#prof!reader

"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."

"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.

"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.

Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.

That might be acceptable, but the context is new.

"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.

"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."

"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."

"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.

Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.

You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.

But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.

So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.

On kissing.

And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.

Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.

Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.

"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.

He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."

You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."

"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."

You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."

"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"

"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"

"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"

"No."

"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."

You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."

"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.

"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.

Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.

Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.

It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.

His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.

It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.

A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.

You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.

All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.

Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.

He kisses you again, and again, and again.

It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.

Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.

You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.

You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.

His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.

You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.

It isn't meant to get this far.

The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.

You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.

Fuck.

Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.

"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."

His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.

He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.

Addendum re: Kissing.

What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?

"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.

Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.

"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."

"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."

"Spencer."

The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."

"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."

"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"

"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.

You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.

You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.

He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.

No making out in public or private.

"We already had that in the original." You point out.

"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.

Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.

"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."

You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.

You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."

Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."

"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.

It must've been the meds kicking in, lulled you to a nap, blunted your senses to this syrupy haze. The pain in your lower belly has dulled to a tolerable, constant ache rather than something sharp and crippling. When you sit up, the crocheted blanket—handmade and gifted by Penelope a few years ago—slips from your shoulders and pools over your waist.

Meanwhile, pandemonium seems to happening in your kitchen.

You can hear your daughter giggling wildly. Spencer's groans are muffled, and a suffocating, smoky scent finally wafts to the living room and reaches you from your position on the couch.

You squint at the clock on the far end of the room and huff when it stays blurry. And then, footsteps, light and quick, followed by a delighted gasp.

"Mommy wakey!" she announces loudly—probably for her father's sake.

Beatrice.

Your daughter hurls herself on your lap before you even see her, but your arms band around her tiny form in reflex. A soft oof leaves your lips from the impact. Somehow, some part of you still expects her to weigh the same as she did when she was still a crawling baby. Like the way she's growing hasn't registered completely, or perhaps it's the speed at which she's growing that's throwing you off.

She used to be so tiny.

Now, you're convinced she would have knocked your glasses off, had you been wearing them.

"Hi, honeybee," you press your nose into her halo of rumbled curls, the exact same texture as Spencer's. She smells like smoke and baby powder, "What have you been up to?"

"Cooking!" she says proudly, her hands resting on your chest. Right over your heart, which feels close to bursting when her face scrunches seriously, an expression that doesn't seem to fit her chubby-cheeked loveliness. "Mommy feel better?"

"Yes, mommy feels better now, thank you."

"No more blood?"

You wince, remembering her panic earlier when you'd bled through your dress after lunch. Her only conscious experiences with blood have so far been limited to skinned knees, so Beatrice had thought you'd gotten a scrape on your butt somehow.

"Well, there's still some blood. But mommy's better."

"Daddy says you—you peeing blood."

You have to bite your lip to stifle a laugh. "Did he now?"

"Yes," your daughter nods gravely, settling herself on your lap. She places a sticky hand to your cheek in a vaguely reassuring way. It's a gesture she'd learned from watching Spencer. "Daddy says you peeing blood and I have to be good so you rest."

Maybe it's her matter-of-fact tone, or the way the words stumble from her lips in her clear, lightly lisping voice, but your mouth finally curls into a grin. You tuck her to your chest so you can have a moment to silently giggle without her thinking she's being laughed at, and reach forward for your glasses.

They're sitting neatly on the coffee table, folded and completely free of any stains. Spencer must have cleaned them when you fell asleep, just as he'd covered you in the blanket.

"What else has daddy said?" you ask, slipping your glasses on.

The world sharpens into focus. The bookshelves lining the sage walls, now home to multiple children's books and framed pictures—you and Spencer had moved your joint collection in the newly refurbished basement not long after Beatrice had been born. There's a TV that rarely gets used, and an open chest of toys.

In the heart of it all, you and your daughter, on the couch, perfectly content.

"It's every… every month. And it hurt." Beatrice says, brows furrowing in focus as she recalls her own version of Spencer's explanation.

"I pee blood every month, huh?"

"I did not say you pee blood!" comes Spencer's flustered voice. He pads from the kitchen with his own glasses so low on his nose you're afraid they'll slip right off. Sweat gleams from his forehead, beading down his temples.

"Did too!" Beatrice exclaims.

You laugh, reaching a hand out to him. "It's okay, it's a pretty close approximation."

