🪻Catnipp🪻

Then you shrugged off your jacket, and he seized the opportunity. “Here, let me,” he murmured, carefully helping you out of the layers, his fingers brushing lightly against your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you said, your smile bright.

But then, before he could overthink it further, you stepped closer. “Hi,” you said again, softer this time, and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug.

Thank god, you’d taken the hard choice away from him.

Spencer froze for half a second before melting into it, his arms circling your waist as he buried his nose in your hair. You smelled like vanilla and something uniquely you and he could’ve stayed like that for hours. When you pulled back, your hands lingered, cupping his face.

“I’ve been counting down the minutes for movie night,” you admitted, scrunching your nose adorably.

Spencer’s hands lingered at your waist, his fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of your sweater as if unsure whether to pull you closer or let go. “You could’ve come over sooner,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You grinned, tilting your head up to press a quick, teasing kiss to his lips before bending down to grab your bag. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Spencer blinked. His brain short-circuited. Logically, he knew kisses were a normal part of dating. Expected, even. But the suddenness of it, the way your lips had brushed his so casually, left him frozen.

Should he have kissed you back? He hadn’t. And now it was too late.

You didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, already wandering further into the apartment with an amused smile. “Wow, Spence,” you laughed, running a finger along the dust-free surface of his bookshelf.

Guilt twisted in his chest. He didn’t want you to think he hadn’t liked the kiss, god, he had, but now the moment was gone, and trying to initiate one now would just be awkward, right?

Right.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to step closer, stopping beside you as you picked up a novel from his coffee table. You hummed curiously, flipping it over to read the synopsis.

Spencer fidgeted. “If you want,” he started, then cleared his throat, “you can change already. Get comfortable.” And yes, this was your first time sleeping over. “We can order takeout. Watch movies. Just… relax.”

“Sounds perfect,” you smiled, setting the book down before grabbing your bag again.

And then, without hesitation, you headed straight for his bedroom, already familiar with the layout of his apartment. You'd been here plenty of times. This time was just a bit...different.

Spencer stared after you, heart pounding. He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair.

Okay. Okay. He could do this.

Spencer let out a slow breath as he sank onto the couch, his fingers drumming against his knees. He wiped his palms on his slacks, again, then adjusted the hem of his sweater, tugging it nervously over his wrists. And then you walked in.

Oh. He was suddenly very glad he was sitting down.

You looked perfect. Your oversized sleep shirt was adorned with a bright red strawberry, and your white pajama pants pooled around your ankles as you padded across the floor. The sight of you in his space, dressed so domestically, sent a warm rush through his chest. You flopped onto the couch beside him, immediately scooting closer until your knees bumped his.

“You even cleaned your room,” you mused, grinning.

Spencer blinked, momentarily distracted by the way your hair fell over your shoulder. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, voice soft. “You were coming over.”

Your smile widened. “That’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

His face burned. Sweet. You called him sweet. And then, because his brain was apparently determined to short-circuit tonight, he realized he was staring. Was he allowed to stare? Probably not this much. But, you were just so… pretty.

Wait. He should say that. Right?

Compliments were important after all. He’d read that in a relationship handbook. Communication was key.

But before he could overthink it further, his mouth moved faster than his brain.

“You look really pretty.” Cringe. Too blunt. “I mean—you are really pretty. But you look extra pretty right now?” He winced internally. Extra pretty? What was he, twelve? “Not that you’re not usually—I just—” He cut himself off with a frustrated shake of his head.

But you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you were beaming, slightly flustered, as you glanced down at your pajamas. “Thank you,” you said, smoothing the fabric with your fingers. “I got these just for movie night with you.”

Spencer’s fingers twitched against the couch cushion as he nodded. “Well—they’re very nice,” he managed, voice quieter than he intended. You studied him for a long moment, your gaze so tender it made him look away. Then, slowly, you straightened up.

“Spence.”

He mirrored you instinctively, spine snapping upright. “Hm?”

Your smile was patient, fond. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

Caught.

Spencer’s breath stuttered. He had been nervous, palms damp, pulse rabbiting, brain spinning in frantic circles, but he hadn’t realized it was that obvious. (Which was ridiculous, really. Of course it was. You knew him better than anyone.)

“I know it’s my first time staying over,” you continued, voice warm as sunlight, “but I promise, there’s nothing to worry about.” Your hand found his, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I love spending time with you. And like I mentioned, I was very excited to come over today.”

Spencer swallowed hard. You were excited. The thought sent a rush of warmth through his chest, but it tangled with guilt. He hadn’t meant to make this awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, shoulders hunching slightly. “I didn’t mean to—I just—” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I want everything to work out.”

Your expression softened. “Well, it’s going perfect so far,” you said, squeezing his hand. “You’re here, I’m here, and we’ve spent plenty of time together before. This time’s no different.” You leaned in, your voice dropping. “Just another day with you.”

Then, your fingers carded gently through his hair, brushing the strands back from his forehead. A shiver raced down his spine and you grinned. “I’ll allow goosebumps,” you teased.

He chuckled loudly, the kind of chuckle that only you could pull from him. Before he could second-guess it, he let himself lean into you. Spencer’s thigh brushed against yours as he tilted his head back, resting it against the couch. His eyes never left you as your fingers continued their gentle path through his hair. This was so terribly domestic and it made him feel all warm on the inside.

He wanted to kiss you. Was that appropriate? Was this the right moment ? You were close. You were meeting his gaze, your lips curved in a soft smile. It had to be appropriate. All he’d have to do is lift his head, just a few inches. But before he knew, your hand slipped from his hair, and the moment shattered.

