i love me after you .ೀ

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spencer wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. 

he was absolutely no stranger to over-caffeinated mornings and disturbed sleep schedules, he practically invented them. but this, you, were a whole new world for him. 

spencer liked quiet. he loved it. he humoured the thought that he thrived in it. he lived in the soft patters of drizzle against the window in his reading nook, hid in the gurgle in the drain when he ran the tap, woke in the rhythmic tweets of birds in the mornings. 

quiet was gratifying, quiet was routine, quiet was home. he knew quiet personally, intimately even.

what he didn’t know, was you. his new neighbour, the latest entity in his life that had struck him completely off his game, entirely out of orbit. 

though, if spencer did know you, he was sure quiet would never come close to crossing his vocabulary. 

he didn’t know you. yet still, he could recite every instance of when you, ever present you, shuffled his calm routines into an entirely different deck. of course he could, he remembered everything, didn’t he?

he remembered scattered lyrics of the playlist you always sang along to in the shower, small snippets he could make out over the sound of cascading steam and your off-key wails, your attempt at following the tune. 

he remembered when you somehow managed to have your tv up and running what sounded like the most obnoxious content he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing, for a full twenty-seven hours. that had felt like a targeted form of torture wrapped in feigned “reality”.

he also remembered harbouring a genuine concern for your health and secretly hoping at some point you’d simply fallen asleep during the marathon. 

spencer chuckled to himself. he was really losing it, wasn’t he? as if reminiscing on the very source of his current insomnia could lull him to sleep. as if thinking about the cause of his distractions would bless him with any clarity, inviting focus into his fogged brain.

ever since you had moved in–where a quiet, older woman used to live, spencer had gotten sloppy, embarrassingly, horrifically so. he had even allowed himself to become so affected by this life-altering change, that his coworkers, his team caught on. 

“i haven’t been getting much sleep,” was a phrase that his mouth had grossly overused, so much so that his tongue recognized the taste before his lips finished forming the words. 

he was tired. exhausted. who knew something as simple as a noisy neighbour would throw him so far off balance? he was practically delirious, disoriented even–wearing a misaligned button up and a crooked tie, even his hair was in disarray, more than it typically was, that is. 

he knew his team would notice, of course they would. luke would make a “late night” joke, tara would pat him on the back, jj would ask him how he was feeling. this was periodic. like clockwork. every morning, spinning in the same circle of routine. 

though this morning, something changed, differing from the conventional he had familiarized himself to. 

this morning. he got sent home. like a pre-schooler with an upset stomach, like a disruptive child. he was a grown man, capable of holding his own, of taking care of himself. He didn’t need to be looked after, dotted on. alas, here he was. 

turns out dozing off while mixing your third cup of coffee for the morning was a genuine cause for concern. especially when it was accompanied with a face slouched against the overhead cupboards, mug dangling in a loosely threaded grip, and a starry mess of sugar embellishing dark counter tops.

“go home, reid. and please, try to get some rest.” 

emily had told him that exactly one hour, fifty-five minutes, and three seconds ago. yet, here he lay. awake. thinking. about you. 

his surroundings were finally filled with the silence he so desperately craved, and yet his mind was filled with long inescapable intervals of your noise. 

he hadn’t slept this poorly, this irregularly, this tragically, since his mind was plagued with the ghost of inescapable migraines. that said a lot about his current predicament, more than he could manage to articulate, anyway.

you weren’t home, but spencer didn’t expect you to be. he knew you worked, just as he did, during the day, though he left before you and returned far later. you lead similar lives, schedule wise. minus the travelling across the country to profile and apprehend the most twisted minds in the nation. 

that profession was solely his and his alone. and on the road, or well—sky, sleep was nothing more than a dream, a joke between his colleagues. 

he knew you stayed up late, and slept in later when you could. night owl, the ever unhealthy habit–but at least on the rare occasions he had a day off, he could enjoy his mornings in solitude. 

small victories you allowed him, little breaths of sanity before you returned back to the torture, to dangle hope in front of him, to let him taste but never consume. 

spencer was getting ridiculously dramatic. he was physically tired just as he was tired of himself. at least some things were static, never changing. 

subjects flipped switches from one to another in his head, faster than anyone he knew was able how to keep up with. suddenly, his mental tangent curled back into you. he didn’t know your name, but he did knew the name of who he presumed was a friend of yours. 

steph you called them. possibly stephanie, derived from the greek term for “crown”, or “garland”, symbolizing victory and honour. or maybe it was stephane. he didn’t know, because he didn’t know you. 

