it's doctor.

“I’m not frightened.” His mouth pulls to one side, though his eyes stray to the curtain again. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

You look back at him. He’s dressed slightly better than the occasion requires, which is normal enough that you noticed only in passing when he arrived at your flat. His tie is patterned but subdued, and his hair keeps falling forwards no matter how often he pushes it away. His coat is still unbuttoned despite the January cold; he began telling you about Rossi’s cooking before you made it out of your building and apparently forgot there were buttons involved.

The knot of his tie has worked its way a little to the left. You reach up to straighten it. “I’m comfortable.”

His attention drops to your hands. “You’re cold.”

“I’m standing outside in January.”

“You loosened the scarf.”

“It made me look like I was being strangled by a blanket.”

“It’s cashmere.”

You glance down at the loosened scarf. “I know. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t aggressive.”

Spencer’s smile spreads slowly, warm and crooked and bright enough to make you forget the weather for a second. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“You understood me.”

“I usually do.”

The door opens before you can answer. Rossi takes in the two of you on his porch — your fingers still resting against Spencer’s tie, Spencer standing close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushes yours — and lets his eyes linger on your hand before returning to Reid.

“Reid.” He steps aside. “And you must be the woman who stole his seat.”

You turn on Spencer. “You told him that?”

“It’s how we met.”

“That’s not how we met.”

Rossi accepts your coat. You unwind the scarf and hold it out without looking; Spencer takes it automatically, hanging it beside your coat while he continues to regard you with the stubborn composure of someone who possesses an eidetic memory and has appointed himself sole custodian of the past.

“There was a programme on the chair,” he says.

“There was rubbish on the chair.”

“It was the programme for the lecture.”

“Which had already started.”

“That doesn’t make it rubbish.”

Rossi closes the door behind you. “You can argue the case over dinner. I’ve heard Reid’s testimony several times.”

You follow him into the hall, looking sideways at Spencer. “How many times have you told this story?”

“It comes up more often than you’d think.”

Before you can ask how a disagreement over auditorium seating could possibly come up at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, someone makes a small, delighted noise at the end of the hallway.

Garcia appears in a sweep of colour, bracelets and barely restrained curiosity. “You’re real.”

“Garcia,” Spencer warns.

“I never suggested she wasn’t.” She reaches you and takes both your hands, looking you over with such open pleasure that it’s impossible to feel inspected. “I’m Penelope. I have been waiting so patiently to meet you that I think I deserve official recognition from the Bureau.”

“You sent me four messages this afternoon,” Spencer says.

Garcia dismisses this with a flick of her bracelets. “And every one of them was supportive.”

“One of them was nine exclamation marks.”

She hugs you before you have decided whether handshakes are still an option. Over her shoulder, you find Spencer watching you, ready to intervene and relieved when he sees he doesn’t have to. He knows you have never enjoyed entering a room full of strangers. He also knows that Garcia has rendered strangers impossible within thirty seconds.

Morgan comes around the corner carrying two bottles of wine. “So this is who’s been taking up all your Thursdays.”

Spencer’s head turns. “She doesn’t take them up.”

“You make that sound worse,” you tell him.

“I mean, I choose to spend them with you.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rise. “And disappear before anyone can give you another file.”

Spencer has already turned back to you, taking the bag from your shoulder before you have to hitch it back into place.

“I leave work at a reasonable time on Thursdays,” he adds. “That isn’t disappearing.”

“You texted me from the lift last week saying, ‘I escaped.’”

“They’d already given me three,” he says, as though this settles the choice of verb.

Morgan studies the two of you for another second, then gives you a slow nod. “You’re going to fit in fine.”

The rest of the introductions happen in Rossi’s living room, where the fire is lit and every available surface has acquired either a glass or a plate. JJ greets you with an easy warmth that eases the last of your nerves. Hotch is more reserved, although the handshake he offers comes with a sincere, “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Between the BAU’s cases and your own habit of declining invitations to crowded gatherings, finally becomes the common thread of the evening. Oddly, the feeling is mutual. Spencer has been talking about his team for seven years, long enough that you sometimes forget you’ve never actually met any of them. Tara, seated on the arm of a chair, tells you that she has only known Spencer for a few months and has somehow still heard enough about you to recognise your name immediately. 

You look at him. “What have you been telling these people?”

“Not much.”

Morgan sets the wine beside Rossi’s decanter. “He brings you up more than he thinks he does.”

“Only when something reminds me of her,” Spencer says.

“So whenever anyone sits in a chair,” you say.

“Only if they sit in my seat.”

“That wasn’t your seat.”

Tara looks between you. “I’m beginning to see how you two have kept an argument about a chair going for seven years.”

“Seven years, two months and six days,” Spencer corrects.

You’re accustomed to this. Spencer remembers the first time you met, the first film you watched together and the day you discovered the little bookshop that now holds a hard-won place in your Thursday routine. He remembers what you ordered the first time you dragged him to your favourite café and exactly which joke made you choke on it. None of it has ever seemed remarkable when it’s simply the way his mind works and the shape your life has taken around his. Across the room, JJ’s gaze rests on him for a moment before returning to you.

“That’s Spencer,” you say, because it is.

“It is,” JJ agrees, a small smile tucked into the words, and Rossi calls everyone to the table before you can work out what she finds funny.

He has prepared enough food for twice as many people and accepts praise as his due. The conversation moves easily around you, propelled by the overlapping stories of people who spend too much time together. Morgan disputes Rossi’s version of an arrest in Baltimore; JJ supplies the part both men have omitted. Tara waits until they have nearly finished before revealing that Garcia showed her the security footage and neither account is accurate.

At the head of the table, Hotch listens with the patience of a man who has long since accepted that authority has limits.

As everyone gathers around the table, Spencer rests a hand on the back of an empty chair. You slip into it without either of you acknowledging the gesture, and he takes the seat to your right, tucking your bag safely beside his feet.

The conversation follows everyone to the table, breaking and reforming as chairs are pulled in and Rossi begins sending dishes around. When the bread reaches Spencer, he selects the darker end piece before handing you the basket. He’s looking down at his plate, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You dig beneath the slices for the remaining end and set it on your plate.

“Did you just take that?”

He arranges his face into innocence. “Take what?”

“You know I like the end.”

“There are two ends.”

“You took the better one.”

“They’re structurally identical.”

“They absolutely are not.”

He lets you make your case, then exchanges his piece for the one on your plate with the ease of a ritual completed many times before. You tear the bread in half and put half back on his plate, which is when you notice Tara watching from across the table, amusement gathering at one corner of her mouth.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” She reaches for her wine. “I’m learning.”

Spencer leans nearer to you. “About bread?”

You give him a look and take a bite. He glances across at Tara, clearly tempted to investigate.

“Don’t make the face,” you warn.

“What face?”

“The one you make before asking a question that adds twenty minutes to a conversation.”

Spencer turns to you, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a small, dubious line. “I don’t have a face for that.”

“You do,” JJ says from his other side.

Morgan points his fork at her. “He definitely does.”

Spencer appeals to Hotch, who takes a measured drink of wine. “You do.”

The table breaks into laughter, Spencer along with it. His head tips back, his eyes close, and the smile opens across his face without the flicker of self-consciousness that sometimes follows when he realises a room is watching him. You know the quieter laugh he uses when he’s trying not to encourage you, the startled one that escapes when you catch him off guard, the breathless, helpless version that makes him fold forwards and hide his face. This one is easy and bright. He looks happy.

You are still watching when he turns back. The laughter remains in his eyes as his expression shifts into a question, and only then do you notice the small streak of sauce near the corner of his mouth.

“Hold still.” You wipe it away with your thumb before it occurs to you that a napkin would have done the job just as well.

His lips part at the touch. For a second, the noise of the table seems to move around the two of you, then you drop your hand and reach for your glass. By the time Spencer does the same, Morgan has turned the conversation towards Rossi’s wine.

Later, once the plates have been cleared and Rossi produces a tiramisu large enough to require architectural planning, Garcia asks how you and Spencer became friends after what she calls the Auditorium Incident.

“She followed me outside,” Spencer says.

“You followed me.” You turn towards him, eyebrows raised at the version of events he has chosen to present. “Apparently handing me a pen and saying ‘Here’ was supposed to communicate a short-term loan.”

“I thought it was obvious.”

Morgan rests an elbow on the table. “Was this at least a good pen?”

“No. It leaked all over my hand.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell her when she walked away.”

JJ glances between you. “So you followed a woman out of a lecture hall over a defective pen?”

“I didn’t follow her,” Spencer says, a little too quickly. “She was walking towards the Metro.”

“I was walking towards coffee. He spent three blocks correcting a route I wasn’t taking.”

Garcia presses both hands to her heart. “And he came with you.”

“It had started raining,” Spencer says.

JJ looks at him. “You hate coffee shops.”

“They’re usually loud.”

“That one was,” you say. “You stayed after the rain stopped anyway.”

He looks at you, momentarily caught without a correction. His knee has rested against yours beneath the table for most of the conversation, warm and solid through two layers of clothing. “You were interesting.”