Spencer is pink as he holds your outstretched palm, though you're not sure if it's from the stress or from embarrassment. He settles on the couch beside you, tucking your hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really expect her to start asking about that and had to improvise."

Of course, neither of you had anticipated it. Beatrice is a little too young to be having the talk, but she's also… Beatrice. Daughter of two professors who, at their core, have lived for the pursuit of knowledge their whole lives. If anything, it's naive on you and Spencer's part to have been unprepared for this.

You're still grinning, holding Beatrice to your chest with one arm, cheek resting on the crown of her head. "You didn't expect our daughter, with our combined genes, to start asking questions?"

"You're right," Spencer admits with a sheepish laugh, "She's got the curious instincts of researchers and scholars."

"Exactly. This won't be the first she pursues a topic through rigorous questioning, right Bea?"

Beatrice nods, even though she looks a little lost from the adult conversation.

You smile and kiss her brow. "You're a smart girl, Bea."

She giggles, tickled by the compliment. "Like you?"

Spencer's free hand ruffles her hair. "Exactly. Smart, just like mommy."

The words land somewhere unexpectedly tender. It would've been so easy to claim that for himself; he's the genius between the two of you, after all. But he doesn't. Didn't even insert himself and say like mommy and daddy, which would have been objectively true.

You look up with the softest exhale, eyes misting. He grins, lifts your hand to brush his lips over your knuckles. A soft, warm look settles on his face, as reassuring as it is loving.

"You're feeling better now? Do you need more meds?" he asks, casual and sweet and perfect, as if he hadn't just undone you only moments ago.

"No, no, I'm all right." you scoot closer to him. Spencer lets go of your hand to wrap an arm over your shoulder, tugging you gently until you're tucked to his side. On your lap, Beatrice yawns and blinks at the two of you.

For a moment, it's silent. A perfect snapshot of peace. Your chest tightens a little more, some invisible force strangling your throat.

"You could've woken me up, you know, to help with dinner." you murmur.

"I can handle it."

Your brows raise, head tilting up so you can pin him with an incredulous glare. "It still smells burnt in here, Spence."

"It's not that bad."

"Really? What are we having, then? Char with a side of chicken?"

"Daddy burn the oven." Beatrice supplies seriously.

Spencer shakes with laughter. "No, the chicken just burned inside the oven, honeybee."

Beatrice pouts as she considers, dimples on her cheeks deepening. She's got your coloring, but the most noticeable features are Spencer's—messy curls, massive hazel eyes, a collection of dimples exactly in the same spots as his.

"But dinner," you say with a groan, "I'll go see—"

"You don't have to cook, darling," he interrupts, his arm around you tightening to prevent you from moving, "I've already ordered takeout. Lo mein for you, of course."

You swear you've lost the ability to breathe. It never quite settles, this realization that he knows you to the bone. Well enough to anticipate your needs, to provide without being asked. That he'll keep doing them without expectation or prompting.

"And extra wontons!" Beatrice adds enthusiastically, "because mommy likes them, even when she says she don't."

Oh. Now there's two of them.

You don't think the twisting in your chest will ever stop, but at least now you know it's not a bad feeling. It never was, even in those early days, before Beatrice, before building a life together.

You recognize it for what it is now.

You laugh. It's a thin, watery sound. Spencer pulls you even closer, warm lips pressed to your temple.

"You stay right here," he whispers, nosing a line down your cheek, "With us."

"Only if we keep getting snuggles."

Spencer squeezes his arms around the two of you playfully in response, tight enough that Beatrice is overcome with giggles, not loosening until you wheeze a laugh yourself.

In his arms, with your daughter in your lap, the period cramps feel like a distant memory.

How did this beautiful woman end up swimming in the trash? Why is this child living in a shoe? Is the shoe massive, or is the child tiny? 

How did you end up fake dating Spencer Reid?

Of course, you could make a step by step presentation charting how you went from point A to point B. To any outsider, it would make sense. It’s simple cause and effect, consequences of a series of actions accumulating into one deal.

But still, it feels illogical. 

You aren’t the type of woman who gets involved in situations like this. You’d believed yourself above it—why would you ever make time for love and silly romance when there’s so much to do. Too busy with papers and research, too aloof and wary to let new people in, yet somehow. Somehow. 