did he want to? instead of creating a fake persona of an evil, unforgiving noisemaker, did he want to put a face to the woman who was unknowingly pulling the marionette strings of his life?

he was obsessing, maybe even creepily so. he knew that much. replaying, over analyzing, anything to keep him occupied. why? why couldn’t he just close his eyes, and start paying back the sleep his body was so desperately owed. 

it was rare, when spencer couldn’t find the answers to things. some thought he knew everything. 

why hasn’t he just gone over, and asked you politely to quiet down, or do anything about it, for that matter? he could storm over there, bang on your door until you answered, and tell you off for being so inconsiderate, so rude. he could even file a complaint, if he wanted. 

but for some unknown reason, he allowed your antics to persist, he’d drag it out a little longer. 

was it because of the mystery that was you? was it the fact that he’d fallen victim to classic “people pleaser” behaviour as of late? was it because, despite the damage it caused, you entertained him? or was it because he’d started to get used to you, becoming fond of your incessant noise. 

he wouldn’t like to admit to any of those. all were equally bad. equally destroying his sanity. 

in a hypothetical just a few moments prior, he’d described you as rude. were you? were you knowingly obnoxious, with your late nights, and even later drunken karaoke sessions? or, were you simply ignorant in your own bliss, appreciating life at its fullest, living it the way you loved to. 

he really couldn’t convince himself to assume either way. 

he remembered a phone call, from last week, when you were on an angry tangent and ranting to stephanie/stephane. he tried not to listen in, he still valued your privacy, and wished to uphold it.

but, if he was honest, you spoke loudly, loud enough to catch his attention, loud enough for him to grasp onto little snippets, to snoop into a conversation that wasn’t his. spencer reid, the eavesdropper. 

“there’s absolutely no way things are ever gonna work out between me and him!”

you’d said, or well–shouted. followed by angry stomps that caused his reading to slow and his ears to perk up.

curiosity deprived the cat of his personal time.

“you know what he said to me? he was like ‘you’re so rude!’”

he could hear your emotion seeping in through the wallpaper, covering the warm greens of his apartment with an angry red. 

he had no choice but to listen in, humouring himself for just a few more selfish seconds before his good conscience pulled him away from guilty pleasure.

“and not only that either, he said i was selfish and confrontational? like tell me something i don’t know.”

“what did i say? i told him to go fuck himself, naturally.”

spencer stopped listening after that. it was invading into your space even more so than you were invading onto his. 

with the end of that memory, spencer had decided to fill in another unknown about you. to check off a blank in his imaginary list.

he would like to get to know you. 

no more wondering why he thought the things he did. no more analyzing or pondering or allowing his mind to create a character where a real person resided.

he wanted to be more conversational, he strived for it. and what made better conversation than confrontation? he would complain to you, kindly about the noise when he got the chance. it was the right thing to do. he needed to stop living in his head and instead face things head on. 

he wasn’t sure what had prompted this sudden change in his spiraling soul. perhaps his sleep deprived brain. though, anything was healthier than his current predicament. 

luke had been pressing him on how desperately he needed to, well—to put it kindly, “make more friends”

he knew what he meant by it. friendship made outside of the office, outside of his particular scientific niches, outside of his curated comfort zone.

once he had allowed his scattered mind to come to a long needed conclusion, the reality of his fumed energy hit him like a freight train. 

so all he needed to relax was to put an end to his constant thoughts surrounding you? who knew?

he rolled over once more, adjusted his unruly set of curls on his pillow, and invited–begged really, for sleep to take him, to offer him a break. he thought he deserved as much. 

he knew he did.

what he didn’t know, was that you would beat him to initiating your first contact.

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you knew you’d fucked up, royally, last night. 

had you made a decent effort to get to know your neighbouring tenants in the few weeks since you’d moved into their shared space? no. you hadn’t. 

you could say you were busy, which was true, maybe a little reluctant, which was also true. 

though, you were planning on forming some bonds, maybe asking to borrow someone's sugar would turn into a lunch date, which would turn into an everlasting friendship. how could you know? you hadn’t gotten around to it.

admittedly, you were acting just a little too lazy, which was saying something. your time riding the “i just moved in next door” train was almost up. 

so, it was on your mind, you just needed to get your life a little more in order first. you still had unpacked boxes from the move, and a to-do list far longer than you desired to face. 

so you were busy. 

but as you had so colourfully mentioned, last night, a grave mistake had revealed itself. possibly irredeemably so. 

well, typically, you filled your space, your apartment, with some sort of sound. background shows on the tv, music, talking on the phone, anything that could keep you occupied. anything that made you feel less alone, or lonely. 