The answer is simple, offered without embarrassment. Before you can decide what to do with it, Rossi cuts into the tiramisu. “And the rest is seven years, two months and six days of arguing.”

“We don’t always argue,” Spencer says.

“You called me at midnight last week because my bookshelf leans.”

“It leans towards your bed.”

“Protectively.”

He gives you a long, suffering look. “It’s going to fall on you.”

Hotch hides a smile behind his wine. “He may have a point.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, vindicated, and you promise the table that when he appears at your flat with a spirit level, they are all invited to help him.

The evening loosens after dessert. Rossi opens another bottle of wine, Morgan finds music, and people drift between the living room and kitchen as the conversation divides into smaller pieces. You spend a while talking to JJ and Tara near the fire. Spencer is pulled into a discussion with Hotch on the other side of the room, but his attention returns to you often enough that you begin to anticipate it. You look up, and his eyes are already there.

He never stares. His gaze finds yours, checks, and returns to the conversation. When Garcia drops onto the sofa beside you with enough force to send your glass wobbling, his hand lifts from across the room before you catch it yourself.

You raise the rescued glass in his direction. He smiles, lets his hand fall and turns back to Hotch.

Between the fire and the overlapping voices, the room soon grows too warm. You finish what remains in your glass, leave it on the side table beside Garcia and slip through the doors onto the back terrace. At the stone railing, you draw one full breath of cold air before the door opens behind you.

“You’re going to say you told me so,” you say.

Spencer settles your coat over your shoulders. “I was going to ask why you came outside without this.” He draws the fabric closed at your throat, making sure your hair stays clear of the collar.

“Same sentiment.”

“Not exactly.”

You turn before he has taken his hands away, leaving the two of you close enough that his hands slide down to your elbows instead. Through the glass doors, Garcia is looking directly at you. Morgan comes up beside her, follows her gaze and says something you can’t hear.

“What are they doing?”

Spencer glances over his shoulder. Both of them disappear from the window.

“I don’t know.”

“They’re very strange.”

“They like you.”

His certainty draws your attention back to him. “They’ve known me for three hours.” You reconsider this, glancing towards the living room. “Then again, Garcia gave me copies of your childhood photographs.”

Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “She gave you copies?”

“And made me promise Morgan would never see them. You were very serious about that chess trophy.”

Spencer smiles, small and pleased. “That means she trusts you.” 

You laugh, and his thumbs shift against the sleeves of your coat. The movement is small, nearly absent-minded. You have held his hand through turbulence, hooked an arm through his in crowded streets and fallen asleep against his shoulder during films neither of you remembers finishing. This belongs to the same familiar language, a touch whose meaning has never required either of you to stop and examine it.

You rest your hands against the front of his jacket. “I like them too.”

The line of his shoulders softens. “I knew you would.”

“Even Morgan.”

“That’s premature.”

The door opens, and Morgan sticks his head outside. “We can hear you, genius.”

Spencer looks back at him without removing his hands from your arms. “She said she likes you.”

“I heard the rest too.” Morgan gives you a wounded look before retreating inside.

Spencer’s grin is immediate and entirely unrepentant. It stays with him as you go back indoors together, his hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. Once the doors close, he eases the coat from your shoulders before the heat can become uncomfortable and carries it back to the hall.

It’s close to midnight when people begin leaving. Hotch goes first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hugs you and tells you to come back even if Reid doesn’t, Garcia informs him that threatening a guest is poor etiquette and then hugs you twice as hard. By the time Tara finds her coat, Spencer is helping Rossi carry glasses into the kitchen, although the discussion drifting down the hallway suggests that helping involves an argument about the safest way to store crystal.

“It was lovely meeting you,” Tara says. She loops her scarf around her neck, then glances towards the kitchen with affectionate amusement. “I understand now why he keeps disappearing on Thursdays.”

“He’ll be pleased you believe it counts as disappearing.”

“I’m sure he’ll explain the distinction to me at length on Monday.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “I’ll admit, I was confused at first. Reid talks about you all the time, but he never mentioned you were his girlfriend.”

The word is gentle, tossed into the conversation without any reason to be careful with it.

“His girlfriend?”

Tara looks back at you. The realisation reaches her a moment later. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought the two of you were together.”

Behind her, Garcia stops rearranging the bracelets on her wrist.

“No.” The answer comes automatically. It is a simple fact. You and Spencer have never crossed that line or even discussed it. The rest ought to follow just as easily. Instead, we’re just friends catches somewhere behind your teeth, suddenly too small to account for seven years of Thursdays and everything the others have been watching all evening. The evening begins moving through your mind again, Rossi opening the door to find your hand on Spencer’s tie, Morgan’s eyebrows when he said Spencer chose to spend Thursdays with you, JJ’s quiet smile, Tara watching the bread pass between your plates, Garcia and Morgan vanishing from the terrace window. “It’s not like that. We’re not—”

“You ready?”

Spencer comes down the hallway with your bag in one hand. His attention passes from your face to Tara’s and then to Garcia, who has become far too interested in her bracelets.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tara says, recovering first. “I was saying goodnight.”

You can’t find the end of the sentence you were saying. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He holds your coat while you slip your arms into it and frees your hair from beneath the collar with practised fingers. The touch is the same one you have barely noticed a hundred times. Now the word girlfriend seems to catch against it.

Rossi appears at the end of the hallway. He surveys Tara, whose hand is still on the door, Garcia valiantly looking elsewhere and Spencer adjusting your scarf. “Goodnight,” he says, much too entertained for someone who can’t possibly know what has just happened.

By the time the two of you reach the Metro, Spencer has filled the walk with an account of Rossi insisting tiramisu can’t be made properly without alcohol. He talks while you wait on the platform and keeps going once you’re inside the carriage. The earliest known versions of the dessert lead to the disputed origins of ladyfingers, which somehow bring him back to the argument about stacking Rossi’s crystal.

Usually, you interrupt. You ask questions, argue over details or tug him back to the original point when one tangent begins producing another. Tonight, you watch his reflection in the darkened window while he talks. His curls have grown increasingly disordered over the course of the evening, and one falls across his forehead whenever he turns towards you. Interest animates his whole face — his eyes brighten, his hands move with the rhythm of his words, and every trace of fatigue leaves him for as long as the thought holds him.

You know all of this because you have always known him. What it does to you when he turns that attention on you is hardly new; the part you have never allowed yourself to question is what any of it means from his side. A room full of profilers watched the two of you for a few hours and assumed they already knew. Tara gave that assumption a name, and now every small, familiar thing seems to return carrying the possibility with it.

When the train lurches around a curve, Spencer’s hand closes lightly around your forearm. He releases you once you are steady, still talking. You feel the place his fingers were long after the warmth is gone.

Outside the station, the pavement is damp from an earlier rain, catching the streetlights in long, blurred reflections. Spencer slows his stride to yours without acknowledging the adjustment. He has glanced at you more than once since the train pulled away, waiting at the end of a sentence as though he expects you to tug the conversation elsewhere, and each time he has gone on when you don’t. You’re only a few blocks from home when his explanation of why Rossi’s crystal glasses should never be stacked trails off.

“Everything okay?” His words soften as he studies your face. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets you have the answer. You make it another half-block before a disbelieving laugh slips out.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Did you know Tara thought we were dating?”

A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. “What?”

“Yeah.” Saying it aloud makes you unexpectedly shy. You push your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “Apparently everyone did.”

You expect him to laugh. You expect him to question the team’s observational abilities or reconstruct the evidence that led them there. Instead, the smile falters as something you cannot read moves through his expression, and for the first time all evening Spencer has nothing to say.

At the corner, he waits for the light with his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn in against the cold. The unfinished explanation about Rossi’s glasses hangs somewhere behind you.

“Spence?” You bump your arm against his. “Got really quiet there for a minute.”

He looks at you, then towards the signal as it changes. “Did you correct her?”

You start across the street beside him. “I tried. Then you came over.”

“What were you going to say?”

“That it wasn’t like that. That we weren’t…”

“Dating,” he supplies.

“Right.”

He nods, but the silence returns. You reach the other pavement and stop. Spencer takes one more step before noticing you are no longer beside him.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re being strange.”

“I’m not.”

“You abandoned a fact halfway through.”

“I can finish it.”

“I don’t want to hear about the glasses anymore.”

His eyebrows lift. “Then why did you bring them up?”

“Spencer.”

He goes still. For a moment he simply looks at you, his hair untidy from the wind, a nervous half-smile appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, each word sounds measured.

“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”

Your pulse stumbles. “What was?”

He doesn’t answer with words. His gaze holds yours, open enough that you can see the question he’s too careful to ask and the truth he has already let escape.

“Oh,” you say. Everything you have been turning over since Rossi’s house settles into place at once. Spencer is still watching you with nervous hope, and Tara’s mistake no longer feels entirely like one.

Spencer glances down at the wet pavement, then back at you, waiting.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says quietly, holding your gaze this time.

