SSA Hopelessly

You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.

Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.

So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.

His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.

You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.

“Hi,” you said softly.

His throat bobbed. “Hi.”

You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.

“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.

“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.

—

You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.

He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.

You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.

But still, there were moments.

The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.

—

You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.

“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”

You nodded, your chest aching.

The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.

“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.

“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.

“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”

You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”

He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”

You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”

So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.

When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.

You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.

“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.

He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.

“Can we go sit down?”

He stood immediately. “Of course.”

Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.

It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.

“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”

The silence stretched.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.

You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”

He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.

“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”

He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.

“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”

Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”

The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.

You stared at him.

For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.

But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.

Because of course you’d thought about it.

Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.

But it was there. It had always been there.

And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”

“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.

His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.

He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.

The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.

But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”

Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”

You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.

“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.

You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.

He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.

When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.

You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”

He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.

He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.

Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:

“Still okay.”

“Still yes.”

“Still want you.”

His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.

When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.

His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.

He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.

“That good?” he whispered.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”

He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.

“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”

You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”

He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.

“Spencer,” you breathed.

And he knew what you meant.

He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.

One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.

“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched — and only then did he move.

Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.

You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.

You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.

He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.

A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.

“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”

“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”

You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”

His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”

You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”

He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.

When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.

—

Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.

Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.

You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

“Where’s Robin?” She had asked from the passenger seat.

“Oh- she’s skipping her lunch.” Steve lied. Robin Buckley was in fact not skipping her lunch. More like Steve had asked Robin to sit in the Family Video breakroom for just one day. Steve was also subsequently $10 more broke than yesterday, the two being completely unrelated. “So,” he tried to change the subject, “how are you liking Family Video?”

“It’s… not terrible.” She mumbled over her milkshake, poking it with the spoon as she tried to break down the oreo bits before they clogged up her straw. “Keith is… a bit much though.” This made Steve laugh. Not as if he wasn’t always laughing in her company, but because on some level it made him feel sorry for her. The fact that Keith was their manager remained to be some lifelong karma lesson that Steve couldn’t quite figure out. At least it was Saturday and Keith happened to have today off. “And… I know she’s your friend… but Robin keeps pushing her work onto me.” Her body had slid lower into the seat, still cradling the cup closer to her chest. “Like I get it, I’m the new guy. But do I have to do all the putbacks- gobacks? Like she does know I can run the desk, right?”

Steve wiped the smile from his face as he brushed the salt from his fingertips over his knee. “No, she knows. Robin just- Robin likes to feel like she’s in control.” This wasn’t incorrect. Steve knew Robin was trying to manipulate their roles so they would have more chances to interact on the clock. So far it was working, though he was now certain to talk to Robin about maybe letting them have desk time. “But I’ll talk to her.” Looking over to her, he noticed she was still jabbing away at the cold cream. “Is there anything else?”

“Steve. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.” His actions froze, the finger twiddling he had started paused.

“I didn’t- that’s not what-“ he was fumbling for an explanation now. Once he realised how he felt, every action around her became a coordinated step.

“It’s never been like this,” he tried to explain to Robin one night. “I just get around her and start stumbling over everything.”

“Wow, it’s like you have to actually try.” Robin had then mocked him.

“It’s just- Robin is my friend… and you’re also my friend, and I don’t want my friends to fight.” How self preservative, he thought. He watched as his words played through her mind and he hoped that labeling her as a friend didn’t hurt her in any way. It’s not like they weren’t friends… but Steve knew he felt more than a friend to her.

“Well, as your friend, I can handle myself.” Looking up to Steve, she tried not to think of how he had been looking at her. She tried not to think of how Steve Harrington, her coworker, had been almost caught staring at her lips, choosing to believe the stare and everything else in consideration were hopefully unrelated. “What is it?” Shaking his head, the look disappeared and a few strands of hair fell over his face.

“It’s nothing.” Looking at the watch on his wrist, he then reached for the keys, turning the car off. “We have to go anyway.” With a simple nod, that was mostly for herself, she started helping him gather up their trash and whatever else they would need to take back into Family Video. She had almost forgotten about the overcast sky above them, the endless gray cloud that seemed to linger over all of Hawkins.

-

When they reentered Family Video together, Robin’s head naturally perked up in their direction. “Oh thank goodness, you’re back!” She called to them from behind the desk. (Y/N) felt like it was mostly to Steve though, as she had never outrightly been so relieved to see her before. Springing up from her seat, Robin rounded to the cart that had been sitting just in the front corner of the desk, her hand lingering on the metal frame before sharing a smile to Steve. “Now that you’re back, this lovely cart needs to be put away and-“

“Actually Robin, I was hoping we could have the desk.” Robin froze completely in place, hands still grasping the cart as she had started pushing it towards the two.

“What?” There was an incredulous indention to her voice, almost like she couldn’t believe Steve was disagreeing with her.

“It’s just, she wanted to see the protocol for some technical situations. More practice on the computer, you know?” Nodding her head, Robin was cutting them both a glance that (Y/N) couldn’t quite pick up on.

“Right.” She pushed the cart around them now, gently bumping into Steve’s shoulder. “Well, maybe you should time me. I’m sure I can put this away faster than the two of you.” Steve rolled his eyes as Robin took the cart and pushed it away and into the aisles, disappearing for now. The two of them entered the little corral that was the hub inside the desk, the walls being the desk itself as it wrapped around them. From the corner of his eye he could see how she hesitated to even sit down, just standing ever so slightly behind him as she looked around the desk, almost unsure to touch anything.

“Here.” He pulled a stool out from under the counter, motioning for her to sit in front of the computer. When she did so, he tried to then figure out where the best place for him to stand would be. “So- you’ve used a computer before right?” He settled for standing just a bit behind and to the side of her.

“Only a little bit?” She still sounded unsure of herself. He wondered if it were her nerves and whether, had it been anyone else in this situation, would she sound the same? She was practically sitting in front of him as he reached around her for the mouse, careful not to lean onto her or anything.