despite how much of a lovely kitty mushu was, sometimes, it was hard not to feel isolated, like the quiet invited this paralyzingly real feeling that you couldn’t shake. 

so, during what was probably the first moment of silence since you moved in, due to your selected list of songs coming to an abrupt end, you expected that sound–that quiet, to seep into your skin, and you were finally ready to let it. to face it head on. 

but what came wasn’t quiet, it was a stifled, muffled sound in the wall. 

pipes maybe? god, you prayed it wasn’t some type of vermin, you’d cry. 

the sound picked up, smoothly trickling in the dry wall, seeping through the paper, splotching together for you to hear. it was a voice. 

a painfully clear, painfully real, voice. 

belonging your neighbour, no doubt. you could hear him speak, you could hear his footsteps as he walked. 

“it’s exceedingly unlikely that a situation of that nature would occur.”

what? was he consulting on something? a scientist? a teacher?

suddenly, you snapped out of the selfish trance that had encapsulated you for the past few weeks. you had found yourself interested in the life of your neighbour. 

and thus, realized the mistake that brought you to now, overthinking, repetitively tapping your feet on the linoleum flooring underneath your humble desk, without a doubt catching your coworkers' annoyed attention, and spiraling. a downward spiral that left your mind reeling and your thoughts spinning. 

there was absolutely, positively, no way your ignorance had stemmed that far, that it was so great you couldn’t realize that the walls surrounding your apartment were so thin any movement imprinted itself on the other side, revealed raw for everyone to see. 

you had so foolishly assumed that they were well insulated, or something along those lines, thick, forgiving, flicking on a green light for your particular way of living. 

oh how wrong you were.

after some digging, you found that the apartment to your left was vacant, and the apartment to your right was home to a man that was either uncharacteristically forgiving, or building up an untimely rage to be released onto you, a ticking time bomb, if you will. 

you’d assumed your neighbours were in fact able to make out certain noises, obviously, you weren’t dumb. 

you’d assumed they could hear when you turned up the volume just slightly past the acceptable limit when the best part of your favourite song played, decibels rattling the walls in a rhythmic fashion. or when mushu knocked over the sole plant in your humble abode, the one you refused to accept was dying, the one whose pot was far too large, and heavy, to house it. noises like that, simple things that just accompanied the charm of living in such close proximity to others. 

but this was far from charming. your neighbour was speaking at an average level, simply conversing, talking, he was allowed to do so of course, but you had never expected to hear him. so clearly, concisely, perfectly crystal. 

he had to be as quiet as a mouse for it to take you this long to notice, or you had to be the most discourteous person in the world. or both. both could be true. fuck. 

now you were left with the pieces you had absolutely no clue what to do with, pieces that you had to set straight, make right. pieces that would ultimately, hopefully, lead to your eventual redemption. 

could a written apology suffice? eliminate all possible methods of humiliation by choosing a contactless cowardice? no, it should be something greater, something more direct and personal. 

a gift basket, maybe? or was that simply too much? crossing a boundary that had yet to be set. the maybe teacher maybe scientist maybe something entirely different next door didn’t seem like a gift basket guy. or maybe he was. maybe if you chose another form of atonement he would be mentally smiting you for not just getting him a gift basket. in conclusion, all methods were uncharacteristically flawed. 

how do you apologize for being such a gracefully inconsiderate bitch for five and a half weeks to someone you hadn’t even met? 

you hadn’t seen him entering or leaving his place, maybe he was a hermit, or maybe a workaholic–or maybe he only used the apartment occasionally when he needed an escape from his second super secret life.

the possibilities were endless. you could do a quick google search, maybe? 

top ten best apology gifts for your neighbour who you don’t even know who probably wants you dead. was that an original search? had someone even compiled such a list?

you could just bake him something.

the thought popped into your head as it always did. the most glorious last resort known to all of mankind. it was most definitely neighbourly, you loved doing it, and everyone always adored your baking. potlucks were, to put it kindly, absolutely your bitch, you dominated every picnic, get together, party, anything that could be uplifted by a batch of sweet treats wrapped in a pretty little bow. 

a cake was far too grand of a gesture, too big, too much, too desperate. muffins? to be entirely frank, judging from his voice and his voice alone, he seemed like a muffin guy—a muffin man. 

you decided to ignore the judgemental stares that followed your sudden chuckle, laughing to yourself during office hours. a big no in the world of the grey and mundane. 

so muffins were a safe bet sure, but what about cookies? 

everyone liked cookies. you had yet to receive a reaction to yours that was anything less than pure joy and tearful begs for your recipe. 

a girl never shares her secrets though, does she? 

cookies it was then. chocolate chip, certainly. impossible to go wrong, to fuck up, the most perfect apology for being a completely conceited asshat. 

nodding to yourself in contentment, a final break in your veering panic, your eyes fell on a less than fortunate pressing manner that now required all your energy, as if its mission alone was to drain you bone dry, sucking out your very life force. work.

you strived to complete it, to power through with every possible force at your disposal, because you had something to look forward to.

once you got home, operation winning over your neighbour was a go. 