For several seconds, all you can do is stare at him. “Spencer, I rearranged my entire week so I could keep Thursdays free for you.”

He blinks. “You said Thursday was convenient.”

“It’s convenient. I made it convenient.”

“For me?” he asks, still sounding uncertain enough to make you want to shake him.

You let out a breath and catch the lapels of his coat. “Yes. For you.”

Then you pull him down and kiss him.

The first touch of your mouth to his goes awry only because Spencer inhales at exactly the wrong moment. His body stills beneath your hands. You feel the startled warmth of his breath, the edge of his lower lip and the smallest movement as he begins to respond — just before nerves get the better of you and you draw back.

His eyes stay closed for another second. When they open, he stares at you, lips parted.

“Because I wanted Thursdays with you,” you say, still holding his coat. “And because I think I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I realised.”

His gaze searches your face. “You’ve wanted this too?”

“Yes, Spence.”

Relief breaks across his face as one of his hands finds your waist, tentative only until you lean into it.

“Then why did you stop?” he asks.

A nervous laugh slips out. “You went completely still.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.” His fingers curl into your coat and bring you a little closer. “I am now.”

You kiss him again.

This time Spencer meets you halfway. One hand settles against the side of your neck, his thumb fitting beneath your jaw, while the other draws you in at the waist. He kisses you slowly at first, learning the angle, and then with an eagerness that makes you smile against his mouth. His answering laugh is breathless, one you have never heard before and already know you will want to hear again.

When the cold finally makes itself impossible to ignore, you part only far enough to breathe. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, his breath still unsteady.

“Garcia is going to be unbearable,” you whisper.

“She’s going to say she knew.”

“She did know.”

Spencer closes his eyes. “Please don’t tell her that.”

You laugh and smooth the curl the wind has dropped between his eyebrows. He catches your hand as you lower it, keeping your fingers curled inside his.

“Are Thursdays still mine?” he asks.

“They’re still yours.”

He keeps hold of your hand as you begin walking again, his thumb moving over your knuckles while his shoulder keeps brushing yours. He makes it almost half a block before speaking.

“Friday,” he says.

“What about it?”

“Are you free?”

“No.”

His disappointment is immediate. “Oh.”

~*~*~

ONE

"What the hell is that guy's problem?"

You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.

His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."

"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."

Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.

There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.

You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.

"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."

You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)

"Fuck them," you say dismissively.

"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.

"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."

Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.

"Thank you," you say, nodding.

"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.

"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?

"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."

"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."

"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.

"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.

"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.

When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.

"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.

"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.

The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.

He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.

"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.

"Hmm?"

"Are you counting?"

He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."

"One minute, okay?" you tell him.

"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.

Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.

TWO

You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.

You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.

Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.

"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.

"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.

"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."

"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."

"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"

Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.

Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.

"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."

"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."

Touché, Doc.

"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.

If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.

THREE

The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.

Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.

You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.

"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.

You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.

Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.

"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.

"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.

Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.

You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.

His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.

You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.

You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."

His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."

When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.

Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.

"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.

"That's why I woke you up," he replies.

"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.

His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.

You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.

FOUR

The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.

Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.

Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.

You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"

Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.

You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.

"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.

Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.

Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.

His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.

"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."

Penelope snorts. "And did you?"

You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."

She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.

Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.

You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.

He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.

Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.

The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.

"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.

You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."

"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."

You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."

Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."

"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"

"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."

"Then what?"

Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.

"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."

"What?"

You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?

Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."

When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.

When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.

FIVE

One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.

Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.

Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.

Book heaven.

You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.

You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.

You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.

But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."

You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.

"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.

18th century philosophy. Because of course.

And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."

Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.

"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.

You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.

She's touching his hand.

How unprofessional!

For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.

And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.

Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.

And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.

Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.

No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.

Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.

"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.

He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.

Oh.

Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.

You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.

You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.

She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.

You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.

You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.

Terrifying.

ONE

This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.

He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."

And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.

There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.

But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.

And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.

Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.

You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.

"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.

Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.

"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.

"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.

"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.

'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"

You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"

He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?

Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?

Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.

"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.

Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."

At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."

The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.

"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.

He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.

"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."

Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."

You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"

He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"

"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."

"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.

You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"

Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.

He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.

You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.

"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.

You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."

"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."

Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.

It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.

He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.

But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.

The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.

Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…

When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.

"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.

You turn and stare at him. "What?"

"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.

But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.

"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.

You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."

"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.

Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.

"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.

This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.

He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."

When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.

Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.

Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.

How is he supposed to know what to do?

The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.

Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.

He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."

"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.

He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."

You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.

His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.

Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?

But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.

When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.

He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.

You don't move. At all.

He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.

You still aren't moving.

He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.

He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.

Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.

That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.

And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.

Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.

He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.

You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."

When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.

"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.

"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.

You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."

He blinks.

"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.

'Nice' doesn't really cover it at all. "Yeah."

You had turned up in the middle of the night, the sound of your car pulling into the lot had made his eyes drift from the book he was reading whilst curled up on the window seat, over to where you were slamming your car door closed, attempting to balance cardboard boxes that had become damp in the rain and using your foot to push open doors with your keys dangling from your mouth. It wasn’t until he heard the boxes land on the wooden floor next door that he realised he should have helped you, offered to open doors or carry boxes or… anything really. But he hadn’t, he was too distracted figuring you out. Who you were, where you were coming from. Judging by the lack of boxes and personal belongings, he had figured you were either moving out of your parents home for the first time, or moving out from a shared home, be that with a partner or a friend. His answer came two days later when he heard your muffled voice through the wall. He couldn’t make out any words, but you sounded upset, and angry, speaking in half-choked sobs and sending your phone clattering to the floor when you hung up. 

You introduced yourself a week later. His arms had been full of mail from the mail locker in the lobby, and lifted his head at the moment you dropped from the last step, your hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket. His fingers curled around the letter in his left hand tighter as his eyes darted away from yours quickly, before he could linger too long on the shiver it had sent up his spine. He had introduced himself quickly in return, and disappeared upstairs before you could engage him in small talk and he ended up embarrassing himself by telling you a strange fact that you didn’t need to know. You had found it odd, but shrugged it off as him not being sociable, and carried on with your day. Spencer had paced his apartment until he felt like he was leaving grooves in the floor.

He had ignored you since. Not completely, but answered your questions shortly, didn’t engage in small talk, and when you had made cookies for the neighbours, he had returned the plate by leaving it outside your door, no knock, no note. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, no. It was in fact quite the opposite. That the morning after that interaction by the mail locker, he had been in the line of fire at work when Morgan had noticed his silence after having to call his name three times before he looked up. After some intense, friendly, interrogation, Spencer had caved, and told Morgan about you. His advice was unhelpful to say the least, and so he had been stuck in his head trying to figure out a way to talk to you without coming across as weird. 

The apartment settled around you a little heavier than usual, the door closing behind you sounded more dull than you ever remembered it being. Your feet dragged heavily through the apartment, not avoiding the creaky floorboard like you usually did and immediately regretting it when the sound vibrated through your bones. The couch all but swallowed you when you flopped against the cushions, staring blankly at your reflection in the black mirror of your TV screen. Today was meant to be your three year anniversary. You were more angry than sad, annoyed by the fact that you had found the evidence of Connor’s affair in your own home, angry that you were the one who had to move, angry that you were angry, angry that the cute guy next door hadn’t spoken to you in weeks. You had set out to have a good day today, to forget all about Connor, and the lipstick on his shirt, the perfume on his jacket, the women's underwear under the bed. You booked a nail appointment, took yourself to your favourite coffee shop, treated yourself to an afternoon in your favourite book store and even bought yourself two new novels. But it had still felt empty, and you were angry that doing these things for yourself hadn’t helped you take your mind off the lingering thoughts. The lingering insecurity that came with his infidelity, the shame of not recognising the obvious signs, the humiliation of having to tell friends and family that you had been betrayed in the worst of ways. Your hands pushed through your hair as you leant your elbows onto your knees, letting out a long exhale. 

The knock at the door came when you were almost finished with dinner, about to add the finishing touches to the plate when the sound rattled the door in its frame. Your brow creased, the plastic packaging of the basil rustled as you placed it down on the counter. As you made your way over to the door, you felt your stomach dropping with the weight of apprehension, as if your body knew there was something wrong behind that door. The cold metal slipped in your hand as you turned the handle, only to be greeted with an all too familiar scent that had a lump rising in your throat. The overwhelming smell of Axe body spray almost had your eyes burning when you inhaled, forcing you to take a step back, and clear your throat. 

“You gonna let me in?” Connor’s voice was lower than when he normally spoke, the tone he used when trying to manipulate you into believing him, or into forgiving him. Your jaw tensed at his words, teeth grinding against each other with the audacity he possessed to turn up at your door. 