“Okay, well for starters, you’re going to want to shake the mouse to wake up the computer.” He bumped the piece and waited for the static of the screen to come to life. But there was no static, it remained silent. Pursing his lips to the side, he tried to then look under the desk and he saw it. The computer had been turned off. “Or make sure, it’s turned on.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Her voice called down to him. It brought a smile to his face as her humour started to return to her, meaning she was feeling comfortable again. For Steve though, he was too worried about how close he was to her legs that he almost didn’t notice how close the underside of the desk was. That was all, until he hit his head under the counter on his way back up.

“Shit!” He cursed under his breath as he stood back up to his normal posture. He tried to focus on the giggling she was failing to control, but he couldn’t ignore how badly his head felt, a burning sensation over the spot.

“Are you okay?” Her body had turned to face him now, her knees nearly brushing his legs.

“Sure. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Steve hoped she wouldn’t read too much into his words. He hadn’t wanted to talk about the horrors he had seen in the last four years with her just yet. Honestly, he had hoped it would be something that she would never need to know about.

Too distracted by the pain and his thoughts, he didn’t notice how her hands reached up to hold his head in her hands, palms resting just below his ear near his jawline. Her touch was soft and delicate, and Steve considered how he hadn’t felt anything as pure as her hold. Looking into her eyes felt like a mistake though, like a tar trap that he wouldn’t escape, not that he wanted to. While her eyes were full of concern, he saw the tender affection swimming in her irises and he tried not to drown in it. To be the star athlete he had once been praised for. But his teammates had never swam through tar. And he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so much in just a stare. “Well your eyes don’t look dilated.”

“They’re not?” He asked, his voice a whisper as his hands reached up to hold on to her wrists. “That’s good?”

“Really good.” A smile was pulling at the corner of her lips like a homecoming banner being pulled up a wall. “It means, no concussion.” The smile stayed, and he couldn’t fight the smile growing on him at the idea that he had put hers there.

“Oh.”

“How do you feel?” With his fingers over her soft skin, he could feel the slight muscle tremor as she had tried to withdraw her hold, but he just squeezed her wrists instead, taking comfort in the warmth they were temporarily providing him.

“It still kind of hurts.”

“Maybe you need ice?”

“Yeah,” the last syllable dragged out, “ice.” He had to let go of her then. They couldn’t stay that way, no matter how much his heart was crying to. He couldn’t fathom willingly trading the warmth she had provided him, even in that small moment, for a bag of cold ice to numb the pain at the back of his head. What about the ache in his heart? Was there a reliever for that?

While he was lost in his daydream, she got up from the stool, and with her hand now holding his wrist, tried to pull him to the backroom of Family Video. “Robin, we’ll be in the back!” Steve would’ve winced at the volume which she was talking, but her guiding him to the back seemed to balance out his pain for comfort ratio.

“No funny business!” Robin called to them from somewhere in the shelves. “I mean it Steve Harrington!”

“Got it!” He rolled his eyes as they passed through the door, her hold on his wrist guiding him to the table at the center of the room.

“Sit here. I’ll get the bag of ice.” Somehow she had found a plastic bag in some drawer behind him and the freezer had been miraculously capable of making ice today. With a paper towel wrapped around the bag, she offered it to him to hold to his head, and it was then he felt his first wave of guilt. He’s a former student athlete, he should be taking care of himself. Why was he so resided to letting her take care of him?

“You didn’t have to do this, you know? I’m the one who hit my head on the counter.” He tried to point out to her as she took a seat in the spot next to him. She kept her hands to herself now, watching him as he winced between the pain and the cold temperature of the ice.

“Yeah well.” Her eyes looked around him before settling on him once more. “I just wanted to make sure…” Breaking their gaze, she looked down to her fingers, hands clasped together so neither of them would be tempted to hold the other. “You’re like, the only one looking out for me, here. I just wanted to do the same for you.” She looked back to him now, not sure what to expect from his expression. But there was a smirk on his lips, a smugness she hadn’t seen on him. “What?”

“You just…” Waiting on his words, she wasn’t really sure what he would say. “You care about me?” The smug coating of his words never left his face. Her brain was backpedaling to get out from under that feeling.

“I mean, you're my coworker.” Ouch. “And the only one that’s been checking in on me. So yeah?” Removing the ice pack from his head, he noticed how some of the ice was beginning to melt, a small collection of water at the bottom of the bag.

“Coworker?” He asked, attention still on the water sloshing around the bag.

“Yes?”

“That’s funny.”

“What?”

“That’s just a weird label for someone you care about.” He thought he had this one. That they had danced around each other verbally enough that he could win this one.

“Well that’s what you are, so-” It’s not what I would like to be. Steve let their banter die out.

Let her have this one, he thought to himself, there will be plenty more to come.

-

You don’t remember when it started—only that by the time you noticed, it was already too late. It was never sudden. It crept in, like a fog rolling over familiar streets. You were still walking the same path but something about it had shifted. A heaviness in the air. A quiet that made every breath feel like it might shatter something sacred. Maybe it was the way he always lingered when the rest of the team moved on—how Spencer would wait behind just a few seconds longer than necessary after a debriefing, watching you tuck your tablet away, his eyes soft but unreadable. Or maybe it was the nights. That’s probably the better place to start. Not the cases or the fleeting glances but the spaces in between—the moments no one saw.

The first night he came over, it was innocent. You’d both been exhausted. A draining case with three children in the hospital and a mountain of paperwork left to climb. He offered to drive you home, and you accepted. Somewhere between the tired conversation and the thrum of music low in the background, you’d asked him to come in for a drink.

“Tea,” you clarified quickly, suddenly nervous at your own offer.

But he just nodded, his smile almost amused. “I’d like that.”

It turned into hours. Tea became a shared bag of chips. Then laughter softly spilled into the cracks of the night until you were both blinking at the clock in disbelief.

“Shit,” you’d muttered, rubbing your eyes. “It’s almost two.”

“I should go,” he said but didn’t move.

You watched him over the rim of your mug. “You don’t have to.”

