#fandomfantasia

On some nights, when he was really lucky, you’d pull his arm onto your lap and start to trace his tattoos. It gave your fidgety hands something to do.  

Spencer would sit there, slumped into the couch, his arm lazily in your lap. His hand conveniently resting on your lower thigh. He closes his eyes eventually, lulled away by your light fingers.  

His own fingers could curl into the crook of your knee. But he resists. 

It was just something best friends did.  

He starts to bring you a daily soda. Sometimes you’d meet him with a similar can of kickstart.  

“Is that from your old gas station?” he’d ask.  

You shrug your shoulders, “I wanted to get a maple bar.”  

Some days you’d find that Spencer had a clever story rehearsed that made it plausible to drive you home after work. That way it didn’t sound like an inconvenience to him.  

“Let me drive you home.”  

“Oh, no – that’s all right! I don’t want you to drive out of your way.”  

“Actually, I’m heading in that direction anyway. I need to stop by the store on the street over.”  

Sometimes the story is a little more farfetched – but you let him tell it anyway.  

“Hey! You ready to go?” Spencer appears beside your makeup vanities.  

You look surprised, “Are we supposed to be doing something together that I’m not aware of?”  

“No, I’m giving you a ride home.”  

You roll your eyes, starting to walk away, “Since when?”  

“Since you don’t have a car and I’m heading that way anyway.”  

“There’s no way you’re going to the store again. Three times in one week, Spence?”  

He clears his throat, “No, no… I’m meeting someone.”  

“Who?”  

“Um… a guy – Shayne.”  

You reach the office door and hold it open for him. “Okay, why didn’t you just say Shayne to begin with?”  

He shrugs his shoulders, hands in his denim pockets. “I don’t know. It’s a secret.” You give him a deadpanned stare. “Fine, we’re going to the strip club. I was nervous to say anything. Shut up.”  

You start to cackle, “There’s no way you’d go to a strip club with Shayne. Both of you would die of embarrassment before fully walking through the door. What kind of lie is that?”  

He listens to you laugh, relieved that you’re walking towards his car as you do so. He holds open the passenger door and makes sure the temperature is just right for you.  

It was just something best friends did.  

Sometimes he would notice little things. Notice the way you wince whenever someone is moving towards you – whenever an arm or hand is in motion by your face.  

He notices the little bruises that you try to cover up. A red mark on your cheekbone. More black eyes. Purple splotches on your arms. Little yellow and green spots on your neck.  

And he aches for you.  

He aches while a fire broils in his gut.  

And he tries to patch it by making you laugh and smile. He tries to have you hang out that night. He attempts to sound convincing when he suggests you stay overnight. It’s too late. It’d be easier to stay. He had pancake mix and bacon for breakfast.  

But you always decide to go back to that apartment.  

And while he makes you his personal mission, the rest of the Smosh office goes along with the banter because they were excited that their introverted, closeted comedian had found someone. Someone he connected with and enjoyed spending time with.  

They watch as he bombards you with fun facts and silly explanations about things you both like.  

They watch as he fights for excuses to visit you in the art department, being scolded frequently by the crew for distracting you.  

They watch as he lets everyone else go home while he waits for you because he wanted to walk with you.  

He wants to spend every possible second with you.  

It was just something best friends did.  

He endures the second hand talk you provide from girls night. Your words recalling Angela’s unfortunate date with a techie; the details of how Courtney and Shayne were planning a second honeymoon; the recounter of Amanda pushing you to take Aaron out for drinks – possibly spark whatever was dwindling between you two.  

Spencer would grimace and say, “You don’t even like getting drinks.”  

“That’s what I said,” you smile, fingers working overtime on the switch controller.  

He would regret continuing the conversation, “Did you go through with it?” 

“Yeah, I mean… I knew he’d enjoy it. Came home drunker than usual.” You focus on the tv screen, elbows resting on your knees as you hold the controller. “Tried to have sex with me but passed out before he could get his pants off.”  

Spencer’s character immediately dies, “Oh.”  

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say it was the most romantic date I’ve been on. Then again… I was kind of relieved.”  

He listens to the gossip even though it was torturous to his heart. Because…  

It was just something best friends did.  

One day, Spencer was helping edit another video for Games. He watches as Chanse tries to maintain a character, “On the other side of the shirt is… still more shirt.”  

Shayne looks immensely confused.  

But in the background you can hear hysterical laughter. Your laughter.  

It makes Spencer smile as he readjusts his headphones and turns the volume up. He listens to your laugh on repeat as he edits some subtitles stating ((Y/N) laughing).  

Arasha continues with a Russian accent, “What?”  

“On the other side of shirt is still more shirt,” Chanse tries again.  

Shayne attempts to help him out, “Tailor lingo.” He side eyes behind the camera and starts to chuckle at the sheer amount of giggles that you are unable to contain. “God damn, (Y/N). That joke landed for literally nobody else.”  

“Hey!” Chanse flusters.  

You shout out, “That’s what makes it funnier!”  

Spencer is so lost hearing your voice as he edits that he jumps when a hand grabs his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, laughing just like you were in the video.  

“Locked in there, are you?”  

He rips the headphones off, “God, yeah, um… no I’m impervious to being startled. I was just trying to make you feel scary.”  

“Right, there’s nothing I want more in life than to be perceived as scary,” you snicker, “You’re needed on set to record some ads.”  

“Ah, yes,” Spencer saves his work and starts to walk with you. “The Game of Thrones app.”  

“About to be Jon Snow in the flesh,” you bump shoulders with him. “Are you ready for me to make you hot?”  

He starts to blink a worrisome amount. “I’m sorry, what?”  

“Jon Snow,” you say with your hands in the air, drawing an invisible diagram. “Equals hot and sexy. You are about to be the most attractive you’ve ever been.” You send Spencer to change into his costume while you set up the makeup vanity.  

He returns all in black, looking very in character with his usual straight face while he thinks. You have to suck in your lips to keep them from smiling too wide.  

You hold up a large fur cloak, “Milord.”  

He chuckles, turning around and ducking to give you height. You lay the cloak around his shoulders and turn him toward you, straightening the fur on his frame.  

“It makes you look a lot broader.”  

“What do you mean?” He starts to puff out his chest. “I’ve always been this big.”  

You shake your head, grinning, “Sit in the chair, big boy.”  

He bites his tongue, clearing his throat. He becomes incredibly still as you lean over to inspect his complexion.  

His eyes might be big and imploring, but the rest of his face gives nothing away. He’s as cool as a cucumber.  

You certainly think so. “Got a lot on your mind?” You run a fine-toothed comb through his hair to create a middle part.  

He shivers at the touch. “No. Why?” 

“You seem a little stony all of the sudden. Like you’re already playing the character,” you say with a smile.  

Spencer licks his lips – like he always does when he thinks. “I can assure you, dear madam, that I am no character. I am Jon Snow, protector of the Wall and a proud member of the Night’s Watch.”  

“Quite the title,” you say with a laugh. You’re running your hands through his hair, flattening it on either side of his face. He starts to look more like the character.  

And he starts to lose focus.  

His eyes are trained on you. 

His pulse quickens.  

His fists clench.  

~~~ 

It had been nearly a year since you started at Smosh. And in all that time, you had become very close to many members of the team. But without a shadow of a doubt, Spencer was the one coworker you had gotten the closest too.  

You knew it was dangerous. He already suspected the awful secrets going on in your apartment.  

But you didn’t have the heart to tell him.  

That would make it too real.  

And every time he dropped you off at your apartment, he would say the all too familiar, “Call me if you need anything, okay?”  

And you would always respond with, “Yeah, okay.”  

But have you ever called him? No. Even when you needed something? Not even then.  

That is… until tonight.  

You storm out of your apartment, door swinging on its hinges. Well past midnight, the roads were dark and lit with the yellow glow of graffitied streetlamps.  

You’re not sure how bad the damage was, but your tongue inspects a split in your lip that tastes metallic and coppery. A headache pulsates above your ear, where your hair feels matted. The spot where he pulled you away.  

The air has a slight nighttime chill to it, but nothing unbearable. It didn’t matter. There was no way you’d go back to the apartment to get a coat.  

You look down at the socks on your feet.  

You wouldn’t go back for shoes either.  

Laughter startles you in the distance and you jump to the curb. Looking around like a wild cat, you’re unable to see the merrymakers.  

Probably some adolescents having too much fun in the late hour. Quite unlike yourself. You shouldn’t be alone, you think. Without a car and without shoes, you probably shouldn’t be alone. 

You reach for the phone in your back pocket. When the screen lights up, you momentarily see the redness beneath your eyes. You quickly try to rub the tears away, dialing the one number you knew you could trust.  

But you hesitate.  

You see the contact name, “Glasses.” A picture of Spencer wearing a purple party hat on the set of Eat It or Yeet It as his contact picture.  

Would he even be awake this late at night? 

You decide to find out.  

Phone to your ear, you sniffle, free arm wrapping around yourself. The ugly yellow light of a streetlamp directly above you. Unwanted moths and mosquitoes flit and flail beneath the bulb.  

“Hello?” his groggy voice says.  

“Um… hey Spencer,” you say in as level a tone as you can muster.  

There’s a pause where he then sounds very much more alert. “Hey, (Y/N). What’s up? Are you okay?”  

You take a second to collect yourself. New tears threaten to swim your vision. “Uh, yeah – I’m fine.”  

“(Y/N)?”  

“Are you open to meeting me at the skate park down by where I live?”  

He must be afraid by the way his voice changes an octave. “Y-Yeah, definitely. Is everything all right?” 

You hear shuffling like he’s moving around a lot. Probably getting out of bed.  

“I’m sorry,” you sniff again. “I woke you up.”  

“No, no – it’s fine. I’m on my way. I’ll be like ten minutes tops.”  

You swallow thickly, past the tears. “Okay. Thank you.” And you hang up the phone, sliding it back into your pocket.  

You continue to hold yourself, walking towards the skate park down the street. Toward where those kids were laughing and making a ruckus. Maybe they had booze to share.  

A sick giggle escapes you, thick with sadness. You wipe your lip, trying to dispel any remnants of blood. Shaky fingers go through your hair to flatten the evidence of a couples dispute. Lifting your arms sent a sharp pain across your side. More places to bruise. 

The park isn’t too far ahead, and you can hear the distant laughter of those kids. Behind a tree, you spot them running through the water jets that usually turn off by sunset.  

They probably found a way to hijack the system. The power box was probably in plain sight. Maybe one of them volunteered with the city.  

The group sees you and starts to whisper profanities at each other. They stumble away from the water feature, wet footprints trailing behind them as they run off.  

Loneliness hits you in a different way.  

Walking to the jets of water, you stand right on the edge. You watch as they take turns skyrocketing into the air in different patterns and formations. It would be the perfect activity for a hot summer day.  

You think painfully of a time when your family went to a water park like this.  

Your little arms stuck in a froggy green floatie; bare toes stepping on the jets to see if you were powerful enough to stop the water from coming.  

Your hand reaches out and the tips of your fingers make contact with the stream of water. It was cold. It made you feel. Feel something different.  

You take a step forward and a rush of water goes up your pant leg. Another soaks the side of your shirt. And another climbs up your back and falls on the top of your head.  

It was wet and cold. And something other than sad.  

“(Y/N)?” A voice calls from behind you.  

You don’t move as Spencer jogs the rest of the way toward you.  

“What are you doing? It’s freezing out here!”  

You turn your head and see him out of breath. He must’ve jogged from where he was parked.  

His hair was adorably wild and curly. He must’ve just rolled out of bed to meet you here.  

His eyes roam your face and something sad befalls him.  

You don’t like it.  

With a quick hand, you splash a stream of water onto him.  

“Woah, what the…” he tries to dodge another, but his shirt gets soaked. “What are you doing?”  

A smile graces your features – but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Dance with me.”  

He looks flabbergasted, hands out as he shakes the water from his sleeves, “You can’t be serious.”  

“Come here, Spencer,” you grab the cuff of his sleeve and yank him into the water jets.  

Something high and funny escapes him as the cold water tickles his skin. You giggle, taking the lead to jump around and kick at the streams of water. You ignore the pain that shoots through your ribs. The annoying ache along your jaw. 

Spencer watches you for a second, letting the water soak into his clothes.  

You’re dancing and weaving through the jets, wet hair heavy and clinging to the sides of your face. Spencer has to readjust his glasses as they slide down the bridge of his nose. But he follows your lead.  

With quick ninja hands, he slices through the water, using a side kick just to see if you would laugh.  

You do, copying him in attacking the water like they were magical octopus arms. The pair of you make sound effects as you flail about, getting thoroughly drenched.  

Finally, you grab onto Spencer’s arm, laughing breathlessly. He does the same, facing you with dark ringlets resting against his forehead.  

Breathing hurts you. 

His glasses are covered in water droplets.  

“It’s a wonder you can see at all,” you mumble, reaching to remove his glasses. He catches the wince you make. 

He blinks as the glasses float away in your hands, water making his eyelashes stick together. You think he looks rather sweet.  

“Well, I have no chance now,” he says, looking down at you, squinting to make your features clearer.  

You’re so close to him it was making odd things happen to his chest. You put the glasses on yourself, “There – now we’re both blind.”  

You take his hand and try to spin yourself. He catches on, helping you fly beneath his arm. Water flies from your body as you whip around.  

A laugh, or maybe a wheeze, escapes you as you fall into him, his hands falling to your sides. You look at him, unable to make out his expression with the water streaked glasses you wear.  

But if you could see him… you’d know that he was terrified. He was holding you. Your hands were on his shoulders. Your faces were so close. 

His eyes flit down your face. He looks at your lips. The water droplets making them shine. The split in the corner that he noticed earlier. His head starts to tilt.  

He leans in closer. His mouth opens a little to fit perfectly around your own.  

And sadly your cheek brushes against his as you pull him into a hug.  

Your arms wrap around him, unable to see the look of disbelief on his face.  

What the hell just happened? 

Was he in disbelief that you avoided a kiss or that he tried to get one in the first place? Could you even notice what he was trying to do with your vision obscured? 

“Thanks for meeting me out here.”  

Apparently you didn’t notice.  

“No problem.” He returns the hug fiercely, trying to be satisfied with just this.  

You grit your teeth as pain burns where his arms grip around you. “I hope I didn’t just ruin your night.”  

“You could never,” he says, “I’m just glad you called.”  

You pull away, unable to bear the pain in your side. “We should probably get out of the water.”  

He feels like smacking his head to make his thoughts a little clearer. “Um… yeah, sure.” 

With light hands, you return the glasses to his face, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. He starts to smile as you come into focus.  

You turn and lead the way to the parking lot, unaware that Spencer was still rooted to the spot. He’s not sure what to do. He wipes the water running down his face. He watches you leave the water feature, arms hugging your torso as if that would bring about some warmth.  

He looks down at his own sodden clothes, unable to act on his instinct: to give you the flannel he’s wearing over his pajama shirt.  

He should probably get out from under the spray of the water jets.  

Spencer jogs toward you, following the wet footsteps you leave behind. He realizes that he can see the outline of your toes in those footprints. He looks for your feet and calls out.  

“Did you mean to come out here without shoes?”  

You sniff, rubbing away water that tickles your nose. “I sort of left in a hurry.”  

He sees you shiver, wet hair stringy against your back. The nighttime chill was getting colder.  

“Are you…” he clears his throat, the sight of your busted lip at the forefront of his mind. “Are you wanting to go back to your apartment?”  

You stop walking at the edge of the parking lot, toes on the curb. You look up at the moon, focusing on the pretty yellow tinge it gives with the reflection of the sun. It was much more appealing than the yellow streetlamps.  

You knew your answer immediately but contemplate how best to give it. Giving up, you whisper, “No.”  

Spencer stands beside you, watching you look at the moon. “Well, you can’t wander the streets all weekend.” It was lighthearted and brought a tired smile to your face. That warms his heart. “Would you come back to my place? Finally have that sleepover we always talk about.”  

You turn to him with heavy lids and pink cheeks. “I don’t have any dry clothes.”  

“That’s okay, I do.”  

“I don’t have my toothbrush.”  

Spencer makes a funny face, “I have a CVS down my street – definitely a supplier of toothbrushes.”  

Your chest starts to swell with gratitude even as you shiver with oncoming frostbite. “I don’t have shoes.”  

“I have slippers.” That makes you snort a little and Spencer beams. 

“Yeah, but I don’t have a hairbrush…”  

“Oh my god, I have a hairbrush! I will brush your fucking hair for you, for Christ’s sake. Let’s just get into my car,” he says with a laugh falling out of his mouth. “I’m freezing my ball off.”  

You screw up your lips as you try to hide a similar smile. “Only if you’re sure that…”  

“Let’s go,” he’s already jogging for the passenger side of his car, keys in hand. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”  

You tiptoe across the parking lot, giggling at his jumpy little steps as he waits by the door. You slide in, running your hands through your hair while Spencer climbs into the other side. He starts the engine and turns the heat on high, pressing the button to turn the seat warmers on. 

As per usual, you cower into the nook between the seat and door. Your arms wrap around your damp shirt. It’s an instant battle to ignore the anxiety plaguing your stomach. You truly hated driving.  

Spencer turns mild background music on and drives to the nearby CVS. He struggles with keeping his eyes on the road. 

Your cheeks and nose are still so pink, whether by the cold or emotion, he wasn’t sure. But it was clear the redness beneath your eyes was from recent tears and the raw split in your lip doesn’t help. 

He so desperately wants to hold your hand while he drives. But the social anxiety takes over.  

“You can wait out here and warm up,” he says, parking the car. “I’ll leave the engine running. I’ll be in and out.”  

You thank him, making sure the car was locked as he leaves. You attempt to take a deep breath, opening the visor to look in the tiny mirror behind it. Your ribs protest to your breathing and moving. 

You touch the sensitive skin around your lip. The bleeding had stopped, but the cut was wide and ruby red. Something aches lower on your jaw, and you hope it doesn’t bruise.  

You’re grateful Spencer wasn’t interrogating you on the situation. If anything, he’s been incredibly kind and patient. Instincts tell you that Spencer should be quick to emotion and demand answers.  

But he doesn’t.  

He returns to the car with a full shopping bag with travel sized products. A toothbrush and toothpaste, a little facewash and moisturizer, a small bottle of antibiotic ointment, a hairbrush and some of your favorite treats.  

Spencer continues the drive, asking if you’re getting warmer. He pulls into his apartment complex and whisks around the car to be by your side as you get out.  

You’re still holding yourself as you climb the stairs. Spencer stands just a step behind you, his hand hovering at the small of your back.  

Inside, you immediately pull off the soggy socks making your feet prune. The damp clothes are still giving you grief, locking in a chill within your skin. Your hair feels stringy and uncomfortable.  

Spencer notices this and is quick to offer solutions. “How about you change into some dry clothes, and I’ll make a bed on the couch?”  

You nod in reply, walking toward the bathroom while Spencer gets the supplies. He returns with a pair of sweatpants and a rock band t-shirt. He puts them on the bathroom counter along with the CVS bag.  

“I’ll just uh… be in the living room,” he says quietly, a little unnerved with the absence of your voice.  

It’s hard to look at him as you offer a polite smile and shut the door.  

You’re quick to change into the clean clothes, hanging your damp ones over the shower curtain to dry. You have to roll the sweats so they didn’t drag on the floor, and you love how the shirt hangs lanky on your frame.  

They have the same seaside clean smell with the hint of some kind of spice – it reminds you of Spencer.  

You brush your teeth and wash your face, careful to clean the cut to your lip.  

But upon further inspection, you realize that the antibiotic ointment and hairbrush were nowhere to be seen. You step out of the bathroom to ask for their whereabouts, only to find Spencer sitting on the couch with the hairbrush in hand and waiting for you expectantly.  

The couch was laid with a wrinkled pair of sheets, an extra pillow, and an old blanket probably from Target.  

“I was wondering where that went,” you say quietly.  

Spencer holds up the hairbrush, “Oh, I wasn’t joking about brushing your hair.” He gestures to the spot on the floor between his legs.  

You feel something swell in your chest. How could he make it so easy to want to smile? So easy to want to laugh? 

You take a few steps forward, “I am perfectly capable of brushing my own hair.”  

“I know you are,” he waits with raised brows. “You are a very capable person.”  

You wait for him to offer the brush to you. When he doesn’t, you say, “Then let me have the brush.”  

“I said you were capable, not that I would retract my offer.”  

“It’s a little silly to brush your best friends hair, right?”  

He shrugs his shoulders, “You’ve had a rough night. I think it’s a little kind to brush your best friends hair when they’ve had a lot on their plate. Let me help you.”  

You contemplate for a few seconds until he gestures to the ground with a hilarious expression on his face. It actually pulls a giggle from you.  

You slowly sit on the rug and scoot back until you can lean against the couch. On either side of you are Spencer’s legs adorning a new set of dry pajama pants. You keep your hands in your lap to refrain from accidentally touching him.  

He gently uses one hand to section your hair and softly brushes the ends first before moving up. It was immensely tangled from the riotous festivities with the water jets, and he was careful not to snag the strands too much.  

Your head moves with the brush, shoulders rubbing against his legs as he works. From the corner of your vision, you see his free hand giving you the remote.  

Without a word you turn on the tv and find an old Scooby-Doo series to watch.  

Spencer works through your hair as gently as he can, not wishing to cause you any more anguish tonight. Even after the knots are all smooth, he runs the brush through the hair of your scalp, scratching your head there and hopefully helping to soothe you.  

It feels tender and warm and content. There’s no need to talk or make jokes. There’s just you and him.  

He rests the hairbrush on the side table and picks up the antibiotic ointment. He puts a small amount on his finger and taps the top of your head.  

You hum your reply, leaning your head back until it’s in his lap. You see him tilt his head down to see your face.  

He smiles warmly, “This’ll help your lip.” And he slowly moves his hand to hold the side of your face, giving his finger stability in rubbing the cut.  

You stare at him. Dark curls hanging off his forehead as he focuses on your mouth. He’s encompassing you – surrounding you. His fingers are on your lips. He’s warm to the touch. He smells like a citrusy seaside.  

Your heart starts to hammer against your ribs.  

He notices the panic growing in your gaze. He immediately retreats – leaning away and taking his hands off you.  

“I’m sorry, are you okay?”  

You crawl away, standing by the television set. “Um… yeah – yeah, I’m fine.” You put a hand to your head, “I just feel a little… a little warm.”  

Spencer stands and considers you.  

Your complexion is a little pale. The redness in your eyes has subsided, but you do look flushed. Spence wants to feel your forehead.  

“Do you have a fever?”  

You swallow, “I don’t know. I think I just need some sleep.”  

“Sure,” he says, still watching your movements. He doesn’t like how quickly you got away from him. “Um… the bed is in here.”  

You stand still as he goes to reveal his bedroom.  

“Okay…” you say strangely, walking towards the readymade couch.  

Spencer retorts, “Uh, yeah no. That’s my spot for the night.”  

“Funny because I thought this was your apartment and therefore that is your bed.”  

“No, I’m sleeping on the couch,” he says, folding his arms.  

You snicker, “Strange that you sleep on the couch when you have a perfectly good bed over there.”  

“I’m not fighting with you on this,” he says firmly. “You’re taking the bed tonight.”  

“I can’t do that.”  

“Sure you can.”  

You screw up your lips, trying to look as defiant as possible. “Guests are supposed to crash on the couch, Spence.”  

“Who said that was the rule?”  

“Common sense.”  

“Well, in the Agnew household, the lady gets to take the bed while the dude gets the couch.”  

You start to turn down the covers on the couch, fluffing the pillow. Spencer speeds to your side and takes the pillow away.  

“Do you ever get tired of rejecting chivalry?”  

“There’s not usually chivalry to be had,” you try to get the pillow, and Spencer holds it up in the air.  

He frowns, “Then what the hell have I been doing since we met?” 

“You’ve been giving me exposure therapy,” you giggle, still trying to reach the pillow. “I’m not used to it yet.” You grimace at the sharpness of pain in your left side. You cease your reaching of the pillow immediately.  

“I guess I have to prove it to you,” he says in a huff, throwing the pillow back on the couch and inspecting your pained movements with his wide, searching eyes. “Until you believe that you are worthy of being treated with chivalry and respect.”  

You pout, defeated in getting the pillow. He looks at you squarely in the face and says:  

“If you don’t let me sleep on this couch, I’m not going to sleep at all.”  

“You’re really going to take this to some worrying levels, aren’t you?”  

He shrugs his shoulders, “You… you deserve a good nights rest. You need to heal and feel better. You need to feel safe.”  

Your brows furrow. Why did that strike a deep chord in your heart? Something beats loudly in your ears.  

“You’ll be safe and comfortable in bed, and I’ll sleep out here just in case.”  

“Just in case…?” your eyes are suddenly big and sad.  

Spencer looks a little drawn. “Just in case he comes looking for you.”  

Your nose burns, signaling that tears were not far behind. You swallow hard and shake your head, unable to look at him anymore. “He won’t come looking for me. He’s too drunk to make it past the front door.”  

Spence looks terrified as you begin to speak with honesty. He’s never heard you so candid about your boyfriend before. Not about this.  

He licks his lips, unsure of how to proceed. “Why did he do it?”  

Your lip quivers, fingers twitching at your sides. “He found out… that instead of me being with him the other night… I chose to hang out with you. He was angry. He accused me of cheating. He was calling me… awful things.”  

Spencer clenches his jaw, wanting nothing more than to hold you and protect you from that kind of treatment.  

“And maybe I deserved it because I should’ve spent the night with my boyfriend. I left him alone to wonder where I was. I was unfair and unkind. I deserved to…”  

Spencer removes the space between you two to hold your face in his hands. You’re startled by the gesture, eyes widening as he implores you to listen.  

“You do not deserve to be treated like that. You do not deserve to be hit because his feelings were hurt. You do not deserve to be spoken to like that.” Beneath his hands, your skin feels hot. Maybe you were coming down with something.  

Dancing barefoot in cold water when you were already feeling poorly was going to bring you the flu.  

Your eyes swim with unshed tears. And in reply, you bow your head to reach his shoulder and clutch him in a hug. Spencer returns it gently, noting your side.  

“I’m such an idiot,” you say against his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’ve convinced myself that this was okay.”  

Spencer holds you to him, “You are not an idiot. It was a mistake, that’s all. And we can fix mistakes.” He rubs his hand up and down your back. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. You need some sleep. We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”  

He waits for you to release him, giving you as much of him as you want.  

Limply, you slide away, sniffling and avoiding his eyes. You turn and walk towards his bedroom. Spencer stands there, fingers clenching at his sides, watching you shuffle away.  

At the door, you close it just enough to show your face. You’re pink when you whisper, “Thank you,” finally looking at him.  

His throat bobs. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.  

And when the door shuts, he stands there for another five minutes. He tries to comprehend your confession.  

In a moment of weakness, you had been completely open about the goings-on in your apartment. Would you now leave Aaron? Would you regret the words in the morning? 

He’s fretful as he climbs under the wrinkled sheets on the couch.  

~~~ 

In the morning you’re awoken by an awful pounding in your head. A rawness scratches down your throat. The back of your neck is slick with sweat even as your arms shiver with goosebumps. 

There’s a tenderness to the bust in your lip and some spots to the side of your face. The hope that nothing would bruise after last night quickly vanishes.  

Shaky fingers lightly press along your jaw, and you find something sensitive near your chin. There’s another spot by your cheekbone and where your hair was yanked. 

You don’t dare lift your left arm; it already hurt to breathe without aggravating your torso more. You were not a stranger to pain like this. You would have to face it sooner or later when you’d inevitably need to use the bathroom.  

There wasn’t a digital clock on the nightstand so you gingerly tap a finger on your phone. The screen lights up to reveal “12:38pm” and a background of Aaron holding you close and kissing your temple.  

Something sick and vile churns in your stomach, daring to rise into your throat.  

He looks so kind without the lines of anger hardening his face. Without the curses spitting from his tongue. Without his hands curled into tight balls.  

Even in this screen saver you can see the hint of something purple just under your collar.  

In notification bubbles below, you can see an increasingly high number of missed calls and text messages. 

You turn and stare at the ceiling, finding that tears had already developed in the outside corners of your eyes. Aaron would be so furious you weren’t home. You left him all alone in his hour of need. He was fighting demons with alcohol and didn’t know how to tell you he loved you.  

A weight put a stop to your churning stomach. It sat heavy on your torso.  

You should go check on him.  

“No, you shouldn’t.” Something incredulous says within your mind.  

You feel a dammed tear break free and fall sideways toward your ear. But he might be hurt.  

“You are hurt.” The same voice replies quickly.  

Aaron didn’t mean it. It’s just what happened when he got sad.  

“When he got drunk, you mean.”  

People do stupid things when they’re drunk. He still loves you.  

“You don’t treat the people you love like that.” It was Spencer’s voice of reason you were hearing in your mind. His intense words of comfort return to you from the night before. “You do not deserve to be treated like that.”  

The dam of tears breaks in your other eye. It was hard to control your breathing so it didn’t press against your sore ribs.  

He’s sorry for doing it. He always apologizes.  

“Only when he thinks you’ll leave him.” You never told Spencer that, but it was still his voice that spoke sense to you.  

It was strange, you thought. Usually, your voice of reason is the gentle voice of your mother. It had grown quiet the last many months. You were forgetting what she sounded like.  

The lump growing in your throat was helping the scratchiness. Your eyes flicker to the door and notice something peculiar. Shadows were peeking from beneath the door. Someone was standing just beyond it.  

Then they walk away. They come back. Back and forth.  

They pause at the door again and the wood creaks. Maybe he was pressing a hand to it as he leaned in to listen for your breathing – a sign you were awake.  

Spencer.  

You sniffle as a laugh tries to escape the bubble in your throat. It sounds like a soft cry. And suddenly the itchy tracks falling from either side of your face flow like salty rivers. It hurts to breathe, to cry. 

“(Y/N)?” you hear from behind the door. “Can I come in?”  

Your hands fist the blankets, trying to control the painful aches becoming much more apparent with each rib cracking breath.  

The shadows fidget and sway as they wait beneath the door. “(Y/N)? Are you okay?” Spencer has one hand on the door handle and his forehead resting against the white wood grain before him. “I’m going to come in, alright?”  

The handle turns and you avoid his face. Aaron never liked to see you cry.  

Spencer walks over gingerly, but you can see his urgency in the way his arms lay stiff at his sides, and his fingers were restless against his palms.  

Aaron would say suck it up. Stop crying. Get over yourself. His life is hard and you don’t see him blubbering, do you? 

In a second, Spencer is kneeling at your bedside, hands resting on top of the mattress but not daring to use them. His index finger and thumb just pinch the other fingers to keep them still. “It’s okay.”  

You frown, still avoiding his gaze.  

He takes the time to look at all your visible injuries. “I know it probably hurts.” He has to pinch his fingers harder to keep them from acting without his permission. “Maybe we should go to the ER.”  

“No,” you say hoarsely, but firmly.  

Spencer swallows hard, anger rising in him at the swelling and discoloration that had taken up the left side of your face. “Your ribs still hurt? Some of them might be broken.”  

You wince at another breath, “I’ll be okay.”  

“Don’t they need to take a scan or something to make sure your lungs are okay?” 

“I don’t want to,” you say quietly. “I... I shouldn’t have called you. I’ve probably ruined your whole weekend.” You start to inch your way into a sitting position, choosing to look away from the hurt in Spencer’s face. 

He goes to touch your rising arm, and you flinch away.  

He hesitates. He puts his hand back down. “I’m glad you called me. I want you to be here.”  

You concentrate on what movement brought the least amount of pain as you sit stony on the mattress. “I didn’t want to drag you into this.” You finally look at his face and see something warm and imploring in the way he looked at you. “Look... I’ve made you sad.”  

He blinks a few times; a quiver in his cheek tells you he’s trying to be quick witted in how he changes his demeanor. “No, you’ve made me feel... happy.” His face goes placid at thinking he’s said the wrong thing, “Maybe not happy, but... grateful. That you chose to call me last night.”  

You sigh, looking at him with a surge of endearment.  

He still looks fearful he might have messed up. “You don’t have to feel regret over that.”  

While having his voice of reason speak to your nonsensical thoughts in your mind, it was much nicer to hear them aloud. “I’m fighting the urge to go back and apologize.”  

Something steely hardens Spencer’s eyes for a fraction of a second. He looks like he’s going to say something angry. You’ve never felt fear around Spencer, but you didn’t like the flicker of anxiety that tickles your ribs.  

Spencer does something that you’re not used to. He swallows the angry retort and instead takes a deep breath. “I don’t think you should do that. He doesn’t deserve the air you breathe around him.”  

Your lips finally quirk upwards in the corners. One of your hands going to wipe away the salty tracks from your face. You’re soft with the tenderness to the left side of your face. “How bad is it?” you ask.  

Spencer takes a moment to consider you, like he’s really looking at you. “Just a scratch.”  

Your neck creaks when it turns to him, eyes searching for what you knew were the signs of a joke. “Like I said, I don’t need the ER.”  

His little quip backfired, “I would rather play it safe and have you checked out. You... your face looks tenderized, (Y/N). Your ribs have got to be just as painful, if not more.”  

You start to pull back the covers, and Spencer quickly gets to his feet. “I should probably get up,” you say. “I have to go back eventually.”  

Spencer splutters, “I made some, uh – brunch for us. You could stay and eat something. I’ve got something frozen we... we could put against your eye. A-And it is the weekend, and we – we don’t have work.” He watches how you manage to pull the blankets off and start to swing your legs to hang over the side of the bed. “You can stay... you – you should stay. I w-want you to stay.”  

Hands keeping you steady against the mattress, you now look at the rambling boy in front of you. He’s still wearing pajamas from last night. He never came into his room to change. You look down and see the rock band t-shirt and the sweats he let you borrow.  

“I’ve asked too much of you,” you say as you attempt to stand without aggravating your already screaming ribs. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”  

Spencer looks to be on the edge of being frantic. An edge comes into his voice like when you two were bickering about sleeping arrangements the night before. “I’m telling you, (Y/N), that I want you to be here. I don’t want you to go. You need to rest and I... I want to help.”  

You stand crookedly to find the position that hurts the least. “You have helped, Spence. I don’t want to put any more of this on you. I was... I was in a bad place last night. And you came.” You look at him with a heart full of warmth. “Thank you for coming when I called.”  

“Always,” he says instantly. “I will always come when you call.”  

Something in your heart tells you that he means that. And a small inkling within your heart believes him.  

“But I should get back and try to calm the situation. He’ll be worried about where I am.” You walk forward and Spencer, being so afraid of making you feel uncomfortable, steps aside as an unfathomable feeling builds in his veins. You want to go back to Aaron?  

What about your little confession last night? You were ashamed to be convinced it was okay to be beaten by the guy.  

He hears the bathroom door close and he retreats to the kitchen. There are chocolate chip pancakes warming on a skillet and he has a Lego set sitting on the living room coffee table, a favorite drink of yours resting beside the box. He has a cloth and painkillers on the counter, to alleviate the aches and pains with a frozen bag and medicine. He even has your old clothes from last night in the dryer. His morning started with treating a couple blood spots around the neckline of the shirt.  