Spencer sat up abruptly, clearing his throat. “So, uh—what food do you want to order?”

The night unfolded in a blur of takeout containers and half-hearted attempts to follow the plot of whatever DVD he’d grabbed. Not that it mattered. The movie was just background noise to the real event which was you.

His apartment had never been this loud. Never this alive.

And Spencer, well, his cheeks hurt from smiling. From blushing, too, every time you leaned further into his space, tucking yourself against his side. It took him five full minutes to work up the nerve to slide his arm around you. But once he did? Heaven.

Your vanilla shampoo filled his senses and the urge to press his lips to your forehead was so sudden, it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Instead, he held perfectly still, hyperaware of the way your yawn vibrated against his ribs, the way your body molded to his as you slumped deeper into his hold.

Spencer leaned in slowly, holding his breath as his lips grazed the crown of your head in the lightest possible touch. So light you didn't even seem to feel it. He pulled back, pressing his lips together to stifle the frustrated sigh building in his chest.

Then you giggled.

A bright sound that startled him from his thoughts. Your shoulders shook against his side as you chuckled at something on screen, something he'd completely missed because he hadn't been watching the movie at all.

Your laughter did something dangerous to his heart. It fluttered wildly against his ribs. And in that moment, drunk on the sound of your joy, Spencer threw caution to the wind. He pressed a kiss to your hair, firmer this time, letting his lips linger just a second longer in the soft strands. The happy hum you made in response sent a warm feeling through his body, all the way to his tingling lips.

He was still smiling when you tilted your head up, your nose brushing his jaw before you pressed a feather-light kiss there. It lasted barely a heartbeat before you turned back to the movie, but it was enough to make his breath catch.

You smiled to yourself as you looked at the screen. You'd noticed the way his fingers twitched when he wanted to reach for you, the way his gaze would drop to your lips and then dart away. You saw the battle he waged with himself every time. But you never said anything. You gave him the precious gift of time and space to learn this new language of touch at his own pace.

That brief kiss to his jaw was a reward for his courage and the way his smile bloomed under your touch was your prize in return.

The movie's credits rolled in silence as you stretched against him, pulling back. Spencer immediately felt the absence like a physical ache. But then your fingers were in his hair again, smoothing down the strands his nervous habits had tousled throughout the evening.

"Great choice of movie," you murmured around a yawn. You were serious, though it didn't seem like it. But it was quite late after all.

Spencer's smile came unbidden as he nodded. "We should clean up," he said, his eyes lingering on the scattered takeout containers. You followed his eyeline to the mess and nodded.

"Definitely."

The domestic rhythm of tidying up together felt strangely intimate. In the kitchen, your shoulders brushed as you worked side by side, you scraping leftovers into the trash while he organized the recyclables.

"The fries were so good," Spencer found himself saying. "We should order from that place again."

You beamed at him over your shoulder, water from the sink dripping off your fingertips. "Agreed. Yes. I loved them."

When you turned off the faucet, Spencer reached automatically for the towel, your hands bumping as he gave it to you. Before he knew it, you put the towel away and your arms were looping around his waist, your chin settling against his chest. "You want to go to bed?" you asked, the words muffled against his sweater.

Spencer looked down. The harsh kitchen light should have been unflattering, but you glowed beneath it. His hands came up to cradle your upper arms, thumbs brushing absent circles against your skin. The motion pushed your shirt up slightly, revealing a patch of goosebumps. "Yeah, we can go to bed," he murmured. Then softer. "Are you cold?"

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes. "Mhm. Only a bit."

Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides when you stepped away. The empty space between you suddenly felt vast. "I can give you a sweater. Or a cardigan." His voice cracked slightly. "I have… several. In my closet. In my bedroom."

His hands flexed uselessly. He should take yours, shouldn't he? Lead you there properly. That's what people did in films , reached for their lover's hand and guided them gently to bed. Before he could overthink it, his fingers closed around yours. You laced them together as he turned toward the hallway. Spencer hoped you wouldn't notice his sweaty palms.

He led you to his bedroom where you stood before his closet. "Wait, can I pick one please?" You turned with those devastating puppy eyes that made his knees weak. As if he could ever say no to you.

"Yes, of course," he murmured, already smiling. While you deliberated, Spencer's gaze flickered to the bed, mentally calculating which side you might prefer. He busied himself with straightening the already-perfect blankets, sitting gingerly on the edge of the mattress to let you know you had all the time in the world to choose.

Your delighted gasp pulled his attention back. "Can I have this one?"

You gave the blue cardigan a playful wiggle, and Spencer was moving before he'd consciously decided to, drawn to you like gravity. "Of course," he repeated as he helped you slide your arms into the sleeves. His fingers trembled slightly as they worked the buttons.

When he reached the middle buttons, he became acutely aware of your gaze studying his face. Spencer concentrated on not combusting under your observation.

Each successful button felt like a small victory.

The moment he fastened the last one, you surged up to press a fleeting kiss to his lips , there and gone before he could process it. The sudden contact left him blinking, his hands frozen at your waist.

Three hours. It had been three hours since you'd kissed him at the door and his body reacted like a man starved, every nerve ending sparking back to life. The realization struck him like lightning, he'd been waiting for you to make every move.

How selfish that seemed now.

Your lips had already retreated, but his traitorous hands remained on your waist, thumbs pressing unconsciously into the soft wool covering your hips. Spencer stared blankly at the cardigan buttons, suddenly miles away.