Spencer shouldered open the door to the apartment complex, a paper bag filled with groceries in the crook of each arm. His breath punched out of him in an irritated exhale when he saw the “Out Of Order” sign hanging on the elevator door. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and began his walk up the stairs, the last thing he needed after a long day in the office. As he trudged up the stairs, the sound of muffled voices grew louder, his brows furrowed as he reached his floor, and heard the voices more clearly, one he recognised immediately as yours, the other remained unknown to him. His chest flared at the waver in your voice, like you were trying to put on a confident front while hiding how truly distressed you were. He stopped on the second to last step, the one that kept him hidden from view, and listened to the conversation, his eyes darting around as he tried to grasp the situation, 

“C’mon.” Connor said, the floorboard creaking underneath his weight as he tried to step closer to gain access to your apartment. “Just wanna talk to ya.” He pressed, bringing his arm up to lean against the doorframe above your head, always trying to dominate your space. 

You folded your arms, hoping that the action would conceal the way your hands were shaking. It wasn’t that you were scared that Connor would hurt you, although you also hadn't thought he would cheat on you and yet here you were. It was more that he was unpredictable, that you genuinely had no idea what he could want from you, and if you would be able to get him back out once he was in. 

“No.” You said, your fingers tightening on your biceps. “We have nothing to talk about.” You nodded, as if you needed the confirmation to yourself that you were saying the right thing, judging by the short exhale through Connor’s nose, he wasn’t too happy with your decision. 

Spencer winced slightly at the quiver in your voice, his eyes dropped to the floor, running over the worn carpet as his teeth worried his bottom lip, feeling his heartbeat pick up to 160bpm, his guess given by the way it was rushing through his ears. He took a breath in and lifted himself onto the last step, bringing both you and the man you were talking to into his line of view. 

“Goodnight.” You began to close the door, but Connor’s hand slammed against the wood, the bang making you jump, your eyes widening as you looked at the way his palm flattened against the door. You swallowed, and his hand dropped back to his side.

Connor’s jaw set, and he cleared his throat as he tried to look past you into your apartment, making you close your door back over a little more, trying to protect the peace you had created for yourself without him. “Nah.” He sniffed once, his fingers drumming against the doorframe, “let me in, we can talk, looks like you’ve done the place up real-”

“Excuse-” Spencer cleared his throat, and your eyes lifted over Connor’s shoulder, seeing your neighbours’ wide, brown, doe eyes through his glasses, and his furrowed brows as he shifted awkwardly, his paper bags crinkling in his arms. “Excuse me,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. “But she said she doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

You inhaled as Connor turned around to eye Spencer, your gaze softened as Spencer looked at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in support. Connor turned back to you, catching the lingering tenderness in your eyes, and his hand curled into a fist at his side. “Who’s this freak?” Connor gestured back towards Spencer without taking his eyes off you, “stalkin’ you or somethin’?” 

Spencer’s head tilted at the insult, more puzzled than offended but he stepped forward towards his own front door as he spoke. “Most stalking cases involve someone the victim already knows. Former intimate partners account for a significant proportion of reported incidents, particularly when there's a history of controlling behaviour or a difficulty accepting the end of a relationship.”  He said as he stopped just outside his door, Connor’s eyes darkened, and Spencer either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge it, his eyes moving back to you. “Persistent unwanted contact after someone has clearly asked for space is also one of the behavioural indicators professionals look for when assessing escalation risk.” He paused, his eyes meeting Connor's. “You've been asked to leave twice now.” 

Spencer finally squared his shoulders, standing a little straighter than before despite the tension radiating from the man in front of him. His gaze wandered back to Connor. “Now I believe she made her stance pretty clear?”

Connor ran his tongue over his teeth, taking a calculated gaze between you and your neighbour before he scoffed, a sharp, humourless sound. “You think you’re funny?” 

Spencer didn’t answer, letting the silence linger with a blank look which only irritated Connor further. He took a deliberate step forward, invading Spencer's space until only a couple of feet separated them. "You got a habit of stickin' your nose where it doesn't belong?" Connor muttered, his voice low. "This has nothing to do with you."

"It became my business when she told you to leave and you ignored her."

Connor scoffed. "You don't know what you’re talkin’ about."

"No," Spencer agreed evenly with a tilt of his head. "But I know enough to recognize when someone isn't respecting another person's boundaries."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you know enough?" he sneered. "You some kind of expert now?"

Spencer adjusted the grocery bag against his hip, reaching into his jacket pocket for his keys, the movement pulled the edge of his jacket back to reveal the leather badge wallet clipped to his belt caught the dim lighting. Connor's eyes dropped to it as it glinted, his expression changed almost instantly. "...FBI?"

Spencer looked down briefly, as though he'd almost forgotten it was there. "Yes." He answered plainly.

The confidence drained from Connor's face. His shoulders lost some of their rigid tension, though the irritation remained. "You could've said that."

"You didn't ask."

Connor looked between Spencer and you, jaw working as if he wanted one last cutting remark. Whatever he'd been about to say died behind his clenched teeth. After a long beat, he took a reluctant step backwards. Connor's gaze lingered for another moment before he gave Spencer one last wary look. Then, with a shake of his head and a curse under his breath, he turned and stalked back toward his car.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, pushing his key into the lock, not taking his eyes off his hand as the door opened. You cleared your throat, pushing your hair back behind your ears and nodding as you leaned against the doorframe. 

“Yeah.” You said, your voice too shaky to be convincing. 

"He'll probably come back." He said, glancing up into his apartment before finally looking at you. His expression softened when he noticed the colour drain from your face. "I don't mean immediately," he clarified gently. "But people who are used to getting the last word, or controlling how a conversation ends, don't typically accept being told no the first time. Especially if they believe they can change someone's mind." He paused, his tongue pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as if thinking, considering something. "I don't want you sitting in there by yourself if that's a possibility." He said finally.

You looked up at him.

"If you're comfortable with it..." He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can wait in my apartment for a while. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I was just going to unpack my groceries and make some tea."

You blinked, your grip finally loosening on your arms, and your hands dropping to your sides, the invitation so welcoming that it caught you completely off guard.

"I've got books," he added after a beat, as though that might somehow make the offer more convincing. "And... statistically, it's safer than you being alone if he decides to drive back."

A breath of laughter escaped you despite yourself, and Spencer looked faintly relieved.

"You don't have to decide because I offered," he said quickly. "I just thought I'd rather know you're somewhere you feel safe."

You glanced back into your apartment before looking at Spencer.

"...Tea sounds nice."

The corners of Spencer's mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile.

when you had first joined the behavioral analysis unit a year ago as the latest rookie, the team had teased the possibility of spencer and you becoming a “we” almost instantly.

the bright, genius young man was only a couple years your senior—leading to teasing remarks made by agent morgan and garcia about how you two should just shut up and kiss… and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about stealing just that from pretty boy reid.

platonically, of course!

you were just curious about how his mouth, the culprit behind his many informational ramblings, would feel against yours. there was no harm in that! right? that is to say, there was nothing unusual about you two being too physically and emotionally close with one another: you’d nap beside each other—fingers intertwined to “keep warm”—on the jet plane back home to quantico after an across-the-nation case, or would share doctor germaphobe’s lunch during the team’s one and only break in between searching for the unsub. just normal, friendly behavior as you’d like to call it—he’d even agree with you!

however, as the days passed and seasons changed, you began to see your very good friend in a new light… but it was still purely platonic! spencer reid could never be more than only your bestest friend in the whole world—that would be logically impossible… but the thought of it suggested that it’d be nice, like really nice.

so here you were now, outside of the latest victim’s residence after hotch sent you and reid to look for evidence that could direct the team in finding the unsub before he could strike again.

shrugging your fbi jacket off of your shoulders and onto the couch to accompany spencer’s satchel, you looked over at him to see what he was up to. ever so the loather against bacteria, he rummaged through the pockets of his pants for a pair of gloves and all you could do was a raise a brow at his franticness.

he breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled out four gloves, a set for you without even asking him to. “my lifesaver,” you winked as you snagged it from him—fingers brushing against his—earning a playful eye roll. “and yet you were here, judging me like a germ-loving weirdo.”

after putting them on swiftly, you turned your head over to spencer to see him struggling with slipping the small gloves on his hands—but no, it wasn’t his clumsiness and strenuous effort to fit them that had you staring at him all wide eyed... it was the sight of the latex hugging his veins tight enough that they were visible through the gloves.

his grunts of frustration had you subconsciously biting your lip before realizing you were ogling at his fingers like a freak—imagining them being sucked into your sopping wet cunt, absurdly deep and hitting that perfect spot against your cervix; or how perfect they’d fit inside your mouth, tongue swirling around and reveling in the taste of him. clearing your throat and attempting to find anywhere else to keep your eyes fixated on, you couldn’t help but let them drift back at his hands as they flex against the latex.

this time, spencer witnessed you staring at him with your mouth parted as if you were about to say a witty joke, “what?”

“nothing! let’s just head inside,” you averted your gaze quickly, truly and absolutely mortified by being caught red handed in the act, “hotch is expecting us in an hour.” he pursed his lips together, nodding in agreement, “right, we oughta get to it then.

once the day at work concluded, which consisted of receiving peculiar glances across the room by none other than spencer reid even hours following what took place at the victim’s home, you found yourself rushing to the curb to flag down a taxi cab and escape—only to be cornered by yours truly.

foregoing the niceties he ever so upheld each time, he took a step forward, breath now fanning across your face. before you could even get the chance to ask what in god’s name he’s doing this close to you where lips are almost touching, he asked begged, “tell me that this is all in my head… please. i’m going crazy just trying to figure out if you’ve thought about this, us, too.”

