here in favor of understanding how you came to the conclusion.

You lean your elbows on the counter. A grin pulls at your lips, teeth sharp and flashing beneath the red mouth. "I'll tell ya if you tell me why you're sniffin' at my heels."

He studies you for a moment. Normally, a man singling you out makes you warm with anticipation, giggles tumbling past your lips like chimes to encourage the attention, to cling to it, make it last longer. But Spencer's eyes are inquisitive.

You realize finally that his gaze lingers to observe. He is studying you. Has been, all this time, every instance you'd felt like you were being followed.

What have you gotten yourself into?

"Don't got all night, detective." you pull his drink from his fingers, brazen and sure, and take a sip.

He sighs. Drags a hand over his jaw and relents. "I believe you're in possession of something important, and it may not entirely belong to you."

All the humor leaves your expression. His eyes narrow at that, no doubt seeking for guilt within the planes of your pretty face.

"You saying I'm a thief?"

He raises a brow. "No. Why is that your first instinct?"

You wince, realizing you whipped out the defensiveness too fast. True, you are one, but not the important kind! Really.

At most, you take home a few replicated jewels from backstage. A few yards of ribbons. Old silk slips forgotten by actresses, if you're feeling particularly luxurious, but still. Always the surplus, nothing of note. Nothing to be investigated for.

You muster every inch of careless confidence in your body and smile. "Don't have to tell you nothing. Ladies are allowed their secrets, after all."

He frowns, but accepts it. "Right. Well, I've told you why I'm following you, now you have to tell me how you deduced I'm a detective."

"No fair, you didn't give me any details!"

"It's highly confidential. I'm only entertaining this con–"

"Finish your drinks! Everyone!" one of the servers yells out, loud and slightly panicked.

Your eyes widen, knowing exactly what that's code for. You grab his glass and down the rest of his whiskey, wincing as the sheer volume of liquor scrapes your throat raw.

In a moment, the atmosphere grows tense with focus. Gentlemen polishing off their drinks, while servers come out to refill the glasses with water or tea. The worst of the drunks are led to the back by their friends, while Texas Guinan herself rises from her table and saunters to the front like she's just going to welcome another group of patrons.

"Everybody calm down, I'll handle this." she calls out, unruffled and armed with her glitzy beauty and charm.

You scan the crowd for Stephanie, but she's disappeared, leaving behind your previous companions, both looking quite annoyed at your table. It's not unusual for your nights to end separately, but it feels especially risky if the police are here. You suppose it's better that she's alone, though. She knows how to take care of herself. Bringing the man would only drag her down.

Meanwhile, you glare at the detective beside you. "You got anything to do with this?

"With what?" he surveys the room with a frown.

"Right," you scoff, slipping from the stool. "You could be an actor, trying to convince me you're innocent in all this."

"In what?" he repeats. He meets your gaze, seeming genuinely lost.

"The raid, detective!" you hiss, "That why you've been following me? So you could tell your friends which speakeasies are operatin'?"

Your voice had grown higher by the end of the sentence, catching a few men's attention. Their eyes are drunken and suspicious, glancing between you and the detective. To your surprise, the man looks just as panicked, and you watch as his eyes widen with realization.

"A raid, you mean the police?"

"Don't know anyone else enforcing this stupid prohibition law."

"I have to go," he slides off the stool as well, stumbling towards the exit.

"Wait," you catch his arm, "Where are you going?"

"Out! I have to go." he shrugs you off, his long legs taking him halfway across the room in a few strides. Judging by how clumsily he's moving, and the way his shoulders have tensed, he's telling the truth. He has nothing to do with this raid. In fact, he might have nothing to do with the police either.

How peculiar then. Could it be he's one of those fancy private investigators? Still, why is he evading the police?

But there's no time to ask; he's trying to get to the exit and you need to catch him.

"Wait!" you run after him, slamming into bodies—servers trying to rid any evidence of alcohol from the club, fellow flappers trying to get out before the police crosses the threshold. You reach, manage to grab his elbow, and tug him back. "Don't be stupid, they've got people posted right outside that door. If you're trying to avoid the police, then you'd just walk right into their arms." you snap, stopping him before he could try the regular exit.

He blinks, looking at you as his panic subsides. You can see suspicion warring in those eyes, before they harden and are cleared by a steely focus.

