#gublernation

The hotel room is dim, only the bedside lamp glowing in soft gold. Rain taps lightly at the window, steady as a lullaby, but neither of you are listening.

Spencer is curled against your side, his face buried halfway into your neck, hair warm and tickling where it brushes your jaw. His long body folds around yours like he’s afraid you might slip away if he isn’t touching enough of you. One arm is tucked beneath your shirt, palm splayed against the soft skin of your lower back, fingertips flexing every few moments like he’s memorizing the curve of your spine. The other arm is curled tightly across your stomach, hand fisted in the fabric of your sleep shirt.

He’s not talking much tonight. Just little hums when you shift. Just breath against your collarbone.

You’d come back from a case that bled into too many days, everyone drained and quiet. But Spencer? He hadn’t let go of your hand since the jet landed. And when you finally got the keycard to the hotel room the Bureau had put you both in, just one bed because Garcia had “accidentally” booked it that way, he had tugged you close with a desperation that made your heart ache.

Now his legs are tangled with yours. You can feel the warmth of him under your thigh, his skin flush against yours. At some point his hoodie had been shed, and you’d slipped into an oversized tee. But now his shirt is rucked up from your wandering hands and yours is pushed to your ribs, his chilly fingertips tucked beneath the hem, holding skin like it grounds him.

You shift just a little, adjusting to get more of him on you, and he makes a soft, sleepy noise, somewhere between a sigh and a whine.

“Too far,” he mumbles against your chest. His voice is thick with exhaustion, muffled and rough. “Don’t go.”

“I’m right here,” you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair.

His hand under your shirt moves slowly, sliding up your spine. Palm warm, fingers gentle. He presses his whole body closer. His knee slides between your thighs, anchoring him even more tightly to you. There’s barely any space left, bare skin on bare skin, cotton bunched around your waists, but it’s still not close enough for him.

You feel him exhale, and his breath is shaky. Like he’s too tired to hide how badly he needs this.

“I can’t get close enough.” he whispers, almost embarrassed.

Your heart tugs.

You pull him in without a word, both arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, dragging him fully onto you until his chest presses flush to yours and your noses brush. His breath catches at the closeness. Then he melts.

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt and stay there. Not moving. Not asking for more. Just needing to be there, under the fabric, on your skin.

He blinks slowly, lashes fluttering. “You’re warm,” he murmurs.

“So are you.”

He noses into your jaw, lips brushing there like a sigh. “M’tired,” he breathes. “Just… wanna stay here.”

“You don’t have to move,” you whisper. “Ever.”

That earns the softest smile, lazy and crooked. You press a kiss to his temple and feel him let go again. Another inch of tension disappears from his body.

Your hand slips under his shirt this time, resting over his ribs, and the moment you touch him, he shudders softly like he’s never been held like this before. He shifts again, tucking his arms around you so tight he’s practically under you now, your limbs so tangled there’s no telling where you end and he begins.

Minutes pass like that. Maybe longer.

Spencer starts drifting, body heavy against yours. Every now and then he whispers something, half sentences, nonsense phrases, things like “Don’t let go” and “Feels like home” and “Yours” and you don’t say much. You just hold him tighter. Letting him burrow deeper under your shirt, under your skin, under everything.

“I keep thinking…” he whispers, lips brushing your collar. “…you’re gonna wake up and decide I’m too much.”

You tighten your hold immediately, fingers threading through the curls at the base of his neck.

“You’re not too much,” you say. “You’re just… mine.”

He lets out a slow, shaky breath and buries his face in your chest again. And for the first time that night, you feel him let go completely.

You shift again, tucking his legs between yours, pulling the covers tighter over you both. He’s hot against you now, the weight of his body sinking into yours like gravity, like he belongs right here.

“I love you,” he mumbles against your skin, barely audible. Like he didn’t mean to say it, but sleep tugged it out.

You smile against his hair.

“I know,” you whisper, voice gentle. “I love you too.”

And he’s already asleep before you finish saying it.

His body doesn’t move. His arms don’t slacken. Even in sleep, Spencer clings to you like he’s afraid the world might take you away in the night.

But it won’t.

Not when you’re here, wrapped around each other, nowhere else to be.

Not when his hands are under your shirt, and yours are under his, and the only thing either of you wants is more of this closeness.

And even when sleep takes you, finally, you stay tangled. Breathing in sync. Holding on like the world stopped spinning, and this warm, skin-on-skin stillness is the only place it left behind.

tag = @summerobertsvariant