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the last thing spencer expected to wake up to was a knock at his door. sudden, quick, out of body startling. 

his eyes flicked to the watch over his cardigan sleeve. he blinked a few times, before rubbing his groggy eyes with the pads of his fingers, and then blinking again.

he found difficulty in making out the time, had it gotten darker? his eyes darted to the tall and short hand on his wrist respectively. quarter past seven. when did it get so late?

more importantly, who was at his door?

for spencer, company was rare, having another living, breathing, germ harbouring body in his space wasn’t exactly ideal. 

was it maybe jj and garcia checking up on him? or an unexpected letter? the mystery swirled around his brain as he rolled out of bed, shaking the tiredness out of his head. his calloused palms worked hard at rubbing the groginess from behind his eyelids as he made his way for the door. 

he realized his attire had betrayed him–his rule against outside clothes in his bed stabbing him in the back as he turned towards his entrance in silken pajamas and a knitted cardigan. 

squinting through the peep hole on his front door proved itself to be futile. he wasn’t wearing his contacts, or his glasses for that matter, so it was hard to make out exactly who was waiting on his doorstep. all his tired eyes could manage was blurred splotches of pink and brown, making an unidentifiable form rocking back and forth on their heels. 

spencer sighed, the debate of lasik worming its way into the back of his mind as he unlocked his door. whoever was waiting for him surely didn’t present themselves as much of a threat. 

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you exhaled a breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding when the door finally swung open.

your pulse hammered against your ribs. you’d already rehearsed what you wanted to say. words practiced and articulated in a way that would hopefully save you from your… mistake. your fuckup.

if you were planning a recovery from what had to be the worst first impression of all time, you simply had to be prepared.

and you were. sort of.

“hi, so sorry to bother you. i live next door, apartment twenty-two.”

your neighbour only gave you a soft smile in return. he looked tired, the kind of tired that settled deep beneath the skin. disheveled hair curled in several directions at once, droopy eyes heavy with sleep—god, was he in pajamas? had you actually woken him up? 

“i don’t know exactly how to say this–well, i only just realized how loud i’ve been for the past few weeks and just wanted to apologize!”

you raised your old tupperware towards him and offered a smile that was a careful blend of shy and absolutely terrified. you hoped it reached your eyes in a way that seemed natural rather than desperate. somewhere deep inside your mind, you offered one last silent prayer. pleasedon’tfreakoutandhateyouforeverplease-

“wow, are these homemade? that’s–actually really kind of you. thank you.”

he grinned as you handed him the cookies, and some of the tension knotted between your shoulders immediately eased.

browned butter, folding technique, dough cooled in the fridge, the works. you’d spent an embarrassingly long amount of time making sure they were perfect. hypnosis in a container, hopefully the “forgive me” kind.

“uh–yeah aha… um i wasn’t exactly sure how to like, apologize, you know? and then i was like of course! everyone likes cookies!”

you were stumbling over your words now, veering entirely off script. carefully crafted sentences abandoned in favor of whatever panic happened to produce. awkward and embarrassing. 

typically, you behaved far differently than this. you were funny, sarcastic even. yet this situation was anything but typical—and you just so happened to fall into anxiety around new faces.

“i made a like gluten and dairy free batch also–admittably not as good but since you accepted these with no issue i’m assuming they aren't needed?”

“you’re assumptions are correct, and i’m sure they’re great either way.”

you started to get more comfortable with yourself as the conversation continued. more confident. he hadn’t screamed at you yet, which was already a victory.

plus, he had absurdly kind eyes, the sort that softened everything around them. a warm chocolate-gold that seemed incapable of cruelty. they communicated sincerity without needing words, and every time he looked at you directly, it became increasingly difficult to remember why you’d been so terrified.

you let yourself giggle at that, the sound escaping before you could stop it. the nerves were steadily draining from your chest now, flowing away with every passing second you spent speaking to him. he was surprisingly easy to talk to. you hadn’t expected to feel so... effortlessly comfortable. almost naturally so, as though this conversation had been waiting to happen.

you felt yourself loosen, tension settled, super saccharine persona wearing off into something that was still kind, but felt more you.