He stayed another hour. You pretended not to notice how close he sat. That night became the first of many. Too many. Nights where it was just easier to keep talking. Easier to let time slip away than say goodbye. It wasn’t always your place either. Sometimes he invited you over instead—books stacked like precarious towers around his living room, a quiet documentary playing on mute in the background.

You learned things about him you weren’t supposed to know. That he listens to jazz when he can’t sleep. That he prefers cloudy days to sunny ones because he doesn’t feel the pressure to be happy. That when he was twelve, he made his own flashcards out of index paper and color-coded every subject, not because he had to but because it made the world feel smaller. Manageable. You stored those pieces like smuggled treasure, unsure what to do with them and only knowing they mattered because they came from him.

It was around that time the sadness started to settle in your chest. Not because of anything he did. Not because of how he’d lean toward you without thinking or how his voice softened when he said your name. But because of the things he didn’t do. The lines he didn’t cross. The fact that when he left your apartment at three a.m., he always made sure to say, “Thanks for the tea.” Like that’s all it was. Like you hadn’t just handed him pieces of yourself and watched him tuck them carefully into the folds of his heart.

And of course, there was Maeve. He didn’t say her name often but it didn’t have to be said. You weren’t stupid. You could tell when he was distracted, when his phone would light up and his whole posture would shift. Sometimes he’d smile, distant and private and you’d excuse yourself to the kitchen for no reason at all—just to keep your back to him long enough to breathe through it.

He never saw that it hurt but the team did. It wasn’t all at once. It was in pieces, like puzzle edges lining up before anyone could name the picture. JJ was the first. She didn’t say anything at first but you caught her watching you sometimes during briefings, her gaze flicking between you and Spencer with that quiet, knowing look she wore when things were unraveling. Emily took longer. She teased you once in the bullpen, called you “Reid’s favorite” after he brought you coffee without asking how you took it. Morgan used to rib you all the time. “Someone’s got a crush,” he’d say with a grin and you’d roll your eyes, push him off and make some dry comment about fraternization rules. But then he stopped saying it. Stopped looking amused. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to ask if you were okay. No one ever said it out loud. They didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was louder than any conversation could be.

And now tonight, his name lights up your phone at nearly one in the morning. You stare at it like it might disappear. You don’t answer right away. Your thumb hovers. You bite your lip and close your eyes and think of all the reasons why this is a bad idea. But you answer anyway.

“Hey.” The line is quiet. You can hear his breathing, uneven. Something shifting in the background. You wait. “It’s late,” you say softly, voice caught somewhere between concern and something you can’t name. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

Your chest caves in. That’s not a no. That’s not I’m fine. That’s I’m unraveling.

“What happened?” you ask.

There’s a long pause and then a soft, “We had a fight.”

Your throat tightens. “Maeve?”

A bitter laugh. “Yeah.”

You sit up straighter, pushing the covers back from your legs as if you might need to move, as if this could become something more urgent at any moment.

“What about?”

He hesitates, “She thinks I’m not… fully there. With her. That my head’s somewhere else. That I’m always halfway gone.” He exhales sharply. “And she’s not wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“She said there’s someone else,” he adds, quieter now. “I told her she was being paranoid. That I would never do that to her. But…” He stops. The silence stretches.

“But?” you whisper.

Another breath. “But I didn’t deny it the way I should have.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart cracks in slow, aching silence. “I’m sorry,” you say and mean it. You’re sorry for a thousand things. Sorry for her. Sorry for yourself. Sorry for every second you let this become what it is.

“I just… I didn’t know who else to call,” he says again, and you realize he’s been crying.

“Hmm,” you whisper. “Come over?”

“Okay.”

The line clicks dead and you’re already climbing out of bed, wrapping a sweater around yourself like it might keep you from burning alive. Because you know what you’re doing. You know what this is. And you know that tonight, something is going to change. You don’t bother turning the lights on. When he knocks, it’s soft. Like he doesn’t want to wake something—or someone that shouldn’t know he’s here. You open the door. He’s standing there in a hoodie and jeans, damp from the mist in the air, hair curling at the ends, eyes rimmed red. Not from crying. But you can tell he tried to hold it in and you’re not sure that’s better.

You step aside wordlessly. He walks in. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click. You stay near it for a moment, your hand still on the knob, like part of you could pretend there’s a version of this where you don’t follow him in. Where he doesn’t come to you like this. Where you’re not both complicit in something you can’t even name yet. But you turn anyway. He hasn’t moved far. Just stands in the middle of your living room, his hands tucked into his sleeves like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says again, voice rough.

“You said that already,” you reply gently, crossing the room to him. “But I think you did.”

His eyes meet yours. And for a moment, you see everything you’ve been trying not to admit reflected back at you—longing, guilt, something mournful threaded through it all like a prayer left unanswered.

“Did you walk?” you ask because the silence is starting to drown you both.

He nods. “Needed air.”

You motion toward the couch. “Sit.”

He does. You disappear into the kitchen for a moment, just long enough to fill the kettle and set it on the stove. Tea is a routine. A safety net. It gives your hands something to do besides reaching for him. It gives your voice somewhere to land besides the hollow space between confessions. When you come back, he’s staring at his hands.

“She was crying,” he says, not looking up.

You sit beside him, careful to leave just enough space between you. Just enough to say I know. Just enough to say I’m sorry. Not enough to say stay.

“She said she doesn’t know who I am anymore,” he continues. “That I’m quieter. Distant. That I’ve been coming home but not really being there.”

You swallow hard. “And… do you think she’s right?”

“I keep trying to be everything she needs. I do. But it’s like—” He breaks off, frustrated. “It’s like I’m performing it now. Like I’m going through the motions and waiting for the part where I finally feel the way I used to.”

You breathe out slowly. “Love isn’t always a constant. It shifts. Flows. People change.”

“I don’t want it to be her fault. Or my fault.”

“It’s not.”

He finally looks at you. “Then whose is it?”

You want to say mine. Want to take the weight from him and claim it because maybe you deserve it. But you can’t. Because it’s not that simple and he’s not here for answers. He’s here because he’s tired. Because something inside him is unraveling and you’ve always made space for the frayed parts of him.