Why the hell did you want to go back to Aaron? He hears the sink turn on in the bathroom.  

Aaron was a piece of shit that somehow manipulated his way into your heart. You were so isolated and abused by this man that you still wanted to go back after breaking bones. Spencer thought any sane person would avoid that at all costs. At least call the cops and get a restraining order. But what did he know about the cycle of abuse.  

He tried to talk to Courtney and Shayne about it a couple of times. He trusted them and knew they had similar suspicions like everyone else at Smosh. How could he convince you that Aaron was an abuser and you were caught in his web. How could he tell you without making you feel small and like an idiot – the word you used just last night to describe the situation.  

He had texted them earlier that morning to give them heads up that he wouldn’t make it to movie night. You needed him and they were very understanding. No doubt they would be worried about you while they shot pickups at Smosh that day.  

You were in denial.  

“Hey Spence, where are my clothes?” You were back from the bathroom and noticed the warming pancakes. “Oh, Spencer...”  

“They’re in the dryer,” he says quietly, still plagued with the complexities of his thoughts. “You should stay at least until they’re dry. We can eat while we wait.” He goes over to the freezer to grab a frozen bag while you round the kitchen counter, with a soft smile on your bruised face.  

Your dad used to make Saturday pancakes. 

It was hard to look in the mirror and see a mass of blue and purple. But it was nothing some makeup couldn’t hide. You were quite good at that. As you hold the spatula to slide a pancake onto a waiting plate, Spencer appeared beside you with a frozen bag of vegetables wrapped in a thin cloth.  

“Here, hold this to your face. I have some painkillers by your drink in the living room.” He was cautious to trade the spatula for the ice pack, not wanting to touch you if that still made you flinch.  

You hold the bag and whisper a ‘thank you’ to him before shuffling towards the couch. Spencer is delighted you finally did something without a retort. He stacks a couple of pancakes onto a plate and covers them in butter and warm buttermilk syrup. He offers them to you and opts to take a seat on the floor beside you, still not wishing to make you uncomfortable.  

Your eyes flicker from the Lego set to the back of Spencer’s head as he takes the remote to find something easy to watch in the background.  

“How long will the clothes be?” you ask.  

Spencer was glad his face was hidden from you. He didn’t like stretching the truth to you. “Maybe a little less than an hour.”  

You nod, “Well, maybe we could do Legos until they’re ready.”  

“I’d like that,” Spencer says, leaning into the couch with a soft smile.  

~~~ 

Somehow an hour turned into a few more. You were pleasantly distracted by Spencer and the sitcom playing in the background. Your phone of many notifications was still hiding in his bedroom.  

It was warm and comfortable and... safe there with Spencer. It was easy. There wasn’t a general air of disdain that put worry in your stomach. Spencer was kind. He was quiet and observant and gentle with you.  

That surge of endearment grew within you.  

That was until something began pounding on the door.  

You jump on the couch as you and Spencer turn to the door. “What in the...?” Spencer begins, but another few knocks pound into his door.  

“(Y/N)!”  

Something cold turns your insides into lead. “Oh no...” you whisper. You look down and see you’re still in Spencer’s pajamas. “Oh no.” You say louder as you run into the bedroom to grab your phone.  

Spencer stands with a mixture of apprehension and fury building inside him. He was not a violent person. He wasn’t even an angry person. But something burned in his chest and made his fingers clench.  

He walked to the door to see it visibly bounce against the fist of the shit stain that was on the other side.  

Expression calm, Spencer opens the door a couple inches, “Yes.”  

A larger man stands before him; shoulders tense and a wrathful look in his face.  

“Where is she?” he says lowly.  

“Who?” Spencer plays stupidly.  

Aaron clenches his jaw, “Are you mocking me?”  

He had to be a couple inches taller than Spencer. “I’m calling you rude. You show up like this and think I should be respectful? Ask me a proper question.”  

You appear behind him, “It’s okay, Spencer. Just ignore it.”  

Aaron immediately shoves open the door with a hand, “I knew it. You think you can...” he spots what you’re wearing. “Holy shit. You’ve been caught right in the fucking act.” He laughs a curt, cold laugh. “You’re not even trying to hide it. I knew you were up to something.” He jabs a finger at your cowered frame. “And this just fucking proves it. Proves what a cheating bitch you are.”  

You’re folding in on yourself; your voice the quietest Spencer had ever heard it. “Aaron, baby – it's not what it looks like.”  

“The fuck it isn’t!” he says louder. “You run away and don’t answer your phone. What was I supposed to think? I had to drive to that fucking playhouse you call work to find out where you were. You have a fucking location on your phone for a reason. You think you can make some fuck-ass move like turning it off so I wouldn’t know you’re cheating on me?” 

He takes a step closer to you and Spencer cuts in front of him. “You need to leave.”  

“The hell I do!” Aaron yells, “I’m here to take back what’s mine.”  

“It’s okay, Spencer. Just let it go.” You lay a hand on Spencer’s shoulder to nudge him away. “I’ll go with him.”  

“She doesn’t have to go with you,” Spencer says firmly. He was starting to visibly shake.  

Aaron stared at him with such malice. “You enjoy fucking my girlfriend? You like being with that lying bitch?”  

“He didn’t mean it, baby,” you wriggle your way between the two. Your hands are on Aaron’s chest. “Let’s go. I’ll go with you.” Your voice is timid as you plead with him placatingly, “Please, I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry – I know you’ve been worried...”  

“Shut up,” he says, grabbing harshly at your wrist, leashing you to him. “I want to hear what the little man has to say.”  

Spencer was not prone to anger. But a fury like nothing he had experienced before was making his arms tremble. “Big talk calling me little when you have to resort to hitting your girlfriend to make her stay with you.”  

You turn to flash a surprised look at Spencer.  

Aaron looks ready to explode. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”  

The fear that Spencer would be hurt swells inside you. “Everyone is upset, Aaron. We should leave and cool off. See? I’m going with you, just like you want. We can go home. I’ll go with you back home.”  

Aaron takes another step forward, one hand keeping a bruising hold on your arm and the other ready to strike. “You think we should leave before I teach this dick a lesson?”  

“No, don’t, please,” you say. It breaks Spencer’s heart. “I’ll go with you. You can talk to me. Teach me the lesson.”  

Spencer did not like the sound of that. “Leave her alone.”  

“What did you say?” Aaron asks.  

“I don’t have patience for fucking bullies like you. You don’t deserve an ounce of the care she’s showing you. How fucking dare you lay a fucking finger on her.”  

You start to get frantic, “He doesn’t mean it, Aaron. He’s upset just like you. Let’s go and...”  

Aaron growls, “I won’t be babied by you!” He throws you behind him, forcing you to smack into the wall beside the door. He turns to Spencer, “I won’t be talked to by some bitch boy who steals another man's girl.”  

“She called me, Aaron,” Spencer says to his face. “She called me. And I didn’t have to hit her or shout profanities at her to make her do that. How does that make your fragile ego feel?” 

In an instant, Aaron’s fist collided with Spencer’s face, sending him reeling.  

“No!” you shriek, taking hold of Aaron’s clenched fist. “No, not to him. Don’t touch him, please. I’ll do whatever you want. You can do it to me. Don’t hurt him, please. Let’s go – let's just go. I want to go with you, baby. Let’s go.” You start to pull on his hand through the open front door, “We can do whatever you want. Whatever you want.” 

Aaron allows you to tug him through the door, breathing heavy and flexing the fingers he used as a fist.  

Spencer regains his footing and follows you out the door. His face stung but it was nothing compared to the fury in him. He pulls out his phone and dials 911. He tells the dispatcher an assault happened at his home and gave the address.  

“You calling the cops now?” Aaron attempts to mock him. “Can’t handle this like a man?”  

You freeze on the steps. Spencer was actually calling the police? 

“What, you can’t handle the consequences of your actions like a man either?” Spencer retorts, “A womanizer who beats others down to feed their own insecurity? Face it like the so-called man you are, Aaron. Get your shit together and have some self-respect.” A small voice on the phone was trying to give Spencer directions on how to handle the situation.  

Aaron was bristling again, “I oughta beat the shit out of you.”  

“I fucking dare you,” Spencer says, waving his phone in the air between them. “Gives more evidence.”  

“What kind of man doesn’t fight back?” Aaron says, walking towards Spencer again. “You enjoy being beat?” 

You try to intervene again. “Let’s all walk away before anyone else gets hurt. Back off for a second,” you look over your shoulder to see the red mark on Spencer’s cheek before addressing Aaron fully.  

“God, woman,” Aaron exasperates. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut the hell up when I’m fucking talking?” His arm swings out to force you out of the way. A small cry escapes you as Spencer steps forward to pull you to him and out of the way of Aaron’s hand.  

“Sorry,” he mutters with his free hand pushing you behind him. But now that he has a hand on you, he didn’t want to let you go. He wanted to feel you safe and shielded behind him.  

You sigh in a sad way, leaning your forehead into his back as he keeps one arm wrapped behind himself and around your waist. Maybe your sigh was a slight sigh of relief. Spencer inches the pair of you backwards toward the house as he relays what just happened into the phone for the dispatcher.  

“You son of bitch,” Aaron steps forward to match your retreating figures. “I wasn’t going to hit her. Just smack her around a bit. She got in the line of fire; it’s her own damn fault!” 

The police were about two minutes out, the dispatcher says.  

“You’re going to stay right there,” Spencer says, still guiding you and himself back towards the house. “You’re going to stay right fucking there.”  

“You don’t talk to me like that.” Aaron says, completely over it now.  

You hear that snap in his voice. The moment before he really did something awful. Your fingers dig into Spencer’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt. His hand tightens around you, keeping you pressed into him as he shields you.  

“I’ll talk to an abuser however the fuck I want,” Spencer retorts. “You do not have my respect.”  

“Like you know the meaning of the word,” Aaron says in his low, menacing tone. He advances the pair of you, hands reaching for the front of Spencer’s shirt.  

With an almighty heave, Spencer is thrown to the pavement, phone skittering out of his hand and scraping away on the cement. You shriek as your shield is torn from you.  

Aaron straddles Spencer and picks him up by the collar of his shirt, “I beat the shit out of that girl and I like her. Imagine what I would do to you.” And he cocks his fist into the air as you run over, screaming in a way that had Spencer’s heart at attention.  

“No, don’t! Stop!” You wrap your hands around Aaron’s arm and pull, but with the momentum of his swig, you’re knocked off balance.  

He wails a few punches into Spencer’s face. Spence’s glasses fly off his nose. You crawl to Aaron’s back and start pounding on him. Anything – anything – to distract him or get him to stop. You felt so weak against him.  

Spencer finally gathers his wits enough to thrust his knee up into Aaron. There are police sirens blaring in the distance.  

Aaron keels over and rolls onto his side. During the momentary weakness, Spencer gains the advantage and straddles Aaron. He gets a fistful of Aaron’s shirt and starts to land punches to the coward's face.  

It was fury Spencer had never felt before. He had never felt so angry and feral in his life. He just knew he wanted to incapacitate this man before he could lay another finger on you. He wanted him down, and to stay down.  

You’re shocked to see that kind of violence come from Spencer. Your sweet and gentle Spencer. Your hands are over your mouth for a few seconds as the police are right around the corner.  

Aaron regains control as his hands fly to Spencer’s throat, choking him and throwing him to the side. He growls like a wounded dog, rising to his knees and crawling to Spencer.  

You run at him and try to push him over to no avail. You aim a hard kick to his stomach, but he sees it coming. He catches your ankle reflexively and yanks your feet out from under you. You fall onto your back and smack your head into the pavement.  

Your already broken ribs pop around like loose change in your chest, but you can’t cry out with the air knocked from your lungs.  

But in another instant, uniformed men and women swarm the trio. Two men pull Aaron off of Spencer and drag him to the curb. A woman runs to you, yelling something about an ambulance in the walkie strapped to her vest.  

“Hey there, sweetie,” she says, “Don’t move now, just stay still for a second.” She assesses the way your face is screwed up, trying to breathe.  

Spencer is panting, getting to his feet shakily and attempting to reach your side without his glasses. He falls to his knees beside you, “(Y/N)?” 

Your eyes burn from the pains of your injuries. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.  

The officer woman looks hurt. She could see your past bruising along with the fresh ones. She had her assumptions about what was going on, and it put a painful grimace on her face. “You’ll be all right, (Y/N).” She said your name with kindness, “An ambulance is on the way to get you some more help.”  

Spencer was slouched beside you, ignoring the ruckus of profanities and swinging limbs that was Aaron being arrested. “I’m sorry,” he says, “For opening the door before calling the police.”  

You raise your hand to find him. He takes your hand and does something he’s never done before. He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your fingers. Once. Twice. He holds them tightly and rests his chin there as he looks at you blearily.  

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say quietly.  

“I know,” he says. “But I didn’t want you to get hurt even more.”  

You swallow hard, “How did we get into this mess?”  

Spencer laughs. It’s thick with emotion. “Well, I think it started when I fell for you.”  

The pain in your chest is numbed by something new.  

“During those late nights at that gas station.” He doesn’t look at you, just reminices as he looks at your hand between his. “I just took too long. I was too afraid to say anything.”  

You wrap your fingers around one of his hands. “You... for that long?”  

“Anyone at work could tell you. I wouldn’t shut up about you.”  

“Why didn’t you say anything when we became friends?” you ask quietly. The officer had stood up to give you two some space.  

“I thought it would be enough... just being friends with you.” He starts to rub his thumb up and down your hand. “I’d rather be friends with you than not have you in my life at all. I was just too late.”  

You swallow, waiting for him to look at you. “It’s not too late.”  

His blue-gray eyes find you, if not a little unfocused.  

“I don’t want it to be too late.”  

~~~

Your famously large fanny pack, full of essentials, becomes the new ‘mama bear bag,’ as it is lovingly called by the cast and crew. You somehow always have exactly what everyone needs, almost like you can sense their need of help before they do.

On the set of Reddit stories, you walk in with your setting powder, ready to pat away any shiny spots on the cast. You stand behind Brennan at the camera, quietly observing. They were still setting up lights and sound.

You watch as Shayne unknowingly has a food stain on his face. Angela is having a bad hair day, unable to keep her hair out of her eyes. Chanse beside her has discovered a cut on his finger from opening cardboard packages that morning.

Without a word, you walk onto the set, opening your mama bear bag. You hand Shayne a wet wipe and gesture to the stain on his chin. You give some bobby pins to Angela, helping her make crisscrosses above her ears to hold back her hair. And you grab Chanse’s hand, carefully wrapping his cut with a band aid.

On your way out you crumble the band aid wrapper and take Shayne’s wet wipe.

“And yet again, we’ve been humbled by the mama bear bag,” Shayne chortles. “I swear I don’t know how we survived without (Y/N) all these years.”

“She might be the most observant person I know,” Chanse says, getting comfortable on the couch.

You stand back, waving them off as the cameras start to roll.

The trio get into the Reddit stories, laughing about the ridiculousness of the posts. The audacity of some of the writers has you giggling in the back. Angela is rioting on the couch, flinging herself around with laughs.

At one point she falls to the ground, smacking Chanse on the leg. When she gets back up, the bobby pins in her hair are off centered and no longer pinned in place.

She starts to wail as a bit. “(Y/N)! I ruined my hair.”

Shayne starts laughing heartily, holding onto the iPad, “Quick, everybody freeze. (Y/N) is coming to the rescue.”

Everyone giggles as you move onto the set, refraining from showing your face. You’d ask the editors to cut you out of the shot later.

~~~

Over on the Games set, you help a coworker behind the camera who has a headache. You pull a little organized container of medicine from your bag.

A few members of the cast were playing another round of Moose Master and Amanda was complaining about her dry hands.

You put your medicine pack away and extract a bottle of coconut milk lotion. You walk to the edge of the set and wiggle it in the air for Amanda to see.

She lights up, “Oh, yes please! Thank you, (Y/N).”

You toss the bottle and watch Amanda catch it.

“I will forever be impressed with how much that bag holds,” Angela shakes her head.

“The mama bear bag,” Courtney giggles.

Amanda tosses the bottle back at you, “Thanks, honey!”

“We love our mama bear (Y/N),” Arasha smiles.

~~~

On the set of SmoshCast, you walk in during an active shoot with Amanda, Shayne, and Spencer. In an act of retaliation, Amanda had jokingly texted you for drinks and snacks. Spencer was doing another one of his bits where he brings a crazy number of drinks on the podcast.

Completely disregarding his own rule to not have drinks and snacks while filming.

Shayne spots you and immediately starts wheezing, covering his face with both hands. Amanda is wide eyed and stunned.

“You actually brought stuff!”

Spencer is in the middle subtly shaking his head and looking at you with such warmth.

You bring a container of delicious looking fruit danishes, serving them on little platters. Then you reveal actual teacups that you generously pour a honeyed tea into.

“Holy shit – you brought a whole spread,” Amanda continues, narrating into the microphone for those that aren’t watching on video. “(Y/N) has brought actual porcelain teacups and cream cheese danishes.”

Shayne is still occupied with his wheezing, tears now developing in his eyes. “Like we’re on the set of fucking Bridgerton.”

You smile, “Now you can properly spill the tea.” You know your voice will be muffled on the podcast without a microphone, and you awkwardly shuffle away to keep your face off camera.

“I’ve just had the most brilliant idea,” Amanda says, taking a sip of her tea and devolving into an English accent.

“And what is that, good sir?” Spencer asks, eyes still lingering on you.

“Gentleman’s episode of Smosh Mouth,” Amanda continues, “Where we delve into the explicit details of our illegal mines and mistresses.”

Spencer chokes on a laugh, “That is quite astonishing.” He gives you a wink and you smile.

~~~

The latest Smosh Games idea was to have a Gentleman’s video playing Ultimate Werewolf. At one point, the other gentlemen gained up on Spencer and pretended to beat him up because he was the werewolf.

It was a hilarious bit and Alex, being the director, cuts the video and asks for you to do some special effects makeup on Spencer while the others have a lunch break.

You lead Spencer to the makeup vanity outside the set rooms.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Agnew.” You turn the chair towards him and grab the clothing protector apron.

Spencer places his fake cigar onto the vanity and continues his English accent. “Thank you, young chap. I say – I should very much like for you to deliver a most formidable contusion to my eye.”

You giggle, wrapping the apron over his front, like a hairdresser. It protects his costume from getting makeup on it.

“I shall deliver the most fearsome blow to your face – using my delicate brushes.” You remove his top hat while he laughs.

“Powerful brushes, I say.”

You pull out some stage makeup and a stippling sponge. With Spencer’s hands confined to beneath the apron, you lightly take away his glasses and place them on the vanity.

Spencer watches you with a warm gaze. As you near his face, he tries to look straight ahead instead of directly at you.

“I’m thinking a bruised cheek that grows into a black eye. And maybe some fake blood around your nose. I could do a busted lip too?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “Whatever makes me the ugliest.”

You smile, grabbing the yellow cream makeup. With your free hand, you push his hair away from his temple.

He closes his eyes at your touch.

You begin with a thin layer of yellow, then start to stipple purple and blue on top.

“Amanda is upset that we still have not had a hangout since you taking Angela to see my musical.”

He smiles, refraining from opening his eyes. Seeing you so close to his face would send his heart into overdrive.

“I’m still surprised that Angela wanted to come in the first place. She’s the one making jokes about how hanging out with coworkers is embarrassing.”

You use a maroon color to show a split in the middle of the bruise. “I was just thinking… maybe we should do something tonight. Can you look up for me?”

Spencer opens his eyes and looks toward the ceiling. You use the sponge and your fingertips to blotch color around his eye and cheek.

You smell like a flower garden. His pulse quickens. His throat bobs.

“We can celebrate another successful filming week,” you continue, oblivious to his visceral reaction to your presence.

“Y-Yeah,” he chokes out. “We can play games at my house and maybe watch a movie?”

You continue to blend out the cream makeup. “Awesome! I think Amanda, Shayne, and Courtney are down.”

You miss how his face dips a little when you mention other people.

“What about Aaron?” he asks.

You grab a different brush and start working on his lip, laying a base of concealer and dark colors.

He was finding it hard to take a full breath.

“I don’t think I’ll invite him,” you say quietly.

Spencer is unable to talk with you painting his lip. But his eyes snap to your focused ones. Was everything okay?

“He’ll be fine,” you continue, just as quietly. “I just… want to hang out with my friends.”

There’s something strange and suspicious about your tone of voice. Spencer starts to scrunch his brow, trying to figure you out.

You notice the worry in his expression. “It’s fine. I just… want to be out of the apartment.”

That doesn’t help his nerves.

You’re now applying a small amount of latex to make a visible wound on his lip. Letting it dry, you look at Spencer’s eyes to see him asking you a question with his eyebrows.

“Don’t worry,” you start to color the latex, “It’ll be fun.”

Spencer tries to say something, “Is there… ow!”

You smack his shoulder, “You’ll ruin your lip.” Your face seems a little sullen, but you give a small smile.

He slouches in the chair and gives you a penetrating look.

Back on the Smosh Games set, Alex continues to direct and you can already picture the cut scene in the video where Spencer is getting beat up to him now sitting in his chair with a messed up face.

It’s making you giggle as the other gentlemen comment on the bruising.

“I say, look at that ghastly contusion to your eye,” Shayne shouts.

Amanda flails her cigar around, “I do declare, it rather suits your complexion.”

Spencer readjusts his top hat, “I must profess, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I simply have some tenderness to my face.”

You laugh off stage – knowing that the editors would most likely put subtitles that said ((Y/N) laughing).

~~~

After the last shoot, you’re cleaning up the makeup vanities and grabbing some remover for Spencer. Your enormous fanny pack is strapped across your chest, almost all coworkers out of the building already.

The sets door flies open and causes you to jump.

Amanda and Spencer are there chatting away but pause when seeing you scared.

“Woah, you okay?” Amanda asks with a smile. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you.”

Spencer looks really rough with his face still full of bruise makeup. But his eyes consider you quietly.

You wave them off, “I’m just a little jumpy. Here Spence.” You offer the makeup remover and a little bottle to take the latex off.

“I have to say, you are amazing at that, (Y/N),” Amanda says, leading the group toward the front doors. “Spencer literally looks like he’s been mauled by a bunch of gentlemen.”

“Man, I should have done a bite mark,” you laugh, “Mauled by a bunch of gentlemen.”

Amanda laughs again, “Gentleman Angela would 100% gnaw on your arm for accusing her as a werewolf.”

Spencer starts to laugh at that mental image, rubbing his face with the remover and a cotton pad. “Feral gentleman game would be so funny.”

“Because the irony is that we are gentlemen that are shitty people. Then we can take it a step further by being gentlemen that are shitty people with rabies.”

You snort, “I guess we have a new video pitch for the next meeting.”

“So, um…” Spencer opens the door, “I can give you a ride and we can all meet at my place?”

Amanda agrees, saying how Shayne and Courtney were planning on that anyway. You smile at him, causing strange things to fly around in his stomach.

“Is it weird of me to say I’m excited to see what your apartment looks like?”

He laughs, “Curiosity did kill the cat.”

“I can’t believe you just confessed to taking me to your place to kill me.”

“Not before I show you my katana,” Spencer smiles, opening the passenger door for you.

You laugh, “The murder weapon.”

Driving towards his apartment, Spencer is being hyperaware of how you’re acting. He was still suspicious of your motives for wanting to spend the night out. He notices you cowering into the car door.

He’s never noticed that before.

“Are you okay?”

You take a shaky breath, “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t like driving much.”

“Is… is that why you take the bus? Did you choose not to have a car?” He keeps moving his eyes from the road to you.

You try to straighten out, “No, I can drive if I have to. I just don’t like to.” You hold onto your purse to give your hands something to do. “What should we play at your place?”

Spencer tries to let your explanation settle, but he’s still curious about your disklike of cars. “We could play Super Smash Bros.”

“Or Super Mario Party?”

He smiles, “Not before some pizza.”

The drive to his apartment is full of pleasantries, Shayne and Courtney already parked and holding boxes of pizza and breadsticks. Amanda is just helping them carry a box when you get out.

“Happy weekend!” you say cheerily. “Ready for some food and games?”

Amanda puts one arm around your shoulders, “I’m excited to get to know you more.”

“Yes!” Courtney adds, following Spencer to the door. “You’ve been at Smosh for a few months, and I still feel like we don’t know much about you.”

“Well, I’m… I wouldn’t say I enjoy talking about myself much,” you laugh awkwardly.

Amanda snickers, “Clearly.”

They walk inside the little apartment and are immediately welcomed by the mewling of a gray cat. You are obsessed.

“Aw!” you fall to your knees, “Hello, sweet girl.” You offer a hand and wait for the cat to sniff your fingers. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

The little gray cat lifts her nose to the air before rubbing her face against your hand. You begin to melt.

Shayne starts laughing, startling the cat. “I think we know why (Y/N) wanted to hang out.”

“That’s Cleo,” Spencer says sweetly, putting his keys down and going to grab some drinks.

Courtney puts their share of the pizza boxes on a small dining table before joining you on the ground. “She is the prettiest little lady.”

Amanda helps to set out some paper plates and napkins before starting to serve. Shayne grabs himself and Courtney some slices before sitting on the couch in the living room. You stay with Cleo the cat, completely content to sit with her for the rest of the night.

It’s not until you notice a pair of feet standing in front of you that you look up, Cleo in your lap. Spencer stands there with an ice cold Diet Coke from the fridge.

You smile, taking the drink, “I didn’t know you were a Diet Coke fan.”

“I’m not,” he says.

Your smile falters for a second before a warm feeling swells in your chest. Cleo hops from your lap and Spencer offers a hand to you.

You take it, standing with ease. The others are already chatting and eating their pizza in the living room.

“Do you have any pets, (Y/N)?” Amanda asks.

You sit down beside her, Spencer quick to sit on your other side. “No, I couldn’t afford one,” you laugh awkwardly. “I don’t really have the space for one either.”

“Shame, it seems like you’re an animal person,” Amanda continues.

You nod enthusiastically, “I love animals.”

Shayne reaches for one of the switch controllers, “Fancy a game, Chosen?” he speaks in a silly lisp accent.

Spencer chuckles, settling in beside you. “Of course, Chosen. The only acceptable opponent… is obviously myself.”

A strange anime laugh comes from Shayne, and you smile. You’re rubbing shoulders with Spencer every time he moves his arm with the controller.

“Finally, girl talk,” Courtney says sarcastically. “(Y/N), how long have you lived here?”

“For about two years,” you say shortly. You don’t elaborate and you can feel the sudden shift of an awkward pause after you speak.

Amanda gives a laugh to fill the space, “What made you want to move here?”

“Probably the same reason many others do…” you say quietly, taking a sip from your soda to buy you time. “I wanted to live somewhere that might support my creative side. LA has a lot of creative and performing arts.”

Courtney agrees, putting an arm over the couch and behind Shayne. “Right, you’re a bit of a theatre nerd.”

“More than a bit,” Spencer butts in.

You nudge your shoulder into him. “I do love theatre.”

“I’m glad you’ve continued working with it to some capacity,” Amanda says. “I’ve been doing improv troops and sketches for years. The black box is my home.”

You smile, knowing that a black box was a dark room in a theatre where actors can improv something out of nothing. Sometimes people perform shows there, utilizing the empty space to be more creative.

“Are you a part of an improv group right now?” you ask, glad to steer the conversation off yourself.

“I’m a part of the Groundlings Improv Theatre and I keep doing performances at UCB as a Maude performer.”

You find that Spencer’s arm isn’t so much bumping into you as fully pressed against yours now. “What’s a Maude performer?”

Amanda perks up, “It’s someone that’s a part of UCB’s sketch comedy group. You have to audition annually and then help write for and perform sketches.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” you remark. “What about you Courtney?”

“I’ve found my way into being a main writer and a director on the Smosh channel. That’s where I’ve found my most creativity. I’ve helped with some FX makeup on some music videos, and I’ve made an online apparel rental subscription service. It’s called Courtney’s Rack,” they giggle for a second, “And it’s inspired by my own style.”

“You guys are so cool,” you say warmly. “Way to follow your passions.”

Amanda waves you off, “You too, girl. You’ve worked your way into a sketch group.”

You nod, but don’t elaborate. Instead you feel a chill – you shiver. “Are you guys excited about our next karaoke livestream?” You miss the way Spencer side eyes your shivers.

Courtney holds an invisible microphone, “Hell yeah! I think it’s time to get our Madonna on.”

“You haven’t seen how wild our karaoke streams go,” Amanda laughs, “Throw a bunch of attention seeking performers in front of the camera and all bets are off.”

Courtney shoves her, cackling, “Just calling all of us out.”

Spencer hits pause on the game and jumps from the couch. You watch him walk awkwardly around the ottoman and to the hall.

“Ha!” Shayne says in his silly voice. “The Chosen has realized that he can never beat himself. Therefore, I – the multiverse Chosen – have succeeded in defeating him.”

“We’re off set, Shayne,” Amanda rolls her eyes, “You can cut the act.”

Shayne combs his hair off his forehead, “Sorry, it’s just a part of me at this point.”

Spencer reappears with blankets. He tosses one toward the other couch with Shayne and Courtney. He lays the other over your lap and retakes his seat beside you.

You smile at him and whisper, “Thank you.” His arm presses against yours as firmly as before.

“Welcome.”

“Are you planning on making a guest appearance, (Y/N)?”

You hum your confusion. “Hm? Me do karaoke on the stream? I don’t think so.”

“Why not! We invite crew on it all the time,” Amanda says cheerfully.

You shake your head, sipping your soda. “I couldn’t – not in front of all those people.”

“I bet you have a lovely singing voice,” Courtney smiles, “All those musicals you’ve been in.”

“Once upon a time…” you say quietly, “Maybe.”

“Well,” Amanda says warmly, “Maybe it’s time to try it again.”

You feel an ache enter your chest. It quells the ever constant anxiety roiling in your stomach.

Shayne cries his defeat, “Curses! Bested by the best.”

Spencer nods his head in acknowledgement, “Would the ladies like to participate?”

“I’m ready for a movie,” Amanda says, putting her pizza plate down. “I’m feeling something epic.”

“Like Interstellar,” Spencer says, putting his controller down.

Courtney sighs, “Like 13 Going On 30.”

Shayne starts laughing, leaning back and putting a hand on Courtney’s leg. “All right let’s compromise. Let’s watch Megamind.”

“I second that,” you say, “Or a Marvel movie.”

“Let’s watch Avengers,” Courtney says.

You all agree, Spencer flipping through his smart tv to get a streaming service. His arm against yours is full of warmth. You gravitate towards it, leaning into him more.

Cleo the cat pads over and jumps onto the couch between you and Amanda.

“Hello, sweetie,” Amanda coos. But Cleo turns her eyes onto you. She blinks slowly and crawls onto your blanketed lap.

You’re very pleased with yourself, petting her fur as she settles. Spencer looks at you, eyes moving from your contented face to the cat. He suddenly has to hold his hands in his lap to keep them from wrapping around you.

The movie begins with everyone settling in. Cleo the cat purrs in your lap, snuggling into a little ball. You pet her, subconsciously leaning into Spencer.

The longer the movie plays, Shayne and Amanda cracking jokes about certain parts, you feel sleepy.

Cleo is fully asleep in your lap, stretching her cute little paws.

Your body slumps more into the couch and into the side you’re leaning into – right into Spencer. He tries to keep his cool as your head falls closer and closer to his shoulder. He tries to ignore the looks the friends are giving you two.

He tries to keep his eyes on the tv screen, his hands being tightly held in his lap.

You fall asleep on his shoulder.

His heart beats faster.

The movie ends with the end credit scene and the friends begin to excuse themselves.

“We’ll just leave you to it,” Amanda says in a teasing tone. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Remember to breathe,” Courtney snickers, getting her shoes on.

Shayne salutes him at the door, “Good luck, dude.”

You begin to stir as they shuffle out the door. Cleo turns onto her back, still asleep. Spencer turns his head to watch you wake.

He traces the outline of your face with his eyes. It’s soft and careful and warm.

His arm pleads to be moved around your shoulders. Hold you to him. Urge you back to sleep.

“God, I’m sorry,” you mumble sweetly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“That’s okay,” he says just as quietly. “You must’ve needed it.”

You stretch, lifting your chin from his shoulder. He hates the rush of cold that it leaves against him.

“Thanks for letting me drool on your shirt.”

“I will never wash this shirt again.”

You giggle in a groggy way, eyes heavy. “That’s disgusting.”

“How dare you say that about your drool. Nothing about you is disgusting.”

You sit straighter, running your hand down Cleo once more. She begins to purr again in her sleep.

“She likes you a lot,” Spencer says quietly. “She latched onto you real quick.”

“I’m an animal whisperer,” you say, rubbing at your eyes. You still hadn’t noticed how enraptured Spencer was with you beside him.

He finds it hard to swallow – the dim light, quiet room, and comfy couch all tempting him.

“Are – Are you ready to go home?”

You heave a heavy sigh. “I guess.”

“You guess?” he asks playfully. “You frozen in place with Cleo in your lap?”

“Partially,” you hum. “I have to get home sooner or later.”

Spencer feels that itch that something is wrong. The same feeling he had when you asked to hang out. “Is… everything okay?”

“Fine,” you say sleepily.

“(Y/N),” he asks slowly, “Why did you want to be out of your apartment tonight?”

There’s a silence that speaks volumes. Your face falls in a way that scares Spencer. He turns his body to see you better – his arm falls onto the back of the couch.

“(Y/N)?”

You clear your throat. “I just wanted a break from Aaron. That’s all.”

“Why?”

You pat Cleo’s head, waking her up. She sits and stretches her back on your legs before hopping off. “Sometimes your partner frustrates you and you need to walk away, right?”

“Depends on what’s frustrating you,” Spencer says, watching you stand and fold the blanket.

“I don’t know, Spencer. He… I shouldn’t complain. He’s helping with the bills.”

Spencer stands with you, “But that doesn’t mean you have to deal with whatever’s bothering you.”

“It does when it puts food on the table and a roof over my head.”

“But you did that before him.” He follows you to the door to drive you home.

Walking outside in the cold, you start to get upset. “You don’t understand.”

“Maybe I don’t. You have a new job that pays those bills, (Y/N). There shouldn’t be anything tying you to him like that.”

“I… I don’t like talking about this, Spencer.”

Now in the car, you drive down the street with momentary silence. Spencer feels anger brewing in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to butt into your relationship.”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, arms around yourself. “My friends are entitled to their opinions.”

“But not when I make you upset like this,” he says. “I’m just worried.”

You look at him with sad eyes. “Why?”

He flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. “I just… you’re my friend, (Y/N). Of course I worry about you. I care about your wellbeing.” There’s a pause where he feels a joke bubbling out of him. “And not just because I need you on set for my job to function properly.”

You smile and it relieves him.

“Thanks, Spence.”

The car parks outside your shabby apartment and Spencer stares at the chipped door with slight disdain.

“I’ll see you next week,” you say, opening the car door.

“Hey,” Spencer says suddenly, drawing your attention.