“my name is spencer–by the way, spencer reid. sorry i should've introduced myself sooner.”

spencer.

the name settled somewhere in your mind immediately.

you let yourself think a horrifically, disgustingly guilty thought as you gave him your own name. a completely self-indulgent notion that arrived entirely uninvited.

perhaps, spencer, was kind of cute.

fuck.

“anyway, i’ll keep it down from now on, you won’t even know i’m there, don’t worry.”

thankfully, regaining composure was a skill you dabbled in often enough to save yourself from your less than neighbourly thoughts.

spencer gently shook his head at your words, soft curls falling forward around his eyes. they framed his face in a manner that felt unfairly beautiful, especially considering he had supposedly just rolled out of bed.

“that won’t be necessary, maybe just try to be mindful past ten? and possibly the occasional sunday afternoon.”

“that sounds manageable… but hey, if i’m ever too loud you could just text, if you wanted?”

shooting your shot, platonically—of course. casually. entirely normal neighbour behavior.

you felt as though spencer was someone you’d like to get to know. someone worth knowing. you hoped, perhaps selfishly, that much was mutual.

“sounds like a plan to me.”

the exchanging of numbers. a classic ritual of human connection. success.

“i’ll leave you to it then–it was nice meeting you, spencer.”

it felt ridiculously good to finally branch out after weeks of keeping to yourself. validating, even. to know people. to connect with those around you. to become something more than a stranger passing silently through hallways.

to make friends. in simple terms.

“you as well, goodnight.”

“goodnight.”

you stood there for a moment after he closed the door. a breath, then two. the hallway suddenly felt quieter than before. your cheeks remained warm, touched by a gentle kind of bliss you couldn’t quite explain.

after a moment, you realized there was a very real possibility he was aware of your lingering. so, you took a few steps down the hall before finally allowing yourself to smile. calm this time. genuine without any doubt.

and when your phone chimed with the contact “spencer :)” only minutes later, you found yourself staring at the screen for far longer than necessary. your excitement was impossible to suppress, mushu meowed as he took notice. it bubbled up inside you, a promise of something new, worthwhile.

for the first time since the move, your apartment felt a little less empty. for the first time since the move, you felt just a little less alone.

you thought that being an accidental noisy neighbour had proven itself entirely worthwhile, and down the hall, spencer thought the same.

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eeee the official neighbour reader and spencer meeting!! i initially didn’t think i’d ever write this but im so glad i did!!! i have so many more ideas to share w them URGH I LOVE THEM SO MUCH U GUYS DONT GET IT. this was honestly a little hard because i had to separate myself from the dynamic i’ve associated with them for my past two fics and go to like… the beginning… but it was so fun!!

should i do a taglist for this or no??? honestly i haveny touched taglists since kinktober and im not sure if i want to… so lmk!

Now, his morbid depression is a thing of the past. Even if he ends up with his head in the toilet by the end of the night, at least he can say that his head was, at one point, resting in your lap. Granted, Spencer doesn't recall making a conscious decision to drape himself across the sofa like this, but he's not complaining in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact. Spencer is beyond content, unabashedly studying the features of your peaceful face. His vision is swimming a bit, but even with his impaired perception, he's confident that he's never seen anyone more perfect.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, voice barely carrying over the thrum of the music. For a moment, Spencer thinks his sentiment hasn't reached your ears, but then your full lips are tilting into an amused little smile.

Your eyes flick open, quickly finding his. His gaze is hazy, his blinking languid as he stares up at you. The dim lights sparkle in your wide pupils, reminding him of the night sky. Spencer thinks that the moment can't get more enjoyable than the pleasure of admiring your beauty, but then you coo, “Aren’t you cute.”

Spencer is far too hammered to note the mocking edge to your words. You're far less inebriated than he is, so you draw the (seemingly reasonable) conclusion that his words are fueled by the slew of alcoholic beverages currently flooding his bloodstream. You're wrong, your praise offered in jest, but it inspires his face to brighten nonetheless. His lips part in a lazy grin. “You think so?”

“Of course I do, silly," you affirm. Spencer's not really sure what's so "silly" about the words tumbling from his mouth, but your voice has that familiar, soft lilt to it as your lips form the word. You sound so pretty, he finds himself not really caring if you meant to insult him. Then, your slender fingers are brushing his flushed skin, sweeping an errant strand of hair away from his forehead. You smooth his hair away from his face before cupping the back of his head. Lost in the feel of your gentle touch, it takes his sluggish brain far too long to comprehend that you're trying to coax his head out of your lap.

Why are you pushing him away? Did he do something wrong?