Part of you wonders—worries, really—if Spencer Reid is some sort of anomaly. If, perhaps, his very existence threatens your perfectly maintained equilibrium, and he’s sent your way to derail your plans. But that opens up a whole other can of worms involving destiny and red string theories, most of which carry implications that you don’t wish to look into any further, lest the conclusion further complicate your feelings.  

Instead, you did what any sensible scholar would do. 

You’d taken to writing. Treat this whole thing like it’s nothing more than a research assignment, no matter how twisted or ridiculous. 

While the research for your field often involves abstract theories applied to obscure texts, and fake dating is so wildly out of your area of expertise, you’re still able to pare it down to the fundamentals. A thesis statement to defend, participants, and variables. It sounds awfully pedantic, but clinging to the basic principles of scientific inquiry lets you keep your head at a level, helps you process the grave you’ve dug for yourself.

It’s all written in your journal, the spare one you keep at home, containing the details of the arrangement broken down into digestible data. 

The thesis statement: Being a couple lets you have a date to your best friend’s wedding, and it will stop the rumors of his inappropriate relationships with his students, therefore it is a mutually beneficial deal.

The participants: You and Spencer Reid.

Extraneous variables: your colleagues, his students, your best friend, and every person you’ll have to fool with this arrangement. 

On another page, you’ve written down the rules—you both agreed it’s good to have a clear list of dos and don’ts. Keeps both of you safe and accountable. You keep the sole copy. Spencer insisted on only having a physical one, to eliminate any issues with hacking and cyber stalking that could potentially expose the secret. And since he could remember virtually everything you’ve discussed, you get to keep the incriminating list.

It’s fine. It keeps you grounded.

Not that anything dramatic has happened to warrant a sense of panic. No, it’s more because you haven’t dated anyone in so long that you’ve forgotten how to act in romantic situations. The list, with all the data organized, functions not just as a reminder of your boundaries but also as a sort of guideline for dating. 

Fake dating, you remind yourself. And Spencer has been so sweet about everything. Never pushing for more, never making excuses to touch you where he shouldn’t, never lingering when he does. Your public displays are strategic—huddling together in libraries, walking with his arm over your shoulder on your way out of campus, him changing his phone wallpaper to a picture of you that he took. Nothing that will raise eyebrows, but definitely suggests a thing.

Neither of you confirm anything. The actions speak for themselves. Your job is to keep up the appearances.

Out of everything, hand holding becomes the most frequent form. It’s such a simple action, your palm nestled in his perpetually cool ones, linking together in a way that society has deemed romantically unifying. All he needs is to reach over, no fuss or ceremony, just skin touching skin, and the whispers erupt like butterflies being cast into the air.

It’s easy. Low stakes. Even pleasant, if you’re being honest, because Spencer has a habit of soothing small patterns over the back of your hand. Sometimes, he’ll draw circles over your knuckles, from your pinky to your index, then looping back again, over and over until you’re convinced your skin knows each whorl of his thumbprint. 

You wonder if he does it on purpose.You’ve never really bothered to ask, despite your curiosity, as the impending answer makes your stomach twist nervously.

Sometimes, you’ll squeeze his fingers together absentmindedly, only realizing you’d done it when he squeezes back. Sometimes, you wish he wouldn’t let go.

All of this to say: the plan is going well. Better than you thought. Which means you’re constantly on edge, waiting for the ball to drop.

Not that Spencer has done, or even said, anything to insinuate a hidden agenda—though, admittedly, you keep yourself alert, his words and actions replaying in your head, analyzed from this angle and that, reading into what he’s presenting. But, no. His disposition leans into an affability that would put a softer person at ease.

This anxiety comes from years of pattern recognition. Even putting your years of training and rigorous scholarship aside, it’s easy to see that narratives fall prone to repetition. In most cases, a general sense of contentment settles, takes root just enough to let you lower your defenses, before something terrible comes swinging. 

It’s taught from the most introductory of classes, reinforced by the stories being told in movies and books. And while life doesn’t always follow Freytag’s pyramid, it’s a common enough occurrence to merit its own expression: the calm before the storm, as they say. 

Well, you’re not about to be taken by surprise. You’ll make sure of that.

Your mistake is expecting this symbolic storm to be an external force. A colleague, perhaps, maybe even HR calling out both of you.

But all of this, of course, is in theory.

In reality, the slightest deviation from Spencer sends you reeling, no matter how prepared you thought you were.