He wanted to kiss you properly. Not some chaste peck, but something that would convey all the words stuck in his throat. But was that appropriate after such a casual gesture? Maybe your brief kiss was intentional, a boundary set. His teeth worried at his lower lip as the questions multiplied.

The cardigan sleeves pooled slightly over your hands as you tilted your head. "Spence."

When he finally met your gaze, his eyes were filled with uncertainty. You could see the overthinking that always seemed to short-circuit his courage.

"If you want to kiss me," you murmured, tracing soft patterns over his rapid heartbeat, "you can."

Spencer's breath stuttered. "Huh?" The syllable escaped before he could catch it and he immediately squeezed his eyes shut in mortification. Of all the eloquent responses his genius mind could conjure, that was what came out?

You smiled softly. "Let me rephrase," you whispered, your palm flattening against his chest. "I want you to kiss me."

For a heartbeat, Spencer simply stared. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

His hands rose and craddled your jaw. The first brush of his lips was careful. You answered by pressing closer and something in Spencer felt encouraged. The kiss deepened all at once, his fingers tangling in your hair as he poured every unsaid word into the contact. All the kisses he'd missed, all the touches he'd hesitated to give, they lived in the way his mouth moved against yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Spencer chased you instinctively. His forehead came to rest against yours, noses bumping. "Sorry," he whispered, the words feather-light against your lips, "for not kissing back the last two times."

Your giggle sent vibrations through his chest. "Spence, you don't always have to kiss me back." Your fingers played with the collar of his sweater. "I'll always catch you off guard with little kisses." You paused. "Unless you don't like that?"

He shook his head before you'd even finished speaking. "No," Spencer breathed, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "I like it. I like… you."

The confession was clumsy and inadequate for all it carried. But the way your eyes lit up told him you understood anyway.

"I like you too." Your whisper danced across his lips as you stole one more fleeting kiss before pulling back. Spencer swayed slightly, still drunk on the taste of you, as you gestured to the bed. "Ready to sleep now?"

He nodded, his thoughts moving through molasses. The simple question of which side of the bed to take suddenly felt monumental.

"What side do you prefer?" you asked, standing before the mattress.

Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides. "Oh. I don't… I don't really have a side." The confession slipped out before he could stop it. "I've never shared a bed with anyone before." His ears burned at the admission, but your expression was understanding. "So it's up to you, really."

Your gaze flickered to the left side, the side with the stack of books on the nightstand and the indentation in the pillow he'd never noticed. "I'll take the right side," you decided with a smile.

As you climbed in, a delighted squeak escaped you. "So cozy," you sighed, burrowing into the blankets with another happy squeal that made his heart stutter. Spencer moved to join you, his brain once again running.

Couples cuddled. He knew this objectively. But the mechanics of it - the when and how and do-you-even-want-to of it all, left him paralyzed. Should he reach for you? Was there some unspoken rule about who initiated? What if you preferred space? What if-

"Do you want to-" he began, then faltered. 'Cuddle' sounded juvenile in his mouth, a word too small for the enormity of what he wanted.

You rescued him effortlessly. "Cuddle? Yes. Definitely."

Before he could overthink it, you were there, your head finding its home in the hollow of his shoulder. The tension bled from Spencer's muscles all at once.

Emboldened, his hand slid down to cradle the back of your knee, gently hitching your leg over his hip. The quiet sigh you let out against his throat was reward enough, but then your lips brushed his pulse point and Spencer was certain he'd discovered some new law of phyics.

A comfortable silence settled between you in the lightened room. You hadn't mentioned the night light. He appreciated that more than words could express.

As his fingers carded absently through your hair, Spencer realized that he could overcome any fear with you like this. Even his fear of the dark. Any fear except one; the thought of nights without this, without you curled into his side like this. The very idea made his chest tighten painfully.

"Can I ask you something?" Your voice was muffled slightly against his shoulder.

Spencer hummed, tilting his head down to see your face better. "Yeah, sure."

The hesitation in your next words had his fingers stilling in your hair. "Are you… scared of kissing me?" You met his gaze briefly before looking away. "Or is it—I don't know." A nervous stutter. "Is it just that it's new to you? Or do you not really like affection in general?"

Spencer answered before you'd even finished. "No, no, not at all." His hand fell still against your scalp. "I love kissing you." The admission burned his cheeks, but he pressed on. "And I don't mind physical touch with you." He emphasized those last two words, willing you to understand just how singular you were in this.

Yet your brows knitted together, eyes fixed somewhere on his collarbone rather than meeting his gaze. "But you're so hesitant all the time."

He swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of every point where your bodies connected, your knee still hooked over his hip, your fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his sweater.

For a long moment, he simply breathed you in, the vanilla scent of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin, gathering courage. When he finally spoke, the words came trembling.

"I'm hesitant when it comes to… the timing of physical touch. Not the touch itself." His fingers flexed against your back. "I love when you hug me, kiss me, or just… touch me in general." A flush crept up his neck. "But I don't know how to do it back to you."

The confession spilled out faster now.

"I never know what’s okay," he admitted, voice quiet. "Like… if I hug you at work, will that embarrass you? If I take your hand in public, will you hate the attention? Even when it’s just us, I worry I’ll kiss you at the wrong time." His throat tightened. "I don’t want to push too much. Or seem… clingy."

Your fingers tightened slightly against his chest, but you remained silent. The floodgates opened fully then, months of overthinking pouring out in a rush.