You bow down to see him still inside the car, “Yeah?”

“Call me if you need anything,” he says firmly. “Okay?”

You look at the seriousness in his face and start to nod a little bit. “Okay.”

~~~

The next week begins with a new round of meetings and writing. You are not needed until characters are decided for sketches, but you help the other art coordinator Alex to organize a few other set items.

You’re able to come in later than usual to do this.

You get off the bus and begin your walk toward the Smosh office. Your hair is down and slightly obscuring your vision. You try not to touch the makeup on your face too much.

“Good morning, Selina,” you say in your same sweet tone.

Selina waves at you, “Good morning to you too.”

You walk past the lunch tables and toward the art department by the costume and props storage. You wave at Erin and Josh before sitting at your desk.

Cassie fills you in on a few projects that the writing room is working on. You begin by cataloging what you’ll need to set on costume racks for the next filming week. You give a list of makeup and hair care refills to be ordered.

It’s into the afternoon when you head toward sets to organize racks and vanities for the coming week.

“(Y/N)!”

You turn toward the hallway of pods where the cast and crew work on the media side of things. Tommy and Spencer are heading towards you.

“Have you seen some of the new videos that’ve posted?” Tommy asks.

You ruffle the sides of your hair, making sure they lay to hide some of your face. “No, I don’t really look at the views and things like you guys.”

Spencer has a big smile on his face, “Well, the comments on the last few have been pretty good.”

“Meaning?” you say, walking into the empty sets to reach the costume racks. You don’t want to give them enough time to look at your face.

“Meaning that the fans have started to notice how often we talk about you on set.”

You turn sharply on your heel, Tommy and Spencer running into each other. “I’m sorry?”

“Look at some of these comments,” Tommy says, holding an iPad to your face. You grab it and begin to scroll, seeing line after line that’s asking about you.

“Angela asking for mama (Y/N) to fix her hair is so funny!”

“Does anybody know who (Y/N) is?”

“Is (Y/N) a new member of the Smosh crew?”

“Face reveal for (Y/N) please!?! We want to see who you guys are talking about!”

“Amanda saying yes please and then a lotion bottle being launched at her head took me so off guard.”

“Mama bear bag is my new favorite character.”

“Video for what’s inside (Y/N)’s mama bear bag!”

“Ah! (Y/N) almost being revealed on Smosh Mouth!!”

“(Y/N) bringing a full English tea set is hilarious.”

“We love a supportive crew member trying to encourage spilling the tea.”

“I love hearing (Y/N) laugh off set.”

“Spencer’s gentleman is so feral. His true self comes out with that top hat.”

“Do you think (Y/N) was the one that did his makeup?”

“I swear I hear the cast mention (Y/N) every video now. How can they tease us?!”

You start to feel a tightening in your chest, your breath a little shallow. “All of these… people recognize my name?”

Tommy is still giddy with the comments, “Yeah! Isn’t that crazy? We might have to have you guest star just to tease them a little bit more.”

Spencer notices that you are a little tense. “But we don’t have to do that. We just wanted to show you the positive response from the audience.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Thanks, but maybe we should hold off for a while longer.”

Tommy seems a little disappointed, but Spencer waves him away. He wants a moment with you alone. He watches you sort through some old costumes on the rack.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t mean for that to stress you out.”

“It was a little overwhelming is all,” you give a strained smile. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

Spencer puts his hands in his denim jacket. “We’ll wait until you’re ready.” His brows scrunch when he notices something on your face.

“Got anything fun planned for Games this next week?”

He leans over to see your complexion better, starting to get in your way. “Um… we’re thinking about some guessing games and… and a Throw Throw Burrito…” His hand lifts from his pocket and you lean away.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s that on your face?” he asks.

You turn away sharply, “What do you mean?” You start walking towards the vanities on the outside of the sets.

Spencer is close on your heels. “There’s something by your eye.”

At a mirror, you open your giant fanny pack to find your makeup. Under the lights, you notice some smudging around your eye where pristine makeup had been before. Yellowing spots that still hold a hint of blue and purple.

“Oh dammit,” you mutter, pulling out your concealer. “I ran into a cabinet this weekend and got a black eye. I thought I could keep it painted to avoid any awkward questions.”

You smudge concealer and foundation under your eye. You can see Spencer behind you in the mirror.

“That looks like a nasty bump,” he says lowly.

“Yeah, it hurt a bit.” You say, feigning a smile. You can hear a hint of disbelief in his voice. “I’m fine, really. It’s just a little bruise.”

Spencer purses his lips and nods his head, “Sure.”

You pat the makeup down and walk back to the sets to grab the sorted costumes.

~~~

You walk through the office with a few little presents and gifts of food. Your fanny pack is full of essentials, your arms full of plastic bags and a large drink carrier in your hands. A ballpoint pen sticks awkwardly from behind your ear, and you mumble the checklist you made earlier that day.

In another writing and meeting week, you find other things to occupy your time when your usual responsibilities are completed. It keeps you busy.

And out of your apartment.

Sharply turning a corner, you tap on the glass door of the conference room. People at the table smiling and waving you in, you quietly slide open the door to enter. The look of concentration leaves your face to reveal a wide grin.

Ian pauses his presentation of a fresh project by waving at you and gazing excitedly at what you brought.

“Don’t mind me,” you whisper. The same thing you whisper every time you make one of these deliveries.

All the main cast were there, along with a few representatives of social media and the heads of production. They were going over ideas for the next livestream to raise money for a foundation.

But you were more focused on getting this little ‘side quest’ done. Side quest meaning it wasn’t on your usual list of responsibilities. You start to pass out drinks to their corresponding owners, doing so in such a fluid motion that no one doubted their cup was exactly what they ordered.

Next, you open the plastic bags digging into your arms to hand out sandwiches and salads. You normally pitch in a few extra dollars to buy a better lunch for your coworkers and friends. You can see a speculating eye from Anthony as he accepts his deluxe meal.

You put on your best smile and wave a hand. “Don’t worry about it.” And before you leave, you reach into your fanny pack to extract a small box of cookies. “For dessert,” you whisper with a wink.

And before anyone can protest the homemade treat, you run out of the room with a few more drinks and meals to pass out.

There was a smaller number of people in the office today as it was primarily a writing day. You go searching for the few editors that were still working on things.

You find Kiana and give her another box of homemade cookies, then you find Tim to give him a coffee.

This became another routine for you. Just like how you use your mama bear bag to help on set so much, you use this spare time to help all the editors and production teams. People at Smosh start to expect your little visits and gifts.

Many know you by name, by smile, and by gifts. They come to love the sight of you because it meant something sweet was on the way – whether it was a thoughtful treat or a thoughtful conversation.

You took this self-proclaimed occupation very seriously. You love caring for your coworkers and friends.

That didn’t mean you never got stressed.

Your steps are quick again as you make your way to other editing pods. That checklist in your head never seems to grow smaller:

Get Damien his coffee

Give cookie box to art department

Ask Angela and Amanda about seeing that play together

Give Spencer his drink

Give Tommy a hug and see how he’s doing

Make sure Spencer actually ate a lunch

Update portfolio with some special effects makeup

Ask Spencer if you were…

Someone suddenly crashes into you, sending the last few cups of coffee into the air and all over your shirt. You jump at the steaming hot liquid, pulling against the fabric of your shirt to keep it from your skin.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry, (Y/N).”

You wince and look up to see Spencer’s sympathetic face. “It’s… it’s fine. I’ll just bump a few things on my list and go get changed and grab more coffee.”

He immediately knelt down to pick up the remains of the cups and carrier. One foam cup had an off-color soda dripping from it. “I’m guessing this one’s my kickstart? Serves me right not looking where I’m going.”

He gives you a smile, his eyes sloping in natural concern. His heart beats in an uneven way. You look so flustered and worried – making your cheeks turn pink.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just…” You hold your sticky shirt a few inches from your stomach, closing your eyes and thinking hard, “I’ll figure something out.”

Spencer sighs, “I just ruined your whole agenda, didn’t I?” He picks up your ballpoint pen and quietly slides it to behind your ear, “Please don’t stress out about it.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” you let out a nervous laugh. “I guess I could find a costume or merch shirt to wear.”

“You know I have one of my Smosh sweatshirts in my pod. You want to change into that? Get yourself out of brewing in your own shirt.”

When he laughs at his own joke, it makes you giggle. “Uh… actually, that’d be really nice.”

He leads the way toward his pod, “I know you’re not working on any art coordinating today.” He goes under his desk to extract a simple pastel colored hoodie. “So you know you could take a short day instead of making up errands to do.”

You grab the sweatshirt and head to the bathrooms, “Yeah, but then I’d be stuck at home.”

He follows you down the hall, “You make yourself intentionally busy to avoid being at home?”

“Precisely,” you say, opening the bathroom door. “I’d rather be with all you guys.”

Spencer waits patiently outside, smiling to himself and shaking his head. You think you’re so clever, but he knows there’s something going on in your apartment. Something that makes you afraid to stay there.

It only took one minute to change, but maybe two minutes to stare in the mirror and identify the smell that was undeniably Spencer. A clean laundry detergent smell, like the ocean, but with something spicy.

You walk out to see Spencer eyeing you.

“You look cute.”

Something tightens in your chest. “Thanks weirdo.”

His eyes notice something along your chin. “What happened here?” he points to a spot on your jaw.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Probably some clumsy accident,” you laugh off.

It looks like another bruise. Smaller than your eye. But a bruise nonetheless.

Spencer frowns, something protective and angry beating in his chest. “You seem to get a lot of those lately.”

You shrug your shoulders. “I gotta pass out these last lunches to Bailey and Brennan.”

~~~

After a long day of reorganizing, passing out homemade treats, and checking in on people – you are exhausted.

So when you walk out the front doors a little before everyone else and see the pouring rain… it doesn’t lift your exhaustion in the slightest.

Preparing yourself, you walk outside, lifting the hoodie that you borrowed from Spencer to cover your head.

The bus stop is just a couple blocks away, but you are soaked through by the time you sit on the bench. You wait with your hands in your sweatshirt pockets, hoping the bus will be there earlier than usual.

A coldness begins to drip down your back and you’re sure this will develop into an unwanted flu.

Shivering, you hardly notice when a car pulls over on the side of the road and directly in front of you.

It’s Spencer who jumps out, baseball cap on to shield his glasses from the rain. He runs around the car and crouches in front of you.

“What are you doing!?”

“Waiting for the bus like I do every day,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He’s not happy about it. “Even in the rain? Didn’t you think to ask somebody for a ride home?”

You pause for a second. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well,” he puts on a cheesy smile, “This is a prime time to start. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Really, Spencer – it’s okay. I’m fine with waiting.”

He straightens out and gives you a deadpanned stare. “Are you also fine with contracting pneumonia?”

You roll your eyes, and he knows he’s won. “All right, let’s go.”

He open the passenger door and you clamber in. You’re nearly chattering with cold by the time he sits down. He promptly turns on the heat.

“Why didn’t you call someone when you noticed it was raining?”

“Because I didn’t think of it.”

“Ms. Independent over here,” Spencer laughs.

You playfully punch his shoulder, “So what? I would have been perfectly fine on my own.”

He looks at you sincerely, “I know. I know you are capable of doing it on your own. But I still would like you to let me help you.”

You hold yourself, beginning to shiver. Though your head was protected by the hood, the strands of hair spilling out were soaked. It wasn’t helping that your clothes were all damp and now resting on your chilled skin.

Spencer feels a sympathetic ache settle into his chest. “Aaron couldn’t pick you up?”

You bite down to keep your teeth from chattering. Then you use your favorite word. “I didn’t want to inconvenience him.”

It makes the ache pulsate in Spencer’s chest. “Because you know he’d be upset by you asking?”

“It’s understandable when I ask so much of him.”

Wonderment befuddles Spencer. When have you ever been someone to ask too much? If anything you don’t ask for enough things. “I think if you love someone, you’d be willing to do pretty much anything for them.”

“There are different kinds of love,” you say in a soft voice.

Spencer doesn’t like it. It sounds afraid.

“You might be right about that,” he swallows, driving down your street. “Remember to call me if you need anything.”

You smile like you always do when he says that. It’s become a regular thing.

“Sure,” you get out of the car, “Get home safely, Spence.”

And he watches you walk inside and even a little bit after that. Unsure of how to interpret the ache still in his chest.

~~~

You sit at the vanities with Shayne, helping him look like a ghost for an upcoming sketch. You put in white hair color spray and attempt to tame it while he sits patiently.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks sincerely.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You say with an easy smile, “Are you okay?”

He returns your smile, “Yeah, you seem a little tired.”

Was it the circles under your eyes or the lack of color in your face? “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“That sucks,” he winces, “Anything keeping you up?”

You feel vulnerable for a second, “Just taking care of my boyfriend.” You give an uneasy laugh, “He’s been having a lot of boys nights out drinking.”

Shayne furrows his brow, and you smack his shoulder as you try to smooth his ghost makeup.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “Doesn’t sound very fun.”

You shake your head, “But then I get to come here and be with all of you!”

He contemplates your expression, seeing the smile you put on top of the stress. “Have you noticed the number of commenters asking about you?”

“Of course I have. Spencer loves to bring them up.”

“They love you already,” Shayne chuckles, “They love how you help on set, especially when you throw in a little joke with it. They love that you take care of us.”

You feel that anxiety of the audience always watching eating at you. But it starts to be smothered by another feeling of pride as you realize people are acknowledging you for your efforts.

“That’s kind of them. I’m just doing my job.”

“Above and beyond your job, more like it.” Shayne closes his eyes as you put makeup around them. “They’ve really adopted calling you mama bear because of your mama bear bag.”

That makes you chuckle, “You have to be prepared for anything.”

“I’m glad we got to hang out,” Shayne says, his eyes moving to follow you, but staying still while the makeup settles. “We should plan another one soon.”

“That’d be a lot of fun.”

“Spencer never hosts big hang outs,” he says with a little smirk. “I was surprised when he was so willing.”

You pat down the makeup with some setting powder. “Well, I think when I mentioned hanging out he thought it was just going to be us two. Then I told him I’d invited all you guys. He was kind of roped in by that point.”

“That explains it,” Shayne says with a sigh. “Of course he’d be more willing to host when it’s just you two.”

“Why do I have a feeling there’s something more to that?”

Shayne shrugs, letting you take off the black apron that protects his costume from the makeup. “I just mean that Spencer would rather have one on one hangouts than be a part of a big group. It’s the black cat in him.”

“The black cat,” you laugh. “I’ve never heard of someone being called that before.”

“You know… like how people call some dudes golden retriever guys?”

You raise your eyebrows, “Kind of like you?”

Shayne gives a funny look. “Sure. Spencer is a black cat kind of guy. Just watch, you’ll notice.”

“What do you think I am?” you ask, cleaning up the vanity. “Do I have cat energy?”

“Maybe a little,” Shayne says, considering you. “But you remind me more of a… sunflower.”

“Never heard that one before,” you say, walking with him to the Smosh set.

“It’s just… you're bright and pretty and fun,” he says casually, “Especially with your smile.” You pass some writers and producers on their way to help with lunch. The caterers must’ve been seen pulling in.

Spencer is among them with Alex Tran.

You walk right up to them, “Do I give off sunflower energy?”

He looks taken aback and Alex smiles instantaneously. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You know…” you point at Shayne, “Golden retriever energy,” you point at Spencer, “Black cat energy.” You then point at yourself, “Possible sunflower energy?”

“What a nice way to say you’re a grumpy old man sometimes,” Alex says hilariously.

Shayne starts to snort with laughter. Spencer gives them a glare but tries to answer you seriously.

“Um… y-yeah I would consider you a sunflower.” He watches you start to smile, “Especially right now. And the fact you smell like a garden all the time.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you look at him with confusion. “I smell like a garden?”

“Uh…” Spencer starts to splutter in his panic of possibly offending you. “You know, like flowers. You smell like flowers all the time. It’s just… something I’ve noticed.”

“From all the times you’ve been sniffing her?” Alex asks incredulously. That sends Shayne over the edge and the wheezing starts to come out.

You fold your arms, sucking in your lips to hide a smile.

“No, I didn’t say that,” Spencer retorts loudly, waving a finger at his friends. “People can smell people unintentionally. When you’re in the same vicinity. And (Y/N) smells like flowers whenever she walks by.”

You smile at him, completely endeared by him. “Thanks Spencer. It’s lilies.”

All the boys stop their antics and look at you.

“I love lilies,” you say, “Or lily-of-the-valley.”

Alex shrugs their shoulders, “I feel like I’m missing out. I have no idea what lilies smell like.”

You tilt your head to the side and expose your neck to them. “Then take a whiff.”

Shayne shakes his head, “That’s so unhinged.”

Spencer is stuck staring at the exposed skin of your neck, your head turned away and your hair falling behind your shoulder. He’s still daydreaming as he walks to lunch.

~~~

There’s something about Spencer today that is not sitting well with you. He seems a little nervous, a little fidgety, like anything could scare the living daylights out of him.

You wonder what is ailing him while you check in on all the editors in their pods. You leave a little treat on Erin’s desk and ask Courtney for her opinion on a cardigan you want to buy. You give a new guitar pick to Josh, telling him how the engraving of a sun reminded you of him. He beams afterwards.

You compliment Damien’s desk, asking him how he’s been lately. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Spencer spinning side to side in his chair. He’s looking at you with a straight face.

You talk to Shayne about sharing a Kristin Hannah book that you love, and you notice Spencer wiping his hands down his pants, fixing his glasses a worrisome number of times.

You pick up a bakugan that has fallen off Alex’s desk. You ask about it while noticing Spencer licking the corner of his mouth as he watches you.

It takes another five minutes before you’re at Spencer’s desk. “Hey!”

“H-Hey,” he says in return. He clears his throat and you can tell he’s biting the inside of his cheek. You furrow your brow.

“Are you okay?”

His eyebrows raise, “Y-Yeah, of course I’m okay.” You miss how Alex starts to smile.

“Sure. You just seem a little… on edge today.”

“Yeah, just… thinking about an upcoming shoot.”

You nod slowly, squinting your eyes like you don’t believe him. “Alrighty then. I’ll see you later on set.”

He waves you off and then hides his face in his hands. The pod of boys starts to laugh.

“You are completely hopeless,” Shayne wheezes.

Damien is more sincere, “You’re in a tough spot.”

“I think it’s gotten worse,” Alex says, taking a sip of a drink to hide their smile.

Spencer starts to bounce his legs with the nerves, his head bouncing with them. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s sad,” Shayne chokes out, “You got to tell her.”

“Tell her what?” Spencer slumps back in his chair, “Hey, (Y/N)! Guess what? I’ve had feelings for you since you worked at that gas station, and I’ve been trying to get rid of them for months but seeing you every day has only made it worse. So anyway, you should leave your douchebag boyfriend and be with me instead!”

Damien sucks in his lips, trying to be genuine. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to go over well.”

Spencer groans, rubbing at his face with his hands, messing up his hat. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this distraught before,” Shayne says, “It’s more than a little disconcerting.”

“It’s starting to scare me a little,” Alex confesses, “Why is it worse today? You look like you have a ticking time bomb up your ass.”

There are some laughs until Spencer wipes the sweat at his temples. “I’ve been trying to ask her to hang out, just us.”

“To do what?” Damien asks seriously.

“I never pictured you as a homewrecker, Spencer,” Shayne says surprisingly.

Spencer waves his hands around, “No, not anything like that. I’m trying to be her friend.”

“And spending an evening alone together will prove that?” Alex asks with a funny look on their face.

“No, I just… I don’t know.” Spencer is at a loss. “If I can’t be with her, then I want to be good friends.”

“With benefits?” Shayne asks in a low tone, less with humor and more with serious questioning.

Spencer is mortified, “No! Just being good friends. I think having her in my life, even as a friend, will make me way happier than without her.”

“That’s sweet,” Damien says with rosy cheeks. “I think you should ask her.”

Spencer thought he could fit the role of best friend rather nicely. Maybe it would help him put his feelings to rest. Maybe it would help convince him that being friends was enough. Just to have part of you would be worth it.

But the thought of having all of you… to unashamedly hold you, touch you, kiss you, call you his. It put that all too familiar ache in his chest. The same warm, pounding ache that he feels whenever you’re near. Whenever he thought of you.

It’s what he’s feeling as he walks toward the green room – a little section next to the hallway of pods. It has a velvet green couch and a black vanity beside it.

You’re sitting in the makeup chair, spinning around mindlessly while looking at your phone.

Spencer stands there awkwardly, hands stuffed into his pockets, thumbs tapping a restless beat against his thighs.

You finally notice him. “Oh, hey Spencer.” He gives you a quiet greeting and you sit up with that same worry you’ve felt over him all day. “What’s up?”

He clears his throat. “Well, I… I was wondering if maybe… um – well, what…” He shakes his head, using a hand to fix his glasses. “I was wondering what has you so engrossed in your phone?” He’s mentally kicking himself. “A new Ghost Files episode?”

You smile as he remembers one of the ghost investigation channels you really like. “No, I was just contemplating buying the new Wicked on Amazon Prime.”

Spencer raises his eyebrows, “I think as an established theatre kid you legally have to own that movie.”

“Have you seen it?” you ask with a wider grin.

He feels warm at seeing you smile. “Yeah, it’s good.”

“That’s…” you contemplate his tense demeanor. “That’s not what you wanted to ask me, was it?”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “No, you’re right. I wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out tonight.”

“Oh, yeah! What’s everyone doing?” you lean forward.

His throat gets drier, “Um… no, I meant just you and me. I don’t really feel like hanging out with a bunch of people.”

“Ah,” you say funnily. “The black cat emerges.”

Relief starts to trickle in as he takes in your smile. “Right.”

“Well, what did you have in mind? My place isn’t exactly free with Aaron being there. He’s having a poker night with his work buds. It gets… well, I wouldn’t want to be there while they’re playing.”

Spencer feels something steely grow in his stomach. “We can go to my place. Play a game; watch a movie. Or maybe a musical.”

Your eyes get wide, “You really know how to woo a lady. A night in with a musical?” you give a chef’s kiss.

And that night you do head to Spencer’s house. He offers you a ride, but you’re flustered as it is with evading Aaron and his poker friends. It would make it a lot worse if he were to see Spencer picking you up.

You grab your purse and leave a platter of finger food for the boys. Aaron is already three beers deep when he demands a kiss from you.

“You think you can leave without giving me a kiss?” He slouches in his folding chair, the plastic dipping dangerously.

You patter over and leave a kiss on his cheek. Aaron grabs your upper arm and pulls you closer, “A real kiss.”

After a beat where his poker friends are snickering, you lean over to kiss his lips. They’re sour with beer. He smacks your ass for good measure. “Don’t stay out late – I’ll think this company meeting is actually a rendezvous.”

You wave him off, leaving the apartment as quickly as you can. You speed to the bus stop, excited to have a night in the company of someone that you like being around.

Walking to Spencer’s apartment took longer than you were expecting, but it was worth it to see he had set up a Jenga game, favorite drinks out, and Wicked already on the tv.

“I’m so excited,” you say a little breathlessly, taking off your shoes. You wince a little when you notice that above your socks, there were open blisters from your shoes rubbing your heel. “Shoot, um… Spence, do you have some band aids I could use?”

He slides from the kitchen with worry in his expression, “Yeah, what’s wrong?” He looks at you twisting around to look at the back of your heels, “Damn, that looks like it hurts.”

“I didn’t realize my socks had slid down,” you laugh it off.

Spencer grabs two band aids from a cupboard, “Here, sit on the couch.”

“That’s all right, Spence, I can put them on.”

He’s already unwrapping one of the bandages, “I know you can, but let me do it.”

“Seriously, Spence, you don’t have…”

He stops you, pointing to the couch. “Hey, just because you’re able to do it, doesn’t mean you always have to. Let me help – you’ll be doing me a favor – letting me feel useful.”

You smile with embarrassment in your cheeks. You sit down and twist your hips so you can show the wound on your heels. Spencer sits on the coffee table and gingerly lifts your leg to his knee.

He carefully lays the band aid on your heel, holding your socked feet with warm hands. He’s gentle in how he puts your leg down and grabs the other. You accommodate by twisting your hips the other way to expose your heel to him.

He repeats the process, “Was it a far walk to my place?”

“Not too far.”

“Can you explain what not too far means?” he asks with a smirk.

You play with your fingers, pinching the skin around your nail. “Maybe fifteen-twenty minutes from the bus stop.” You notice his eyes look a little upset at that. “I was walking pretty fast. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“And you wouldn’t let me pick you up because…?” he moves to throw away the band aid wrappers.

You continue to pinch and pick at your fingers. “Because my boyfriend is having a poker night with his friends. They get a little rowdy and drunk and I know he’d do something stupid if he saw you pick me up.”

Spencer returns to the coffee table, sitting on the carpet, “What kind of stupid?”

“Like…” you slide off the couch to meet him on the carpet. “He might try to pick a fight.”

“With whom?”

Spencer was definitely probing for a specific answer. He tries to be nonchalant.

You watch him remove a block from the Jenga tower. “Either of us, I guess.”

Something sad enters you. Something big and scary. It weighs on you and makes your shoulders sink. Spencer can hear it in your voice; can see it in your stance.

“That’s not very nice of him.”

A sad smile grows on your face but doesn’t meet your eyes. “No, I guess not.”

“Is he like that a lot?” Spencer asks cautiously.

You remove a Jenga block. “Maybe.” You look at Spencer and see the sincerity in his gaze. “Yeah.”

“And you’re with him still because…?”

You take a deep breath, leaning against the couch and pulling your knees to your chest. “To be honest, I don’t know.”

“Then why don’t you leave him?”

“Because he’ll be angry.”

Spencer looks at you with a furrowed brow, “You don’t want to make him angry?”

“And I don’t know – I still care about him.”

“Do you love him?”

You pause, the Jenga game still ongoing. “I’m not sure.”

“I’d take that as a sign.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” you say quietly.

Your tone makes that ache in his chest pulse painfully. He hates to hear you sound sad and afraid. “You’re thinking about it, at least?”

You nod your head and silence consumes you. You did not want to dwell on boyfriend problems. “Can we watch the movie while we play?”

Spencer nods, grabbing the remote to start the show. Your mood instantly lifts. Like a flower turning towards the sun. He beams at your radiance.

He’s even more astonished when you start to sing.

“Holy shit, (Y/N). You can sing!”

You giggle as you continue to follow along with the musical. The Jenga game is eventually finished, blocks spilling over Spencer as he tries to pull some crazy move. You’re laughing as you pick up the blocks.

Spencer finds one of his blankets, Cleo the cat waking from her after dinner nap.

He sits on the couch beside you and drapes the blanket over you two. He is purposeful in how close he sits beside you.

“You should sing on our karaoke livestream.”

You shake your head, “No way.”

“But you sing so well!” he protests, gesturing to the musical you’re watching. “The viewers would go nuts for it.”

“I don’t know,” you say, leaning back into the couch. Your arms are fully touching. “They talk about me enough as it is.”

Spencer is determined, “I’ll sing a duet with you.”

“Seriously?” you ask, playing with your fingers again.

He watches you pick at your soft skin. “Of course, the fans have been begging to see you for months now. What a better way to do a face reveal than with a livestream for charity?”

“I’ll think about it,” you say quietly.

Spencer grabs your hand, keeping it from picking at your nailbeds. “Good.” He’s not sure what to do after that, letting go of your hand promptly.

You smile, content with leaning your head against his shoulder, unaware of how that little action caused his heart to pound.

That familiar ache consuming him.

An ache that Spencer is now beginning to wonder about. Wonder what would cause it. He was starting to recognize it as something equally terrifying and wonderful.

That ache was how he felt about you.

How he loved you.

~~~

It had been nearly eight months since you started working at this gas station. The owner was as rinky-dink as the store itself, speaking in short, to the point sentences and avoiding eye contact. There were only two gas pumps out front that rarely attracted customers.

The biggest commodity are the cheap drinks and snacks inside. Many stop by for something quick on their way to and from work.

Normally working the night shifts from 10pm to 6am, you are quick to notice any regulars. Not many people are awake at this time of night, let alone on their way to the gas station for a drink.

The bell sounds above the door as a familiar face enters. It was Glasses.

That’s what you called him after seeing him for the third time in a week, back when you first started working here.

He usually came in late like this, looking exhausted. He has curly dark hair, gold rimmed glasses, and some scruff. Today he’s dressed in jeans rolled up at the cuffs, brown boots, and a gray sweatshirt.

He gives you an awkward, close-lipped smile as he passes. You watch him go for the drink fridges. Energy drinks are his specialty, maybe the occasional coffee or breakfast sandwich. He always bought them two at a time, taking the slight discount for buying a duo instead of a single.

About every other week he’s there three to four of those days. You’ve always wondered why – especially when he always looked so tired when he came in.

But you’ve never had a conversation that’s lasted longer than the cordial exchanges.

“Hello,” you say.

“Hello,” he replies with his awkward smile.

You scan his drinks, Mountain Dew Kickstarts like always. “Find everything you need?”

“Yep.”

The computer beeps. “That’ll be $8.56.”

“All right.” He taps his card on the machine in front of him.

“Would you like your receipt?”

“No thanks.” He grabs his two cans.

“Have a nice night.”

“You too.”

It had been like that for maybe six of those eight months. After that, your curiosity began to plague you. The next time he came in, you watch him browse for a Kickstart and a breakfast muffin.

Saying hello to him had felt routine. But it was clear that you both recognized each other. So you decide to say something a little more than usual.

“Getting breakfast a little early?” you joke in your quiet voice.

He smiles, pulling out his wallet. “I just haven’t eaten anything all night.”

“Sounds like a rough night. That’s $9.34.”

He scans his card. “It has been.”

With him looking down at the keypad, you take the time to look at the circles under his eyes. “You should try the croissant sandwiches. Much better than stale muffins.”

He nods his head, “Next time. Thanks.”

You watch him walk away, still at a loss as to why he’s always in there this late at night.

A couple days later he’s walking in and giving you a wave. You smile at him as he makes for the drinks again.

He’s dressed in those same jeans and combat boots. Now he wears a t-shirt with a denim jacket. If you had friends to talk to, you’d want to tell them how Glasses loves to wear the same jeans and jackets all the time.

He comes to the counter and clears his throat.

You scan his drinks and a breakfast sandwich. A croissant sandwich.

You chuckle, “You won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says, tapping his card against his hand while he waits.

“Haven’t eaten anything all night again?”

He hums, shrugging his shoulders, “Felt peckish.”

“Do you want your receipt?”

“No, that’s fine. Have a good night.”

You throw the balled up receipt into the garbage bin beside you. “You too.”

You’d love to tell a friend that Glasses seems shy. He seems nice.

A few weeks later, you’re drawing sketches for costume designs. You were doing Shrek The Musical at the community theatre. Papers were full of drawings depicting a white rabbit, a wicked witch, a wolf in granny clothes, and fairies with colorful makeup.

You were humming one of the songs when Glasses came in with a yawn. His eyes search for you and he waves, “Good evening.”

“Good night,” you say sarcastically.

He grabs his drinks and comes to the counter with wandering eyes. You try to move your sketches and pencils out of the way.

“Sorry,” you say, “That’ll be $8.56.”

He scans his card, but keeps looking at your art. “You draw those?”

“Yeah,” you say, abashedly. “Little project.”

“They’re really good,” he pops open one of the drinks and takes a sip. “Are they just for fun, or…?”

You shyly pull out a drawing of a person in a dragon scale costume. “They’re for the musical I’m a part of. Down at the local theatre.”

“That’s cool,” his face lights up.

Something warm tickles your stomach. You were actually having a normal conversation with Glasses.

“Are you the costume designer?”

“Assistant,” you bow your head. “I’m head of hair and makeup.”

He nods, clearly interested. “Have you been a part of production teams much?”

“For years,” you smile, “I love theatre. I’ve done almost everything. Acting, costumes, set design, lighting – you name it.”

He pockets the other energy drink in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like fun. Have a nice rest of your night.”

“Thank you, you too.”

If you had friends, maybe you’d tell them that Glasses might become a friend. The only person you have to text is your new boyfriend Aaron. But he wasn’t a fan of nonsense texts – texts that were unnecessary.

A few weeks go by, now seven months into your job at the gas station. Glasses was still making his almost daily visits. You caught him standing outside the window for a minute before coming in.

You have confusion in your face, but a smile on your lips. “You okay there?”

He raises his eyebrows and talks as he walks to the fridges. “What do you mean?”

“Was there something on that window or were you just making sure you weren’t a vampire?” At his knitted brows, you continue, “You know… checking that you still had a reflection.”

Heat floods your face at the poor attempt at a joke, but Glasses laughs, nonetheless. “I might be nocturnal, but no, I’m not a vampire.”

You smile, admiring him walking towards you. His fluffy curls were sticking out from beneath a green hat. In white embroidery it says, Smosh.

“How were auditions?” he asks, getting his card ready.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Good. I think we’ll have a good cast.” Earlier that week he asked about the latest Hairspray script that was on your counter. “The quick changes will be fun.”

He clears his throat, having paid but still standing at the register.

“I’m sorry, did you want your receipt?” you ask suddenly. “Normally you don’t so I stopped asking.”

“No, no – sorry. I’ve been trying to find some clever segway to introduce myself. But we’ve been seeing each other for months and it feels strange to do it now.” He rubs his forehead, struggling to maintain eye contact with you while he talks. “I mean, it’s not like I have a nametag like you.”

You look down at your chest to see (Y/N) printed on the laminated tag. “That’s true.”

He takes a deep breath and extends his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

You take his hand. It was very warm. “(Y/N).”

He smiles, “Nice to officially meet you.”

Maybe you’ll tell Aaron that Glasses has a new name now. Spencer.

One night at two in the morning, you were asked to do inventory while another employee managed the registers. It was strange to have a coworker with you on night shifts, but when things need to be restocked, it took a team.

You use a box cutter to break through packages, pulling out chip bags and candies. You roll them out on a dolly. Plastic wrappers crinkling as you restock shelves, you don’t notice who Eric at the counter is talking to.

But then a pair of glasses peek around the corner. “Hey!”

You smile wide, “Spencer!”

He smiles back, “I was worried when I didn’t see you at the registers.”

“Yeah, they need two of us here when we do inventory,” you shake a bag of doritos before putting it on the shelf. “How was your day?”

He sighs, opening his drink, “Long. Shooting weeks always are.” He tells you about the online comedy group he’s a part of. It was called Smosh.

“Oh, you’ve worn some merch that has that logo on it,” you say, moving a box out of the way.

Spencer nods, “Gotta promote whenever we can.”

“How large is the group?”

“Well, it’s more of an entertainment company. We have a huge production team and a cast. We film content for four different channels.”

“That’s impressive.”

He suddenly dips down to help hand you boxes of candy. “I guess. I think most of LA are internet personalities in one way or another.”

“I’m not,” you say quietly. “It is impressive.”

You learn about his directorial position on one of the channels. Being a head producer, he has a lot of sway on that content. You commend him on the responsibility, and he seems pleased, if not a little embarrassed.

He excuses himself not long after that.