“You’ve been carrying too much alone,” you murmur. “That changes people.”

The kettle whistles, soft and shrill. Neither of you moves. His voice lowers. “Sometimes I think I come here because it’s the only place I can breathe.”

Your eyes sting.

“And I hate myself for it,” he adds, voice breaking. “Because she deserves that. She deserves to be the place I run to.”

You rise slowly, go to pour the tea so your shaking hands have purpose. When you return, you offer him a mug. He takes it, holding it like it might warm more than just his fingers. You sip yours quietly. Watch the steam curl. It’s minutes before either of you speaks again.

“She said there was someone else,” he says, not looking at you. “Not because she knew. Just… a feeling. I told her she was wrong.”

You hold your breath.

“I didn’t lie,” he adds. “Not exactly. But I didn’t argue the way I should’ve.”

You finally ask the question that’s been sitting in your throat for months. “Is there?”

The silence is deafening.

“There shouldn’t be.”

That’s not a no. He puts the tea down. And you both sit there, saying nothing. Letting the weight of that answer settle between you like dust on a forgotten shelf. It feels sacred. It feels sickening.

“You should go back to her,” you say, even though you don’t mean it. “Talk to her. Try.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “She ended it.”

Your eyes widen and you shift, turning toward him. “I’m sorry. What do you need, Spence?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just… I couldn’t be alone. And with you it’s—”

“Easier?” you offer.

“Real.”

That breaks something open in you. He finally looks at you and his eyes are glassy. “Do you remember that night after the Boston case?” he asks. “You couldn’t sleep and we watched that terrible movie about the haunted mirror.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. You fell asleep halfway through.”

“I didn’t. I pretended.”

Your heart skips. He reaches up, touches the back of his neck like it burns. “I was afraid if I didn’t, I’d say something I couldn’t take back.”

You place your mug down beside his. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer but you know. The space between you shrinks. He’s still not touching you. But you can feel the pull, a trembling current strung between his fingers and your skin. It’s unbearable. And still you don’t move closer because this is the line and neither of you wants to be the first to cross it. But God you’re so close to giving in. You don’t remember leaning into him. Only that when your shoulder brushes his, neither of you moves away. There’s no flicker of surprise in his eyes. No startled flinch. Just the quiet exhale of someone who’s been holding their breath too long. The tea has gone cold. The clock ticks louder than it should. Spencer’s hand is resting on his knee, unmoving. Yours is close enough that if you just shifted your fingers slightly they’d touch. You don’t. You can’t. But your pinkie twitches once. A silent confession.

“I hate that I’m doing this,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough. “That I came here. That I made this your burden too.”

You want to say it’s not a burden. That you’d carry the weight of his hurt every day if it meant he’d never feel it alone. But you know how that would sound. Know how easily it could crack the silence wide open. So instead you whisper, “You didn’t make me feel anything I wasn’t already carrying.”

His jaw clenches. He stares at the bookshelf across the room like it might rescue him. You think he’s counting the spines. You think he’s building a wall in his head. You speak again, barely audible: “What are we doing?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

But he does and so do you. This isn’t a beginning. It’s not a betrayal. It’s not a confession. It’s the moment just before the fall, when you can still lie to yourself and pretend you haven’t already jumped.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he says. “She’s—she’s kind. Brilliant. Gentle. She deserves—”

“Someone who chooses her without hesitation,” you finish for him.

His face crumples. You reach for him without thinking. Your hand wraps around his forearm, warm and solid beneath your touch. He looks down at it like it’s something sacred. Like it’s the first real thing he’s felt all day.

“You need to sleep,” you say softly.

He nods, eyes still fixed on your fingers. You move and eventually you’re both in your bed. The lamp still on. The sheets a little messy. Neither of you speaks as you lie back against the pillows, still in the clothes you wore all day. He doesn’t reach for you. But he doesn’t turn away either. He lies there like someone waiting for absolution. Eyes open. Breath even. And you lie next to him like someone already damned. Minutes pass.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” he asks.

The question slices right through you.“No,” you say immediately, turning toward him. “Spencer. God, no.”

“I feel like one.”

You don’t say I do too. You don’t say Maybe we are. Instead you reach out and brush his knuckles with yours. A touch so faint it barely qualifies.

“I think we’ve both been trying so hard to do the right thing, we forgot what it feels like to want something.”

His breath stutters. “Do you?” he asks.

“Do I what?”

“Want something. Right now.”

You don’t answer because you do. You want the impossible. You want him to roll toward you and press his forehead to yours. You want him to say your name like it’s the only one he knows. You want to forget that there’s a woman crying in an empty apartment across the city, waiting for a call that won’t come. You want to pretend this moment exists in a vacuum, untouched by reality. You want to be selfish. Instead you whisper, “Goodnight, Spence.”

He turns his head slightly. Looks at you,“Goodnight.”

And for a while, the only sound is the quiet hum of the city outside and the steady, unbearable echo of everything that could have been—shouldn’t be but is. You don’t sleep. You don’t think he does either. But when the sun starts to rise, casting gold across the sheets, you’re still there. Still side by side. Still pretending this was nothing. You don’t know how long you lie there, eyes shut, heart thudding loud in your chest. You can feel him beside you—too close, too still. The air is thick with things unspoken, the room unbearably quiet. The sheets rustle once like the bed itself is reacting to the tension strung between you both.

He speaks first. “Are you awake?”

Your eyes open. You don’t answer. Just shift slightly, enough that your shoulder brushes his. It’s an answer on its own.

“I keep thinking I should leave,” he says, voice so low it barely disturbs the silence.

You turn your head toward him. “Then why haven’t you?”

He doesn’t respond. Outside, the city moves. A siren in the distance. The faint hiss of wind against the windows. But in here, it’s still just the two of you—suspended in a moment that should’ve passed long ago. When he rolls onto his side to face you, your breath catches. You mirror him, barely a foot apart now. You can see the sharp line of his jaw in the low light. The mess of curls at his temple. The way his eyes search yours like he’s hoping you’ll make this decision for him.