“spence.”

“god, i’m a profiler for the fbi but i can’t decode you.”

without a moment’s hesitation, you tilt your face up to his as you leant in to capture reid’s lips into a far overdue kiss—after months of pent up longing and denial of feelings. you felt his mouth still against yours in pure astonishment, the moment feeling too surreal for him, but then you felt spencer smile into your lips—reciprocating it with just as much fervor.

it was getting harder to kiss with the clashing of teeth, the both of you a grinning and giggling mess as you kissed under the streetlight outside of the fbi academy.

pulling away with closed eyes, you savored the imprint of his lips on yours. when they finally opened to meet his piercing gaze, a very flustered you cringed at the sight of your red lipstick messily smudged and leaving stains all over his chin and mouth. he seemed to catch on, his fingertips tracing the marks with a teasing glint in his eye, “how do i look?” the expression on your face faked contemplation before stealing another peck from him, “handsome as hell.”

adjusting the collar of his coat as his arms found solace in being wrapped around your waist, spencer guided you down to his car in the parking lot while pressing passionate kisses across your jaw like a boy so in love.

and he was.

Or that's what you tell him, not that he believes you in the slightest. He knows you're here with some ulterior motive, you always are, but he's desperately hoping that just this once you might be gracious enough to let him sleep.

But grace isn't something you've shown in the past, so why would you start now? Sure, Spencer might have work tomorrow (today, technically), but you're bored—and that takes precedent here; everyone knows what happens when a serial killer is left to their own devices for too long.

Of course, you don't pose much of a threat to anyone, not anymore; you're retired, non-practicing. You wouldn't hurt a fly if it landed in your cereal. As far as serial killers go, you're harmless. An innocent deer whose coat just happens to be covered in blood that'll never quite wash off. 

You aren't going to kill anyone, even if boredom is killing you, but would Spencer really be willing to take that risk?

The answer thus far has been no. Your capacity to cause harm, in his eyes, far outweighs your promise to stop killing, no matter how many times you tell him you've "changed". He lets you weaponise his distrust only because he has to, because he can't run the risk of trusting you, your word, no matter how badly he may want to.

This is how you managed to take him ballroom dancing, and how you're planning on convincing him to take time off work for a bloody "couple's trip" to New York, and all the other things you've done together. Things that he never would have agreed to if it weren't for the looming threat of you going off the rails. It's a pretty foolproof method, if you do say so yourself.

So when you tug at the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring into his skin how bored you are, he begrudgingly gives you his full attention.

"There are more books in this apartment than there are—"

"In most bookstores," you say, finishing his sentence for him with a sly smile. "I know."

He gives you a light nudge with his elbow. "Then go find something to read."

He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning away, but you grab his arm and pull him back to you. "Not that kind of bored."

Sighing, he meets your gaze with this cool, thoroughly unamused look. "I can't help you with that."

"Yes, you can," you argue, smiling your sweetest smile.

But your charm is lost on him, and all he gives you is a one-word response.

"Can't."

Your smile vanishes, replaced by a pout—an adorable one, in your opinion—that should be enough to move mountains, but Spencer remains unfazed.

"It's 1AM," he mutters.

"Meaning the night is still young."

"Meaning I need to sleep," he counters, scooting away from you. "Some of us have jobs."

You follow him, persistent. "You can sleep later."

"I would much rather sleep now."

He reaches out to push him away, but you catch his wrist and tilt your head to the side with the softest, most disgusting puppy-dog eyed expression you can muster. "So you don't want to fuck me?"

"I don't— that's not—" He jerks his hand back, sputtering as heat creeps into his cheeks. "…I don't want to have sex with you right now. Not if it means sacrificing my sleep."

"Wow." You drag the word out, placing your hand on your chest in a mock show of offence. "I'm hurt."

"Uh huh."

Having had enough of your dramatics, Spencer turns onto his side and, this time, you don't try to stop him. You just wait, patiently, for him to speak up again, because you know he will; he can't resist arguing with you, even when he knows it'll only make things worse for him.

You're sure he can feel your eyes on him, anyway, burning holes into the back of his head. He can't sleep (or relax at all, apparently) when you're watching him and, consequently, he'll usually banish you to the living room when he wants to get some rest. But he hasn't done that yet, which you interpret as a good sign.

After a few moments, he can't help but speak up.

"You can always use your hands, if you’re desperate."

"Right here?" you ask.

"In the bathroom, preferably."

"And what about you?" You inch closer to him and lean down to murmur into his ear, "You wouldn't benefit from blowing off some steam before work?"

A shudder runs through him as your breath hits his skin, but he swats your face away all the same. "I'd benefit from sleeping," he mutters.

"Mhm." You hum in response, refusing to give up as you trace your fingers along the stretched-out collar of his pyjama shirt. You pull on it, gently, and press your lips to that spot between his neck and shoulder that you know is sensitive. "You're so tense, though."

"Maybe because there's a serial killer in my bed trying to—" His breath catches as your teeth graze his skin. "…seduce me."

"This isn't seduction," you murmur, pressing your face to the crook of his neck.

"It's starting to feel like it," he says stiffly.

You lift your head to peer over at him. His flushed cheeks. His closed eyes. "Is it working?"

"No."

There's a weakness behind the resolve he speaks with, barely noticeable, like he might not mean what he's saying but is also dangerously close to kicking you out (of the bed, if you're lucky; of the apartment, if you're not). Whether he means it or not, you're pushing the limit—that much is obvious.

So, with a defeated sigh, you pull back, already mentally scanning his bookshelves for an interesting read.

But you're barely three feet from him when he grabs your arm, holding it firm. He turns over to face you, and he gives your arm a gentle tug. An invitation. 

You let him pull you in, settling down beside him as he drapes his arm over your waist. He's cuddling you, but he's leaving just enough room to allow himself plausible deniability; "we aren't cuddling", he'll say, "we're just lying together—look, we're barely even touching".

You meet his gaze in the dark. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds casts his face in shadow, but it illuminates your own. You want him to pull you closer, but he doesn't.

He doesn't do anything; he just watches you, studying you or, if you want to be delusional, admiring you with this fond, sleepy look that you can just about make out through the shadows. Heavy eyelids, relaxed brows, the picture of perfection.

"We could make it quick," you broach, smiling.

Spencer scoffs. He shakes his head, nuzzles the pillow as he groans in quiet, steadily simmering frustration.

"Okay, maybe not quick, but…" you inch yourself closer, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We can optimise it? You're all about efficiency, right?"

He huffs, sounding almost amused by your offer, but he still shakes his head. "And how, exactly, would we do that? You and I both know that your libido is obnoxious—"

"We could forgo the condoms," you suggest, cutting him off. "That'll save about…fifteen seconds per round."

"No."

There's no weakness behind the word, this time, but his firm tone isn't enough to scare you off.

"It adds up, you know."

"No," he repeats. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Until you admit that I'm right."

"Oh, you're right?"

"The condoms serve no purpose." You're a broken record, at this point, repeating variations of the same sentiment only to be met with the same response: no, no, and no. If you're starting to sound a little exasperated, it's because you are. But, even so, you persist. "We're both clean, and I know you only insist on using them to spite me," you say, trying to bite back any frustration threatening to taint your voice. You take a deep breath, watching as Spencer's expression hardens further, before bravely continuing, "I can buy plan B. I can go on birth control, if that's what you want—but we both know it isn't."

Spencer's fingers twitch against your waist, and he shifts in the bed. He starts pulling away, as though distancing himself from you physically will make what you're saying any less true.

"You don't want me on birth control, Spence." You prop yourself up on your elbow, lowering your tone to something seductive, almost sinister. "You want the risk."

"That's enough," he says. He turns onto his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling as you roll your eyes.

"Honestly, I don't see the point in depriving yourself of something you clearly want, especially when I want it, too."

"You don't know what I want."

You purse your lips, letting the silence sit for a moment before you move closer to him. "I know you want kids," you say.

He doesn't respond to that. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, and you can see his jaw muscles working, clenching and unclenching, in the low light.

"Little geniuses running around, wreaking havoc…top of all their classes, just like daddy." You continue your assault in the softest, most sympathetic tone you can manage. Your voice turns to honey as you speak. "I could give you that, Spence. We'd have cute kids, don't you think?"

You feel him tense as you brush your fingerprints against his chest. Feel the way he stops breathing entirely as you skim along the fabric of his pyjama shirt and work your way down, slowly, to the waistband of his pants.

"You could put a baby in me right now," you murmur. "You just have to let go…give in…"

Your fingers barely dip under his pants before the tension snaps. He shoves you, hard, and sends you tumbling backward. Your back hits the mattress, and you're left slightly winded.

"You're sick," he spits.