You head towards the registers to restock the candy on the counters. Eric is there giving you a telling smile.

“What are you looking at?” you ask.

The middle-aged man scoffs, “That guy came in with the biggest smile on his face, but then he realized I was the one standing at the counter and he looked so disappointed.”

“I’m sure he was just in need of an energy drink.”

Eric shakes his head, “It wasn’t me that he wanted to see.”

Now in the present, you stand at the counter while Spencer leans against the other side. You had just revealed the fact that you have a boyfriend.

“H-How long have you been together?” he asks with much more nervousness than before.

You scrunch your nose in thought, “About two months. It’s been great though. He gives me rides to work and everything.”

“You don’t have a car?” Spencer asks, paying for his snacks.

You throw the receipt away, “No. I was taking the bus before I met him.” Noticing the awkwardness enter Spencer’s face, you say, “Rough I know. But I manage.”

“It’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, especially because I don’t really make enough to get a car right now.”

“Isn’t that why you have this job on top of the musical theatre stuff?” he offers you a package of your favorite candy.

It makes you smile, “Sure. But rent isn’t helping with my savings. Living paycheck to paycheck.”

“Does Aaron drive you to theatre too?”

Your gaze falls from Spencer’s, eating a piece of candy to give you some time before answering. “No, he’s not a big fan of musicals.”

Spencer scrunches his brow. Unsure of what was stepping over the line with this new friend of his, he tiptoes. “He won’t drive you because he doesn’t like theatre?”

“It’s kind of inconvenient asking him to come get me late after rehearsals. I shouldn’t ask for so much, he’ll think I’m dating him just to have a cab driver.” You snicker at your joke, but Spencer doesn’t seem to think it’s very funny.

He drinks from his can when another customer enters the store. That always meant he would excuse himself so you could get back to your job.

You start to expect Spencer each week. You wait for when you know a filming week was at Smosh. During that time, Spencer would visit for his necessary caffeine. He always stops to talk to you for a few minutes before leaving.

You always feel bad since he normally came in exhausted from work. He denies himself sleep just to spend a few more minutes with you.

It takes a couple more weeks, but he starts to stay even when more customers come in. He just steps to the side and waits for you to ring the customer up.

Then he comes back to continue your conversation.

“So do you prefer acting or production?”

You share the snacks that he’s purchased. “Production, for sure. I kind of developed stage fright a couple years ago. But I do miss being on stage sometimes.”

He looks at you while you talk. He’s an active listener. He zeros in on your face while you speak, ensuring he doesn’t miss anything.

But when he speaks, he tends to look elsewhere. “Did something happen?”

You shrug, “I just get nervous being in the spotlight now. I don’t like the attention much.”

“I get that. I haven’t always loved being on camera. It’s taken finding the right company to do it.”

You nod, “That sounds nice. To be so comfortable in the workplace. And to have everyone there as friends.”

He agrees, “Though a lot of them like to crack jokes about not seeing each other outside of work.” He chuckles as he remembers something. “It’s great being a part of a company where the goal is comedy content. You get to have fun with your friends every day.”

“And you’ve been there for so long,” you say, “You’ve definitely earned your place.”

“Thank you,” he feels warm around the collar, “It’s been hard at times, but well worth it now.”

You suddenly feel a warmth in your cheeks. “You know, um… my show opens next week. If – If you’re interested in seeing it. I’ll be there every night.”

“Helping Edna quick change into her fancy 60s outfit,” he smiles kindly. His eyes are soft and considerate as he watches your nervous gesture. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

You brighten, “Great!”

A week later you’re in the wings of the stage, sweaty with the heat the spotlights generate. A headset adorns your head, microphone near your mouth. You’re readjusting a costume onto a rack from the last quick change.

The last number of the show was currently playing: You Can’t Stop the Beat. You whisper the lyrics and subtly follow along with the choreography.

It was safe to do so with the curtains hiding you from the audience.

You listen to the applause as the cast bows. You imagine them gesturing to the tech booth, acknowledging the production team behind the scenes. You give a little imaginary bow to the audience.

Waiting in the dressing rooms, you help organize the costumes and clean up the makeup counters. Cast members thank you for your help, carrying massive bouquets and presents from the crowd.

You compliment the flowers and give your praise to their performances. It’s forty minutes later, having put the makeup and hairspray away, preening the wigs, and spraying down the character shoes, that you find your purse and head towards the front doors.

Outside on the sidewalk you’re met with an unexpected surprise.

Spencer.

He stands under the white lights of the theatre logo. He adorns his usual rolled up jeans and band t-shirt, denim jacket over it. His curls look extra defined tonight and in his hand are three colorful carnation flowers.

“Spencer? What are you…? I didn’t know you were coming tonight!” You walk towards him and for the first time since meeting him – you hug him.

Arms around his shoulders, smelling his clean, fresh scent. He seems timid to hug you back.

“Well… I did say I would come see the show.”

You shake your head. “I would have come out sooner if I knew you’d be here. I’m so sorry to keep you so long.”

“It’s no problem,” he offers the flowers. “Worth the wait.”

You give a smile, but your face is still regretful, “You shouldn’t have. I wasn’t even on stage.”

“Of course you were,” he says, “Your costumes and wigs and makeup were there.”

You hold the few flowers, completely endeared by him. “Thank you. This is really kind of you. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, shoving his empty hands into his pockets. “It’s kind of weird seeing you out of uniform. I’ve never seen you out of that polo and black pants.”

“Well, stage crew attire isn’t much different,” you laugh, gesturing to the long sleeve black shirt and leggings. “What did you think of the show?”

“It was excellent,” he says, “It’s such a fun show. I bet you loved teasing those wigs and picking out costumes with those crazy patterns.”

“And the quick changes?”

“I counted like 38 seconds,” he laughs, “That’s super impressive.”

You smile warmly, though the night air had a chill to it. “Thank you for coming, Spencer. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” he steps away, “I’ll see you later.”

You start to walk down the sidewalk, opposite the parking lot. Spencer suddenly has a thought. He runs up to you.

“Wait, how are you getting home?”

“Oh, I walk to the bus stop and take that.”

He looks down at your crossed arms trying to keep you warm. “Aaron really won’t come get you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience him.” You wave away the look of worry in his face. “I do this every night, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, but… you shouldn’t have to.”

“Have a good night, Spence.”

You’ve never used a nickname with him before. He huffs a little before following your retreating figure, “Then let me give you a ride.”

You keep walking, “Really, Spence – I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, “But let me help. I want to give you a ride. It’s cold.”

Your fingers feel like ice against your arms. You look in the direction of the bus stop before looking at the pleading in Spencer’s face.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Relief floods his expression, “Great, this way.”

He guides you to his car and even opens the passenger door for you. It’s a kind gesture that you aren’t used to. He turns on the heater and your seat warmer before exiting the parking lot.

You direct him to your poor excuse of a studio apartment. The pair of you speak pleasantries the entire way. The lighting design of the musical, the strategic sets that move quickly, the realistic prop hairspray, and things like that.

He didn’t notice how you cower in the seat. He thinks it’s just because you’re still cold.

“Is the gas station good about changing your schedule so you can be there on show nights?”

“Yes, they’re so kind about it,” you say, playing with your fingers. It was a nervous habit of yours – pinching, rubbing, and picking at them. “I switch with a usual day shifter.”

Spencer nods, “I – I’ve missed seeing you at our usual time.”

“Our usual time?” you laugh, like your gas station hangouts were scheduled playdates.

He smiles, embarrassed, “Yeah, I mean… your customer service is so excellent. How am I supposed to get a Kickstart when you’re not there?”

“You know there are dozens of other gas stations and convenience stores around here.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have you.”

Something beats loudly in your chest. It sends a waterfall of warm, fizzing fireworks into your stomach.

Your apartment building is in a scary part of LA – but it’s what you can afford. Aaron was hinting at moving in together just for the ease of splitting the rent. It did sound appealing when you could actually save a little for a car.

“Thanks again for the ride,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

He looks nervous again, “Anytime. And… maybe we could exchange numbers – in case you need another ride from the theatre?”

You look at him warmly, “I’m not going to ask you to come grab me when you could be in a filming week.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I would still come.”

With a small smile, you take out your phone and open a new contact. In the name slot you put ‘Glasses.’ Spencer switches your phones and puts his number in.

You smile wider as you put your name in the contact and put a little theatre emoji after it.

“Glasses?” he asks, handing you back your phone.

“Yeah, that’s…” you brush warm fingers with him as you accept your phone. “That’s what I called you when I noticed you as a regular at the gas station. I didn’t know your name, so I gave you one in my head.”

He seems overly please about that. He has to look away from you and smile. “That’s funny, I like it. What would you do if you saw me without glasses? It would be a whole new identify to you.”

“Very Clark Kent of you,” you laugh.

He suddenly removes his gold rimmed glasses and looks at you all serious. “You’re right, during the day I’m fighting crime with the Justice League and at night I refuel at the gas station.”

“Superman refuels with energy drinks?” you laugh, causally reaching over to snatch his glasses. “I don’t know if Krypton would approve.”

“No, no – Kryptonians thrive off extra energy. Sun energy and now caffeine energy.”

His eyes are a dark green-gray color. Maybe that’s just because it’s dark outside. But you can’t decide what color they actually are. They’re definitely not brown.

You raise the glasses to your eyes and look at him. “I didn’t realize Superman was so blind.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer laughs, looking at you fondly.

You return the glasses, “Drive safe. Thanks again for the ride. Text me when you get home safely.”

He waves you off, waiting until you’re able to unlock your door before driving away.

Inside your apartment, you look at the chipped walls and cracked ceiling. The musty, uncomfortable couch in front of the small tv atop a table you got free off a lawn. To the right is the tiny kitchen with only one counter and no dining table.

Rummaging through a cabinet, you find a tall plastic cup to put your carnation flowers into.

The bathroom is straight ahead, where you go into to get ready for bed.

The porcelain of the tub and sink have rust stains around the handles. The tile of the floor is broken in places and the dim light above is giving off an ugly yellow glow.

You open the mirror cabinet to grab what you need to brush your teeth. Brand names are all obscure as you did get the supplies from a dollar store down the street.

If you had a little more money, you would buy a face wash and face towels. But the essentials were good enough.

You cross the hall to get to your bed. Being a studio apartment, there isn’t a separate room for your bed. It lies on the floor behind the tv stand and in front of the only window in the whole place.

The queen mattress was the one thing you spent a little more money on. It doesn’t have a headboard or support to keep it off the ground, but it was comfortable and had nice periwinkle blue sheets.

You change into sage green pajamas with little daisies on them, climbing into your bed and fumbling for the phone charger next to the mattress.

As you plug your phone in, a text message comes in from Glasses.

“Just got home. You did amazing tonight! See you later this week.”

You heart his message and give him a thank you in reply.

~~~

The end of the week is approaching and you’re at the theatre again. Headset on, you hang in the tech booth, grabbing a few more safety pins, mic tape, and alcohol wipes.

The oversized fanny pack you love to wear across your chest is open and full of supplies. You stuff the microphone items inside, watching the stage from the view of the booth.

Tracy was beginning the song Welcome to the 60s. You turn on the microphone by your mouth.

“Head to the wings for quick change pretty please.”

A muffled reply comes through the headset, “On the way, (Y/N).”

You leave the tech booth and walk out of the audience room to the side entrance of the wings. Waiting on stage right, you hold Edna’s new dress for the song. Two stage crew members help by holding accessories and waiting to take off Edna’s current costume.

“Go mama, go, go go!”

Edna comes running off to stage right, tossing their purse to the stage crew member. They wiggle out of their simple purple plaid dress and step right into the sparkly pink dress you have waiting open on the floor.

You pull up the fabric as you hear the lyrics continue on stage.

“Don’t let nobody try to steal your fun, ‘cause a little touch of lipstick never hurt no one.

The future’s got a million roads for you to choose, but you’ll walk a little taller in some high-heeled shoes.”

You zip up the dress and readjust the mic pack on the suit strap beneath. Stage crew throws a new necklace on and a sparkle to the lip makeup. The other stage crew snugs a fuller wig onto the actor, starting to pin it down onto the wig cap. You hand a feather boa to the actor and help pin the new wig in.

“Come on out, hear us shout. Mama, that’s your cue!”

Just in time, you think, sending the actor back onto stage. It always felt like a close call, but the audience shouting their surprise and praise always felt like a reward.

You smile at the stage crew members and wave them off to help with set pieces. You then take the old purple plaid costume to the rack to keep it from wrinkling on the floor.

While in the dressing rooms you meet the actress playing Penny Pingleton, “Hey, sis – I noticed your mic tape not sitting so good on your cheek.”

She smiles worriedly, the action making the mic tape unstick from her face and the microphone dangle from her ear. “Just a little.”

You pull out an alcohol wipe and roll of tape from your pack. “There might just be too much makeup in the way.” You wipe the spot where the microphone sits on her cheek, fanning your hand to make the alcohol dry.

Cutting two pieces of tape, you line the microphone and stick it in place. The actress keeps her face straight, letting it adhere.

“Thanks, (Y/N).”

“Anytime.” You leave the dressing room to find the man playing Seaweed. His mic belt kept twisting beneath his costume.

You track him down and use safety pins to secure the mic belt to his undershirt. Now as he dances and changes, the mic pack will stay in place. He shares his gratitude and runs off to the next scene.

The rest of the show goes without a hitch. The audience claps during the bows, and you give your imaginary bow to the curtains.

You begin to clean the dressing rooms when you get a text. From Glasses.

“Hey, I’m at the entrance by the concessions when you’re done in the back.”

A smile creeps onto your face. He saw the show a second time? You text back, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You’re quick to clean up and organize the costumes before heading out. The front was still packed with audience members trying to talk and take pictures with the cast members. You push your way towards the concessions table to see Spencer there.

He was wearing a black Creed t-shirt, arms full of silly tattoos on total display. Instead of holding flowers, he’s holding a Diet Coke from the concessions. You grin, falling out of the crowd and into him for a hug.

He catches you and hugs you back. You feel the cold soda against your shirt.

“I can’t believe you came again!” You pull away, eyes shining. You’ve never had someone to meet outside the theatre after a show before.

He extends the drink he got for you. “I told you it was an excellent show. And I wanted to bring a friend to see it too.”

A woman stands beside him, “And he misses seeing you at the gas station every day.”

You miss how Spencer nudges the woman with his elbow. You were too busy recognizing her face.

“Oh my god – oh my fucking god,” you accidentally shake the soda as you wave your hands. “You’re Angela Giarratana!”

Her brown eyes widen ridiculously, “Um… yeah, I am.”

“You were on Nerdy Prudes Must Die!”

A smile replaces the surprise on her face, “Oh, yes! I was in that show last year. You really scared me there for a second.”

Spencer licks his lips, watching the excitement on your face. “I wondered if you’d seen anything from StarKid.”

“Well, I’m a theatre kid, aren’t I?” you say, “I literally have a Hatchetfield Nighthawks letterman jacket. It’s so nice to meet you, Angela. I’m (Y/N).” You lean into a hug and Angela returns it kindly.

“I know, Spencer’s talked about you.” She steps away and compliments the show, “You did a great job with the costume design. Spencer and I were timing the quick changes.”

“I am very proud of those,” you say excitedly. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop smiling. Thank you for coming to our show. How do you know Spencer?”

Angela smacks Spencer’s arm, “We work together. He’s more behind the scenes and I’m more on camera.”

“At Smosh? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” she says, looking to Spencer and then laughing. “I gotta be careful or Spencer won’t put me in any of the videos on Games.”

You open your soda, drinking it like you were parched all night. “Are you working on any more theatre projects?”

“Eh, not at the moment,” Angela says, folding her arms. “I’m spending most of my time on Smosh sets.” She eyes you for a second before saying, “Do you have a portfolio by chance?”

“A portfolio?” you ask, wiping your lip of soda. “Of what?”

Angela rubs at her chin, “Sketches of your costume designs or makeup aesthetics. Maybe a performing arts resume. Pictures of your work on stage.”

“Um…” you pull awkwardly on the edge of your shirt. “No, not formally. But I could pull something together.”

“That’d be great. I’d love to see more of your work.”

Spencer looks incredibly pleased with himself, biting on his lips. “Would you let me give you a ride home?”

Your eyes are still shining, flitting your gaze between the two friends. “Um… yeah – that’d be great.”

All of you walk outside the theatre and towards the parking lot. Spencer is quick to open the passenger door for you and you give an awkward thank you.

Angela rolls her eyes and climbs into the back. “He’s such a doofus.” You watch Spencer walk around the hood of the car to get into the drivers side.

“A what?” you laugh.

“Just watch him – you’ll notice sooner or later.”

He climbs in and uses the seatbelt, “Watch who?”

You clear your throat, “Joey Richter. He’s another actor on StarKid Productions. He’s super talented.”

Angela snickers in the back. “What was the first thing you watched on StarKid?”

“A Very Potter Musical,” you laugh, “Way back in the day.”

“Classic,” Angela says, folding her arms and slumping into the seat. “What brought you to LA?”

You play with your fingers. “I wanted to move out of my home state. And I wanted to get more into the arts. But it’s been hard to find stable work.”

“You’re telling me. That’s the life of an actor – just jumping from one gig to another.”

“It would be the dream,” you sigh, “To do this full time. I just wish I had a little more security with it. A stable income. Not to be afraid with how I’ll afford food every month.” You awkwardly laugh as you realize you might’ve said too much. “But I’m doing all right.”

Angela agrees, “It’s hard to do well in the arts.”

“Hard to be recognized,” Spencer says. “(Y/N) already does well in the arts.”

You smile, your cheeks warm. “When is your next filming week?”

“Next week,” Angela sighs, yawning big. “Which reminds me – I gotta pick up that new pair of glasses for the office.”

“Angela is super blind and never wears her glasses during shoots,” Spencer explains. “Especially on the games channel. She’s always squinting super bad at the tv whenever we’re playing a game.”

“And I’ve been doing just fine!” Angela says loudly, “I’ve been training my eyes to see that far.”

Spencer scoffs, “Yeah, and the compilations of you squinting are growing at an exponential rate because of it.”

“Shut up!” Angela yells.

You laugh at their antics. “Are you allowed to yell at your boss like that?”

Spencer looks in the rearview mirror, “Yeah, Angela. As your superior you need to treat me with a high level of respect. I expect a full written apology and a certain amount of groveling before you’re allowed back on the Games set.” His tone was serious, but by the wide comical look in his eye, you know he’s using hyperbole as a joke.

“The heads of Smosh are actually Ian and Anthony, so don’t you even pull that superiority card!”

You keep giggling at this funnier, more outspoken Spencer. Proof that he was very comfortable with this coworker and their workplace.

It sounds nice.

~~~

Angela sits in the passenger seat now, slumped into the door and leaning her forehead against the window.

“She’s really nice.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says quietly, thoughts still lingering on you.

Angela looks over at him and smirks. “You like her so fucking much. I knew you did when you wouldn’t shut up about her at the office, but damn – seeing you with her was nearly painful.”

“What are you talking about? I’m so subtle about it.”

“So you don’t deny it!” she sits up stick straight, so fast that the seatbelt locks into place and stops her from moving anymore.

Spencer flounders, “I – what – no, that’s not what I said!”

“You totally did you little fucker! You like her so much it hurts. You like her so much your cheeks are going to burst into flames. You like her so much you can’t get a full sentence out.”

“Angela, shut the fuck up – you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She bounces in her seat, “I’m so subtle about it. I can’t believe you. You’ve been talking about this girl for almost a year. Of course you have a crush on her!”

“Angela, I swear to god, don’t ruin this for me.”

“How would I ruin this? I want my little Spencey to have true love. You have to ask her out.”

“Yeah, genius – you’re forgetting about a teensy little detail. She has a fucking boyfriend.”

Angela freezes, sitting back. “Right.” She bites her lip, “Should have made your shot earlier.”

“And risk looking like a creep asking a girl out at a gas station? No thank you.”

“Is you considering her for the production team on Smosh an elaborate way to play the long game with her?”

“No!” Spencer grips the steering wheel, sounding like a bickering sibling. “She has real talent, and I think she deserves the position.”

Angela holds up her hands, “All right, okay.” She side eyes him with raised brows, “… but you wouldn’t be upset if she suddenly became available and you could ask her out?”

He refuses to meet Angela’s eyes. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction by answering that question.”

“You basically just answered it,” she folds her arms, “You know… I can’t promise I can keep this from Amanda. Or Shayne.”

Spencer puts his elbow against the window and holds his temple.

“Or Chanse.”

“I figured.”

Angela gave him a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth – I think she has a real shot. We should get her portfolio to Ian and Anthony asap.”

~~~

You’re cleaning the counters at the gas station. It’s nearing the end of your shift, almost 6am. And Spencer hadn’t visited you like he usually did. It was actually making you worried.

You had spent the last few days collecting every piece of art and experience you had to compile a portfolio. It didn’t feel like a very thick folder, but it had every ounce of hard work from the last few years.

It sits within a blue cover under the registers, waiting for Spencer to come.

“Hey!” there he comes through the door. “I’m so sorry, we had an overnight shoot, and I forgot to tell you.”

You look confused, “Spence, you didn’t have any obligation to be here. We didn’t make any plans.”

“I know, but I usually…” he looks flustered and upset. “You know, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

You smile kindly, “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

He runs a hand through his curly hair, his eyes considering you as you clean. “This early in the morning, we both look exhausted now.”

“Aw, we have matching dark circles under our eyes!” You go under the counter to grab the blue folder. “Here’s that portfolio Angela was asking about. I wasn’t sure how to get it to her, so maybe you could take it to work?”

“Um… yeah, for sure. Thanks.”

The bell above the door rings, signaling the appearance of a new customer. Usually at this point in the mornings, customers would come in for their sustenance before work. You’re focused on Spencer, unaware of the person walking towards you.

“(Y/N), let’s go.”

You turn your eyes around and see Aaron beelining for your counter.

“Oh, hey,” you say quietly, “You’re twenty minutes early.”

“And?”

This man was over six foot, broad shouldered, and unkempt. His eyes are lazy and hard pressed, his jaw tense as you contradict him.

You wring your hands, “I’m not allowed to leave until six.”

“Well, I’m here now. Let’s go.”

“That’s…” you suck in a breath. He smells like stale beer. “Let me clock out and tell my boss.” You round the counter and are quick to enter the back rooms.

Spencer stays where he is, holding the blue portfolio, and looking at Aaron with an air of disdain. It was not the first impression he was expecting when picturing your boyfriend.

“You waiting to buy something?” Aaron asks, frowning at the way Spencer’s looking at him.

“No, I was just…” he swallows. “I was just talking with (Y/N).”

Aaron squints his eyes, hands moving to his hips. “And you know her because?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“(Y/N) doesn’t have any friends.”

“Untrue, because I’m standing right here.”

Aaron flexes his jaw, “She hasn’t mentioned you before.”

“Yes, I have,” you reappear without your nametag and your purse now around your shoulder. “I’ve talked about him a couple times.” You stand beside Spencer and instantly feel the tension.

Aaron extends his hand like he wants to take yours. “If you did talk about him, I would have remembered. We’re leaving.”

You go to hold his hand, but he moves his to grab your arm, pulling you towards the door. You turn your head to mouth, “Sorry,” towards Spencer.

Spencer waves at you, his face placid and upset. He watches out the windows to see Aaron let you go on the sidewalk to get into the car yourself. He slams the car shut, neglecting his seatbelt, and squealing out of the parking lot.

Still upset, Spencer gets into his car and contemplates his next move. His instincts told him that you weren’t completely safe. He wonders if you and Aaron have moved in together yet – he was trying to pull the ‘cheaper rent’ card on that account.

It was blatantly clear that Aaron was gaslighting you. Within three minutes, he was pegged as an asshole.

Spencer pulls out his phone and sends you a text. “Nice seeing you today, hope you get some good sleep.”

He rubs hard at his face before driving off. He plans to show your portfolio to Ian and Anthony tomorrow.

~~~

You’re sitting on the couch, playing on your PlayStation, when someone knocks on the door. Enjoying the day off, you wonder what door-to-door salesman is at your house.

You open the door and a giant smile envelopes your face, “Spencer! You didn’t tell me you were going to visit.”

He take a breath, “Um… yeah, I wanted to ask you something and I couldn’t wait until you were on shift.”

You lean against the doorframe, biting your lip. “Well, I would invite you inside, but I have to warn you… it’s not very nice.”

“I don’t care,” he says matter-of-factly. “I just want to talk.”

“All right,” you say shyly, opening the door wide. You watch his reaction, already feeling embarrassment brewing in your stomach.

Spencer looks around for a second, taking in the minimal furniture and all around lackluster state of the structure. He zeros in on the old tv displaying your video game.

“Are you playing Red Dead Redemption 2?”

“Uh… yeah,” you say quietly, holding yourself and you walk into the living room. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Spencer smiles, finding it amazing to learn something new about you that he loves. “Nice horse.”

You laugh, sitting on the couch and grabbing your controller. Your cowboy character was riding a white horse in the middle of a river. “It’s the White Arabian you have to tame by Lake Isabella.”

“Is that… like the best horse or something?” Spencer comes to sit beside you, sinking into the musty couch.

“It’s the only elite Arabian horse that you can find in the wild.”

Spencer leans against the couch arm, resting his face in one hand. “I didn’t realize you were a gamer.”

“The more you know me, the more of a nerd I become.”

“Nothing wrong with that, you big nerd.”

You giggle, “What did you want to talk about?’

Spencer clears his throat. “I uh… I took your portfolio to work.”

“What did Angela think?”

“She thought it was all great. But um… a few others got a look at it too.” He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “There’s this job opening on the production team, specifically on the Smosh main channel. But they would help with all the channels.”

You pause the game again and really look at him. “What is the position?”

“An assistant art coordinator. They help the art directors with creating sets, costumes, and character looks.”

“And what are the responsibilities?”

“They’re looking for someone to manage hair and makeup for Smosh skits and any character work on other channels. Most of the cast do it themselves, but we do need someone who specializes in prosthetics makeup. And you seem to have done that a lot in theatre. We also need someone to manage costume work – the upkeep of them.”

You swallow hard, arms slowly moving to hold yourself. “Do you know what the salary is?”

“I think it’s around 50k-60k. You’ll make between $24 - $28 an hour.”

You bite your cheek. “That’s great.” You look at your surroundings. This new job would be paying you over $10 more than you’re getting now. “Are you saying Smosh is interested in interviewing me for assistant art coordinator?”

Spencer nods his head. “That is basically what I’m saying.”

“Did you show your bosses my portfolio on purpose?” You lower your eyes but look at him through your lashes.

He takes a deep breath, stretching out on the couch. “Maybe. Maybe I thought you deserved a chance.” He looks at you seriously, “I think you’ve got some real talent, (Y/N). You should go for an interview.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it.”

You look at him, “I’m suddenly super nervous.” A laugh escapes you, “I… I have to talk to Aaron about it.”

“Okay,” Spencer says with an edge. He tries to be respectful. “Have you two…”

“We’ve moved in together,” you say softly. “To make bills a little easier. And… and as a trial run, I guess. I’ll be able to save up for a car now.”

Spencer has a finger on the corner of his mouth. “Do you think you could make an interview this Thursday?”

You think for a second, “I’m sure Aaron would be okay with that. I’ll just talk to him about it tonight.”

He doesn’t seem happy about that statement. But instead of saying something he might regret, he points to the PlayStation. “Have you completed this game before?”

“Oh, yeah – maybe three times,” you pick up the controller again. “This time I’m trying to complete all of the side quests before finishing the main story.”

“You should be wearing a cowboy hat while playing.”

“That would be awesome,” you laugh. You look at him with sincerity, “Thank you for looking out for me, Spence. I appreciate the chance.”