“We’re not doing anything,” you whisper. A lie that tastes bitter on your tongue.

“I know.”

But neither of you moves away. His fingers twitch against the mattress between you. Yours do too. You don’t touch yet. You feel it in the way your breath syncs. The way your mouth parts just slightly, like his name is resting there. The way he keeps looking at your lips.

“This isn’t fair,” he says.

“To who?”

“To her. To you. To me.”

You nod slowly. “No. It’s not.”

His voice tightens. “Then why does it feel like I’ve been waiting for this for months?”

That breaks you. You reach for him. Your hand finds his cheek, tentative and trembling. He doesn’t flinch. Just leans into it—barely but enough. His eyes flutter closed. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.

He exhales shakily. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. Instead, your hand slides down slowly to rest against the side of his neck. His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. And then he kisses you. It’s soft at first. Barely a kiss at all. Just a brush of mouths, more breath than contact. But it’s enough to shatter whatever self-control either of you had left. He groans against you. It’s a sound of defeat, of hunger and pulls you closer. His hand grips your waist, dragging you across the sheets until your body is pressed to his, chest to chest, knees tangled, breath shared. Your fingers curl into his shirt. His mouth moves over yours again, slower this time. Reverent. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s apologizing with every press of his lips. You gasp when his hand finds the small of your back. When his thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t go further. Just touches skin like he needs the confirmation that you’re real.

You break the kiss, breathless. “Spence.”

“Don’t,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “Please. Don’t say my name like that unless you want me to ruin everything.”

“I think we already did.” His hand tightens at your waist.

You both freeze. For a second, there’s a chance to stop. And then it slips away. He kisses you again, harder now. More desperate. Like everything he’s buried is clawing to the surface all at once. Your hand slips into his hair and he groans into your mouth, deep and broken. You roll together in the sheets. He ends up on top of you, elbow braced beside your head, thigh pressing between yours. His hips settle low and you both gasp at the contact.

His voice is ragged. “We can’t. I—fuck, we can’t.”

“I know,” you whisper but your nails are digging into his back, your body arching into him like it doesn’t know.

“I can’t,” he says. “I love her.”

“I know,” you whisper again. “But you’re here.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you like it’s killing him. Like you’re killing him. His hand slips under your shirt, up your ribs, slow and reverent. He doesn’t touch your breasts. Doesn’t grope or grab or take. He just lays his palm flat against your skin, over your heart, and breathes like he needs to remember what this feels like before it’s gone. You press your thigh up into him. He gasps, dropping his head to your shoulder. His hips jerk instinctually.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, like a prayer. “What are we doing?”

You don’t know. All you know is that his mouth is on your neck now, open and hot and desperate. That your shirt is halfway off. That his hand is trailing down your stomach like he wants to stop, but he won’t. You clutch at him. Breathe his name again. Softer this time. His fingers slide down. Under and between. He groans when he feels how wet you are through your underwear, his touch unsteady. You bite your lip, eyes squeezing shut.

“This isn’t happening,” he says.

But it is and you don’t stop him. You lift your hips slightly when his fingers push beneath the waistband of your underwear. His touch is tentative at first—like he’s afraid of what it means. Of what it confirms but you gasp when his knuckles brush your clit and it makes him curse softly into your skin. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard.

“God, I shouldn’t be doing this.” But his fingers slide lower. Part you gently. Find you wet and hot and aching. You choke out a sound you can’t contain and he swears again—this time more broken, more desperate.

“I’m sorry,” he says but he doesn’t pull away. His hand just trembles there, cupping you like you’re something fragile and holy.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely audible. “Please… don’t stop.”

You feel the shudder roll through him as he starts moving. One finger slipping inside you with a careful drag that makes your breath catch and your back arch. His lips brush your neck, the curve of your jaw then your collarbone. He kisses you like an apology. His other hand grips your hip to steady himself, to keep from shaking apart.

“You’re so—” He cuts himself off. Groans. “Jesus, you’re soft.”

You don’t know what to say. You’re too busy trying not to fall apart. Too consumed by the way his fingers move inside you—shallow at first, then deeper, curling just slightly. Like he’s learning you. Like he’s wanted to know this forever. You cling to his shoulders. He moans when your nails dig in, when your hips stutter up into his hand. He adds a second finger and legs tremble. You don’t speak. Neither does he. The silence is thicker now—hot with breath and tension and restraint. The only sounds are the wet, sinful drag of his fingers inside you and the soft whimper you bite back when his thumb brushes your clit.

“Don’t be quiet,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

Your throat works. “Spence—”

He kisses you, slow and deep while his fingers fuck you. You moan into his mouth, helpless and shaking and he groans in response like he can feel it all over.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You feel—fuck—you feel like everything I’ve been missing.”

You don’t ask if he means her. You don’t ask if he’ll leave after this. You just spread your legs wider and let him break you open. His pace stays slow. Intentional. Like he’s making himself memorize every reaction—every twitch of your thighs, every gasp you make, every time your breath stutters when his thumb circles just right.

“I didn’t come here for this,” he says, barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“I just wanted to talk.” He whispers, “Tell you I’m falling apart.” His fingers push deeper. Your eyes roll back. “And now I’m ruining you,” he breathes.

“You’re not.”

His mouth hovers over yours. “I will.”

But he slows. Slows until he’s barely moving, just the weight of his hand between your legs, his fingers resting inside you like a promise he can’t keep. You try to move your hips. He holds you still. Your breath hitches.

“Don’t,” he whispers, brushing your cheek. “Not yet.”

You stare up at him, eyes wide. Needy. Confused.

“I can’t let you come yet.” he says, voice breaking. Your heart punches your ribs. You nod but it feels like dying. He kisses your temple. Then your lips. Then slowly he eases his fingers out of you. You shudder, clenching around nothing, slick and aching and empty.

He groans when he sees it. “Fuck.”