"I don't even know if I can call you sometimes. What if you're asleep? My mom asks about you, and I never know if 'girlfriend' is appropriate. You feel like so much more than that." His nose brushed yours accidentally, the contact sending a spark through his nervous system. His fingers found your hair again, twisting the strands absently. "I don't know when to compliment you because I don't want to seem overbearing, but you just—" His breath hitched. "You look so beautiful all the time it's physically painful not to. I have no idea how many dates per week are appropriate. Books suggest once or twice, but what if you want more? Or less?"

Spencer closed his eyes. "You're the first girl I've ever been with. And I just—" His throat worked around the words. "I don't want to ruin it."

By the time he finished, his chest heaved as if he'd run a marathon. You sat up immediately, needing to see him properly, needing him to see you seeing him. Spencer stayed frozen on his back, watching you with anxious eyes as you processed everything he'd confessed.

"Oh my god, Spence," you murmured, shaking your head slightly. The mattress dipped as you shifted, sitting up straighter, one hand resting lightly on his ribs for balance. You crossed your legs beneath you, taking a breath before meeting his eyes again.

"Is this what you think about all the time when we're together?"

Spencer swallowed. "Well, not the entire time," he hedged, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe like… seventy-eight percent of it?"

You exhaled sharply, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Please don't do that," you said, your palm smoothing over his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "Don't overthink what we are. Or physical touch. Or affection." Your thumb brushed absent circles against his collarbone. "I love kissing you. Whenever, however you want to. I love hugging you in any way you want. You can hug me at work. You can kiss me at work—"

Spencer's eyebrows shot up.

"—yes, even at work," you confirmed, grinning. "You can call me your girlfriend. You can compliment me until your voice gives out. We can go on dates seven days a week if you want." Your voice softened. "You're not ruining anything by showing me how much you like me. Okay?"

Spencer stared at you like you'd hung the stars. "…Okay," he breathed, nodding.

You smiled, leaning back down beside him, your fingers gently turning his face toward yours. Then you kissed him, once, twice, three time, soft lingering presses of your lips against his.

"Please don't think so much." Kiss. "Which—" Kiss. "—I know is a huge ask." Kiss.

Spencer made a quiet and overwhelmed noise, his hands fluttering to your jaw, trying and failing to catch up with your teasing rhythm. You laughed against his mouth, finally letting one kiss linger long enough for him to properly reciprocate, his lips moving clumsily but desperately against yours. When you pulled back just enough to speak, your forehead stayed pressed to his.

"It'll get easier over time, I promise," you whispered. His fingers tightened slightly against your skin. "And I'll wait. Okay?"

Spencer stared at you. "Okay," he whispered, the word barely more than an exhale against your lips. Then, before he could second-guess himself, his arms were around you, pulling you against him. Your head found its familiar place in the hollow of his shoulder, your legs tangling with his beneath the blankets.

"Thank you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with more emotion than those two simple words could contain.

You answered with a sleepy pat to his chest, your fingers splaying over his heartbeat. "No need to thank me," you mumbled around a yawn.

Spencer pressed his lips to your forehead in response, lingering there just a beat longer than necessary. The action felt different now, not something to overanalyze, but simply something he wanted to do.

A long pause. You could almost feel him wrestling with the words. “Can you… untie me?” he finally asked, the request barely audible. “But please… keep your eyes closed.” His voice cracked on the last word, confirming what you had already guessed.

He had been crying.

You bit your lip, hard, forcing your own emotions down. He needed you to be calm. “Okay,” you whispered again, the most reassuring word you could offer. You carefully maneuvered the bundle of clothes, tucking them securely under one arm to free your hands. You reached your hands out into the space in front of you, fingers splayed, not touching him yet. “Where are you tied?”

“It’s behind my back. My arms.” He added the last part as if you might have misunderstood, the detail making the humiliation even more acute.

“Okay,” you said for the third time, But with your eyes screwed shut and your arms full, navigating the space behind him was impossible. You needed a better way.

Gently, you bent and placed the pile of his clothes on the ground, a small. Then, you raised your hands. “I’m going to find my way to your hands,” you explained softly. “Is that okay?”

A shaky hum was his only reply.

Your fingertips first made contact with the cold metal of the goalpost. Then, they brushed against something warm. His cheek. He flinched at the initial contact, but then he stilled, leaning almost imperceptibly into your touch. Your hand traveled down, tracing the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, over his shoulder. You felt him shivering violently under your touch. Your fingers slid down his upper arm, following the terrible path until they met the cold pole again, and then, finally, your hands closed over his.

His fingers were like ice, clenched tightly together. The rough material of rope bit into your own skin as you felt the complicated knot. It was tight, meant to hold and to humiliate.

“You have to turn it right,” he whispered, “and then three times left. It’s… a complicated knot.”

The fact that he knew how it worked, that he had clearly paid agonizing attention to how his tormentors had bound him, sent a fresh wave of nausea through you. You pushed it aside, focusing entirely on the task. Your fingers worked carefully. Finally, with a last tug, his hands were free. You pulled the rope away, throwing it aside into the darkness where it belonged.

The second he was free, you heard a relieved gasp from him, followed by the immediate rustle of clothes as he scrambled to gather them from the ground. You kept your eyes sealed shut, while the sounds of him hurriedly dressing, filled the silence.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood. The full picture of what happened was forming and it made you feel sick.

Tying him up was one thing. But stripping him? Leaving him exposed and vulnerable in the cold dark? This was a new level of cruelty.

Finally, his voice, broke the silence. “You can look now.”