He gives a close-lipped smile. “Always.”

~~~

You step off the bus and begin to walk down the street. Using your phone, you follow the directions that Spencer gave you.

The Smosh office was right around the corner.

You enter the building, pulling on the only pair of dress pants you own. You readjust the simple blouse to show off the single diamond necklace you wear around your neck. You hope it gives you a professional first impression.

The main entrance of the building shows a little receptionist desk and plush chairs to wait in. You advance the desk while noticing behind it are many tables and folding chairs – probably for lunches.

“Hello, how are you?” a nice lady at the desk says.

You wave shakily, “I’m good. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Hecox and Mr. Padilla.”

She seems to find you saying their surnames comical judging by the little smile on her face. But she gestures to the plush armchairs behind you. “Sure, just wait there and I’ll call them.”

You turn around and notice that behind the chairs is a large window showing a large kitchen. The lunch tables and folding chairs makes more sense.

“Thank you,” you say, looking down at the name plate, “Selina.” You sit down and holding your famously large fanny pack in your lap. It gives you something to hold with your fidgeting hands.

Now sitting, you can see the wide windows behind Selina’s desk. There’s a long conference table in there with a television and speakers on a stand. There’s a phone speaker in the middle of the table for any people that are being called in remotely.

Behind the conference table is a little sitting area with a couch and armchair. A couple tables and folding chairs are in the rest of the open space. It’s probably a big room for any meetings with teams or big groups of people.

“(Y/N) Bennett?” someone asks. You jump and stand to see two men coming around the corner.

One is taller with dark, wavy styled hair, a nose ring, and cool tattoos spidering up his neck. He has a great smile and just radiates a natural energy you like.

The other is slightly shorter with brown hair in a classic cut. He has a scruffy beard and black square glasses. He gives very much dad energy with how he’s dressed.

“Yes,” you say rather breathlessly. “I’m (Y/N) Bennett.”

“I’m Anthony,” the taller says, “And this is Ian.”

You shake hands with them, Ian gesturing to the conference room. “We’ll meet in here.”

The three of you walk into the room and take seats around the long table. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say quietly, “Thank you for offering me an interview.”

“For sure,” Anthony says, leaning forward in his chair. Ian sits and immediately starts spinning back and forth. “We saw your portfolio and were really impressed with your work.”

“Thank you,” you say eagerly.

Ian clears his throat, “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

“Well, I’m living here with my boyfriend. I’ve lived here for about two years. Before that I was in Nevada, just outside of Vegas. My family is still there,” you say quietly. “I’ve been a theatre and fine arts student all my life. I’ve been doing community and school productions since second grade. I have experience in both stage acting and in tech behind the scenes.”

“Which do you prefer?” Anthony asks.

You hold onto your fanny pack, “Right now, probably tech. I really enjoy designing costumes and putting characters together. Sometimes I do miss acting though.”

“What do you enjoy about art design?” Ian questions.

You focus on his chair spinning back and forth. “I’m a fan of storytelling. I think one of the greatest talents a person can have is in telling a story, no matter the platform. If I can be a part of that process, I’d enjoy every second. I want to show the story in costumes, hair, and makeup. It’s the most expressive way to describe a person or character.”

“Well said,” Anthony nods. “How would you manage a set when coordinating those things?”

“I would need to see the costume closet to know how to care for it. Organization is key, ensuring you don’t lose any pieces. You’d need a costume rack on set and some essentials, like safety pins, apparel tape, a lint roller, things like that. Makeup vanities will need to be disinfected and cleaned after use, brushes clean and organized. Prosthetics and stage makeup would need to be cared for to make sure we don’t share any germs and possible infections. The same goes for any hair and wig essentials.”

Ian seems a little lost in your explanation, just impressed that you were on top of it. “You have a fine arts degree, is that right?”

You nod, voice still quiet with the nerves. “That’s right. I got a bachelor’s in fine arts at Utah Tech University in St. George, Utah.”

“Is that close to where you’re from in Nevada?” Anthony asks.

You smile, “Yeah, it’s just over an hour away. It has a well known outdoor theatre called the Tuacahn Amphitheatre. I helped with a few tech things during summer shows. And then I acted at the college.”

“What shows did you act in?” Anthony asks further.

You play with your fingers. “We did Footloose, Addams Family, The Drowsy Chaperone, Elf: The Musical, Measure for Measure, and Much Ado About Nothing.”

Anthony whistles, “You did Shakespeare?”

“I love Shakespeare,” you say. “Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite play.”

“You are a major theatre kid,” Ian says, “Why don’t you act anymore?”

You squeeze your fanny pack, “I’ve gotten a little camera shy the last couple years. I prefer helping with quick changes and fixing any mic tape mishaps.”

You take a turn asking some questions about their art department and typical filming schedule. You learn about their expectations for the job and what the salary would be. It was exactly as Spencer had said.

Ian and Anthony share a look with each other before leaning forward. Anthony looks at you kindly, “Would you mind if we conference for a minute? We want to give you an answer today.”

You widen your eyes, “Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

The pair stand and excuse themselves to discuss things outside the room. You’re left in the swivel chair, picking at your fingers and praying that the interview went well. It would be incredible to be given a job that grants you the security and stable income you wanted.

There was a chance to have friends here. Spencer and Angela would be here. You would be storytelling in little comedy sketches. You’d be a part of a team that designed characters. You’d be in charge of ensuring faces weren’t shiny on camera, hair was in place, and clothes looked good.

This could be a home for you.

It takes almost ten minutes for Ian and Anthony to return. They come back with two others that are introduced as Cassie and Erin. They are art director and assistant art director for all productions.

You would be working beneath them should you be offered the position.

More questions are asked by the newcomers, and you find them to be very kind and artistic like yourself. You agree on many fronts, having many things in common. You would be happy to be working in their department.

Ian and Anthony both have smiles on their faces when they say:

“(Y/N), we want to formally offer you the position of assistant art coordinator. Responsible for hair and makeup, and the costumes of the cast. You’ll be our main reference for any special effects makeup and prosthetics. And you’ll help coordinate for all four channels.”

Tears start to form in your eyes. “Really?”

Cassie and Erin had faces full of sympathy. Cassie was covering her face with her hands. Erin was folding their arms and smiling.

Ian was standing their awkwardly, looking at your emotional reaction, but Anthony was quicker to ask. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh tearily, “Yes! Yes, I’d love to take the position. Thank you guys so much. I’m so excited – I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

They all clap momentarily, Ian announcing, “Then we should call everyone to the lunchroom and make introductions.”

“We’ll have Selina bring up contracts to sign,” Anthony says, gesturing to the door. “You want to follow us?”

You nod enthusiastically, shaking hands with everyone on the way out. There are lots of thank yous and congratulations.

Cassie, Erin, and Ian go to round up cast and crew to the lunch tables you spotted earlier. Anthony goes to speak with Selina at the receptionist desk.

You exit the conference room, wiping tears away and clutching your fanny pack.

Spencer was there, pacing by the plush armchairs you sat in earlier. He has his arms crossed, one hand at his mouth, tracing his lips in a nervous gesture.

At your arrival, his head whips to you, eyes wide at the tears running down your face. He looks so afraid, unsure of how the interview went. But he might’ve misinterpreted your tears.

“(Y/N),” he says softly, “What… what did they say?”

He didn’t even notice the other people gathering at the lunch tables.

You walk towards him, still trying to wipe at your face, “Spence.”

He wants to hug you desperately then. He wants to comfort you. And he wants to hurt whoever decided to make you cry.

You throw your arms around his neck, burying your face there. He holds you back, still at a loss as to what the final verdict was.

“(Y/N)!” you hear Anthony, “Get over here!”

Spencer still holds you as you whisper to him, “I got the job.”

He pulls away and holds your waist, “What?”

“I got the job,” you whisper more excitedly. “They’re about to announce it to everyone.” You flounce away to stand at a counter with a few mini fridges, addressing a group of cast and crew. You notice Angela standing in the crowd.

She gives you two thumbs up and you wave back.

Spencer walks over just as Ian begins to talk.

“Hey, guys! We wanted to introduce our newest member of Smosh. This is (Y/N) Bennett!”

Anthony continues, “She will be working in the art department as an assistant art coordinator. She’ll be our head of character design and management of costumes, hair, and makeup.”

The crowd begins clapping and shouting their congratulations. Spencer joins them, standing next to Angela and a few others.

Unbeknownst to the pair of you, some cast and crew were sharing looks. People you hadn’t met yet were winking at each other. They knew full well how much Spencer wanted you to get this job.

You wave at everyone, “Hello! I’m so excited to meet you all and start working on these projects.”

Everyone breaks apart to introduce themselves.

Angela brings over a number of people, “Hey, (Y/N).” She says, “Here are some of our castmates.”

A tall woman in a beautiful jumpsuit says, “I’m Amanda, welcome to the Smosh family.”

“I’m Shayne,” a fit blonde man shakes your hand, “And this is Courtney.”

“Hi,” a blonde woman then shakes your hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Angela sticks her head in, “Those two are married.”

You nod, giggling, “Wonderful.”

“I’m Chanse,” a curly haired man says, giving you a hug, “Welcome to the team.”

A tall man with a great mustache waves, “I’m Tommy!”

“Hi!” you say, “It might take me a while to remember all your names. Thank you for being so welcoming. I’m so excited to start.”

“Spencer’s told us a lot about you,” Amanda says with a cheeky smile.

You look toward Spencer’s rosy face. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,” Shayne laughs, “He has nothing but praise for you.”

Spencer ignores the immediate retort that the single worst thing about you is your boyfriend. “You guys need to calm down.”

“Can we give you a tour?” Amanda asks, taking your arm, “The office has a lot of sets and rooms.”

Courtney appears on your other side, “We can show you the art department and the costumes closet!”

“And the makeup vanities,” Chanse says, already leading the way, “There are a couple by the sets, but there is one in the green room where Angela takes her naps.”

“Hey!” Angela instantly retorts, “Hey, hey, hey… uncalled for!”

Amanda scoffs, “But true.”

Angela snorts, “Yeah, sure.”

You are dragged away by Amanda and Courtney, Chanse and Angela still bickering along the way.

Spencer stays where he is with Shayne. The latter having a very knowing smirk on his face. Spencer ignores him as long as he can.

“Have you ever been told that you shouldn’t make faces because you’ll be stuck that way?”

Shayne chortles, “I’m just curious how you feel about this.”

“Clearly you already have a theory.”

“I do, based purely on the last eleven months of you pining over this girl.”

“I am incapable of pining.”

Shayne wheezes, “Yeah, sure. What do you call bringing up (Y/N) whenever possible, talking through ways to introduce yourself to her, workshopping conversations with me to get to know her…”

“All of those things were in confidence.”

“And all blatant examples of pining over a woman you’ve grown attached to!”

Spencer licks his lips, watching you being dragged by Angela towards the pods of employee desks. “I don’t… I can’t do anything about it now.”

“I’ve never seen you like this, man,” Shayne chortles. “It’s kind of throwing me off right now. You don’t talk about girls much.”

“The dating apps have been seriously lacking the last year.”

“Because you’ve been talking up some chick at the gas station,” Shayne laughs again. “I have to commend you for playing the long game.”

Spencer shakes his head, “I have to be fine with being just friends.”

The squeak of your sneakers was drowned by the bustle of the dozens of highschoolers weaving through the hallways. Side conversations rose in volume, laughter was piercing, lockers slammed metallically, and the morning bell rang with a sharp noise.

You avoid rubbing shoulders with your peers, but inevitably a lacrosse player rams into your side while chasing a ball. You put a hand protectively to your chest, a glimmer of pain dancing across your ribs.

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

Walking into English, you eye the rapidly filling seats. You recognize most faces even if they don’t recognize yours. A few skittish steps forward and you spot the dark silhouette of Scott McCall.

The uneven beating of your heart seems to lessen at someone you could at least talk to amicably. He appears to feel the same as he finds your gaze and smiles crookedly.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he whispers encouragingly. “It’s nice to see you finally at school.”

You smile back, “Thanks, it’s good to be out and about.” You pick the desk beside him, closest to the window. “There’s a lot of people here.”

Scott laughs, “What did you expect?”

“Less than this,” you say, thumbing the syllabus in front of you. “I thought Beacon Hills was a small city.”

You hear a cough directly behind you, fingers drumming against the metal desk surface. You flit your gaze to Scott, but he merely rolls his eyes.

“(Y/N), this is Stiles. Stiles… meet (Y/N).”

You turn in your seat to see a closely shaved head, wrinkled hoodie, and widening brown eyes.

“Uh… hi,” he says.

You swallow hard, “Hello.” Your brow furrows, “You’re Scott’s best friend.”

Stiles nods, playing with his fingers, “Yeah, for years. And you are…?”

“Another friend,” Scott interjects, “Friend of the family.”

You feel warmth as Stiles leans forward in his seat, “A friend that I’ve never heard about?”

That made your stomach clench. Of course you didn’t have many close friends, more acquaintances than anything else, but it still scared you to think you’d be judged on that fact.

“We don’t talk much,” you say quietly, turning back around.

Scott had what you hoped wasn’t a pitying look in his eye when he got distracted by neighbors ruffling through papers; then to a pencil dropping; then to a charm bracelet clanking against a desk. With each new noise his head was whipping about.

You tried to read the first page of your syllabus when a gentle tap on your shoulder startles you. You contained the jump in your heart as you turned towards Stiles.

He spoke with a soft but urgent voice, “Are you new to the town?”

“No,” you answer shortly.

“Then how come I’ve never seen you at school before?”

“I was homeschooled until this year.” The anxious fist in your stomach continues to clench further. “I’ve lived here almost all my life.”

He continues to lean forward as the teacher rose to address the class. “How do you know Scott?”

“Our parents are friends.”

“How come he’s never mentioned you before?”

You give a breathy laugh, “Do you always interrogate newcomers or is this just your usual charm?”

He finally leans back in his seat, “I like a good mystery.”

Your smiling reply makes the corner of Stiles’ mouth quirk upward, just as the teacher declares:

“Stiles, are we really going to end the day with a detention?”

Stiles looks up, frowning, “No, sir – just welcoming a new face.”

“Yes, Miss. Westbrook. I’d suggest surrounding yourself with different company. We don’t want a tainted reputation now, would we?”

Scott put a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh as Stiles lifted his arms in silent outrage. You are stunned but feel a giggle rise in your chest.

The teacher continues, “As you all know, there indeed was a body found in the woods last night.”

The laughter in your chest dies in a cough as you replay the teachers unfeeling words in your mind.

“And I am sure your eager little minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to what happened. But I am here to tell you that the police have a suspect in custody, which means you can give your undivided attention to the syllabus which is on your desk outlining this semester.”

There was a collective groan, but you had already started dating the semesters projects in your academic calendar. The different books you’d be reading were some of your favorite classics: The Scarlet Pimpernel, Jane Eyre, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Sense and Sensibility.

You could already see the outline for your midterm paper on the differences between loving with sense and loving with sensibility.

Then the classroom door opened, and a pretty girl walked in with someone from the office.

“Class, this is our new student Allison Argent.”

You silently thanked the heavens that you weren’t introduced like that to the entire sophomore class. But the introduction intrigued you. Perhaps you could befriend this new student as you were somewhat new yourself.

You met her quickly by her locker after class.

“Hello,” you say in your gentle voice, “I’m (Y/N). I’m new to the school too.”

“Oh, thank god,” Allison says, “Just when I thought I’d never survive the first day.”

You grin, “New kids on the block need to stick together. How are you feeling about the move?”

“I’m used to it,” she says, leaning against the wall of lockers, “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m not new to the city, just the school. I was homeschooled before this. Jumping into the school year in January isn’t preferable, but it’s better than listening to your mom lecture about the Pythagorean theorem while doing the dishes.”

Allison laughs just as another girl walks over to introduce herself and her boyfriend. This new face, Lydia Martin, was clearly a commanding personality. And you quickly quiet yourself as she speaks to Allison.

“So, this weekend, there’s a party.”

“A party?” Allison says, taking a step closer to you.

The boyfriend, Jackson, adds, “Yeah, Friday night. You should come.”

Allison clearly didn’t want to go, judging by how she closed herself off and turned towards you. She fumbles for something to say as you note how the two popular kids never acknowledged your presence.

“Actually, we’ve already made plans for Friday night,” you say quickly, the beating of your heart increasing as Lydia made eye contact with you. “I’m helping her finish setting up her room.”

“Who are you?” Lydia asks, surveying you with her wide eyes.

Allison interjects, “This is (Y/N), she’s new to the school too.”

Lydia seems satisfied in her findings, “Pretty.” She pulls on both of your sleeves, “Let’s go to lacrosse practice.”

You panic, “Oh, no – I actually need to head to the library. The first day came with a lot of homework.” You curse the lines of judgment creasing Lydia’s brow. “I’m sorry, I need to catch up.”

“You need to pick, sweetheart. Beauty or brains. You can’t have both in this school.”

You believe that to be blatantly untrue, but you apologize again as Allison gets dragged off. You sigh, steadying your heartbeats. Your mother will be coming soon to pick you up anyway.

~~~

It was another long evening shift at the hospital working in the clinic. You assisted with logging patients in, taking their medical histories, noting their blood pressure, and administering medications.

You were currently disposing of some items in the sharps container when Nurse McCall came around with a dirty gown and gloves.

“(Y/N)!” she says cheerfully, “How are you?”

You smile, washing your hands in the nearby sink, “Tired, but that’s not unusual.”

She gave you a motherly look, eyeing you like the nurse she was. “How’s your breathing? Have you gotten lightheaded tonight?”

“Nope.” That was a lie. “I’ve been doing great. I worked through the line waiting in the clinic. Now I’ve just got to clean up before heading home.”

She raises her eyebrows, impressed. “I wish your work ethic came in a bottle. I’d give a dose to my son.”

“Oh, you should give Scott more credit. He’s working hard on the lacrosse team, I hear.”

“Have you two… has he been…”

You give a soft smile, “He’s been talking to me in class, yes. He’s been very kind to me.”

“Good,” that seems to relieve her. “I know you’re not the closest of friends but starting school in the middle of the year can’t be easy.”

“No,” you say with a sigh, “But I think I’ve made a few friends. Scott and Lydia and Allison…”

“So are you going to the party tomorrow night?”

You give a weak laugh, “I don’t think I’m made for parties, Melissa.”

“I mean,” she laughs too, “Scott is taking Allison to that party – I figured if you’re all friends now then…”

“Oh,” you compose yourself, “No, I’m not going.”

“Shame,” Melissa folds her arms, “I would’ve liked a trusted pair of eyes on my son. I tell you he’s gotten all squirrely since coming back from winter break.”

You shrug your shoulders, “I’ll check up on Allison to make sure she’s alright.”

Melissa leans over and rubs your arm, “You’ve been working like a madman since the summer. We’re all very impressed with you, (Y/N). But you have a habit of doing too much and telling us too little. You have to promise me you’ll be honest about how you’re feeling.”

You brush her off, “How many times have we had this conversation?” You take a step back, “I feel fine. The summer tuned me up. I feel I can do anything now.”

“I like the confidence,” Melissa says warmly, but she still held worry in her eyes. “I’m just looking out for you. I promised your mom.”

You grimace, “Has she been bombarding you much?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

The pair of you share a laugh, “I wish she’d stop worrying.”

“We all worry,” Melissa sighs, grabbing a new box of gloves for the nurses station. “That’s what happens when you have people that care about you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you walk around her, “I gotta go before my dad waits in the urgent care drop off too long.”

“Hey, about that…” Melissa calls after your retreating form. “I was thinking about your carpool situation and maybe you and Scott could drive together. You know – so you don’t have to rely on your parents as much.”

Anything to get more independence from your parents. “I didn’t think Scott had a car.”

“No, he doesn’t. He gets rides from his friend Stiles. Maybe you could join them?” She watches your expression grow anxious, “Or you could ask your new girl friends?”

“Yeah, right,” you snort, “Lydia and Allison live on the other side of town in those big important houses with the four-car garages.”

Melissa shrugs, “Then ask the boys. Stiles is a little… odd. But he’s a good kid.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” you give her a tired smile, “I’ll see you over the weekend.” You pull out your phone as you head to clock out.

Your connected watch reports to you the steady heartbeat you’ve had during the day – just two rapid spikes. Swiping away the health report, you text Allison and wait for her replies as you head towards your father’s car.

“So you’re actually going to the party?”

“What can I say… Scott asked me.”

You smirk, “I saw that coming a million miles away.”

“Sorry about our hangout though, I was going to tell you at school tomorrow.”

“It’s alright. I’ll just get started on the chemistry homework for next week.”

“You don’t want to come with us?”

You scoff, “And be a third wheel? No thank you.”

Your dad continues a conversation about your workday as he drove out of the hospital parking lot. “Any big cases come in?”

“No, nothing particularly stressful. Maybe one guy who was nervous around needles.”

“Good,” your dad says. “I’m proud of you sweetheart. And not a single fainting in five weeks.”

You lean your head against the window, suddenly glum, “Let’s hope it continues.”

~~~

Friday comes and you’re on the couch enjoying another read of Harry Potter. You were just getting to the confession scene in the Shrieking Shack when your mother came in with a cup of herbal tea.

“You seem a little quiet today,” she says, nestling into the opposite end of the couch.

“No more than usual,” you say, sipping the honey and herb concoction. “I usually spend Friday nights reading, mom.”

She nods, stirring her tea in thought, “Yes, usually. But in the last few months you’ve been branching out. Going to public school, getting a job at the hospital, making some new friends.”

“And while that’s all terribly exciting, I still enjoy a quiet evening with my books.”

“Of course,” your mother replies, “How have you been feeling?”

“Mom,” you groan, “I feel fine!”

She sat straighter, “You have had two dizzy spells this past week. It’s not a crime to ask how you’re doing.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I started school this week, I’m bound to be a little stressed about that, aren’t I? When I started my job at the hospital there were a few dizzy spells in the beginning, remember?”

“Yes, but you don’t tell us about them anymore. I have to pull up your watch readings to find out.”

“What’s the point? I can’t control them all. Sometimes they happen out of the blue.”

“Precisely,” she says louder, “Which is why it’s important to monitor them for your doctor’s appointments.”

You open your book in a huff, “Can we not talk about this anymore? It always puts the house in a mood.”

Your phone buzzes with a text from Allison. Your mother peers over your shoulder to see if it was a notification from your health app.

“Allison is getting a ride home from the party,” you whisper, texting a reply, “I wonder what happened with Scott.”

“Weren’t they on a date?” your mother asks, relaxed now that she knew the cause of your phone lighting up.

You shrug, “I thought so. I’m going to check on her. I’m sure she’ll want to vent.” You get up with your book and find your sneakers. “Could I have a sleepover?”

Your mother battled the rebuttal of keeping you at home – to coddle you with her security. “As long as you have your medication I don’t see why not.”

“I can drop her off on my way to the firehouse,” your father says, adorning his firefighter t-shirt and cargo pants. It would appear he had another overnight shift.

Fifteen minutes later you were outside the Argent residence, Allison waiting by the front door to welcome you with her frustrations.  

The home was tall with big, open rooms full of chandelier light. It was rich with mahogany browns and beamed ceilings. Allison was guiding you up the stairs after a quick introduction to her mother in the living room.

“I just don’t understand why he left me there,” she says with an edge, “I thought he liked me.”

“I think he does like you,” you say as you enter a beautifully decorated bedroom. “We have to remember he is a high school boy.”

Allison quirks a faint smile, “But to leave me at a strangers house… he has to know I’m new to the town. I don’t know anybody well enough to get some help! And I was not about to call my parents for a ride. That would’ve been reputation suicide.”

You clear your throat, recalling every instance your parents have carted you around, refusing to let you drive yourself. “Who gave you a ride anyway?”

“Someone named Derek Hale. He said he was a friend of Scott’s.”

You feel your uneven heartbeats pick up, “Derek Hale? He’s back in town?”

“Do you know him?”

“No, it’s just…” your mind wanders to old police reports your mother talked about and past newspapers on the dinner table. “There was a fire that burned up the Hale House years ago. Most of his family died in that fire. He hasn’t been seen for years.”

Allison crosses her arms, suddenly giving herself a kind of protective hug. “You mean, he isn’t a friend of Scott’s?”

“Not that I know of, but I’m as much of a new friend here as you are.”

“But Scott said you’re a friend of the family.”

“Yes, I do work with his mom at the hospital,” you fight to keep the Hale memories at the forefront of your mind. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ve hanged out with Scott much.”

Allison nods, still gripping her arms as creases of worry etch her face. “Why would Derek lie about being friends with Scott?”

“He didn’t try anything in the car, did he?”

“No!” she says quickly, “He was really kind, even held the door open for me. He just asked about my relationship with Scott.”

You could feel the beats in your chest stutter. They were loud in your ears, “What did you tell him?”

“Just that I met him this week. I got help from him at the veterinary clinic – I accidentally hit a dog – and he asked me to this party.”

You sit on her bed, afraid that your heart rate was increasing more, “Did Derek seem interested in just Scott?”

Allison thought about it for a few seconds before sitting in her desk chair, “Yeah, it was the only thing we talked about.”

“Which would make sense if that was the only thing you guys had in common.” You put a hand to your chest, hoping to steady yourself with some pressure. “But I still don’t think him and Scott have ever been close friends.”

“That’s slightly concerning,” she says with a shaky laugh.

You return it, trying to take a deep breath without making it too noticeable. “Other than the abrupt departure and unfortunate ride home… how are you and Scott?”

A genuine smile returns to Allison’s face, “He’s so sweet. You can just tell how nervous he is and it’s so cute. After being jumped by Lydia and her friends it was nice to meet someone more sincere.”

“Lydia can be a little overbearing,” you agree, checking your watch to see your heart rate drop to a more acceptable number. “And Scott really is a sweetheart. He can be a bit of a worrier, but I find those are the ones who care the most.”

Allison likes the calming reassurance until the sound of her mother’s voice pierced the air.

“Allison! It’s for you.”

The loudness prompts the two girls to their feet. Up on the walkway towards the staircase, the pair of you had a perfect view of the door… and the boy standing out in the cold.

“Stiles?” you say confusedly.

Allison’s mother left the door open as she returned to her spot in the living room. Stiles stood awkwardly under the porch light, “Uh… yeah, hi.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, leading the way down the stairs, “Is everything okay?”

“Is Scott okay?” Allison asks quickly, following you to the doorway.

Stiles rambled, hands on his hips, “Yeah! Yeah, Scott is fine.” His eyes lingered on you as he paused. You had an instant suspicion that he was lying. “He asked that I check up on Allison since he had to run out.”

“Well, I got home all right, no thanks to him,” she replied with a huff. “But he seemed off, like he was sick all of the sudden.”

Stiles took hold of the sudden excuse, “Yes! That’s what happened. Scott just got really sick out of nowhere, like really sick – like find me a bathroom right now kind of sick.”

You wrinkled your nose at his lack of a filter, “But you said he’s fine.”

“I mean, yeah now he’s fine,” Stiles said loudly, as if that would cover up his little slip. “He met with his mom at the hospital and she gave him some… treatment.”

Your pulse was picking up again at his obvious covering up, “You know what… I told Melissa I would stop by the hospital late tonight to get my new schedule. You just reminded me,” you smile easily, putting a hand to Allison’s arm. “Raincheck on that sleepover, I don’t want to keep Melissa up all night, especially if Scott isn’t feeling well.”

“Yeah, of course,” Allison said instantly, “And would you text me if you see Scott there?”

“Sure,” you smile, “Stiles?”

He looked to you with wide eyes, “Hm?”

“Could I get a ride?”

~~~

Stiles’ jeep was old and clanky, but in an endearing sort of way. You sat with your back more against the door than the seat, arms wrapped around yourself. Your heart hadn’t stopped beating rapidly. Any faster and you were worried about another attack.

“I’m sorry the heater doesn’t work,” Stiles said with a hint of embarrassment. He smacked the dashboard, “You look cold.”

“It’s alright,” you say quietly. You try to focus on the beats of your heart, willing them to calm down before you started to get lightheaded.

“You know what…” Stiles started to flail his arms around the wheel, trying to remove his suit jacket. He banged his head against the door before straightening out, “Here.”

You look at the outstretched jacket with endearment before quietly taking it, “Thank you.” You were much more graceful putting the jacket on, smiling at how Stiles mistook your concentration on your heart rate for being cold and uncomfortable.

“Now you need to tell me where Scott really is,” you say in your gentle tone.

Stiles suddenly gripped the steering wheel, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Scott isn’t really at the hospital. And I know something is going on with Derek Hale because he lied to Allison. And I have a funny suspicion that you know more than you were telling us.”

There was a twitch in his fingers as Stiles thought about how much to reveal, “You’re right. Something’s wrong with Scott. I don’t know exactly what, but I think he ran off and got lost in the woods.”

“He didn’t give you any hint as to why he would do that?”

“He’s just been acting weird the last few days,” Stiles continued, driving slowly. “When I saw him leave tonight and Allison get picked up… I went after him. But he ran away.”

You wrap the suit jacket closely around you, giggling at how the wide shoulders stuck out on your own frame. It smelled wonderful.

“This calls for a search party.”

Stiles looked worried and frantic again, perhaps still hiding parts of the truth from you. “You don’t mind wandering the roads by the woods? I could still take you…”

“No, I want to help,” you say against your better judgement. Your heart rate still hadn’t gone down. “Let’s start on the north side closest to where the party was at.”

It was already past midnight by the time you started scouting the woods. You kept your eyes out the window, tightly bound in Stiles’ jacket. Your heart rate remained high, the lack of proper oxygen to your brain was starting to make you feel woozy.

Your mother was not going to be happy when she checked your watch monitor.

“Hey, you alright?” Stiles asked, “You need to sleep?”

You shook your head, wincing at the slow motion feeling it produced. “No, I can stay awake.”

“It’s not a problem, really. I can drop you off at home.”

“That’ll waste time when we could be searching.” You sit up straighter in an attempt to expand your lungs. “I just need to take a breath.”

Stiles kept looking towards you just as much as he was looking in the surrounding forests. “How close are you and Scott?”

“Not very,” you say, “I’ve met him a couple times with his mom. Our parents are closer than we are.”

“And you’ve lived here most of your life and yet I’ve never met you before.”

You smile, trying to anchor yourself in your surroundings. It was another attempt to control your heart rate.

The smell of Stiles’ jacket. The rough road beneath the tires. The stale, cold air of the jeep. The sound of Stiles’ investigative voice.

“I don’t get out much.”

He laughed, “Then why the sudden change?”

“I felt like it.”

“Woman of many words,” he smirked, “You said you knew Derek Hale lied to Allison. What do you know about the guy?”

You sigh, “Just a little about his past with the house fire. My mom was a part of the dispatch call that handled the case.”

“Wait, did you just say a dispatch call?” Stiles jumped in his seat, “As in, your mom is a police officer?”

“No,” you laugh at his quick movements, “She works at the front desk helping transfer calls between civilians and officers. She hasn’t been on the active force in many years.”

Stiles had a comical scrunch on his face as he thought for a few seconds, “Your mom is Angela Westbrook? Front desk Westbrook?”

You nod, a strange furrow in your brow, “And you know her because?”

“Because my dad is the town sheriff!”

“You’re a Stilinski?”

Stiles had a shock of energy zip through him, “Yes, a Stilinski! I can’t believe our parents work together.”

“Your dad has been to my house a few times,” you say, amazed at the connections. “I wonder why he never mentioned me.”

“I guess I knew Mrs. Westbrook had a daughter, I just didn’t realize we were the same age.”

The hours ticked by as the pair of you searched the woods by the road. You both thought you’d seen some flashlights and decided to avoid them. Stiles came up with the idea to search by foot away from the woods for a mile or so.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a spare flashlight in the back,” he unbuckled his seatbelt.

You sit straighter, “I mean, wasn’t there a dead body found out there earlier this week?”

“The police are handling it.” He steps out of the car to grab his flashlight.

You stay where you are, uncomfortable with the idea of standing up when your heart rate was so close to an attack. You were lightheaded enough that the rush of standing would not bode well.

Stiles came around the other side with an exaggerated expression on his face as he opened your car door. “Forgotten how to use the handle?”

“No, I’m just…” you tug on the jacket sleeves. “I’m a little lightheaded to be honest.”

“What do you mean?” his face fell into concern immediately, “Is something wrong?”

You smile shakily, “Not at all,” you lie through your teeth. “Just be prepared to catch me if I fall.”

Stiles seemed to take that with the most seriousness as he backed up and held out a hand, “I got you.”

You struggle to breathe as you clamber out of the vehicle. You hold tightly to Stiles’ outstretched hand and wait for the inevitable feeling of the blood rushing to your legs. Your head felt empty, and stars started to twinkle in front of your eyes.

Stiles held onto your hand and put an arm around your shoulders as you swayed, “Woah, you weren’t kidding. You alright?”

After a few seconds leaning into him, squeezing his fingers with light pressure, your breaths started to come easier. Your head became clearer.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” You let go of him, checking your watch to see that your heart rate decreased to an acceptable amount.

Stiles backed away quickly, rubbing his hands awkwardly down his pants. He was hesitant to look at you when he replied, “No problem. Does that happen a lot?”

“Oh, you know…” you start venturing towards the tree line, “People get head rushes when they sit too long all the time.”

“Right,” Stiles said faintly, jogging to catch up to you. He clicked on the flashlight and aimed it towards the trees. It was dark and misty and cold. The pair of you kept hearing rustlings between the tree roots and bumping into each other.

You could have sworn you heard howls and growls, but it must’ve been the wind.

“Can I ask why you weren’t at the party?”

“You can, but the answer is boring.” You cross your arms, the too long sleeves engulfing your hands. “I don’t go to parties.”

“Because?”

“Because they make me lightheaded,” you say with a smile.

Stiles tried to pick that apart, but smiled, nonetheless. “You know the more I try to get to know you, the more confusing you become.”

“I thought you liked a good mystery.”

“I do,” Stiles confirmed, shining his flashlight up through tree branches, “I don’t like not knowing things.”

“Sorry, I’m a pretty tightly sealed book,” you shrug, “I can be very evasive.”

“And I can be very persuasive,” Stiles mocked, using a silly voice.

You bump into him again, sort of on purpose and less because you tumbled on a stray twig. “You already know plenty about me.”

“Let’s check the list, shall we?” he chuckled, “You were homeschooled. Your mom works at the station. You suffer from frequent lightheadedness. You don’t get out of the house much. And you’re already a part of the pretty girls club.”

“Excuse me?” you laugh, “The pretty girls club?”

Stiles kicked at the leaves, “Yeah, you know Lydia, Allison… you.”

“Stiles Stilinski, did you just call me pretty?”

He comically puffed out his chest, “In a roundabout way, yes I did.”

You chortle, “See you know a lot about me already. We’ve only known each other three days.”

“You’ll find I can be very determined, (Y/N),” Stiles sighed, “I’ll figure you out soon enough.”

They continued their way through the woods until they came back to the car. It did not go unnoticed that Stiles went to help you open the door and climb into the tall vehicle.

The morning light was starting to peek over the horizon by the time they got back to the roads. The pair of them were starting to grow more worried by the minute. It wasn’t a friendly search party anymore.

“I hope he’s okay,” you say quietly.

Stiles looked your way before resting his hand against the stick shift between you. “We’ll find him. Or he’ll text me as soon as he gets to a phone.”

You lean towards the dashboard, “I guess we’ll find him first.”

Walking along the side of the road, pants covered in dirt and his shirt missing, was Scott. He looked ruffled.

“What happened to him?” Stiles murmured as he pulled over.

“What happened to his shirt?” you say just as quietly. Stiles shot you a look as you strip yourself of his suit jacket.

Scott came to the door and looked shocked to see you handing over the coat. “(Y/N)?”

“Scott,” you say with a smile, “Get in.”

You scoot over to be in the middle. Stiles immediately yanked his arm away as your thigh got in the way of how he was resting his hand on the stick shift. You rubbed shoulders again as Scott got comfortable.

“Long night?” you ask.

Scott rubs at his eyes, banging his head against the window, “You have no idea.” He suddenly turns to you, pressing into your side, “How is Allison?”

“She’s fine,” you say, “I’m a little more worried about you.”

“You know what actually worries me the most?” he grumbles.

Stiles licks his lips, “If you say Allison, I’m gonna punch you in the head.”

“She probably hates me now,” Scott frowns, turning to you with regretful eyes.

You take pity on him, rubbing his shoulder, “She’s upset with you, but she doesn’t hate you.”

“But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology,” Stiles says candidly.

Scott groans, leaning against the headrest. You sit scrunched between them, almost scared to lean into either one. “I hear you were really sick last night. Though I don’t see how that explains your lack of clothing.”

“Night sweats,” Scott mumbles, “When I couldn’t sleep through it at home I decided to take a walk through the woods.”

“That’s a long walk,” you say, “Don’t worry, I’ll put a good word in for you with Allison.”

“Would you?” Scott says, looking at you like you were the answer to all of his prayers. “Could you make sure she knows how sorry I am?”

You pull out your phone to send that update text you promised her. “As long as you apologize in person too, I don’t see why not.”

“You’re an angel, (Y/N), thank you.” He bows his shaggy head to your shoulder before pouting against the headrest again.

“Could you drop me off a few blocks from my house? My parents think I’m sleeping over at Allison’s.”

Stiles nods, “Protective parents?”

“A little,” you smile.

“I’ll add that to the list,” he smirks. “I’ll have to open a full case file on you now.”

“That’ll be a dead end.”

Scott opens his eyes to peer at the pair of you, “Sounds like you two had as long of a night as I have.”

You yawn, “Stilinski here is trying to play high school detective. He’s on a role trying to figure out my criminal past.”

“Criminal you say,” Stiles drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “That’ll mean I need a corkboard and some red thread too.”

“What have you found out so far?” Scott muses, somewhat enjoying the change of subject.

“Not much.” Then Stiles points a finger at his best friend, “But you’ve known her longer than me – fess up. What do you know?”

Scott holds back a smile, “Did you figure out her mom works at your dads station?” After a swift nod he continues, “And that her dad is a firefighter?”

“Really?” Stiles says dramatically, “Any siblings?”

“Only child,” Scott continues, rubbing the tired from his eyes, “And she loves to read. Every time I saw her, she was always reading something.”

Stiles had a look of triumph on his face, as if it were a breakthrough in the case, “What book you reading right now?”

“Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” You point the directions to your street, “I’m at the end when Lupin turns into a werewolf.”

“A what?” Scott says, shooting forward.

The friendly banter between you and Stiles suddenly shifts into surprise, “A werewolf. Haven’t you seen the movies?”

“Right,” he swallows hard, “It’s been a while.”

Stiles licks his lips again, “It’s ironic because last night was the full moon.”