You bite your lip to keep from begging. His fingers are wet when he pulls his hand away. He stares at them for a moment like he’s not sure if he’s horrified or in awe. You lie there, panting. Legs spread. Still trembling. He looks down at you—your flushed cheeks, your heaving chest, the way your underwear’s been tugged halfway down your thighs. Then he moves beside you again. Not touching. Not speaking. Just watching you. You feel his stare like a weight. Like heat. You don’t close your legs. You don’t pull your underwear back up. You just breathe. And he does too. Two bodies on the edge of ruin, still pretending there’s a way back. You lie there in the dark, still breathing hard. You can feel him thinking beside you. Like the thoughts are crawling over his skin. The weight of them. The shame. The wanting. You close your eyes. You feel him move—just slightly, just a shift of sheets and then his hand touches your hip again, light as breath. You open your eyes. He’s staring at you. There’s something in his face now—devastated or hollowed out. Like he’s already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.

“I can’t stop thinking about how warm you were,” he says, voice low and raw. “Around my fingers.”

You don’t breathe.

“You clenched like you didn’t want to let me go.”

Your throat goes tight. You whisper, “I didn’t.”

He swallows. Then his hand moves. Trails down. Tugs your underwear the rest of the way off. You don’t stop him. You lift your hips silently and let him take it. He lets the fabric fall to the floor. Then he’s over you again, slow and tentative like he’s giving you time to push him away. You reach for his shirt instead, pushing it up. He helps you. You watch the lines of his chest appear in the dark—pale skin, lean muscle, a faint tremble in his arms. He presses his forehead to yours.

His mouth brushes yours, softer now. Less hungry. Like he’s afraid of what comes next. Then he shifts back. You hear the metal sound of his belt buckle. The slow drag of his zipper. Your breath catches. When you look down, his pants are halfway down his thighs and his boxers pushed low enough to free him. He’s hard and aching and when he moves over you again, you feel the weight of it drag across your thigh.

He groans, low in his throat. “Fuck. Are you sure?”

You nod, your hand finding his face.

“I should’ve stopped this hours ago,” he says.

You nod again. And then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, while his hand drags up your thigh to part your legs again. You let them fall open beneath him, your chest rising as his hips settle between yours. His cock nudges against you, not pressing in and the feel of it makes your entire body tense.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

Your hands grip his waist. He reaches between you, guiding himself. The head of his cock brushes your entrance and you both suck in a breath. He hesitates.

“Last chance,” he whispers.

You whisper, “Please.”

And then he pushes in. Slowly. Carefully. Your body stretches around him, and you feel it in every nerve, every inch of skin. He groans when he bottoms out, burying his face in your neck like he can’t stand the feeling of being inside you without breaking. You gasp. It’s overwhelming—everything. The weight of him. The heat. The stretch. The knowledge that this is him—Spencer. Your best friend. The man you shouldn’t have let through the door. The man you’ve wanted for months. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. He starts to move. Not fast. Not rough. Just steady, dragging his hips back and pressing forward again, slow enough that you feel every inch. You moan—quiet and wrecked and he kisses your cheek like he can’t stand to hear it.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“Look sorry.”

He breathes hard.

“Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

His hips falter. He looks at you—really looks—and for a second, you see everything in his face. Pain. Longing. Guilt. And something like love. He kisses you again. This time, it’s nothing like sorry. He kisses you again. Slower now. Less careful. His mouth parts yours like he’s tasting a secret he’s wanted for months. There’s no more hesitation. No more apologies. Just his cock buried deep inside you, his hand cupping your jaw, and the slick drag of his hips as he starts to move again. It’s devastating. The first few thrusts are slow but heavier than before—like he’s finally stopped pretending he can hold back. You feel the rhythm build, the heat spreading low in your belly again, the quiet desperation in the way your name catches on his tongue. Your hands roam his back, nails dragging down the curve of his spine. He moans into your mouth, fucking you deeper, and you swear the bed shifts with every grind of his hips. You feel full. Stretched. Claimed.

You breathe his name. “Spencer—”

He shudders. “Say it again,” he whispers.

“Spencer.”

He kisses you harder, hips stuttering like it does something to him—like hearing it out loud pulls him apart. “I’ve thought about this,” he pants. “Every time you looked at me like that—God, I wanted to know what your pussy felt like.”

Your breath catches.

“Say something,” he groans. “Tell me you wanted it too.”

“I did.” You drag your nails along his side. “I wanted it so bad I couldn’t sleep.”

He groans low in his throat. His hand slides under your thigh, hitching your leg up to his waist and the new angle makes you gasp—his cock presses deeper, perfect, right against the place that makes you see stars.

“There,” you whimper. “Right there—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He grinds into you with that exact pressure, again and again, his pace slow but relentless. You can hear how wet you are now, how every thrust sounds obscene in the quiet room. His skin is hot against yours, flushed and damp, and when he leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth, your back arches off the bed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, mouth dragging hot over your chest. “You’re so tight. I can feel you squeezing me.”

You whine, overwhelmed. He fucks you deeper in response, his rhythm just a little faster now, his teeth grazing the swell of your breast as he sucks a bruise into your skin. You’re close again. You know it. And this time, you’re not going to stop.

“Please,” you gasp. “I need—Spencer—please—”

“Shhh.” He kisses your cheek, your mouth, your throat. “I’ve got you. You gonna come for me?”

You nod, nearly sobbing. “Yes—please.”

“Rub your clit,” he whispers. “I want to feel you while you do it.”

Your hand moves between you, fingers finding the slick bundle of nerves he left aching. You circle it fast, the way you know you need, and when he thrusts in again, your whole body clenches. The orgasm hits like a wave—sudden and devastating—your legs shaking, your cunt spasming around his cock. You cry out, half his name and half something wordless, and Spencer groans like he’s the one falling apart.

“Jesus—fuck—fuck—” His voice breaks. “That’s it. That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that—”

You barely come down before he’s slamming into you harder, chasing his own edge now. His thrusts lose rhythm, grow messier, deeper. His hand fists in the sheet beside your head. He’s close.