Spencer flops beside you on the couch, dizzy from the sudden postural change. Only your shoulders are touching now that he's upright, and he's unable to prevent a pathetic pout from crossing his face. Immediately, he mourns the loss of physical contact between the two of you—a mere shoulder won't suffice.

Spencer shoots you a longing glance, incapable of masking his dissatisfaction. You quickly assuage his concerns by declaring, "I gotta go to the bathroom." Pleased that he hasn't done anything to upset you (and fantasizing about the prospect of resting his head in your lap again once you've returned), Spencer relaxes into the cushions. You softly pat his knee before rising from your seat, and in response to your touch, a wonderful warmth tingles beneath his skin. "I’ll be right back."

You haven't even taken a complete step toward the restroom before Spencer's stomach drops. “Wait!" he desperately exclaims. You look at him over your shoulder, brows furrowed in question. His voice borders on a whine as he pleads, "Don’t leave me here.”

You roll your eyes at his pathetic display, stating flatly, "Well, I’m not gonna take you in with me.”

Spencer blinks. “Why not?”

“I don’t need someone watching while I piss, Spence," you scoff, thoroughly entertained by his drunken curiosity. He sounds so genuinely surprised by your lack of invitation, as if the two of you regularly accompany one another to the bathroom. At your refusal, his gaze drops to the floor, and you can practically see the cogs in his mind trying their damn hardest to spin.

He looks up at you through his lashes, still frowning like a petulant child. Innocently, he swears, “I’ll turn around.”

Cursing his stubborn nature, you shake your head incredulously. Knowing that any further rebuttal is futile, you groan, “Fine.” With exaggerated annoyance, you snatch his hand out of his lap and tug him into a standing position. He sways, struggling to find his balance. Once you're certain that he won't tumble to the floor, you start weaving through the crowd, pulling Spencer along behind you.

Before long, the two of you have navigated the throng of partygoers and are entering the empty hallway. With the flashing lights and booming music behind him, Spencer's muddled senses become more aware of the feeling of your hand in his. Your hand is warm, and he hopes that his skin isn't too clammy or callused. He'd hate to disappoint you, even in a seemingly trivial way like this. He's almost tempted to ask, but you always tell him that he needs to worry less about what others think of him, so he resists that urge. Instead, he muses, “I like when you hold my hand.”

“That’s nice, dear," you reply absentmindedly, opening the bathroom door. Spencer's chest squeezes with affection at your response. He's no stranger to your pet names, yet they never fail to fluster him. He hums happily, wondering how he can coax another sweet sentiment from your lips.

As he steps into the cramped restroom, you lock the door behind him. Wasting no time, you grab his shoulders and guide him into the corner. He trips over his own feet as he turns to face the wall, smiling to himself when your grip tightens in an attempt to steady him. “You stand here," you command. "No peeking.”

“Okay," he nods, squeezing his eyes shut. It's not like he can see anything from this angle, anyway, but he figures you'll appreciate the effort.

“Good boy," you praise, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before striding to the toilet. It's fortunate that he's facing the corner; surely, you would tease him if you could see how splotchy his face has become as a result of your compliment.

The rustle of fabric is agonizingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Spencer is keenly aware of the fact that you're only inches away from him with your panties pulled down your legs, and he feels kind of perverted for sexualizing a fundamental bodily function, but it's not the function he's interested in, in his defense. He's so occupied with contemplating your undergarments that he doesn't even realize you've finished until the sink is running.

Spencer swallows thickly, awkwardly shuffling his feet as he turns around. You're utterly oblivious to his stiff posture, too busy drying your hands to psychoanalyze him. He shifts on his feet, preparing to exit the room once you've finished, but he freezes as your fingers dip into the neckline of your top.

Before he has time to question what he's witnessing, you've procured a thin tube of lip gloss. You're swiping the wand over your lips when you meet Spencer's stunned gaze in the mirror. You shrug nonchalantly. "No pockets," you say by way of explanation, smacking your lips together with a pop.

Spencer rubs an eye, nodding in acknowledgement of your reasoning. He hopes that the action looks as casual as you're acting, but he's sure that his amazement is likely written all over his face. He's never been such a… boy around you, but something about the past five minutes has reduced him to precisely that.

Satisfied, you cap your lip gloss and shove it back in your shirt. The sight of you reaching between your breasts was already erotic enough, but then you're adjusting your bra, fiddling with the underwire and ensuring that the cups lay exactly right. Spencer gapes at your reflection, eyes glued to your chest like a fucking pervert. He quickly snaps to attention when you face him, desperate to appear less… ogly.