You’re talking to him by the courtyard, leaning against the brick wall. The air is crisp, a coolness that you can tell is beginning to grow teeth. Spencer’s cheeks are pink because of it. The arrangement isn’t even on your mind. No, you’re too busy telling him about a new analysis on Pigafetta’s accounts, hands gesturing wildly while he nods along and listens.

You like that about him. In all your time together, he doesn’t feign his interest. When you, or anyone else, really, approach him with something to discuss, he’s willing to listen.Encouraging, instead of condescending. Usually, he’s read something tangential to the topic too, always so eager to contribute and talk, until your conversations spiral and bleed across disciplines. It seems like it’s another one of those conversations, standing casually outside the building, underneath a sky that’s ablaze with pinks and oranges. 

Maybe it’s from the wild gestures that accompany your words. Maybe your glasses are simply too heavy. Either way, gravity does its job, dragging your glasses down the slope of your nose little by little over the course of the conversation. With both hands too occupied, you’d scrunch your nose to nudge them back up. 

Unfortunately, there’s a point where the offensive frames have slid so far down your nose, past the point of saving. 

And Spencer seems to notice before you do.

His hand comes up, quick and sure, like it's instinctive, like he’s done this for you before. Carefully, his thumb and forefinger close around right along the hinges of your glasses, so as to avoid accidentally leaving his fingerprints on the lenses. In one absentminded motion, he pushes them higher up your nose. 

Your words falter to an embarrassing staccato. 

“Um, thanks.”

“You're welcome, darling.” 

You blink. 

His hand lingers in that space by your temple, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you. A treacherous part of you wonders what that would feel like.

But—no. Absolutely not.

And Spencer doesn’t. You feel a shift, his hand moving further back, tangling into your hair as he tucks a wayward strand back. And then it angles down, knuckles grazing against your cheek, too slow to be anything but intentional. 

It burns.

No, that’s inaccurate. You burn, set aflame by the eyes boring holes into your back, cheeks warming at his proximity, his undivided attention. A breath slips in—a clumsy attempt at grounding yourself—but that’s a mistake too. Your lungs alight from his perfume—cedar and nutmeg, underscored by hints of coffee. All warm, wonderful things. 

You feel as though you could incinerate from the inside out.

His hand, as usual, feels cool to the touch.

For a moment, you wish he had kissed you. Bent down and bridged the space, got that over with. At least a kiss is somehow expected. You’d discussed the boundaries of kissing. You’re somewhat prepared for it. This is completely unfamiliar territory, his knuckles feeling more scandalous on your cheek than if he’d pressed his mouth upon yours.

“That’s not part of our rules.” you blurt out. Too loud. Your head jerks sideways to see if anyone caught what you’d said, but there’s no one within fifteen feet of you. Spencer’s hand loses contact as you do. 

You squash the part of you that immediately misses it, and amplify the sense of relief instead.

“Touching me there,” you scramble to explain, voice lowering, “That’s not part of our rules.”

“I believe we agreed not to touch private areas. As far as I’m aware, your face is the most public facing part of you.”

You feel more warmth rushing everywhere. Armpits sweating levels of panic that you try to hide with a carefree smile. 

“We—okay, sure. But we also didn’t agree to that other thing.” you hiss through a smile. “Pet names.”

“Oh.” Now he blinks, as if it never occurred to him that a single, two syllable word could send you into such a spiral. “I suppose we didn’t.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Air rushes out of your nose. He’s so quick to apologize, to bend to whatever need you have, even though this whole thing had been your idea.

“Don’t be, it’s fine. I’m fine, just taken by surprise.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. It’s, um—” Nice. Really sweet. Painful–-nobody’s ever called you darling with such tenderness before. “—really believable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think we could add it to the—well, you know.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want.” you scoff, hands feeling useless now. They hang limply at your sides, fingertips itching. Why say that, you want to ask. Where did it come from? Did you mean it? “It’s believable. Couples give each other pet names, so it makes sense if we do it, too.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“Should there be more?”

You can’t tell if he’s being purposely obtuse. You can’t tell if there should be more to discuss. In less than three minutes, he’s unraveled your mind with a touch, and a simple word, rendered useless the very thing you considered a constant.

“I don’t know. It feels like there should be,” you pause, grappling for the words to articulate. The journal comes to mind. Yes. Research. This is research, existing between experimentation and methodologies, and slowly, the words formulate again. “We need parameters. You can’t call me that whenever you feel like it.”