“Inside,” you gasp, dizzy from the high. “Come inside—please—”

He buries himself to the hilt and comes, body shaking above you, teeth sunk into your shoulder to stifle the noise. You feel it—hot and thick and pulsing—deep inside, and it makes your eyes roll back. He groans again, lower this time and collapses against you. Neither of you speaks for a long time. You just breathe. You’re still joined. His cock softening inside you, your thighs sticky with slick and come, your fingers tangled in his hair like if you let go, you’ll fall back into the real world too fast. Spencer presses his face to your neck. His breath is warm against your skin. His heartbeat is racing.

And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—eyes soft, mouth flushed—you don’t see regret anymore. You see the same thing in yourself. The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not yet. Just heavy—like everything in the room has slowed to match the weight of what’s between you. Spencer doesn’t move at first. His body’s still draped over yours, flushed and trembling, and you can feel his heart pounding where his chest rests against yours. Your fingers are still in his hair. You don’t remember threading them there, but you don’t pull away now. The room smells like sex and sweat and heat. You’re still joined. Still full of him. Still bare. It should feel like too much. Instead, it feels like air for the first time in weeks. When he finally shifts, it’s gentle. He rolls onto his side and brings you with him, guiding your head to his chest like he needs you there. His hand spreads low on your back, fingers splayed wide like he’s trying to cover as much of you as he can. He’s quiet, breathing slow, like he’s listening for something beneath your skin.

You don’t speak right away. It’s too fragile, too new and too fucked to name. You press your face into the curve of his collarbone and let the warmth settle. His other hand moves slowly up your spine, soothing. Anchoring. His lips brush your hair.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Yeah.”

He swallows hard. You feel the motion under your cheek. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have called you tonight.” he confesses.

“I’m glad you did.”

Silence again. You shift slightly, just enough for him to slip out of you. The loss is a dull ache. Your thighs are sticky, sore. You don’t care. You stay wrapped around him anyway.

He kisses your forehead. “You don’t regret it?” he asks.

You hesitate. But only for a second. “No.”

A quiet exhale leaves him, like your answer loosened something in his chest. He holds you tighter. “I don’t,” he says. “I should. I know I should. But I don’t.”

You nod against him, eyes burning. You don’t want to talk about Maeve. About what this means. About what it can’t mean. So you don’t. You lie there instead, tangled together in the dark, every inch of you humming with the imprint of him. His hand strokes slowly up and down your back, never stopping, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You tilt your head up. He looks down. There’s no guilt in his eyes. No apology. Just something raw and quiet and infinite. He kisses you again. It’s slower this time. Sweeter. Like it’s just for you. Like it doesn’t have to survive the daylight.

You whisper into his mouth, “Stay.”

His brows knit.

“I don’t mean forever,” you add. “Just… today.”

He nods once. “I was going to,” he says.

His eyes finally catch your figure, your silk gown hugging your body in ways he can only be envious of. You’re standing in the middle of the main room, a matching champagne flute in your hand as you charm the policymakers around you.

You are Bucky’s target tonight. You, the senator residing over Valentina’s impeachment case.

Nothing too extreme, just a little convincing on his end. A push in the right direction.

Your laugh carries all the way up the stairs straight into his chest, a warmth blooming through his heart. He tries to convince himself it’s the champagne working through him, but there’s a reason he made sure to get his suit tailored for tonight and put on enough cologne to drown you in it.

He watches you excuse yourself and set your empty glass on a nearby table, lifting the bottom of your dress while you head towards the stairs. He quickly jumps into action and walks a few steps down closer to you, holding out a hand. “It’s good to see you, Senator.”

“Congressman,” your eyes light up in recognition, “likewise. Are you typically waiting for women to struggle their way up the stairs or am I special?”

“You want the diplomatic answer or the truth?” he retorts, letting his hand fall to the small of your back as he guides you up the stairs.

You smirk, “What’s the diplomatic answer?”

“That I’m a good samaritan who didn’t want a colleague to fall over.”

“And the truth?”

Bucky pinches your hip, “Needed to get my hands on you somehow.”

You gasp as you reach the top step, abruptly letting your dress go, “Is that so? You couldn’t just, you know, talk to me?”

“Now what fun would that be, doll?” his arm curls around your hips as soon as you’re both out of sight from the main ballroom. “We do need to talk about something.”

A sigh leaves you before you can help it, “Bucky, I told you there’s nothing more I can do about Valentina’s impeachment. There is no evidence, without anything  she’s not getting nailed for this.”

“I know, I know,” he says softly, “I just need a bit more time. Few days, and there’ll be damning evidence to put her away.”

“You know I can’t do anything to change it.”

Vibranium rests on your other hip, pulling you square with his, “See that’s why I needed to talk to you alone, because I know you can. You’ve done it before.”

“No I haven’t.”

His fingers curl slightly into your dress and raise the hem off the floor. A gentleman above all before he starts walking you back slowly. “I beg to differ, doll. I watched you delay that arms safety bill by five days last week.”

You think back, all the days you spent lobbying and pushing against the opposition. It took a lot of arguing, canvassing, and damn near begging on your part for them to delay as much as you did. If they had voted five days prior, you knew the government would have more blood on their hands than they anticipated, or cared for. You knew it was a worthy cause, and without your efforts a lot of people would be dead because of it.

You could delay Valentina’s case, if you wanted to. It would be easier than the bill. You could read Bucky’s intentions from the millisecond you laid eyes on him. But from the second Bucky found your hand to lead you up the stairs you’ve watched his eyes grow wider and darker in sensation as he talks to you. Like he knows what his end goal is, and he’s hoping you catch on soon too. Lucky for you, you caught on the moment you stepped foot into the mansion at the start of the night.

It’s always a means to an end with Bucky Barnes, the same cat and mouse game you both play that you inherently know is silly but you’re both too wrapped up in the chase of it all to say anything.

“I think someone just needs to prove to you that it’s worth your time.”

“And that’s supposed to be you?”

“I’m whatever you need me to be. Let me show you.”

Your eyes widen and dart across the ceiling as your back meets the wall, “Someone’s going to see us!”