"Right. Right, but I need to–"

"Come," you tug him along, weaving through the tables until you reach the kitchen. Nobody bothers you—in times like these, the staff knows to let people leave through the emergency exit should they wish to. The ones who stay are to be given food, to replicate the facade of an unassuming restaurant.

Polished shoes keep nicking at your heels, telling you that the detective is following closely. You find the window in the back, already wide open, a stool already poised just beneath it.

"Here's our exit." you say, waving your arms with flourish.

His lips curl with amusement, but he doesn't question you further. You step aside, letting him go first since he seems to be in a hurry to evade the police. He's tall enough to hoist himself through the window without using the stool, but he pauses, straddling the sill, to reach a hand out for you.

"Oh." you blink. You've gone through quite a number of emergency exits before, and it's usually a mad dash. Frantic pushing, people trying to save their skin first. You've been left behind one too many times, had to figure out your own way home.

"Come on," he is firm and hurried, palm up, waiting.

You step on the stool and grab his hand, allowing him to tug you up until you're balanced on the sill beside him. He swings his other leg, hops down the other side, then turns back to you. You stare back at him, still frozen in place, blinking in stunned confusion.

"Here," he takes your hands and guides them to his shoulders. "Easy now."

You've done this many, many times. Had broken one too many heels from different attempts at escape, rolled your ankles, sometimes lost precious handbags, precisely because no one's ever bothered to handle you with such care.

And here's this strange man, previously stalking you, had accused you of—what had he accused you of? You don't even remember—yet still having the decency to gently lift you off the makeshift exit. A pair of large hands on your waist steadies you as your feet hit the ground, letting go quickly when he sees you've gotten your balance.

For the first time in a long while, you feel warmth flushing over your cheeks. Like the naive girl you were when you arrived, shy and unsure.

You hate it. Give the adrenaline back, the rush and the confidence, not… this.

"Where to now?" his soft voice breaks your reverie, and you clear your throat.

"Follow me."

You know these back alleys like a second home. Know which dumpsters overflow because the apartment building that uses it is overcrowded, which turn leads to a dead end, and which will lead you into glitzy, busy streets of Broadway.

The detective follows behind. Despite the questions you may have for each other, there's a tentative trust forming. It's just for tonight, you think. Just until you're both away from where the raid is happening, and then…

It hits you then. He's been following you, perhaps conducting some sort of investigation. You're not naive enough to think it will stop after tonight.

"So," you say, taking a quick left, intending to get him to speak while you maneuver this dark maze, "Why're you hiding from the police, detective?"

"It's none of your business."

"I just helped you out," you look over your shoulder with a pout, "Think I deserve an answer."

"I did answer earlier, I told you it's complicated. Besides, you didn't even fulfill your part of the deal earlier."

"Which is?"

"Tell me how you knew I was a detective."

A laugh rumbles from deep in your belly, full and decidedly unladylike, the kind that shakes your whole body and, as the adrenaline fades and all the alcohol settles, makes you stumble.

The detective catches your elbow, straightens you before you could fall.

"Forgot about that." you giggle, looking at him with a grin. "Right. You couldn't have been more obvious, detective. You weren't smoking, weren't entertaining women, or doing business with the rest of the men. Plus you were only pretending to drink your whiskey."

He moves to let go, but you sway on your feet now that the alcohol's taking hold of your system, and he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow instead.

"But why detective, of all things?"

"You were clearly there investigating something, so it was between that or you're from one of those gangs." you lean into his side to steer him into the right turn. He follows, careful and slowing his steps to match you.

"Was I really that obvious?"

"No," you admit, "But I've known you were following me, remember?"

"I thought I was being more discreet."

"Well, women in this city are smarter than we seem, detective. Never know who's gonna jump us." you say. You can hear your words slurring. How annoying. He's being such a lovely fellow, and you want to keep talking to him. "Besides, I could feel you, like, studying me."

"You could feel me?"

"The way you look at me." your arm gesture vaguely in the air and you can hear him sigh. If you were every just a touch more sober, you would have been able to tell if he's annoyed, or charmed. You'd like to think he's charmed. Most men are. "It's… weird. Different. Like you didn't want me."

"Mhm, and I'm sure you're quite used to men… wanting you?"

"Yes," when the world looks like a slurry, it is very easy to ignore the slight hint of judgment in his voice. It is also very easy to keep speaking, divulging thoughts you've never said out loud to anyone else before. "They look at me like I'm a… a thing they want. It's always so heavy. Like a pressure to perform a certain way. Yours is unsettling, because it wasn't like that… and now I know it's because you're doing some sort of investigation."