When you turned, your heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

His hair was a mess, his eyes red and glassy, refusing to meet yours. His face was pale, save for two bright spots of color high on his cheeks from the cold. The beloved cardigan he wore now had a jagged hole near the elbow, a testament to the violence of the act.

Wordlessly, you slid your backpack from your shoulders and let it drop to the grass. Then, you shrugged out of your own jacket.

“No, it’s okay—” he started, his voice hoarse, instinctively hugging himself tighter.

You shook your head, your expression leaving no room for argument. “Just wear it, Spencer,” you whispered as you draped the jacket over his shoulders. “You’re freezing.” Your fingers gently brushed his neck as you fixed the collar, and you felt a fresh tremor run through him. He didn't protest again, simply sinking into the warmth of the fabric.

You picked up your backpack, slung it back on, and then turned your attention to his cardigan. Your fingers went to the buttons fastening them. Two were missing, lost somewhere in the dark field, but you secured the remaining ones, a small attempt to piece his dignity back together. As you worked, you noticed his shoes were untied, the laces caked with soil. Without a word, you bent down on one knee.

Spencer remained silent above you. You pretended not to hear the quiet sniffles he tried to suppress as he fought back a fresh wave of tears. You focused on the task, tying each lace into a double-knot.

When you stood up, you didn't grab his hand. You simply reached out, palm open. It was his choice to take it.

He did. Immediately.

His cold fingers rushed to intertwine with yours, gripping your hand with a desperation that spoke volumes. He was clinging to a touch he knew was safe, a touch born from love and care, not hatred or cruelty.

Hand in hand, you began to walk across the, now, very dark field. No words were spoken.

The artificial light of the parking lot felt invasive after the consuming darkness of the field. You were almost across the asphalt when a door swung open, and your math teacher, Mrs. Griffin, stepped out, her keys jangling in her hand.

She squinted in the dim light. “What are the two of you still doing here? The school’s been closed for nearly an hour.”

You felt Spencer freeze beside you, his hand tightening around yours to the point of pain. He was a ghost at the best of times around authority figures, now, he seemed to shrink, pulling your jacket tighter around himself.

A bright, fake smile spread across your face. “Oh! We were just checking the field for our science project,” you chirped, the lie immediate. “You know the one on nocturnal insect activity? We’ve been collecting data for weeks, and our hypothesis required observations not just in daylight, but after full dark.” You gestured vaguely behind you.

Mrs. Griffin nodded slowly, though a hint of skepticism remained in her eyes. “I see. Well, you should both be heading home. It’s late.”

An idea sparked in your mind.

“Which actually reminds me,” you continued, your voice taking on a tone of excited opportunity. “Spencer and I managed to score interviews with three different tech companies for our future careers project. It was incredibly short notice.” You let your face fall into a slightly pleading expression. “The problem is, they’re all scheduled for the next three mornings. Would it be terribly inconvenient if we were excused for the next three days? We promise, we’ll get all the notes and make up any work we miss immediately.”

You subtly squeezed Spencer’s hand, a silent cue. He managed a weak smile in Mrs. Griffin's direction. You knew his stellar reputation would be your greatest ally.

Mrs. Griffin glanced between the two of you. She sighed, her demeanor softening. “Well… I suppose that’s a worthwhile reason. Alright. I’ll let Mrs. Reyes in the science department know about your… field research, and I’ll note the excused absences for the interviews. But I’ll expect those make-up assignments by the start of next week.”

“Thank you so much! You’re the best!” you beamed, already pulling Spencer along. “Have a good night!”

You didn’t wait for a response, walking quickly until you turned the corner, the school disappearing from view. Only then did your pace slow and the smile drop from your face.

Once you were a safe distance away, Spencer spoke. “What was that?” he asked, his words barely a whisper.

“A lie,” you mumbled, your gaze fixed straight ahead.

“I know it was a lie,” he said. “But why? We don’t have interviews and we don’t have a project on nocturnal insects.”

You turned your head to face him. “So that you get a break from school for a while,” you said softly, your meaning clear. So you don’t have to face the school or the bullies first thing in the morning.

Spencer almost froze, but his feet kept moving. The rest of the walk was silent. But after a few minutes, his voice broke the quiet. “Thank you.”

You glanced up at him, offering a weak but genuine smile. Your heart wrenched all over again just looking at him. You walked the familiar route until you stood on the porch at his house. It felt like a sanctuary, yet also a place he was reluctant to enter.

“You’re going to get in trouble for getting home so late,” he whispered, his voice filled with guilt.

You shook your head. “I don’t care about that, Spencer. Not even a little.” You hesitated, then made the offer. “If you want… you can sleep over?” It was a simple solution.

You were neighbors. The distance between your windows was a climb he’d made a hundred times before.

But Spencer shook his head, his eyes darting nervously toward the front door. “My mom… she’ll worry.”

You understood. “Okay. The offer stands if you change your mind,” you said softly, brushing your thumb gently over the back of his hand. “Just be careful and climb through the window. I’ll leave it open for you, okay?”

A flicker of his usual self appeared, you could almost see the list of reasons why leaving the window open was statistically dangerous forming in his mind. But the energy to voice them wasn’t there. He just gave a tired, grateful nod. “Okay. Thank you. For… for everything.”

You nodded, your heart aching. He made a move to let go of your hand, but you held on for a moment longer. “Spencer?” you asked, your voice barely audible. “Can I hug you before you go?”

He didn't speak, just gave a quick, almost desperate nod. He needed a warm hug more than anything. A good, clean touch to scour away the memory of their filthy hands, the disgusting feeling of being seen and exposed.