“Oh, was it?” you hum, “That’s funny.”

~~~

You sleep off most of the weekend, having a lecture from your parents about the heart rate spike on Friday. You told them a night of rom coms and silly boy stories with Allison got you excited – that it was all fun and games.

You didn’t tell them you almost fainted because of it.

The next week was more enjoyable than the last. You excelled in your classes and spent your lunch periods reading in the library – you were already halfway through Sense and Sensibility for your midterm report.

Chemistry, History, and English were your favorite, most likely because your new friends were in those classes. Scott had become infatuated with Allison, especially after she had given him a second chance. Lydia was scheming something over her boyfriend being the captain of the lacrosse team. And Stiles was quickly becoming your highlight of each day.

He’d sit beside you during class and ask a personal question. “At least one a day,” he wagered, “I can ask at least one a day and get an answer.”

“As long as I reserve rights to refuse to answer any question.”

“I’m going to add those refusals to your case file.”

You’d roll your eyes, “Whatever you say, Stilinski.”

You were proud of the fact you hadn’t had another heart rate scare since the week before, meaning your body was adapting to the new stressful environment at school. That didn’t stop Stiles from insinuating you were going to have a lightheaded moment whenever you rose from your seat.

You never noticed how he prepared himself to grab you whenever you’d been sitting too long.

Chemistry had come around later in the week, you having arrived early to prepare the days experiment. Goggles adorning your face, you lit the Bunsen burner and tightened a flask of a chemical liquid above it.

Stiles skid over, sliding on his sneakers, “Hey, partner.” He threw his bag down and took the goggles you hand to him. He snaps them onto his face with a sharp, “ow.”

“I’ve started filling out the notes,” you say, observing how the liquid was starting to bubble with heat. “Why are you late?”

“I’m not late, you’re just early.” He sits on the stool beside you, resting his crossed arms on the tabletop. “Where were you at lunch today?”

You put a thermometer in the liquid, waiting for the right temperature, “In the library.”

“Is that where you always eat lunch?”

“You can’t eat food in the library, Stilinski.”

Stiles rubs at his nose fidgetily, “Scott and I were looking for you today.”

You pause, warmth filling your chest as you pour granules into the bubbling vial. “Sorry, I was reading for my book report.”

“(Y/N), book reports aren’t due for weeks.”

“Might as well get it done so we don’t have to worry about it,” you hum, writing down observations about the chemical reaction.

Stiles slumps a little, “Well, we missed you.”

“Scott just wants to gossip about what Allison thinks of him.”

“And what’s my excuse?”

You turn off the burner and remove the vial with tongs, “You’re trying to question me to continue your investigation.”

He sighs out a smile, “You’re right, of course. I haven’t asked you my question of the day yet.”

“I suppose I have no choice but to answer one,” you sigh with a smile on your face. “What do you have for me today?”

He was playing with his fingers when he asks, “Why do you spend lunch in the library rather than in the lunchroom with everyone else?”

You think about your answer carefully as you put away your supplies and let the vial cool down. “I don’t like being around a lot of people.”

“Why?” he presses.

You grab his goggles and snap them against his face, “Because it makes me lightheaded.”

He yelps and sways on his stool, “I’m beginning to think ‘lightheaded’ is code for something else.” He yanks the goggles from his face, and you snort at the deep lines they left around his eyes.

“Hey, there’s a science project that we need partners for,” you say as a way to change the subject. “Do you want to do it together?”

“(Y/N), we don’t have to do that project until the end of the semester.” He smiles at your antics of avoiding his questioning.

You shrug, “I like getting things done.”

He takes a deep breath, “Alright, at least I know I won’t fail the class if you’re helping me with the final project.”

After class the pair of you separate for final period, you heading to a different floor and running into someone at the bottom of the staircase. Someone tall and dark with light eyes.

That someone you recognize as Derek Hale.

You freeze on the last few steps, holding onto your backpack and feeling your heart beat unevenly again.

“You’re Derek.”

His face was cool and solemn, “What do you know about Scott McCall?”

“Why should I tell you?” Your arms erupt in goosebumps.

He steps closer, “Because I’m trying to help him. He needs to get it through his skull that I am not the enemy here. I need your influence in this.”

You hold back a scoff, fear overtaking that, “What business do you have with helping Scott?”

“Do you not know?” his eyes suddenly darken, “I thought you were one of his friends.”

“I am his friend,” you reply, “And I know people are suspicious of you.” A seed of doubt creeps up your spine, “I don’t like that a shady adult is creeping around the halls of a high school looking to make connections with students.”

He growls, actually growls much to your surprise. “I need you to tell Scott that I am here to help. I am innocent in whatever he thinks I’ve done.”

“What does he think you’ve done?” you ask quickly as Derek backs off.

“I can hear your uneven heart,” he says, turning around, “You should calm yourself.”

You put a hand to your chest, mouth agape at his retreating form. How the hell can he hear your heartbeat? A thrum of fear ripples through you as you run for your last class. You check the monitor on your watch until your heart rate was controlled before entering.

You didn’t see any of your friends until the next day. You were reading in the library over lunch again, finishing Sense and Sensibility and planning your report. You keep getting distracted by the whole situation with Derek and Scott.

What had the adult meant by befriending Scott? Why were you approached? What secret does Scott have that you didn’t know about?

You squeal as someone launches themselves over the library couch and sits beside you. Your cushion bounces as your heart leapt.

“Stiles!” you cry, “Don’t startle me like that!”

He nudges your shoulder, “Sorry, we were looking for you.”

Scott came around and sat on the arm of the couch, “It’s lunch.”

“Yes,” you say, “And I’m working on stuff in the library like I do every day.”

“No,” Stiles says, closing your book and stealing your pencil, “You’re going to join us for lunch today.”

You fight to get the pencil back, “I think I’ll just finish my report here.”

“(Y/N), there aren’t that many people in the lunchroom,” Scott says quietly, “And you’ll have us there.”

You stare Stiles down, “Did you tell Scott about my thing with lots of people?”

He shrugs sheepishly, “Come on, let’s go.” He waits as you stand, picking up your backpack for you. Scott led the way, nervous by how he wrung his hands.

“Has Allison talked about me lately?”

You shove his arm, “Scott, I can’t tell you everything we say during girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” Scott says in a panic, “I didn’t know about girl talk.”

“Yes, it’s where we drop all our juiciest secrets,” you snicker, “Including our thoughts on certain cute boys.” Scott points at himself, eyebrows raised, making you laugh. “Yes, Allison has been saying good things about you.”

Stiles matches your stride, “What about me?”

You look at him with a wide smile before leaning into Scott with another laugh.

“What? I’m a cute boy,” Stiles says, flabbergasted. “Aren’t I?”

They walk into the lunchroom that was still full of students. You spot Allison and Lydia sitting at the popular lacrosse table. Stiles, your backpack still on his shoulder, nudges you to one of the front tables.

Sitting down, Scott kept peering over at the back of Allison’s head. “See it’s not so bad in here, (Y/N).”

The patter of your heart would say differently, but you sit next to Stiles, nonetheless, pulling out your book report.

“I did mean to come talk to you guys about something that happened yesterday.” The boys lean in, eager for any strange story. “Derek Hale came to talk to me.”

Stiles slips out of his chair and crashes to the ground; Scott was stunned, “Derek Hale? Where?”

“On my way to my last class yesterday. He was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.”

Stiles crawls back onto his chair, winded, “He was inside the school? What did he want?”

You shrug, twiddling your pencil, “He wanted me to convince Scott that he was a friend. He said he was innocent, whatever that means.”

The boys share a look. You start outlining your report, “And I don’t know why but I think I believe him.”

“No, (Y/N), listen…” Stiles pulls on your shoulder so you would face him. “You cannot trust that guy. Whatever you do, do not be alone with him again, got it?”

“I don’t get it, why?”

Stiles licks his lips, urgent in the way he looks at you, “You need to trust me on this. If he tries to talk to you again, call me.”

“I would if I had your number,” you laugh. The boys pull out their phones immediately to exchange numbers. You snort at their seriousness, “If you wanted my number that bad you could’ve just asked instead of coming up with this elaborate Derek Hale story.”

“We’re not making it up,” Scott says, “That guy is dangerous.”

~~~

At the end of the week you were busy with your shift at the hospital. You had just finished checking on Jackson Whittemore who had a dislocated shoulder, and you were logging notes into the computer at the nurses station.

You were just updating a patient file when a hand slams onto the counter. You jump, clutching your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles!”

Stiles was shocked at seeing you there, “Do you work here?”

“Yes, and for the love of god please announce your presence like every other normal human being and stop scaring the ever living daylights out of me!” It was a good thing they were in a hospital because your heart was about to give out.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says with wide eyes. He rubs at his face, hiding a smile, “This is how you know Scott’s mom so well.”

“Yeah, add it to my case file,” you wave a hand, fixing your scrub top, “Why are you here?”

His eyes linger at something on your chest, making him stutter, “Um… Scott and I were uh… coming to check up on Jackson.”

“That’s right, you’re all on the lacrosse team. I heard it was Scott that knocked Jackson’s shoulder out of place.”

“That would be correct,” Stiles laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his head. “Is he alright?”

You smirk, nodding towards the end of the hallway, “See for yourself.”

Lydia had come to pick Jackson up, and the pair of them were currently making out in the middle of the hall. You turn away, slightly nauseous, but Stiles keeps observing like he’s never seen a kiss before.

“She’s never been subtle,” you grimace.

His mind seemingly elsewhere, Stiles fumbles for something to occupy himself with as he waits. He picks up a pamphlet on the menstrual cycle.

“Where is Scott?”

Stiles was stuck on a diagram of the uterus, “Hm?”

“Scott,” you say again, staring at the pamphlet cover, “I thought you said you were both looking for Jackson.”

“He went to find his mom first.”

You squint your eyes, “Melissa’s shift ended two hours ago.”

“Could you explain to me the function of the fallopian tubes?”

You snatch the pamphlet away from him, “What are you two hiding?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says nervously, “Don’t you have other patients to see or something?”

“First Derek Hale is telling me that Scott is keeping a secret and then you’re here covering for Scott while he snoops…”

“Who said anything about snooping?”

You stand from your chair, leaning towards the counter and Stiles, “Listen, I’m glad we’re finally friends. I like you guys. But I won’t be lied to forever. I deserve better than that.”

Stiles feels his chest collapse a little, sinking in on himself. “I could say the same thing about you. You’re always keeping things to yourself and giving vague answers to my questions. What do you have to hide, hm?”

A pang of hurt hit your chest, “Stiles, I’ve never lied to you about anything. If I don’t want to answer a question outright because it’s too personal, I tell you so. I’ve never hid something from you deliberately by lying to you.”

Stiles bit his tongue, folding his arms defensively.

You let the hurt show on your face, “I think you and Scott have been lying to me for a long time. About the party that Scott ran out on. About why you checked up on Allison last week. About your trust issues with Derek Hale. About what you and Scott are doing in the hospital right now…”

The will to argue was gone in Stiles, he just looks defeated as he watches the hurt fill your face. “It’s been for your own protection.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you whisper angrily.

Scott suddenly appears by the counter, out of breath. “Hey…” he saw your face, “Oh, hey what’s up?”

“Find what you were looking for?” you ask sourly before returning to your keyboard.

Scott shares a look with Stiles before muttering, “Yeah, uh… Jackson’s alright.”

“He left a few minutes ago.”

Stiles turns around to see that Lydia and Jackson really had left. He tugs on Scott’s arm and gave an imploring look towards you.

“I promise we’ll explain everything eventually.”

You keep looking at your computer screen, ignoring the words. Stiles flickers his eyes to what he noticed on your chest, just along the edge of your scrubs. Scott knits his brow as he listens to what was unmistakably the uneven pounding of your rising heart rate.

Stiles led the way to the elevators, cursing himself and smashing the downward button.

“What was that about?” Scott whispers.

“(Y/N)’s mad at me,” he rubs at his eyes harshly, “Mad at us. She knows we’re hiding stuff from her.”

“For her own good.”

“Yeah, but she sees it as us lying to her. I don’t blame her for being upset. We’ve been pretty crappy friends keeping her at arm’s length.”

Scott frowns, walking into the elevator, “You forget that keeping her in the dark keeps her safe.”

“Well, not anymore with Derek roping her into it.” He leans against the wall, holding tight to the railing. “Did you notice the scar on her chest?”

“No,” Scott says, “But I did notice her heartbeat. It was all over the place. She must’ve been really upset.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, “Did you find anything in the morgue?”

~~~

The next evening you drove with your mother back to the hospital. You were still aching with the argument you had with Stiles. You knew something was going on between him and Scott, but you still didn’t know what.

Your mother sensed your mood and said in a cheery voice, “We made an arrest today about that woods murder.”

“Did you?” you say in a quiet tone.

“Yeah, Derek Hale. He’s been back in town for a couple weeks. I guess there was evidence on his burnt property.”

You close your eyes, thinking back to the warning about Hale. “Good thing you got him.”

“And then I got a strange call on dispatch today from the Sheriff’s son.”

“Stiles?” you say.

She hums, “He’s one strange kid.”

“Does he call dispatch often?”

“He’s not allowed to anymore, but he did call today about a dog sighting.”

You shake your head, “You’re right, he can be real strange.”

“Are you sure you can’t make the big game tonight?” your mother asks. “Everyone is going, even the Sheriff.”

“I can’t. I’m helping on Melissa’s floor since she took it off to see the game.”

“That’s right,” she replies, “Shame. I’m sure your friends would’ve liked to see you in the stands.”

You turn in your seat, staring your mother down, “I thought you’d object to me watching a heart racing game surrounded by loud, rowdy people, standing in the frigid cold air.”

She shrugs, “You’ve been proving yourself capable of handling your heart rate, even when it’s the spur of the moment.”

A sudden warmth creeps up your chest. Your mother was starting to trust you despite the illnesses. It was just enough of a mood shift to prompt you to text Scott and Stiles good luck at the game.

The shift was long and grueling; you were exhausted by the end of it. Another medical assistant drove you home late, no doubt long after the lacrosse game was over. You made a mental note to commend Melissa for handling such a difficult floor of the hospital.

Your mom had been called away because of a case update and your father was on an overnight shift at the firehouse again. You were quick to shower the nights worth of patient grime off your body and throw your scrubs right into the washer.

You were just applying lotion in your pajamas when something hit the glass of your window. Startled, you stood from your bed and waited for it to happen again.

A small pebble flew through the air and pings against your window.

Peering through the glass, you saw a disheveled, sweatshirt-wearing Stiles holding a handful of your garden rocks. He waves at you shyly as you struggle to slide the window open.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles holds up his hands, “Seeing if you were awake.”

“And you couldn’t think to text?” you say incredulously, “Put those rocks back.”

He threw his handful of rocks on your mothers tulips, “My phone died like an hour ago.”

You stood there, leaning on your windowsill, regarding him with a soft expression. He looks tired and scared, eyes looking up and imploring as he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Then what’s up?” you ask.

He swallows hard, the cold air making his breath come out in icy clouds. “I wanted to talk… about what you said yesterday.”

“How did you know where I live? You dropped me off at the end of the street, remember?”

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles, “And I just watched you walk to this house.” He scratches the back of his head, “Or maybe I looked up your mom on my dad’s computer and found her employee records.”

You nod your head slowly, “That sounds about right.”

“Can I… Can I come up?”

You bite at your lips, hair still wet from the shower. “Sure.”

It was like letting a dog off a leash. Stiles frantically jumps to the garden trellis growing on the front of your house. He struggles past the vines and up the wooden ladder, ignoring your calls of disapproval. He was huffing and puffing by the time he made it to the roof and next to your window.

“Stiles,” you say in your gentle voice, “My parents aren’t home. You could’ve come through the front door.”

His mouth was dry from panting in the cold night air, “Right, but that wouldn’t have been as impressive.”

You watch his fumbling figure fall from the window and onto your carpeted floor, “Yeah, that was real impressive, Stilinski.”

There was only a side table lamp on, lighting the bedroom in a soft peachy glow. You went to sit cross-legged on your bed, patting the covers in front of you for Stiles to sit.

He fixes his shirt, taking your offer before looking you in the eye. “(Y/N), I wanted to say that I was sorry.”

You look towards your hands, playing with the edge of your comfy pajama shirt. You could smell the fruity scent of your lotion still on your fingers.

“I didn’t realize our covering up was so obvious to you. We just wanted to protect you, but I guess it does seem like we betrayed your trust.” He keeps his eyes on you, waiting for you to look at him again, “When I got your good luck text I thought maybe there was still a chance you weren’t super angry with me.”

“Just a little,” you say quietly, giving him a soft smile.

“I wanted to tell you some things that we’ve been hiding from you,” he holds his hands up, “As a peace offering.”

You shake your head, “How generous of you.”

“The body that was found in the woods… Scott and I found it. Us visiting the hospital? That was Scott and I trying to find evidence on the partial body. Derek Hale? He had been seen on the property where we found the other half of the body. He was also in the woods with the first half. We were suspicious of him, and he was basically stalking us because of it.”

You listen carefully, your heartbeat was loud in your ears. “And when he came to talk to me?”

“That terrified us. We thought he was a murderer, and he was talking to you… alone.”

“You thought? My mom told me he was arrested today for the murder.”

Stiles rubs at his face with a tired hand, “Not anymore. The coroner’s said the cause of death was from an animal attack. And the victim was Laura Hale – Derek’s sister.”

“Must be nice having your dad be the sheriff,” you smile. “So Derek’s innocent like he told me he was.”

“I still don’t trust him. He’s not telling us everything. And since we’ve gotten him thrown in jail, my guess is he’s not very happy with us.”

You nod, your head clearer than it was at the beginning of the week.

“Is that everything you’ve been hiding?”

Stiles licks his lips, a nervous habit you’re realizing. “Do you remember when you said you don’t lie, you’re just honest about not sharing the whole truth?” At your nod he continues, “There is one more thing, but it’s not fully my thing to tell. We want to tell you, but it’s not exactly safe at the moment.”

You take the cryptic words and stew with them for a while. “Apology accepted.”

He let out a deep breath, “Thank goodness. Scott would have never forgiven me if we lost our one connection to the pretty girls club.”

You punch his shoulder and laugh, “The one thing I’m good for… gossip from the girls.”

Stiles rubs his shoulder, “That’s not why we want you around.” He clears his throat at your sudden undivided attention, “What I mean is… you’ve been a good friend, and we like you.”

“You and Scott,” you smile.

“Yeah, me and Scott.”

“Scott and I,” you correct, brushing the wet hair from your face, “How was the game?”

Stiles sat more relaxed on your bed, “It was great, we won. And there weren’t any injuries like Jackson’s.”

“Good,” you smile, “And Scott had a pretty victorious after party, so I’ve heard.”

“Allison texted you?” Stiles questions.

You shrug, “Of course. She said you were watching like a little pervert.”

Stiles chokes on his gasp, “I am not…” 

“You were watching Lydia and Jackson too. There’s a trend I’m noticing,” you tease.

He shoves your crossed knee, relishing in your laugh, “Very funny.” He eyes the neckline of your pajama top, searching for the edge of the scar he noticed yesterday. “Can I ask you my one personal question of the day?”

“Fine,” you sigh, “Ask away.”

“Where did you get that scar?” he nods towards your chest.

You immediately clam up, covering the spot protectively. “I got it over the summer.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, egging you on, “How?”

“I had a surgery.” You watch the concern begin to etch into Stiles’ face. “I don’t like talking about it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, blinking rapidly as he tries to compute the information, “But you’re okay now. The surgery helped you be… healthy?”

“For the most part,” you say quietly, “The surgery did help me be healthier.” You could already see the cogs turning in his mind. He was going to head home and research what surgeries would leave scars like that on the side of the chest.

His eyes wander your room for a minute before landing on your nightstand. There were three different sized prescription pill bottles resting there. He returns his gaze to you, but didn’t ask further questions, “So I was thinking… how about I give you rides to school from now on.”

You let out an anxious smile, grateful he didn’t press you about your health problems. “Honestly, that would be great.”

“Good,” he seems pleased with himself, “And in return for gas money, you come to our lacrosse games.”

You outstretch a hand, “Deal.”

Stiles takes your hand to shake and instantly blurts, “You smell really good.”

You laugh, “I did just shower.”

He awkwardly lets go of your hand, standing from the bed, “No, you always smell good.”

He blinks blearily, sitting up on an elbow. The usual exhaustion that had been plaguing him these last few weeks felt… lighter. He felt well rested. It made his eyebrows raise.

Looking down at the mattress space that still smells oddly of berries and summer fruit, he furrows his brow. The dream he had last night…

A sadness creeps into his stomach, making his heart clench. It had been a wonderful dream. (Y/N). Memory intact. Kissing him in happiness. Confirming her feelings for him. Calming him by being his blanket.

He sits up all the way, the blanket crumpling at his waist and hands running over his head.

Being asleep was the dream – being awake was the nightmare.

“Hey, Stiles, do you have a hairbrush?”

Stiles goes still as granite, eyes plastered to the bed.

“I know you don’t exactly have enough hair for a brush,” you laugh. A beautiful laugh. “But the rain kind of made my hair all tangled last night.”

Slowly, Stiles lowers his arms and turns his head enough to see you in his doorway. Your hands are in your hair, trying to tame the wild, knotted curls. A smile was wide on your face.

“What?”

He crawls to the edge of the bed, “Are you real?”

“Um… yes? I think so.”

“No,” Stiles stands, “You have to tell me for sure. Because everything that happened last night was a dream to me unless you can prove it otherwise.”

Sympathy grows in your gaze, “Stiles… last night was real. Right now… is real. You asked Derek to drag out my memories, and it worked. I came straight here afterwards.” You walk towards him and his eyes get big.

“You came over… and it was raining.”

You point to your hair and laugh, “A lot.”

“You remembered everything. And you told me… that you like me.”

“A lot.”

He lets loose a breath, watching you get closer to him. “Then you kissed me.”

“Yeah,” you smile, “Kind of like this.” And you crane your neck to reach his lips. It was soft and sweet and had Stiles in shock.

His mouth was left open as you pull away, “A-Actually, it was a little rougher than that.”

You smack his chest and walk away to search for a hairbrush again. Stiles starts to smile until his cheeks hurt. He runs from his bedroom to lean against the bathroom doorway. He finds you with a fine-tooth comb, starting to fight the ends of your hair.

“I guess this’ll have to do,” you snicker, finding his goofy face all kinds of endearing. “You okay over there?”

“Okay? Me?” he bangs his head against the doorframe, “I’m good… great even. Actually, I’ve never been better.” He shuffles more into the room, tile cold against his feet. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do with myself.”

He reaches for your shirt. His fingers graze the fringe of the t-shirt, finding purchase with his fingertips. He starts to pull you away from the mirror and closer to him.

“Stiles,” you laugh, “What are you doing?”

“Just something I’ve wanted to do every time I’ve been near you.” His arms wrap around your waist, your back against his chest. Your hands fall to his, head nudged aside as Stiles nuzzles his way there.

His nose tickles beneath your ear.

You giggle, “Stiles, behave yourself.”

At your laugh, he squeezes you tighter, lips moving against your skin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

You relish the feeling of him surrounding you. He engulfs your frame with his lanky limbs. And it makes your stomach twist, your heart beat loudly. Your heartbeat.

“Stiles,” you say a little less friendly. “Stiles, take it easy.”

He freezes; becomes still behind you. He’s slow and awkward to remove himself from holding you. “I’m sorry,” he laughs quietly, “Might be jumping the gun a little bit.”

You turn around to face him, “No, don’t feel bad. It’s just… I do like you. We like each other. But I…”

He backs away to lean against the wall, looking at you with something somber. “Don’t say it.”

Your eyes flicker to his, your brows slanting into something painful. “You know how I feel about relationships.”

Stiles takes a sad breath, “I guess I sort of hoped that wouldn’t apply to me.” He gives a pathetic, hopeful smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “But if you felt that way… then why kiss me?”

“It’s like what I said the day I broke up with Andrew,” you swallow, returning to your hair picking. “It’s not that I don’t want to – I’m just a coward.”

“Okay, now… what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Your phone lights up on the sink counter. You grimace, “Ah, shit. I had my phone on silent.” There were dozens of missed calls and messages. “My parents are going to kill me.” You put the phone to your ear, “Hey, mom.”

“(Y/N) June Westbrook!”

“June?” Stiles asks with mustered amusement.

You mouth at him, “The name of the doctor that gave me heart surgery.”

“For the love of god, where are you!? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“I had the sound turned off, I’m sorry. I’m okay, really.”

“Where are you?”

You pull your now dry pajamas off the shower curtain rod, walking into Stiles’ room to find your shoes. “I’m at the Sherriff’s house.”

“Why!? Are you hurt? How’s your heart?”

“It’s fine! You have my heart rate on your phone, don’t you?”

“Don’t you dare take the tone with me,” Angela warns, “You have been stuck at home with the last six months erased from your memory. Of course we’d be panicking if we found the house empty!”

You huff, stomping down the stairs to the main floor. Stiles is right behind you, slipping on the last step. “I got my memory back, mom. And I wanted to tell Stiles since he was the one who saved me that night.”

There was silence as you slide your sneakers onto your feet. You scramble for the sunflower yellow cardigan on the side table.

“Okay… say that one more time. Your father just came in.”

You sigh dramatically, “Well… I – I woke up from a nap and it was like something clicked. I could suddenly remember everything. And I…” You walk out the front door, Stiles floundering behind you, searching for his keys. “And the first thing I wanted to do was find Stiles and thank him for saving my life.”

Your father has disbelief in his voice, “Well, that’s great honey.”

“But incredibly irresponsible of you,” your mother retorts.

“Ah, yes – right. Very irresponsible.”

“You couldn’t think to call us before you take off in the night?”

You grind your teeth, struggling to open the jeep door with all the things in your hands. Stiles scoots over in the front seat to push open the passenger door for you. “Look, I’m sorry – okay? But everything is better now.”

Angela’s voice sounds a little teary as she replies with a much calmer tone, “We’re glad you’re okay, sweetie.”

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” your dad asks.

The jeep is speeding down the road, making you bounce. “A little tired, but that’s not anything new.”

“Great, that’s good,” your dad sighs.

“But don’t think that means you’re off the hook, young lady.”

You grumble, “Mom!”

“Regardless of the circumstances, you should not have left the house last night. Especially without telling someone where you were.”

“Stiles knew,” you mumble.

Angela tisked, “You are grounded.”

“Seriously? I’ve never been grounded in my life, mom.”

“Bear with us, honey – this is new to us too,” Tom says sympathetically.

“You can go back to school and work… but you are not going to hang out with any of your friends. No Allison and Lydia. No Scott. No Stiles.”

Stiles frowns and grips the steering wheel.

You put a hand to your head, “For how long?”

“Uh… for…” Angela tries to hang onto her authoritative voice, “For three weeks.”

You grumble for a second before begrudgingly muttering, “Fine.”

“And if we find Stiles climbing up that damn garden trellis, so help me we will tear it down.”

“Fine,” you say again, teeth clenched tight.

“Get back home,” Angela replies, “We need to visit the doctor.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes.” You hang up the phone then.

Stiles drums his thumbs into the steering wheel. He keeps sneaking glances at your somber figure. He wasn’t sure what the rules were. Was it okay to grab your hand?

“We can still talk at school.”

“This sucks,” you say, “How do you tolerate all the detentions and groundings?”

“Natural talent,” Stiles says, “And the knowledge that it won’t last forever.”

You sigh, turning to look at him, “I’m sorry, Stiles. This isn’t how I wanted to spend the morning.”

He licks his lips; the leg that wasn’t on a pedal was bouncing. “How… how did you want to spend it?”

A sigh escapes you, sad and confused. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t mind complicated,” he rambles, “I just want you to freaking talk to me.”

“I know,” you rub at your forehead. “Maybe… maybe we can find a time after school tomorrow.”

The jeep pulls over at your house. Stiles puts it in park and faces you. “(Y/N)… I’ve been waiting for this chance for a really really… really long time. And I thought – for a second – that we were all in.” He plays with his fingers in a shy, vulnerable way. His eyes went from you to his hands repeatedly.

“Stiles…”

“No, I just want you to know before we go into a conversation like that. I don’t want anything half-assed. I won’t be some side chick you can kiss and cuddle without the entire relationship package.”

You sneak a smile, “Side chick?”

“You know what I mean.”

You nod, “I understand.” You reach for his wrist, holding his arm gently. He looks at your hand with such a deep sense of longing. His fingers twitch under your hold and he looks ready to say something when his eyes get wide.

“Oh, shit…”

The door swings open and you’re yanked out by a bear hug to the torso. Your dad holds you tight, your mom not far behind.

“Thank you, Stiles,” Angela says, waiting for him to nod before shutting the jeep door. She turns around and joins the hug before holding your cheek. “Thank god you’re safe.”

“You’re suffocating me,” you squeak.

~~~

It was an adjustment, to say the least, getting back into a routine. So much had happened in the last week that you weren’t sure what normal was now.

Being back at school, you sit by Coach’s office. “The spring retreat is in two weeks, Coach,” you say, arms folded. “You need to sign off on the bus route so the district will hire a bus driver for us.”

“Whatever, Westbrook,” Coach mumbles, chewing his gum loudly. “I gotta get back in the gym. The rock wall isn’t supposed to be unsupervised.” He adds a laugh as you thrust a clipboard into his field of vision.

“Then just sign here at the bottom,” you sigh. Being the Coach’s TA really meant doing all the work and getting his signature when necessary.

He signs the page sloppily, leaving to say some backwards comment in the gym as if he were there to supervise the entire time.

You place the bus driver request form on his desk with the rest of the paperwork, planning to give it to the office after the period was over.

Unable to join any of the gym activities because of your heart condition, you enter the court with folded arms and a frown on your face.

Scott and Allison are currently battling their way to the top.

You survey the crowd, trying to find familiar faces. Isaac was nowhere to be seen, and after what Scott had told you about Alpha Derek’s gift to your shy friend… you wanted to make sure he was okay.

Near the black pad beneath the rock wall, you spot Andrew removing climbing gear from his waist. He looks up and gives you a dimpled smile. You wave in return, grateful for his friendliness.

Stiles takes one look at Andrew’s face and follows his eyeline to you. He’s deflated at first, seeing you mid wave, but then gives you his own red cheeked smile. You smile back, a laugh on the tip of your tongue.

Then Scott falls from the rock wall.

Coach topples to the falling pad with a chuckle, “McCall, I don’t know why, but your pain gives me a special kind of joy.” He continues to laugh as he calls two more people to the wall.

You stifle a laugh, thinking about what you could do to kill the time. Then you notice not just Stiles, but your classmate Erica in climbing gear.

“Oh, no,” you say, walking towards the crowd. “Absolutely not.”

Stiles was already near the top while Erica struggles to make it two feet off the ground.

“Coach!” you announce yourself, pushing through the crowd of students, “Coach, that’s not a good idea.”

The crazy haired man chuckles at something he said to Greenburg. “Ah, what was that Westbrook?”

You go on your tiptoes to whisper to him. “Erica shouldn’t be climbing the wall. She has a doctor’s note too.”

“What are you talking about?” he looks to the girl hyperventilating on the wall. “Eh, shit… I mean, Erica? You dizzy? Is it vertigo?”

Lydia scoffs in the crowd, “Vertigo’s a dysfunction of the vestibular system of the inner ear. She’s just freaking out.”

You urge Coach, “She has epilepsy. She’s not supposed to do anything that causes her unnecessary stress. It might cause a seizure.”

“Why doesn’t anybody tell me this stuff?” Coach sounds frantic.

You shake your head wondrously, catching Stiles’ eye and matching his smile.

“Erica, you’re fine,” Coach says, “Just kick off from the wall. There’s a mat to catch you. Come on.”

After a few seconds of thought, Erica decides to let go of the multicolored rocks, sliding down the rope and to the falling pad. Coach helps her down as she quickly tries to get out of her gear. Some students start snickering at her.

A flash of anger colors your vision and you step in to help her unbuckle the girdle and give her support to step out of it.

“See, you’re fine. You’re on the ground,” the Coach says unhelpfully. “You’re all right. Let’s go, shake it off. You’re fine.”

You’re on the verge of saying ‘shut up’ when Erica steps away from you and whispers, “Thank you.”

And within a second she’s pushing her way through the crowd of giggling students.

You glare at all of them with hands on your hips, “Just… awful.”

“Alright, let’s hit the showers,” Coach says awkwardly, “That’s enough for one day.”

“We still have ten minutes until the bell rings,” you say, the only one the Coach will actually listen to.

He considers that for a second, “Nah, I’m tired. That last kid gave me a liability scare.”

You give a breathy laugh, reminding yourself that you shouldn’t be surprised. As you walk towards the locker rooms, you hear Stiles try to stop you from behind.

“Hey, (Y/N) – oof…” He was still buckled into the climbing gear.

You turn around with an immediate laugh, “You know you’re supposed to get out of the gear before walking away, right?”

“Yeah, yeah – it’s hilarious.” He jumps comically as he tries to yank his baggy sweatpants from the straps. He flops onto the black mat, and you snort.

“Graceful as always, Stilinski.”

“Hey, I just wanted to ask you something,” he says, standing straight and walking with you towards the locker rooms. “I know you’re kind of – sort of – grounded.”

You shove his shoulder, “There’s nothing ‘sort of’ about it. I am definitely grounded. Crash landed. Beached. Stranded.”

Stiles has mirth in his eyes as he listens to your little jokes. It tickles him. It makes his heart pound. “But Scott and I were thinking of doing a double date.”

“Stiles…” you say lowly. “We haven’t even…”

“I know,” he says quickly, trying to stop your refusal before it starts. “But I was kind of hoping we could sneak you out tonight.”

“That’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard.”

He gapes at you, waving his hands like a lunatic, “Yeah, well… I never claimed to be a sane guy.”

“Uh huh.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I’m just… just a guy that’s really into you. A-And I would like to take you out on a date.”

You squint your eyes at his quickly reddening face. His cheeks were becoming all rosy and blotchy. It normally put butterflies in your stomach, completely endeared by him. But you’re skeptical.

“You’re trying to change my mind before we’ve even discussed it.”

“I think you should seriously consider the relationship thing,” he says, wringing his hands in such a cute way. He was so nervous. “And I want to state my case well before you make any final ruling.”

You’re at the locker rooms when you sigh, “You don’t even know what my reasonings are yet. Why I don’t want anything serious.”

“I know, I know,” he bites his lip. “But you don’t know what you’d be missing out on. What I have to offer. What I’d be willing to do for…” he looks afraid. His eyes are warm and sappy as he looks imploringly at you. “Please?”

“Isn’t it just giving us false hope? To pretend like that when we know how this conversation is probably gonna go?”

He swallows hard and you see his throat bob.

“Please?”

It’s hard to keep looking at his pleading face. You bite the inside of your cheek before taking a breath. “How do you propose sneaking me out? My parents were very clear about the garden trellis not being the most subtle option.”

It was like the breath of life swept through him. “Scott and I were thinking – what if there was a distraction and your parents weren’t in the house to hear you use the garden trellis.”

“I’m listening.”

“Scott will ask your parents about something that he might’ve left behind at the bonfire we had at your place the other day.”

Your fingertips suddenly feel tingly as you remember the way Stiles bandaged your nail picking and gave each one a kiss.

“And they’ll all go into the backyard?”

“Exactly,” Stiles says, “And I’ll wait out front and help you down.”

You walk into the locker rooms, completely aware that it was the boys locker room, but you needed to get that bus request from Coach’s office. “And what happens if they come check on me and realize I’m not there.”

“Put a fake body under your covers.”

“Ah, the old basketball with a wig on it,” you say sarcastically.

Stiles takes it seriously, “Yes! And when you climb up the trellis to go home, it won’t matter if your parents check the noise, because it’ll just be you in your room and nobody else.”

You give him a kind smile and a pat on the shoulder, “Sure, Stiles. There’s no way that could turn into me being grounded for three months instead of three weeks.” Without a reply you walk into the Coach’s office to find the request form.

You’re joined by Coach a minute later after he announces to the boys that any sighting of Isaac Lahey should be reported to the principal. A pang of guilt strikes you again as you think about him.

Paper in hand, you’re distracted as you stand in the office doorway. You can hear Stiles talking, clearly frustrated.

“What do you mean tonight’s not a good idea?”

“I don’t know. That thing that we saw last night, Isaac missing, Allison’s grandfather, (Y/N) being grounded. All this stuff happening with Derek just doesn’t feel right.”

You wonder what thing Scott saw last night. It was the full moon. Maybe it was something supernatural.

“No, you’re not backing out,” Stiles says angrily, “Do you want to know why? Because you and Allison are obviously having quite a good time together. And you know who else wants to have a good time? Stiles! Stiles wants to have a good time.”

You have to put a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughs. Stiles really wants this date to happen.

He’s waving his hands around again like that’ll help convince Scott of his urgency. “Many, many times. Several times in a row. In several different positions. Are you even listening to me?”

You can’t resist, even with a flush blooming in your cheeks and a squirming in your belly. “I don’t know if you can last even one time, Stiles.” You walk past them to deliver the request form to the office. “In my experience, a really good time wears you out.”