He's quiet after that. Contemplative, like he's not simply talking to a flapper half stumbling beside him. Like you aren't spouting complete nonsense.

The streets eventually become illuminated, growing brighter as you exit the back alleys and step into one of the main streets. You feel his breath ruffling your hair when he exhales.

"Thank you for helping me out of that." he says quietly, like he's hoping the city eats up the sound and the words never reach your ears. "You don't even know who I am."

"Tell me then."

He hesitates, regarding you with an imperceptible expression. "My name?"

"Yes."

"And this is in exchange for yours?"

"If you ask nicely."

He shakes his head, lips pulling taut, and for a moment, you expect him to leave you. Huff in annoyance and just go. Instead, he transfers you to the inside of the sidewalk, shields you from the potential sprays of mud, or a wayward driver, and continues to walk.

"It's Spencer Reid."

You hope the name sticks. There's no rhyme or reason to what your drunk mind retains and rejects, but let his name be one of the things you remember from tonight.

Mostly because you still want to know why on earth he's been following you. His warmth is simply a bonus.

"Now you owe me, Spencer Reid. I just saved your ass."

He laughs. "Now tell me your name."

"Stacy." it slips from your teeth like silk, a lie that's been told to countless men.

"Stacy." he repeats. Nods. Hails a cab, ushers your increasingly limp body inside and gets in beside you.

You look at him, a slight panic rising in your chest for the first time tonight, the genuine, spine tingling panic of realization. Alone in a car with a man you just met. Not just buzzed, drunk, the kind that makes your bones feel like mush and ruins your balance.

However, it is eased just as quickly when Spencer tells the driver your address.

He's taking you home. You relax for a split second, slumping into the seat before you're ramrod straight again, looking at him with wide, betrayed eyes.

"You know where I live?!"

He smirks, clearly smug to reveal this ace up his sleeve after a night full of blunders. Dork.

"I run a very thorough operation," and then he says it—your name. Your real name, not the fake one you'd given to him moments ago.

You gulp, feeling a sense of betrayal that doesn't feel earned. It's silly and burns in the back of your throat, and you'd rather not deal with the implications of it tonight.

His voice is low when he speaks again, but oddly reassuring. "I won't harm you. In fact, it's this case isn't even about you, it's simply pertinent to my client."

You fight back the frown, refuse to let the confusion of this mystery make you sad, so your lips curl into a practiced smile instead, eyes flashing mischievously in the darkness of that cab. "You sure you can't tell me more about it? You already have me captive, figuratively, I might be able to help you."

He glances away. You watch his throat bob as he considers. He is a marvel to behold, even in this poorly lit backseat, even as a muscle in his jaw twitches from tension. Beautifully angular features, offset by just the right amount of softness.

You look away before your drunken mind compels you to do something stupid, like lean forward and kiss the man investigating you.

You've had your fair share of risky lovers, of drunken mistakes, and still, this one would take the cake.

"I'm… looking for jewelry. And you wore one of them the other day." he says finally, softly. "A choker, thick black velvet band with a pendant of pearls."

You blink. Partly from shock—he truly must have been watching you closely if he catalogues what you'd worn, down to the accessories.

The other part. The other part fills with an unease, looming thick and heavy like an ominous shroud. You manage to bite your lip before the truth spills out, those aren't even really mine, I got them from Stephanie, but you aren't about to implicate your friend like that.

But, oh Steph, what has she done?

You meet the detective's eyes, and manage to turn that worried lip bite into something sensual. Flirty. "Can't I just return it, and your client can call it a day?"

Spencer shakes his head, eyes narrowing. "I'll still need to investigate."

"Investigate what? I got it from a pawn shop." you say, batting your lashes innocently.

He huffs and regards your antics with an expression you've never received before—exasperation.

"You literally just lied about your name not ten minutes ago."

Right. You wince.

"I'll visit you again sometime this week." he says, voice gentling again, like he's trying to soothe you. "I'd appreciate it if you have the choker ready."

You nod, feeling numb. "All right, detective."

"You're not in trouble." he tells you, "Not yet."

"And if I am," you peek from beneath your lashes and manage another flirtatious smile, "Can you bail me out? You do still owe me."

He scoffs, but you can swear his lips are lifting at the corners, the makings of a smile. Outside, the city gleams and pulses, heady with potential. Strangely, in here, you feel the beginnings of something similar.