You opened your arms, letting him decide how to step into them. He moved forward, his arms circling your waist and holding on tightly, his face buried in the shoulder of your sweater. Your own hands came up, one cupping the back of his head, the other resting gently between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. Your own eyes burning with tears. “I’m really, really sorry, Spencer.”

He just shook his head against your shoulder, unable to form words. You felt the dampness of his tears seeping through your sweater. After a long moment, he slowly loosened his grip. He shrugged off your jacket, which was still draped around his shoulders, and handed it back to you with trembling hands.

“I’ll see you,” he whispered, not specifying a time.

You nodded, taking the jacket. “Okay. Bye, Spencer.” You reached out and gave his upper arm one last, reassuring brush with your fingertips. “Take care of yourself.”

He gave you one last nod before turning and walking up the path to his front door. You waited until he was safely inside before you turned toward your own home.

You endured the lecture from your parents, repeating the same lie about the science project. They grumbled, but ultimately understood, their concern fading into the usual reminders about responsibility. Soon enough, you were in your room, but sleep was distant.

You laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening in a relentless loop. The night was burned onto the back of your eyelids. The red numbers of your alarm clock glowed in the darkness, slowly ticking past 2:00 AM, then 3:00 AM. The house was utterly still.

That’s when you heard it. The soft creak of the window frame being carefully lifted.

A wave of relief washed over you. You pushed back your comforter, creating a space for him without a word. You remained still, letting him do his usual routine. He slipped inside and turned to shut the window against the cold night air. Then, he padded to your bedroom door and turned the lock, ensuring your privacy. The squeak of his shoes being removed was followed by the dip of the mattress as he slid into bed beside you.

Finally, you turned to face him in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he whispered back. Even in the darkness, you could see his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

“I’m glad you came,” you whispered.

“Me too.” He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers nervously picking at the edge of your duvet. “My mom was having one of her… episodes,” he murmured, his voice hollow. “She didn’t even notice I came home late.”

“I’m really sorry,” you whispered, fighting to keep your own voice steady, to be the strong one.

Spencer didn’t reply with words. Instead, he simply scooted closer. As you moved to hug him, your arm brushed against his, and you flinched. “God, Spencer, you’re still so cold,” you breathed, the thought escaping aloud. It felt like he’d brought the chill of the entire field in with him.

He didn’t acknowledge the comment, just burrowed into your embrace. You pulled him tightly against you, wrapping your arms around him and rubbing your hands firmly over his back. You held him like that until his shivering subsided and his breathing evened out.

In the morning, Spencer had to rush back home before your parents woke up, and you had to pretend to go to school. You couldn't sustain the interview lie with your parents face-to-face over breakfast, so you went to grab your backpack, saying goodbye, and walking to the end of the street. Once you saw both your parents' cars disappear around the corner, you doubled back home.

Within minutes, there was a soft knock at the back door. Spencer slipped inside. You didn't talk much. Words still felt too heavy. Instead, you found a strange comfort in the mundane, pulling out two half-empty bags of cereal and eating the sugary loops dry straight from the bags.

“Wanna play a game?” you asked, brushing cereal dust from your fingers.

Spencer looked up from his own bag, considering. “Sure,” he said, the single word a little brighter than any he’d spoken since you found him.

You ended up in your room, playing card games and simple board games for hours. The quiet was eventually broken when he unearthed the chess set from your closet. He set it up on your bed, the board balanced precariously on the comforter. For the next hour, he patiently explained the strategies, his voice regaining some of its familiar cadence. You tried to follow, but it was a struggle. You were just happy to hear him talk.

At one point, you made a move so inexplicably bad, sacrificing your queen for no apparent tactical gain, that it startled a genuine laugh from him. The sound was like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. A wide smile spread across your face.

“That bad?” you asked, feigning offense.

Spencer grinned, a real grin that reached his eyes. “No, not at all. It was… creatively unpredictable.” He then made a move with his knight. “Checkmate.”

You groaned, flopping backward dramatically onto the bed, making the chess pieces jump. “I do not like playing chess with you,” you sighed, staring at the ceiling.

Spencer’s smile remained as he carefully gathered the pieces, slotting each one into its rightful place in the box. When the board was clear, he laid down beside you, the two of you side-by-side, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, a hint of playful arrogance in his tone.

“Don’t get cocky on me, Spencer Reid,” you giggled, nudging his shoulder with yours.

The sound of your laughter made him turn his head to look at you. He knew the weight of the previous night had been on your shoulders, too. Seeing the sad, worried expression replaced by a smile was a relief more profound than any checkmate.

You turned your head to meet his eyes. “So,” you smiled, the atmosphere easy and light for the first time all morning. “What do you wanna do now?”

The next day unfolded the same. The two of you played cards and chess all day, while emptying the kitchen at the same time. But on the third day, Spencer was back to his quiet self.

School awaited tomorrow. The air in your room felt heavier.

You were deep into another chess game. Today, you were sitting on the floor, instead of your shaky bed. Spencer was leaning against the side of your bed frame. You’d been playing a lot, partly because you knew your hilariously bad moves never failed to make him smile, but mostly because it transformed him. The act of teaching distracted him, pulling him out of his own head and into a world of logic and rules. A world where he was in control.

You made a move, sliding your bishop into a seemingly open space. As Spencer reached for his knight, you spoke softly. “Spencer? Can I ask you something?”