A grin goes from ear to ear on your face as you see the horror envelop Stiles’.

~~~

You spend lunch in the library, extra conscious of your damaged heart. The peace and quiet of the couches, surrounded by books, puts you at ease. Especially with your mind full to the brim with updates since your amnesia.

While you were up to date with all your homework and projects, you were sorely behind on Beacon Hills drama.

And Stiles. What were you going to do about Stiles?

He just confessed to wanting to have sex with you. At least that’s what you thought he was rambling on about. He had compared it to the good times Scott and Allison were having. But you were pretty sure those two had not yet had sex.

Maybe he just meant the kissing and touching that you know Scott and Allison’s makeouts have become. A shirt removed here and there.

You’re suddenly hot around the collar. The mental image of Stiles pulling you towards him in the jeep, lips roaming the skin beneath your ear. It was getting hard to breathe.

“Hey, (Y/N)!”

You jump in your spot on the couch, the library book falling from your hands. Allison plants herself beside you, brows scrunched.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I was just lost in thought,” you clear your throat.

Allison looks worried, “You’re flushed, (Y/N). Are you sure you’re not getting sick again?”

“Nope,” you laugh, waving her off, “Perfectly fine. It’s just a little warm in here. Why aren’t you at lunch?”

“Oh, Lydia was just telling me about how Jackson was yelling at her for something stupid.”

“That jackass,” you say, “I’ve never understood him.”

Allison shakes her head, settling in and placing her bookbag on the floor next to you two. “She was so upset about it.”

“I knew she’d grieve their relationship sooner or later.”

“It’s not just that,” Allison sinks into the couch. “He’s treating her like garbage. He couldn’t just break up with her – he has to berate her too?”

You suddenly remember Stiles telling you that Allison was now aware of the supernatural. “Do you think it has something to do with Jackson wanting the bite and Lydia got one?”

“I don’t know. Regardless it’s uncalled for – him being a jerk.”

“Agreed,” you sigh. “It’s nice to talk to you again.”

She looks at you with pursed lips, “I’m so glad you got your memory back, (Y/N). It would have been so awful to not be recognized by you forever.”

“It’s been a stressful time. So much has happened in the last few weeks.”

Allison nudges you with her elbow, “I hear you might be joining us tonight after all.”

You sigh out a smile, resting your head in your hand. “I told him it would be a bad idea.”

“Stiles?”

“Yep. But I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer.”

Allison is suddenly bewildered. “You do want to date him, right?” You give her a silent look and she buckles down, crossing her legs and leaning forward. “Oh, boy. Let me hear it.”

“I do want to date him. But I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“Meaning?”

You grimace, “I’m sick, Allison. I’m really sick.”

“And Stiles has proved many times that he’ll take care of you no matter how sick you are.”

Something is burning behind your eyes. “No, you don’t understand. There’s going to be a time when that won’t be enough.”

“Because?”

You swallow hard, “Because I’ll be dead.”

“(Y/N)…” she says like you’re making a joke.

You shake your head, keeping the tone serious, “I’m dying, Allison. With my heart the way it is… I’ll be dead by winter.”

She’s stunned silent. “What are you talking about? You just have irregular heartbeats, and sometimes it leads to you fainting.”

A tightness enters your chest, the burning in your eyes making them glassy. “Yes, you’re right. But all that fainting has led to heart damage. I have severe tachycardia, and that has weakened my heart.”

“How does that prove that you’ll… die?”

You clench your jaw, “I haven’t talk to anyone about this before, Allison. If I share with you… you have to promise not to tell a single soul. Not even Scott. Not even Lydia.”

She looks deadly serious. “I promise I won’t. You’re really starting to scare me, (Y/N).”

“I’m sorry,” you look at your shaking hands. “Last summer I had a really bad fainting episode. It led to my heart completely stopping. I wasn’t without oxygen as long as I was at the winter formal. But it still weakened my heart considerably. I had an ICD put in a few days later,” you point to the 3-inch incision scar on your chest.

Allison looks worried, eyes wide with fear. She nods at your scar, “And that helps your heart?”

“It detects if I’m having too irregular of heart rhythms. If it does, then it gives me a shock, kind of to reset my heart in hopes it’ll fix the problem before I pass out or my heart stops beating altogether.”

“That’s good,” Allison says, “Has it been helpful?”

You shrug, “For the most part. At that summer appointment, the doctor’s gave me 2-5 years before my heart would fail and I’d die. It scared me so much that I fought to live a normal life. I fought to go to high school and get a job like other normal teenagers. I wanted to live while I still had time.”

“That makes sense,” Allison says, her eyes growing red as you continue talking.

You feel that burning sensation bring on tears at your waterline. “And everything was going fine until I started getting involved with the supernatural. The number of times I’ve fainted or been in an ambulance or gotten seriously injured, is ridiculous. And each time has dealt more damage to my already weak heart.”

“So… have you been given a new life expectancy?”

“After I woke up without my memory, the doctor’s gave me a talk about my new circumstances. They said my heart had progressed into major heart failure. I have maybe seven months to live unless I get a new heart.”

“You mean…” Allison bites her lip, brows scrunched, “The only way to cure you is through a heart transplant?”

You sniffle, “My heart is so damaged, there’s no way to salvage it. We think the surgery I had to correct my CHD has led to a bunch of scar tissue build up, and that’s what gave me my tachycardia. It’s happened before – I did my research.”

“Are you on a transplant list?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, already defeated in your tone. “But it’s hard to get to the top of the list. I need to be the patient with the most dire need in the whole country to be at the top. And since I’m still capable of living my life outside of the hospital, I have to wait. And that’s not even considering that a donor heart needs to be the right size and blood type for me.”

Allison looks to be in shock, trying to be an active listener, but overwhelmed with the news. “God, (Y/N). I had no idea.”

“And that’s how I wanted it. I don’t want to be treated any differently. Just to be a normal teenager who gets to experience a school dance and crappy minimum wage and the drama of a regular friend group. That’s all I wanted.”

Allison wipes at her nose, a tear escaping her eye, “So you avoiding a relationship is because…”

“Because it’ll be hard enough to leave my parents and friends when I die. I don’t want to have to leave someone I may be in love with too.”

“So with Andrew… you were protecting him.”

You nod, “But now Stiles is… he’s trying really hard to work around it.”

“Does he know any of this?”

“Not my life expectancy.” A tear falls from your eye, and you catch it with your hand.

Allison wipes at her eyes too, “What if he doesn’t care? What if he wants to be with you regardless?”

You look at her, tearstained. “The time my heart stopped over the summer – the time that led to me having a shortened life expectancy. I was with a guy. His name was Adam. We were getting serious.” You take a deep breath, a knot forming in your throat. It was hard to swallow. “We were doing couple things… kissing and whatnot. It was getting a little hot and heavy. Then my watch alarm went off and then I couldn’t breathe. And he panicked and didn’t try much to help me.”

Allison frowns, “Stiles wouldn’t do that.”

“After the hospital visit, Adam told me he couldn’t be with someone as volatile as me. He didn’t want to have to deal with my medical problems. They were too much work. He didn’t want to be responsible for giving me a heart attack just because he wanted to kiss me.”

“Stiles would never see this as too much work.”

“But…” you sniffle, “He would take it badly if he were the cause of my heart giving out.”

Allison rubbed the tears from her cheeks, “To die from a deep makeout.” She smiles painfully, “That’d be a way to go.”

You give a wet laugh, “It sucks.” You brush your hair away, “How do I tell him being in a relationship with me will end with me in heart failure at the hospital, in the middle of one of our makeouts, or simply because it decided to fail that day.” You lean against the back of the couch, “I couldn’t put that kind of pressure on him. Especially with his fear of hospitals and his mom having died in one.”

“And what if he stills wants all in?” Allison asks, “What if he wants to be with you despite all that?”

“I’d say he was being stupid.”

“Love makes you do stupid things.”

“He’s not in love with me.”

Allison gives you a direct look, “I’m sorry, you’ve been oblivious to his feelings for months now. He’s been into you since day one. By now he is absolutely in love with you. I wish you could see him from Scott and I’s perspective.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to give him this burden any more than I did weeks ago.”

“Why not give him that choice?”

“Because I know he’ll make the wrong one.”

“If he chooses to love you anyway, that’s the wrong choice?”

You groan, “This feels a little too deep for high school.”

Allison smiles but still looks grievous. “You know he’ll be upset if you keep this from him. If you make the choice for him.”

You lick your lips, “It’s why I can’t decide if I want to go on the date tonight or not. Do I give in and just live with the risk? Or do I keep pushing him away to spare us the grief later on?”

“I think he’s grieving already,” Allison laughs, “This date is his last ditch effort to possibly change your mind.”

“Were you in on this whole thing?”

Allison shrugs, “I wanted a date, and Stiles wanted a way to show you what he’s capable of. So we suggested a double date.”

“What he’s capable of?”

“You know… show you he’s boyfriend material.”

You wipe away the rest of your tears. “I don’t know what to do, Allison.”

“Start with dating, but with limited kisses.”

“I’m pretty sure he has the most repressed sex drive I’ve every seen,” you giggle. “He’s going to want to be doing stuff all the time.”

“But I’m telling you,” Allison hits the couch cushion, “He loves you enough to be careful about it. He loves you not because he want to kiss you, but because of how you make him feel. Don’t knock it until you try it.”

You pull her into a hug, “Thank you for listening. I should’ve told at least someone about it a long time ago.”

“I’m honored to be your confidant,” she holds you tightly before pulling away. “Please tell me you’ll consider telling him? And give him the choice?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “We’ll see.”

~~~

You sit in the jeep with a long sleeve and jeans on. Your hair is down and styled beautifully. You just couldn’t help but get ready for the date.

And now you wait to see if Allison’s words ring true: A way to show you what he’s capable of – show you he’s boyfriend material.

He was driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift between you two. He’s bouncing more than usual, his fingers dancing against the wheel. You swear he has a permanent pink blush on his cheeks.

“Are you…”

“About that thing you heard in the locker rooms today – I really didn’t mean anything super gross by it. I was just meaning like hand holding and cuddling and maybe the occasional kiss on the cheek, nothing like how it probably sounded!” he takes a deep breath after spilling his guts.

You nearly snort with surprise, “Having a good time several times a day, in a row, in different positions meant hand holding?”

He splutters, “Yeah, yeah – like how you can hold hands like waffle style or pancake style, or while walking or while sitting down or while cuddling…”

“Or while making out.”

“I mean, um… yeah that could be a different variation of holding hands in different positions, sure.”

You smile, “What do you mean by waffle or pancake style?”

“Like the different ways you can hold someone’s hand,” he starts looking at you more than the road. “You’ve never heard of pancake style?”

You start to giggle, “Are we supposed to be holding a breakfast food between our hands or something?”

“No, you…” he licks his lips – his nervous tick when there’s a pause in conversation. “Can I see your hand? I’ll show you.”

The hand on the gearshift lifts and is outstretched to you. You take a second to appreciate how large his hand is, how long his fingers are.

You scoot to the middle seat and place your smaller hand against his palm. He wraps his fingers around your hand and says, “This is pancake style. Our hands are just on top of each other like stacked pancakes.”

“I see,” you smirk, feeling his hands twitch and shake, “And waffle style?”

“Waffle style you need to interlock your fingers like how a waffle has that laced pattern of squares.” He hesitates and waits for you to make the first move.

You gladly wiggle your fingers around until they’re interlocked with his. Sitting closer to him now, you’re able to rest your joined hands on your thigh. He squirms in his seat, oddly proud of the turn of events.

“I’ve always been more of a fan of the waffle style,” you say.

He sneaks a look at you, “Always?”

“I may or may not have already known what pancake and waffle style was,” you snicker.

He gasps dramatically, in a way that makes you laugh harder. “You deceived me?”

“Maybe.”

“You just wanted to hold my hand so badly, didn’t you? You couldn’t wait to find a way to get your hand in mine.”

“Right, and I look forward to doing it several times a day and in different positions.”

His hand flexes in yours, his throat suddenly bobbing. It has you loud with laughter.

Scott and Allison meet you at the ice rink on the school’s property. Stiles flaunts the key ring from his pocket before unlocking the door. Motion sensor lights flare on, illuminating the white ice and empty bleachers.

You smile nervously, one arm wrapped around your stomach and one hand in your mouth. You bite on a few of your fingers, “Ice skating?”

“Yeah!” Stiles says, presenting the room with his arms out, “Have you ever done it before?”

Scott and Allison fall into their own world, holding each other and venturing in to find a pair of skates.

You’re suddenly shy, looking up at Stiles with nerves. “Never been allowed to before. Anything that requires physical exertion is frowned upon in my house.”

Stiles smiles at you, walking closer to reach for your hand. He lightly pulls your fingers from your face, waffling his fingers between yours. “Yeah, but you’ve never had me there with you before.”

You take a deep breath and lean into him, holding his arm with your free hand, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Let’s grab our skates and I’ll show you how to put them on.”

Sitting on the bleachers, you remove your shoes to slide your feet into the borrowed ice skates. They’re a tight fit, ensuring you don’t roll an ankle should you fall. You sit up for a moment to blow into your hands.

Though in a long sleeve shirt, it definitely wasn’t designed to retain body heat. At least Stiles had a jacket on.

“You’re cold,” he says beside you, grabbing his backpack and opening the large pocket.

You smile, “Just a little. Who knew it’d have to be so cold to keep the ice from melting.”

“I knew,” Stiles says, pulling out a Beacon Hills lacrosse hoodie, “Which is why I brought this just in case.” He hands you the maroon colored hoodie and you’re filled with sudden warmth. It was making your cheeks burn.

While you struggle to fit yourself in his large hoodie, you realize that he’s no longer beside you. You poke your head out of the neck hole and find Stiles kneeling on the bench beneath you to tie your skates.

He pulls on the laces to ensure they’re good and tight. And you have a lovely view of him from above.

“Thank you,” you say, snuggling into his woodsy smelling hoodie.

“And I know the rules,” he says, standing up to offer a hand, “You can keep that hoodie as long as you want to.”

You take his hand and gingerly step off the bleachers with the blades of your skates. You notice Allison trying to keep Scott afloat on the rink.

“Gesh, I thought being a werewolf would help him out a bit,” you say sarcastically.

Stiles leads you to the rink door, “I wouldn’t put it past him to be pretending.”

“You better not do that,” you say shakily, “We’ll both be falling like dominoes.”

“I happen to be very semi-coordinated,” Stiles holds his head up as he steps onto the ice, “Enough to keep myself off the ground.”

You step onto the ice with him, gripping his hand tightly. Your other hand wavers in the air stupidly, “Woah, okay… that’s new.” You keep sliding forward across the ice, not moving a muscle, “How do I stop?”

“There are brakes on the front of your skates – like little ice picks. You dig them more into the ice to slow down and stop.” He grabs your free hand, facing each other now. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“You just wanted to hold my hands so badly, didn’t you?” you snicker, breath still shaky as you concentrate on maintaining your balance. “Had to think of some way I couldn’t refuse.”

He shrugs, loving the repeated joke, “Yes, that’s exactly it. You got me.”

That pulls a laugh out of you. So much so that you slip and fall into him. He lets go of your hands just in time to catch you, your own hands wrapping around his waist.

Your face is squashed against his collarbone, “Sorry.”

He feels his pulse quicken, “No problem. I’m not going anywhere. Fall as much as you want, I’ll catch you.”

“I’d prefer not taking the chance,” you smile, pushing against him to straighten yourself out.

Now you’re standing chest to chest with him, noses just inches apart. You’re struck by his beautiful eyes framed with his lovely thick lashes. His fair skin is blotchy with pink, and you can imagine yours is similar with how cold it is.

You catch his gaze flickering down to your open mouth, icy breath visible between you.

“Not so fast, lover boy,” you shove him away, then immediately regret it as your arms flail in the air to keep your balance.

Stiles is laughing as he follows you to keep you steady.

Behind you, Scott is struggling even more than you are. He’s already smacked into the ice more times than you can count.

Stiles is much more gentle with you, attaching himself to you to ensure you never fall onto the ice. You’re shaky and full of tense muscles as you balance, but Stiles is lanky and calm beside you.

A constant support.

He holds your hand and guides you around as you struggle to make turns, and you use your free arm to keep yourself from tipping over.

“I’m glad you decided to come tonight,” he says.

You turn to consider his averted gaze. “It definitely would have sucked third wheeling that dreamboat over there.”

Allison is egging Scott on as he attempts to skate a straight line without falling.

“It would have sucked thinking you were so against dating me.”

You turn, pink cheeked, to look at him. He was focused on the ice. “I’m not that against dating you.”

“Sure sounds like it,” Stiles smiles grimly, “Really shut me down the other morning.”

“You haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend.” You notice him slow your pace.

He sounds shy when he asks, “Would you say yes, though?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “We don’t have to talk about it now. We’re just trying to have a good time.”

“What kind of good time?” Stiles smiles, though you know he still feels crummy.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “I’m… I’m a little stressed about telling you my reasons why.”

“Even though you know I really really want to know?”

“I guess I’m not stressed about how you’ll take it… I’m more stressed about how I’ll feel.”

“What do you think you’ll feel?”

You ponder that for a second. “Guilty.”

“For?”

“For being unnecessary baggage.”

“Isn’t that for me to decide?” He squeezes your hand, “I could never see you as any kind of baggage.”

“You say that now,” you laugh sadly. “Let’s talk about something else, please? Let’s not turn a date into something sad.”

He sounds dejected when he asks, “What do you want to talk about?”

“Maybe about how Derek seems to be collecting new werewolves. Did you see Erica flaunting down the hallway today?”

“You missed her grand entrance into the lunchroom,” he scoffs, “She makes the prospect of becoming a werewolf in a hunter infested town seem sensational.”

You nudge him again, “It feels like a battle is brewing. Like the Argents against Derek’s pack.”

“Not to mention the mysterious deaths and Jackson on a mission to self-sabotage his high school career.”  

“I feel bad for him sometimes.”

“Because he wears his ass like a hat?”

You smile, “No, because he treats himself badly.” You give Stiles a soft look, “He’s not very kind to himself.”

Stiles shakes his head, “Maybe we should talk about something other than the supernatural.”

You nod, “All right. Are you excited for the lacrosse spring retreat?”

“Of course,” he grins, “Mostly because you planned it and will be coming with us, right?”

You pull on his arm, “That’s the plan. Friday to Monday – specifically planned to not be during the full moon.”

“I’m sure the growing population of full moon haters really appreciates that.”

“Naturally,” you snicker, “It’s the one good thing about being Coach’s TA. I get to be in charge of all the important stuff.”

“Pray tell, what will we be doing on this spring retreat?”

“We’ll be going to Castle Lake over by Mt. Shasta. It has a great campground with these cabins you can rent out. We’re getting this giant one for the whole team to sleep in. We’ll spend a day at the lake and a day going up the Heart Lake trail for lunch. We’ll be able to do whatever at the cabin in between activities.”

Stiles swings your interlocked hands. “I bet Coach has a bunch of lacrosse practice for us too.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

You feel a strange twinge in your stomach as Stiles rubs his thumb up and down the side of your hand. He guides you to the short wall of the rink and grabs your shoulder to ensure you feel secure.

“Your ears are turning pink,” he says quietly, “And your nose is all red.”

“Poor blood circulation,” you say shakily.

He smiles, reaching over to pull the maroon hood over your head. His hands engulf the sides of your head as he covers your ears. “Maybe that’s enough cold for one night.”

He continues to hold your head, his thumbs subconsciously rubbing your temples. And it’s your turn to look at his face. Look at his lips. Look at his eyes. It makes him start to smile in a smug way.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

The warmth in his honey eyes was making the butterflies take flight in your stomach. “Nothing, just… you’re kind of cute.”

He purses his lips, fighting back a big smile. “Stop it, you’ll make me blush.”

Something is settling over you. Something heavy. It was a similar feeling to what you had in the jeep the night of orange creamsicles and peach rings.

The way his hands fell from your ears to holding your cheeks. The way he notices something serious in your gaze and the smile falls from his face. The way the tips of his fingers urge the back of your neck to bend, your chin being forced up towards him.

And the way he takes a step forward until your chests are touching again. It makes your lips part with a sudden gasp.

His eyes dart to your open mouth. He’s suddenly breathless.

You lift your hands to hold his wrists. His pulse is strong and rapid.

He’s already tilting his head, blinking more than usual. He’s looking at you to see any pushback, then he looks at your chapped lips. His eyes search for any refusal as he gets closer to your mouth.

You’re perfectly still, letting him come to you.

And then he kisses you, mouth slotting over your bottom lip. He kisses you again, taking a deep breath through the nose and holding it. His hands hold your face in a more needy way, drawing you as close as possible.

Your eyebrows slant at the explosion of fizzing fireworks in your stomach – as if all those butterflies had a fuse that was ignited with his kiss. It was filling your chest with hot air, making you feel inflated with something warm and delicious.

You turn your head, deepening the kiss. Your hands trail down his arms and you feel goosebumps erupt.

“Uh-hum,” comes the cheeky voice of one Scott McCall.

You pull away from Stiles instantly, slipping on the ice and grappling for the wall. Stiles topples to his knees trying to use his hands to keep you steady.

“We were just thinking,” Allison giggles, “That maybe we should call it a night.”

“But maybe you two want to extend it just a little bit?” Scott smirks.

You grimace, looking to see the embarrassment flood Stiles’ cheeks.

“Well, we drove separately, didn’t we?” he says, just as cheekily.

~~~

The car ride home wasn’t nearly as light as before. There was a tension between you two. What kind of tension, you weren’t sure – but it was making you squirm uncomfortably.

It takes until you’re down your street for Stiles to try and say anything.

“(Y/N), I…”

“Don’t,” you reply, covering your mouth. “We can’t. We shouldn’t…”

Stiles looks hurt, turning in his seat to face you, “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Whatever you’re going to say is going to make me feel things. Make me feel like this could work.”

He leans over, “But it can work.”

You look over at him. His face is all desperation. And yours is all regret.

“I can’t keep leading you on like this.”

“God, (Y/N)…” he steeples his hands, pleading with you, “If you would just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. Then we can figure it out.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue. Your mouth opens like you’re going to say something. Stiles is leaning forward with wide eyes, urging you to continue.

“We can’t date. We can’t do anything serious,” you say. And as Stiles is about to retort, you continue. “Because I refuse to have you deal with another heartbreak when I die in a couple months.”

Whatever he thought you were going to say – it wasn’t that. He looks gob smacked.

“I won’t ask you to hold my hand while I’m stuck in the hospital with heart failure. I won’t ask you to be with me when I know I can’t offer a future.” You feel anger build within you, anger at the unfairness of it all. “And I won’t give us hope when I know it’ll be exhausting after a few weeks. You’ll be begging to be rid of me and my health problems.”

Stiles starts to shake his head, “No… No, I won’t.”

“You say that now,” you whisper.

He sets his jaw, blinking angrily now, “How long do you have?”

You swallow hard, “Maybe seven months.”

“And you’ve just been keeping this to yourself because…?”

“Because I just want to live a normal life for as long as I can,” you say exasperatedly. “My whole childhood has been bed rest, locked doors, and a long list of what I can’t do. If I’m dying anyway, then I might as well do all the things I wasn’t supposed to first.”

He juts his jaw to the side, “The night of the formal. When your heart stopped…”

“It put me into full on heart failure.”

“And the summer surgery that was supposed to help?”

You find it harder to swallow, “It can only do so much now.”

Stiles runs a hand over his shaved head, closing his eyes. He processes the information. The detective in him connecting the dots easily without you needing to speak. He finds explanations for all your odd behavior since meeting you.

“And what if I don’t care,” he says quietly.

You smile sadly, knowing that’s where this was heading. “I still care.”

“That’s dumb.”

“I told you I was a coward.” You shrug your shoulders, willing yourself not to cry. You were so sick of crying.

“But what if I’m willing to go all the way with you. All the way to the end. What if I decided a long time ago that I don’t care how sick you are, (Y/N). I still want you.”

You can’t look at him anymore. “It’d still be too dangerous, Stiles.” You pick at the fringe of the maroon hoodie you wear. “Being around you makes my heart beat like nothing else. Being near you, let alone kissing you, puts me on the brink of a heart attack.”

“God, I wish that was a good thing,” he says.

“It’s what led me to getting that summer surgery in the first place.”

From the corner of your eye you see him lower his head. “Adam from San Francisco.”

“Being with him… it made my heart stop. And my life expectancy dropped by a couple of years.” You run your hands harshly down your face. “And when he realized the toll being with me would take… he ran away.”

Stiles scoots closer to you, “I’m not like that, (Y/N). I wouldn’t run away.”

You finally turn to him, all sympathy. “You already blame yourself so much for my amnesia – even though you saved my life that night. Imagine how you would blame yourself if kissing me killed me.”

His jaw flexes, determination clear in his expression. He wasn’t going to let this go. “Then we’ll be careful.”

“Stiles…”

“No, we’ll keep track of your heart rate. We’ll stop before anything gets out of hand. And… and we can be happy with just…”

“Just hand holding and cuddling?”

He clenches his fists, looking at you imploringly. “We could make it work.”

“Until I’m gone.”

“Until you get a new heart.”

You shake your head wondrously, another sad smile on your face. “We don’t know that’ll happen.”

“I’ll make it happen.”

“Please tell me you’re not suggesting killing people off the transplant list,” you try to say, “Getting a Hulu series isn’t worth it.”

He doesn’t smile at your joke. “I would do anything to change your mind.”

“I know,” you say, almost in a whisper. “That’s why I didn’t tell you before.” Your hand is on the handle of the jeep door.

“Please, don’t,” he says, his will to not launch himself on you is hanging by a thread. He just wants to hold you and kiss you and tell you everything will be okay. He wants to convince you everything will work out.

You sigh, “I want us to still be friends. But I understand if that’s too painful.” You open the door and go out.

Stiles scrambles out of the driver’s side to run to you. “I’m not going to stop wanting you.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles.”

“What if keeping us apart is more painful than if we were together?” he throws his arms out in question. “What if there are more pros than cons?”

You start to walk towards your house, “I think we need to try being apart. Let’s just see if that’s possible.”

“Why are you being so fucking stubborn?!”

You don’t turn around, “It would be selfish of me to drag you into this.”

“Then be fucking selfish!”

You continue to walk the couple blocks to your house. A hurt aching in your chest as you hear Stiles yelling angrily behind you.

“I guess I don’t understand,” he says, “I don’t understand how loving someone is the wrong choice! Go ahead, run away. Be a coward.”

And you did.

~~~

Scott leans against the nurses station, updating you on all that’s happened. Derek getting a third werewolf named Boyd. The showdown on the ice rink that left Scott hurt and slow to heal. His boss Deaton revealing that the slow healing was because it was an Alpha wound. The Argents have a book of all the supernatural creatures they’ve found – the answer to what this strange lizard-like monster is possibly being in those pages.

“That’s what you saw on the full moon?”

Scott shivers, “Yeah, it was terrifying. I thought it was going to get Allison.”

“I can’t believe there are other things out there besides werewolves,” you say, writing down a few notes on a patient file.

“Oh, and another thing,” Scott mumbles, “Stiles might’ve gotten hit over the head with a car part.”

You drop your pen, “What?”

“Erica might have torn a part from his engine and knocked him out with it.” Scott winces, “He woke up in a dumpster.”

“What a bitch she turned out to be,” you say, finding your pen again. “Stiles didn’t say anything.”

Scott scratches at the back of his head, “Well, he’s not exactly saying much these days.”

“That’s rare.” You glance at your phone hidden beneath the staff computer. There are a few missed messages and calls from him.

“He’s angry,” Scott continues. “He’s been shafted a few times this week. He’s at the car shop right now trying to fix his jeep.” He eyes you a little apprehensively.

You feel his gaze and look at him flustered, “Did he tell you everything?”

“I am his best friend.” He swallows thickly, listening to you groan. “And for the record, I understand where you’re coming from. I felt the same way about Allison. I thought being a werewolf meant it was too dangerous to be with her.”

You start to click your pen subconsciously like the action soothed you.

“I thought my bloodlust would end up killing her. There was a time I was terrified that I had lost it and actually killed her.” He rubs at his eyes, “But as it turns out, we ended up loving each other. And it’s been so worth it.”

Your eyes follow a nurse escorting a patient back to their room. You look down the hall as you think. “Look,” you say quietly, “I don’t… I don’t know how to be brave about this. The last guy this happened with nearly let me die because he was freaking out so much. Then he ran off telling me how not worth it it was to be with me.”

Scott looks at you with empathy, “I don’t think Stiles would ever…”

“God, I know!” you bury your face in your hands. “You’re like the third person to tell me that.”

“Then there must be some truth to it,” he says with an awkward laugh.

You sigh, brushing your hair away. “It feels like everyone is divided, you know? You and Allison have to be secret, Derek is hiding a fugitive, Jackson is off his rocker, Lydia is still feigning confidence pretending nothing is wrong, and Stiles and I are fighting.”

“Not the best thing when there’s a new monster killing and hunters are gathering.”

“We need to do something about it. I’ll try to talk to Lydia.”

Scott nods, his phone starting to ring, “Maybe we can sort something out at the game tomorrow.”

You wince, already knowing you’ll probably ditch the game again.

“Hey, what’s up?” Scott says into the phone. “What, seriously? Are you okay? All right. Yeah, don’t worry – I’m on my way.” He pockets the phone and pulls out his keys.

“Is everything okay?”

Scott starts to back away towards the elevators, “Yeah, Stiles just called.”

“Oh, is his car not fixed yet?”

“No. And it just fell and killed someone,” he whisper shouts as he waits for the elevator. “That new monster paralyzed him and then killed the mechanic.”

Your mouth falls open, standing behind the nurses station, “Is there an ambulance there? Is he hurt?”

Scott shakes his head, the elevator door sliding open. “Yeah, he’s fine. He just needs a ride cause his car is now booked into evidence.”

You watch him leave, leaning into the counter. The spike in your heart rate has your watch turn on so you can see the bpm rise then fall.

This is ridiculous. You should be with him.

You look at your phone and hurriedly open your text messages. There are half a dozen from Stiles, at first apologizing for how he yelled and cursed at you. Then he asks if you’re doing all right.

You had ignored all of them.

But now you text, “Sorry about the jeep. I hope you’re all right.”

Hopefully that’s not interpreted into something that might make him upset. You didn’t want him angry. You just wanted what’s best for him.

But what if what’s best is that you’re together?

You shake your head and collapse back into your chair. What if Scott was right? He risked possibly killing Allison, even being killed by her hunter family. And he says it’s been all worth it. Could that be true?

“Hello there, (Y/N),” Melissa says as she walks past with an armful of charts. “Woah, you okay, kid? Are you feeling lightheaded?”

“No,” you say. “I’m just… just dealing with some friend drama.”

Melissa leans over the station counter, “Or some possible boyfriend drama?”

Your eyes squint, “What do you know?”

“Oh, just what your parents have told me. And the snippets I hear from Scott and Stiles.” She adorns a warm smile, “For the record I think it’s a great idea.” She then frowns to see how the words upset you. “But maybe you don’t?”

“I’m so sick and tired of being the subject of worry for so many people,” you grumble, “Why add a boyfriend to that list?”

Melissa slowly nods her head as she tries to understand where you’re coming from. “I see. Well, I won’t try to sway your opinion too much. Maybe you just need to sit with it for a while. But in my experience, choosing to love over fear is always the answer.”

“Profound,” you sigh. “Are you going to the big game tomorrow?”

“Probably, why?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. I think I’ll invite Lydia over for a girls night.”

Your phone dings with a new message from Stiles. You open it almost greedily to see what his reply is.

“Thanks. I’m fine. Mechanic isn’t though.”

You don’t feel any better.

~~~

Lydia lays on your bed, arms splayed out and red hair fanning over your pillows. “When will your parents be home?”

“In a couple hours,” you say, eating a cucumber from the pile you have prepared for face masks.

“And they’re trusting you to uphold the expectation that you’re grounded?”

You laugh, “They’re new at this, Lyds. They still think I could never break the rules for fear of a guilty conscience. I just don’t care anymore.”

“You’re such a rebel.”

“Thank you,” you say, taking a sip of your lemon water. “You ready for a face mask?”

Lydia sits up and crosses her legs, “So this thing with dork #2 is over?”

“Not exactly,” you take deep breath, ripping the package open on some sheet masks. “We’ve been taking a break.”

“I’ve noticed,” she takes a pink sheet from your fingers and begins to spread it onto her face. “You’re spending lunch in the library again.”

You put a purple sheet on your own face, spreading it so there are no wrinkles. “And you saw a guidance counselor this morning.”

“Hey, wait – you first. What do you mean not exactly.” She starts to sound funny as the sheet mask sits around her lips.

You bring the plate of cucumbers over to the bed. “I mean, we still have feelings for each other. But I’m pushing him away because I don’t want him to get hurt by me being sick.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You scoff, jumping onto the bed beside her. “I am allowed to be apprehensive about entering into a serious relationship with someone when my current prognosis is short and painful. A good guy like him doesn’t deserve that.”

“Neither do you,” Lydia says, laying back and placing two cucumber slices over her eyes. “Why not ride it out together?”

“Save each other the heartbreak?”

“Don’t be a dummy,” she says, smacking your arm. “There’s plenty of heartbreak happening by keeping you two apart.”

You lay beside her, grabbing some cucumber slices for yourself. “Okay, fine. Maybe I try to be more open to the idea of dating him. Then we’ll see where it goes.”

“Good,” Lydia sighs, “Now it’s my turn.”

You settle into the pillows, “Great. What’s been going on with you lately? Ever since the winter formal you’ve been a little…”

“Neurotic?”

“I was going to say distant.”

She hums. “Some weird things have been happening.”

“Tell me.” You know to always be a little more direct when talking to Lydia. It was her way of speech – direct and to the point.

She considers her next words carefully. “You might think I’m totally crazy.”

“I already thought that,” you smile. “I don’t think whatever you say will make that worse.” It’s quiet for a minute and you start to get a little concerned. “Lydia, what’s going on?”

You hear her take a deep breath. You hope the cucumbers and face mask put her at ease. She doesn’t have to be embarrassed by seeing you staring at her.

“I’ve been… seeing things.”

You pause, “What kinds of things?”

She sighs, “Oh, just the usual things. Purple flowers, black water, broken glass, people staring at me, and Peter Hale – the man who attacked and bit me on the lacrosse field – following me around everywhere and threatening to kill me.”

That was not what you were expecting. “How – How often do you see these things?”

“Maybe once every few days.”

“Okay,” you try to keep your voice level and civil. “What happens when you see these things?” You feel her readjust on top of the covers.

“I feel confused. Then afraid. More afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. Then Peter appears, usually trying to scare me more. Then I snap out of it. Like I’m waking up from a nightmare. And I realize that I was just hallucinating and everyone around me just witnessed me screaming and crying at the thin air.”

Your hands rest on your stomach, but your fingers are tapping to the uneven beating of your heart. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” she scoffs, “I confess to being a full blown lunatic and you just say interesting?”

“Maybe it’s some kind of PTSD from being attacked?”

She grumbles, “But you were attacked and aren’t having hallucinations.”

“Yeah, but I did have amnesia for like a week.”

“Touche.”

“I’m sorry, Lydia – that totally and completely sucks.”

She sighs, flinging her arms out, hitting your side. “You’re telling me. And my parents are making me go to the stupid guidance counselor like it’s supposed to help.”

“Maybe talking about it will help.”

“Not with some quack stranger.”

“How about this,” you say, “Every time you start seeing things, try to tell me or call me, okay? If I’m with you, then I’ll try to snap you out of it before it gets too scary.”

She laughs, “I can’t be with you all the time, (Y/N).”

“Yeah, but maybe if we told the others…”

“No! I don’t need the entire school thinking I’m a headcase.”

“They wouldn’t think that.”

“Yeah, and Stiles wouldn’t think you’re a burden.”

She’s got you there. “Fair enough.” You nudge her with your arm, “Maybe we both need to learn to be a little more open – to not let our intrusive thoughts take over.”

“My cucumbers are getting warm,” Lydia huffs.

You laugh, “Let’s make a pact. You will tell me when you see something you think might be a hallucination…”

“… and you will try to make up with Stiles and give him a chance?”

You swallow, “How hard could that be?”