You make no effort to get up, but you do shoot him a smile as you say, "I'm honest."

"You are sick. Why would I— no, I'm not doing this." 

With a huff, he gets out of bed. You watch as he heads for the door (to go where, you aren't sure), and he looks, for a moment, like he might actually storm out, leave you all alone in his apartment. The thought leaves you slightly nauseous.

But then he turns back to you with a scowl. "Why the fuck would I want to— …have children with a serial killer?"

He's trying so hard to keep his voice down. It's a shame, really, that he has neighbours on all sides—neighbours that respect him, that he respects—because you want nothing more than to see him lose his temper. You'd kill for it. Not literally, of course; you don't do that anymore.

You sit up, eyeing him curiously as you say, "I don't know, Spencer, why would you?"

"I don't."

You nod along with his declaration. The gesture's overly animated, exaggerated in a way that tells him you don't believe a word of what he says, and by the sour expression on his face it's clear he would have preferred it if you had just laughed in his face.

The sheets rustle as you shift, perching yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with an unapologetic amusement. You shrug and click your tongue as you breathe out a wistful sigh. "So those…dreams you had, I guess they meant nothing—"

Spencer crosses the room in an instant and, before you can finish your sentence, he's grabbing your jaw with such force it makes you gasp. You can feel his nails digging into your skin as he looms over you, angling your fact up to meet his cold gaze. The moon serves as a backlight, casting his tall frame in a harsh shadow.

"You don't get to use that against me," he says, voice unnaturally quiet. Calm. It's a warning, one that you'd probably heed with some semblance of seriousness if this weren't so fun.

"So I'm just supposed to pretend you weren't dreaming about having a family with me?" you ask, pushing the conversation (the argument, really) that little bit further. "It's a pretty difficult thing to overlook, Spence."

The fact that his face is obscured does very little to hide the way your words leave him seething. You can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, as though he's fighting an itch. A violent one.

God, what if he hits you? Now that would be fun.

"You never know when to stop, do you?" he asks softly.

"All I've done is state facts—"

"All you've done is piss me off."

You flinch when he moves, expecting—hoping—that his hand will meet your cheek, leave you with a mark that'll still be there in the morning, but it doesn't. 

"And you know what? It worked." He tightens his grip on your face and, instead of hitting you, he starts tugging at the drawstring of his pyjama pants. "Congratulations, Love, you did it."

You aren't sure there's much of a connotation between pissed off and rock hard, but you make no attempt to argue with him, not when he's standing right in front of you like this, pants around his ankles, cock so close you'd barely have to move to get a taste.

"You want it?" His voice takes on a gentle, almost soothing tone as he brushes your hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear. "You want this cock, right? That's why you're being such a brat?"

You couldn't make your answer more obvious if you tried; you're staring, wide-eyed, lips parted like you're about to start fucking drooling over the sight of him. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your gaze before saying with a smirk, "I'm actually just doing it for fun—"

The yelp that escapes you when he pulls your hair doesn't sound like you at all, but the moan that follows when he presses your face to his crotch does. His fingers curl in your hair, and you feel him tense slightly as you nuzzle him, breathing him in with an open mouth. You try to touch him, but he swats your hand away before tearing you from him completely.

"A yes would suffice," he says.

The pain of his iron grip makes you wince, and you can feel yourself already beginning to grow smaller, quieter, as you look up at him and say, "…yes."

With his free hand, Spencer cups your cheek. The tender brush of his thumb against your skin clashes with the discomfort of him pulling your hair. "Where do you want it?"

"Oh, come on."

All he does in response is tilt his head to the side; clearly, your whining has no effect on him. His patient silence, however, is enough to drive you crazy. 

There's a burning in your core. It's been there all night, started as embers, and has since sparked into a blaze that's steadily breaking you down, making you desperate. And his touch, your position, it's only fuelling the fire.

"…I want it inside me," you mutter. You're clenching your thighs, trying to stifle the burning. "My pussy. Nowhere else."

Spencer hums, thoughtfully, in response. His fingers trace the edge of your cheekbone, trailing slowly down to your jaw where he angles your head up that little bit further and asks, in an agonisingly gentle tone, "You think you deserve that?" 

You laugh, but even that sounds desperate now. You've lost your edge. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh, I'm serious," he says, keeping his voice smooth and low. "All that back talk, all that…relentless pestering, you think I should let you have your way after that?"

You open your mouth to retort, but your words fail you. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach now, and it worsens with each second that passes once you realise his game. A small, pleading smile creeps up your face.

"If it's an apology you want, then—"

"I don't want an apology," he says, cutting you off, "we both know you wouldn't mean a word of it. No, I'm done playing your games, Love." Releasing his grip on your hair, his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. "I think it's time someone put you in your place."

Despite his serious tone, you can't help but find humour in his words. "Like you? Come on, Spence, you're too spineless to—"

You never manage to finish that sentence on account of Spencer's cock pressing against your lips. You clench your teeth, shaking your head as you feebly attempt to deny him access, but his hand is quick to grasp your jaw, fingers pushing into the hollows of your cheeks as he forcibly coaxes your mouth open.

He shushes your protesting whines, telling you to "just take it, that's it" as he eases his cock into the warmth of your mouth. His gentle words disable whatever fight you had left, and you yield to him, taking him almost to the base as he strokes your hair, whispering soothing praises ("Good girl, there we go."), and you think, foolishly, that you're past the worst of it, until you feel his fingers curl into your hair.

Spencer's been rough with you before, you encourage it, but none of your past encounters compare to the harshness with which he abuses your throat. The moment you stop resisting, all of his gentleness vanishes; he holds you by your hair and thrusts into your mouth with no regard for your comfort, or the tears that well in your eyes, or the way you gag with every violent jerk of his hips.

You reach blindly for something to hold onto, and your hands settle on the backs of his thighs. Trembling fingers anchor themselves in his skin, not caring for the marks (or cuts; you're pretty sure your nails are doing some damage) they'll be leaving behind as he fucks your throat so hard the lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy.

It's not until he pulls out that you realise you're crying. You cough and sputter, tears streaming down your face as he holds you up by your hair, and you can't help but sniffle pathetically as he wipes the drool from your mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, pouting. He presses his thumb to the plush of your lower lip, pulls it down to reveal your teeth. "You don't like it?"

You're babbling without thinking, shaking your head and mumbling feverish nos and pleases until the words lose their meaning, silenced only by the force of his palm as it strikes your cheek. 

The contact rips and involuntary sob from your throat, and you choke on the broken sound as the stinging quickly settles, deepening into an intense, burning ache. Just when you think you might catch your breath, he's guiding your mouth back to his cock—and this time, you don't try to put up a fight. 

There's a warmth accumulating under your thighs, seeping into the sheets as he uses your throat like a toy. He's panting above you, cursing under his breath; occasionally he'll mutter some comment about your pretty mouth, how it's better when it's occupied as he buries himself so deep your nose meets the warm skin of his abdomen and you start to choke. You'll tap his thigh, frantic, and he'll hold you there until you see stars before letting go.

You know he's close when he starts whimpering. His rhythm starts to falter, his fingers tremble, and his breathing comes in uneven gasps as he tries to cling to the remnants of his composure.

"Fuck…" He throws his head back, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he bobs you up and down on his cock. The shift in his pace allows you room to breathe, to think, to actually try to suck him off instead of just sitting there. 

And the second you do, he starts to come apart. 

"Shit…I'm—" He hums, stifling a moan as you look up at him, meeting his gaze through tears. 

You feel his cock twitch against your tongue, and you whimper around it—and that is what sends him over the edge.

"Oh, fuck….God," he whines as he finishes, painting your tongue with his release before gently easing you off of his cock. "Don't you dare swallow," he hisses, legs shaking slightly as he crouches down to be at your eye level. "Don't— shh…just keep it there, that's it. You said you wanted me to come in you, right? Then you better savour it, hadn't you?" 

Tender hands cup your cheeks as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn't wipe your tears, or your drool, or try to soothe the flush that's burning you from the inside out; he just watches you, a calm satisfaction in his brown eyes as he murmurs, "Oh, poor baby…" 

After giving your sore cheek a light tap, he rejoins you on the bed and gently coaxes you into his lap, ensuring his hands sit secured on your waist as you straddle him, sniffling. You try to lean on him, to hide away in the crook of his neck, but he holds you back. Returning his hands to your face, he dons a mocking pout as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

"That wasn't very nice of me, was it?" he asks, keeping his tone painfully kind as he holds you. "See what happens? If you hadn't pushed so hard, I wouldn't have done it. Shh…"

One hand drops to your thigh, slips up under the hem of your shirt (his shirt; you don't wear much of your own clothes when you're here). He presses his palm to your lower stomach, and the contact alone is enough to make you whine as he studies you with this cool, almost analytical look.

You aren't wearing panties (why would you be?), so when his fingers dip between your thighs there's no questioning how wet you are. You're dripping, and with every moment you spend like this, holding his salty release in your mouth, your need only worsens.