His hand stilled above the board. He knew what the question would be. He appreciated that you had waited this long, giving him three days of peace before asking. He took a slow breath, his eyes fixed on your fingers as they nervously traced the edge of a square. “Yeah,” he breathed, granting permission.

“Why were you there?” you asked quietly, ashamed to be dredging up the trauma but needing to understand. “I mean… you never go to the football field.”

Spencer was silent for a long moment. Finally, he whispered, “I was in the library.” He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I was looking for that book you had been talking about. I thought I could read it during my free period.”

A soft, pained smile touched your lips. Of course he was.

“Harper Hillman came up to me,” he continued, his voice growing even quieter. “She told me… she said Alexa Lisbon wanted to meet me on the field.”

The name hit you like a physical blow. A cold knot twisted in your stomach, an unwelcome surge of jealousy.

Alexa Lisbon. The girl from your history class with the perfect laugh. You felt immediately awful, disgusted with yourself. This wasn't about you. Spencer had been violated, humiliated, and your first instinct was a petty, selfish pang of envy? You suppressed the feeling violently, locking it away, forcing yourself to remain quiet.

He didn’t make his move on the board. Instead, he sat perfectly still, his gaze distant, seeing the memory instead of the game. “The entire football team was there,” he whispered. “Alexa too.”

He fell silent again, the unspoken horror of what happened next hanging in the air.

“You know the rest,” he finished, his voice barely audible.

You stayed quiet, absorbing the awful truth. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words feeling utterly inadequate. “You didn’t deserve that, Spencer.” You bit your lip, watching as his own bottom lip began to quiver. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it.”

You knew, logically, it wasn't your fault. You had English class, the one single period of the day your schedules didn't align.

But logic had little power against the pain of seeing your best friend so broken.

Spencer shook his head, a silent insistence that you shouldn't blame yourself, though he couldn't form the words. A single tear escaped your eye and you quickly brushed it away with the back of your hand.

“I don’t know why I went,” he whispered.

And there it was. The raw, teenage heart of it. You were just a girl with a crush on her best friend, a friend who had been brutally hurt. The guilt over your earlier jealousy and the sheer pain of his experience collided, making your own heart feel like it was cracking. It was this messy storm of emotion that let the next words slip out, an attempt to absolve him that was really about managing your own hurt.

“It’s understandable, Spencer,” you whispered, mimicking his posture and leaning back against the bed. “Alexa is… she’s the prettiest girl at school. It’s only normal to want to meet up with her. You couldn’t have known.” You forced the words out, your heart breaking all over again, this time for a more selfish reason. “It’s not your fault.”

He shook his head again, more vehemently this time. “I don’t even like Alexa,” he whispered.

The world seemed to tilt slightly. “You don’t?” you asked, your own voice soft with surprise.

Spencer shook his head, his eyes finally meeting yours. “No,” he whispered.

You stayed quiet, the unasked question lingering on your tongue. But Spencer, who could read the subtlest shifts in your silence, knew your confusion.

“I guess I just went because I…” he whispered, hesitating. He’d endured enough humiliation to last a lifetime; what was a little more? “Because I’ve just been feeling a bit heartbroken. I thought I could never move on. And then… I thought Alexa was interested, and I thought it was my chance to… stop feeling that way.”

You looked at him, genuinely surprised. “Heartbroken?” you whispered, the word feeling foreign and wrong when applied to him. “Spencer, I didn’t know that.” A new kind of pain bloomed in your chest, overshadowing the jealousy. He’d been hurting, and you hadn’t even noticed.

Spencer offered a weak, apologetic smile. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, your own smile equally fragile. “You don’t have to tell me everything all the time.” But your mind was already racing, trying to pinpoint a moment, a person you’d missed.

You steered the conversation back to what mattered most. “Either way,” you said, your voice firming with conviction, “I don’t want you blaming yourself, Spencer. You didn’t deserve what happened. Not at all.” He watched you, his gaze soft and grateful.

And then, despite your best efforts, the question broke free, propelled by a concern that ran deeper than curiosity. “Who broke your heart?” The moment the words left your mouth, you winced. “Sorry,” you rushed out, an awkward grin tugging at your lips. “Sorry, I just—I know I said you don’t have to tell me, I’m just…”

Spencer’s smile widened just a fraction. He knew you. You were incurably curious. It was one of the things he loved most about you.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he watched you, his gaze so intense you had to nervously meet his eyes, unsure if he would even answer.

“Promise you won’t hate me?” he whispered, the words sounding vulnerable.

Your eyes widened. “Spencer,” you whispered back, “I could never hate you.”

He took a shaky breath, his eyes dropping to his hands. “It was you.”

The words didn’t compute. “What?” you asked, the syllable hollow with disbelief. “Wait, what?” you asked again, your brain scrambling to catch up. You sat up straighter as if a new perspective would help the words make sense. “Hold on, Spencer. What?”

He watched your flustered reaction with an embarrassed, pained smile.

“No,” you stated, convinced you were misunderstanding. “I didn’t break your heart.” The very idea was absurd.

Spencer’s smile weakened. “You did.”

“Spencer, when did I break your heart?” you asked, your voice laced with genuine confusion, searching your memory for any moment of cruelty or neglect.

He wrung his hands together. “Last week?” he whispered, as if unsure of the timeline himself.

“Last week?” you echoed, incredulous. “What the hell did I do last week? Wait, how did I break your heart?” You had imagined some unrequited romance, a secret crush you knew nothing about.

“Last Tuesday,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “At 5 p.m. You told me you liked someone.”