~~~

It's been a while since I've written for this series, so if I forgot a tag along the way, please reach out and I'll make sure you're on the list below!

~~~

The office felt slower than usual, which could be seen as a reprieve, but it made the team restless. Most of them were catching up on paperwork, or at least taking their time with details. Reid had flown through a list of research papers and true crime novels by the time lunch rolled around.

“I thought we all had paperwork to do.” Prentiss called over, rubbing an ink smudge on her finger, “How come you’re reading crime fiction?”

Reid’s finger stopped running midway through a page in his book. “It’s not fiction, this is a true crime biography written by O.J. Simpson about if he hypothetically committed the murders of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”

Prentiss raised her eyebrows, tossing her pen onto her desk, “If I was found not guilty for a murder, I would try to put the whole thing behind me. Not write a book detailing what I would do if I actually did it.”

“You finished your paperwork?” Morgan asked, entering the bullpen with a yellow pad of paper. He tore off the top page and sat across from Reid. “I thought you were a speed reader, not a speed writer.”

“I have a lot of free time at home,” Reid said, looking down at his book again.

Morgan laughed, balling up the yellow piece of paper and tossing it at Reid’s head. “Pretty boy needs a pretty girl in his life.”

Reid swatted at where the paper ball bounced off his face. “Stop finding reasons to avoid your work.”

“Woah,” Morgan grinned, “Someone’s a little feisty today.”

“You would be too if someone kept interrupting you while you’re trying to read.”

“Hey, have you heard if that new recruit is coming in today?” Prentiss asked, laying back in her chair and massaging her writing hand.

Morgan shrugged, twisting around in his own chair, “Hotch said interviews ended over a week ago.”

“They’re being pretty secret about the whole thing,” Prentiss went on, “Makes you wonder who they are.”

“I heard Rossi had something to do with it,” Morgan said, “Persuaded Hotch to make the unpopular choice.”

Reid closed his book, unable to concentrate, “That would mean the new guy has a personal connection with Rossi.”

“New girl, it seems,” Morgan said, eyes moving to the office doors to find Hotch escorting a professionally dressed woman.

Reid looked over as well, noticing a few things immediately, profiler that he was. This new recruit held herself tall, speaking of her confidence entering the room. Although her eyes were open wide as if she were trying to see everything all at once. It gave her expression the look of being frightened.

But the hesitant smile on her face spoke of kindness.

She was a walking contradiction. Her handshake was firm, shoulders squared, voice steady and confident. But her breath was shallow, and her eyes gave the appearance of a deer stuck in the headlights.

The conclusion was that this new recruit was confident in her abilities and wanted to be there. But she felt like she had to prove herself, terrified that something would cause her to be kicked off the team.

“This is SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced, “And SSA Emily Prentiss.”

“Hello,” the new recruit said, shaking each hand.

“And Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch gestured towards him, “We’ve found you some competition.”

The girl looked at Reid with a wide smile and it struck him how pretty she was. He blinked dumbly a few times, face blank when he replied, “Competition?” His throat felt incredibly dry.

“This is SSA (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” Hotch continued, “I was just telling her how we had an early graduate already on our team.”

Reid cleared his throat to combat the dryness, “You graduated school early?”

She nodded slowly, “Highschool and college.” She was quiet – shy in stating her accomplishments.

Hotch continued for her, “Had her bachelor’s degree by eighteen.”

(Y/N) sucked in a breath, rushing out, “And my master’s degree by twenty-two.”

“Our genius beats you by a few years,” Morgan grins.

“The eidetic memory helps,” Prentiss scoffs.

(Y/N) smiled again, “It’d be nice to bounce ideas off another brainiac.” She regards Reid with a warmer expression.

He was suddenly overcome with a sense of familiarity, as if he had seen her face somewhere before. He ran her name through his mind, trying to remember if he had read it or just heard it before.

“Speechless, Reid?” Morgan asked, grinning like he knew something everyone else didn’t. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Everyone laughed as Reid tried to clear his mind. (Y/N) was looking at him with such fondness, he hoped it wasn’t pity for his strange and endearing behavior. He surprised himself by realizing he wanted her to like him. Like him a lot.

~~~

You leaned into the cushions of the jet seats, fingers running along your ribcage, at the little scar you knew was there. You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you could.

“Alright, so families are being targeted in their homes with variations of the anthrax bacteria,” Hotch said, leading the team in the next case. “What do we notice about these cases?”

“These don’t seem like full scale terrorist attacks that are usually associated with anthrax,” Morgan said, flipping through the files, “But these could just be test subjects before some biological warfare.”

“Being isolated to just families within their homes gives the appearance of a simple virus passing through,” Prentiss said, “Usually when one family member gets sick they assume everyone will eventually.”

Rossi sighed, “Which kept families from reporting to the hospital until it was too late.”

“It’s also interesting that the unsub is using different anthrax forms,” J.J. continued, looking at the case photos with disgust, “Maybe they’re testing the effectiveness of each.”

Reid had a few knuckles resting against his chin, “We’ve seen inhalation anthrax in previous attacks, which affects the lungs of the infected and presents as flu-like symptoms.”

“There’s also intestinal anthrax, which comes from ingesting the bacteria,” you say quickly, “As well as cutaneous anthrax, which only affects the skin.”

“But we all know that inhalation anthrax is the deadliest,” Hotch said, “It’s been reported as the most fatal.”

“So why is the unsub using these different forms?” Morgan asked.

You thumb through the victim photos, “Maybe the unsub isn’t testing anything. Maybe they just enjoy infecting the family and watching the chaos ensue.”

“What makes you say that?” Hotch asked.

You sigh, feeling the attention being placed on you. A few of your fingers search for the little scar against your ribcage, tracing the slightly raised skin beneath your shirt. “If the goal of infecting the victims is to kill them, then using cutaneous or intestinal anthrax isn’t optimal. As soon as a cutaneous rash or ulcer appears, then you treat it with topical antibiotics and survival is very likely. And the only way intestinal anthrax will kill is if it somehow enters the bloodstream.”

“They could be enjoying the panic of sick families,” Rossi muttered to himself.

“The unsub might be using those forms in addition to inhalation because they want to see ultimate suffering,” you continue.

Morgan leaned forward, “Start with inhalation to incapacitate the victims. Then infect them with the other forms later.”

Hotch nodded in agreement, “Good work, (Y/N). I don’t think we are afraid of a terrorist attack. This is an unsub that enjoys isolating and infecting whole families.”

You swallow hard, proud of yourself for having an idea that might be plausible. This only being your third case with the team meant still trying to find your place among them.

Morgan was relaxed across from you, watching you for a few seconds, “You okay?”

You snap your eyes to him, “Yeah, why?”

He shrugged, looking down to your hand, “You have a nervous tick.”

Your hand instantly left the little scar you often traced, “Don’t we all?” you try to smile, “This is a time sensitive case.”

“Most of them are,” Morgan said, observing you, “There’s something you especially don’t like about this one.”

“What gives you that impression?” you ask, monitoring your own actions to try not to give yourself away.

“I don’t know you all that well…” he said.

You shake your head quickly, “No, you don’t.”

“… but I’ve seen you in some high stress situations the last couple of weeks. And I’ve noticed when you’re a little shaken.”

You close the case file, staring down at it with some apprehension. “Another form of anthrax is injection.”

Morgan looked at you with confusion, “Like with a needle?”

“That’s enough,” Rossi said from a few seats away, “Isn’t there a rule about profiling each other?”

“Papa Rossi to the rescue,” Morgan said with a small smile. “I was just concerned, that’s all.”

You give him a little nod, “I get it.” You give Rossi a stern, knowing look and he waved away your glare.

“We should grab a drink sometime,” Morgan continued, flashing his eyes in Reid’s direction. “It’d be nice to get to know you more.”

You laugh, “The most exciting thing about me, Derek, is this job.”

“Still,” Morgan stretched, “Where you from?”

A little huff escaped your lips as the jet began its descent, “Arizona.”

“What part?”

“Flagstaff,” you say slowly, “Why does this sound like an interrogation?” You were smiling, almost encouraging Morgan’s teasing tone.

“Family? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

You shake your head, “Parents back home. And no.” You notice how Reid suddenly put down the book he was reading to give his undivided attention.

“Alright.”

A laugh escapes you, “That’s all you wanted to know?”

“For now, sweetheart,” he said, giving a wink to Reid when you looked away. “Prentiss and I can scope out the first victim’s house.”

Hotch nodded, watching the jet get closer to the ground, “Good. Rossi, you and J.J. can look at the second victim’s house. Reid and (Y/N) – you two can go to the hospital to get more information on the symptoms and treatment of the victims. I’ll set up base at the local police station.”

Morgan seemed pleased about something as he got ready for the landing. Reid gave a little wave to you but seemed embarrassed by the action as he looked away immediately.

~~~

You sit behind the wheel of the SUV, Reid in the passenger seat twiddling his thumbs in his lap. You could tell he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. If you had it your way, you’d prefer to keep your silence while he rambled on about whatever was on his mind.

That way you wouldn’t have to talk. The less you talk the less likely you’ll share something you would regret.

“I found out recently that there’s a stage theatre in Virginia that puts on Shakespeare plays,” you say quietly.

Reid turns to you with raised eyebrows, “The Blackfriars Playhouse?”

You nod, “I hear it’s the world’s only re-creation of Shakespeare’s indoor theatre.”

“Yes, it started out as a traveling troupe that performed in countries around the world. They were taken in by the International Shakespeare Globe Centre and featured in England. In 1999 they changed their name to Shenandoah Shakespeare and moved to Staunton, Virginia. It took two years for the Blackfriars Playhouse to be built, and since then they’ve rebranded as the American Shakespeare Center that educates aspiring actors and performs using Renaissance rehearsal practices to showcase Shakespeare’s greatest works on their Globe Theatre stage.”

You start to relax against the wheel, “I saw somewhere that they’re having a year long conference.”

Reid was getting all excited, sitting on the edge of his seat and smiling with his words, “They are! The ASC is partnering with Shakespeare’s Globe in London. You’re a fan of Shakespeare?”

You give a polite nod, “As long as it’s on the stage. Shakespeare was meant to be watched, not just read.”

“Exactly!” he was thrilled to find something in common with you. “What is your favorite play?”

“Probably Much Ado About Nothing.”

“A comedy,” Reid said, “It’s one of my favorites too. Did you know that Much Ado About Nothing is considered one of Shakespeare’s greatest comedies? Although a similar trope of a happy ending, united lovers, and a villain receiving justice is seen in both The Merchant of Venice and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Much Ado About Nothing also features more prose than just about any other Shakespearean play.”

You smile, confused, “Prose?”

“Prose is the written or spoken language in its ordinary form, meaning without the use of a metrical structure. It follows the natural flow of speech and differs from most traditional poetry. Much Ado About Nothing is about 75% prose and only 25% actual poetry verse. Verse is used to express more emotional statements, so that essentially proves how much of a comedy the play is because 75% of the material is used to express whimsical thoughts.”

You kept smiling, turning to enter the hospital parking lot. “I had no idea.”

It was quiet for a second before Reid cleared his throat, “I was rambling, wasn’t I?”

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I like it.”

Reid squirmed in his seat, warmth blooming in his chest, “I’m sorry, I should give you more of a chance to talk. Did you bring up the Blackfriars Playhouse because you wanted to see a show?”

You open the car door, “Maybe. Let’s get this over with.”

He scrambles out of the car, readjusting his side bag. “Okay.” You could tell he wanted to continue your conversation, but you brushed it off as you both enter the building to talk to the chief of the hospital.

You held back a shiver as you meet with staff in the urgent care ward. They told you of the severity of the anthrax murders, the horrific symptoms presented in the victims. They confirmed how quickly the bacteria affects a person and travels to everyone within a household.

“It would be easily transmitted between family members,” the doctor expressed.

“We believe the man we’re looking for is entering the home and tainting their food, infecting their air conditioning units, and injecting them in their sleep,” Reid says.

The doctor nods, “I can say the inhalation infection was there the longest, meaning it was the first form used. Cutaneous infection through injections hasn’t been present as long.”

“Meaning the unsub is entering the house a second time to infect them with a different form,” you say, “This guy likes to stick around and watch.” You trace the little scar against your ribcage, fingers lowering to another pinprick scar against your abdomen.

“Thank you for your time,” Reid said, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Of course,” the doctor said, “And before I forget, your unit chief wanted your team treated to prevent an anthrax infection.”

Reid nodded in understanding, but you start to seize, “How?”

A nurse leaves to grab some supplies as the doctor states calmly, “Antibiotics and the anthrax vaccine. We usually only recommend it for individuals that are at risk.”

“And that comes in a pill form?” you ask quickly. Reid looks at you suddenly from your tone of voice.

“The antibiotics do,” the doctor says, pulling out some paperwork, “But the vaccine comes in an injection.”

Pain enters your side. You know it’s most likely a phantom pain, but you can’t escape the feeling of terror bubbling in your diaphragm. It popped and sizzled into your lungs, bringing you back to the familiar sensation of your lungs being punctured.

You attempted to mask the reaction – hold back the sweat wetting your palms and creeping up your neck. You cooled your tone as you cleared your throat. You didn’t even want to see the vaccine.

Reid was being directed to sit down and roll up his sleeve, which he did while keeping his eyes trained on you. You didn’t want to see the confusion and worry in his face.

You run your fingers through your hair, holding back the shakiness of your hands, “I uh… I need to run to the bathroom real quick.”

You didn’t hear any response as you sped to the nearest bathroom. White noise was buzzing in your ears, dots of pain appearing across your front, like little beestings. You knew it was just a memory, and you clenched either side of the porcelain sink telling yourself that.

Of course you knew a spiral was going to happen. It was one of the main reasons Hotchner didn’t want to hire you in the first place. But you had hoped you’d be a few more cases in before it happened. 

You breathed through the terror, splashed your face with cold water, and flexed your fingers. You grounded yourself with your surroundings: Tiled floors, white walls, soap scum on the sink, faint bleach smell, water dripping down the drain.

Straightening out, you took a deep breath, no sharp stabbing pain – the fear trickling back into its containment in your diaphragm.

You straighten the hairs framing your face, wiping the speckle of water against your chin. Your phone started ringing.

“Hello?”

“Hi, gorgeous,” came a bright sing-song voice, “How’s my new bestie?”

A smile finally breaks the grimness of your face, “Garcia.”

“Yeah, hi – Hotch is asking that everyone meets back at the station. We just found a connection between the families. They’re both customers of the same plumbing company.”

“Which would give someone access to their drinking water and air conditioning.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think about infecting the water supply,” Garcia said, a smile clear in her voice, “I knew boy genius was going to have some competition with you.”

“Thanks, Garcia,” you say, sliding the phone back in your pocket. You exit the bathroom and find Reid waiting by the front doors. His face was placid, but his brow furrowed upon seeing you.

His throat bobbed before he spoke. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Hotch wants us back at the police station.” You walked right past him and out to the parking lot.

Reid had to jog to catch up to you, pointing back at the hospital, “Did you get the vaccine?”

“I’m fine,” you say, getting in the car, “The team made a connection between the victims.”

It was obvious that he didn’t believe you, but he was too intimidated by your evasion that he kept his mouth shut. The warmth that bloomed in his chest at sharing a car ride with you was still there. He wanted it to stay – he didn’t want to jeopardize the possible friendship growing between you.

Looking at you drive, more tense than he’s seen you before, he was struck again with how familiar you were. Whether your name or your face, he didn’t know but he could’ve sworn he’d heard of you before.

It had only been a few weeks, but he knew he already had it bad. He was becoming infatuated with you.

~~~

The team had dispersed again, taking part in investigating new suspects at the plumbing company. (Y/N) and Hotch were in the next room interrogating a lead while Reid updated the geographical profile in their office.

Rossi was confirming their suspicions that another family might be targeted in the next 24 hours.

Reid capped a marker and cleared his throat, “You knew (Y/N) before she joined the BAU.”

“Yeah,” Rossi said, immediately suspicious, “What of it?”

“It’s just…” Reid continued, sitting down at the table, “I feel like I know her from somewhere, but I can’t quite place it.”

“I thought you remembered everything.”

“I remember what I read, but I think her name is something I’ve heard before.”

Rossi put his files down, giving his full attention, “Why don’t you just ask her?”

“Because I have a feeling she’ll deflect.”

“So you’re trying to go behind her back?”

Reid sighed, “No, I just… she worried me a little at the hospital. I know something is wrong.”

That sparked some interest in Rossi. He leaned forward, “What happened?”

“She basically ran away when the doctor said we needed to get a shot. She says she got one, but I think she was lying.”

Rossi was quick to answer, “A lot of people don’t like getting shots.”

“No, it was the way she reacted,” he said quietly, “It was more than just a phobia. And I know she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Then there’s only one thing you can do.”

Reid looked up hopefully, “What?”

“Be a good friend and respect her wishes.”

“You’re not going to tell me how you know her, are you?” Reid said, disappointed.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Rossi shrugged, “But if she’s lying about getting the vaccine, then I might talk to her. We don’t want her contracting anthrax because of a fear.”

Reid twiddled his thumbs, giving his best puppy-dog stare, “Not even a hint?”

It pulled a chuckle out of Rossi, “You like this girl.”

“Did Morgan tell you that?”

“It’s not so hard to figure out,” the old man smiled, “I’ll give you some advice. (Y/N) is a driven and stubborn woman. She’s never liked being told what she can and can’t do. But that’s only what’s on the surface. (Y/N) is one of the kindest, quirkiest, most considerate people I know. You just need to get past the hard outer shell.”

Reid nodded to himself, “We talked about Shakespeare in the car today.”

“You did?” Rossi seemed surprised, “That was quick.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve already found a nerdy part of her. I thought she’d guard that for a while longer.” He was amused by the giddy happiness that entered Reid’s face, “There might be hope for you yet, kid.”

It wasn’t much later that Hotch figured out that you hadn’t taken any preventative measures against the anthrax. He ordered you back to the hospital or else stay off the case until they caught the unsub. He wasn’t going to take any chances when working with such a serious bacteria.

You, being the stubborn newbie that you are, bit your tongue and quieted the fear beginning to brew below your ribcage.

Taking advantage of the situation, Reid stepped up to escort you to the hospital. It was a quiet and tense ride to the urgent care, Reid attempting to find a way to express his concern.

“Not a fan of needles?” he asked with a lighter inflection.

You hold back a scoff, “Not really.” Your fingers are knotted and pressed tightly against your stomach.

Reid tried to keep his eyes on the road, “I don’t like them much either.”

“It’s silly, really,” you say, closing your eyes.

“No, it’s not. Everyone is afraid of something,” he rushed out, stopping you from diminishing your feelings. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

You swallow hard, “Really?”

“Some would say that’s ridiculous now that we’re adults. But you never know what’s lurking in the dark.”

It was silent for another minute before you took a shaky breath, “I have a pretty severe phobia.”

“Of what?”

You lick your lips, “Any kind of needle. Sewing needles, knitting needles, safety pins, thumbtacks, you name it. I can’t… they remind me…” You clamp your mouth shut.

Reid was hesitant but wanted to encourage you to continue, “You know you’re part of a team now. Whatever we share with each other is in confidence. We all have your back.”

I have your back, he wanted to say, You can trust me.

You tighten your hands, “They remind me of a dark place. I don’t like going there.”

Reid flexed his fingers against the steering wheel. He blinked hard before muttering, “I’ll be there with you.”

You both entered the hospital with Reid having a hand hovering against your back. He didn’t touch you, but he wanted to. He walked beside you, guiding you to sit in a chair. As soon as the nurse appeared with a sterile metal tray, you turned your head away.

Reid sat beside you, addressing the nurse.

“Afraid of needles?” she asked.

You didn’t respond so Reid said, “A little.”

“Don’t worry, honey, this will be over in a second. Just a little pinch.” She noticed how shallow your breathing had gotten, “Remember to breathe, sweetie.”

You nod, jumping when the cold wet of the alcohol wipe touched your exposed shoulder. Reid watched you tense up, gripping the armrests of the chair. He wasn’t sure what was overstepping boundaries, but he felt compelled by the concern eating him up to grab your hand.

His fingers wrapped around yours and he was relieved to find you clutching back at him. As soon as the injection touched your arm, a gasp escaped you. You were shaking in his hand and your face was screwed up against the sharp pain.

Reid never took his eyes off your face, worried at how severe your reaction was. He realized you were holding your breath as the nurse put a band-aid on your arm.

“Breathe, (Y/N),” he said quietly, “Remember to breathe.”

You inhale sharply, “Is it over?”

“Yes,” Reid said in his same calming tone, “And you’re okay. We’re all done.”

You open your eyes, finding Reid looking at you with a deep level of concern. He hadn’t let go of your hand yet and you found that grounding yourself was easier this time. No white noise filled your ears, no phantom pinpricks of pain stabbed your abdomen.

You focused on your surroundings: Reid’s warm hand holding yours, the smell of sugared coffee and mahogany on his collar, the slow breaths filling his chest, and the heat of him nearly pressed against your arm.

“Thank you,” you say softly, “That wasn’t so bad with you here.”

His heart soared out of his chest, a smile wide on his face, “Anytime.”

~~~

A month later you were settling into the team more and more. You had found little blossoms of friendship among your coworkers, except for Rossi who was determined to remain your second father.

You felt more at ease the longer time passed without suspicion about your hiring process. Though that could mean a higher chance of a slip up.

“You. Up. Drinks. Now,” Morgan had pointed a finger at you and gestured to the elevators where some of the team stood.

“Derek,” you sighed, leaning in your chair, “You know the club isn’t my kind of scene.”

He shook his head, smiling, “Not today, angel face. You’ve had an excuse the last four weekends and I know for a fact you were planning on spending your evening alone, reading and drinking your tea.”

You pursed your lips, eyes flickering to where Reid was talking to Prentiss. You had told him earlier that day of your excitement to have a free weekend to read.

“Is nothing sacred anymore?”

“Come on, pretty boy will only go if you go,” Morgan said.

And now you sat at a dimly lit table, waiting for your drink as Morgan was having a dance off with Prentiss out on the floor. She shoved him over and right into the nearest beautiful woman. Derek raised his eyebrows and sent Emily a little ‘thank you’ as he began dancing sensually with his new partner.

Emily rolled her eyes and went to find her own dance partner.

Over at the bar was J.J. and Garcia, no doubt discussing the latest Quantico gossip. Garcia, with a thin black straw between her teeth, slack jawed at the whisperings of J.J.’s news. It made you smile knowing that the analyst would corner you later to tell you what she had learned.

The low lights included a mixture of purple and blue, setting a cool tone around the people sitting at tables. You run your fingers along the table surface, noticing Reid making his way to you with two drinks.

“You look bored,” he said with a close lipped smile.

You accept the drink gratefully, “I told Derek I’m not a fan of drinks.”

“Then why did you agree to come?”

Because I knew you wouldn’t have a good time if I didn’t. You swallow, stirring your drink around with the straw, “My parents tell me I should go out every once in a while or I’ll never make any friends.”

He huffed a laugh, “You talk to your parents a lot?”

“I would every day if I let them have their way.”

“Are you close?”

You shrug your shoulders, “They worry about me.”

“Are you an only child?”

“Don’t start the profiling questions,” you say with a smirk, “But yes, I am an only child.”

Reid nods, his face heating up at being chastised. “There are a lot of studies on the effects of only children.”

“You going to say I’m a stereotypical only child that experiences overprotectiveness and spoiling from my two loving parents?”

“No,” Reid said calmly, “There are actually many studies that disprove that stereotype. Professor Toni Falbo from the University of Texas found that ‘across all developmental outcomes, only children were indistinguishable from firstborns and people from small families.’ And clinical psychologist Linda Blair wrote about how ‘parents can focus all their time and energy on an only child,’ which means they get valuable relationship time where ‘they just feel valued’, not just a sense of being overprotected. I think your parents might worry about you because of a different reason.”

You try to contain your smile, “No, they’re definitely just overprotective of me.”

“But then something must’ve happened to have them be overprotective of you. It couldn’t just be because you’re an only child.”

You take a sip of your drink, slowly nodding your head. Be careful. Don’t slip up. “A little bit of both.” You cleared your throat, “You know what show I just started?”

Reid took note of the change of subject, “What?”

“Doctor Who.”

His face split open into the biggest smile, “Really? The series from 1963 or the revamped series from 2005?”

“I just started the Tenth Doctor,” you say, matching his smile, “I think I like David Tennant more.”

Reid looked about ready to burst with the amount of information he knew about the topic. He started stuttering over his words, twiddling his fingers in the air as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“My favorite is by far the Fourth Doctor played by Tom Baker. He’s the longest running Doctor on the series, having starred in seven seasons between 1974 and 1981. He is the most recognizable Doctor internationally with his famous multicolored scarf. I think his most popular companions are K-9 and…”

“… Sarah Jane!” you say enthusiastically, “Yeah, they were both in the last season with the Tenth Doctor.”

“Yes, yes!” he said happily, “That’s one of the greatest things about Doctor Who – they bring back timeless characters and stories through the years. It’s why you have to watch the originals!”

You laugh at his endearing blabber, “Go back to black and white television?”

“It’s classic,” he retorts, “Sure the BBC didn’t give them much of a budget at first, but the black and white helps hide the poor quality of the sets and costumes. And television back then wasn’t designed to be binged like today, so many of the stories aren’t cohesive, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s history in the making – you can see the progress of a single character and their life over almost fifty years! It’s fascinating.”

You nod slowly, tickled by Reid’s eagerness, “Alright. Maybe I’ll try to watch them.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to talk to you about the Master and the evolution of the Daleks and the effects of the Time War.”

Another laugh escapes you as you continue to stir your drink with the straw, staring at the ice cubes tink against the glass.

It got quiet as Reid stewed in the slight embarrassment that itched his stomach as his excitement wore off. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I rambled.”

“I told you I like it,” you say, finally looking at him in that dimly lit bar, “I like seeing you get all excited about stuff. It makes me want to get excited about it too.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t do things just because I like them.”

“Why not?” you say firmly, “What if I want us to share something?”

He was caught off guard by that, blinking hard a few times. “You want us to share something?”

You take another sip of your drink. It was getting watered down now by the melting ice. “I told you I need more friends,” you smile at him, “My parents are worried, remember?”

Reid’s throat bobbed, thoughts of spending long nights cuddled on the couch and watching old shows on a black and white television disappear in an instant. His hopes of taking her on a date to the Blackfriars Playhouse to see her favorite play were being diminished, the tickets of said show burning in his back pocket. The want to brew her a cup of tea and share an evening reading books together, maybe even holding hands across their reading chairs, ached in his chest.

“Friends,” he said quietly, “Right.”

~~~

Not long after the bar trip, you invited Reid over to your apartment for one of your reading sessions.

When you opened the door to find him with nearly ten books piled in his arms, you laughed. “You’re gonna out read me 10 to 1.”

He gave a close lipped smile, fighting back the embarrassment of his quirks. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

You sat on one end of the couch, thumbing the edge of your fiction book. “I put a kettle on,” you said gesturing to the stove, “If you want to have a cup of tea with me.”

Reid took off his satchel, setting his books on a side table, “I’m more of a coffee guy.”

“Yeah,” you say smiling, “More like a sugar guy with some coffee beans on the side.”

You’re suddenly struck with another memory. Just like how you remember that your first day at the BAU smelled like fall leaves.

You remember that the first time you were able to easily ground yourself from PTSD, it smelled like sugared coffee.

As the kettle started screaming with steam, you went to stand until Reid started waving you down, “No, no – you’re already sitting. I’ll get the tea.”

And as he passed you by, it smelled like sugared coffee again, “But you don’t even want any.”

He didn’t respond, smiling to himself as he filled a waiting teacup with boiling water. A little cannister of teabags sat beside the stove. “Did you know that tea is the second most popular drink in the world? The first being water.”

“So my preferred drink is more popular than yours?” you say teasingly as he came around the couch with the steaming cup.

“That’s because the Asia Pacific is a dominant region for tea, and that accounts for over 4 billion people, which is around 60% of the world’s population. Not to mention that around 68% of people in the United Kingdom drink at least one tea per day, and that’s about 61 million people. That puts the tea industry slightly above the coffee.” He handed you the teacup, his fingertips burning where they brushed up against yours, and not because the drink was hot.

“You could just say tea is better than coffee, it’s okay,” you say, blowing before taking a sip.

Reid held back a smile, sitting on the other side of the couch, “Maybe not better… but more popular.”

You bickered with smiles on your faces for a couple more minutes before cracking open your books. You’re giggling as you toss your bookmark at him, “Just shut up and read your books.”

He laughed at you, trying to get comfortable on his side, crossing his spindly legs.

The pair of you sat in a comfortable silence as the sun dipped lower behind the blinds. Reid had blown throw two psychology textbooks and another true crime book written by a favorite author. You had gotten through maybe seventy pages of your adult fantasy novel.

Reid thought he would’ve gotten through six books by then, but he kept getting distracted by you. The thought of reaching over and holding your hand as you read was overwhelming. He wanted to sit closer, rub shoulders with you, peer over and read the same page as you, wait for you to finish before he turned the page for you.

He wanted to catch your eyes drooping with sleep and then offer to read aloud to you as you drift off against him. He wanted to drape a blanket around you both and help you sip tea so you wouldn’t have to take your arms out from under the warmth. He wanted to hear you read your favorite lines to him. He wanted to see you shift into a more comfortable reading position, grumbling about aching wrists. He wanted to read your book just so he could talk to you about it.

He wanted you.

It was getting painful how much he wanted you.

The bookmark he was using was the two tickets to the Blackfriars Playhouse. They blared at him like a beacon sitting on the side table.

But then something remarkable happened. From your scrunched up position on the opposite side of the couch, you crept your feet across the seat cushions until they reached Reid. You then tucked your cold toes under his thigh.

He abruptly looked at you with raised eyebrows.

You shrugged your shoulders, attempting to look innocent. “My feet are cold.”

He fought a huge smile, “And you don’t have a blanket?”

“Why would I need a blanket when you’re here?” You said it so casually there was no way you noticed how that made Reid’s heart leap.

“Fair enough,” he responded. He cleared his throat, flickering his eyes between you and his own book. “Hey, (Y/N)?”

You look up at him over the top of your book, “Yeah, Spence?”

Spence. He started smiling despite the nerves, “I couldn’t help but notice that the Blackfriars Playhouse is showing Much Ado About Nothing, and um…” he swallowed hard, unable to look at you. “… I just so happen to have two tickets to see it next Saturday.”

Your feet wiggled under his leg, and he squirmed, tickled. “Is that so?”

“Would you want to go with me… maybe?”

You could barely contain the excitement starting to course through your veins, “Are you kidding? Spence! I would love to go.” Your book fell from your fingers, “Oh my god, I’m so excited.”

The pride that swelled Reid’s chest could’ve made him float to the moon.

~~~

You could’ve blamed it on the case. On the method of killing. On the type of victim. But it was the fact that you didn’t have a handle on your emotions.

Girls around your age were being taken and tortured by having nails hammered into them. Sharp, pointed nails – stabbed into them. It was too similar.

You counted your breaths and stared at your desk. Everyone exited the bullpen before you, packing briefcases and emergency bags for the incoming jet flight to Missouri. You staggered on your way out, nearly collapsing into your desk chair.

You considered running to the bathroom like you usually did, dousing yourself in cold water and snapping out of it. Instead you closed your eyes and traced the little scars you could find against your ribcage and abdomen.

The smell of coffee wafted over you.

“Hey,” came a small voice, kneeling beside you. “Is it the nails?”

You try to swallow, but it’s thick and sticks to the back of your throat. You just subtly nod instead, slowly opening your eyes.

Reid is there, leaning against your desk and itching to touch you – to comfort you.

“(Y/N),” he said cautiously, “Is this more than a phobia?”

You attempt a deep breath, but it’s shallow in your chest, “I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe we should…”

“Reid,” you say more sternly, “I’m going to be fine. I’m not going to let this hold me back.” You brush him off, standing and straightening your blazer. “I’m gonna go pack.”

Reid let you pass but kept his gaze on you as you left the offices. It must’ve been too full of the longing and worry he felt for you because Morgan and Prentiss were quick to comment on it.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Morgan said, setting his duffel bag down, “What’s got your attention?”

Prentiss gave a breathy laugh, zipping up her own bag, “Only the object of all his desires.”

“Give it a rest,” he responded, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re not helping.”

“Helping what?” Morgan folded his arms, “You getting out of the friend zone?”

“If she could see the way you just looked at her,” Prentiss sucked in a breath of air that sounded like a hiss, “Maybe she’d see how in love you are.”

“Those big old puppy-dog eyes,” Morgan smiled, “You’re irresistible.”

Reid grumbled, “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, the fact you’re wasting time pining when you could be getting some weekend sugar,” Morgan laughed.

“No,” Reid looked away, “There’s something familiar about (Y/N) and I don’t know what it is. Rossi refuses to say anything because he’s protecting her, but I know they have a past. That has to mean she’s been involved in Rossi’s career somehow, whether that’s from a case, or one of his lectures, or as one of his interns. But the fact he doesn’t speak about it means that it’s personal.”

“Okay,” Morgan said, the smile leaving his face, “What do you want to do?”

The corner of Reid’s lip twitched – it usually happened when he was thinking about something difficult, “I don’t know. I guess I hoped she would tell me eventually.”

“But now you’re impatient?” Prentiss asked, brow scrunched, “You want Garcia to look (Y/N) up?”

“No!” Reid said quickly, “I just… I want to help her, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I thought she just got a little squeamish around needles,” Morgan said, “She needs a second, but then she’s good.”

Reid shoved his hands in his pockets, “I think it’s a trauma response.”

“Well, don’t phobias come from past incidents or traumas?” Prentiss asked, “Couldn’t she have had a bad experience at the doctors as a child getting her flu shot?”

They clearly weren’t as concerned as he was, and Reid sat at his desk, knuckles covering his mouth as he thought.

Morgan shared a look with Prentiss before saying, “Look kid, we worry about (Y/N) too. We’re here for her if she needs it. But we’re not going to go snooping around in her personal business that she would rather keep private.”

“She’s not going to ask for help,” Reid said to himself.

Prentiss pursed her lips, “Then we’ll be here to catch her when she falls.” She gestured to Morgan and the pair of them took their bags to meet by the SUVs, all the while muttering to themselves.

Reid drummed his knuckles against his lips, staring at his computer screen and debating. He could do a simple google search himself, no need to bother Rossi or Garcia with it. With Rossi being involved in some way, there might be a news article somewhere that mentions you.

Hesitantly, looking around for any prying eyes, Reid logged onto his computer and typed in the search engine. He searched for your name. Your name plus FBI. Your name plus David Rossi.

And a string of articles popped up. Newspapers from Arizona, Nevada, and Utah.

Young girls kidnapped, held, tortured, and murdered in the desert. The murderer being coined ‘The Pincushion Killer’ based on his methods. Each victim was repeatedly stabbed with varying sized needles. Starting with acupuncture needles and growing to icepicks. He purposely stabbed his victims in nonthreatening spots of the body, avoiding large blood vessels and major organs. The purpose to draw out their suffering.

Until the day of the murder. He would then puncture an organ of his choice: lungs, stomach, liver, sometimes an artery.

He was never caught. But all nine of his victims were identified. Eight killed. And the ninth survived.

And pasted on the front of every news article said: Pincushion Killer – Victim #9 Survives; Killer Disappears.

Below was a picture of (Y/N).

The ninth victim.

~~~