And that need drives you to lift your hips in a feeble, uncoordinated attempt to get to his cock—he's soft, sure, but you're sure you'd be able to get him going again, if he let you—but, before you can try anything, he cups your leaking cunt with his hand, creating a barrier between you and what you want most.

All you can do is whimper and grind pitifully against his palm, soaking his hand as you try to convey, without words, just how badly you need him. As though, if you're lucky, he might give in.

But he doesn't. He lets his gaze trail lazily up your body—your bare legs, his hand between your thighs, you in his clothes—before settling on your face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks, leaning in close. The sound of his voice, that disconcerting mix of mockery and softness, makes your stomach churn. "Just hump my hand and make stupid little noises. What happened, Love? Tell me…" He brushes his nose against your own before clicking his tongue. "Oh, right, your mouth is full. Sorry about that. Go on, swallow for me…"

You do as he says without question, swallowing his seed until only the aftertaste remains, and your obedience earns a smile.

"Open your mouth," he says. "There we go…"

As you part your lips, Spencer sets his thumb on your bottom teeth, holding your mouth open so he can inspect it thoroughly.

"I can't see too well in the dark," he murmurs, "but your throat is probably bruised. Did it hurt to swallow?"

"Uh huh…"

God, you sound like your throat's bruised. Your voice comes out raw and shaky. Pathetic.

"Good."

He catches your open mouth in a kiss, and you go so weak you almost collapse against him. You grasp his shoulders, steadying yourself as he breathes new life into you, but your composure fast unravels as his fingers tease your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine into his mouth.

"Spence," you breathe, tearing away from him before you lose yourself, "please…pleasepleaseplease…"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me." there's no sugarcoating your request, not now. "Please, Spence, I can't do this…"

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, leaning back as his fingers continue their slow teasing. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, shrugging. "I'd even go as far as to say you're doing really well."

That tone. The mocking praise. You're going insane, you're sure of it.

"No. No—" A sharp gasp cuts through you as he rubs the ball of his hand against your clit. "Spencerr…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, just— fuck…"

Seeing you starting to lose it, Spencer bows his head, hiding his smile as presses his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sensitive skin. "What are you sorry for, honey?"

"God…if— if you want information, I'll give it to you," you whisper, frantic. Your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more of him. "You want the location of a body? Two? I'll tell you; I promise. I'll— I'll tell you anything, Spence…anything you want—"

"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his tone light as he cuts you off. He lets his mouth linger on your neck for a moment longer before he raises his head to look at you. "What are you sorry for, hm? You do know what you're apologising for, right?"

"I do…I do…"

"Uh huh. Then tell me."

"I-I was being annoying, and pushy…and I crossed a line, mentioning kids," you explain, nodding anxiously. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spence. I-I won't do it again…promise."

Spencer nods along with you, pursing his lips in thought. "Wow," he murmurs, "you almost sound like you mean it."

"I do," you say, trying (and failing) to keep your voice firm despite your trembling.

"Yeah? You're sorry?"

"'m sorry…"

To your surprise, Spencer looks disappointed. 

His gaze drops once more to his hand between your legs, and you swear you see him frown. "Hm. That's a shame, really…I quite like this; punishing you, letting you make a mess of yourself…" he gathers your arousal on his fingers, drawing out a low whine before bringing those fingers to your mouth. The taste of yourself mixed with the aftertaste of him makes your fucking head spin. 

And then you feel the tip of his cock part your slick folds. It brushes your clit, and you almost come apart right there. 

"I like you like this," he continues, talking over your incessant whimpers, "all desperate and stupid, such a change from your usual self…I could do this all day long."

The mere suggestion is enough to make you sob around his fingers; or maybe it's the way the head of his cock keeps nudging your entrance, leaving you clenching around nothing, like your body is trying to suck him in.

"…but you really want this, don't you?" he asks.

"Mhm…" You're humming along in agreement before you can form a meaningful response. Your brain's working at a third of its regular speed, your words are scattered across space, maybe time, too. Even as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, every sentence you reach for disintegrates before you can speak it.

But if you've ever had a chance to win him over, to win this stubborn little war you've been fighting for months now, then this is it. Maybe you don't need to think in order to convince him, maybe well-formed sentences and snarky arguments haven't been working in your favour at all; maybe you just need to be desperate. As desperate as possible. Throw everything you have at him and pray that you hit a soft spot.

"You do, too, don't you?" you ask, making yourself sound as helpless as possible. "Please, Spence— angel, tell me you want this…"

A slight twitch of his brows tells you he likes the nickname; even if your efforts are in vain, you can still file that little fact away for later.

"I'm sorry for being such a pain, I really am. I just like you…so fucking much, and— and I don't know what to do with it sometimes…but come on, angel, please…" You touch your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks with trembling hands. "I need you inside me, no condom, just this once," you murmur, giving a tentative rock of your hips, watching the way he shudders as you grind against his length. "I…I wanna feel you…wanna be yours, please…"

Spencer is sweating. You feel his cock jump, straining against you, and you watch the way he bites the inside of his cheek. Tilting your head, you try to kiss him, but he dodges.

He purses his lips tight as his gaze drops to his hips, to the way his cock is so perfectly lined up with your entrance—and you're soaked, it would be so easy to just…

Leaning back, he gestures to the pillows and sighs. "Go. Face down, ass up."

His mutterings sound almost reluctant, but all you hear is a victory. Refusing to give him time to change his mind, you don't hesitate to climb off of him and settle into position like a well-trained dog: chin resting on your forearms, back arched, sodden pussy on display for him.

You can hear him shifting, hear the faint rustle of bedsheets as he comes up behind you, and the seconds seem to drag on for eternity. Each one seems longer than the last, making you stew in your anticipation until it's almost unbearable.

But then you hear something you don't expect; the last thing you want to hear. 

A poorly stifled rip. The crinkle of latex.

The sound hits harder than the slap you took from him just moments ago, breaking you free from your mindless obedience as you realise, to your horror, what he's doing.

"No. Nonono—"

You try to move, to get away, but Spencer's grabbing your hips, fingers digging into the skin as he sinks into you with one brutal thrust. The pain makes you see static, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the betrayal. 

You really thought you'd won. That it was that easy.

How stupid.

Tears stream down your face, your body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion as he stuffs you so full you swear you can feel him in your stomach. An awful noise escapes you, half moan, half cry, as you desperately shake your head, and it isn't until you hear your own voice that you realise you're pleading with him; strings of broken nos and stops are tumbling from your lips like despairing prayers.

But your God is cruel, and your prayers go ignored. Maybe he rejoices in them, you don't know. 

Unfortunately, you're loud. Much too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. So he does what little he can and shoves your face into the pillow, forcing you to bite the soft fabric and muffle your cries, leaving only the creak of the bed, and the sound of skin against skin as he ruts into you.

"You didn't think I'd actually let you have your way, did you?"

His voice above you is oddly quiet, almost tender in a way that entirely contradicts the way he's treating you. And, as soon as he finishes speaking, he's yanking you up by your hair, letting you gasp and whine before his hand finds your throat. 

He brings you closer, close enough to nip at your ear as he murmurs, "And if you really like me that much, you should be grateful that I'm doing this at all. I could've easily thrown you out on the street like the…fucking vermin you are."

Soft lips press a kiss to the side of your neck before he throws you back down and continues at his unforgiving pace. All you can do is cry into the pillow, choking out the occasional plea for him to stop, or to slow down, even though you know he isn't going to listen. 

"You're quite the…actor, aren't you?" he asks, breathing growing ragged under the strain of his movements. "That apology of yours…you almost had me— fuck…you almost had me convinced…I'm sorry, Spence. I wanna be yours, Spence…sounding so damn helpless…and now you're actually helpless, aren't you? How's it feel?"

"P-please— Spence, I can'tt…I can't t-take it—"

"Yes, you can…you wanna be mine, right?" He slips a hand down to your ass, gives it a firm squeeze before pulling back and spanking it hard, relishing the way you cry out beneath him. "Then be good for me…and take it."

Before the stinging can subside, he gives your ass another forceful spank before gripping your hips once more, keeping you steady as he fucks you. The pain shoots through you like a flash of lightning, and it goes straight to your head, turns your brain to putty. 

You mindlessly try to back up against him, meet his thrusts and bring yourself over the edge, but you're sloppy. You've no rhythm, not when you're like this, and all it does is make Spencer's grip that much tighter as he holds you in place.

"And don't you even think about coming," he hisses. "You don't deserve that, so just—"

"Please—"

"Just shut up." He holds you down as you try, weakly, to raise your head. "And let me fuck you."

Your pleas devolve into senseless moans as the last of your resolve crumbles, and you give in to him, letting the pillow absorb your obscene noises as Spencer thrusts into you so hard you think you start to think you'll pass out before he's through with you. 

The rest of your body goes limp as your thighs strain and tremble, muscles growing tighter with each cruel jerk of his hips. Your core is on fire, desperate for a release that he won't allow you, and one that you no longer have the willpower to pursue yourself. 