“This is a blind spot, baby don’t worry. I won’t let anyone see anyone see you come, for my eyes only right?” He mouths your ear and works downward, “Will you let me do that? Can I prove it to you?”

“I—I…” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut as his lips latch down onto your neck, “I’m listening.”

He grins into your skin and kisses back up your jaw, landing soundly on your lips capturing them in a hurried yet gentle kiss. He guides your hands to wrap around his neck and lets his own slide down to the swell of your ass.

You feel Bucky imprint his fingers into your flesh and you silently pray there’s proof of it in the morning. Your hips roll on their own accord towards his, desperate for any friction it can find.

“Patience, doll. I got you, I'm gonna take good care of you.” he whispers. You suppress a shiver as you feel his finger trail to the front of your dress, dipping behind the high slit and traveling to the fabric of your panties. A single digit traces a path along the edges of the fabric left to right, ghosting over where you need him the most. He lets his finger press into the center of your core, relishing in the sharp gasp that leaves you.

“Bucky,” you breathe, “please.”

His lips return to the sensitive spot on your neck and the feeling overwhelms you so much that you don’t realize he’s pulled your panties to the side and swiped a finger through your folds.

You moan brokenly at the feeling and Bucky quickly stills his movement, “Shh, don’t want anyone to come find us right? Gotta stay quiet.”

You nod rapidly, willing to agree to the most heinous of crimes if it meant he didn’t stop. You slap a hand over your mouth for emphasis, and the bastard has the audacity to laugh at your efforts to stay quiet.

Bucky’s fingers move through your folds with a guided ease, your core practically dripping in invitation for him to enter. “Did you get this wet just from us talking? If I had known I had that kind of effect on you, I’d have done this to get my way ages ago.”

“That’s all I am to you, right?” your voice raising in octave slightly at the end as he finally sinks a finger into you, “An obstacle to remove? Or use?”

“You wound me doll,” his finger goes about setting a rhythm before another slips in and joins, “but I know you’re smart. And I know that’s not what you think of me.”

The slide of his fingers is enough to set you on the course for delirium, rendering any and every responsibility or obligation that isn’t him obsolete. The pace he sets is downright ridiculous, addicting. His thick fingers leave you wondering and yearning for what it could feel like to be stretched out by him instead.

“And what do I think of you, Barnes?” you try to brave.

He chuckles, his thumb landing and circling your clit,  “Well darling, I think you do hate me. I just think you hate that I can get you like this. That I can make that pretty brain of yours turn to mush the second I get my hands on you.”

You let out a soft whimper and roll your eyes, although it’s counterintuitive because they roll in pleasure for him and not your poorly conceived disdain for him.

Because you know he’s right, god he’s so right it makes you see red. This isn’t the first time you’ve bent your morals for Bucky Barnes, and you know it won’t be the last.

“That’s why you let me have my way with you in the middle of this mansion, where anyone can walk by. You love the thrill of it. You love risking it all, but you love risking it all with me.”

His fingers speed up, “I…Bucky no, I—“ you feign.

“No? So you’d let anyone do this to you?”

Never, you think, there’s not a single person you would let this happen with. Only him, always him.

Vibranium snakes up your throat and cinches around it, forcing your eyes to make contact with his icy blue ones. His other hand continues to pump relentlessly in and out of you, brushing against your clit every few strokes and causing you to break a sweat. “Answer me, sweetheart. You lettin’ anyone touch you like this?”

You languishly shake your head, “No! No, no one. I swear.”

Bucky doesn’t let up on his pace, “Who gets to have you like this, baby?”

The building pleasure imbeds into every neuron in your body, clouding any and every sense in existence until you’re a mess of whimpers and broken moans. 

“Y—You.” you whisper.

His metal hand squeezes around your neck, “Can’t hear you, doll.”

“Buck,” you whimper.

He relishes in your feeble gaze, “This gone on my fingers, makes me wonder how you’ll be cockdrunk on me.”

His thumb circles your clit fervently, adding a third finger and stretching you out with a pain that hurts too good. Your head falls back against the wall as you let him take over, his hand laying firm against your throat to ensure you don’t lose his eyes.

Not that you’d ever want to, for as long as Bucky is willing to play this game or for as long as he’s willing to have you, you would never dare be the one to tap out first. If you could have him in any capacity you would, and you’d let him take as much as he wants if he kept him right between your legs.

You hope he mistakes the budding tears in your eyes for proof of his overwhelming ministrations and not for the vulnerability he threatens to expose with every thrust of his fingers. “ ‘m close.” you pant.

Bucky hums, “Want you to come all over my fingers, doll. Wanna feel you give me everything, can you do that?” 

There’s no voice left in you to give him a response, your body speaking for itself in deep heaves and your arching back. Bucky groans into your neck feeling you clamp down onto his fingers as you reach your peak, working you through the pleasure as it consumes you entirely.

He whispers coos and praises into your ear, “Did so good f’me baby. It’s okay, I got you. Shh, I’m here.” as he anchors you back down to this realm.

Bucky pulls out a handkerchief from his back pocket, because of course he has one, and dabs at your eyes delicately. “Was it too much? I’m sorry if I got carried away, you can always tell me to stop, you know that.” he whispers with worry.

You sniffle and swallow your emotion down, “It was okay, I’m fine don’t worry.”

He doesn’t look convinced, “You sure?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” he goes about fixing your dress and hair, hands resting at your hips again as he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, “will you talk to the council, please?

Right, you think, the trial. That’s all this was.

You nod automatically and smile solemnly, “I’ll see what I can do, Buck.”

He doesn’t pick up on your sullen smile, “Thank you, doll. I have to go make some calls, but I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”

The lump in your throat thickens, “Sure, I’ll be in touch. Good to see you, Congressman.” 

“Likewise, Senator.” he gives your cheek one last kiss before disappearing into the night.

Maybe one day you’ll tell him how you really feel, that one day you’ll feel like it’s worth telling him how much he really means to you.

But so long as Bucky Barnes has an agenda, you are simply not the priority.