“How are you feeling, my friend?” you ask, smiling brightly. Spencer forces his bleary eyes to meet yours, as tempted as he is to watch your shimmery pink lips open and close.

“G-good," Spencer stammers in response, coughing a bit in an attempt to clear his dry throat. Your eyes glint with fondness as you beam up at him. His eyes may be struggling to focus, but they still trace your delicate visage with rapt fascination. Suddenly, his self-doubt surrenders to overwhelming, alcohol-inspired bravery. Before he can bite his tongue, he blurts, “You’re so pretty.”

Your lips fold into a tight line, a sight that suggests you're suppressing a giggle. As always, your voice sounds melodic as you reply, “Thank you, Spence," but your words are laced with placation. Maybe he's misinterpreting something, but Spencer's distraught by the thought that you may not believe him.

“I think you’re the most beautiful person," he murmurs, speaking with as much conviction as can be conveyed through slurred syllables. He locks eyes with you, willing you to trust in the sentiment.

“Oh, stop it," you say instead, playfully rolling your eyes and lightly poking his shoulder.

“I’m serious," he complains, voice bordering on a whine.

He's trying to be romantic. Why are you being like this?

“You’re also plastered, hon," you answer sympathetically.

Oh. That's… fair enough.

“But—" Spencer attempts to argue, but then he realizes how lightheaded he feels, and then he starts worrying that he might pass out (or otherwise embarrass himself) in front of you, and then he forgets what he was going to say in the first place. Sheepishly, he admits, "The room is spinning a lil’.”

“Oh, Spence," you grimace. "Maybe we should take you home.”

“Okay," Spencer easily agrees, finding no reason to challenge you when he'd happily follow you wherever you go.

A bit later, you're carrying Spencer through his front door, encouraging his slumped form to inch forward.

“Home sweet home," you grunt, struggling to keep him upright. You have one arm supporting his waist, and the two of you are slowly shuffling toward his bedroom while he leans most of his body weight on your side.

“Mhm," he hums, too thrilled by your presence in his apartment to realize that his tall stature threatens to smush you with one misstep.

“Here, sit," you encourage, though the words have barely left your mouth before he's sprawling across his bed, the mattress bouncing beneath him. Certain that he lacks any sort of dexterity at the moment, you look at his Converse and mumble, "I’ll get those.” You're speaking more to yourself than him, of course; he's halfway to Dreamland already.

You plop down on his floor, guiding his hightops into your lap so you can untie the laces. Not entirely sober yourself, you fumble a bit with the knots before they come loose. Slipping his shoes off his feet, you deposit them in their rightful place in the closet, not wanting Spencer to trip over them in case he gets up in the middle of the night. At this point, he's breathing so deeply that you're almost positive he's asleep until he mumbles, “Thanks.”

“Please tell me you can handle the rest," you say half-jokingly, gesturing to his rumpled clothes. He squints at you through half-lidded eyes, watching as you cross the room to open his dresser.

“Mm, I can do it," he drawls, despite making no effort whatsoever to sit up.

“I’ll get you some water, then," you decide. After rummaging through a few drawers, you find some pajamas and toss them onto the bed. "Put these on.”

“Yes… ma’am," Spencer manages around a dramatic yawn. You snort, ignoring the affectionate pang in your chest.

It's nothing, you tell yourself. You just find him cute 'cause he's being a silly drunk.

Right.

You bustle around the kitchen, filling a glass of water before returning to his bedroom. You chuckle at the sight before you, but your laughter has the slightest hint of exasperation. Your eyebrows furrow as you ask, “What happened to your pants?”

Facedown on the mattress, Spencer grumbles, “Too hot.”

He may be your best friend, but he's a bit too modest to ever be seen in his boxers. Well, except for right now. He managed to change out of his party outfit, but evidently only got so far as tugging on a worn t-shirt before collapsing back onto his bed.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so embarrassed about this tomorrow," you muse. Poking him in the back, you offer, "Here, drink up.”

“Okay," Spencer obeys, slowly rolling over and somehow managing to sit up. He blinks sleepily, staring off into nothingness as he raises the cup to his lips.

“I’m gonna go crash on your couch in case you start hurling," you announce as he drains the glass and sets it on his nightstand. Ruffling his hair, you request, "Sleep on your side, yeah?”

Spencer's face contorts with confusion as he looks up at you. He looks certifiably adorable, with his tousled hair and big brown eyes. “But… I have a big bed.”

“You do indeed," you acknowledge. "Enjoy it.”

“You don’t want to sleep with me?” he says sadly. When you offer him a blank expression in return, he huffs. “Oh. Heh. It sounded like I meant intercourse.”