"You…are so fucking pretty like this. God, take me so well— fuck…" His breath stutters as his hips falter, and he forces his next words out through a groan. "…feels so good to use you—"

To use you. 

To use you, like you've been using him. This isn't just revenge, or punishment, for just being a nuisance, for poking sore spots in his psyche by mentioning kids; this is revenge for everything, for the months (almost a year now) of hell you've put him through. It's only fair, in a sense, that you lay down for him as he has, time and again, for you; it's Newton's third law, and this is just the beginning.

He almost collapses on top of you when he finishes. Barely able to hold himself up, he pants against your neck, hot breath fanning over sweat slick skin as he tries to regain his composure. 

You're incoherent, barely aware of the world around you, or of the way you let out a shameless, broken whine when he pulls out. 

The bed creaks as he gets up to dispose of the godforsaken condom, then groans as he settles back down beside you. His fingers skim, touch feather-light, along your spine over the sodden fabric of your shirt, and all you can muster in response is a defeated little whimper. 

He doesn't speak; he just gently coaxes you into his arms, brings your head to his chest, smooths out your hair as you both just breathe. When you sniffle, he shushes you, wipes still-wet tears from your cheeks. 

Once you've found the strength to speak, you insult him. Whinge about how mean he was, how you're barely going to be able to talk, let alone walk, tomorrow.

Spencer listens to your shaky complaints with a smile, nodding along thoughtfully, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "It wasn't anything you didn't deserve."

He murmurs the sweetest things as he reaches for your underwear. As he always does. Quiet whisperings of, "You're so pretty," and, "I know, sweet girl. There's no one else. Just you." Sentences you've always wanted to hear him say to you, and he says it with so much conviction you forget he is not actually yours. With so much verity, you believe him. 

He is just so kind to you when he's sliding lacy fabric down your legs, shushing your mewls with his lips on your own, and comforting your need with fingers threaded through yours. 

"What do you want tonight?" he asks you quietly, as he asks you every week. 

You never have the courage to utter his name aloud in response. 

"Fingers," you mumble, absentmindedly, as the mentioned limbs erupt goosebumps on your thighs as he skims them up. 

He takes your lack of full attention as pleasure, and he smiles. You let him think so, because he's kissing you again, and you fear if you protest, this will all go away. Testament to your self confidence — or lack thereof — how little of him you're willing to take, because at least it is something. 

He complies with your request, fingers lifting to the apex of your thighs, slipping beneath your folds and swallowing the whine that escapes your lips at the feeling with another kiss. Or maybe the same one bleeding into the last. You're barely there you don't know anymore. 

"My beautiful girl," he mumbles, index finger circling around your clit. Teasing you until you nip his bottom lip in irritation, and his breath fanning your skin as he laughs. 

You try not to focus on him putting my at the beginning of his sentence. You basically fail.

Your face contorts when he dips a finger into you, the intrusion as strange as it is familiar, and you hear him hiss from your unconscious biting of his lip. 

"Sorry," you murmur ever so quietly, incredibly half heartedly. He knows you aren't sincere. 

"It's okay," he whispers in response, watching you as he lets his finger push in as far as you'll let him. You imagine he's committing every single twitch of your facial muscles to memory; every breath hitch when he moves his hand. 

He won't be. He'll focus on you all up until you leave, and he won't think about the way you look taking his fingers beneath him the way you think about his fingers inside of you. You'll receive a violent reminder how painful one sided attraction can get when he calls and asks when you can come over next week, and you'll tell him Friday night anyways. 

But for now, he is touching you, and he is telling you all the kind things in the world, so you will choose to ignore the pit in your stomach that's hours away from coming back. 

"Spence," you whine, breathlessly, as he pushes a second finger in, curling them. 

"Hm?" he responds to your call of his name with the most annoying smug expression, probably thinking about how easy you are to tear apart. Probably not aware of just how many ways he is. 

"Too fast."

"Ah," he pulls his fingers out, instead focussing his attention on your clit to soothe you. "Sorry. Got distracted."

"Distracted?" you question him, searching his face for the truth behind his words. 

"By you," his voice is a gentle hum as he kisses the corner of your mouth, and your heart flutters.

"I have that effect."

He laughs, head dropping to the bridge between your shoulder and neck, lips pressing a gentle kiss there. 

"You do," he agrees. "Can't get through a day without thinking about you."

Jesus, give you a gun.

"Yeah?" you opt for asking instead, hoping the one word answer will hide the screaming of your brain. 

"Mhm," he nods. You think you're successful. "How are we doing?"

"Good. Better. You can... um... continue."

He returns a finger into you, and you moan again, and he swallows it with a kiss. Again. As if choreographed, he touches you with so much knowing. Too much awareness of how your body ticks to be a man you see weekly for nothing more. 

He bruises your mouth with his fervent kisses in the way you wish he would bruise your neck. But there is that voice that screams at you to say he is not yours, no matter how many universes you beg, and so your skin will remain unmarked, and you will remain forced to settle. 

After one too many minutes of just a singular finger inside of you, your hips lift to meet his hand in a silent beg for more. 

"I know you have a mouth you can use," he tells you, and an exasperated huff leaves your lips. 

You hate him.

"Want more," you say, hands dropping down to his wrist, pads of your fingertips running along the skin in a plea of their own. 

"You want more?" he asks, gently prying your hands off of him with his free hand. "More of what, sweet girl?"

"Spencer," you grit. 

"I want to help you, I do," he coos, too many words cutting into the time you want him to spend pleasuring you, "but I can't if you don't tell me what you want."

"You're mean," you say, petulantly, hips wriggling for friction against his now completely still hand, until he has enough mind to stop you. "Please."

"I'm hearing a lot of misplaced frustration with me, and not a lot of communicating what it is you want."

You give in, annoyed. "Another finger. God."

He nips your bottom lip. "Try again."

You catch his gaze when you choose to shoot him a glare, and he is — annoyingly — all too amused with the position he's gotten you into.

You really hate him. 

"Can you please put another finger in me?"

"Yes, I can," he complies almost instantly, and you relax as he slips a second finger in again. "Thank you for communicating."

You're too focussed on the way he's working you open with his fingers to bite back, and maybe he knows that. 

His thumb reaches up to attack your clit the second you start moaning again, thus stripping you of any normal vocal ability. Your voice turns breathless and your moans become whines, and you're all too overwhelmed with how good he feels to think about being quiet. 

If your noise is a problem, he doesn't say anything. In fact, he's leaving kisses all over your skin as he pushes his fingers in and out of you even faster, as if it is not gently pulling you apart limb by limb. 

"Spencer," your voice cracks as he twists his hand, and the heel of his palm meets your clit, over and over again. "Oh."

You writhe, and this time he makes no effort to keep you still. He doesn't really need to. He has almost full autonomy over how far away from him you can get, with legs on either side of your body. You couldn't escape him even if you tried to. 

His eyebrows pinch together when you clench around his hand, and he's back to kissing you, swallowing your louder than normal moan. 

"Gonna cum," you whimper, brokenly, into his mouth. 

He responds by picking up the pace of his fingers. Again.

He stops kissing you when your hips lift off the mattress to meet his, watching as your face twists and your lips part in a soundless moan, your orgasm wracking through you and making you look so beautiful.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you even when you slump back on the mattress. Waiting for your conscious to return, and you to beg him to stop. 

Which takes longer than normal, for he is watching you roll your hips against his hand, seeking more from him. He happily complies, really, and you can distantly hear him laugh as you crack beneath him, every vein in your body pouring out onto the soft sheets. 

You run warm, and you twist, and finally jerk your body away from him, mumbling an incoherent string of, "No. Mm-mm. Spence... ah, stop it."

"One more?" he asks, but you're shaking your head and still trying to get away from him, whining. "Okay, okay. I'm stopping. Shh, it's okay."

Your eyes flutter open once it's been a few moments of regaining control of your mind, and you catch your favourite part of any of this; the way he looks at you. You are the most perfect thing in the world to him when you've just came, and it's so easy to forget how complicated this all is when he's staring at you like you are a piece of artwork. 

Once you're fully back, he gives you another kiss, and you melt once more, chasing his lips when he pulls away. 

"Spencer," you grumble, and you can hear him huff a short laugh from his bathroom he's disappeared into. 

"I'm not disappearing forever. Relax," he says, cloth between his hands. 

The bed dips beneath his weight again as he hovers back over you, the damp fabric sliding up your legs as he wipes down every surface of your skin.

Sometimes this is your least favourite part. Forced to watch him erase any proof that he ever put his hands on you; that he ever loved you. Even physically. 

And it means it's over. And once he finishes cleaning you up, you will have to put your clothes back onto your body, and walk out of his apartment like it means nothing to you the same it does for him. 

"I'll call you when I'm free next week," he says. 

"Okay," you say, quietly, biting the bullet and sitting up once he stands again. "I'll see you then, I guess."

"Get home safe. Text when you do?"

You feel ridiculous when your heart stutters in your chest. He does not care the way you want him to, and his words are always common courtesy. Never interest. 

You force a smile. "I will."