Definitely not after he touched your face as if his fingers are looking for other parts of you to memorize. Like soothing over your knuckles isn't enough.

“Of course,” Spencer seems to read the distress in your face, because he takes a few steps back. A small one, but significant. Your breath rushes more freely, but part of you longs for his warmth.

He smiles, soft and reassuring. “I’ll only call you darling if there are people who can hear it, how about that?” he suggests. “Makes no sense being so intimate if it’s just the two of us.”

That’s a cruel paradox, isn’t it? You’re displaying this intimacy, performing it, when the very concept also refers to privacy. Something that should only be for two people—for couples. The very opposite of this farce you’ve gotten into.

But you’re here. And it’s been working, you shouldn’t complicate it by overthinking.

So you nod. Your glasses slip from the action, and you scrunch your nose to nudge it back up. “Okay. That sounds fair.”

“You’re more than welcome to give me one too,” his hand twitches by his sides, before he shoves it inside his coat pocket. “I mean, obviously, you don’t need to. But—yeah.”

“Yeah.” you echo, biting your lip. “I’ll think about it, and let you know. And I’ll add this new rule to the list.”

“Okay. Make sure you indicate the parameters and—”

“I know, doctor. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Oh?” he smiles, tilts his head just enough for his curls to turn russet, and finally everything feels normal again. “You’ve had to negotiate fake relationships before?” 

“Uh, yes. You’re actually my fourth.”

“And here I thought I was special.” he presses his fist to his chest playfully, leaning back as if the words struck him physically. “You wound me, darling.”

The second time around, your mind doesn’t betray you anymore. Doesn’t stutter or go blank, but something beneath your ribs feels achy, like a bruise about to heal. 

“You’re breaking the rule.”

Spencer grins. Smirks, really, dimples and perfect teeth and twinkling honey eyes. “It isn’t written in your journal yet, therefore I’m not bound to anything.”

You back away, expression twisting into annoyance, feigned and playful. “You’re insufferable.”

He laughs, watching as you walk away. And then calls out loud so you, and the students around the vicinity could hear, “I’ll see you tomorrow, darling!”

Real life isn’t as romantic. The social politics of higher education is a tricky place to navigate for anyone, even more so when you’re a young, ambitious woman. You’ve had to work twice as hard to earn the respect more freely given to your colleagues and be taken seriously as an academic.

Even then, it’s done with a caveat, an underlying sense of condescension for your frivolous and outdated area of study. 

So you keep your head down. Wear practical, professional things that project the idea of "successful" like you can manifest it through outfits. Keep working as hard, to the point of neglecting other parts of your life. Romance, vacations abroad, they can all wait while you establish yourself. Lists, schedules, and the occasional flowchart make up your life.

You enjoy the work, you love your students, but time slips like silk between loose fingers and soon, you’re on the threshold of thirty and still nowhere close to your goals.

Enter Spencer Reid. Genius, prolific, highly successful and representing everything you covet. You should despise him—you do despise him, and his ability to unravel your carefully curated facade—until you don’t. Because he’s gentle, and deeply thoughtful, and has the exact same love affair with stories and books as you do.

Whatever is going on between the two of you is a tenuous, fragile thing, more of an alliance than actual friendship. This fake dating arrangement should have blown up in both your faces. A failed experiment, the catastrophic end to a short-lived acquaintance.

But as the days go by, you begin to find that Spencer Reid is startlingly good at playing boyfriend. And that it’s infuriatingly easy to slide from pretense to something more solid. More real. And it gets harder to deny the funny, tender ache in your chest the longer this deal goes on.

🌟 favorite things: a well written essay, medieval women's writings, the smell of old books, secondhand shops, vintage leather, black tea with milk, stalking people's letterboxd and goodreads accounts

✖️ least favorite things: Spencer Reid, students who refuse your authority, the basement classroom where one of your classes are held, daylight savings time, condescending colleagues

👜 what’s in your bag? a book (usually whatever you're teaching for the week), pastel-colored pens and highlighters, a planner + journal, hand sanitizer, eye drops, blotting paper, wallet, breath mints.

🎶who are you listening to: Nina Simone, Hozier, Ella Fitzgerald, Kate Bush, Florence and the Machine, Jeffrey Buckley, Patti Smith