“Too sophisticated to say ‘sex’, huh?” you tease.

“No!" he retorts. With a dramatic shudder, he clarifies, "It just sounds so… dirty.”

“Uh-huh," you say flatly. Crossing your arms, you pointedly ask, "Why, exactly, are you trying to get me in your bed?”

“The couch is uncomfortable," he replies.

“Right," you hum.

“I just want you to sleep well," Spencer promises, injecting an exaggerated amount of sweetness into his statement. He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, failing miserably to feign nonchalance.

“Thoughtful," you deadpan. "Total bullshit, but sweet.”

“Nuh-uh! I’m not lying," he insists, far too defensive to be believable.

“Yes, you are," you argue. "You know how I can tell?”

“How?” Spencer asks, crossing his arms defiantly.

You lean down. “‘Cause when you lie, your nose scrunches up the tiniest bit." You tap the tip of his nose. "Right here.”

He glares at you for a moment before relenting. With a hefty sigh, he confesses, “Fine. Maybe I think it would be nice.”

“To sleep together.”

“Yes!”

“You’re practically naked," you point out, gesturing to his bare legs.

Spencer's gaze falls to his boxers, seemingly losing himself in contemplation before he looks up and declares, “I can get completely naked if you want.”

“That was so totally the opposite of what I meant," you chide, reaching up to rub your temple.

“Oh," Spencer mumbles. Without another word, he crawls under the sheets, staring up at you like a child waiting to be tucked in. You stare back, motioning for him to turn on his side. He groans loudly, but obediently rolls over. You move his trash bin to the side of the bed before heading for the door, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. Before you hit the lights, you hesitate.

“Can I borrow pajamas?” you ask.

Spencer drops his head onto his pillow and, for a second, you think he might ignore you. Then, he sighs tiredly and croons, “If you sleep in my bed.”

“Insatiable," you complain. "You’re gonna cuddle me to death, aren’t you?”

His head pops up, his wide eyes finding yours across the room as he replies unconvincingly, “No…?”

You shoot another unimpressed expression in his direction before huffing, “Fine. I suppose I accept your conditions.” You figure that sharing a bed is innocent enough; besides, there's no chance you'll allow him to try anything more in his drunken state. If he wants to make a move, he'll have to man up and do it while he's sober.

With that in mind, you head to his ensuite bathroom to change. A few minutes later, you emerge with a fresh face and a ridiculously comfortable ensemble, his shirt and sweatpants swallowing you. Spencer's curled up, facing away from you. Once again, you think he's knocked out until he murmurs, “Beautiful.”

“You should be sleeping," you chastise, stomach flipping at his compliment.

“I was waiting for you," he replies with a sense of longing that suggests a deeper meaning.

“Well, here I am," you reply, flipping the light switch and sliding into bed beside him. You settle on the far end of the mattress, leaving a generous amount of space between the two of you. Your weight has barely hit the sheets before Spencer sighs.

“Come closer," he pleads quietly.

“Don’t tickle me," you warn, though you don't have any serious reservations about moving.

“Of course not," he promises, sounding absurdly serious. It's as if you've just asked him to keep a government secret.

Something about the quiet calm of Spencer's dark room makes you feel safe enough to shift closer. You're just sober enough to register the significance of this moment, to process that this seemingly innocuous decision holds the power to forever change the trajectory of your relationship.

Still, you shift closer.

You're laying on your back, Spencer's breath puffing against your cheek. It's too dark to see each other, but he's somehow sensed your movement. In one swift motion, he throws his arm over your chest, tucking himself against your side.

He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, and you can feel his throat vibrating as he slurs, “See, this isn’t so bad.”

“You’re squishing my boobs," you say flatly in response, not wanting to admit how delightful this arrangement truly feels.

“Sorry," Spencer immediately apologizes, muscles tensing as he prepares to reposition himself.

You find his forearm in the inky black, holding him in place. “No, don’t move.”

“But you said—”

“Don’t argue with me," you scold.

“Okay," Spencer acquiesces. He relaxes into your side once more, his weight pressing comfortably against you.

“Good boy.”

Your praise renders him speechless for a moment, but you can feel his lips tick into a soft smile against your shoulder. After several seconds, he interrupts the silence to declare, “This is even better than holding your hand.”

Your heart swells with adoration. You grin into the dark, in pleasant disbelief at how the night has unfolded. Instead of voicing an equally mushy sentiment, you tease, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a little crush on me, Spence.”

His breath catches in his throat, but instead of sputtering a retort like you expect, he exhales in a rush, whispering, “It’s not little.”