You stared at him, your mouth falling slightly open. The memory clicked into place with startling clarity. “Are you serious?” you breathed.

Spencer now looked confused. “Yeah,” he said slowly, the word tinged with regret.

“Spencer, you cannot be serious,” you said, a slow, dawning realization beginning to warm the cold shock in your veins. “Okay, wait,” you started. “You genius with an IQ of 187, tell me what I did right after I said those words.”

Spencer thought for a second, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You… kissed my cheek.”

“Right,” you said, drawing the word out. “And have I ever done that before?”

He thought again, his analytical mind scanning through years of memories. “No,” he admitted softly.

And then you saw it. The moment everything tied together, your careful attention the past few days, the way you looked at him, the sheer depth of your care. The pieces snapped into place. His eyes widened.

“Wait,” he said slowly, his voice filled with wonder. “You were talking about… me?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, your own smile finally breaking through fully. “Maybe we should revoke your genius title,” you mumbled, but there was no bite to it, only a wave of overwhelming affection.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” he asked, a bewildered expression on his face.

“I kissed your cheek after I told you I liked someone!” you shot back, your own laughter mixing with exasperation. “What more did you need? An essay?”

“Well, that’s not enough!” Spencer insisted, a genuine pout forming on his lips. “It was subtle! I’m not good with subtle!”

He stared at you, the reality of the situation still dawning. “Wait,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “You are saying you like me. Romantically. Correct?”

You shot him an incredulous look, but he held up a finger, his professor-mode activating. “Please state it literally. For the record.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile you’d been fighting broke through. “Yes, Spencer Reid. I like you. Romantically.”

His entire face transformed, a smiled replacing the pout. “You do?” he asked, the question now filled with wonder instead of doubt.

You simply nodded, feeling a shy warmth spread across your cheeks.

Spencer just stared at you. Just seventy-two hours ago, his world had been shattered, upside down in the most painful way. Now, it had been flipped again, this time toward something radiant and good. The whiplash was dizzying.

Then, the ramble began. “I wasn’t insinuating that your confession led to what happened, by the way,” his eyes wide with sudden panic. “That was on me. Entirely on me.”

You gave him a look. "Fine. Yes. It was on them." He corrected himself.

He looked down at his hands, fidgeting. “I’ve been trying to cope with my… my crush on you for a while now. So really, your words had nothing to do with me going to the field. I was just… vulnerable and stupid.”

“Wait—” he continued, the words tumbling out faster now, “I don’t mean to say I was looking at other girls while having a crush on you! That sounds terrible. I just mean… I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, so I tried to… to think about anything but you. But it didn’t work. At all.”

He wouldn’t shut up. And you loved it. You sat there, grinning from ear to ear, watching the brilliant, beautiful boy you loved talk himself in circles, each rambling sentence another piece of his heart laid bare for you.

After a while, you reached out and gently placed a hand over his, stilling his fidgeting fingers. “Spence,” you whispered, your voice soft. “I understand.”

Spencer stopped, the torrent of words ceasing as he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered, a sense of relief washing over him. “Good.”

For a long moment, you just stared at each other, the silence now comfortable. “Did you… did you think I had rejected you?” he asked, his head tilting with a sudden clarity.

You gave a weak, helpless little shrug. “Well, yeah.”

A genuine pout formed on his lips. “Oh,” he breathed, his eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry.”

A playful smile touched your lips. “You can make it up to me.”

He sat up a little straighter, eager for the assignment. “How?”

“You can tell me literally,” you whispered, mimicking his earlier request with a gentle tease, “so we have it all laid out… that you like me romantically, too.”

Spencer’s answering smile was sweet. He watched as you scooted closer, your fingers moving to the buttons of his cardigan, fixing the one that had come loose. It was the same small, caring gesture from three days ago, but now it was imbued with a new meaning. He let the moment stretch, gathering his words.

“I really like you, too,” he whispered. “Romantically.”

You smiled up at him, and the sheer warmth in your expression sent a flush of happiness through him.

It was a startling realization. Yes, the past few days had been some of the most harrowing of his life. But here, with you, his mind was quiet. His eidetic memory, usually relentless, somehow became blurry at the edges when he was with you. All the noise, the taunts, the cold of the metal pole, the feeling of exposure, faded.

All there was, was you. The way you looked at him, the sound of your breathing, the feeling of your fingers on his cardigan.

I don't think Spencer could be condescending if he tried. Everything he explains is always in a very respectful and calm way.

Someone once told me that the smartest people know how to dumb things down without making the ither person feel stupid, and Spencer takes it like the Eleventh commandment

Movie nights with him are amazing. He knows the perfect butter to salt ratio for popcorn, he can construct the PERFECT blanket fort because

"well, I don't have a degree in engineering for nothing!"

This is entirely unrelated but something tells me he has a deep love for knitted blankets. You cant have that many sweaters without wanting one for your entire body too.

Also i agree with the cuddling thing. He's just really touch starved and i think that if you have a deeper relationship, he'll be all over you like an affectionate cat.

We all know this, but I want to think about it-- if you cant sleep, for any reason, he WILL read you to sleep with no questions asked

As much as I adore fish-dad Spencer, i really really really want him to have a salamander. Not even an axolotl (he totally could, and take proper care of it), i just feel he would have a deep interest for them.

AND A BIRD!!! if Spencer Walter Reid ever EVER had enough time on his hands, like when he quit the BAU, that man can, will, and WOULD keep a bird and that bird will be the happiest creature on earth

1. I adore your work and im very glad we could do this